“No, there was not any man, grandmother.”
“Then you had better get into your own room as fast as you can and move still or you will wake up Harriet and Susan.”
Annie went.
“I am thankful I am not curious,” said the old woman clambering back into bed. She lit her lamp and took up her novel again.
The next morning old Ann Maria Eustace announced her granddaughter's engagement at the breakfast table. She waited until the meal was in full swing, then she raised her voice.
“Well, girls,” she said, looking first at Harriet, then at Susan, “I have some good news for you. Our little Annie here is too modest, so I have to tell you for her.”
Harriet Eustace laughed unsuspiciously. “Don't tell us that Annie has been writing a great anonymous novel like Margaret Edes,” she said, and Susan laughed also. “Whatever news it may be, it is not that,” she said. “Nobody could suspect Annie of writing a book. I myself was not so much surprised at Margaret Edes.”
To Annie's consternation, her grandmother turned upon her a long, slow, reading look. She flushed under it and swallowed a spoonful of cereal hastily. Then her grandmother chuckled under her breath and her china blue eyes twinkled.
“Annie has done something a deal better than to write a book,” said she, looking away from the girl, and fixing unsparing eyes upon her daughters. “She has found a nice man to marry her.”
Harriet and Susan dropped their spoons and stared at their mother.