Miss Drayton would wait.  She wished to see the little girl the very minute that she came in.  The janitor invited the lady into his dingy office but she shook her head.  She would wait, if he pleased, in the pleasant old garden, of which she caught a glimpse through the open door.

Up and down, down and up, the gravelled walks she paced, restless and impatient.  Suppose there was some mistake.  Suppose this Anne Lewis was not her little Anne.  Surely it was time for the child to come from school.  Only one o’clock?  Her watch must be wrong.  No, it had not stopped.  And the old dial, catching the sunlight through leafless trees, told the same hour.  Drawing her furs about her, Miss Drayton sat down on a stone bench.

From below, came the street noises,—­jangle of cars, rumble of wagons, clatter and clamor of passers-by.  In the old garden, withered leaves drifted down on the still air or rustled underfoot, bare branches wavered against the clear blue sky, and purple shadows flickered on the leaf-strewn walk.  How quiet it was! how peaceful!  By degrees, the quiet and the peace crept into Miss Drayton’s heart.  She was content to wait.  In this good world of ours, everything is sure to come out right in the end.

And then, in the mellow sunlight, down the box-bordered walk, past the sun-dial, toward the stone bench, came a little figure.

“Mr. Brown said that a lady—­oh! oh! it’s you!”

“Dear little Anne! dear little Anne!” She was clasped in the arms—­dear, cuddly arms!—­of her friend.

What laughter, tears, and chatter there were!

“But we must go home,” said Miss Drayton, presently.  “Pat will be there now.  We’ll come back to see your cousin.”

As they entered the hall, they heard from above the click-click of dumb-bells.  Miss Drayton put her finger on Anne’s lips, and they tiptoed into the cozy sitting-room.

Then Miss Drayton called in an offhand way:  “Pat, oh, Pat!  There’s a child in the sitting-room that wants to see you.”

“Who is he?”

His aunt did not seem to hear.  Anyway, she did not answer.  Pat, whistling ragtime, sauntered into the sitting-room.

Anne flew into his arms.

“Why, what—­” and then he realized that it was Anne.  Anne!  He gave her a bear’s hug and danced about the room, holding her high in his arms.  Miss Drayton laughed till tears came.

“Where did you come from?  How did you get here?  Did Aunt Sarah find you?  Does dad know you’ve come?  When—­”

“There, there, Pat!  Not more than three questions at a time, please,” interrupted his aunt.  “And you’re not leaving Anne breath to answer one.”

How much there was to ask and to tell!  Anne gave an account of her wanderings.  Pat told how they had searched for her, how grieved the asylum people and the Marshall family were at not being able to find her.  “Why, there’s that little chap Dunlop.  He asked if you had any jam for your supper—­and I told him ’No’—­and he wouldn’t touch it—­said he didn’t want it, if Anne didn’t have any.”