Page 64 of Threads that Remain

“The coal scuttle?”

“He said the soldier might have fallen in. He was quite prepared to put his hand into it, too, until I reminded him that soldiers do not generally throw themselves into coal scuttles unless they are very badly commanded.”

Anne pressed her lips together, determined not to laugh.

Sarah noticed immediately.

“Oh, do not look at me like that! You would have laughed if you had seen him. He came into the breakfast room with a black smudge upon his cheek, demanding to know whether I had seen his soldier. I told him I had seen nothing but a very dirty little boy.”

Anne burst out laughing.

“And then,” Sarah continued, delighted with her success, “when I finally showed him where it was, he said I was a wicked creature and that he should never speak to me again.”

“What a terrible punishment,” Anne managed.

“I told him thank you, for I had always found his conversation a great trial.”

Anne laughed so hard that she had to put down her pencil.

Sarah looked exceedingly pleased with herself. She had always possessed the gift of making Anne laugh, even when Anne had been determined to remain serious. It was one of the things Anne loved most about her.

“There,” Sarah said, pointing at the sketchbook. “You have ruined my portrait.”

“I have not.”

“You have. I can see it in your face. You have been laughing instead of drawing.”

Anne turned the book around to protect it from inspection. “You shall not see it until it is finished.”

“Then I shall be an old woman before I see it.”

“You are the most impatient person I know.”

“And you are the most patient. Between us, we make one tolerable person.”

Anne looked up at her friend, smiling. Sarah’s dark eyes were bright with mischief, and there was a loose curl escaping from the ribbon at the back of her head. Anne studied her for a moment, then bent over the page again.

“What are you doing now?” Sarah asked.

“Drawing your hair.”

“My hair is not so untidy as that!”

“It is exactly so untidy as that.”

Sarah reached up to feel the offending curl and gave a little gasp of indignation. Anne laughed again.

“Oh, you are a dreadful friend!”

“No,” Anne said, her smile softening as she looked at her. “You are my best friend.”

Sarah slid from the sofa and came to sit beside her.

“And you are mine,” said she simply. “My very best friend in the whole world.”

Anne looked down at her drawing, suddenly shy. “Even though I make your nose too small?”

“Especially because you make my nose too small. If you drew me perfectly, I might become vain. It is fortunate that you are here to keep me humble.”