e
if Stephen hadn't come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I'm sorry to say"
. . . Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if she were about to confess a
predilection for murdering people, "that I am a dreadfully sulky person.
Oh, you needn't smile, . . . it's only too true. I DO sulk; and Stephen
came back before I had finished sulking. I wouldn't listen to him and I
wouldn't forgive him; and so he went away for good. He was too proud to
come again. And then I sulked because he didn't come. I might have sent
for him perhaps, but I couldn't humble myself to do that. I was just
as proud as he was . . . pride and sulkiness make a very bad combination,
Anne. But I could never care for anybody else and I didn't want to.
I knew I would rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marry
anybody who wasn't Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now,
of course. How sympathetic you look, Anne . . . as sympathetic as only
seventeen can look. But don't overdo it. I'm really a very happy,
contented little person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break,
if ever a heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not coming
back. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life isn't half as dreadful as
it is in books. It's a good deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won't
think THAT a very romantic simile. It takes spells of aching and gives
you a sleepless night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoy
life and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the
matter with it. And now you're looking disappointed. You don't think
I'm half as interesting a person as you did five minutes ago when you
believed I was always the prey of a tragic memory bravely hidden beneath
external smiles. That's the worst . . . or the best . . . of real life,
Anne. It WON'T let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make you
comfortable . . . and succeeding...even when you're determined to be
unhappy and romantic. Isn't this candy scrumptious? I've eaten far more
than is good for me already but I'm going to keep recklessly on."

After a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly,

"It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen's son that first day you were
here, Anne. I've never been able to mention him to you since, but I've
wanted to know all about him. What sort of a boy is he?"

"He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, Miss Lavendar . . . and
he pretends things too, just as you and I do."

"I'd like to see him,"