“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” she breathed,
“I peeked from the kitchen window . . . and
he’s awful handsome . . . and just the right
age for Miss Lavendar. And oh, Miss Shirley,
ma’am, do you think it would be much harm to
listen at the door?”
“It would be dreadful, Charlotta,” said
Anne firmly, “so just you come away with me
out of the reach of temptation.”
“I can’t do anything, and it’s awful
to hang round just waiting,” sighed Charlotta.
“What if he don’t propose after all, Miss
Shirley, ma’am? You can never be sure of
them men. My older sister, Charlotta the First,
thought she was engaged to one once. But it turned
out he had a different opinion and she says she’ll
never trust one of them again. And I heard of
another case where a man thought he wanted one girl
awful bad when it was really her sister he wanted
all the time. When a man don’t know his
own mind, Miss Shirley, ma’am, how’s a
poor woman going to be sure of it?”
“We’ll go to the kitchen and clean the
silver spoons,” said Anne. “That’s
a task which won’t require much thinking fortunately
. . . for I couldn’t think tonight.
And it will pass the time.”
It passed an hour. Then, just as Anne laid down
the last shining spoon, they heard the front door
shut. Both sought comfort fearfully in each other’s
eyes.
“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” gasped
Charlotta, “if he’s going away this early
there’s nothing into it and never will be.”
They flew to the window. Mr. Irving had no intention
of going away. He and Miss Lavendar were strolling
slowly down the middle path to the stone bench.
“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, he’s got
his arm around her waist,” whispered Charlotta
the Fourth delightedly. “He must have proposed
to her or she’d never allow it.”
Anne caught Charlotta the Fourth by her own plump
waist and danced her around the kitchen until they
were both out of breath.
“Oh, Charlotta,” she cried gaily, “I’m
neither a prophetess nor the daughter of a prophetess
but I’m going to make a prediction. There’ll
be a wedding in this old stone house before the maple
leaves are red. Do you want that translated into
prose, Charlotta?”
“No, I can understand that,” said Charlotta.
“A wedding ain’t poetry. Why, Miss
Shirley, ma’am, you’re crying! What
for?”
“Oh, because it’s all so beautiful . .
. and story bookish . . . and romantic . . . and sad,”
said Anne, winking the tears out of her eyes.
“It’s all perfectly lovely . . . but there’s
a little sadness mixed up in it too, somehow.”
“Oh, of course there’s a resk in marrying
anybody,” conceded Charlotta the Fourth, “but,
when all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am,
there’s many a worse thing than a husband.”
Poetry and Prose
