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mother, lacking the cordiality. She endeavored to be nice, but succeeded only in being haughty and patronizing. Dorothy Gardner was slim and jolly and rather tomboyish. Anne knew she was Roy’s favorite sister and warmed to her. She would have looked very much like Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes instead of roguish hazel ones. Thanks to her and Phil, the call really went off very well, except for a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere and two rather untoward incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to themselves, began a game of chase, and sprang madly into Mrs. Gardner’s silken lap and out of it in their wild career. Mrs. Gardner lifted her lorgnette and gazed after their flying forms as if she had never seen cats before, and Anne, choking back slightly nervous laughter, apologized as best she could.

“You are fond of cats?” said Mrs. Gardner, with a slight intonation of tolerant wonder.

Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of cats, but Mrs. Gardner’s tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she remembered that Mrs. John Blythe was so fond of cats that she kept as many as her husband would allow.

“They are adorable animals, aren’t they?” she said wickedly.

“I have never liked cats,” said Mrs. Gardner remotely.

“I love them,” said Dorothy. “They are so nice and selfish. Dogs are too good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But cats are gloriously human.”

“You have two delightful old china dogs there. May I look at them closely?” said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace and thereby becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. Picking up Magog, she sat down on the cushion under which was secreted Priscilla’s chocolate cake. Priscilla and Anne exchanged agonized glances but could do nothing. The stately Aline continued to sit on the cushion and discuss china dogs until the time of departure.

Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne’s hand and whisper impulsively.

“I know you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all about you. I’m the only one of the family he tells things to, poor boy—nobody could confide in mamma and Aline, you know. What glorious times you girls must have here! Won’t you let me come often and have a share in them?”

“Come as often as you like,” Anne responded heartily, thankful that one of Roy’s sisters was likable. She would never like Aline, so much was certain; and Aline would never like her, though Mrs. Gardner might be won. Altogether, Anne sighed with relief when the ordeal was over.

“‘Of all sad words of tongue or pen

The saddest are it might have been,’”

quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. “This cake is now what you might call a flat failure. And the cushion is likewise ruined. Never tell me that Friday isn’t unlucky.”

“People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn’t come on Friday,” said Aunt Jamesina.

“I fancy it was Roy’s mistake,” said Phil. “That boy isn’t really responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where is Anne?”

Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying. But she made herself laugh instead. Rusty and Joseph had been too awful! And Dorothy was a dear.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Full-fledged B.A.’s

“I wish I were dead, or that it were tomorrow night,” groaned Phil.

“If you live long enough both wishes will come true,” said Anne calmly.

“It’s easy for you to be serene. You’re at home in Philosophy. I’m not—and when I think of that horrible paper tomorrow I quail. If I should fail in it what would Jo say?”

“You won’t fail. How did you get on in Greek today?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a good paper and perhaps it was bad enough to make Homer turn over in his grave. I’ve studied and mulled over notebooks until I’m incapable of forming an opinion of anything. How thankful little Phil will be when all this examinating is over.”

“Examinating? I never heard such a word.”

“Well, haven’t I as good a right to make a word as any one else?” demanded Phil.

“Words aren’t made—they grow,” said Anne.

“Never mind—I begin faintly to discern clear water ahead where