remote country village; yet there was something about it that made its nearest
neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a tobacco king, look exceedingly
crude and showy and ill-bred by contrast. As Phil said, it was the difference
between being born and being made.
“It’s the dearest place I ever saw,” said Anne delightedly. “It gives me one of
my old, delightful funny aches. It’s dearer and quainter than even Miss
Lavendar’s stone house.”
“It’s the name I want you to notice especially,” said Phil. “Look—in white
letters, around the archway over the gate. ‘Patty’s Place.’ Isn’t that killing?
Especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts? ‘Patty’s
Place,’ if you please! I adore it.”
“Have you any idea who Patty is?” asked Priscilla.
“Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I’ve discovered. She
lives there with her niece, and they’ve lived there for hundreds of years, more or
less—maybe a little less, Anne. Exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I
understand that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot time and again—it’s really
worth a small fortune now, you know—but ‘Patty’ won’t sell upon any
consideration. And there’s an apple orchard behind the house in place of a back
yard—you’ll see it when we get a little past—a real apple orchard on Spofford
Avenue!”
“I’m going to dream about ‘Patty’s Place’ tonight,” said Anne. “Why, I feel as
if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by any chance, we’ll ever see the inside of it.”
“It isn’t likely,” said Priscilla.
Anne smiled mysteriously.
“No, it isn’t likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a queer, creepy, crawly
feeling—you can call it a presentiment, if you like—that ‘Patty’s Place’ and I are
going to be better acquainted yet.”