Anne stood up and looked all about.  At last she discovered the speaker.  He was a small boy who had climbed a low-branching apple-tree on the other side of the hedge.  A smaller boy was walking beside a white-capped, white-aproned nurse at a little distance.  Anne had made believe that the brown-stone house was the castle of the wandering knight who was to return and rescue the enchanted princesses.  It had been closed all the summer and Anne was surprised and grieved to see now that it was open and occupied by everyday people.

As his command was not obeyed, the small boy made good his threat and wailed aloud.  The white-capped nurse came running to him.

“What is the matter, Master Dunlop?  Have you hurt yourself on that naughty tree?  I’ll beat it for you.  Don’t you cry.”

Dunlop paused in his wailing to say:  “It’s that girl over there.  She stopped telling a story.  And I told her to keep on.  And she didn’t.”

“Oh, Master Dunlop!  A-talking to them charity chillen!” exclaimed the nurse.  “You’re in mischief soon as my back’s turned.  Come away, Master Dunlop, come along with me and Master Arthur.  You’ll catch—­no telling what.”

“I’ve had fever,” announced Dunlop, proudly.  “And I’m not to be fretted.  Mamma told you so.  I won’t go, Martha.  I’ll cry if you try to make me.  I want to hear that story.—­Tell it, girl,” he commanded.

“We don’t answer people that speak to us like that, do we, Honey-Sweet?” said Anne, turning away.  “We’ll go under the elm-tree in the far corner.—­And the fair, forlorn princess got off her milk-white steed to pick some berries—­and whizz! gallop! off he went and left her.  So the princess walked on alone through the forest—­” as Anne spoke she was walking away from the hedge.

Dunlop began to scream again.

Martha spoke hastily.  “If you’ll hush, I’ll ask her to tell you the story.  If you scream, Master Dunlop, your mother’ll call you in and she’ll make you take a spoonful of that bitter stuff.”

“You call that girl, then,” he commanded.

Martha raised her voice.  “Little girl, oh, little girl!—­I don’t know your name.  Please come back.”

Anne paused, but did not turn her head.

“This little boy has been ill,” Martha continued.  “He’s just getting over fever.  And he’s notiony.  Won’t you please tell that story to him?”

Anne walked slowly back.  “I do not mind telling him the story,” she answered with grave dignity.  “I’m always telling stories to the girls.  But he must ask me proper.  I don’t ’low for to be spoken to that way.”

“Martha said ‘please’ to you,” mumbled Dunlop, digging his toe in the turf.

“You want me to tell the story,” said Anne.

There was a brief silence.

“I’ll cry,” he threatened.

“I don’t have to keep you from crying,” said Anne, with spirit.  “Come on, Honey-Sweet.”

“Please, you little girl,” said Dunlop, hastily.