“You certainly do!” Kit admitted, handsomely. “Anne, sometimes I’m afraid you’re too learned; it’s fearful to be erudite.” “I don’t know what that is,” said little Anne. “Anthology’s not such a dreadfully long word--multiplication is one count longer and all children say it’s easy! Mother says it’s all what you hear and learn. She says it’s the same about thinking; it’s just’s easy to think about big things as little ones, and good things as bad ones; that’s what she says. She says it’s all what you’re used to. And my mother tells me about big things quite often.” “She does, I know; you frequently allude to them,” said Kit, abstractedly. He was looking at the lovely group across the room: the leaping, gurgling baby; the two fair, flushed young women with the same look on their faces, a look that Kit found natural in Joan, but awesome and mysterious in Anne Dallas, a prophecy that quickened his breath. “I’ve an Anthology,” said little Anne, taking Kit’s face between her palms with no intention of allowing his thoughts to wander from her. “It’s the one Joyce Kilmer made. There’s a poem in it about Michael the Archangel. You can hear it rush, and it shines. We say a prayer after Mass. It begins: ‛St. Michael, the archangel, defend us in battle.’ I love it. When we say it I can just see him on account of that poem. A lady wrote it. Her name is Katharine Tynan, but she’s called Mrs. Hinkson now because she married him. Now listen! I’m going to say two verses for you, the two which make me breathe so hard, and you see if you don’t love, _love_ ’em! ‛_His wings he hath put away in steel, He goes mail-clad from head to heel; Never moon-silver hath outshone His breastplate and his morion._ _His brows are like a battlement, Beautiful, brave, and innocent; His eyes with fires of battle burn-- On his strong mouth the smile is stern._’ “Isn’t that great, _great_!” Little Anne caught her breath in a sob. “Isn’t he beautiful, and awful? I’m not afraid of him; I’d like to go with him, anywhere.” “You wouldn’t be afraid of any one who fought for the right, little Anne,” said Kit, somewhat embarrassed by this child’s demands upon him. “And that poem is in Joyce Kilmer’s Anthology? Well, he himself fought for the right.” “Oh, yes!” Little Anne clasped and unclasped her hands. “He went scouting to find where the dang’rous enemy was hiding, and they found him lying, just as if he was looking over the edge. He was looking for Germans. They were devilish, weren’t they?” “We thought so, little Anne,” said Kit. “Well, what do you suppose it felt like?” Anne went on. “I’ve wondered and wondered. It makes me shake. He was looking for Germans, and they shot, and there was God Almighty!” “Anne!” gasped Kit, honestly shocked. Little Anne misinterpreted his exclamation. She raised to him her dark eyes burning in her white face; deep hollows were suddenly graven below them.