Mr. Harrison’s house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashed structure, set against a thick spruce grove. Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshaded veranda, in his shirt sleeves, enjoying his evening pipe.
When he realized who was coming up the path he sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the house, and shut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable result of his surprise, mingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of temper the day before.
But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from Anne’s heart. 'If he’s so cross now what will he be when he hears what I’ve done,' she reflected miserably, as she rapped at the door. But Mr.
Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to enter in a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous.
He had laid aside his pipe and donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty chair very politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly enough if it had not been for the telltale of a parrot who was peering through the bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes.
No sooner had Anne seated herself than Ginger exclaimed, 'Bless my soul, what’s that redheaded snippet coming here for? ' It would be hard to say whose face was the redder, Mr. Harrison’s or Anne’s. 'Don’t you mind that parrot,' said Mr.
Harrison, casting a furious glance at Ginger. 'He’s . he’s always talking nonsense. I got him from my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don’t always use the choicest language, and parrots are very imitative birds.
' 'So I should think,' said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errand quelling her resentment. She couldn’t afford to snub Mr. Harrison under the circumstances, that was certain. When you had just