“It is the most beautiful play that ever was, dear little Anne. And it is done, every word! It is called ‛The Guerdon.’ The great New York manager, who was here the other day, is going to put the play on in the autumn, if he can get it ready. It will be acted by the best actors in the country, and the scenery will be a dream! And on the first night--what do you suppose? Mr. Latham will have the big box next the stage, and he is going to invite some people who are dear to him to sit with him in that box! Mr. Wilberforce, the famous painter, will be one of them, but who else do you suppose, little Anne?” “I don’t know,” little Anne managed to say, huskily, choked by a hope that she dared not admit. “Little Anne Berkley for one!” cried Anne, triumphantly, seizing the child’s face between her hands to kiss it. “Me? At night? In New York? Oh, oh!” Little Anne looked almost faint from the shock of this overwhelming joy. “Never, never in all my life have I been once to the theatre, and I have to go to bed at eight, no matter what! And I’ve only been to New York three times, and once was to a dentist, and once to the zoo--the other I was a baby. Oh, I’ll pray my mother will let me go! Mr. Latham, I’d die for you over and over.” “Live for me, little Anne, please!” Richard laughed. “Come here, small Dynamic, and thank me at closer range.” Little Anne ran to him and perched on the arm of his chair. She bent over and kissed him gently, in spite of her tumultuous delight. Little Anne always felt that Richard might be hurt if she touched him as recklessly as she did people who could see. “But who else do you think will be in the author’s box, that’s Mr. Latham’s, you know?” Anne resumed the game. “I don’t--Kit?” guessed little Anne. “Oh, no!” cried Anne, sharply, taken by surprise. She covered the cry with a laugh. “Can’t you guess, when Mr. Latham just told you who were his two best friends?” “’Course!” exclaimed little Anne, scornful of herself. “Miss Anne--you!” “No, and yes, little Anne!” Anne said. “There will be no Miss Anne then.” “What will you be? Why not?” demanded little Anne. “I shall be Anne Latham; the other person in the author’s box will be the poet’s wife,” said Anne. She went over to Richard and leaned on the other arm of his chair. He put out his hand without speaking and took hers. Anne leant her head upon his; little Anne saw her lips move. “You’d think she was saying a prayer,” thought the child. “Shall you be married?” she asked aloud. Her voice was awed, her eyes big. “Is that why you won’t be you?”