“I was thinking this was the most Annest town I ever saw: Miss Anne Carrington, Anne Dallas, little Anne Berkley; prob’ly lots more,” she said. “When I’m confirmed I’m going to take Ursula for my new name, ’cause there isn’t one of them. Then you can call me that, so everybody’ll know me apart.” “I can tell you apart, childie, this minute! Come here, little Anne, and let me rock you, though your legs are uncomfortably long for this low chair.” Mrs. Berkley held out her arms invitingly and Anne ran into them. “Another thing I was thinking when you and Joan were talking about Mr. Latham and Ki--Mr. Carrington--all wanting to marry her. I think we’re not half sorry enough for all the trouble everybody makes God, all wanting the same thing and praying about it! It must be awful to have to say no to such lots of ’em! And He can’t say yes to more’n half when there’s two, just even, you see. It makes me feel sorry for Him. Is that a sin, Mother?” Anne lifted her head out of her mother’s shoulder and gazed at her with profoundly sad eyes. Her mother kissed the lids down over those great dark eyes. Sometimes her heart ached with fear of this strange child’s future. Then again Anne was so reassuringly human that the pang of anxiety over her unearthliness was swallowed up in anxiety of the opposite sort. So now Mrs. Berkley kissed down the lids over the meditative eyes and murmured comfortingly: “Little Anne must remember that God knows best.” Anne sprang to her feet with a whoop that made her mother gasp. “Oh, yes, ’course!” she cried, swiftly disposing of theology for the moment. “I hear Peter-two coming in. He promised to bring me elder whistles for Cricket that’ll just about make him come, no matter where he is, and if Peter-two hasn’t done it---- Well, he’ll catch it!” With which Anne rushed from the room. An instant later her mother’s fear as to her son’s safety--if she felt any--was set at rest by a whistle so shrill that it sent Cricket cowering under the sofa. CHAPTER II _The Oldest Anne_ Christopher Carrington threw the last third of his cigar into the fireplace and watched it as it tumbled over the back log. The back log made him think of his Aunt Anne, always there, always ready to be fired by smaller sticks. He had been restlessly touring the room for fifteen minutes, examining its ornaments, familiar to him from childhood, hardly conscious that he was handling bits of frail loveliness that his aunt never allowed other hands than her own to dust. Miss Anne Carrington had watched Kit’s adventures without comment, in spite of the strain upon her nerves, eying him with keen suspicion, now and then, giving him furtive glances that saw everything as she turned the pages of her book.