“Ted, I can’t talk about it now. Anne was only sorry for me, and I discovered in time the cruel task she had put upon her blessed little self. That’s all. Have you eaten? Stetson, Stetson, here’s Mr. Wilberforce already! Order him a lunch, will you?” Richard called out of the rear door in the hall. Then he brought his friend into his library, taking his hat and bags, fussing over him with an affection that eloquently told of the relation between the poet and the painter. “Well, of all things! Where did you find the little girl? I never heard of her,” exclaimed Ted, amazed by the apparition of little Anne sitting stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankles, on the arm of Richard’s chair. “This is Miss Anne Berkley, Mr. Wilberforce,” said Richard with a gesture of courtly dignity for little Anne’s benefit. “She is an intimate friend of mine who visits me often, with whom I play happily, who will some day, she promises, when enough time has passed, come to be eyes to me and help me to write poems and plays. She is a lady who has a vocation which she herself discovered, and which proved to be more significant as a prophecy than she foresaw. Her vocation, she one day announced to her mother, is setting beetles on their feet when they lie, helpless, on their backs. I have been one of her beetles, as I’ll explain by and by. She goes to a convent school, and is in many ways mediæval. She is one of a delightful family, Catholics of the right sort. Anne is staying now with this little Anne’s lovable young matron sister, Mrs. Antony Paul. And that is enough of the History of Queen Anne the Less, isn’t it, little Anne?” “It is quite a lot,” she agreed. “Shall I go home now? I’ll come again.” “Would you mind shaking hands, Miss Little-Anne?” asked Edwin Wilberforce, stooping from his great height to carry out his suggestion. “I wish you would take me for another friend of yours. I can play games and the jews’-harp! When you hear me play Wagner on the jews’-harp you will be proud that you know me.” Little Anne looked up at him with dancing eyes. She did not know Wagner, but she did know the jews’-harp. “I can play on blades of grass perfec’ly wonderful,” she said. “You’ll do!” shouted Ted Wilberforce. “We’ll have duets. Say, Miss Little-Anne, I’d like to paint you! Seated in a chair with a high, carved back, clad in a long, straight green gown falling to your feet, and having a nice little, tight little white yoke top with a band around your throat; your hair straight and ribbonless on each side of your thin little face, and in your hands, resting on your knees, a fine old tooled “Book of Hours” which I own! I’d call the picture--call it--The Mystic! That’s it! With that face and those eyes, visions just beyond, eh, Dick?” “You’ve got her,” agreed Richard. “Will you sit, little Anne?”