I’VE been reading obituary notices,” said Miss Cornelia, laying down the Daily Enterprise and taking up her sewing.

The harbor was lying black and sullen under a dour November sky; the wet, dead leaves clung drenched and sodden to the window sills; but the little house was gay with firelight and spring-like with Anne’s ferns and geraniums.

“It’s always summer here, Anne,” Leslie had said one day; and all who were the guests of that house of dreams felt the same.

“The Enterprise seems to run to obituaries these days,” quoth Miss Cornelia. “It always has a couple of columns of them, and I read every line. It’s one of my forms of recreation, especially when there’s some original poetry attached to them. Here’s a choice sample for you:

‘She’s gone to be with her Maker,

Never more to roam.

She used to play and sing with joy

The song of Home, Sweet Home.’