There's so little to do--and at night I'm worse
than lonely--I'm frightened and nervous in spite of
locked doors. There was a tramp around two days ago."
Anne joyfully agreed, and next day Leslie was installed
as an inmate of the little house of dreams. Miss
Cornelia warmly approved of the arrangement.
"It seems Providential," she told Anne in confidence.
"I'm sorry for Matilda Clow, but since she had to break
her leg it couldn't have happened at a better time.
Leslie will be here while Owen Ford is in Four Winds,
and those old cats up at the Glen won't get the chance
to meow, as they would if she was living over there
alone and Owen going to see her. They are doing enough
of it as it is, because she doesn't put on mourning. I
said to one of them, `If you mean she should put on
mourning for George Moore, it seems to me more like his
resurrection than his funeral; and if it's Dick you
mean, I confess _I_ can't see the propriety of going
into weeds for a man who died thirteen years ago and
good riddance then!' And when old Louisa Baldwin
remarked to me that she thought it very strange that
Leslie should never have suspected it wasn't her own
husband _I_ said, `YOU never suspected it wasn't Dick
Moore, and you were next-door neighbor to him all his
life, and by nature you're ten times as suspicious as
Leslie.
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