will not be dull, to say the least.”
“It may be Mrs. Moore.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Moore is built on those lines. I saw her working in her garden the other day, and, though I was too far away to see clearly, I thought she was rather slender. She doesn’t seem very socially inclined when she has never called on you yet, although she’s your nearest neighbor.”
“She can’t be like Mrs. Lynde, after all, or curiosity would have brought her,” said Anne. “This caller is, I think, Miss Cornelia.”
Miss Cornelia it was; moreover, Miss Cornelia had not come to make any brief and fashionable wedding call. She had her work under her arm in a substantial parcel, and when Anne asked her to stay she promptly took off her capacious sun-hat, which had been held on her head, despite irreverent September breezes, by a tight elastic band under her hard little knob of fair hair. No hat pins for Miss Cornelia, an it please ye! Elastic bands had been good enough for her mother and they were good enough for HER. She had a fresh, round, pink-and-white face, and jolly brown eyes. She did not look in the least like the traditional old maid, and there was something in her expression which won Anne instantly. With her old instinctive quickness to discern kindred spirits she knew she was going to like Miss Cornelia, in spite of uncertain oddities of opinion, and certain oddities of attire.
Nobody but Miss Cornelia would have come to make a call arrayed in a striped blue-and-white apron and a wrapper of chocolate print, with a design of huge, pink roses scattered over it. And nobody but Miss Cornelia could have looked dignified and suitably garbed in it. Had Miss Cornelia been entering a palace to call on a prince’s bride, she would have been just as dignified and just as wholly mistress of the situation. She would have trailed her rose-spattered flounce over the marble floors just as unconcernedly, and she would have proceeded just as calmly to disabuse the mind of the princess of any idea that the possession of a mere man, be he prince or peasant, was anything to brag of.
“I’ve brought my work, Mrs. Blythe, dearie,” she remarked, unrolling some dainty material. “I’m in a hurry to get this done, and there isn’t any time to lose.”
Anne looked in some surprise at the white garment spread over Miss Cornelia’s ample lap. It was certainly a baby’s dress, and it was most beautifully made, with tiny frills and tucks. Miss Cornelia adjusted her glasses and fell to embroidering with exquisite stitches.
“This is for Mrs. Fred Proctor up at the Glen,” she announced. “She’s expecting her eighth baby any day now, and not a stitch has she ready for it. The other seven have wore out all she made for the first, and she’s never had time or strength or spirit to make any more. That woman is a martyr, Mrs. Blythe, believe ME. When she married Fred Proctor I knew how it would turn out. He was one of your wicked, fascinating men. After he got married he left off being fascinating and just kept on being wicked. He drinks and he neglects his family. Isn’t that like a man? I don’t know how Mrs. Proctor would ever keep her children decently clothed if her neighbors didn’t help her out.”
As Anne was afterwards to learn, Miss Cornelia was the only neighbor who troubled herself much about the decency of the young Proctors.
“When I heard this eighth baby was coming I decided to make some things for it,” Miss Cornelia went on. “This is the last and I want to finish it today.”
“It’s certainly very pretty,” said Anne. “I’ll get my sewing and we’ll have a little thimble party of two. You are a beautiful sewer, Miss Bryant.”
“Yes, I’m the best sewer in these parts,” said Miss Cornelia in a matter-of-fact tone. “I ought to be! Lord, I’ve done more of it than if I’d had a hundred children of my own, believe ME! I s’pose I’m a fool, to be putting hand embroidery on this dress for an eighth baby. But, Lord, Mrs. Blythe, dearie, it isn’t to blame for being the eighth, and I kind of wished it to have one real pretty dress, just as if it WAS wanted. Nobody’s wanting the poor mite — so I put some extra fuss on its little things just on that account.”
“Any baby might be proud of that dress,” said Anne, feeling still more strongly that she was going to like Miss Cornelia.
“I s’pose you’ve been thinking I was never coming to call on you,” resumed Miss Cornelia. “But this is harvest month, you know, and I’ve been busy — and a lot of extra hands hanging round, eating more’n they work, just like the men. I’d have come yesterday, but I went to Mrs. Roderick MacAllister’s funeral. At first I thought my head was aching so badly I couldn’t enjoy myself if I did go. But she was a hundred years old, and I’d always promised myself that I’d go to her funeral.”
“Was it a successful function?” asked Anne, noticing that the office door was ajar.
“What’s that? Oh, yes, it was a tremendous funeral. She had a very large connection. There was over one hundred and twenty carriages in the procession. There was one or two funny things happened. I thought that die I would to see old Joe Bradshaw, who is an infidel and never darkens the door of a church, singing ‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus’ with great gusto and fervor. He glories in singing — that’s why he never misses a funeral. Poor Mrs. Bradshaw didn’t look much like singing — all wore out slaving. Old Joe starts out once in a while to buy her a present and brings home some new kind of farm machinery. Isn’t that like a man? But what else would you expect of a man who never goes to church, even a Methodist one? I was real thankful to see you and the young Doctor in the Presbyterian church your first Sunday. No doctor for me who isn’t a Presbyterian.”
“We were in the Methodist church last Sunday evening,” said Anne wickedly.
“Oh, I s’pose Dr. Blythe has to go to the Methodist church once in a while or he wouldn’t get the Methodist practice.”
“We liked the sermon very much,” declared Anne boldly. “And I thought the Methodist minster’s prayer was one of the most beautiful I ever heard.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt he can pray. I never heard anyone make more beautiful prayers than old Simon Bentley, who was always drunk, or hoping to be, and the drunker he was the better he prayed.”
“The Methodist minister is very fine looking,” said Anne, for the benefit of the office door.
“Yes, he’s quite ornamental,” agreed Miss Cornelia. “Oh, and VERY ladylike. And he thinks that every girl who looks at him falls in love with him — as if a Methodist minister, wandering about like any Jew, was such a prize! If you and the young doctor take MY advice, you won’t have much to do with the Methodists. My motto is — if you ARE a Presbyterian, BE a Presbyterian.”
“Don’t you think that Methodists go to heaven as well as Presbyterians?” asked Anne smilelessly.
“That isn’t for US to decide. It’s in higher hands than ours,” said Miss Cornelia solemnly. “But I ain’t going to associate with them on earth whatever I may have to do in heaven. THIS Methodist minister isn’t married. The last one they had was, and his wife was the silliest, flightiest little thing I ever saw. I told her husband once that he should have waited till she was grown up before he married her. He said he wanted to have the training of her. Wasn’t that like a man?”
“It’s rather hard to decide just when people ARE grown up,” laughed Anne.
“That’s a true word, dearie. Some are grown up when they’re born, and others ain’t grown up when they’re eighty, believe ME. That same Mrs. Roderick I was speaking of never grew up. She was as foolish when
