[Illustration:  “I almost wish you had not found it”]

Von Rosen stared at her.  Was she rude after all, this very pretty girl, who was capable of laughter.  “You would not blame me if you had to embroider daisies on that dreadful piece of linen,” said Annie with a rueful glance at the dingy package.

Von Rosen smiled kindly at her.  “I don’t blame you at all,” he replied.  “I can understand it must be a dismal task to embroider daisies.”

“It is, Mr. von Rosen—­” Annie hesitated.

“Yes,” said Von Rosen encouragingly.

“You know I never go to church.”

“Yes,” said Von Rosen mendaciously.  He really did not know.  In future he, however, would.

“Well, I don’t go because—­” again Annie hesitated, while the young man waited interrogatively.

Then Annie spoke with force.  “I would really like to go occasionally,” she said, “I doubt if I would always care to.”

“No, I don’t think you would,” assented Von Rosen with a queer delight.

“But I never can because—­Grandmother is old and she has not much left in life, you know.”

“Of course.”

“It is all very well for people to talk about firesides, and knitting work, and peaceful eyes of age fixed upon Heavenly homes,” said Annie, “but all old people are not like that.  Grandma hates to knit although she does think I should embroider daisies, and she does like to have me play pinocle with her Sunday mornings, when Aunt Harriet and Aunt Jane are out of the way.  It is the only chance she has during the whole week you know because neither Aunt Harriet nor Aunt Jane approves of cards, and poor Grandma is so fond of them, it seems cruel not to play with her the one chance she has.”

“I think you are entirely right,” said Von Rosen with grave conviction and he was charmed that the girl regarded him as if he had said nothing whatever unusual.

“I have always been sure that it was right,” said Annie Eustace, “but I would like sometimes to go to church.”

“I really wish you could,” said Von Rosen, “and I would make an especial effort to write a good sermon.”

“Oh,” said Annie, “Aunt Harriet often hears you preach one which she thinks very good.”

Von Rosen bowed.  Suddenly Annie’s shyness, reserve, whatever it was, seemed to overcloud her.  The lovely red faded from her cheeks, the light from her eyes.  She lost her beauty in a great measure.  She bowed stiffly, saying:  “I thank you very much, good evening,” and passed on, leaving the young man rather dazed, pleased and yet distinctly annoyed, and annoyed in some inscrutable fashion at himself.

Then he heard shouts of childish laughter, and a scamper of childish feet, and Maida and Adelaide Edes rushed past, almost jostling him from the sidewalk.  Maida carried a letter, which her mother had written, and dispatched to the last mail.  And that letter was destined to be of more importance to Von Rosen than he knew.