"Plain Anne"
"Love is the thing that matters," said I quietly; "we must tell Georgie the truth."
"Oh, I can't—I can't! He is so fond of me, and such a dear boy."
"Yes," said I grimly, "he is a very dear boy, but there are moments when even the dearness of Georgie may be too dear. Even Georgie's peace of mind may be too dearly bought, and as for Anne—what are all those letters on the grass?" with a hasty and expedient change of subject.
"I brought them out to take to the village—I must have dropped them—when—when—oh, I hope it's not too late for the post—"
I looked at my watch.
"I'll take them down myself," I said; "there's just time." Ten minutes later as I slipped them into the box, a gray envelope addressed in Anne's neat, round hand caught my eye—it was to Miss Violet something or other, at an address somewhere in Staffordshire.
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