omesick all day. Sometimes Miss Vanhorn was hard and cold
as a bronze statue in winter; sometimes she was as quick and fiery as if
charged with electricity. Sometimes she veered between the two. To-day
had been one of the veering days, and Anne had worked over the dried
plants five hours in a close room, now a mark for sarcastic darts of
ridicule, now enduring an icy silence, until her lot seemed too heavy to
bear. She had learned to understand the old woman's moods, but
understanding pain does not make it lighter. Released at last, a great
wave of homesickness had swept over her, which did not, however, break
bounds until Heathcote's words touched the spring; then the gates opened
and the tears came.

They had no sooner dropped upon her cheeks, one, two, three, than she
was overwhelmed with hot shame at having allowed them to fall, and with
fear lest any one should notice them. Mr. Heathcote had seen them, that
was hopelessly certain; but if only she could keep them from her
grandaunt! Yet she did not dare to lift her handkerchief lest its white
should attract attention.

But Heathcote knew what to do.

As soon as he saw the tears (to him, of course, totally unexpected; but
girls are so), he raised his straw hat, which lay on his knee, and,
holding it by the crown, began elaborately to explain some peculiarity
in the lining (he called it South American) invented for the occasion,
at the same time, by the motion, screening her face completely from
observation on the other side. But Anne could not check herself; the
very shelter brought thicker drops. He could not hold his hat in that
position forever, even to look at Brazilian linings. He rose suddenly,
and standing in front so as to screen her, he cried, "A bat! a bat!" at
the same time making a pass with his hat as though he saw it in the air.

Every one on the piazza rose, darted aside hither and thither, the
ladies covering their heads with their fans and handkerchiefs, the men
making passes with their hats, as usual on bat occasions; every one was
sure the noxious creature flew by. For a number of minutes confusion
reigned. When it was over, Anne's cheeks were dry, and a little cobweb
tie had been formed between herself and Heathcote. It was too slight to
be noticed, but it was there.

CHAPTER XII.

"Le hasard sait ce qu'il fait!"--_French Proverb._

The next day there was a picnic. No one wished to go especially save
Isabel Varce, but no one op