r head and
shoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.

"You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies," called Anne merrily.

"I thought you would come tonight, Anne," said Miss Lavendar, running
forward. "And I'm doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Her
mother is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should have
been very lonely if you hadn't come . . . even the dreams and the echoes
wouldn't have been enough company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,"
she added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the soft
rose-flush of walking on her face. "How pretty and how young! It's so
delightful to be seventeen, isn't it? I do envy you," concluded Miss
Lavendar candidly.

"But you are only seventeen at heart," smiled Anne.

"No, I'm old . . . or rather middle-aged, which is far worse," sighed Miss
Lavendar. "Sometimes I can pretend I'm not, but at other times I realize
it. And I can't reconcile myself to it as most women seem to. I'm just
as rebellious as I was when I discovered my first gray hair. Now,
Anne, don't look as if you were trying to understand. Seventeen CAN'T
understand. I'm going to pretend right away that I am seventeen too, and
I can do it, now that you're here. You always bring youth in your hand
like a gift. We're going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . what do
you want for tea? We'll have whatever you like. Do think of something
nice and indigestible."

There were sounds of riot and mirth in the little stone house that
night. What with cooking and feasting and making candy and laughing and
"pretending," it is quite true that Miss Lavendar and Anne comported
themselves in a fashion entirely unsuited to the dignity of a spinster
of forty-five and a sedate schoolma'am. Then, when they were tired, they
sat down on the rug before the grate in the parlor, lighted only by the
soft fireshine and perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar's open rose-jar
on the mantel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing around
the eaves and the snow was thudding softly against the windows, as if a
hundred storm sprites were tapping for entrance.

"I'm so glad you're here, Anne," said Miss Lavendar, nibbling at her
candy. "If you weren't I should be blue . . . very blue . . . almost navy
blue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and the
sunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wants
real things then. But you don't know this . . . sev