“Dear, dear!  Will Watkins Lewis’s child!” repeated Mrs. Marshall.  “Where are all your kins-people and friends?”

“I don’t know ’bout kinfolks.  But I have lots and lots of friends,” said Anne, brightening.  “All the girls—­and the cook—­and the ’spress man—­and there used to be Miss Drayton and Pat.  And there’s always Honey-Sweet,” continued Anne, giving her doll a hug.  “Oh, I must hurry!  It’s beginning to strike five—­and Miss Farlow said five o’clock pre-cise-ly.  Good-by.  And thank you.”

CHAPTER XVII

That Saturday afternoon was the first of many that Anne spent at the brown-stone house next door.  The ‘Roseland’ family became so fond of her that Mr. and Mrs. Marshall talked about adopting her.  ’It was too important a matter to decide offhand,’ Mr. Marshall said; ’too great a responsibility to undertake lightly.  They would wait awhile.  Of course the child would like to come.’

Mrs. Marshall was sure that she would be overjoyed.  She asked one afternoon, “How would you like to stay with us all the time, my dear?”

Anne was not prepared to say.  “It’s lovely to visit you and I always want to stay longer,” she responded.  She considered the question on her way to the ‘Home,’ and arrived at a positive conclusion.

“I don’t believe I’d like it, Honey-Sweet,” she said,—­“not at all.  I like them every one and it’s a lovely visiting-place.  I’m glad I’m going to spend to-morrow night there.  But Dunlop—­he’s much nicer to be company than home-folks with.”

The next day was Christmas Eve.  When Anne entered the ‘Roseland’ nursery, snow was beginning to fall, fluttering down in big wet flakes.

Dunlop, his stocking in his hand, was prancing about the room.  He wished it would be dark and time to hang up his stocking—­and he did wish it was to-morrow morning and time to get his presents.  He wanted a nail driven in front of the fireplace; he was afraid Santa Claus wouldn’t think to look at the end of the mantel-piece.  His own stocking was too small.  He had told Santa to bring him a football and an express wagon and lots of other things.  He was going to borrow a big fat stocking from the big fat cook.  Off he ran.

Little Arthur was sitting beside a low table on which lay two picture-books, one less badly torn than the other, and one of his favorite toys, a woolly white dog, now three-legged through some nursery mishap.  Arthur regarded them thoughtfully.  He had a pencil clenched in his chubby fist and on the table before him was a piece of paper.

“What are you doing, Artie dear?” asked Anne.

He looked up at her with big round blue eyes.  He was a quiet, good-tempered little fellow, now perplexed with serious thoughts.

“I’m going to hang up all two my socks,” he announced.

“Why, Arthur-boy! that sounds selfish—­not like you,” exclaimed Anne.  “You don’t want more than your share of Santa Claus’s pretty things, do you?  Don’t you want him to save some toys and books and candies for other little boys?”