“Who is she?” she whispered.
“Like her?” asked Kit, interested in the reply.
Little Anne shook her head hard. “She is like all the things in fairy tales,” she said. “She’s like a cloth-of-gold, and a fairy princess, she’s so beau-ti-ful! But she’s something like Cinderella’s sisters at the ball. No, I don’t like her, not one bit. What does she want to do? Is she going to try to be Mr. Latham’s—you know! His writer? What do you call it?”
“Secretary? No, indeed, little Anne! Miss Abercrombie is a royal lady; not even a poet would she serve,” said Kit.
“Well, what makes her mean?” asked little Anne, candidly; she had used her keen young eyes and ears to some purpose. “Miss Anne’s ever’n’ ever so much nicer, and ever’n’ ever so much prettier, even if she isn’t, because she looks so kind of dear and sweet. I know she’s being not nice to my Anne, because when anybody isn’t nice to someone I love, and I don’t know what it is they’re doing, that makes me mad, and I remember my vocation.”
“Your vocation, you queer little Anne? What can you mean?” cried Kit.
“Putting beetles on their legs,” said the child promptly. “When they get on their backs and can’t get over, you know. It makes me feel like that. I do not like her one speck, so there! But I s’pose Sister Annunciata’d say I had to because I’m going to instructions. But ought you like everything, Kit? I think it’s fearful to be a saint!”
“Great Scott, little Anne, is that what you’re tackling? No wonder you find this sinful old world a puzzle!” Kit’s great roar of laughter made the others turn back.
“What has little Anne said now?” asked Anne Dallas with a look of such friendly understanding to Kit that Helen was annoyed.
“Don’t tell! Oh, don’t, please don’t tell!” begged little Anne.