Ann Smith 
asked. ‘‘ Because, if you would—of course, 
I’m pleased to have you—but. . .” 
He interrupted, declining my invitation once 
more. So Ann bustled out again to her kitchen, 
and John said to me, cautiously, “ It’d suit me 
ever so much better to come with you; but I can 
see she won’t like it if I do.” 
“Well, then I shall see you later? I must just 
go and say good-bye to her.” I went out into 
the kitchen. 
She whispered, “ Is he going to stay ? 
“ce Yes. ”? 
“T rather wish he’d go with you—for I haven’t 
got much ofa dinner. . . 
It was during this period that I took to making 
notes of the frequent talks I heard about the old 
farm at Farnborough. But meanwhile Ann was 
getting older. Others—never herself—began 
wondering what was to become of her ; and there 
may have been some anxiety of her own at the 
back of her readiness to come, as I have told, to 
live permanently in my sisters’ care under my 
own roof. At any rate she came; and that was 
the end of her wanderings, her homelessness. 
Once here, she put aside all anxieties: she was 
cheerful, laughing, talkative, a happy child again ; 
busy with her needlework, busy with a special bit 
of garden given over to her. Sometimes she 
would try to read; but she hadn’t got the habit 
and her sight was none too good ; and usually she 
193 N 
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