of
onunderstandable things in life, ain't there, Mistress Blythe?
Sometimes things seem to work out real proper-like, same as with you
and the doctor. And then again they all seem to go catawampus.
There's Leslie, so clever and beautiful you'd think she was meant for a
queen, and instead she's cooped up over there, robbed of almost
everything a woman'd value, with no prospect except waiting on Dick
Moore all her life. Though, mind you, Mistress Blythe, I daresay she'd
choose her life now, such as it is, rather than the life she lived with
Dick before he went away. THAT'S something a clumsy old sailor's
tongue mustn't meddle with. But you've helped Leslie a lot--she's a
different creature since you come to Four Winds. Us old friends see
the difference in her, as you can't. Miss Cornelia and me was talking
it over the other day, and it's one of the mighty few p'ints that we
see eye to eye on. So jest you throw overboard any idea of her not
liking you."

Anne could hardly discard it completely, for there were undoubtedly
times when she felt, with an instinct that was not to be combated by
reason, that Leslie harbored a queer, indefinable resentment towards
her. At times, this secret consciousness marred the delight of their
comradeship; at others it was almost forgotten; but Anne always felt
the hidden thorn was there, and might prick her at any moment. She
felt a cruel sting from it on the day when she told Leslie of what she
hoped the spring would bring to the little house of dreams. Leslie
looked at her with hard, bitter, unfriendly eyes.

"So you are to have THAT, too," she said in a choked voice. And
without another word she had turned and gone across the fields
homeward. Anne was deeply hurt; for the moment she felt as if she
could never like Leslie again. But when Leslie came over a few
evenings later she was so pleasant, so friendly, so frank, and witty,
and winsome, that Anne was charmed into forgiveness and forgetfulness.
Only, she never mentioned her darling hope to Leslie again; nor did
Leslie ever refer to it. But one evening, when late winter was
listening for the word of spring, she came over to the little house for
a twilight chat; and when she went away she left a small, white box on
the table. Anne found it after she was gone and opened it wonderingly.
In it was a tiny white dress of exquisite workmanship--delicate
embroidery, wonderful tucking, sheer loveliness. Every stitch in it
was