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“Oh, I guess so. But do you think Max has really fallen in love with her?”

“I dare say. What a relief it will be for you if he has.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, frostily. “Anne Shirley or Anne Anybody Else, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him. I certainly do not. Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn’t stop smoking I shall fly into bits. This is a detestable day. I hate that creature!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t talk like that, when you don’t even know her,” protested Ismay. “Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely–“

“I was talking about Fatima,” I cried in a rage.

“Oh!” said Ismay.

Ismay is stupid at times. I thought the way she said “Oh” was inexcusably stupid.

Fatima arrived the next day. Max brought her out in a covered basket, lined with padded crimson satin. Max likes cats and Aunt Cynthia. He explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismay had gone out of the room–Ismay always went out of the room when she knew I particularly wanted her to remain–he proposed to me again. Of course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased. Max had been proposing to me about every two months for two years. Sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, and then I always wondered why. I concluded that he could not be really interested in Anne Shirley, and I was relieved. I didn’t want to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him around, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girl snapped him up. He was so useful and always willing to do anything for us–nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town, put down carpets–in short, a very present help in all our troubles.

So I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting on his fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head and began over again.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’m trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you,” he said. “But I can’t remember whether I asked you to marry me that day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes–“

“No, you didn’t,” I interrupted.

“Well, that makes it eleven,” said Max reflectively. “Pretty near the limit, isn’t it? My manly pride will not allow me to propose to the same girl more than twelve times. So the next time will be the last, Sue darling.”

“Oh,” I said, a trifle flatly. I forgot to resent his calling me darling. I wondered if things wouldn’t be rather dull when Max gave up proposing to me. It was the only excitement I had. But of course it would be best–and he couldn’t go on at it forever, so, by the way of gracefully dismissing the subject, I asked him what Miss Shirley was like.

“Very sweet girl,” said Max. “You know I always admired those gray-eyed girls with that splendid Titian hair.”

I am dark, with brown eyes. Just then I detested Max. I got up and said I was going to get some milk for Fatima.

I found Ismay in a rage in the kitchen. She had been up in the garret, and a mouse had run across her foot. Mice always get on Ismay’s nerves.

“We need a cat badly enough,” she fumed, “but not a useless, pampered thing, like Fatima. That garret is literally swarming with mice. You’ll not catch me going up there again.”

Fatima did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared. Huldah Jane liked her, and Ismay, in spite of her declaration that she would have nothing to do with her, looked after her comfort scrupulously. She even used to get up in the middle of the night and go out to see if Fatima was warm. Max came in every day and, being around, gave us good advice.