"I must try to take mother's place," she confided to her sympathetic listener in the watches of the night. "He misses her so—Anne."
Anne went back to the little gray house, where the plums were purple on the tree in the orchard, and where Becky on her lookout limb was hidden by the thickness of the foliage. The robins were gone, and so was Belinda's occupation, but she had more important things on hand, and after the first joy of greetings, the little grandmother led Anne to a cozy corner of the little kitchen, where in a big basket, Belinda sang lullabies to four happy, sleepy balls of down as white as herself.
"Oh, the dear little pussy cats," gurgled Anne, as Belinda welcomed her with a gratified "Purr-up," "what does Becky think of them, grandmother?"
"She takes care of them when Belinda goes out," said the little grandmother. "It's too funny to see them cuddle under her black wings."
"I wonder if she will make friends with Terry, Judy's dog," chatted Anne, as she cuddled the precious kittens. "He's the dearest thing, and he took to Judy right away, and follows her around all the time."
The little grandmother sat down in an old rocker with a red cushion and took off her spectacles with trembling hands. "Belinda will have to get used to him, I guess," she said.
"Of course," said Anne, not looking up, "Judy will bring him here when she comes."
"I don't mean that," said the little grandmother.
Something in the old voice made Anne look up.
"What's the matter, little grandmother?" she asked, anxiously.