There was a plum-tree in the orchard, all snow and ebony against a sky of sapphire. Becky Sharp, perched among the fragrant blossoms, crooned soft nothings to herself. Under the tree little Anne lay at full length on the tender green sod and dreamed daydreams. "Belinda," she said to her great white cat, "Belinda, if we could fly like Becky Sharp, we would all go to Egypt and eat our lunch on the top of the pyramids." Belinda, keeping a wary eye on a rusty red robin on a near-by stump, waved her tail conversationally. "They used to worship cats in Egypt, Belinda," Anne went on, drowsily, "and when they died they preserved them in sweet spices and made mummies of them -" But Belinda had lost interest. The rusty red robin was busy with a worm, and she saw her chance. As she sneaked across the grass, Anne sat up, "I'm ashamed of you, Belinda," she said. Becky, go bring her back!"