Anne glanced toward her old friend, but stood her ground firmly. "I must take them," she said; "I promised I would do so as long as they were children, and under my care. When they are older they can choose for themselves." "To whom did you make that promise, Anne Douglas?" "To Père Michaux." "And you call yourself a Protestant!" "Yes; but I hope to keep a promise too, dear Miss Lois." "Why was it ever made?" "Père Michaux required it, and--father allowed it." Miss Lois rubbed her forehead, settled her spectacles with her first and third fingers, shook her head briskly once or twice to see if they were firmly in place, and then went on with her knitting. What William Douglas allowed, how could she disallow? Rast, standing by Anne's side putting on his fur gloves, showed no disposition to yield. "Please do not come, Rast," said the girl again, laying her hand on his arm. "I shall go to take care of you." "It is not necessary; we have old Antoine and his dogs, and the boys are to have a sled of their own. We shall be at home before dark, I think, and if not, the moon to-night is full." "But I shall go," said Rast. "Nonsense!" said Miss Lois. "Of course you will not go; Anne is right. You romp and make mischief with those children always. Behave now, and you shall come back this evening, and Anne shall come too, and we will have apples and nuts and gingerbread, and Anne shall recite." "Will you, Annet? I will yield if you promise." "If I must, I must," said Anne, reluctantly. "Go, then, proud maid; speed upon your errand. And in the mean time, Miss Lois, something fragrant and spicy in the way of a reward _now_ would not come amiss, and then some music."