She laid her down as a knock sounded on her door.
"Are you up?" some one asked, and she opened it, to find Evelyn Chesley.
"May I borrow a needle?" She showed a torn length of lace-trimmed flounce. "I caught it on a rocker in my room. There shouldn't be any rocker."
"Mrs. Bower loves them," Anne said, as she hunted through her little basket; "she loves to rock and rock. All the women around here do."
"Then you're not one of them?"
"No. My grandmother was Cynthia Warfield of Carroll."
The name meant nothing to Evelyn. It would have meant much to Nancy Brooks.
"How did you happen to come here? I don't see how any one could choose to come."
"My mother died—and there was no one but my Great-uncle Rodman Warfield. I had to get something to do—so I came here, and Uncle Rod went to live with a married cousin."
Evelyn had perched herself on the post of Anne's bed and was mending the flounce. Although she was not near the lamp, she gave an effect of gathering to her all the light of the room. She was wrapped in a robe of rose-color, a strange garment with fur to set it off, and of enormous fullness. It spread about her and billowed out until it almost hid the little bed and the child upon it.