"Will you let me go all over the house?" asked Anne eagerly.

"Laws, yes, you can if you like. 'Twon't take you long--there ain't much
of it. I keep at my man to build a new kitchen, but he ain't one of your
hustlers. The parlor's in there and there's two rooms upstairs. Just
prowl about yourselves. I've got to see to the baby. The east room was
the one you were born in. I remember your ma saying she loved to see the
sunrise; and I mind hearing that you was born just as the sun was rising
and its light on your face was the first thing your ma saw."

Anne went up the narrow stairs and into that little east room with a
full heart. It was as a shrine to her. Here her mother had dreamed the
exquisite, happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; here that red sunrise
light had fallen over them both in the sacred hour of birth; here her
mother had died. Anne looked about her reverently, her eyes with tears.
It was for her one of the jeweled hours of life that gleam out radiantly
forever in memory.

"Just to think of it--mother was younger than I am now when I was born,"
she whispered.

When Anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall. She
held out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon.

"Here's a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs when I
came here," she said. "I dunno what they are--I never bothered to look
in 'em, but the address on the top one is 'Miss Bertha Willis,' and that
was your ma's maiden name. You can take 'em if you'd keer to have 'em."

"Oh, thank you--thank you," cried Anne, clasping the packet rapturously.

"That was all that was in the house," said her hostess. "The furniture
was all sold to pay the doctor bills, and Mrs. Thomas got your ma's
clothes and little things. I reckon they didn't last long among that
drove of Thomas youngsters. They was destructive young animals, as I
mind 'em."

"I haven't one thing that belonged to my mother," said Anne, chokily.
"I--I can never thank you enough for these letters."

"You're quite welcome. Laws, but your eyes is like your ma's. She could
just about talk with hers. Your father was sorter homely but awful nice.
I mind hearing folks say when they was married that there never was two
people more in love with each other--Pore creatures, they didn't live
much longer; but they was awful happy while they was alive, and I s'pose
that counts for a good deal."

Anne longed to get home to read her precious letters; but sh