were hardly warmed through,
but Heathcote insisted that they should be tasted, "in order not to
wickedly waste the salt." Being really hungry, they finished everything,
he stoutly refusing to give up even a crumb of his last half-slice of
cake, which Anne begged for on the plea of being still in school. By
this time they were full of merriment, laughing and paying no attention
to what they said, talking nonsense and enjoying it. Anne's cheeks
glowed, her eyes were bright as stars, her brown hair, more loosely
fastened than usual, lay in little waves round her face; her beautiful
arched lips were half the time parted in laughter, and her rounded arms
and hands seemed to fall into charming poses of their own, whichever way
she turned.

About three o'clock the veil of rain grew less dense; they could see the
fields again; from where he sat, Heathcote could see the road and the
mill.

"Can we not go now?" said Anne.

"By no means, unless you covet the drenching we have taken so much care
to escape. But by four I think it will be over." He lit a cigar, and
leaning back against the rock, said, "Tell me some more about that
island; about the dogs and the ice."

"No," said Anne, coloring a little; "you are laughing at me. I shall
tell you no more."

Then he demanded autocratically that she should sing. "I choose the song
you sang on New-Year's night; the ballad."

And Anne sang the little chanson, sang it softly and clearly, the low
sound of the rain forming an accompaniment.

"Do you know any Italian songs?"

"Yes."

"Please sing me one."

She sang one of Belzini's selections, and remembered to sing it as Tante
had directed.

"You do not sing that as well as the other; there is no expression.
However, that could hardly be expected, I suppose."

"Yes, it could, and I know how. Only Tante told me not to do it," said
the girl, with a touch of annoyance.

"Tante not being here, I propose that you disobey."

And Anne, not unwillingly, began; it had always been hard for her to
follow Tante's little rule. She had heard the song more than once in the
opera to which it belonged, and she knew the Italian words. She put her
whole heart into it, and when she ended, her eyes were dimmed with
emotion.

Heathcote looked at her now, and guardedly. This was not the school-girl
of the hour before. But it was, and he soon discovered that it was.
Anne's emotion had been impersonal; she had identified herself for the
time bei