Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since that October day.  Sometimes she and Diana drove around by the road; sometimes they walked through the woods.  When Diana could not go Anne went alone.  Between her and Miss Lavendar had sprung up one of those fervent, helpful friendships possible only between a woman who has kept the freshness of youth in her heart and soul, and a girl whose imagination and intuition supplied the place of experience.  Anne had at last discovered a real “kindred spirit,” while into the little lady’s lonely, sequestered life of dreams Anne and Diana came with the wholesome joy and exhilaration of the outer existence, which Miss Lavendar, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot,” had long ceased to share; they brought an atmosphere of youth and reality to the little stone house.  Charlotta the Fourth always greeted them with her very widest smile . . . and Charlotta’s smiles were fearfully wide . . . loving them for the sake of her adored mistress as well as for their own.  Never had there been such “high jinks” held in the little stone house as were held there that beautiful, late-lingering autumn, when November seemed October over again, and even December aped the sunshine and hazes of summer.

But on this particular day it seemed as if December had remembered that it was time for winter and had turned suddenly dull and brooding, with a windless hush predictive of coming snow.  Nevertheless, Anne keenly enjoyed her walk through the great gray maze of the beechlands; though alone she never found it lonely; her imagination peopled her path with merry companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pretended conversation that was wittier and more fascinating than conversations are apt to be in real life, where people sometimes fail most lamentably to talk up to the requirements.  In a “make believe” assembly of choice spirits everybody says just the thing you want her to say and so gives you the chance to say just what you want to say.  Attended by this invisible company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lane just as broad, feathery flakes began to flutter down softly.

At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big, broad-branching fir.  She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head and shoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.

“You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies,” called Anne merrily.

“I thought you would come tonight, Anne,” said Miss Lavendar, running forward.  “And I’m doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away.  Her mother is sick and she had to go home for the night.  I should have been very lonely if you hadn’t come . . . even the dreams and the echoes wouldn’t have been enough company.  Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,” she added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the soft rose-flush of walking on her face.  “How pretty and how young!  It’s so delightful to be seventeen, isn’t it?  I do envy you,” concluded Miss Lavendar candidly.