, and you and Miss
Warfield can take a nap and be ready to talk to me to-night."

Anne smiled up at him. "Do you always make everybody mind?"

"I try to boss mother a bit--but I am not sure that I succeed."

Before luncheon was served Cynthia Warfield's picture, which hung in the
library, was pointed out to Anne. She was made to stand under it, so that
they might see that her hair was the same color--and her eyes. Cynthia
was painted in pink silk with a petticoat of fine lace, and with pearls
in her hair.

"Some day," Anne said, "when my ship comes in, I am going to wear stiff
pink silk and pearls and buckled slippers and yards and yards of old
lace."

"No, you're not," Richard told her; "you are going to wear white with
more than a million ruffles, and little flat black shoes. Mother, you
should have seen her at Beulah Bower's party."

"White is always nice for a young girl," said pleasant Nancy Brooks.

The dining-room looked out upon the river, with an old-fashioned bay
window curving out. The table was placed near the window. Anne's eyes
brightened as she looked at the table. It was just as she had pictured
it, all twinkling glass and silver, and with Richard at the head of it.
But what she had not pictured was the moment in which he stood to say the
simple and beautiful grace which his grandfather had said years before
in that room of many memories.

The act seemed to set him apart from other men. It added dignity and
strength to his youth and radiance. He was master of a house, and he felt
that his house should have a soul!

Anne, writing of it the next night to her Uncle Rod, spoke of that simple
grace:

"Uncle Rod, it seemed to me that while most of the world was forgetting
God, he was remembering Him. Nobody says grace at Bower's--and sometimes
I don't even say it in my heart. He looked like a saint as he stood there
with the window behind him. Wasn't there a soldier saint--St. Michael?

"Could you imagine Jimmie Ford saying grace? Could you imagine him even
at the head of his own table? When I used to think of marrying him, I had
a vision of eternal motor riding in his long blue car--with the world
rushing by in a green streak.

"But I am not wanting much to talk of Jimmie Ford. Though perhaps before
I finish this I shall whisper what I thought of the things you had to say
of him in your letter.

"Well, after lunch I had a nap, and then there was dinner with David
Tyson in an old-fashioned dres