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‘You thought she was stiff and cold, Anne, dearie, but I can tell you she thawed out wonderful for her. She must have taken to you real strong. I’m so glad. You may be able to help her a good deal. I was thankful when I heard that a young couple was coming to this house, for I hoped it would mean some friends for Leslie; especially if you belonged to the race that knows Joseph. You will be her friend, won’t you, Anne, dearie?’

‘Indeed I will, if she’ll let me,’ said Anne, with all her own sweet, impulsive earnestness.

‘No, you must be her friend, whether she’ll let you or not,’ said Miss Cornelia resolutely. ‘Don’t you mind if she’s stiff by times – don’t notice it. Remember what her life has been – and is – and must always be, I suppose, for creatures like Dick Moore live for ever, I understand. You should see how fat he’s got since he came home. He used to be lean enough. Just make her be friends – you can do it – you’re one of those who have the knack. Only you mustn’t be sensitive. And don’t mind if she doesn’t seem to want you to go over there much. She knows that some women don’t like to be where Dick is – they complain he gives them the creeps. Just get her to come over here as often as she can. She can’t get away so very much – she can’t leave Dick long, for the Lord knows what he’d do – burn the house down most likely. At nights, after he’s in bed and asleep, is about the only time she’s free. He always goes to bed early and sleeps like the dead till next morning. That is how you came to meet her at the shore likely. She wanders there considerable.’

‘I will do everything I can for her,’ said Anne. Her interest in Leslie Moore, which had been vivid ever since she had seen her driving her geese down the hill, was intensified a thousand-fold by Miss Cornelia’s narration. The girl’s beauty and sorrow and loneliness drew her with an irresistible fascination. She had never known anyone like her; her friends had hitherto been wholesome, normal, merry girls like herself, with only the average trials of human care and bereavement to shadow their girlish dreams. Leslie Moore stood apart, a tragic, appealing figure of thwarted womanhood. Anne resolved that she would win entrance into the kingdom of that lonely soul and find there the comradeship it could so richly give, were it not for the cruel fetters that held it in a prison not of its own making.

‘And mind you this, Anne, dearie,’ said Miss Cornelia, who had not yet wholly relieved her mind, ‘you mustn’t think Leslie is an infidel because she hardly ever goes to church – or even that she’s a Methodist. She can’t take Dick to church, of course – not that he ever troubled church much in his best days. But you just remember that she’s a real strong Presbyterian at heart, Anne, dearie.’

12

LESLIE COMES OVER

Leslie came over to the house of dreams one frosty night, when moonlit mists were hanging over the harbour and curling like silver ribbons along the seaward glens. She looked as if she repented coming when Gilbert answered her knock; but Anne flew past him, pounced on her, and drew her in.

‘I’m so glad you picked tonight for a call,’ she said gaily. ‘I made up a lot of extra good fudge this afternoon and we want some one to help us eat it – before the fire – while we tell stories. Perhaps Captain Jim will drop in, too. This is his night.’

‘No. Captain Jim is over home,’ said Leslie. ‘He – he made me come here,’ she added, half defiantly.

‘I’ll say a thank-you to him for that when I see him,’ said Anne, pulling easy chairs before the fire.

‘Oh, I don’t mean that I didn’t want to come,’ protested Leslie, flushing a little. ‘I – I’ve been thinking of coming – but it isn’t always easy for me to get away.’

‘Of course it must be hard for you to leave Mr Moore,’ said Anne, in a matter-of-fact tone. She had decided that it would be best to mention Dick Moore occasionally as an accepted fact, and not give undue morbidness to the subject by avoiding it. She was right, for Leslie’s air of constraint suddenly vanished.