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