Mrs. Patterson put a caressing hand on the child’s head but did not speak.  Lying back in her steamer chair, she looked across the gray-green water and thought and wondered.  Presently Anne crumpled her steamer rug on the deck and nestled down in it.  She chirped to Honey-Sweet and wiggled her finger at the smiling red mouth, playing she was a mother-bird bringing a fat worm to her nestling.  Hour after hour, while Miss Drayton and Mrs. Patterson read or talked together, Anne would sit beside them, sometimes chattering and ‘making believe’ with Honey-Sweet, sometimes prattling to her grown-up friends about her old home in Virginia or her life in New York.

Mrs. Patterson petted her and made dainty frocks for Honey-Sweet.  Brisk, practical Miss Drayton gave Anne spelling lessons and set her problems in number work, protesting that she was too large a girl to spend all her time playing and looking at fairy-tale books, blue, red, and green.  Why, she did not even read them except by bits and snatches, but made up tales to fit the pictures, and told over and over the stories that were read to her.

She was always ready to drop a book for a romp with Pat Patterson.  Bounding about the deck together, they looked like a greyhound and a St. Bernard—­she slim and alert, he with his rough hair tumbling over his merry, freckled face.  Often their games ended by her stalking away with Honey-Sweet, in offended dignity.  Pat was such a tease!

“Isn’t that a pretty doll?” he said one day, with suspicious earnestness.  “I say, lend her to me awhile, Anne.”

Anne objected.

“Oh, you Anne!  You wouldn’t be selfish, would you?” wheedled Pat.  “Didn’t I lend you my bow and arrows yesterday?  And I always give you half my macaroons.  Just hand her over for a minute.  Let me see the color of her eyes.”

“You know they are blue—­like the story-book princess,—­’her eyes were as bright and as blue as the sky above the summer sea,’” quoted Anne, reluctantly letting him take her pet.

“Blue they are.  D’ye know, Anne, I think she’d make a capital William Tell’s child.  Don’t believe she’d be afraid for me to shoot the apple off her head.  Let’s see.”

Before Anne could interfere, Pat had suspended Honey-Sweet to a hook out of her reach.  A ball of string was fixed on her head by means of a wad of chewing-gum.

Then Pat stepped back, drew his bow, and made a great show of aiming his arrow at the pretended apple.

“How brave she is!  She does not wink an eyelid,” he said solemnly.  “To think! to think!  If me aim be not true, I’ll ki-ill me child,” he exclaimed, shaking with mock fear and dismay.

“Oh, Pat, Pat, don’t!” implored Anne, grasping his arm.

“Away, away!” said Pat, drawing back.  “Me heart failed but for a moment.  William Tell is himself once more.  Behold!” And he took aim again.

“Stop him! stop him!  Don’t let him shoot Honey-Sweet!” cried Anne.