Little Anne betook herself to the backyard, where she found Peter as she had expected. She helped him with the front wheels of Barbara’s carriage, lifting it up on the piazza, and then returned with him to sit in her favourite attitude, elbows on knees, hands supporting her elfin chin, watching him work. But even to Peter, absorbed though he was, her interest in skis was plainly distracted. “Would you like a pair, Anne?” he asked. “You see I’m trying to fix up a sort of steering gear, rudder-like attachment. Do you suppose you could use skis without going on your nose?” “Could I!” exclaimed Anne, scornfully. “Funny if I couldn’t. There isn’t much boys can do I can’t. And those things are only ’cause I’m rather small. When I’m as old as you I’ll do every single thing you do, just’s well you do ’em.” “That’s no idle dream, either, Anne,” agreed Peter, admiringly. “I’d back you for a Marathon.” “Well, that’s nice of you, Peter,” Anne said with a deep, indrawn breath, as gratified as if she knew what a Marathon was. “Peter, I’m cast down and ’flicted in my mind.” “Gee!” exclaimed Peter, stopping short to look at little Anne. “That’s going some, even for you, Miss Berkley! What’s tuned you up on the Lamentations?” “The Lamentations in Tenebræ; I guess I know that!” little Anne rebuked him. “It isn’t Holy Week in July! Peter, is it perfec’ly awful to love someone and not be going to marry that one, but another who is truly glorious?” “Oh, my sainted aunt!” cried Peter, sincerely shocked. “Anne, for the love of Mike! Mother doesn’t let you go to movies, and you don’t read novels, as far as we know. Would you mind telling me what under the canopy started you on that?” “Yes, Peter, I would,” said little Anne with melancholy dignity. “It’s not my secret alone; if ’twas my secret alone I wouldn’t mind telling you. I just asked.” Peter lacked the clue to this quotation from Anne Dallas which little Anne had adopted on hearing it. She had treasured it up to use on Monica the next time that her most intimate friend wanted to be told a secret, but it came in so admirably now that she tried it first on Peter; these bits of beautiful diction fortunately serve more than once. It had such an effect upon Peter that little Anne esteemed it more highly than before. “Anne,” he declared, solemnly, “I’ll be darned! I certainly will be darned! Of all the kids! I hope Mother knows what to make of you!” “Oh, she does! But you didn’t tell me, Peter-two,” little Anne reminded her anxious brother. “No, and I’m not going to,” said Peter. “You put your problem-play plots up to Mother, or Father, or Father Denny, or someone; I shall not talk to you about such things! Great Scott, what shall we do with you when you’re in your ’teens?” “You needn’t act’s if I was wicked; it’s not a sin, Peter-two! And when I’m in my ’teens I’ll prob’ly be a Carmelite. The Little Flower went when she was fifteen, and I’ll be eight in October.”