When the song was ended, there was much applause of the subdued drawing-room kind—applause, however, plainly intended for Helen alone. Singularly enough, Miss Vanhorn resented this. “If I should take Anne, dress her properly, and introduce her as my niece, the Lorrington would be nowhere,” she thought, angrily. It was the first germ of the idea.

It was not allowed to disappear.  It grew and gathered strength slowly, as Tante and Helen intended it should; the two friendly conspirators never relaxed for a day their efforts concerning it.  Anne remained unconscious of these manœuvres; but the old grandaunt was annoyed, and urged, and flattered, and menaced forward with so much skill that it ended in her proposing to Anne, one day in the early spring, that she should come and spend the summer with her, the children on the island to be provided for meanwhile by an allowance, and Anne herself to have a second winter at the Moreau school, if she wished it, so that she might be fitted for a higher position than otherwise she could have hoped to attain.

“Oh, grandaunt!” cried the girl, taking the old loosely gloved hand in hers.

“There is no occasion for shaking hands and grand-aunting in that way,” said Miss Vanhorn.  “If you wish to do what I propose, do it; I am not actuated by any new affection for you. You will take four days to consider; at the end of that period, you may send me your answer. But, with your acceptance, I shall require the strictest obedience. And—no allusion whatever to your mother.”

“What are to be my duties?” asked Anne, in a low voice.

“Whatever I require,” answered the old woman, grimly.

At first Anne thought of consulting Tante.  But she had a strong under-current of loyalty in her nature, and the tie of blood bound her to her grandaunt, after all: she decided to consult no one but herself. The third day was Sunday. In the twilight she sat alone on her narrow bed, by the window of the dormitory, thinking. It was a boisterous March evening; the wildest month of the twelve was on his mad errands as usual. Her thoughts were on the island with the children; would it not be best for them that she should accept the offered allowance, and go with this strange grandaunt of hers, enduring as best she might her cold severity?  Miss Lois’s income was small; the allowance would make the little household comfortable.  A second winter in New York would enable her to take a higher place as teacher, and also give the self-confidence she lacked. Yes; it was best.

But a great and overwhelming loneliness rose in her heart at the thought of another long year’s delay before she could be with those she loved. Rast’s last letter was in her pocket; she took it out, and held it in her hand for comfort. In it he had written of the sure success of his future; and Anne believed it as fully as he did. Her hand grew warmer as she held the sheet, and as she recalled his sanguine words. She began to feel courageous again. Then another thought came to her: must she tell Miss Vanhorn of her engagement? In their new conditions, would it not be dishonest to keep the truth back? “I do not see that it can be of any interest to her,” she said to herself. “Still, I prefer to tell her.” And then, having made her decision, she went to Tante.

Tante was charmed with the news (and with the success of her plan). She discoursed upon family affection in very beautiful language. “You will find a true well-spring of love in the heart of your venerable   relative,” she remarked, raising her delicate handkerchief, like the suggestion of a happiness that reached even to tears. “Long, long have I held your cherished grandaunt in a warm corner of my memory and heart.”

This was true as regarded the time and warmth; only the latter was of a somewhat peppery nature.

The next morning Helen was told the news. She threw back her head in comic despair. “The old dragon has taken the game out of my hands at last,” she said, “and ended all the sport. Excuse the title, Anne. But I am morally certain she has all sorts of vinegarish names for me. And now—am I to congratulate you upon your new home?”

“It is more a matter of duty, I think, than congratulation,” said Anne, thoughtfully. “And next, I must tell her of my engagement.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Crystal.”

“Why?”

“She would rather have you free.”

“I shall be free, as far as she is concerned.”

“Do not be too sure of that. And take my advice—do not tell her.” Anne, however, paid no heed to this admonition; some things she did simply because she could not help doing them.  She had intended   to make her little confession immediately; but Miss Vanhorn gave her no opportunity. “That is enough talking,” she said. “I have neuralgia in my eyebrow.”