was gone, being released, Anne ran up to her room, placed the fern in water, and then, happening to think of it,
looked at herself in the glass. The result was not cheering. Like most women, she judged herself by the order of her hair and
dress; they were both frightful.
Miss Vanhorn, also caught in the storm, did not return until late twilight. Anne, not knowing what she would decree when she
heard the story of the day, had attired herself in the thick white school-girl dress which had been selected on another
occasion of penance–the evening after the adventure at the quarry. It was an inconvenient time to tell the story. Miss
Vanhorn was tired and cross, tea had been sent up to the room, and Bessmer was waiting to arrange her hair. “What have you
been doing now?” she said. “Climbing trees? Or breaking in colts?”
Anne told her tale briefly. The old woman listened, without comment, but watching her closely all the time.