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“Are you going to answer Gilbert’s letter tonight, Anna?” asked Alma Williams, standing in the pantry doorway, tall, fair, and grey-eyed, with the sunset light coming down over the dark firs, through the window behind her, and making a primrose nimbus around her shapely head.

Anna, dark, vivid, and slender, was perched on the edge of the table, idly swinging her slippered foot at the cat’s head. She smiled wickedly at Alma before replying.

“I am not going to answer it tonight or any other night,” she said, twisting her full, red lips in a way that Alma had learned to dread. Mischief was ripening in Anna’s brain when that twist was out.

“What do you mean?” asked Alma anxiously.

“Just what I say, dear,” responded Anna, with deceptive meekness. “Poor Gilbert is gone, and I don’t intend to bother my head about him any longer. He was amusing while he lasted, but of what use is a beau two thousand miles away, Alma?”

Alma was patient–outwardly. It was never of any avail to show impatience with Anna.

“Anna, you are talking foolishly. Of course you are going to answer his letter. You are as good as engaged to him. Wasn’t that practically understood when he left?”

“No, no, dear,” and Anna shook her sleek black head with the air of explaining matters to an obtuse child. “I was the only one who understood. Gil misunderstood. He thought that I would really wait for him until he should have made enough money to come home and pay off the mortgage. I let him think so, because I hated to hurt his little feelings. But now it’s off with the old love and on with a new one for me.”

“Anna, you cannot be in earnest!” exclaimed Alma.

But she was afraid that Anna was in earnest. Anna had a wretched habit of being in earnest when she said flippant things.

“You don’t mean that you are not going to write to Gilbert at all–after all you promised?”

Anna placed her elbows daintily on the top of the rocking chair, dropped her pointed chin in her hands, and looked at Alma with black demure eyes.

“I–do–mean–just–that,” she said slowly. “I never mean to marry Gilbert Murray. This is final, Alma, and you need not scold or coax, because it would be a waste of breath. Gilbert is safely out of the way, and now I am going to have a good time with a few other delightful men creatures in Exeter.”

Anna nodded decisively, flashed a smile at Alma, picked up her cat, and went out. At the door she turned and looked back, with the big black cat snuggled under her chin.

“If you think Gilbert will feel very badly over his letter not being answered, you might answer it yourself, Alma,” she said teasingly. “There it is”–she took the letter from the pocket of her ruffled apron and threw it on a chair. “You may read it if you want to; it isn’t really a love letter. I told Gilbert he wasn’t to write silly letters. Come, pussy, I’m going to get ready for prayer meeting. We’ve got a nice, new, young, good-looking minister in Exeter, pussy, and that makes prayer meeting very interesting.”

Anna shut the door, her departing laugh rippling mockingly through the dusk. Alma picked up Gilbert Murray’s letter and went to her room. She wanted to cry, since she could not shake Anna. Even if she could have shook her, it would only have made her more perverse. Anna was in earnest; Alma knew that, even while she hoped and believed that it was but the earnestness of a freak that would pass in time. Anna had had one like it a year ago, when she had cast Gilbert off for three months, driving him distracted by flirting with Charlie Moore. Then she had suddenly repented and taken him back. Alma thought that this whim would run its course likewise and leave a repentant Anna. But meanwhile everything might be spoiled. Gilbert might not prove forgiving a second time.