"Why not? Ward women have always cleaned up nice. There. Don't you look smashin'?" Lottie remarked as Anne twirled about the front room in a flutter of wool. "I wasn't sure what the girls wear these days, but the lady at the shop helped. "Stop dancin' a moment so I can get a proper look." Up, down. "Do you like that colour of green?"

"Like it? Why I love it!" said Anne, following Mrs. Blacke's instruction and basking in all the attention. "It's just me favourite colour. I remember mum 'ad a skirt like this. Well, not like this, I suppose, but this colour. Her nice one for Sunday. Do ye remember, Mrs. Blacke?"

It was strange what morsels of the past children remembered with absolute clarity. There had been so much living done since Hannah was with them.

"I'm afraid I don't. But I'm sure yer right. Ye lookin' more and more like her every day"

Anne smiled warmly at Mrs. Blacke, though there was a subtle sadness in her eyes. "I take that as a compliment. Da' used to say she could 'ave married a prince with 'er looks." Anne looked down at herself and spun round. "I wish she were 'ere to see me."

"I miss 'er too. She'd be so proud of ye" Lottie said. How could she be sure of what a dead person would think. Still, it was a nice sentiment.

Anne did another spin. When she stopped, she gave Mrs. Blacke a warm look. "I 'ope she would 'ave been. I'm sure she'd be so grateful to you, Mrs. Blacke for all yer kindness to me. As am I. I'd feel so alone in t' world if it wasn't for ye." And with that, she stepped forward and embraced Mrs. Blacke once again.

Yes. Lottie decided mid-hug, of all her children, Anne was her favourite. "Ye'll always get kindness from your mam"

Anne basked in the love for a while. Then she finally let go. "Can I do sum't for ye, Mrs. Blacke? Me dad says I can spend t' afternoon, if that's alright with ye. Rose's taken over me chores. I'm not dressed to 'elp ye with t' washin'. But I could read to ye while ye work."

Ever since Alice had left, it had been Anne's job to read to her family at night during their short time of leisure before bed. Sometimes it was a Bible story. Sometimes it was a few poems from the book of verses that her mother had won in Sunday school as a child, a family heirloom they all took great pride in. Sometimes it was a story-section from the periodical that passed from family to family until that episode of the serial story had been read by every fireplace in the Crag.