When the young belles and beauties of the countryside came in later, Anne found herself quite eclipsed by their blooming charms. The young men, knowing her as the school-teacher, were afraid of her brains. They talked to her stiffly, and left her as soon as possible for the easier society of girls of their own kind. Peggy sat with Anne on the big settle beside the fire. The child's hand was hot, and she seemed sleepy.
"My eyes hurt," she said, crossly.
"You ought to be in bed, Peggy; shall I take you?"
"No. There's going to be an oyster stew. Daddy said I might sit up."
Beulah in pink and very important came over to them. "Could you show us some of the dances, Anne?"
"Oh, Beulah, can't they play games?"
"I think you might help us." Beulah's tone was slightly petulant.
Anne stood up. "There's a march I taught the children. We could begin with that."
She led the march with Eric. Behind her was the loud laughter of the brawny young men, the loud laughter of the blooming young women. Their merriment sounded a different note from that struck by the genial Old Gentlemen or by the gay group of young folk from New York. What was the difference? Training? Birth?
Anne felt suddenly much alone. She had not belonged to Evelyn Chesley's crowd, she did not belong with Beulah's friends. She wondered if she really belonged anywhere.