basket, lined with padded crimson satin. Max likes cats and Aunt
Cynthia. He explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismay
had gone out of the room--Ismay always went out of the room when
she knew I particularly wanted her to remain--he proposed to me
again. Of course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased.
Max had been proposing to me about every two months for two
years. Sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, and
then I always wondered why. I concluded that he could not be
really interested in Anne Shirley, and I was relieved. I didn't
want to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him
around, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girl
snapped him up. He was so useful and always willing to do
anything for us--nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town,
put down carpets--in short, a very present help in all our
troubles.

So I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting on
his fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head and
began over again.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you,"
he said. "But I can't remember whether I asked you to marry me
that day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes--"

"No, you didn't," I interrupted.

"Well, that makes it eleven," said Max reflectively. "Pretty
near the limit, isn't it? My manly pride will not allow me to