ng them. She
hesitated, and then, in spite of a distinct determination not to do it,
could not help turning her head and glancing backward and upward for a
second behind her companion's broad shoulders. In answer, a handkerchief
fluttered from above; he was watching, then. A bright flush rose in her
cheeks, and she talked gayly to Dexter during the six-mile drive between
the glistening fields, over the wet dark bridge, and up to the piazza of
Caryl's, where almost every one was sitting enjoying the coolness after
the rain, and the fresh fragrance of the grateful earth. Rachel Bannert
came forward as they alighted, and resting her hand caressingly on
Anne's shoulder, hoped that she was not tired--and were they caught in
the rain?--and did they observe the peculiar color of the clouds?--and
so forth, and so forth. Rachel was dressed for the evening in black lace
over black velvet, with a crimson rose in her hair; the rich drapery
trailed round her in royal length, yet in some way failed to conceal
entirely the little foot in its black slipper. Anne did not hurry away;
she stood contentedly where she was while Rachel asked all her little
questions. Dexter had stepped back into the buggy with the intention of
driving round himself to the stables; he had no desire to expose the
wrinkled condition of his attire to the groups on the piazza. But in
that short interval he noted (as Rachel had intended he should note)
every detail of her appearance. Her only failure was that he failed to
note also, by comparison, the deficiencies of Anne.

When he was gone, being released, Anne ran up to her room, placed the
fern in water, and then, happening to think of it, looked at herself in
the glass. The result was not cheering. Like most women, she judged
herself by the order of her hair and dress; they were both frightful.

Miss Vanhorn, also caught in the storm, did not return until late
twilight. Anne, not knowing what she would decree when she heard the
story of the day, had attired herself in the thick white school-girl
dress which had been selected on another occasion of penance--the
evening after the adventure at the quarry. It was an inconvenient time
to tell the story. Miss Vanhorn was tired and cross, tea had been sent
up to the room, and Bessmer was waiting to arrange her hair. "What have
you been doing now?" she said. "Climbing trees? Or breaking in colts?"

Anne told her tale briefly. The old woman listened, without comment,