ller 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