t something'll go wrong at the last minute . . . the cream won't
whip . . . or Mr. Irving'll have a stroke and not be able to come."

"He isn't in the habit of having strokes, is he?" asked Diana, the
dimpled corners of her mouth twitching. To Diana, Charlotta the Fourth
was, if not exactly a thing of beauty, certainly a joy forever.

"They're not things that go by habit," said Charlotta the Fourth with
dignity. "They just HAPPEN . . . and there you are. ANYBODY can have a
stroke. You don't have to learn how. Mr. Irving looks a lot like an
uncle of mine that had one once just as he was sitting down to dinner
one day. But maybe everything'll go all right. In this world you've just
got to hope for the best and prepare for the worst and take whatever God
sends."

"The only thing I'm worried about is that it won't be fine tomorrow,"
said Diana. "Uncle Abe predicted rain for the middle of the week, and
ever since the big storm I can't help believing there's a good deal in
what Uncle Abe says."

Anne, who knew better than Diana just how much Uncle Abe had to do with
the storm, was not much disturbed by this. She slept the sleep of the
just and weary, and was roused at an unearthly hour by Charlotta the
Fourth.

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it's awful to call you so early," came wailing
through the keyhole, "but there's so much to do yet . . . and oh, Miss
Shirley, ma'am, I'm skeered it's going to rain and I wish you'd get up
and tell me you think it ain't." Anne flew to the window, hoping against
hope that Charlotta the Fourth was saying this merely by way of rousing
her effectually. But alas, the morning did look unpropitious. Below the
window Miss Lavendar's garden, which should have been a glory of pale
virgin sunshine, lay dim and windless; and the sky over the firs was
dark with moody clouds.

"Isn't it too mean!" said Diana.

"We must hope for the best," said Anne determinedly. "If it only doesn't
actually rain, a cool, pearly gray day like this would really be nicer
than hot sunshine."

"But it will rain," mourned Charlotta, creeping into the room, a figure
of fun, with her many braids wound about her head, the ends, tied up
with white thread, sticking out in all directions. "It'll hold off till
the last minute and then pour cats and dogs. And all the folks will get
sopping . . . and track mud all over the house . . . and they won't be
able to be married under the honeysuckle . . . and it's awful unlucky
for no