ad opened the book and
stood beside the table waiting for Anne to sit down.

"How shall I begin?" questioned the little girl anxiously.

"Why, I'd begin just as if I were writing a letter," said Rose.

So Anne dipped the quill in the ink, and, with her head on one side, and
her lips set very firmly together, carefully wrote: "My dear Aunt
Martha."

Rose looked over her shoulder. "That is written very neatly, Anne," she
said.

"Don't you want to make a picture now, Rose?" said the little girl
hopefully.

Rose laughed at Anne's pleading look, but drew the book toward her end
of the table, and taking a pencil from her box of drawing materials
made a little sketch, directly under Anne's written words, of a little
girl at a table writing, and pushed the book back toward Anne.

"Now I will knit while you write," she said.

So Anne again dipped the quill into the ink, and wrote: "This is a
picture of me beginning to write a book. Rose made it." The attic was
very quiet, the sound of Anne's pen, and of Rose's knitting-needles
could be heard, and for a little time there was no other sound; then
came a clatter of stout shoes on the stairway, and little Millicent
appeared.

"See, I found this in Anne's room!" she exclaimed.

Anne looked around, and saw Millicent holding up her beloved "Martha
Stoddard." With a quick exclamation she sprang up and ran toward her.
"That's my doll," she exclaimed, and would have taken it, but Millicent
held it tightly exclaiming:

"I want it!"

Anne stood looking at the child not knowing what to do. This doll was
the dearest of her possessions. She had given her beautiful coral
beads to the Indian girl, and now Millicent had taken possession of her
doll. She tried to remember that she was a big girl now, ten years old,
and that dolls were for babies like six-year-old Millicent. But "Martha
Stoddard" was something more than a plaything to Anne; she could not
part with it. But how could she take it away from the little girl?

"I want it," repeated Millicent, looking up at Anne with a pretty smile,
as if quite sure that Anne would be glad to give it to her. Anne put her
hands over her face and began to cry.

CHAPTER XIV

ANNE AND MILLICENT

Anne had sprung up from her seat so quickly that she did not think of
her book, pen, or ink. Her arm had given the book a careless push,
sending it against and overturning the ink-bottle, and she had dropped
the pen on the white paper, wh