“She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for mischief, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly.  “I was at the manse one night last week and Mrs. James Millison was there, too.  She had brought them up a dozen eggs and a little pail of milk—­a very little pail, Mrs. Dr. dear.  Faith took them and whisked down the cellar with them.  Near the bottom of the stairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggs and all.  You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear.  But that child came up laughing.  ‘I don’t know whether I’m myself or a custard pie,’ she said.  And Mrs. James Millison was very angry.  She said she would never take another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted and destroyed in that fashion.”

“Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse,” sniffed Miss Cornelia.  “She just took them that night as an excuse for curiosity.  But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes.  She is so heedless and impulsive.”

“Just like me.  I’m going to like your Faith,” said Anne decidedly.

“She is full of spunk—­and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. dear,” admitted Susan.

“There’s something taking about her,” conceded Miss Cornelia.  “You never see her but she’s laughing, and somehow it always makes you want to laugh too.  She can’t even keep a straight face in church.  Una is ten—­she’s a sweet little thing—­not pretty, but sweet.  And Thomas Carlyle is nine.  They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania for collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house.”

“I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called.  It gave her a turn,” said Susan, “and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no places for dead rats.  To be sure it may have been the cat who left it, there.  He is as full of the old Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr. dear.  A manse cat should at least look respectable, in my opinion, whatever he really is.  But I never saw such a rakish-looking beast.  And he walks along the ridgepole of the manse almost every evening at sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear, and waves his tail, and that is not becoming.”

“The worst of it is, they are never decently dressed,” sighed Miss Cornelia.  “And since the snow went they go to school barefooted.  Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn’t the right thing for manse children—­especially when the Methodist minister’s little girl always wears such nice buttoned boots.  And I do wish they wouldn’t play in the old Methodist graveyard.”

“It’s very tempting, when it’s right beside the manse,” said Anne.  “I’ve always thought graveyards must be delightful places to play in.”

“Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said loyal Susan, determined to protect Anne from herself.  “You have too much good sense and decorum.”

“Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the first place?” asked Anne.  “Their lawn is so small there is no place for them to play except in the graveyard.”