Meanwhile, where was Anne? Was she as forlorn and miserable in reality
as her friends fancied? Let us see.
After she slipped unobserved from the railway coach, she followed the
familiar footpath in its leisurely windings across meadow and up-hill.
It led her to a tumble-down fence, surrounding a spacious, deep-turfed
lawn, with native forest trees--oak, elm, and chestnut--growing where
nature had set them. On the crest of the hill, rose a square,
old-fashioned house, dear and familiar. Home, home at last!
Anne pushed through the gate, hanging ajar on one hinge, and hurried
across the lawn. Even in the twilight, she could see that the microfila
roses by the front porch were still blooming--they had been in bloom
when she went away--and the Cherokee rose on the summer-house was
starred with cream-white blossoms. From the windows of the old
sitting-room, a light was shining and Anne hastened toward the latticed
side-porch which opened into the room. As she approached the steps, a
lank, clay-colored dog came snarling toward her. Two or three puppies
ran out, barking furiously. Anne stopped, too frightened to cry out.
The sitting-room door opened and a thick-set man in shirt-sleeves came
out on the porch. He peered into the darkness.
"Who's that?" he asked. Anne, fearfully expecting to be devoured by the
yelping curs, could not answer. "Who's out there, say?" repeated the
man. Anne took two or three steps toward the protection of the light and
the open door. The man answered a question from within. "Don't know.
It's a child," he said, catching sight of Anne, and going to meet her.
"Them pups won't bite. Get away, Red Coat. She'll nip you if she gits a
chance. Come right on in, honey. Whyn't you holler at the gate?"
Anne followed the strange man through the door that he opened hospitably
wide. It was and was not the dear room that she remembered. There were
the four big windows, the panelled walls, the bookcase with
diamond-paned doors, built in a recess beside the chimney. But where was
the gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantel-piece? And the silver
candlesticks with crystal pendants? And the old brass fender and
andirons? And the shiny mahogany table with brass-tipped claw feet? And
the little spindle-legged tables with their burdens of books, vases, and
pictures? And the tinkly little old piano? And the carved mahogany
davenport? And the sewing-table, ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that
stood always by the south window? And the quaint old engravings and
colored prints? All these were gone. Instead of the threadbare Brussels
carpet patterned with huge bouquets of flowers, there was a striped rag
carpet. There were a few rush-bottomed chairs, a box draped with red
calico on which stood a water-bucket and a wash-pan, a cook-stove before
the fireplace, and in the middle of the room a table covered with a red
cloth, on which was set forth a supper of coffee, corn-cakes, fried
bacon, and cold cabbage and potatoes. A fat, freckle-faced girl, a
little larger than Anne, and two boys of about twelve and fourteen were
seated at the supper-table. Beside the stove stood a stout, fair woman
in a soiled gingham apron. Their four pairs of wide-open, light-blue
eyes stared at Anne.
"Where you pick up that child, Peter Collins?" demanded the woman,
neglecting her frying cakes.
"She jes' come to the door," responded Mr. Collins.
"My sakes!" exclaimed his wife. "Whose child is you? Whar you come from,
here after dark, this way?"
"Where's Aunt Charity?" asked Anne.
"Aunt Charity? Don't no Aunt Charity live here. This is Mr. Collins's
house,--Peter Collins. Is you lost?--Peter, you Peter Collins! I want
know who on earth this child is you done brung here. You always doing
some outlandish thing! Who is she?"
"How the thunder I know?" muttered her husband, pulling at his beard.
Anne stood bewildered. This was home and yet it was not home. Her lips
quivered, she clasped Honey-Sweet tighter, and turned toward the door to
go--where? Everything turned black around her, the floor seemed to give
way under her feet, and in another moment she and Honey-Sweet were in a
forlorn little heap on the floor and she was sobbing as if her heart
would break.
"I want home! I want somebody!" she wailed piteously.
Mrs. Collins sat down on the floor and drew the weeping child into her
arms.
"Thar, thar, honey! don't you cry! don't you cry!" she said soothingly.
"Po' little thing! Le' me take off your hat! Why, yo' little hands is
jest as cold! Lizzie, set the kettle on front of the stove. Jake, you
put some wood in the fire. Now, honey, you set right in this
rocking-chair by the stove and le' me wrap a shawl round you. I'll have
you some cambric tea and fry you some hot cakes in a jiffy. A good
supper'll het you up. I'd take shame to myself, Peter Collins, if I was
you"--she scowled at her husband as she bustled about--"a gre't big man
like you skeerin' a po' little thing like that! What diff'rence do it
make who she is or whar she come from? Anybody with two eyes in his head
can see she's jest a po' little lost thing. You gre't gawk, you!"
"What is I done, I'd like to know?" inquired Mr. Collins, helplessly.
Anne had not realized that she was hungry until Mrs. Collins set before
her a plateful of hot crisp cakes. The good woman spread them with
butter and opened a jar of 'company' sweetmeats,--crisp watermelon rind,
cut in leaf, star, and fish shapes. While serving supper, Mrs. Collins
chattered on in a soft, friendly voice.
"I see how 'twas. You knowed this place before we come here. We been
here two year come next Christmas. Done bought the place. Fust time any
of our folks is ever owned land. Always been renters and share-hands,
movin' to new places soon as we wore out ol' ones. I tell my ol' man
it's goin' to come mighty hard on him now that he's got a place of his
own that's got to be tooken care of."
By this time, the color had come back to Anne's face and she was smiling
and stroking the sleek black-and-white cat that had jumped in her lap.
"What is the little girl's name, mammy?" asked Lizzie. Having finished
her supper, she was standing at her mother's side, staring with wide
eyes at Anne and shyly rolling a corner of her apron in her fingers.
"Sh-sh-sh," whispered Mrs. Collins. "'Tain't perlite to ask questions.
You make her cry again.--But, Peter, I'm worried to think maybe her
folks is missed her and lookin' for her. You have to take the lantern
presen'ly and go and tell 'em she's here."
"Whar is I gwine? And who I gwi' tell?" asked Mr. Collins.
"Peter Collins, you is the most unreasonable man I ever see in my life!
You sho ain't goin' to worry the po' little thing and make her cry
again, askin' all kinds of questions. You jest got to hunt up her folks.
They'll be worried to death, missing a child like this, and at night,
too."
But Anne was now ready to explain cheerfully. "I haven't any folks--not
any real folks of my own now," she said. "Mother is dead and father is
dead. Uncle Carey got lost, I reckon. I used to live here. Mr.
Patterson took me to a--a orphan 'sylum, Mrs. Marshall calls it. The
name over the door is 'Home for Girls.' This evening I was on the train
with Mrs. Marshall and I knew the place when we came to the water-tank.
And I wanted to be here. So we came, Honey-Sweet and I. I thought the
dog was going to bite me."
"You hear that, Peter Collins?" exclaimed Mrs. Collins. "Now wasn't that
smart of her? She knowed the place and got off the train by herself and
come right up to the house. And Red Coat might 'a' bit the po' child
traipsin' 'long in the dark. You got to shut that dog up nights," she
said, as if every evening was to bring a little lost Anne wandering into
danger. "To think of puttin' a po' little motherless, fatherless thing
in a 'sylum," she continued. "Many homes as thar is in this world!--Le'
me fry you another plateful of nice brown cakes, honey, and get you some
damson preserves--maybe you like them better'n sweetmeats. Or would you
choose raspberry jam?" She had thrown open the diamond-paned doors of
the bookcase, now used as a pantry, and was looking over the rows of
jars.
"I couldn't eat another mouthful of anything; indeed, I couldn't,"
insisted Anne.
"I wish you would," sighed Mrs. Collins. "It gives me a feelin' to see
yo' po' thin little face--no wider'n a knitting needle."
Anne laughed. "I ate ever so many cakes. They were so good--as good as
Aunt Charity's. Please--where is Aunt Charity?"
"Aunt Charity who?" asked Mrs. Collins.
"Our old Aunt Charity and Uncle Richard that used to live here."
"Oh! You mean them old darkies. They moved away the year we come here.
They--"
"Mammy, I want to know her name," insisted Lizzie, in an undertone.
"And I want to see her doll in my own hands."
"My name is Anne Lewis," Anne informed her. "My doll is named Mrs. Emily
Patterson but I call her Honey-Sweet."
"That's a mighty pretty dress," said Lizzie, admiringly.
"I made it, all but the buttonholes," Anne answered proudly. "Martha did
those."
"Do her shoes really, truly come off?" asked Lizzie.
"Yes, they do. And her stockings, too. Look here."
The two girls played happily together with Honey-Sweet until Mrs.
Collins declared that Anne was tired and tucked her away with Lizzie in
a trundle-bed.
"I dunno when I've set up so late," the good woman said to her husband,
as she wound up the clock. "It's near nine o'clock. But one thing I tell
you, Peter Collins, afore I get a mite of sleep--Nobody's going to send
that po' child back to the 'sylum she's runned away from. Tain't no use
for you to say a word."
"Is I said a word?" asked Mr. Collins.
"That po' thing ain't goin' to be drug back to no 'sylum," pursued his
wife. "She shall stay here long as she's a mind to--till her folks come
for her--or till she gets grown--or something. And she shall have all
she wants to eat, sho as my name's Lizabeth Collins. I've heard tell of
them 'sylums. They say the chillen don't have nothin' to eat or wear but
what folks give 'em. Think of them with their po' little empty stomachs
settin' waitin' for somebody to think to send 'em dinner! I'm goin' to
make a jar full of gingercakes fust thing in the mornin' and put it on
the pantry shelf where that child can he'p herself.--Anne, uh!
Anne!--She's 'sleep. I jest wondering if she'd rather have gingercakes
or tea-cakes dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Peter Collins! I tell you,
you got to work and pervide for yo' chillen. I couldn't rest in my
grave if I thought one of them'd ever have to go to a 'sylum. I see you
last week give a knife to that Hawley boy.--What if he was name for
you?--I don't keer if it didn't cost but ten cent. You'll land in the
po' house and yo' chillen in 'sylums if you throw away yo' money on
tother folks' chillens.--Peter, fust thing in the morning you catch me a
chicken to fry for that po' child's breakfast. And remind me--to git
out--a jar of honey," she concluded drowsily.