In that out-of-the-way place there seemed little danger of Anne’s being discovered.  Mrs. Collins, however, made elaborate plans for her concealment.

“Anne,” she said, “would you mind me callin’ you my niece Polly?”

Anne looked at her in questioning surprise.

“If so be people from the ’sylum was to look for you, you wouldn’t want to go back thar, would you?”

“Oh, no!  I’d much rather stay here,” answered Anne.

“Bless your heart! and so you shall,” exclaimed Mrs. Collins.  “I’ll trim your hair and part it on the side and call you my niece Polly.  And can’t nobody find out who you are and drag you back to that ’sylum.  You shall stay here forever.”

“Goody, goody!” cried Anne.  Then she said thoughtfully, “I do wish I had some of my things from there.  It doesn’t matter so much about my clothes.  Lizzie’s are most small enough and I s’pose I’ll grow to fit them.  But I do wish Honey-Sweet had her dresses, ’spressly her spotted silk and her blue muslin.  And there are some other things.  Uncle Carey said they were my mother’s and I don’t want Miss Farlow to keep them always.”

“When you are grown up, you can go and get them,” suggested Mrs. Collins.

“Oh, so I will,” said Anne.  “And please, may Lizzie go with me?”

CHAPTER XXIII

A day or two later, Anne wandered alone into the old-fashioned garden.  She had just recalled—­bit by bit things from the past came back to her—­a damask rose at the end of the south walk that was her mother’s special favorite.  It was bare now of its rosy-pink blossoms and Anne gathered some red and yellow zinnias to play lady with.  The red-gowned ladies had their home under the Cherokee rose-bush and yellow-frocked dames were given a place under the clematis-vine; then they exchanged visits and gave beautiful parties.

Presently a slim, black-robed lady sauntered down the box-edged turf walk and stopped near Anne.

“What are you doing, little girl?” she asked.

Anne looked up at the lady.  “How do you do, cousin?” she said, scrambling to her feet and putting up her mouth to be kissed.  It was one of the cousins, she knew, and it was the most natural thing in the world to see her come down the box-edged walk to the rose-arbor; but whether it was Cousin Lucy or Cousin Dorcas or Cousin Polly, Anne was not sure.

It was Cousin Dorcas and she stared at the child for a moment, too amazed to speak.

“It cannot be little Nancy!” she exclaimed at last.  “Child, who are you?”

“Why, of course, I’m little Nancy,” Anne laughed.

“What are you doing here?  Where did you come from?”

“I am playing flower dolls.”  Anne answered the questions gravely in order.  “I got off the train because I wanted to come home.  I thought Aunt Charity and Uncle Richard were here.”

Miss Dorcas Read sat down on a rustic seat and questioned her small cousin until she drew forth the story of the child’s wanderings.