They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park.  Just on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a plain road, was a little white frame house with groups of pines on either side of it, stretching their arms protectingly over its low roof.  It was covered with red and gold vines, through which its green-shuttered windows peeped.  Before it was a tiny garden, surrounded by a low stone wall.  October though it was, the garden was still very sweet with dear, old-fashioned, unworldly flowers and shrubs—­sweet may, southern-wood, lemon verbena, alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums.  A tiny brick wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from the gate to the front porch.  The whole place might have been transplanted from some remote country village; yet there was something about it that made its nearest neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a tobacco king, look exceedingly crude and showy and ill-bred by contrast.  As Phil said, it was the difference between being born and being made.

“It’s the dearest place I ever saw,” said Anne delightedly.  “It gives me one of my old, delightful funny aches.  It’s dearer and quainter than even Miss Lavendar’s stone house.”

“It’s the name I want you to notice especially,” said Phil.  “Look—­in white letters, around the archway over the gate.  ‘Patty’s Place.’  Isn’t that killing?  Especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts?  ‘Patty’s Place,’ if you please!  I adore it.”

“Have you any idea who Patty is?” asked Priscilla.

“Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I’ve discovered.  She lives there with her niece, and they’ve lived there for hundreds of years, more or less—­maybe a little less, Anne.  Exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy.  I understand that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot time and again—­it’s really worth a small fortune now, you know—­but ‘Patty’ won’t sell upon any consideration.  And there’s an apple orchard behind the house in place of a back yard—­you’ll see it when we get a little past—­a real apple orchard on Spofford Avenue!”

“I’m going to dream about ‘Patty’s Place’ tonight,” said Anne.  “Why, I feel as if I belonged to it.  I wonder if, by any chance, we’ll ever see the inside of it.”

“It isn’t likely,” said Priscilla.

Anne smiled mysteriously.

“No, it isn’t likely.  But I believe it will happen.  I have a queer, creepy, crawly feeling—­you can call it a presentiment, if you like—­that ‘Patty’s Place’ and I are going to be better acquainted yet.”

Chapter VII

Home Again

Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest of the term flew by on wings of wind.  Before they realized it the Redmond students found themselves in the grind of Christmas examinations, emerging therefrom more or less triumphantly.  The honor of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne, Gilbert and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane scraped through respectably, and comported himself as complacently as if he had led in everything.