“Trimming a hat? Why, she never has one on her head!” Anne’s husband looked at his unfinished manuscript aggrieved.
“I think it was Gladys-Marie’s hat.” Doromea struggled back of plot to remember. “It had a look of Gladys-Marie—an incoherent sort of cloche, you know, that was meant to have been a sunbonnet.”
Michael laughed. “If you weren’t my sister I should be afraid of you,” he said, looking at her admiringly. “You see too deep—even in hats.”
“But I cannot trim them,” answered Doromea, seriously. “Anne can—she can make the most delicious hat out of an old square of lace or something. I can’t even tack a plume in place and have it look like anything but a curled poker.”
“You can only help write books,” smiled Michael, “and this one”—he smoothed the thick pile of closely written paper—“is the best you’ve ever helped to write. Er—suppose we just go and speak to Anne.”
The two figures, ludicrously alike in spite of the tall stoop of one and the trim roundness of the other, hurried around the house to the west porch.
“Is the book finished?” asked Anne, posing buttercups with an upward glance of amazement.
“No—that is, not quite—just that one more chapter, you know; but——”
“It must be finished to-day,” concluded Doromea, firmly, “and—the post came a few minutes ago and there was a letter from Timothy.”
“Yes?” Anne’s voice warmed. She had never seen Timothy, but Michael and Doromea had made him sound very nice.