Why, she did not even read them except by bits and snatches, but made up
tales to fit the pictures, and told over and over the stories that were
read to her.

She was always ready to drop a book for a romp with Pat Patterson.
Bounding about the deck together, they looked like a greyhound and a St.
Bernard--she slim and alert, he with his rough hair tumbling over his
merry, freckled face. Often their games ended by her stalking away with
Honey-Sweet, in offended dignity. Pat was such a tease!

"Isn't that a pretty doll?" he said one day, with suspicious
earnestness. "I say, lend her to me awhile, Anne."

Anne objected.

"Oh, you Anne! You wouldn't be selfish, would you?" wheedled Pat.
"Didn't I lend you my bow and arrows yesterday? And I always give you
half my macaroons. Just hand her over for a minute. Let me see the color
of her eyes."

"You know they are blue--like the story-book princess,--'her eyes were
as bright and as blue as the sky above the summer sea,'" quoted Anne,
reluctantly letting him take her pet.

"Blue they are. D'ye know, Anne, I think she'd make a capital William
Tell's child. Don't believe she'd be afraid for me to shoot the apple
off her head. Let's see."

Before Anne could interfere, Pat had suspended Honey-Sweet to a hook out
of her reach. A ball of string was fixed on her head by means of a wad