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“Anne!” gasped Kit, honestly shocked.

Little Anne misinterpreted his exclamation. She raised to him her dark eyes burning in her white face; deep hollows were suddenly graven below them.

“Isn’t it?” she whispered. “Just like that! He was looking for devils and there was God! And I think He just said, ‛You nice, brave boy!’ And Joyce Kilmer got right up and ran over to Him. But he left his body looking down over the edge, because they found it there. It makes me cold!”

Anne’s hands were icy as she caught Kit around the neck and hid her face on his shoulder; her body was shaking.

“There, there, little Anne, don’t! I wouldn’t think such things; they aren’t good for you. It’s all over,” Kit said.

He looked appealingly across to Joan and Anne Dallas, who did not heed him; the baby at that moment had captured her mother’s scissors.

Little Anne straightened herself and stared at Kit in amazement.

“Why, of course it’s good for me! It’s very good for my soul to think of it, and I love to feel so cold, and to shake the way that makes me shake! It’s noble shaking; not common scared. If ever I’m a nun I’ll meditate and meditate! You get up in the middle of the night to when you’re a Carmelite, and I think I’ll be Carmelites, they’re the strictest——”