“Say ‘howdy’ and ask your visitor to take off her hat,” Martha suggested.

“You come on and tell me a story,” said Dunlop, seizing Anne’s hand.

She resisted his effort to drag her to a chair.  “I said ‘how do you do’ to you.  And you haven’t said ‘how do you do’ to me,” she reminded her host.  “I want to do and be did polite.”

“Aw! come on,” persisted Dunlop.

Anne stood silent.

The memory of his former encounter with her stubborn dignity came back to Dunlop.  He said, rather sullenly, “How do you do? and take off your hat.  But I don’t know your name.”

“My name is Anne Lewis,” said his guest.  “And this is Honey-Sweet.  I know your name.  Martha told me.  You are Dunlop Marshall.  Your little brother’s name is Arthur.  What a soft, curly, white little dog!”

“’At’s my Fluffles,” explained Arthur.

“Do you know any more stories, Anne Lewis?” inquired Dunlop.  “Martha said she ’spected you didn’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How many?”

“O—­oh!  I don’t know.  Many as I want to make up.  I’m playing a story now while I wash dishes—­this is my dining-room week.  I pretend that a funny little dwarf climbed the beanstalk with Jack—­and when the giant tumbled down he stayed up there in the giant’s castle.  Do you want to hear that story?”

“You bet!  Tell on,” said Dunlop—­and then added, as an afterthought, “please.”

“‘Please!’ Ain’t that wonderful?” commented Martha.  “Why, you make him have manners!”

An hour or two later, Mrs. Marshall came into the nursery to see the little girl whom her son had insisted on having as his guest.  Martha was serving refreshments—­animal crackers and cambric tea.

“Anne has to go at five o’clock,” Dunlop explained.  “It’s nearly that now.  So we’re having a party.”

“Anne—­what is the rest of your name, little one?” asked Mrs. Marshall.

“I know.  Let me tell,” exclaimed Dunlop.  “She’s named Anne Lewis and she lived in a big white house on a hill by the river at—­at—­you tell where, Anne.”

“‘Lewis Hall,’” said Anne.

“You are a Lewis of ‘Lewis Hall!’” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall.  “Is it possible?  Was your father—­could he have been—­Will Watkins Lewis?  He was such a dear friend of my Bland cousins.  I remember seeing him at ‘Belle Vue’ when I was a girl.  I never saw him after he married and settled down at his old home.  Let’s see.  Your mother was a Mayo, wasn’t she?”

“I am named for her.  Anne Mayo Lewis.”

“To think you are Will Watkins Lewis’s child!  He is dead?—­and your mother?”

“I can’t hardly remember him.  But I can shut my eyes and see mother.  I was a big girl—­seven when she died.”

“You poor little thing!  And where have you been since?”

“In New York with Uncle Carey.  He’s mother’s brother.  Then I was in Paris at school.  Mr. Patterson brought me back to Virginia.  I’ve been here ever since.”