Little Anne ran every step of the way to Latham Street. She was late and the desire to get there was strong upon her. Something had made her uncomfortable; she did not know what it was, but she wanted Anne Dallas and the beloved poet. “Well, dear mite, how late you are!” cried Richard Latham as little Anne came running down the garden to join him and Anne where they sat. “I was calling on Miss Carrington; she asked me on the telephone, too, only it wasn’t her own; she hasn’t one, and I didn’t talk myself this time. She isn’t ’xactly well; she was lying down. I was going to read to her, but Miss Abercrombie came in, all in goldeny riding things, and kneeled down to Miss Carrington. There was a man, too. He called her over to get it and he gave her the biggest diamond ring ever in all this world, and another crusty diamond one to put on top of it. And he--he--he said they would be married, and so did she.” Little Anne poured forth her story rapidly, but she could not say that George Lanbury had kissed Helen. “Dear me, Anne, what a fairy tale!” cried Richard. “Oh, no; honest it isn’t, Mr. Latham,” protested little Anne, misunderstanding. “It’s all true, and I didn’t tell quite all.” “The man wasn’t Kit!” cried Richard, startled by this hint of something withheld. Little Anne shook her head hard and glanced with a wise little smile at Anne. Anne hated herself for it, but she laid a warning finger on her lip. Little Anne shook her head still harder and said: “I guess it wasn’t Kit! He’s a big man. When he laughs it doesn’t look like something funny, but as if you were funny yourself. He’s not like Kit, dear Kit! He’s named George. That’s what she called him. So I came here, and I’m glad I did.” “So are we,” said Richard Latham. “When I called you up, Miss Anne Berkley, it was to tell you something that makes me so happy that I had to ask my best, most intimate lady friend to be told about it.” “Me?” cried little Anne, ecstatically striking her breast. “You and this other Anne are my very dearest friends,” Richard gravely assured her. “The other Anne knew all about it; I did not have to tell her. Little Anne, my play is finished!” “Oh, is it?” cried little Anne, clasping her hands fervently as she always did when moved. Though she did not understand precisely the full import of what she had been told, she realized that Richard Latham had long been at work upon this play. That it was finished meant something so great that she could not grasp it. This only proved it the more glorious. Anne Dallas with an effort that little Anne could not see, though she did see how white and worn the girl looked, took up the tale.