“I love poetry,” hinted little Anne, but checked herself when she saw the elder Anne’s face.
It had turned quite white, tears stood in her dark eyes, her lips quivered.
“Oh, little Anne, what can it mean? Who is it? Why didn’t I have it to copy?” Anne murmured. “Oh, he mustn’t know we read it!”
“I didn’t,” said little Anne, reproachfully, and Anne kissed her, grateful that the child made her smile.
“Promise me on your honour, little Anne, that you will never speak to any one of having found these verses. Promise! And remember that a promise is a sacred thing, faithfully to be kept,” she said.
“I never in this world break my promises,” declared little Anne, proudly, but truthfully. “I promise! Not even Mother?”
“You may tell her that you found the verses, but that no one is to know it; you can say that you did not know what they were like,” Anne said, wisely deciding that this concession would be a safety valve to little Anne’s unimpeachable honour.
“Do you know where you found the paper, Anne? Then take it into the house, please, and lay it where it was, and come back to me. Hurry, little Anne! Oh, if Mr. Latham should come in before you did this!”
“He can’t find it on the floor, can he?” little Anne demurred.
“Then Stetson will. Don’t delay, dear; please be quick!” Anne fairly turned the child around by the shoulders and pushed her toward the house. Little Anne was speedy; she was back before Anne had time to worry over the likelihood of Richard’s coming, or Cricket to fall into utter despair at being abandoned by his small mistress.