“Yes, um,” was the docile answer she invariably made.

But, strange as it may seem, although Annie Conwell was considered clever and bright enough in general, and often stood head of her class, she seemed to have a wretched memory in regard to this parting injunction of her mother, or else there were ostensibly many good reasons for making exceptions to the rule.  When, as sometimes happened, she entered the house some two hours after school was dismissed, and threw down her books upon the sitting-room table, Mrs. Conwell reproachfully looked up from her sewing and asked:  “What time is it, dear?”

And Annie, after a startled glance at the clock, either stammered, “O mother, I forgot!” or else rattled off an unsatisfactory excuse.

“Very well!” was the frequent warning.  “If you stay at Lucy Caryl’s without permission, you must remain indoors on Saturday as a punishment for your disobedience.”

Nevertheless, when the end of the week came, Annie usually managed to escape the threatened penalty.  For Saturday is a busy day in the domestic world; and Mrs. Conwell was one of the fine, old-fashioned housekeepers—­now, unfortunately, somewhat out of date—­who looked well after the ways of her household, which was in consequence pervaded by an atmosphere of comfort and prosperity.

One especial holiday, however, she surprised the little maid by saying,

“Annie, I have told you over and over again that you must come directly home from school, and yet for several days you have not made your appearance until nearly dusk.  I am going down town now, and I forbid you to go out to play until I return.  For a great girl, going on ten years of age, you are too heedless.  Something must be done about it.”

Annie reddened, buried her cheeks in the fur of her mother’s sable muff with which she was toying, and gave a sidelong glance at Mrs. Conwell’s face.  The study of it assured her that there was no use in “begging off” this time; so she silently laid down the muff and walked to the window.

Mrs. Conwell, after clasping her handsome fur collar—­or tippet, as it was called—­over the velvet mantle which was the fashion in those days, and surveying in the mirror the nodding plumes of her bonnet of royal purple hue, took up the muff and went away.

“A great girl!” grumbled Annie, as she watched the lady out of sight.  “She always says that when she is displeased.  ’Going on ten years of age!’ It is true, of course; but, then, I was only nine last month.  At other times, when persons ask me how old I am, if I answer ’Most ten,’ mother is sure to laugh and say, ‘Annie’s just past nine.’  It makes me so mad!”