Minerva followed her mistress and Anne up to Miss Carrington’s sitting room; she helped Miss Carrington off with her outdoor garments, meantime scanning Anne surreptitiously and reaching a favourable verdict upon her. “Handsomer and grander Helen Abercrombie may be, but this sweet, good kind for me! I’m glad Master Kit has the sense!” thought Minerva. “Better ask Mr. Christopher to come down, Minerva,” said Miss Carrington when Minerva’s task was done, and Miss Carrington had taken the teaspoonful of aromatic ammonia in water made necessary by the exhausting nature of her afternoon’s mission. “Go behind that curtain, my dear, if you please. We may as well set our little drama to the best of our ability, and get out of it every iota of its flavour! I want to surprise the boy.” “Oh, no; oh, no; I can’t!” cried Anne. Nevertheless, she obediently hid behind the heavy portière that hung ready to shut off draughts from the door. Kit came in whistling softly through his teeth. “Want me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, checking his sibilant tune. “Yes, my dear. I wanted--wanted--to show you a--a statuette I have. It’s behind the portière. Please go over and get it,” said Miss Carrington, struggling to speak naturally. Unsuspecting Kit went. He pulled the portière, but it was held. He went at it again more vigorously, and, suddenly, it swung loose, as fingers clasping it relaxed. There, shrinking back against the wall, her face flushed, with colour that came and went, her eyes shining with joy, yet afraid, her lips tremulous and infinitely sweet, stood Anne. “Good heavens! Anne!” cried Kit, stunned for a moment. But only for a moment. Then he had her in his arms, lifted her off her feet, and kissed her all over the flushed, frightened, happy face. “You little goose! Why were you so long?” he cried. Then, as he realized what must have happened to bring her there, he turned to his aunt. “Aunt Anne! Well, Aunt Anne! You’re the greatest Anne of the three!” he cried. Anne swiftly ran past Kit and dropped on her knees before the oldest Anne’s chair, her head on Miss Carrington’s lap. “Oh, I will be good! I will repay you! Please love me!” she cried. “Nonsense. I do!” declared the oldest Anne. CHAPTER XXIII _The Fall of the Curtain_ There are many tests of youthfulness, the mirror the least accurate. “A man is as young as he feels,” we are told, but this is misleading. A bad cold, a bill, an ill-cooked dinner, a few hours over-work, and the youthful man of the morning may feel decrepit by night. Thoreau hits it more nearly when he makes the thrill with which spring is hailed the test of age; we are not old, he tells us, if the blood in our veins runs swifter with the mounting sap; if we echo the joyousness of the bluebird’s annunciatory warble.