OLD LADY ANN.

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 4339, 29 April 1896, Page 5

OLD LADY ANN.

[By B. M. Cbokeb.] There are some localities on the north side of Dublin from which fashion has ebbed many years — rows of forlorn, melancholy mansions that were once the town houses of the Imh aristocracy. Showy coaches and four waited at their now battered, blistered doors, orowds of liveried servants trooped up and down their shallow staircases; their panelled reception rooms saw many jovial dances, reckless card parties, and ceremonious balls. These were in the good old days when the gentry lived at home and spent their money in Ireland — now it is the last country in the world in which they would choose to reside. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the neighborhood, the street, began to what is called " go down"; one or two of the festive, red-faced old lords died, and their heirs promptly abandoned what they considered a gloomy barrack in a back slum in Dublin, and advertised it "to be let or sold." Professional people replaced the nobility and landed gentry; after a long pause these again found the neighborhood too oldfashioned — too far behind the age ; the mansions too large to maintain with a small staff of servants— for they were built in times when the wages and food of retainers were cheap. When those three terrible golden balls appeared over the door of what had once been the Earl of Mountpatrick's residence — a door acoustomed to hatchments — then, in spite of temptingly low rents, the professional tenants became scared, and fled the locality to a man ; the next drop was to lodging-houses, then to cheap tenements, lastly to empty rooms and forlorn hearthstones. The poor old houses were now merely so many dilapidated monuments of fallen greatness, with their shattered windows, and grimy, shattered panes, their rusty railings, and cavernous areas choked with piles of canisters, broken bottles, and all the loose paper that the dusty wind, had scattered through the street. Bank grass sprouted underneath the hall doors, the ragged children of the neighborhood held shops and weddings on their Bunken steps. In the interior, the painted ceilings — some from the fair hand of Angelica Kaufmann — the carved mantelpieces of superb Italian marble, the solid mahogany doors and richly-carved balustrades — were ruthlessly stripped years ago, and now adorn various upstart modern residences in Saxon England. One end of Dennis street was almost submerged ; the houses stood gloomy, blind, abandonded ; their doors, as it were, closed for ever by the hand of pitiless decay. There were still a few tenements, notable for crowds of nojsy, dirty children, and strings of ill- washed, ragged garments fluttering from their windows ; then came a dozen empty houses, flanked by a once palatial residence, which concluded that side of the thoroughfare. I lodge at the opposite corner; I am a young woman, a journalist — poor, single, self-supporting. I occupy what was once a magnificent drawing room, with fine, stuccoed walls, carved cornices, and two superb white marble chimney pieces — for this and attendance I pay the modest sum of six shillings a week. I have portioned my residence into a complete suite of apartments; in the middle is my sitting room, which displays a square of carpet, a round table, and a couple of chairs ; my bedroom stands behind a screen. In one of the windows is my office ; here I have placed a big writing table, a chair, a mat, the inevitable waste paper basket, and here I work undisturbed. My outlook is on the big corner house, and as I pause and meditate, and search for an elusive idea, I often stare interrogatively at the great blank windows opposite, and occasionally find myself wondering what has been the history of that splendid mansion ? — a nobleman's without doubt.' One afternoon in December, as it was beginning to grow dusk, and I sat pondering with the end of my penholder in my mouth, my gaze abstractedly fixed on the opposite hall door, I suddenly sat up and rubbed my eyes briskly. Was I dreaming, or did I behold that door opening ? Yes ; very gently, very gradually, and a little wizened old woman, wearing a black poke bonnet and shawl, and carrying a basket, emerged and tottered hastily down the steps. She appeared bent and infirm, but nevertheless hurried away at a good pace. I actually lost half an hour watching for her return ; the street lamps were lit when she arrived and let herself in, as it were, by stealth, but no single glimmer of light subsequently illuminated one of those nineteen windows. The next morning I cross-examined my landlady. I inquired if " she could tell me anything about the house opposite?" and she, only too pleased to gossip, replied as she folded her arms : " Oh, faix then, it was a great house wance, the grandest for gaiety and squandering in the whole street ; it was Lord Kilmorna as owned it, he had miles of estates in the west, and kep' royal' style, outriders no less, but he spent all he had, and died wretchedly poor — the family has dwindled out complafcely — not a soul, nor a sod, nor a Btone belonging to it ; unless the old house there, and that is in Chancery this forty year and more." ." But are there not people living in it?" I asked. " I can't rightly tell you, miss ; some will have it that it is haunted by a little old w,oman ; others say a caretaker lives somewhere in the back, but I'm here this ten year and I never saw no sign of her ; no food nor coal ever goes near the place, so how could she keep body and soul together at all ; and forby that, 'the rats would ate her ! The door is never opened from year's end to year's end — look at the grass, ye could feed a horse on them steps ! Sure, there is stories about every old house in the street — terrifying stories." ! " Are there, indeed — what sort of I stories ? " "Of murders, and marriages, and duels, and hangings, and shootings, and gamblings, and runaway matches—"' she rattled off with extraordinary volubility. " They say of number thirteen that a man gambled with the old one himself — and for the price of_ his soul. Oh, you'd lose your life with fright at some of the tragedies they put out regarding the street. I don't believe them myself ; anyway, the houses is chape, and well built, and will stand a thousand years yet." About a fortnight after this interview I was returning home from a weary and bootless expedition. It was a wet, dark night as I gob out of the neaceat tram, and passing through a narrow sbreeb I stopped at a baker's to buy a cake for my frugal tea. An old woman stoo"' at the counter. I instantly recognised the bonnet and shawl from op posite. She was saying in a thin, tremulous voice: " Oh, Mrs Bergin, I came out without my purse " " Faix, you are always doing that !" was the brusque reply. "And if you would only trust me with a loaf until to-morrow I would be so much obliged," she pleaded; faintly. j " Now, Miss Seager, I daresay you would indeed, and I'd be obliged if you'd pay me the bill that is running on here month in month out. How do you think us poor people is to live at all— tell me that— if they' have to keep supplying paupers for. nothing, and look at the poor rates !" "l am very sorry, indeed," stammered a weak quavering. Yojpe—a .lady's— ••■but, we

have been disappointed in some payments due to us, we have, indeed, or you should have had your money long ago, and the very day we receive our remittances you shall be paid." " An' that will be Tibb's eve "— -bcornf ully — " live horae and you'll get grass ! Anyhow, you'll get no more bread here-sorra a crumb." "Oh, Mrs Bergin, just trust me— this oace." "Come, that's enough, and I can't be losing me whole day talking to beggars— why don't you go into the House ?" Could this be civil Mrs Bergin, who always had a gay word for me — but then, / was a cash customer ! I caught a glimpse of the little, miserable, white face at the bottom of the black poke. Oh, what an expression of want, despair, famine t On the impulse of the moment I Bpoke and said : "I understand that you have left your purse at home. Will you allow me to be j your banker for the present ? I think we are neighbors. I live just opposite you— at Number 17— and you can repay me when you please," and I offered her half a crown. " I have no change," she faltered, almost in tears. " Oh, it's too much to borrow— l may " and she paused, struggling with emotion. " You'll never see it again, miss, and so I tell volunteered Mrs Bergin, as she picked out a yesterday's twopenny loaf. "I will pay you, indeed I will," resumed the old lady in a firmer voice. " Mrs Bergin, I will take a stale twopenny, a pound of oatmeal, and three rusks." As she turned to choose them, I nodded good-night, and stepped out once more into the dark street. Two days later MrsGrogan flung open the door of my suite, saying, as she wiped the suds from her bare red arms : "A person to see you, miss," and the old lady from opposite shuffled into the room. She was shrunken, small, frail, and oh, so shabby ! How her shawl was held together by darns, her thin shoes patched, her gloves (odd ones)— l refrain from describing these, for they represented the very last gasp of expiring gentility. "I brought you the money you kindly advanced me," she said, tendering the halfcrown, which was neatly wrapped in paper, " and I am vastly obliged to you." " Won't you sit down ?" I said, offering her my one spare seat. "I am much obliged to you," she reiterated in a formal manner, "but I never pay calls now — we — don't visit —l only just stepped across " — she hesitated. I saw her wandering eye fixed on my fat brown teapot, and instantly — guiltily - - withdrawn. That timid glance had told a tale ! I was determined to take no denial — accept no excuse. " You must stay and have a cup of tea with me," I urged. "Indeed, I shall be quite hurt if you decline. lam so lonely — it will be a great favor if you remain and keep me company — see, my teapot is on the hob." " Well — really — since you are so pressing," she murmured, slowly seating herself, and proceeding to draw off her gloves — a proceeding which demanded the most cautious manipulation. I noticed her hands. They were beautifully shaped, but emaciated and worn with hard, coarse work, pre* cisely like the hands of a charwoman ! "Xiet me see," she said, looking about her with a familiar air. "It is fifty years since I was in this drawing room — not since the old judge's time. He was a great wit and a great card player." II There have been changes in the neighborhood since then, have there not?" I remarked. " Changes ! Indeed, you may well say so. And I have seen them. I recollect when six titled people lived in this very street. lam close on ninety — too old, my dear ! I hope you may never live to such an inhuman age, and I hope it in all kindness." Ninety ! Yes — her face was wrinkled beyond anything imaginable — a wrinkle for a year ; but the features were refined, not to say aristocratic, and her eyes were bright and animated. I made haste to pour her out a good cup of tea, and handed her some buttered toast (my own especial luxury). How she relished the tea, poor old soul ! With what tremulous avidity she put it to her lips, and swallowed every drop — surely it was months since she had tasted the woman's comforter and friend. A second cup had the effect of loosening her tongue and thawing her heart completely. "My childie, you are very good to me," she said, with a timid smile. " Have you no one belonging to you, and how long have you lived here ? " " I have lived here more than a year. I have no relations in this country, but I have a brother in Australia who is married." " And why do you live here, dearie, in God-forgotten Dennis street ?" " Because it suits my purse," I frankly replied. "lam — very poor." "Poor" — with a queer little laugh. "Darling child, I don't suppose you know what poverty means ! How do you pass your time ?" "I work for my living, I write for magazines and papers." "You write! Well, times are altered! In my young days people would have been shocked to see a personable young woman living alone and writing for the papers — you nave seen better days, dear ?" "No, not much' better," I candidly replied. "My father was a poor curate, he had a hundred and twenty pounds a year, and no private means. There was my mother, my brother, and myself — it was nob much, when my brother bad to be educated and put out in the world." " No — and where do you live ? " " At Carra, in the West." "Ah, the West, with its seas and sunsets!" and her old eyes glowed. "I was reared out there, before your father was born. / have seen better days, carriages and outriders, liveried servants, a pack of hounds ; why, we burned wax candles in the kitchen, and kept eleven gardeners. But I'm sure you think I'm a doddering old idiot to talk like this ! Well, we have come down in the world sadly — Ann and I — Lady Ann — and I — Yes," lowering her voice, "she is my first cousin. We were always like sisters ; we live in the house opposite. Don't breathe it, dear, but we have been there this five years. We keep as quiet as mice. It is the old family town house, and we may as well be there as anywhere ; no one wants it. Hush, and I'll whisper it. Lady Ann's father was the Earl of Kilmorna. My father was his brother— l am the Honorable Luciuda Seager. N.aw } " drawing aer« ' self up, " who would think it 1 We two old ] bodies are the last of the line. The earl, my j uncle, kept great state, even when he was a ruined man. His son gambled and drank — and — died abroad — imbecile. Ann was never what you might call bright — she had a moderate fortune, and she and I lived in a small way out West. We had a neat little place, too, and nice neighbors, and Ann was made a good deal of. However, troubles came ; our small j investments were swept away ; and whilst we travelled to Dublin, to see about them, \ our belongings were seized and sold up, and we were ashamed to go back. We had a few pounds left, and some old heirlooms, and we stayed in town until we — we had no money at all, and then we came and crept into the old house— we had the keys, you see — and we pretend that we are dead. Oh, God Almighty knows I wish we were " and she broke down and sobbed ; hard, chill, tearless sobs.

It is the saddest thing in the world to see ' an old woman cry ! "We have no income at all," she resumed, "only eleven pounds a yearinterest in the funds, it dies with me ; but what with medicine and food and firing, it does not go far." " Have you no friends ? " I inquired somewhat timidly. "No one— we have outlived them all ; you see, dear, it is not always a blessing to grow old." " The clergyman," I suggested. "Do you think we would let anyone know that Lady Ann, an earl's daughter, was brought bo low. Ann is proud ; oh, terribly proud ! She has a few things that if she would only part with would fetch money, but she says she will have them buried in her coffin. " Can you not persuade her to dispose of them?" I " I've tried and tried times and again, but it's no use. My things went long ago ; but she has an old gold watch and chain, a silver bowl, and spoons and forks, some lace and pearls, but what is the good of thinking of them, dear? She would give them to a friend, with a heart and a half, but would never take money for them, never. She would die sooner than sell them." "And I suppose you have no books or papers or flowers or anything, and rarely go out 1" " Books, papers ! My child, I haven't seen one for months. The world is as dead to us as we are to the world. As to flowers, I almost forget the look of them ; and, oh !we were so fond of them, and had such a lovely little garden. All our time is spent in trying to sleep, to keep ourselves warm, and to obtain a little food ; and we go over old days in the dark by the hour. I think the thought of what we once were keeps life in us still." " Have no letters ever come to you ?" " One or two, but we always sent them to the dead letter office. We could not, for shame's sake, let people dream we had fallen so low— and two penniless old women are soon forgotten. Now you know our secret. Your kind face and your warm hospitality have opened my lips, and" — rising as she spoke — " I must go, with a thousand thanks." " If you would like my paper any day," I said. " Oh, yes, if you would slip it in the letter-box after dark, what a pleasure it would give us." " And here is a c Graphic ' you can take and keep, and I am sure I can send you over some books." " Oh, you are far too good, too good ! I am ashamed to be under such obligations to you. God bless you !" And she tottered downstairs and across the street. About a week later I received a threecornered note, written on a half sheet of yellow paper ; it proved to be an invitation — a rare occurrence for me — and ran as follows : — " Lady Ann and Miss Lucinda Seager request the pleasure of Miss Smith's company at tea at six o'clock at 75 Dennis street." Could I believe my eyes ? Of course, I would accept with pleasure. At six o'clock to the second I went over and rang the bell ; how rusty it was, and stiff. I heard it clanging and echoing through the empty house, and then feeble steps coming along a passage. Presently the door was opened by Miss Lucinda, with a dip candle in her hand. She beamed upon me as she said : " I coaxed her to dispose of one or two small things, and we are better off now. She's in the library." Miss Lucinda ushered me across a hall (out of which rose a ghostly stone staircase), along a corridor, and into an immense back room, extremely lofty. There was a candle, a tiny fire, a sofa, and a little furniture, and in a very imposing chair an imposing old lady— thin, fragile, dignified, and considerably younger than my acquaintance. She wore a priceless yellow lace scarf over an exceedingly shabby old gown. Tea was laid, with a newspaper for cloth, on a small table ; there was a sixpenny cake and some dry toast. "My cousin has mentioned you to me," said Lady Ann, "and I thought I should like to make your acquaintance, and thank you for the papers," with an air of easy patronage, "You have given us great entertainment. We are two lonely gentlewomen who live quite out of the world. Lucinda," peremptorily, " you can make the tea." Lucinda was evidently her cousin's slave. She waited on Lady Ann as if she was a queen, and deferred to all her observations with what seemed to me ridiculous deference. Lady Ann did the honors as if presiding at a royal banquet, whilst we sipped our tea and nibbled at our stale sponge-cake. She prattled incessantly, and I feasted my eyes on the massive old snuffers and spoons, also a superbly-embossed jug and sugar bowl. Why the silver on the table was probably worth sixty shillings an ounce, and these proud people preferred to starve sooner than part with the family heirlooms. Then, as we drew round the scanty fire, they began to ply me with eager questions. The two shrill old voices often rose simultaneously on either hand, demanding news of the outer world. What had become of the Roxcrofts : was her ladyship dead ? Had Marion Lascelles married? Who lived in Grandmore Castle? Who won the great Lynch lawsuit, and who had come in for old Sir Corrie's money? I could not answer half of these interrogations. I was, however, able to impart many items of more general news. Royal weddings, deaths, births, of wars, hew inventions, new literary lights — aye, and new fashions. I discoursed for the best part of an hour, gradually unfolded the latest intelligence of the present day, and they, on their part, recalled many stories of the past. How I longed for a note-book or a good memory. I heard all particulars of the grand ball that had been given in the house on Lady Ann's sixteenth birthday, of the routs and dinners among their own set, of the runaway match from number twenty-two, and the duel fought with small swords at number five. This was not my last visit by any means. I went over to see my old ladies about once a week (not to tea). Generally there was a fire — always a dip-candle. I was permitted to explore the house. I shudder now when I recall the ghostly double drawing room, with an immense mirror, casting weird reflections — a fixture in the wall. I shiver when I think of the vast empty rooms, the dark passages and mysterious powder closets, the awful underground regions, the dripping damp kitchens, the crumpling stables, and the decaying pear tree, that in a storm sullenly lashed itself against the library windows, as much as to say : " Let me come in." Ultimately I became a favorite with Lady Ann. I brought her news, books, and papers — she had marvellous sight. I also ventured to present her with fruit, a down cushion, knitted mittens, and a shawl. These she accepted with an air of lofty condescension that had a humbling effect on me — however, that she did accept them was satisfactory, even though I was sensible that every additional unworthy offering was an additional liberty. One afternoon I noticed an air of mysterious importance in Miss Lucinda's manner as she admitted me. " Ann wants to see you particularly," sh said. "This is her birthday— her eighty] fourth — and she is giving herself a little treat."

This little treat, I was soon made aware, was to take the form of a presentation to me. "My dear Jessie," said Lady Ann, embracing me. "We want to make you a trifling present in honor of the day— it is the only pleasure that it is now in our power to enjoy. Here is my birthday gift," handing me a good-sized, untidy paper parcel, containing some hard substance. "It belonged to my grandfather. Louis XVI. gave it to him, and I present it to you." I opened the package carefully, and discovered the silver jug — richly worked, and embossed with lilies and the royal arms of France. Miss Lucinda had evidently given it a polish for the occasion. My first impulse was to return it on the spot, but second thoughts prevailed, and I kissed Lady Ann, and offered her my warmest thanks. "It jyas ten thousand times too good of. her," I declared, " and I valued it more than I cquld express." But Miss Lucinda and I subsequently conferred together on the subject in the cold outer hall. "Of course, I don't mean to keep it. I shall get a great price for it, and bring you che money,"' I whispered eagerly. "Of course you will keep it," cried Miss Lucinda. " It's not as if we had any heirs — I was delighted when she thought of it. She can't bear being under a compliment, i and, besides, she is so fond of you. Kil- | morna always used it for his punch — for the j hot water. It's a handsome jug." "It is. Nevertheless, I intend to dispose of it as I have said." "And is that how you treat our present? Are we fallen so low that you'd sell our little gift and give us back the money in charity?" And she burst out crying. "Now, Miss Lucinda —my dear Miss Lucinda," I pleaded, putting my arm round her neck. " I look to you to be sensible. Lady Ann is simply wickedly generous. You both want, oh so many things, and you have suffered so much — so much " " God Almighty only knows how much," she sobbed. "And whilst you have no blankets, no fire, and scarcely food, Lady Ann gives an heirloom to a stranger that is worth fifty pounds. If I may not have my own way, 1 shall take it back to her this instant. Now, dear Miss Lucinda," I coaxed, " be reasonable ; you shall give me some little gift, but I would be a mean, dishonorable, abominable wretch if I accepted the Louis Seize jug." It took a long time to convince Miss Lucinda. We stood and argued face to face for twenty minutes in that vault-like hall. In the end I conquered and she relented, and in the course of a week I brought her by stealth no less a sum than thirty pounds. I had hoped for more, but to Miss Lucinda it seemed a fortune. "How am I to account for it?" she demanded. "Just think of all the lies I must tell ! What am Ito say ? She knows I have only ninepence in the whole wide world." " Say it's restitution money," was my glib reply. " And so it is. lam restoring you your own." " Well, childie, 'tis you that are clever ! I'd never have thought of that — and it's no lie. Many and many a twenty pound was clipped from us in the old days, and we never missed it. Ann will easily credit that the priests or people's own consciences have worked on them and they have sent us back our own." Luckily for me, Lady Ann proved easily deceived, and received the restitution money with sobs of delight. I now learnt that she was a true Kilmorna. If she had had her will that thirty pound would have been squandered in three days. She talked of black silk dresses, of papering and painting the house, and a box at the theatre ! I really began to fear that the money had turned her poor brain, till Miss Lucinda assured me privately " that Ann had very extravagant ideas, and as long as she was mistress of one shilling she was always ready to lay out a thousand." Miss Seager and I made a joint expedition to the shops on the strength of that same restitution money. We invested in a cheap screen as a shelter from draughts from the door. We honorably paid the baker. We laid in no less than a whole ton of coals. We also purchased a square of drugget, a lamp, a table cover, blankets, tinned soups, tea, candles, and various other luxuries. In the course of time— that is to say, within the space of twelve months — I had been affectionately endowed with a lace scarf, a gold repeater, six two-pronged forks, and a set of seals ; and my two old ladies — thanks to restitution money — were in comparatively affluent circumstances. Mrs Grogan, my landlady, "could not make out of what sort of a fancy," as she expressed it, "I had taken to the old beggar of a caretaker, who, it appeared after all, did live opposite," but I neither noticed her hints nor gratified her curiosity. "Ann loves you," Miss Seager assured me; "but you must never breathe our secret to a soul — the mere idea of such a thing, the hint you gave her of writing to our lawyer, nearly brought on a paralytic stroke. We can do finely now. I have what will carry me on for many months, and in great style. We can afford a bit of meat sometimes— l toast it at the fire on a fork— and eggs, and soups, and port wine ; and it's all thanks to you, dear, and your cunning restitutions. The old pearls, and her mother's rings, and miniature, and a rose diamond brooch are almost all Ann has left ; and she will never give them away, not even to you, whilst the breath is in her ; but they are left you in her will. There are still the spoons, and we can live on them for a good while if they fetch the same fine prices, dear. Now that money is off my mind there is another load on my heart, and it frightens me. If I was to die — and I'm ninety-one, and a wonder for my age — what will happen to Ann ? Who is to cook for her, and do for her, keep her in spirits and company, and care for her ? It — will have to be — you." And Bhe nodded her head at me with solemn emphasis. " Look, now, what a burden you have brought on yourself, and all through lending me half a crown ! Well, my heart, God in Heaven will have it all in store for you for what you have been and done for two poor old women." A few days after this conversation I unexpectedly found myself on board one of the Orient line, en route for Australia. My brother's wife was dead, and he had telefraphed for me to come to him immediately, 'hat startling little slip of pink paper, how suddenly it bad changed my life and my plans * j I remained eighteen months in the Antipodes, nursing my brother through a tedious illness. After his -death I turned my face homewards, with his little orphan girl, to whom I was guardian. I was no longer a poor journalist. I need not work for my daily bread, nor live in such a "low" quarter as "Dennis street." I was an heireßS now* I had written to my two old ladies, to a prearranged address, but had received no reply. This, however, caused me no un- : easiness. I knew that they feared discovery | and the postman, and had suffered their art lof letter-writing to be lost. The morning I arrived in Dublin my very first visit was to them. I walked from the tram straight to number seventy-five, and knocked and rang — no answer— saving the echoes. Knock, knock, knock — dead silence— an oppressive, expressive silence. Then I repaired to my old quarters, and interviewed Mrs Grogan. After a warm and effusive reception—" You

are looking for those old people, are you, oh!" she said, "sure they are both dead, the creatures ! " •• Both dead ! " I repeated, incredulously. " Why, yes ; the little old woman wan run over by a car, and taken to Jervis street Hospital. She was terribly anxious about a hand-bag she had with her — ehe said it was full of valuables, pearls and rings, but the deuce a bit of it was to be found— if she ever had it ; and she was in an awful state about her cousin, Lady Ann, who lived over here in this street. They thought the poor old body was raving mad ; but anyhow she died — calling with her last breath for Lady Ann ! " Some people suspicioned there might be something in what she said, and looked up the house after a couple of days, and found there sure enough, an aged woman, starving and crazy. She declared she was Lady Ann — a queer sort of Lady Ann ! There was nothing to eat, nor a sign of a ebpper in the place, and as she had no one owning her, they just took her off to the union. She was raging ; and went screaming through I the streets that she was an earl's daughter ! but sure no one minded her, the poor, unfortunate, cracked creature. They put her in the infirmary, Bhe was so miserable and feeble, not fit to scrub or to do a hand's turn. They were kind iolks, and humored the bothered old beggar, and called her ' your ladyship,' for that was the only thing that seemed to ease her mind at all. She died about six weeks ago, and was buried as a pauper — old Lady Ann ! "