“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” she breathed, “I peeked from the kitchen window . . . and he’s awful handsome . . . and just the right age for Miss Lavendar.  And oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, do you think it would be much harm to listen at the door?”

“It would be dreadful, Charlotta,” said Anne firmly, “so just you come away with me out of the reach of temptation.”

“I can’t do anything, and it’s awful to hang round just waiting,” sighed Charlotta.  “What if he don’t propose after all, Miss Shirley, ma’am?  You can never be sure of them men.  My older sister, Charlotta the First, thought she was engaged to one once.  But it turned out he had a different opinion and she says she’ll never trust one of them again.  And I heard of another case where a man thought he wanted one girl awful bad when it was really her sister he wanted all the time.  When a man don’t know his own mind, Miss Shirley, ma’am, how’s a poor woman going to be sure of it?”

“We’ll go to the kitchen and clean the silver spoons,” said Anne.  “That’s a task which won’t require much thinking fortunately . . . for I couldn’t think tonight.  And it will pass the time.”

It passed an hour.  Then, just as Anne laid down the last shining spoon, they heard the front door shut.  Both sought comfort fearfully in each other’s eyes.

“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” gasped Charlotta, “if he’s going away this early there’s nothing into it and never will be.”  They flew to the window.  Mr. Irving had no intention of going away.  He and Miss Lavendar were strolling slowly down the middle path to the stone bench.

“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, he’s got his arm around her waist,” whispered Charlotta the Fourth delightedly.  “He must have proposed to her or she’d never allow it.”

Anne caught Charlotta the Fourth by her own plump waist and danced her around the kitchen until they were both out of breath.

“Oh, Charlotta,” she cried gaily, “I’m neither a prophetess nor the daughter of a prophetess but I’m going to make a prediction.  There’ll be a wedding in this old stone house before the maple leaves are red.  Do you want that translated into prose, Charlotta?”

“No, I can understand that,” said Charlotta.  “A wedding ain’t poetry.  Why, Miss Shirley, ma’am, you’re crying!  What for?”

“Oh, because it’s all so beautiful . . . and story bookish . . . and romantic . . . and sad,” said Anne, winking the tears out of her eyes.  “It’s all perfectly lovely . . . but there’s a little sadness mixed up in it too, somehow.”

“Oh, of course there’s a resk in marrying anybody,” conceded Charlotta the Fourth, “but, when all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am, there’s many a worse thing than a husband.”

XXIX

Poetry and Prose