“Your hair isn’t coming down; it’s only rather loose. It’s prettiest down, anyway; I’ll fix it,” said Anne. “Satisfied doesn’t sound like that when people say it; they say it in a getting-along tone. When Joan got that centrepiece from Antony’s Aunt Lil last Christmas she said: ‛Oh, well, of course I’m _satisfied_ with it!’ Like that! ’Cause she per-fect-ly _detests_ Renaissance lace. And don’t you remember Peter-two made that awful bad joke about it? He said it was re-nuisance. _Nuisance_, you know, mother! Don’t you see? Because Joan put it away to give someone else; that’s what made the _re_ part of the joke: an over-again nuisance, Mother! Joan said it was a perfec’ly stupid joke; she said it was a pun. What makes me remember bad jokes, Mother? I keep remembering Peter’s worst ones. Joan said she was satisfied, but she means to give that centrepiece to someone else; Joan _said_ to Mr. Richard Latham, because he was blind, but Joan didn’t mean it; Joan never means anything not kind, like that! Now your hair isn’t loose, lovely motherkins! I see Joan coming in the back way. She hasn’t brought Barbara---- Mercy me! I forgot my beetle and Joan’ll step on him, kersmash! Joan would never see a beetle; she goes along thinking of Antony Paul and Toots! I don’t blame her; that’s the loveliest baby I ever in all my lifetime saw! And I always did say Antony was ’most too good for Joan, if she is my sister. I never expected in all my lifetime to have a brother-in-law who was half as nice as Antony Paul--so there!” “Oh, Anne!” sighed Mrs. Berkley, her conscientious motherhood weighing upon her. “My hair may not be loose, but what about your little red tongue, my dear? I am afraid that Peter is right, and that we spoil you, child!” “Oh, no, no, indeed, Mother!” Anne earnestly reassured her. “You bring me up just right. You let me do about everything that isn’t wicked, only just a weeny bit kind of not like every little girl, but if I wanted a crime you wouldn’t let me have it, and you teach me noble things--catechism and everything!” Mrs. Berkley laughed her soft inward, chuckling laugh, as she often did at Anne’s speeches. “Such high-coloured words, little Anne! Fancy craving a crime! “Joan, dear, the baby must have let you sleep last night. You look blooming, my daughter!” Mrs. Berkley arose to take into her arms a pretty young creature, all soft tints like her mother--sweet, normal, and contented, not in any way suggesting sisterhood to little Anne.