CHAPTER IX

A BLUE MONDAY

There was a noisy scrambling in the vines outside of Anne's window
early on Monday morning, and the little maid opened her eyes to see
Belinda's white head peeping over the sill, and Belinda's white paws
holding on like grim death to the ledge.

"You darling," cried Anne, sitting up, "come here," and Belinda with a
plaintive mew made one last effort, pulled herself into the room, and
flew to her mistress' arms.

"Where's Becky?" asked Anne, wondering why the tame crow did not
follow, for in spite of their constant feuds, the two pets were
inseparable.

Belinda blinked sagely, while from a shadowy corner of the room came a
sepulchral croak.

"Are you there, Becky?" called Anne, peering into the darkness, and
with a flap and a flutter, Becky swooped from the top of the bookcase,
where she had been perched for a half-hour, waiting for Anne to wake.

Anne's bookcase was the one thing of value in the little house. It was
of rich old mahogany, with diamond-shaped panes in its leaded doors,
and behind the doors were books--not many of them, but very choice
ones, culled from a fine library which had been sold when ruin came to
Anne's grandfather and father one disastrous year.