But we must go back to Anne, whom we left telling fairy tales to an audience across the hedge.  A rainy afternoon a few days later, a trim nurse-maid brought a note to Miss Farlow.  It was from Mrs. Marshall who lived in the brown-stone house next door, asking that a little girl whose name she did not know, a child with a big rag doll called Honey-Sweet, might come to spend the afternoon with her children.  Her little boy, just recovering from typhoid fever, was peevish at being kept indoors.  He begged to see the girl who had entertained him a few days before by telling fairy tales.  A visit from her would be a kindness to a sick child and an anxious mother.

“It is Anne Lewis that is wanted,” said Miss Farlow.  “I don’t know about letting her go.  Visiting interferes with the daily tasks.  I think it better not to—­”

“Please’m,” entreated the bearer of the note, hastening to ward off a refusal, “do, please’m, let the little girl come.  He’s that fractious he has us all wore out.  And he do say if the little girl don’t come he’ll scream till night.”

“Why doesn’t his mother punish him?” asked Miss Farlow.

“Punish him!  Punish Dunlop!” exclaimed Martha, in amazement.

“Oh, well! the child’s ill.  I suppose I must let her go,” Miss Farlow consented reluctantly.  Anne was sent up-stairs to scrub her already shining face, to brush her already orderly locks, to take off her gingham apron and put on a fresh dimity frock.  She returned to the office, twisting her hat-ribbon nervously.

“If you please, Miss Farlow,” she said appealingly, “Honey-Sweet—­my baby doll, you know—­was in the note, too.  Mayn’t I take her with me?”

Miss Farlow nodded consent and Anne tripped away with Honey-Sweet in her arms.  What a contrast ‘Roseland’ was to the ‘Home’ next door!  Anne followed Martha across a great hall with panelled walls and glass-knobbed mahogany doors and tiger-skin rugs on a well-waxed floor.  Martha led the way up broad, soft-carpeted stairs and turned into a room at the right.  What a charming nursery!  It was a large room with three big windows, which had a cheerful air even on this gray, bleak day.  It had soft, bright-colored rugs and chintz-cushioned wicker chairs.  There was a dado of Mother Goose illustrations on the pink walls.  And there were tables and shelves full of picture-books and toys of all kinds.

Dunlop stood in the middle of the room, frowning, with hands thrust in his pockets.  He had just kicked over a row of wooden soldiers with which his small brother was playing and the little fellow was crying over their downfall.

“Martha! thanks be that you’ve come!” exclaimed the maid in charge.

“Here she is! here she is!” cried Dunlop.  “I thought you weren’t coming, girl.  You were so slow.—­I was just getting ready to begin to scream,” he warned Martha.

“How do you do, Dunlop?” said Anne, putting out her hand.