r the birds, and they
flew down in front of her--juncoes and sparrows, a tufted titmouse, a
cardinal blood-red against the whiteness. She was like a bird herself in
all her brown.

When the dish was empty, she turned it upside down, and spread her hands
to show that there was nothing more. On the Saturday night when she had
waited on the table, Richard had noticed the loveliness of her hands.
They were small and white, and without rings. Yet in spite of their
smallness and whiteness, he knew that they were useful hands, for she had
served well at Bower's. And now he knew that they were kindly hands, for
she had fed the birds who had come begging to her door.

Peggy joined her, and the two came out the gate together. Anne looking
across saw Richard. She hesitated, then crossed the road.

He at once went to meet her. She flushed a little as she spoke to him.
"Peggy and I want to ask a favor. We've always had our little Twelfth
Night play in the Crossroads stable. And we had planned for it this
year--you see, we didn't know that you were coming."

"And we were afraid that you wouldn't want us," Peggy told him.

"Were you really afraid?"

"I wasn't. But Miss Anne was."

"I told the children that they mustn't be disappointed if we were not
able to do this year as we had done before. I felt that with people in
the house, it might not be pleasant for them to have us coming in such a
crowd."

"It will be pleasant, and mother will be much interested. I wish you'd
come up and tell us about it."

She shook her head. "Peggy and I have just time to get back to Bower's
for our dinner."

"Aren't the roads bad?"

"Not when the snow is hard."

Peggy went reluctantly. "I think he is perfectly lovely," she said, at a
safe distance. "Don't you?"

Anne's reply was guarded. "He is very kind. I am glad that he doesn't
mind about the Twelfth Night play, Peggy."

Richard spoke to David of Anne as the two men, a few minutes later,
climbed the hill toward David's house.

"She seems unusual."

"She is the best teacher we have ever had, but she ought not to be at
Bower's. She isn't their kind."

David's little house, set on top of a hill, was small and shabby without,
but within it was as compact as a ship's cabin. David's old servant, Tom,
kept it immaculate, and there were books everywhere, old portraits,
precious bits of mahogany.

From the window beside the fireplace there was a view of the river. It
was a blue river to