ANNE OF AVONLEA

by Lucy Maud Montgomery

To

my former teacherHATTIE GORDON SMITHin grateful remembrance of hersympathy and encouragement. 

 Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty, Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty. --WHITTIER

 I An Irate Neighbor II Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure III Mr. Harrison at Home IV Different Opinions47 V A Full-fledged Schoolma'am VI All Sorts and Conditions of Men . . . And women VII The Pointing of Duty VIII Marilla Adopts Twins IX A Question of Color X Davy in Search of a Sensation XI Facts and Fancies XII A Jonah Day XIII A Golden Picnic XIV A Danger Averted XV The Beginning of Vacation XVI The Substance of Things Hoped For XVII A Chapter of Accidents XVIII An Adventure on the Tory Road XIX Just a Happy Day XX The Way It Often Happens XXI Sweet Miss Lavendar XXII Odds and Ends XXIII Miss Lavendar's Romance XXIV A Prophet in His Own Country XXV An Avonlea Scandal XXVI Around the Bend XXVII An Afternoon at the Stone House XXVIII The Prince Comes Back to the Enchanted Palace XXIX Poetry and Prose XXX A Wedding at the Stone House

I

An Irate Neighbor

A tall, slim girl, "half-past sixteen, " with serious gray eyes and hairwhich her friends called auburn, had sat down on the broad red sandstonedoorstep of a Prince Edward Island farmhouse one ripe afternoon inAugust, firmly resolved to construe so many lines of Virgil. 

But an August afternoon, with blue hazes scarfing the harvest slopes, little winds whispering elfishly in the poplars, and a dancing slendorof red poppies outflaming against the dark coppice of young firs in acorner of the cherry orchard, was fitter for dreams than dead languages. The Virgil soon slipped unheeded to the ground, and Anne, her chinpropped on her clasped hands, and her eyes on the splendid mass offluffy clouds that were heaping up just over Mr. J. A. Harrison's houselike a great white mountain, was far away in a delicious world where acertain schoolteacher was doing a wonderful work, shaping the destiniesof future statesmen, and inspiring youthful minds and hearts with highand lofty ambitions. 

To be sure, if you came down to harsh facts . . . Which, it must beconfessed, Anne seldom did until she had to . . . It did not seem likelythat there was much promising material for celebrities in Avonleaschool; but you could never tell what might happen if a teacher usedher influence for good. Anne had certain rose-tinted ideals of what ateacher might accomplish if she only went the right way about it; andshe was in the midst of a delightful scene, forty years hence, with afamous personage . . . Just exactly what he was to be famous for was leftin convenient haziness, but Anne thought it would be rather nice to havehim a college president or a Canadian premier . . . Bowing low over herwrinkled hand and assuring her that it was she who had first kindled hisambition, and that all his success in life was due to the lessons shehad instilled so long ago in Avonlea school. This pleasant vision wasshattered by a most unpleasant interruption. 

A demure little Jersey cow came scuttling down the lane and five secondslater Mr. Harrison arrived . . . If "arrived" be not too mild a term todescribe the manner of his irruption into the yard. 

He bounced over the fence without waiting to open the gate, and angrilyconfronted astonished Anne, who had risen to her feet and stood lookingat him in some bewilderment. Mr. Harrison was their new righthandneighbor and she had never met him before, although she had seen himonce or twice. 

In early April, before Anne had come home from Queen's, Mr. Robert Bell, whose farm adjoined the Cuthbert place on the west, had sold out andmoved to Charlottetown. His farm had been bought by a certain Mr. J. A. Harrison, whose name, and the fact that he was a New Brunswick man, wereall that was known about him. But before he had been a month in Avonleahe had won the reputation of being an odd person . . . "a crank, " Mrs. Rachel Lynde said. Mrs. Rachel was an outspoken lady, as those of youwho may have already made her acquaintance will remember. Mr. Harrisonwas certainly different from other people . . . And that is the essentialcharacteristic of a crank, as everybody knows. 

In the first place he kept house for himself and had publicly statedthat he wanted no fools of women around his diggings. FeminineAvonlea took its revenge by the gruesome tales it related about hishouse-keeping and cooking. He had hired little John Henry Carter ofWhite Sands and John Henry started the stories. For one thing, therewas never any stated time for meals in the Harrison establishment. Mr. Harrison "got a bite" when he felt hungry, and if John Henry were aroundat the time, he came in for a share, but if he were not, he had to waituntil Mr. Harrison's next hungry spell. John Henry mournfully averredthat he would have starved to death if it wasn't that he got home onSundays and got a good filling up, and that his mother always gave him abasket of "grub" to take back with him on Monday mornings. 

As for washing dishes, Mr. Harrison never made any pretence of doing itunless a rainy Sunday came. Then he went to work and washed them all atonce in the rainwater hogshead, and left them to drain dry. 

Again, Mr. Harrison was "close. " When he was asked to subscribe to theRev. Mr. Allan's salary he said he'd wait and see how many dollars'worth of good he got out of his preaching first . . . He didn't believein buying a pig in a poke. And when Mrs. Lynde went to ask for acontribution to missions . . . And incidentally to see the inside ofthe house . . . He told her there were more heathens among the old womangossips in Avonlea than anywhere else he knew of, and he'd cheerfullycontribute to a mission for Christianizing them if she'd undertake it. Mrs. Rachel got herself away and said it was a mercy poor Mrs. RobertBell was safe in her grave, for it would have broken her heart to seethe state of her house in which she used to take so much pride. 

"Why, she scrubbed the kitchen floor every second day, " Mrs. Lynde toldMarilla Cuthbert indignantly, "and if you could see it now! I had tohold up my skirts as I walked across it. "

Finally, Mr. Harrison kept a parrot called Ginger. Nobody in Avonlea hadever kept a parrot before; consequently that proceeding was consideredbarely respectable. And such a parrot! If you took John Henry Carter'sword for it, never was such an unholy bird. It swore terribly. Mrs. Carter would have taken John Henry away at once if she had been sureshe could get another place for him. Besides, Ginger had bitten a pieceright out of the back of John Henry's neck one day when he had stoopeddown too near the cage. Mrs. Carter showed everybody the mark when theluckless John Henry went home on Sundays. 

All these things flashed through Anne's mind as Mr. Harrison stood, quite speechless with wrath apparently, before her. In his most amiablemood Mr. Harrison could not have been considered a handsome man; he wasshort and fat and bald; and now, with his round face purple with rageand his prominent blue eyes almost sticking out of his head, Annethought he was really the ugliest person she had ever seen. 

All at once Mr. Harrison found his voice. 

"I'm not going to put up with this, " he spluttered, "not a day longer, do you hear, miss. Bless my soul, this is the third time, miss . . . Thethird time! Patience has ceased to be a virtue, miss. I warned your auntthe last time not to let it occur again . . . And she's let it . . . She'sdone it . . . What does she mean by it, that is what I want to know. Thatis what I'm here about, miss. "

"Will you explain what the trouble is?" asked Anne, in her mostdignified manner. She had been practicing it considerably of late tohave it in good working order when school began; but it had no apparenteffect on the irate J. A. Harrison. 

"Trouble, is it? Bless my soul, trouble enough, I should think. Thetrouble is, miss, that I found that Jersey cow of your aunt's in my oatsagain, not half an hour ago. The third time, mark you. I found her inlast Tuesday and I found her in yesterday. I came here and told youraunt not to let it occur again. She has let it occur again. Where's youraunt, miss? I just want to see her for a minute and give her a piece ofmy mind . . . A piece of J. A. Harrison's mind, miss. "

"If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she is not my aunt, and she has gonedown to East Grafton to see a distant relative of hers who is very ill, "said Anne, with due increase of dignity at every word. "I am very sorrythat my cow should have broken into your oats . . . She is my cow and notMiss Cuthbert's . . . Matthew gave her to me three years ago when she wasa little calf and he bought her from Mr. Bell. "

"Sorry, miss! Sorry isn't going to help matters any. You'd better go andlook at the havoc that animal has made in my oats . . . Trampled them fromcenter to circumference, miss. "

"I am very sorry, " repeated Anne firmly, "but perhaps if you kept yourfences in better repair Dolly might not have broken in. It is your partof the line fence that separates your oatfield from our pasture and Inoticed the other day that it was not in very good condition. "

"My fence is all right, " snapped Mr. Harrison, angrier than ever at thiscarrying of the war into the enemy's country. "The jail fence couldn'tkeep a demon of a cow like that out. And I can tell you, you redheadedsnippet, that if the cow is yours, as you say, you'd be better employedin watching her out of other people's grain than in sitting roundreading yellow-covered novels, " . . . With a scathing glance at theinnocent tan-colored Virgil by Anne's feet. 

Something at that moment was red besides Anne's hair . . . Which hadalways been a tender point with her. 

"I'd rather have red hair than none at all, except a little fringe roundmy ears, " she flashed. 

The shot told, for Mr. Harrison was really very sensitive about his baldhead. His anger choked him up again and he could only glare speechlesslyat Anne, who recovered her temper and followed up her advantage. 

"I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison, because I have animagination. I can easily imagine how very trying it must be to find acow in your oats and I shall not cherish any hard feelings against youfor the things you've said. I promise you that Dolly shall never breakinto your oats again. I give you my word of honor on THAT point. "

"Well, mind you she doesn't, " muttered Mr. Harrison in a somewhatsubdued tone; but he stamped off angrily enough and Anne heard himgrowling to himself until he was out of earshot. 

Grievously disturbed in mind, Anne marched across the yard and shut thenaughty Jersey up in the milking pen. 

"She can't possibly get out of that unless she tears the fence down, "she reflected. "She looks pretty quiet now. I daresay she has sickenedherself on those oats. I wish I'd sold her to Mr. Shearer when he wantedher last week, but I thought it was just as well to wait until we hadthe auction of the stock and let them all go together. I believe it istrue about Mr. Harrison being a crank. Certainly there's nothing of thekindred spirit about HIM. "

Anne had always a weather eye open for kindred spirits. 

Marilla Cuthbert was driving into the yard as Anne returned from thehouse, and the latter flew to get tea ready. They discussed the matterat the tea table. 

"I'll be glad when the auction is over, " said Marilla. "It is too muchresponsibility having so much stock about the place and nobody but thatunreliable Martin to look after them. He has never come back yet and hepromised that he would certainly be back last night if I'd give him theday off to go to his aunt's funeral. I don't know how many aunts he hasgot, I am sure. That's the fourth that's died since he hired here a yearago. I'll be more than thankful when the crop is in and Mr. Barry takesover the farm. We'll have to keep Dolly shut up in the pen till Martincomes, for she must be put in the back pasture and the fences there haveto be fixed. I declare, it is a world of trouble, as Rachel says. Here'spoor Mary Keith dying and what is to become of those two children ofhers is more than I know. She has a brother in British Columbia and shehas written to him about them, but she hasn't heard from him yet. "

"What are the children like? How old are they?"

"Six past . . . They're twins. "

"Oh, I've always been especially interested in twins ever since Mrs. Hammond had so many, " said Anne eagerly. "Are they pretty?"

"Goodness, you couldn't tell . . . They were too dirty. Davy had beenout making mud pies and Dora went out to call him in. Davy pushed herheadfirst into the biggest pie and then, because she cried, he got intoit himself and wallowed in it to show her it was nothing to cry about. Mary said Dora was really a very good child but that Davy was full ofmischief. He has never had any bringing up you might say. His fatherdied when he was a baby and Mary has been sick almost ever since. "

"I'm always sorry for children that have no bringing up, " said Annesoberly. "You know _I_ hadn't any till you took me in hand. I hope theiruncle will look after them. Just what relation is Mrs. Keith to you?"

"Mary? None in the world. It was her husband . . . He was our thirdcousin. There's Mrs. Lynde coming through the yard. I thought she'd beup to hear about Mary. "

"Don't tell her about Mr. Harrison and the cow, " implored Anne. 

Marilla promised; but the promise was quite unnecessary, for Mrs. Lyndewas no sooner fairly seated than she said, "I saw Mr. Harrison chasing your Jersey out of his oats today when I wascoming home from Carmody. I thought he looked pretty mad. Did he makemuch of a rumpus?"

Anne and Marilla furtively exchanged amused smiles. Few things inAvonlea ever escaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morning Anne had said, "If you went to your own room at midnight, locked the door, pulled downthe blind, and SNEEZED, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the next day how yourcold was!"

"I believe he did, " admitted Marilla. "I was away. He gave Anne a pieceof his mind. "

"I think he is a very disagreeable man, " said Anne, with a resentfultoss of her ruddy head. 

"You never said a truer word, " said Mrs. Rachel solemnly. "I knewthere'd be trouble when Robert Bell sold his place to a New Brunswickman, that's what. I don't know what Avonlea is coming to, with so manystrange people rushing into it. It'll soon not be safe to go to sleep inour beds. "

"Why, what other strangers are coming in?" asked Marilla. 

"Haven't you heard? Well, there's a family of Donnells, for one thing. They've rented Peter Sloane's old house. Peter has hired the man to runhis mill. They belong down east and nobody knows anything about them. Then that shiftless Timothy Cotton family are going to move up fromWhite Sands and they'll simply be a burden on the public. He isin consumption . . . When he isn't stealing . . . And his wife is aslack-twisted creature that can't turn her hand to a thing. She washesher dishes SITTING DOWN. Mrs. George Pye has taken her husband's orphannephew, Anthony Pye. He'll be going to school to you, Anne, so you mayexpect trouble, that's what. And you'll have another strange pupil, too. Paul Irving is coming from the States to live with his grandmother. You remember his father, Marilla . . . Stephen Irving, him that jiltedLavendar Lewis over at Grafton?"

"I don't think he jilted her. There was a quarrel . . . I suppose therewas blame on both sides. "

"Well, anyway, he didn't marry her, and she's been as queer as possibleever since, they say . . . Living all by herself in that little stonehouse she calls Echo Lodge. Stephen went off to the States and wentinto business with his uncle and married a Yankee. He's never been homesince, though his mother has been up to see him once or twice. His wifedied two years ago and he's sending the boy home to his mother for aspell. He's ten years old and I don't know if he'll be a very desirablepupil. You can never tell about those Yankees. "

Mrs Lynde looked upon all people who had the misfortune to be bornor brought up elsewhere than in Prince Edward Island with a decidedcan-any-good-thing-come-out-of-Nazareth air. They MIGHT be good people, of course; but you were on the safe side in doubting it. She had aspecial prejudice against "Yankees. " Her husband had been cheated outof ten dollars by an employer for whom he had once worked in Boston andneither angels nor principalities nor powers could have convinced Mrs. Rachel that the whole United States was not responsible for it. 

"Avonlea school won't be the worse for a little new blood, " said Marilladrily, "and if this boy is anything like his father he'll be all right. Steve Irving was the nicest boy that was ever raised in these parts, though some people did call him proud. I should think Mrs. Irving wouldbe very glad to have the child. She has been very lonesome since herhusband died. "

"Oh, the boy may be well enough, but he'll be different from Avonleachildren, " said Mrs. Rachel, as if that clinched the matter. Mrs. Rachel's opinions concerning any person, place, or thing, were alwayswarranted to wear. "What's this I hear about your going to start up aVillage Improvement Society, Anne?"

"I was just talking it over with some of the girls and boys at the lastDebating Club, " said Anne, flushing. "They thought it would be rathernice . . . And so do Mr. And Mrs. Allan. Lots of villages have them now. "

"Well, you'll get into no end of hot water if you do. Better leave italone, Anne, that's what. People don't like being improved. "

"Oh, we are not going to try to improve the PEOPLE. It is Avonleaitself. There are lots of things which might be done to make itprettier. For instance, if we could coax Mr. Levi Boulter to pulldown that dreadful old house on his upper farm wouldn't that be animprovement?"

"It certainly would, " admitted Mrs. Rachel. "That old ruin has been aneyesore to the settlement for years. But if you Improvers can coaxLevi Boulter to do anything for the public that he isn't to be paid fordoing, may I be there to see and hear the process, that's what. I don'twant to discourage you, Anne, for there may be something in your idea, though I suppose you did get it out of some rubbishy Yankee magazine;but you'll have your hands full with your school and I advise you as afriend not to bother with your improvements, that's what. But there, I know you'll go ahead with it if you've set your mind on it. You werealways one to carry a thing through somehow. "

Something about the firm outlines of Anne's lips told that Mrs. Rachelwas not far astray in this estimate. Anne's heart was bent on formingthe Improvement Society. Gilbert Blythe, who was to teach in WhiteSands but would always be home from Friday night to Monday morning, wasenthusiastic about it; and most of the other folks were willing to go infor anything that meant occasional meetings and consequently some "fun. "As for what the "improvements" were to be, nobody had any very clearidea except Anne and Gilbert. They had talked them over and planned themout until an ideal Avonlea existed in their minds, if nowhere else. 

Mrs. Rachel had still another item of news. 

"They've given the Carmody school to a Priscilla Grant. Didn't you go toQueen's with a girl of that name, Anne?"

"Yes, indeed. Priscilla to teach at Carmody! How perfectly lovely!"exclaimed Anne, her gray eyes lighting up until they looked like eveningstars, causing Mrs. Lynde to wonder anew if she would ever get itsettled to her satisfaction whether Anne Shirley were really a prettygirl or not. 

II

Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure

Anne drove over to Carmody on a shopping expedition the next afternoonand took Diana Barry with her. Diana was, of course, a pledged member ofthe Improvement Society, and the two girls talked about little else allthe way to Carmody and back. 

"The very first thing we ought to do when we get started is to have thathall painted, " said Diana, as they drove past the Avonlea hall, a rathershabby building set down in a wooded hollow, with spruce trees hoodingit about on all sides. "It's a disgraceful looking place and we mustattend to it even before we try to get Mr. Levi Boulder to pull hishouse down. Father says we'll never succeed in DOING that. Levi Boulteris too mean to spend the time it would take. "

"Perhaps he'll let the boys take it down if they promise to haulthe boards and split them up for him for kindling wood, " said Annehopefully. "We must do our best and be content to go slowly at first. We can't expect to improve everything all at once. We'll have to educatepublic sentiment first, of course. "

Diana wasn't exactly sure what educating public sentiment meant; but itsounded fine and she felt rather proud that she was going to belong to asociety with such an aim in view. 

"I thought of something last night that we could do, Anne. You knowthat three-cornered piece of ground where the roads from Carmody andNewbridge and White Sands meet? It's all grown over with young spruce;but wouldn't it be nice to have them all cleared out, and just leave thetwo or three birch trees that are on it?"

"Splendid, " agreed Anne gaily. "And have a rustic seat put under thebirches. And when spring comes we'll have a flower-bed made in themiddle of it and plant geraniums. "

"Yes; only we'll have to devise some way of getting old Mrs. HiramSloane to keep her cow off the road, or she'll eat our geraniumsup, " laughed Diana. "I begin to see what you mean by educating publicsentiment, Anne. There's the old Boulter house now. Did you ever seesuch a rookery? And perched right close to the road too. An old housewith its windows gone always makes me think of something dead with itseyes picked out. "

"I think an old, deserted house is such a sad sight, " said Annedreamily. "It always seems to me to be thinking about its past andmourning for its old-time joys. Marilla says that a large family wasraised in that old house long ago, and that it was a real pretty place, with a lovely garden and roses climbing all over it. It was full oflittle children and laughter and songs; and now it is empty, and nothingever wanders through it but the wind. How lonely and sorrowful it mustfeel! Perhaps they all come back on moonlit nights . . . The ghosts of thelittle children of long ago and the roses and the songs . . . And for alittle while the old house can dream it is young and joyous again. "

Diana shook her head. 

"I never imagine things like that about places now, Anne. Don't youremember how cross mother and Marilla were when we imagined ghosts intothe Haunted Wood? To this day I can't go through that bush comfortablyafter dark; and if I began imagining such things about the old Boulterhouse I'd be frightened to pass it too. Besides, those children aren'tdead. They're all grown up and doing well . . . And one of them is abutcher. And flowers and songs couldn't have ghosts anyhow. "

Anne smothered a little sigh. She loved Diana dearly and they had alwaysbeen good comrades. But she had long ago learned that when she wanderedinto the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was by anenchanted path where not even her dearest might follow her. 

A thunder-shower came up while the girls were at Carmody; it didnot last long, however, and the drive home, through lanes where theraindrops sparkled on the boughs and little leafy valleys where thedrenched ferns gave out spicy odors, was delightful. But just as theyturned into the Cuthbert lane Anne saw something that spoiled the beautyof the landscape for her. 

Before them on the right extended Mr. Harrison's broad, gray-green fieldof late oats, wet and luxuriant; and there, standing squarely in themiddle of it, up to her sleek sides in the lush growth, and blinking atthem calmly over the intervening tassels, was a Jersey cow!

Anne dropped the reins and stood up with a tightening of the lips thatboded no good to the predatory quadruped. Not a word said she, but sheclimbed nimbly down over the wheels, and whisked across the fence beforeDiana understood what had happened. 

"Anne, come back, " shrieked the latter, as soon as she found her voice. "You'll ruin your dress in that wet grain . . . Ruin it. She doesn't hearme! Well, she'll never get that cow out by herself. I must go and helpher, of course. "

Anne was charging through the grain like a mad thing. Diana hoppedbriskly down, tied the horse securely to a post, turned the skirt of herpretty gingham dress over her shoulders, mounted the fence, and startedin pursuit of her frantic friend. She could run faster than Anne, whowas hampered by her clinging and drenched skirt, and soon overtook her. Behind them they left a trail that would break Mr. Harrison's heart whenhe should see it. 

"Anne, for mercy's sake, stop, " panted poor Diana. "I'm right out ofbreath and you are wet to the skin. "

"I must . . . Get . . . That cow . . . Out . . . Before . . . Mr. Harrison . . . Sees her, " gasped Anne. "I don't . . . Care . . . If I'm. . . Drowned . . . If we . . . Can . . . Only . . . Do that. "

But the Jersey cow appeared to see no good reason for being hustled outof her luscious browsing ground. No sooner had the two breathless girlsgot near her than she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite cornerof the field. 

"Head her off, " screamed Anne. "Run, Diana, run. "

Diana did run. Anne tried to, and the wicked Jersey went around thefield as if she were possessed. Privately, Diana thought she was. It wasfully ten minutes before they headed her off and drove her through thecorner gap into the Cuthbert lane. 

There is no denying that Anne was in anything but an angelic temperat that precise moment. Nor did it soothe her in the least to behold abuggy halted just outside the lane, wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmodyand his son, both of whom wore a broad smile. 

"I guess you'd better have sold me that cow when I wanted to buy herlast week, Anne, " chuckled Mr. Shearer. 

"I'll sell her to you now, if you want her, " said her flushed anddisheveled owner. "You may have her this very minute. "

"Done. I'll give you twenty for her as I offered before, and Jim herecan drive her right over to Carmody. She'll go to town with the rest ofthe shipment this evening. Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a Jersey cow. "

Five minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey cow were marching up theroad, and impulsive Anne was driving along the Green Gables lane withher twenty dollars. 

"What will Marilla say?" asked Diana. 

"Oh, she won't care. Dolly was my own cow and it isn't likely she'dbring more than twenty dollars at the auction. But oh dear, if Mr. Harrison sees that grain he will know she has been in again, and aftermy giving him my word of honor that I'd never let it happen! Well, ithas taught me a lesson not to give my word of honor about cows. A cowthat could jump over or break through our milk-pen fence couldn't betrusted anywhere. "

Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde's, and when she returned knew allabout Dolly's sale and transfer, for Mrs. Lynde had seen most of thetransaction from her window and guessed the rest. 

"I suppose it's just as well she's gone, though you DO do things in adreadful headlong fashion, Anne. I don't see how she got out of the pen, though. She must have broken some of the boards off. "

"I didn't think of looking, " said Anne, "but I'll go and see now. Martinhas never come back yet. Perhaps some more of his aunts have died. Ithink it's something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the octogenarians. Theother evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaper and she said to Mr. Sloane, 'I see here that another octogenarian has just died. What is anoctogenarian, Peter?' And Mr. Sloane said he didn't know, but they mustbe very sickly creatures, for you never heard tell of them but they weredying. That's the way with Martin's aunts. "

"Martin's just like all the rest of those French, " said Marilla indisgust. "You can't depend on them for a day. " Marilla was looking overAnne's Carmody purchases when she heard a shrill shriek in the barnyard. A minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wringing her hands. 

"Anne Shirley, what's the matter now?"

"Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This is terrible. And it's all myfault. Oh, will I EVER learn to stop and reflect a little before doingreckless things? Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something dreadfulsome day, and now I've done it!"

"Anne, you are the most exasperating girl! WHAT is it you've done?"

"Sold Mr. Harrison's Jersey cow . . . The one he bought from Mr. Bell. . . To Mr. Shearer! Dolly is out in the milking pen this very minute. "

"Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?"

"I only wish I were. There's no dream about it, though it's very like anightmare. And Mr. Harrison's cow is in Charlottetown by this time. Oh, Marilla, I thought I'd finished getting into scrapes, and here I am inthe very worst one I ever was in in my life. What can I do?"

"Do? There's nothing to do, child, except go and see Mr. Harrison aboutit. We can offer him our Jersey in exchange if he doesn't want to takethe money. She is just as good as his. "

"I'm sure he'll be awfully cross and disagreeable about it, though, "moaned Anne. 

"I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritable sort of a man. I'll goand explain to him if you like. "

"No, indeed, I'm not as mean as that, " exclaimed Anne. "This is all myfault and I'm certainly not going to let you take my punishment. I'll gomyself and I'll go at once. The sooner it's over the better, for it willbe terribly humiliating. "

Poor Anne got her hat and her twenty dollars and was passing out whenshe happened to glance through the open pantry door. On the tablereposed a nut cake which she had baked that morning . . . A particularlytoothsome concoction iced with pink icing and adorned with walnuts. Annehad intended it for Friday evening, when the youth of Avonlea were tomeet at Green Gables to organize the Improvement Society. But what werethey compared to the justly offended Mr. Harrison? Anne thought thatcake ought to soften the heart of any man, especially one who had to dohis own cooking, and she promptly popped it into a box. She would takeit to Mr. Harrison as a peace offering. 

"That is, if he gives me a chance to say anything at all, " she thoughtruefully, as she climbed the lane fence and started on a short cutacross the fields, golden in the light of the dreamy August evening. "Iknow now just how people feel who are being led to execution. "

III

Mr. Harrison at Home

Mr. Harrison's house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashedstructure, set against a thick spruce grove. 

Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshaded veranda, in his shirtsleeves, enjoying his evening pipe. When he realized who was coming upthe path he sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the house, andshut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable result of his surprise, mingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of temper the daybefore. But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from Anne'sheart. 

"If he's so cross now what will he be when he hears what I've done, " shereflected miserably, as she rapped at the door. 

But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to enterin a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He had laidaside his pipe and donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty chairvery politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly enoughif it had not been for the telltale of a parrot who was peering throughthe bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had Anne seatedherself than Ginger exclaimed, "Bless my soul, what's that redheaded snippet coming here for?"

It would be hard to say whose face was the redder, Mr. Harrison's orAnne's. 

"Don't you mind that parrot, " said Mr. Harrison, casting a furiousglance at Ginger. "He's . . . He's always talking nonsense. I got himfrom my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don't always use the choicestlanguage, and parrots are very imitative birds. "

"So I should think, " said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errandquelling her resentment. She couldn't afford to snub Mr. Harrison underthe circumstances, that was certain. When you had just sold a man'sJersey cow offhand, without his knowledge or consent you must notmind if his parrot repeated uncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the"redheaded snippet" was not quite so meek as she might otherwise havebeen. 

"I've come to confess something to you, Mr. Harrison, " she saidresolutely. "It's . . . It's about . . . That Jersey cow. "

"Bless my soul, " exclaimed Mr. Harrison nervously, "has she gone andbroken into my oats again? Well, never mind . . . Never mind if she has. It's no difference . . . None at all, I . . . I was too hasty yesterday, that's a fact. Never mind if she has. "

"Oh, if it were only that, " sighed Anne. "But it's ten times worse. Idon't . . . "

"Bless my soul, do you mean to say she's got into my wheat?"

"No . . . No . . . Not the wheat. But . . . "

"Then it's the cabbages! She's broken into my cabbages that I wasraising for Exhibition, hey?"

"It's NOT the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I'll tell you everything . . . That is what I came for--but please don't interrupt me. It makes me sonervous. Just let me tell my story and don't say anything till I getthrough--and then no doubt you'll say plenty, " Anne concluded, but inthought only. 

"I won't say another word, " said Mr. Harrison, and he didn't. ButGinger was not bound by any contract of silence and kept ejaculating, "Redheaded snippet" at intervals until Anne felt quite wild. 

"I shut my Jersey cow up in our pen yesterday. This morning I went toCarmody and when I came back I saw a Jersey cow in your oats. Diana andI chased her out and you can't imagine what a hard time we had. I wasso dreadfully wet and tired and vexed--and Mr. Shearer came by that veryminute and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot fortwenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should have waited and consultedMarilla, of course. But I'm dreadfully given to doing things withoutthinking--everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. Shearer tookthe cow right away to ship her on the afternoon train. "

"Redheaded snippet, " quoted Ginger in a tone of profound contempt. 

At this point Mr. Harrison arose and, with an expression that would havestruck terror into any bird but a parrot, carried Ginger's cage into anadjoining room and shut the door. Ginger shrieked, swore, and otherwiseconducted himself in keeping with his reputation, but finding himselfleft alone, relapsed into sulky silence. 

"Excuse me and go on, " said Mr. Harrison, sitting down again. "Mybrother the sailor never taught that bird any manners. "

"I went home and after tea I went out to the milking pen. Mr. Harrison, " . . . Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands with her oldchildish gesture, while her big gray eyes gazed imploringly into Mr. Harrison's embarrassed face . . . "I found my cow still shut up in thepen. It was YOUR cow I had sold to Mr. Shearer. "

"Bless my soul, " exclaimed Mr. Harrison, in blank amazement at thisunlooked-for conclusion. "What a VERY extraordinary thing!"

"Oh, it isn't in the least extraordinary that I should be getting myselfand other people into scrapes, " said Anne mournfully. "I'm noted forthat. You might suppose I'd have grown out of it by this time . . . I'llbe seventeen next March . . . But it seems that I haven't. Mr. Harrison, is it too much to hope that you'll forgive me? I'm afraid it's too lateto get your cow back, but here is the money for her . . . Or you can havemine in exchange if you'd rather. She's a very good cow. And I can'texpress how sorry I am for it all. "

"Tut, tut, " said Mr. Harrison briskly, "don't say another word about it, miss. It's of no consequence . . . No consequence whatever. Accidents willhappen. I'm too hasty myself sometimes, miss . . . Far too hasty. But Ican't help speaking out just what I think and folks must take me as theyfind me. If that cow had been in my cabbages now . . . But never mind, shewasn't, so it's all right. I think I'd rather have your cow in exchange, since you want to be rid of her. "

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I'm so glad you are not vexed. I wasafraid you would be. "

"And I suppose you were scared to death to come here and tell me, afterthe fuss I made yesterday, hey? But you mustn't mind me, I'm a terribleoutspoken old fellow, that's all . . . Awful apt to tell the truth, nomatter if it is a bit plain. "

"So is Mrs. Lynde, " said Anne, before she could prevent herself. 

"Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don't you tell me I'm like that old gossip, " said Mr. Harrison irritably. "I'm not . . . Not a bit. What have you got in thatbox?"

"A cake, " said Anne archly. In her relief at Mr. Harrison's unexpectedamiability her spirits soared upward feather-light. "I brought it overfor you . . . I thought perhaps you didn't have cake very often. "

"I don't, that's a fact, and I'm mighty fond of it, too. I'm muchobliged to you. It looks good on top. I hope it's good all the waythrough. "

"It is, " said Anne, gaily confident. "I have made cakes in my time thatwere NOT, as Mrs. Allan could tell you, but this one is all right. Imade it for the Improvement Society, but I can make another for them. "

"Well, I'll tell you what, miss, you must help me eat it. I'll put thekettle on and we'll have a cup of tea. How will that do?"

"Will you let me make the tea?" said Anne dubiously. 

Mr. Harrison chuckled. 

"I see you haven't much confidence in my ability to make tea. You'rewrong . . . I can brew up as good a jorum of tea as you ever drank. But goahead yourself. Fortunately it rained last Sunday, so there's plenty ofclean dishes. "

Anne hopped briskly up and went to work. She washed the teapot inseveral waters before she put the tea to steep. Then she swept the stoveand set the table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The state ofthat pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said nothing. Mr. Harrisontold her where to find the bread and butter and a can of peaches. Anneadorned the table with a bouquet from the garden and shut her eyes tothe stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready and Anne foundherself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison at his own table, pouring his teafor him, and chatting freely to him about her school and friends andplans. She could hardly believe the evidence of her senses. 

Mr. Harrison had brought Ginger back, averring that the poor bird wouldbe lonesome; and Anne, feeling that she could forgive everybody andeverything, offered him a walnut. But Ginger's feelings had beengrievously hurt and he rejected all overtures of friendship. He satmoodily on his perch and ruffled his feathers up until he looked like amere ball of green and gold. 

"Why do you call him Ginger?" asked Anne, who liked appropriate namesand thought Ginger accorded not at all with such gorgeous plumage. 

"My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had some reference to histemper. I think a lot of that bird though . . . You'd be surprised if youknew how much. He has his faults of course. That bird has cost me a gooddeal one way and another. Some people object to his swearing habits buthe can't be broken of them. I've tried . . . Other people have tried. Some folks have prejudices against parrots. Silly, ain't it? I like themmyself. Ginger's a lot of company to me. Nothing would induce me to givethat bird up . . . Nothing in the world, miss. "

Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as explosively as if hesuspected her of some latent design of persuading him to give Ginger up. Anne, however, was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety littleman, and before the meal was over they were quite good friends. Mr. Harrison found out about the Improvement Society and was disposed toapprove of it. 

"That's right. Go ahead. There's lots of room for improvement in thissettlement . . . And in the people too. "

"Oh, I don't know, " flashed Anne. To herself, or to her particularcronies, she might admit that there were some small imperfections, easily removable, in Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear apractical outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely differentthing. "I think Avonlea is a lovely place; and the people in it are verynice, too. "

"I guess you've got a spice of temper, " commented Mr. Harrison, surveying the flushed cheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. "It goeswith hair like yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place or Iwouldn't have located here; but I suppose even you will admit that ithas SOME faults?"

"I like it all the better for them, " said loyal Anne. "I don't likeplaces or people either that haven't any faults. I think a truly perfectperson would be very uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she never meta perfect person, but she's heard enough about one . . . Her husband'sfirst wife. Don't you think it must be very uncomfortable to be marriedto a man whose first wife was perfect?"

"It would be more uncomfortable to be married to the perfect wife, "declared Mr. Harrison, with a sudden and inexplicable warmth. 

When tea was over Anne insisted on washing the dishes, although Mr. Harrison assured her that there were enough in the house to do for weeksyet. She would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but no broomwas visible and she did not like to ask where it was for fear therewasn't one at all. 

"You might run across and talk to me once in a while, " suggested Mr. Harrison when she was leaving. "'Tisn't far and folks ought to beneighborly. I'm kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to methere'll be some fun in it. Who are you going to tackle first?"

"We are not going to meddle with PEOPLE . . . It is only PLACES we mean toimprove, " said Anne, in a dignified tone. She rather suspected that Mr. Harrison was making fun of the project. 

When she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from the window . . . A lithe, girlish shape, tripping lightheartedly across the fields in the sunsetafterglow. 

"I'm a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap, " he said aloud, "but there'ssomething about that little girl makes me feel young again . . . And it'ssuch a pleasant sensation I'd like to have it repeated once in a while. "

"Redheaded snippet, " croaked Ginger mockingly. 

Mr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot. 

"You ornery bird, " he muttered, "I almost wish I'd wrung your neck whenmy brother the sailor brought you home. Will you never be done gettingme into trouble?"

Anne ran home blithely and recounted her adventures to Marilla, who hadbeen not a little alarmed by her long absence and was on the point ofstarting out to look for her. 

"It's a pretty good world, after all, isn't it, Marilla?" concluded Annehappily. "Mrs. Lynde was complaining the other day that it wasn't muchof a world. She said whenever you looked forward to anything pleasantyou were sure to be more or less disappointed . . . Perhaps that is true. But there is a good side to it too. The bad things don't always comeup to your expectations either . . . They nearly always turn out ever somuch better than you think. I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasantexperience when I went over to Mr. Harrison's tonight; and instead hewas quite kind and I had almost a nice time. I think we're going to bereal good friends if we make plenty of allowances for each other, andeverything has turned out for the best. But all the same, Marilla, Ishall certainly never again sell a cow before making sure to whom shebelongs. And I do NOT like parrots!"

IV

Different Opinions

One evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, Gilbert Blythe, and Anne Shirleywere lingering by a fence in the shadow of gently swaying spruce boughs, where a wood cut known as the Birch Path joined the main road. Jane hadbeen up to spend the afternoon with Anne, who walked part of the wayhome with her; at the fence they met Gilbert, and all three were nowtalking about the fateful morrow; for that morrow was the first ofSeptember and the schools would open. Jane would go to Newbridge andGilbert to White Sands. 

"You both have the advantage of me, " sighed Anne. "You're going to teachchildren who don't know you, but I have to teach my own old schoolmates, and Mrs. Lynde says she's afraid they won't respect me as they woulda stranger unless I'm very cross from the first. But I don't believe ateacher should be cross. Oh, it seems to me such a responsibility!"

"I guess we'll get on all right, " said Jane comfortably. Jane was nottroubled by any aspirations to be an influence for good. She meant toearn her salary fairly, please the trustees, and get her name on theSchool Inspector's roll of honor. Further ambitions Jane had none. "Themain thing will be to keep order and a teacher has to be a little crossto do that. If my pupils won't do as I tell them I shall punish them. "

"How?"

"Give them a good whipping, of course. "

"Oh, Jane, you wouldn't, " cried Anne, shocked. "Jane, you COULDN'T!"

"Indeed, I could and would, if they deserved it, " said Jane decidedly. 

"I could NEVER whip a child, " said Anne with equal decision. "I don'tbelieve in it AT ALL. Miss Stacy never whipped any of us and she hadperfect order; and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no orderat all. No, if I can't get along without whipping I shall not try toteach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win mypupils' affections and then they will WANT to do what I tell them. "

"But suppose they don't?" said practical Jane. 

"I wouldn't whip them anyhow. I'm sure it wouldn't do any good. Oh, don't whip your pupils, Jane dear, no matter what they do. "

"What do you think about it, Gilbert?" demanded Jane. "Don't you thinkthere are some children who really need a whipping now and then?"

"Don't you think it's a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child . . . ANYchild?" exclaimed Anne, her face flushing with earnestness. 

"Well, " said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real convictions and hiswish to measure up to Anne's ideal, "there's something to be said onboth sides. I don't believe in whipping children MUCH. I think, as yousay, Anne, that there are better ways of managing as a rule, and thatcorporal punishment should be a last resort. But on the other hand, as Jane says, I believe there is an occasional child who can't beinfluenced in any other way and who, in short, needs a whipping andwould be improved by it. Corporal punishment as a last resort is to bemy rule. "

Gilbert, having tried to please both sides, succeeded, as is usual andeminently right, in pleasing neither. Jane tossed her head. 

"I'll whip my pupils when they're naughty. It's the shortest and easiestway of convincing them. "

Anne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance. 

"I shall never whip a child, " she repeated firmly. "I feel sure it isn'teither right or necessary. "

"Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him to do something?" saidJane. 

"I'd keep him in after school and talk kindly and firmly to him, " saidAnne. "There is some good in every person if you can find it. It isa teacher's duty to find and develop it. That is what our SchoolManagement professor at Queen's told us, you know. Do you suppose youcould find any good in a child by whipping him? It's far more importantto influence the children aright than it is even to teach them the threeR's, Professor Rennie says. "

"But the Inspector examines them in the three R's, mind you, and hewon't give you a good report if they don't come up to his standard, "protested Jane. 

"I'd rather have my pupils love me and look back to me in after years asa real helper than be on the roll of honor, " asserted Anne decidedly. 

"Wouldn't you punish children at all, when they misbehaved?" askedGilbert. 

"Oh, yes, I suppose I shall have to, although I know I'll hate to do it. But you can keep them in at recess or stand them on the floor or givethem lines to write. "

"I suppose you won't punish the girls by making them sit with the boys?"said Jane slyly. 

Gilbert and Anne looked at each other and smiled rather foolishly. Onceupon a time, Anne had been made to sit with Gilbert for punishment andsad and bitter had been the consequences thereof. 

"Well, time will tell which is the best way, " said Jane philosophicallyas they parted. 

Anne went back to Green Gables by way of Birch Path, shadowy, rustling, fern-scented, through Violet Vale and past Willowmere, where dark andlight kissed each other under the firs, and down through Lover's Lane. . . Spots she and Diana had so named long ago. She walked slowly, enjoying the sweetness of wood and field and the starry summer twilight, and thinking soberly about the new duties she was to take up on themorrow. When she reached the yard at Green Gables Mrs. Lynde's loud, decided tones floated out through the open kitchen window. 

"Mrs. Lynde has come up to give me good advice about tomorrow, " thoughtAnne with a grimace, "but I don't believe I'll go in. Her advice ismuch like pepper, I think . . . Excellent in small quantities but ratherscorching in her doses. I'll run over and have a chat with Mr. Harrisoninstead. "

This was not the first time Anne had run over and chatted with Mr. Harrison since the notable affair of the Jersey cow. She had beenthere several evenings and Mr. Harrison and she were very good friends, although there were times and seasons when Anne found the outspokennesson which he prided himself rather trying. Ginger still continued toregard her with suspicion, and never failed to greet her sarcasticallyas "redheaded snippet. " Mr. Harrison had tried vainly to break himof the habit by jumping excitedly up whenever he saw Anne coming andexclaiming, "Bless my soul, here's that pretty little girl again, " or somethingequally flattering. But Ginger saw through the scheme and scorned it. Anne was never to know how many compliments Mr. Harrison paid her behindher back. He certainly never paid her any to her face. 

"Well, I suppose you've been back in the woods laying in a supply ofswitches for tomorrow?" was his greeting as Anne came up the verandasteps. 

"No, indeed, " said Anne indignantly. She was an excellent target forteasing because she always took things so seriously. "I shall never havea switch in my school, Mr. Harrison. Of course, I shall have to have apointer, but I shall use it for pointing ONLY. "

"So you mean to strap them instead? Well, I don't know but you're right. A switch stings more at the time but the strap smarts longer, that's afact. "

"I shall not use anything of the sort. I'm not going to whip my pupils. "

"Bless my soul, " exclaimed Mr. Harrison in genuine astonishment, "how doyou lay out to keep order then?"

"I shall govern by affection, Mr. Harrison. "

"It won't do, " said Mr. Harrison, "won't do at all, Anne. 'Spare therod and spoil the child. ' When I went to school the master whipped meregular every day because he said if I wasn't in mischief just then Iwas plotting it. "

"Methods have changed since your schooldays, Mr. Harrison. "

"But human nature hasn't. Mark my words, you'll never manage the youngfry unless you keep a rod in pickle for them. The thing is impossible. "

"Well, I'm going to try my way first, " said Anne, who had a fairlystrong will of her own and was apt to cling very tenaciously to hertheories. 

"You're pretty stubborn, I reckon, " was Mr. Harrison's way of puttingit. "Well, well, we'll see. Someday when you get riled up . . . And peoplewith hair like yours are desperate apt to get riled . . . You'll forgetall your pretty little notions and give some of them a whaling. You'retoo young to be teaching anyhow . . . Far too young and childish. "

Altogether, Anne went to bed that night in a rather pessimistic mood. She slept poorly and was so pale and tragic at breakfast next morningthat Marilla was alarmed and insisted on making her take a cup ofscorching ginger tea. Anne sipped it patiently, although she could notimagine what good ginger tea would do. Had it been some magic brew, potent to confer age and experience, Anne would have swallowed a quartof it without flinching. 

"Marilla, what if I fail!"

"You'll hardly fail completely in one day and there's plenty more dayscoming, " said Marilla. "The trouble with you, Anne, is that you'llexpect to teach those children everything and reform all their faultsright off, and if you can't you'll think you've failed. "

V

A Full-fledged Schoolma'am

When Anne reached the school that morning . . . For the first time in herlife she had traversed the Birch Path deaf and blind to its beauties . . . All was quiet and still. The preceding teacher had trained thechildren to be in their places at her arrival, and when Anne entered theschoolroom she was confronted by prim rows of "shining morning faces"and bright, inquisitive eyes. She hung up her hat and faced her pupils, hoping that she did not look as frightened and foolish as she felt andthat they would not perceive how she was trembling. 

She had sat up until nearly twelve the preceding night composing aspeech she meant to make to her pupils upon opening the school. She hadrevised and improved it painstakingly, and then she had learned it offby heart. It was a very good speech and had some very fine ideas in it, especially about mutual help and earnest striving after knowledge. Theonly trouble was that she could not now remember a word of it. 

After what seemed to her a year . . . About ten seconds in reality . . . She said faintly, "Take your Testaments, please, " and sank breathlesslyinto her chair under cover of the rustle and clatter of desk lids thatfollowed. While the children read their verses Anne marshalled her shakywits into order and looked over the array of little pilgrims to theGrownup Land. 

Most of them were, of course, quite well known to her. Her ownclassmates had passed out in the preceding year but the rest had allgone to school with her, excepting the primer class and ten newcomersto Avonlea. Anne secretly felt more interest in these ten than in thosewhose possibilities were already fairly well mapped out to her. To besure, they might be just as commonplace as the rest; but on the otherhand there MIGHT be a genius among them. It was a thrilling idea. 

Sitting by himself at a corner desk was Anthony Pye. He had a dark, sullen little face, and was staring at Anne with a hostile expression inhis black eyes. Anne instantly made up her mind that she would win thatboy's affection and discomfit the Pyes utterly. 

In the other corner another strange boy was sitting with Arty Sloane. . . A jolly looking little chap, with a snub nose, freckled face, and big, light blue eyes, fringed with whitish lashes . . . Probably the DonNELLboy; and if resemblance went for anything, his sister was sitting acrossthe aisle with Mary Bell. Anne wondered what sort of mother the childhad, to send her to school dressed as she was. She wore a faded pinksilk dress, trimmed with a great deal of cotton lace, soiled whitekid slippers, and silk stockings. Her sandy hair was tortured intoinnumerable kinky and unnatural curls, surmounted by a flamboyant bowof pink ribbon bigger than her head. Judging from her expression she wasvery well satisfied with herself. 

A pale little thing, with smooth ripples of fine, silky, fawn-coloredhair flowing over her shoulders, must, Anne thought, be Annetta Bell, whose parents had formerly lived in the Newbridge school district, but, by reason of hauling their house fifty yards north of its old site werenow in Avonlea. Three pallid little girls crowded into one seat werecertainly Cottons; and there was no doubt that the small beauty withthe long brown curls and hazel eyes, who was casting coquettish looks atJack Gills over the edge of her Testament, was Prillie Rogerson, whosefather had recently married a second wife and brought Prillie home fromher grandmother's in Grafton. A tall, awkward girl in a back seat, whoseemed to have too many feet and hands, Anne could not place at all, butlater on discovered that her name was Barbara Shaw and that she had cometo live with an Avonlea aunt. She was also to find that if Barbara evermanaged to walk down the aisle without falling over her own or somebodyelse's feet the Avonlea scholars wrote the unusual fact up on the porchwall to commemorate it. 

But when Anne's eyes met those of the boy at the front desk facingher own, a queer little thrill went over her, as if she had found hergenius. She knew this must be Paul Irving and that Mrs. Rachel Lyndehad been right for once when she prophesied that he would be unlike theAvonlea children. More than that, Anne realized that he was unlike otherchildren anywhere, and that there was a soul subtly akin to her owngazing at her out of the very dark blue eyes that were watching her sointently. 

She knew Paul was ten but he looked no more than eight. He had the mostbeautiful little face she had ever seen in a child . . . Features ofexquisite delicacy and refinement, framed in a halo of chestnut curls. His mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, the crimson lipsjust softly touching and curving into finely finished little cornersthat narrowly escaped being dimpled. He had a sober, grave, meditativeexpression, as if his spirit was much older than his body; but whenAnne smiled softly at him it vanished in a sudden answering smile, whichseemed an illumination of his whole being, as if some lamp had suddenlykindled into flame inside of him, irradiating him from top to toe. Bestof all, it was involuntary, born of no external effort or motive, butsimply the outflashing of a hidden personality, rare and fine and sweet. With a quick interchange of smiles Anne and Paul were fast friendsforever before a word had passed between them. 

The day went by like a dream. Anne could never clearly recall itafterwards. It almost seemed as if it were not she who was teachingbut somebody else. She heard classes and worked sums and set copiesmechanically. The children behaved quite well; only two cases ofdiscipline occurred. Morley Andrews was caught driving a pair of trainedcrickets in the aisle. Anne stood Morley on the platform for anhour and . . . Which Morley felt much more keenly . . . Confiscated hiscrickets. She put them in a box and on the way from school set them freein Violet Vale; but Morley believed, then and ever afterwards, that shetook them home and kept them for her own amusement. 

The other culprit was Anthony Pye, who poured the last drops of waterfrom his slate bottle down the back of Aurelia Clay's neck. Anne keptAnthony in at recess and talked to him about what was expected ofgentlemen, admonishing him that they never poured water down ladies'necks. She wanted all her boys to be gentlemen, she said. Her littlelecture was quite kind and touching; but unfortunately Anthony remainedabsolutely untouched. He listened to her in silence, with the samesullen expression, and whistled scornfully as he went out. Annesighed; and then cheered herself up by remembering that winning a Pye'saffections, like the building of Rome, wasn't the work of a day. Infact, it was doubtful whether some of the Pyes had any affections towin; but Anne hoped better things of Anthony, who looked as if he mightbe a rather nice boy if one ever got behind his sullenness. 

When school was dismissed and the children had gone Anne dropped wearilyinto her chair. Her head ached and she felt woefully discouraged. Therewas no real reason for discouragement, since nothing very dreadful hadoccurred; but Anne was very tired and inclined to believe that she wouldnever learn to like teaching. And how terrible it would be to be doingsomething you didn't like every day for . . . Well, say forty years. Annewas of two minds whether to have her cry out then and there, or waittill she was safely in her own white room at home. Before she coulddecide there was a click of heels and a silken swish on the porch floor, and Anne found herself confronted by a lady whose appearance made herrecall a recent criticism of Mr. Harrison's on an overdressed female hehad seen in a Charlottetown store. "She looked like a head-on collisionbetween a fashion plate and a nightmare. "

The newcomer was gorgeously arrayed in a pale blue summer silk, puffed, frilled, and shirred wherever puff, frill, or shirring could possiblybe placed. Her head was surmounted by a huge white chiffon hat, bedeckedwith three long but rather stringy ostrich feathers. A veil of pinkchiffon, lavishly sprinkled with huge black dots, hung like a flouncefrom the hat brim to her shoulders and floated off in two airy streamersbehind her. She wore all the jewelry that could be crowded on one smallwoman, and a very strong odor of perfume attended her. 

"I am Mrs. DonNELL . . . Mrs. H. B. DonNELL, " announced this vision, "andI have come in to see you about something Clarice Almira told me whenshe came home to dinner today. It annoyed me EXCESSIVELY. "

"I'm sorry, " faltered Anne, vainly trying to recollect any incident ofthe morning connected with the Donnell children. 

"Clarice Almira told me that you pronounced our name DONnell. Now, MissShirley, the correct pronunciation of our name is DonNELL . . . Accent onthe last syllable. I hope you'll remember this in future. "

"I'll try to, " gasped Anne, choking back a wild desire to laugh. "I knowby experience that it's very unpleasant to have one's name SPELLED wrongand I suppose it must be even worse to have it pronounced wrong. "

"Certainly it is. And Clarice Almira also informed me that you call myson Jacob. "

"He told me his name was Jacob, " protested Anne. 

"I might well have expected that, " said Mrs. H. B. Donnell, in a tonewhich implied that gratitude in children was not to be looked for inthis degenerate age. "That boy has such plebeian tastes, Miss Shirley. When he was born I wanted to call him St. Clair . . . It sounds SOaristocratic, doesn't it? But his father insisted he should be calledJacob after his uncle. I yielded, because Uncle Jacob was a rich oldbachelor. And what do you think, Miss Shirley? When our innocent boy wasfive years old Uncle Jacob actually went and got married and now he hasthree boys of his own. Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? The momentthe invitation to the wedding . . . For he had the impertinence to sendus an invitation, Miss Shirley . . . Came to the house I said, 'No moreJacobs for me, thank you. ' From that day I called my son St. Clair andSt. Clair I am determined he shall be called. His father obstinatelycontinues to call him Jacob, and the boy himself has a perfectlyunaccountable preference for the vulgar name. But St. Clair he is andSt. Clair he shall remain. You will kindly remember this, Miss Shirley, will you not? THANK you. I told Clarice Almira that I was sure it wasonly a misunderstanding and that a word would set it right. Donnell. . . Accent on the last syllable . . . And St. Clair . . . On no accountJacob. You'll remember? THANK you. "

When Mrs. H. B. DonNELL had skimmed away Anne locked the school door andwent home. At the foot of the hill she found Paul Irving by the BirchPath. He held out to her a cluster of the dainty little wild orchidswhich Avonlea children called "rice lillies. "

"Please, teacher, I found these in Mr. Wright's field, " he said shyly, "and I came back to give them to you because I thought you were thekind of lady that would like them, and because . . . " he lifted his bigbeautiful eyes . . . "I like you, teacher. "

"You darling, " said Anne, taking the fragrant spikes. As if Paul's wordshad been a spell of magic, discouragement and weariness passed from herspirit, and hope upwelled in her heart like a dancing fountain. She wentthrough the Birch Path light-footedly, attended by the sweetness of herorchids as by a benediction. 

"Well, how did you get along?" Marilla wanted to know. 

"Ask me that a month later and I may be able to tell you. I can't now. . . I don't know myself . . . I'm too near it. My thoughts feel as ifthey had been all stirred up until they were thick and muddy. The onlything I feel really sure of having accomplished today is that I taughtCliffie Wright that A is A. He never knew it before. Isn't it somethingto have started a soul along a path that may end in Shakespeare andParadise Lost?"

Mrs. Lynde came up later on with more encouragement. That good lady hadwaylaid the schoolchildren at her gate and demanded of them how theyliked their new teacher. 

"And every one of them said they liked you splendid, Anne, exceptAnthony Pye. I must admit he didn't. He said you 'weren't any good, just like all girl teachers. ' There's the Pye leaven for you. But nevermind. "

"I'm not going to mind, " said Anne quietly, "and I'm going to makeAnthony Pye like me yet. Patience and kindness will surely win him. "

"Well, you can never tell about a Pye, " said Mrs. Rachel cautiously. "They go by contraries, like dreams, often as not. As for that DonNELLwoman, she'll get no DonNELLing from me, I can assure you. The name isDONnell and always has been. The woman is crazy, that's what. She has apug dog she calls Queenie and it has its meals at the table along withthe family, eating off a china plate. I'd be afraid of a judgment if Iwas her. Thomas says Donnell himself is a sensible, hard-working man, but he hadn't much gumption when he picked out a wife, that's what. "

VI

All Sorts and Conditions of Men . . . And women

A September day on Prince Edward Island hills; a crisp wind blowingup over the sand dunes from the sea; a long red road, winding throughfields and woods, now looping itself about a corner of thick setspruces, now threading a plantation of young maples with great featherysheets of ferns beneath them, now dipping down into a hollow where abrook flashed out of the woods and into them again, now basking inopen sunshine between ribbons of golden-rod and smoke-blue asters;air athrill with the pipings of myriads of crickets, those glad littlepensioners of the summer hills; a plump brown pony ambling along theroad; two girls behind him, full to the lips with the simple, pricelessjoy of youth and life. 

"Oh, this is a day left over from Eden, isn't it, Diana?" . . . And Annesighed for sheer happiness. "The air has magic in it. Look at the purplein the cup of the harvest valley, Diana. And oh, do smell the dying fir!It's coming up from that little sunny hollow where Mr. Eben Wright hasbeen cutting fence poles. Bliss is it on such a day to be alive; butto smell dying fir is very heaven. That's two thirds Wordsworth and onethird Anne Shirley. It doesn't seem possible that there should be dyingfir in heaven, does it? And yet it doesn't seem to me that heaven wouldbe quite perfect if you couldn't get a whiff of dead fir as you wentthrough its woods. Perhaps we'll have the odor there without the death. Yes, I think that will be the way. That delicious aroma must be thesouls of the firs . . . And of course it will be just souls in heaven. "

"Trees haven't souls, " said practical Diana, "but the smell of dead firis certainly lovely. I'm going to make a cushion and fill it with firneedles. You'd better make one too, Anne. "

"I think I shall . . . And use it for my naps. I'd be certain to dream Iwas a dryad or a woodnymph then. But just this minute I'm well contentto be Anne Shirley, Avonlea schoolma'am, driving over a road like thison such a sweet, friendly day. "

"It's a lovely day but we have anything but a lovely task before us, "sighed Diana. "Why on earth did you offer to canvass this road, Anne?Almost all the cranks in Avonlea live along it, and we'll probably betreated as if we were begging for ourselves. It's the very worst road ofall. "

"That is why I chose it. Of course Gilbert and Fred would have takenthis road if we had asked them. But you see, Diana, I feel myselfresponsible for the A. V. I. S. , since I was the first to suggest it, andit seems to me that I ought to do the most disagreeable things. I'msorry on your account; but you needn't say a word at the cranky places. I'll do all the talking . . . Mrs. Lynde would say I was well able to. Mrs. Lynde doesn't know whether to approve of our enterprise or not. Sheinclines to, when she remembers that Mr. And Mrs. Allan are in favor ofit; but the fact that village improvement societies first originated inthe States is a count against it. So she is halting between two opinionsand only success will justify us in Mrs. Lynde's eyes. Priscilla isgoing to write a paper for our next Improvement meeting, and I expect itwill be good, for her aunt is such a clever writer and no doubt it runsin the family. I shall never forget the thrill it gave me when I foundout that Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan was Priscilla's aunt. It seemed sowonderful that I was a friend of the girl whose aunt wrote 'EdgewoodDays' and 'The Rosebud Garden. '"

"Where does Mrs. Morgan live?"

"In Toronto. And Priscilla says she is coming to the Island for a visitnext summer, and if it is possible Priscilla is going to arrange to haveus meet her. That seems almost too good to be true--but it's somethingpleasant to imagine after you go to bed. "

The Avonlea Village Improvement Society was an organized fact. Gilbert Blythe was president, Fred Wright vice-president, Anne Shirleysecretary, and Diana Barry treasurer. The "Improvers, " as they werepromptly christened, were to meet once a fortnight at the homes ofthe members. It was admitted that they could not expect to affect manyimprovements so late in the season; but they meant to plan the nextsummer's campaign, collect and discuss ideas, write and read papers, and, as Anne said, educate the public sentiment generally. 

There was some disapproval, of course, and . . . Which the Improvers feltmuch more keenly . . . A good deal of ridicule. Mr. Elisha Wright wasreported to have said that a more appropriate name for the organizationwould be Courting Club. Mrs. Hiram Sloane declared she had heard theImprovers meant to plough up all the roadsides and set them out withgeraniums. Mr. Levi Boulter warned his neighbors that the Improverswould insist that everybody pull down his house and rebuild it afterplans approved by the society. Mr. James Spencer sent them word that hewished they would kindly shovel down the church hill. Eben Wright toldAnne that he wished the Improvers could induce old Josiah Sloane tokeep his whiskers trimmed. Mr. Lawrence Bell said he would whitewashhis barns if nothing else would please them but he would NOT hang lacecurtains in the cowstable windows. Mr. Major Spencer asked CliftonSloane, an Improver who drove the milk to the Carmody cheese factory, if it was true that everybody would have to have his milk-standhand-painted next summer and keep an embroidered centerpiece on it. 

In spite of . . . Or perhaps, human nature being what it is, because of. . . This, the Society went gamely to work at the only improvement theycould hope to bring about that fall. At the second meeting, in the Barryparlor, Oliver Sloane moved that they start a subscription to re-shingleand paint the hall; Julia Bell seconded it, with an uneasy feeling thatshe was doing something not exactly ladylike. Gilbert put the motion, it was carried unanimously, and Anne gravely recorded it in her minutes. The next thing was to appoint a committee, and Gertie Pye, determinednot to let Julia Bell carry off all the laurels, boldly moved that MissJane Andrews be chairman of said committee. This motion being also dulyseconded and carried, Jane returned the compliment by appointing Gertieon the committee, along with Gilbert, Anne, Diana, and Fred Wright. Thecommittee chose their routes in private conclave. Anne and Diana weretold off for the Newbridge road, Gilbert and Fred for the White Sandsroad, and Jane and Gertie for the Carmody road. 

"Because, " explained Gilbert to Anne, as they walked home togetherthrough the Haunted Wood, "the Pyes all live along that road and theywon't give a cent unless one of themselves canvasses them. "

The next Saturday Anne and Diana started out. They drove to the end ofthe road and canvassed homeward, calling first on the "Andrew girls. "

"If Catherine is alone we may get something, " said Diana, "but if Elizais there we won't. "

Eliza was there . . . Very much so . . . And looked even grimmer thanusual. Miss Eliza was one of those people who give you the impressionthat life is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak ofa laugh, is a waste of nervous energy truly reprehensible. The Andrewgirls had been "girls" for fifty odd years and seemed likely to remaingirls to the end of their earthly pilgrimage. Catherine, it was said, had not entirely given up hope, but Eliza, who was born a pessimist, hadnever had any. They lived in a little brown house built in a sunnycorner scooped out of Mark Andrew's beech woods. Eliza complained thatit was terrible hot in summer, but Catherine was wont to say it waslovely and warm in winter. 

Eliza was sewing patchwork, not because it was needed but simply asa protest against the frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting. Elizalistened with a frown and Catherine with a smile, as the girls explainedtheir errand. To be sure, whenever Catherine caught Eliza's eye shediscarded the smile in guilty confusion; but it crept back the nextmoment. 

"If I had money to waste, " said Eliza grimly, "I'd burn it up and havethe fun of seeing a blaze maybe; but I wouldn't give it to that hall, not a cent. It's no benefit to the settlement . . . Just a place for youngfolks to meet and carry on when they's better be home in their beds. "

"Oh, Eliza, young folks must have some amusement, " protested Catherine. 

"I don't see the necessity. We didn't gad about to halls and places whenwe were young, Catherine Andrews. This world is getting worse every day. "

"I think it's getting better, " said Catherine firmly. 

"YOU think!" Miss Eliza's voice expressed the utmost contempt. "Itdoesn't signify what you THINK, Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts. "

"Well, I always like to look on the bright side, Eliza. "

"There isn't any bright side. "

"Oh, indeed there is, " cried Anne, who couldn't endure such heresy insilence. "Why, there are ever so many bright sides, Miss Andrews. It'sreally a beautiful world. "

"You won't have such a high opinion of it when you've lived as longin it as I have, " retorted Miss Eliza sourly, "and you won't be soenthusiastic about improving it either. How is your mother, Diana? Dearme, but she has failed of late. She looks terrible run down. And howlong is it before Marilla expects to be stone blind, Anne?"

"The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse if she is verycareful, " faltered Anne. 

Eliza shook her head. 

"Doctors always talk like that just to keep people cheered up. Iwouldn't have much hope if I was her. It's best to be prepared for theworst. "

"But oughtn't we be prepared for the best too?" pleaded Anne. "It's justas likely to happen as the worst. "

"Not in my experience, and I've fifty-seven years to set against yoursixteen, " retorted Eliza. "Going, are you? Well, I hope this new societyof yours will be able to keep Avonlea from running any further down hillbut I haven't much hope of it. "

Anne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, and drove away as fast asthe fat pony could go. As they rounded the curve below the beech wooda plump figure came speeding over Mr. Andrews' pasture, waving to themexcitedly. It was Catherine Andrews and she was so out of breath thatshe could hardly speak, but she thrust a couple of quarters into Anne'shand. 

"That's my contribution to painting the hall, " she gasped. "I'd like togive you a dollar but I don't dare take more from my egg money for Elizawould find it out if I did. I'm real interested in your society and Ibelieve you're going to do a lot of good. I'm an optimist. I HAVE to be, living with Eliza. I must hurry back before she misses me . . . She thinksI'm feeding the hens. I hope you'll have good luck canvassing, and don'tbe cast down over what Eliza said. The world IS getting better . . . Itcertainly is. "

The next house was Daniel Blair's. 

"Now, it all depends on whether his wife is home or not, " said Diana, as they jolted along a deep-rutted lane. "If she is we won't get a cent. Everybody says Dan Blair doesn't dare have his hair cut withoutasking her permission; and it's certain she's very close, to state itmoderately. She says she has to be just before she's generous. But Mrs. Lynde says she's so much 'before' that generosity never catches up withher at all. "

Anne related their experience at the Blair place to Marilla thatevening. 

"We tied the horse and then rapped at the kitchen door. Nobody came butthe door was open and we could hear somebody in the pantry, going ondreadfully. We couldn't make out the words but Diana says she knows theywere swearing by the sound of them. I can't believe that of Mr. Blair, for he is always so quiet and meek; but at least he had greatprovocation, for Marilla, when that poor man came to the door, red asa beet, with perspiration streaming down his face, he had on one of hiswife's big gingham aprons. 'I can't get this durned thing off, ' he said, 'for the strings are tied in a hard knot and I can't bust 'em, so you'llhave to excuse me, ladies. ' We begged him not to mention it and went inand sat down. Mr. Blair sat down too; he twisted the apron around tohis back and rolled it up, but he did look so ashamed and worried thatI felt sorry for him, and Diana said she feared we had called at aninconvenient time. 'Oh, not at all, ' said Mr. Blair, trying to smile. . . You know he is always very polite . . . 'I'm a little busy . . . Getting ready to bake a cake as it were. My wife got a telegram todaythat her sister from Montreal is coming tonight and she's gone to thetrain to meet her and left orders for me to make a cake for tea. Shewrit out the recipe and told me what to do but I've clean forgot halfthe directions already. And it says, 'flavor according to taste. ' Whatdoes that mean? How can you tell? And what if my taste doesn't happen tobe other people's taste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla be enough for asmall layer cake?"

"I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He didn't seem to be in hisproper sphere at all. I had heard of henpecked husbands and now I feltthat I saw one. It was on my lips to say, 'Mr. Blair, if you'll giveus a subscription for the hall I'll mix up your cake for you. ' But Isuddenly thought it wouldn't be neighborly to drive too sharp a bargainwith a fellow creature in distress. So I offered to mix the cake for himwithout any conditions at all. He just jumped at my offer. He said he'dbeen used to making his own bread before he was married but he fearedcake was beyond him, and yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got meanother apron, and Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr. Blairran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten all about his apronand when he ran it streamed out behind him and Diana said she thoughtshe would die to see it. He said he could bake the cake all right . . . Hewas used to that . . . And then he asked for our list and he put down fourdollars. So you see we were rewarded. But even if he hadn't given a centI'd always feel that we had done a truly Christian act in helping him. "

Theodore White's was the next stopping place. Neither Anne nor Dianahad ever been there before, and they had only a very slight acquaintancewith Mrs. Theodore, who was not given to hospitality. Should they go tothe back or front door? While they held a whispered consultation Mrs. Theodore appeared at the front door with an armful of newspapers. Deliberately she laid them down one by one on the porch floor and theporch steps, and then down the path to the very feet of her mystifiedcallers. 

"Will you please wipe your feet carefully on the grass and then walk onthese papers?" she said anxiously. "I've just swept the house all overand I can't have any more dust tracked in. The path's been real muddysince the rain yesterday. "

"Don't you dare laugh, " warned Anne in a whisper, as they marched alongthe newspapers. "And I implore you, Diana, not to look at me, no matterwhat she says, or I shall not be able to keep a sober face. "

The papers extended across the hall and into a prim, fleckless parlor. Anne and Diana sat down gingerly on the nearest chairs and explainedtheir errand. Mrs. White heard them politely, interrupting only twice, once to chase out an adventurous fly, and once to pick up a tiny wispof grass that had fallen on the carpet from Anne's dress. Anne feltwretchedly guilty; but Mrs. White subscribed two dollars and paid themoney down . . . "to prevent us from having to go back for it, " Diana saidwhen they got away. Mrs. White had the newspapers gathered up beforethey had their horse untied and as they drove out of the yard they sawher busily wielding a broom in the hall. 

"I've always heard that Mrs. Theodore White was the neatest womanalive and I'll believe it after this, " said Diana, giving way to hersuppressed laughter as soon as it was safe. 

"I am glad she has no children, " said Anne solemnly. "It would bedreadful beyond words for them if she had. "

At the Spencers' Mrs. Isabella Spencer made them miserable by sayingsomething ill-natured about everyone in Avonlea. Mr. Thomas Boulterrefused to give anything because the hall, when it had been built, twenty years before, hadn't been built on the site he recommended. Mrs. Esther Bell, who was the picture of health, took half an hour to detailall her aches and pains, and sadly put down fifty cents because shewouldn't be there that time next year to do it . . . No, she would be inher grave. 

Their worst reception, however, was at Simon Fletcher's. When theydrove into the yard they saw two faces peering at them through the porchwindow. But although they rapped and waited patiently and persistentlynobody came to the door. Two decidedly ruffled and indignant girls droveaway from Simon Fletcher's. Even Anne admitted that she was beginningto feel discouraged. But the tide turned after that. Several Sloanehomesteads came next, where they got liberal subscriptions, and fromthat to the end they fared well, with only an occasional snub. Theirlast place of call was at Robert Dickson's by the pond bridge. Theystayed to tea here, although they were nearly home, rather than riskoffending Mrs. Dickson, who had the reputation of being a very "touchy"woman. 

While they were there old Mrs. James White called in. 

"I've just been down to Lorenzo's, " she announced. "He's the proudestman in Avonlea this minute. What do you think? There's a brand new boythere . . . And after seven girls that's quite an event, I can tell you. "Anne pricked up her ears, and when they drove away she said. 

"I'm going straight to Lorenzo White's. "

"But he lives on the White Sands road and it's quite a distance out ofour way, " protested Diana. "Gilbert and Fred will canvass him. "

"They are not going around until next Saturday and it will be too lateby then, " said Anne firmly. "The novelty will be worn off. LorenzoWhite is dreadfully mean but he will subscribe to ANYTHING just now. Wemustn't let such a golden opportunity slip, Diana. " The result justifiedAnne's foresight. Mr. White met them in the yard, beaming like thesun upon an Easter day. When Anne asked for a subscription he agreedenthusiastically. 

"Certain, certain. Just put me down for a dollar more than the highestsubscription you've got. "

"That will be five dollars . . . Mr. Daniel Blair put down four, " saidAnne, half afraid. But Lorenzo did not flinch. 

"Five it is . . . And here's the money on the spot. Now, I want youto come into the house. There's something in there worth seeing . . . Something very few people have seen as yet. Just come in and pass YOURopinion. "

"What will we say if the baby isn't pretty?" whispered Diana intrepidation as they followed the excited Lorenzo into the house. 

"Oh, there will certainly be something else nice to say about it, " saidAnne easily. "There always is about a baby. "

The baby WAS pretty, however, and Mr. White felt that he got his fivedollars' worth of the girls' honest delight over the plump littlenewcomer. But that was the first, last, and only time that Lorenzo Whiteever subscribed to anything. 

Anne, tired as she was, made one more effort for the public weal thatnight, slipping over the fields to interview Mr. Harrison, who was asusual smoking his pipe on the veranda with Ginger beside him. Stricklyspeaking he was on the Carmody road; but Jane and Gertie, who were notacquainted with him save by doubtful report, had nervously begged Anneto canvass him. 

Mr. Harrison, however, flatly refused to subscribe a cent, and allAnne's wiles were in vain. 

"But I thought you approved of our society, Mr. Harrison, " she mourned. 

"So I do . . . So I do . . . But my approval doesn't go as deep as mypocket, Anne. "

"A few more experiences such as I have had today would make me as muchof a pessimist as Miss Eliza Andrews, " Anne told her reflection in theeast gable mirror at bedtime. 

VII

The Pointing of Duty

Anne leaned back in her chair one mild October evening and sighed. Shewas sitting at a table covered with text books and exercises, but theclosely written sheets of paper before her had no apparent connectionwith studies or school work. 

"What is the matter?" asked Gilbert, who had arrived at the open kitchendoor just in time to hear the sigh. 

Anne colored, and thrust her writing out of sight under some schoolcompositions. 

"Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write out some of mythoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn't get them toplease me. They seem so still and foolish directly they're written downon white paper with black ink. Fancies are like shadows . . . You can'tcage them, they're such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I'll learnthe secret some day if I keep on trying. I haven't a great many sparemoments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises andcompositions, I don't always feel like writing any of my own. "

"You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne. All the children likeyou, " said Gilbert, sitting down on the stone step. 

"No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and WON'T like me. What is worse, hedoesn't respect me . . . No, he doesn't. He simply holds me in contemptand I don't mind confessing to you that it worries me miserably. Itisn't that he is so very bad . . . He is only rather mischievous, but noworse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys me; but he obeys witha scornful air of toleration as if it wasn't worthwhile disputing thepoint or he would . . . And it has a bad effect on the others. I've triedevery way to win him but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I want to, for he's rather a cute little lad, if he IS a Pye, and I could like himif he'd let me. "

"Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears at home. "

"Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up hisown mind about things. He has always gone to men before and he says girlteachers are no good. Well, we'll see what patience and kindnesswill do. I like overcoming difficulties and teaching is really veryinteresting work. Paul Irving makes up for all that is lacking in theothers. That child is a perfect darling, Gilbert, and a genius into thebargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him some day, " concludedAnne in a tone of conviction. 

"I like teaching, too, " said Gilbert. "It's good training, for onething. Why, Anne, I've learned more in the weeks I've been teaching theyoung ideas of White Sands than I learned in all the years I went toschool myself. We all seem to be getting on pretty well. The Newbridgepeople like Jane, I hear; and I think White Sands is tolerably satisfiedwith your humble servant . . . All except Mr. Andrew Spencer. I met Mrs. Peter Blewett on my way home last night and she told me she thought ither duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn't approve of my methods. "

"Have you ever noticed, " asked Anne reflectively, "that when peoplesay it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare forsomething disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it aduty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you? Mrs. H. B. DonNELL called at the school again yesterday and told me she thoughtit HER duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrew didn't approve ofmy reading fairy tales to the children, and that Mr. Rogerson thoughtPrillie wasn't coming on fast enough in arithmetic. If Prillie wouldspend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate she might dobetter. I feel quite sure that Jack Gillis works her class sums for her, though I've never been able to catch him red-handed. "

"Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs. DonNELL's hopeful son to hissaintly name?"

"Yes, " laughed Anne, "but it was really a difficult task. At first, whenI called him 'St. Clair' he would not take the least notice until I'dspoken two or three times; and then, when the other boys nudged him, hewould look up with such an aggrieved air, as if I'd called him John orCharlie and he couldn't be expected to know I meant him. So I kepthim in after school one night and talked kindly to him. I told him hismother wished me to call him St. Clair and I couldn't go against herwishes. He saw it when it was all explained out . . . He's really a veryreasonable little fellow . . . And he said _I_ could call him St. Clairbut that he'd 'lick the stuffing' out of any of the boys that tried it. Of course, I had to rebuke him again for using such shocking language. Since then _I_ call him St. Clair and the boys call him Jake and allgoes smoothly. He informs me that he means to be a carpenter, but Mrs. DonNELL says I am to make a college professor out of him. "

The mention of college gave a new direction to Gilbert's thoughts, andthey talked for a time of their plans and wishes . . . Gravely, earnestly, hopefully, as youth loves to talk, while the future is yet an untroddenpath full of wonderful possibilities. 

Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor. 

"It's a splendid profession, " he said enthusiastically. "A fellow has tofight something all through life . . . Didn't somebody once define manas a fighting animal? . . . And I want to fight disease and pain andignorance . . . Which are all members one of another. I want to do myshare of honest, real work in the world, Anne . . . Add a little to thesum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulatingsince it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for methat I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks whowill live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can getsquare with his obligations to the race. "

"I'd like to add some beauty to life, " said Anne dreamily. "I don'texactly want to make people KNOW more . . . Though I know that IS thenoblest ambition . . . But I'd love to make them have a pleasanter timebecause of me . . . To have some little joy or happy thought that wouldnever have existed if I hadn't been born. "

"I think you're fulfilling that ambition every day, " said Gilbertadmiringly. 

And he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright. After she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown acrossit like a gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for the timebeing at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report. 

Finally Gilbert rose regretfully. 

"Well, I must run up to MacPhersons'. Moody Spurgeon came home fromQueen's today for Sunday and he was to bring me out a book ProfessorBoyd is lending me. "

"And I must get Marilla's tea. She went to see Mrs. Keith this eveningand she will soon be back. "

Anne had tea ready when Marilla came home; the fire was cracklingcheerily, a vase of frost-bleached ferns and ruby-red maple leavesadorned the table, and delectable odors of ham and toast pervaded theair. But Marilla sank into her chair with a deep sigh. 

"Are your eyes troubling you? Does your head ache?" queried Anneanxiously. 

"No. I'm only tired . . . And worried. It's about Mary and those children . . . Mary is worse . . . She can't last much longer. And as for thetwins, _I_ don't know what is to become of them. "

"Hasn't their uncle been heard from?"

"Yes, Mary had a letter from him. He's working in a lumber camp and'shacking it, ' whatever that means. Anyway, he says he can't possiblytake the children till the spring. He expects to be married then andwill have a home to take them to; but he says she must get some of theneighbors to keep them for the winter. She says she can't bear to askany of them. Mary never got on any too well with the East Grafton peopleand that's a fact. And the long and short of it is, Anne, that I'msure Mary wants me to take those children . . . She didn't say so but sheLOOKED it. "

"Oh!" Anne clasped her hands, all athrill with excitement. "And ofcourse you will, Marilla, won't you?"

"I haven't made up my mind, " said Marilla rather tartly. "I don't rushinto things in your headlong way, Anne. Third cousinship is a prettyslim claim. And it will be a fearful responsibility to have two childrenof six years to look after . . . Twins, at that. "

Marilla had an idea that twins were just twice as bad as singlechildren. 

"Twins are very interesting . . . At least one pair of them, " said Anne. "It's only when there are two or three pairs that it gets monotonous. And I think it would be real nice for you to have something to amuse youwhen I'm away in school. "

"I don't reckon there'd be much amusement in it . . . More worry andbother than anything else, I should say. It wouldn't be so risky if theywere even as old as you were when I took you. I wouldn't mind Dora somuch . . . She seems good and quiet. But that Davy is a limb. "

Anne was fond of children and her heart yearned over the Keith twins. The remembrance of her own neglected childhood was very vivid withher still. She knew that Marilla's only vulnerable point was her sterndevotion to what she believed to be her duty, and Anne skillfullymarshalled her arguments along this line. 

"If Davy is naughty it's all the more reason why he should have goodtraining, isn't it, Marilla? If we don't take them we don't know whowill, nor what kind of influences may surround them. Suppose Mrs. Keith's next door neighbors, the Sprotts, were to take them. Mrs. Lyndesays Henry Sprott is the most profane man that ever lived and you can'tbelieve a word his children say. Wouldn't it be dreadful to have thetwins learn anything like that? Or suppose they went to the Wiggins'. Mrs. Lynde says that Mr. Wiggins sells everything off the place that canbe sold and brings his family up on skim milk. You wouldn't like yourrelations to be starved, even if they were only third cousins, wouldyou? It seems to me, Marilla, that it is our duty to take them. "

"I suppose it is, " assented Marilla gloomily. "I daresay I'll tell MaryI'll take them. You needn't look so delighted, Anne. It will mean a gooddeal of extra work for you. I can't sew a stitch on account of my eyes, so you'll have to see to the making and mending of their clothes. Andyou don't like sewing. "

"I hate it, " said Anne calmly, "but if you are willing to take thosechildren from a sense of duty surely I can do their sewing from a senseof duty. It does people good to have to do things they don't like . . . Inmoderation. "

VIII

Marilla Adopts Twins

Mrs. Rachel Lynde was sitting at her kitchen window, knitting a quilt, just as she had been sitting one evening several years previously whenMatthew Cuthbert had driven down over the hill with what Mrs. Rachelcalled "his imported orphan. " But that had been in springtime; and thiswas late autumn, and all the woods were leafless and the fields sere andbrown. The sun was just setting with a great deal of purple and goldenpomp behind the dark woods west of Avonlea when a buggy drawn by acomfortable brown nag came down the hill. Mrs. Rachel peered at iteagerly. 

"There's Marilla getting home from the funeral, " she said to herhusband, who was lying on the kitchen lounge. Thomas Lynde lay more onthe lounge nowadays than he had been used to do, but Mrs. Rachel, whowas so sharp at noticing anything beyond her own household, had not asyet noticed this. "And she's got the twins with her, . . . Yes, there'sDavy leaning over the dashboard grabbing at the pony's tail and Marillajerking him back. Dora's sitting up on the seat as prim as you please. She always looks as if she'd just been starched and ironed. Well, poorMarilla is going to have her hands full this winter and no mistake. Still, I don't see that she could do anything less than take them, underthe circumstances, and she'll have Anne to help her. Anne's tickledto death over the whole business, and she has a real knacky way withchildren, I must say. Dear me, it doesn't seem a day since poor Matthewbrought Anne herself home and everybody laughed at the idea of Marillabringing up a child. And now she has adopted twins. You're never safefrom being surprised till you're dead. "

The fat pony jogged over the bridge in Lynde's Hollow and along theGreen Gables lane. Marilla's face was rather grim. It was ten miles fromEast Grafton and Davy Keith seemed to be possessed with a passion forperpetual motion. It was beyond Marilla's power to make him sit stilland she had been in an agony the whole way lest he fall over the backof the wagon and break his neck, or tumble over the dashboard under thepony's heels. In despair she finally threatened to whip him soundly whenshe got him home. Whereupon Davy climbed into her lap, regardless ofthe reins, flung his chubby arms about her neck and gave her a bear-likehug. 

"I don't believe you mean it, " he said, smacking her wrinkled cheekaffectionately. "You don't LOOK like a lady who'd whip a little boy just'cause he couldn't keep still. Didn't you find it awful hard to keepstill when you was only 's old as me?"

"No, I always kept still when I was told, " said Marilla, trying to speaksternly, albeit she felt her heart waxing soft within her under Davy'simpulsive caresses. 

"Well, I s'pose that was 'cause you was a girl, " said Davy, squirmingback to his place after another hug. "You WAS a girl once, I s'pose, though it's awful funny to think of it. Dora can sit still . . . But thereain't much fun in it _I_ don't think. Seems to me it must be slow to bea girl. Here, Dora, let me liven you up a bit. "

Davy's method of "livening up" was to grasp Dora's curls in his fingersand give them a tug. Dora shrieked and then cried. 

"How can you be such a naughty boy and your poor mother just laid in hergrave this very day?" demanded Marilla despairingly. 

"But she was glad to die, " said Davy confidentially. "I know, 'causeshe told me so. She was awful tired of being sick. We'd a long talk thenight before she died. She told me you was going to take me and Dora forthe winter and I was to be a good boy. I'm going to be good, but can'tyou be good running round just as well as sitting still? And she said Iwas always to be kind to Dora and stand up for her, and I'm going to. "

"Do you call pulling her hair being kind to her?"

"Well, I ain't going to let anybody else pull it, " said Davy, doublingup his fists and frowning. "They'd just better try it. I didn't hurt hermuch . . . She just cried 'cause she's a girl. I'm glad I'm a boy but I'msorry I'm a twin. When Jimmy Sprott's sister conterdicks him he justsays, 'I'm oldern you, so of course I know better, ' and that settlesHER. But I can't tell Dora that, and she just goes on thinking diffruntfrom me. You might let me drive the gee-gee for a spell, since I'm aman. "

Altogether, Marilla was a thankful woman when she drove into her ownyard, where the wind of the autumn night was dancing with the brownleaves. Anne was at the gate to meet them and lift the twins out. Dorasubmitted calmly to be kissed, but Davy responded to Anne's welcomewith one of his hearty hugs and the cheerful announcement, "I'm Mr. DavyKeith. "

At the supper table Dora behaved like a little lady, but Davy's mannersleft much to be desired. 

"I'm so hungry I ain't got time to eat p'litely, " he said when Marillareproved him. "Dora ain't half as hungry as I am. Look at all theex'cise I took on the road here. That cake's awful nice and plummy. Wehaven't had any cake at home for ever'n ever so long, 'cause mother wastoo sick to make it and Mrs. Sprott said it was as much as she could doto bake our bread for us. And Mrs. Wiggins never puts any plums in HERcakes. Catch her! Can I have another piece?"

Marilla would have refused but Anne cut a generous second slice. However, she reminded Davy that he ought to say "Thank you" for it. Davymerely grinned at her and took a huge bite. When he had finished theslice he said, "If you'll give me ANOTHER piece I'll say thank you for IT. "

"No, you have had plenty of cake, " said Marilla in a tone which Anneknew and Davy was to learn to be final. 

Davy winked at Anne, and then, leaning over the table, snatched Dora'sfirst piece of cake, from which she had just taken one dainty littlebite, out of her very fingers and, opening his mouth to the fullestextent, crammed the whole slice in. Dora's lip trembled and Marillawas speechless with horror. Anne promptly exclaimed, with her best"schoolma'am" air, "Oh, Davy, gentlemen don't do things like that. "

"I know they don't, " said Davy, as soon as he could speak, "but I ain'ta gemplum. "

"But don't you want to be?" said shocked Anne. 

"Course I do. But you can't be a gemplum till you grow up. "

"Oh, indeed you can, " Anne hastened to say, thinking she saw a chance tosow good seed betimes. "You can begin to be a gentleman when you are alittle boy. And gentlemen NEVER snatch things from ladies . . . Or forgetto say thank you . . . Or pull anybody's hair. "

"They don't have much fun, that's a fact, " said Davy frankly. "I guessI'll wait till I'm grown up to be one. "

Marilla, with a resigned air, had cut another piece of cake for Dora. She did not feel able to cope with Davy just then. It had been a hardday for her, what with the funeral and the long drive. At that momentshe looked forward to the future with a pessimism that would have donecredit to Eliza Andrews herself. 

The twins were not noticeably alike, although both were fair. Dora hadlong sleek curls that never got out of order. Davy had a crop of fuzzylittle yellow ringlets all over his round head. Dora's hazel eyes weregentle and mild; Davy's were as roguish and dancing as an elf's. Dora'snose was straight, Davy's a positive snub; Dora had a "prunes andprisms" mouth, Davy's was all smiles; and besides, he had a dimplein one cheek and none in the other, which gave him a dear, comical, lopsided look when he laughed. Mirth and mischief lurked in every cornerof his little face. 

"They'd better go to bed, " said Marilla, who thought it was the easiestway to dispose of them. "Dora will sleep with me and you can put Davy inthe west gable. You're not afraid to sleep alone, are you, Davy?"

"No; but I ain't going to bed for ever so long yet, " said Davycomfortably. 

"Oh, yes, you are. " That was all the much-tried Marilla said, butsomething in her tone squelched even Davy. He trotted obedientlyupstairs with Anne. 

"When I'm grown up the very first thing I'm going to do is stay up ALLnight just to see what it would be like, " he told her confidentially. 

In after years Marilla never thought of that first week of the twins'sojourn at Green Gables without a shiver. Not that it really was so muchworse than the weeks that followed it; but it seemed so by reason of itsnovelty. There was seldom a waking minute of any day when Davy was notin mischief or devising it; but his first notable exploit occurred twodays after his arrival, on Sunday morning . . . A fine, warm day, ashazy and mild as September. Anne dressed him for church while Marillaattended to Dora. Davy at first objected strongly to having his facewashed. 

"Marilla washed it yesterday . . . And Mrs. Wiggins scoured me with hardsoap the day of the funeral. That's enough for one week. I don't see thegood of being so awful clean. It's lots more comfable being dirty. "

"Paul Irving washes his face every day of his own accord, " said Anneastutely. 

Davy had been an inmate of Green Gables for little over forty-eighthours; but he already worshipped Anne and hated Paul Irving, whom he hadheard Anne praising enthusiastically the day after his arrival. If PaulIrving washed his face every day, that settled it. He, Davy Keith, would do it too, if it killed him. The same consideration induced himto submit meekly to the other details of his toilet, and he was reallya handsome little lad when all was done. Anne felt an almost maternalpride in him as she led him into the old Cuthbert pew. 

Davy behaved quite well at first, being occupied in casting covertglances at all the small boys within view and wondering which wasPaul Irving. The first two hymns and the Scripture reading passed offuneventfully. Mr. Allan was praying when the sensation came. 

Lauretta White was sitting in front of Davy, her head slightly bentand her fair hair hanging in two long braids, between which a temptingexpanse of white neck showed, encased in a loose lace frill. Laurettawas a fat, placid-looking child of eight, who had conducted herselfirreproachably in church from the very first day her mother carried herthere, an infant of six months. 

Davy thrust his hand into his pocket and produced . . . A caterpillar, afurry, squirming caterpillar. Marilla saw and clutched at him but shewas too late. Davy dropped the caterpillar down Lauretta's neck. 

Right into the middle of Mr. Allan's prayer burst a series of piercingshrieks. The minister stopped appalled and opened his eyes. Every headin the congregation flew up. Lauretta White was dancing up and down inher pew, clutching frantically at the back of her dress. 

"Ow . . . Mommer . . . Mommer . . . Ow . . . Take it off . . . Ow . . . Get it out . . . Ow . . . That bad boy put it down my neck . . . Ow . . . Mommer . . . It's going further down . . . Ow . . . Ow . . . Ow. . . . "

Mrs. White rose and with a set face carried the hysterical, writhingLauretta out of church. Her shrieks died away in the distance and Mr. Allan proceeded with the service. But everybody felt that it was afailure that day. For the first time in her life Marilla took no noticeof the text and Anne sat with scarlet cheeks of mortification. 

When they got home Marilla put Davy to bed and made him stay there forthe rest of the day. She would not give him any dinner but allowed him aplain tea of bread and milk. Anne carried it to him and sat sorrowfullyby him while he ate it with an unrepentant relish. But Anne's mournfuleyes troubled him. 

"I s'pose, " he said reflectively, "that Paul Irving wouldn't havedropped a caterpillar down a girl's neck in church, would he?"

"Indeed he wouldn't, " said Anne sadly. 

"Well, I'm kind of sorry I did it, then, " conceded Davy. "But it wassuch a jolly big caterpillar . . . I picked him up on the church stepsjust as we went in. It seemed a pity to waste him. And say, wasn't itfun to hear that girl yell?"

Tuesday afternoon the Aid Society met at Green Gables. Anne hurried homefrom school, for she knew that Marilla would need all the assistance shecould give. Dora, neat and proper, in her nicely starched white dressand black sash, was sitting with the members of the Aid in the parlor, speaking demurely when spoken to, keeping silence when not, and in everyway comporting herself as a model child. Davy, blissfully dirty, wasmaking mud pies in the barnyard. 

"I told him he might, " said Marilla wearily. "I thought it would keephim out of worse mischief. He can only get dirty at that. We'll have ourteas over before we call him to his. Dora can have hers with us, butI would never dare to let Davy sit down at the table with all the Aidshere. "

When Anne went to call the Aids to tea she found that Dora was not inthe parlor. Mrs. Jasper Bell said Davy had come to the front door andcalled her out. A hasty consultation with Marilla in the pantry resultedin a decision to let both children have their teas together later on. 

Tea was half over when the dining room was invaded by a forlorn figure. Marilla and Anne stared in dismay, the Aids in amazement. Could that beDora . . . That sobbing nondescript in a drenched, dripping dress and hairfrom which the water was streaming on Marilla's new coin-spot rug?

"Dora, what has happened to you?" cried Anne, with a guilty glance atMrs. Jasper Bell, whose family was said to be the only one in the worldin which accidents never occurred. 

"Davy made me walk the pigpen fence, " wailed Dora. "I didn't want to buthe called me a fraid-cat. And I fell off into the pigpen and my dressgot all dirty and the pig runned right over me. My dress was just awfulbut Davy said if I'd stand under the pump he'd wash it clean, and I didand he pumped water all over me but my dress ain't a bit cleaner and mypretty sash and shoes is all spoiled. "

Anne did the honors of the table alone for the rest of the meal whileMarilla went upstairs and redressed Dora in her old clothes. Davy wascaught and sent to bed without any supper. Anne went to his room attwilight and talked to him seriously . . . A method in which she had greatfaith, not altogether unjustified by results. She told him she felt verybadly over his conduct. 

"I feel sorry now myself, " admitted Davy, "but the trouble is I neverfeel sorry for doing things till after I've did them. Dora wouldn't helpme make pies, cause she was afraid of messing her clo'es and that mademe hopping mad. I s'pose Paul Irving wouldn't have made HIS sister walka pigpen fence if he knew she'd fall in?"

"No, he would never dream of such a thing. Paul is a perfect littlegentleman. "

Davy screwed his eyes tight shut and seemed to meditate on this for atime. Then he crawled up and put his arms about Anne's neck, snugglinghis flushed little face down on her shoulder. 

"Anne, don't you like me a little bit, even if I ain't a good boy likePaul?"

"Indeed I do, " said Anne sincerely. Somehow, it was impossible to helpliking Davy. "But I'd like you better still if you weren't so naughty. "

"I . . . Did something else today, " went on Davy in a muffled voice. "I'msorry now but I'm awful scared to tell you. You won't be very cross, will you? And you won't tell Marilla, will you?"

"I don't know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to tell her. But I think I canpromise you I won't if you promise me that you will never do it again, whatever it is. "

"No, I never will. Anyhow, it's not likely I'd find any more of themthis year. I found this one on the cellar steps. "

"Davy, what is it you've done?"

"I put a toad in Marilla's bed. You can go and take it out if you like. But say, Anne, wouldn't it be fun to leave it there?"

"Davy Keith!" Anne sprang from Davy's clinging arms and flew across thehall to Marilla's room. The bed was slightly rumpled. She threw back theblankets in nervous haste and there in very truth was the toad, blinkingat her from under a pillow. 

"How can I carry that awful thing out?" moaned Anne with a shudder. Thefire shovel suggested itself to her and she crept down to get it whileMarilla was busy in the pantry. Anne had her own troubles carrying thattoad downstairs, for it hopped off the shovel three times and once shethought she had lost it in the hall. When she finally deposited it inthe cherry orchard she drew a long breath of relief. 

"If Marilla knew she'd never feel safe getting into bed again in herlife. I'm so glad that little sinner repented in time. There's Dianasignaling to me from her window. I'm glad . . . I really feel the need ofsome diversion, for what with Anthony Pye in school and Davy Keith athome my nerves have had about all they can endure for one day. "

IX

A Question of Color

"That old nuisance of a Rachel Lynde was here again today, pestering mefor a subscription towards buying a carpet for the vestry room, " saidMr. Harrison wrathfully. "I detest that woman more than anybody I know. She can put a whole sermon, text, comment, and application, into sixwords, and throw it at you like a brick. "

Anne, who was perched on the edge of the veranda, enjoying the charmof a mild west wind blowing across a newly ploughed field on a grayNovember twilight and piping a quaint little melody among the twistedfirs below the garden, turned her dreamy face over her shoulder. 

"The trouble is, you and Mrs. Lynde don't understand one another, " sheexplained. "That is always what is wrong when people don't like eachother. I didn't like Mrs. Lynde at first either; but as soon as I cameto understand her I learned to. "

"Mrs. Lynde may be an acquired taste with some folks; but I didn't keepon eating bananas because I was told I'd learn to like them if I did, "growled Mr. Harrison. "And as for understanding her, I understand thatshe is a confirmed busybody and I told her so. "

"Oh, that must have hurt her feelings very much, " said Annereproachfully. "How could you say such a thing? I said some dreadfulthings to Mrs. Lynde long ago but it was when I had lost my temper. Icouldn't say them DELIBERATELY. "

"It was the truth and I believe in telling the truth to everybody. "

"But you don't tell the whole truth, " objected Anne. "You only tell thedisagreeable part of the truth. Now, you've told me a dozen times thatmy hair was red, but you've never once told me that I had a nice nose. "

"I daresay you know it without any telling, " chuckled Mr. Harrison. 

"I know I have red hair too . . . Although it's MUCH darker than it usedto be . . . So there's no need of telling me that either. "

"Well, well, I'll try and not mention it again since you're sosensitive. You must excuse me, Anne. I've got a habit of being outspokenand folks mustn't mind it. "

"But they can't help minding it. And I don't think it's any helpthat it's your habit. What would you think of a person who went aboutsticking pins and needles into people and saying, 'Excuse me, youmustn't mind it . . . It's just a habit I've got. ' You'd think he wascrazy, wouldn't you? And as for Mrs. Lynde being a busybody, perhaps sheis. But did you tell her she had a very kind heart and always helped thepoor, and never said a word when Timothy Cotton stole a crock of butterout of her dairy and told his wife he'd bought it from her? Mrs. Cottoncast it up to her the next time they met that it tasted of turnips andMrs. Lynde just said she was sorry it had turned out so poorly. "

"I suppose she has some good qualities, " conceded Mr. Harrisongrudgingly. "Most folks have. I have some myself, though you might neversuspect it. But anyhow I ain't going to give anything to that carpet. Folks are everlasting begging for money here, it seems to me. How's yourproject of painting the hall coming on?"

"Splendidly. We had a meeting of the A. V. I. S. Last Friday night andfound that we had plenty of money subscribed to paint the hall andshingle the roof too. MOST people gave very liberally, Mr. Harrison. "

Anne was a sweet-souled lass, but she could instill some venom intoinnocent italics when occasion required. 

"What color are you going to have it?"

"We have decided on a very pretty green. The roof will be dark red, ofcourse. Mr. Roger Pye is going to get the paint in town today. "

"Who's got the job?"

"Mr. Joshua Pye of Carmody. He has nearly finished the shingling. We hadto give him the contract, for every one of the Pyes . . . And there arefour families, you know . . . Said they wouldn't give a cent unless Joshuagot it. They had subscribed twelve dollars between them and we thoughtthat was too much to lose, although some people think we shouldn't havegiven in to the Pyes. Mrs. Lynde says they try to run everything. "

"The main question is will this Joshua do his work well. If he does Idon't see that it matters whether his name is Pye or Pudding. "

"He has the reputation of being a good workman, though they say he's avery peculiar man. He hardly ever talks. "

"He's peculiar enough all right then, " said Mr. Harrison drily. "Or atleast, folks here will call him so. I never was much of a talker tillI came to Avonlea and then I had to begin in self-defense or Mrs. Lyndewould have said I was dumb and started a subscription to have me taughtsign language. You're not going yet, Anne?"

"I must. I have some sewing to do for Dora this evening. Besides, Davyis probably breaking Marilla's heart with some new mischief by thistime. This morning the first thing he said was, 'Where does the dark go, Anne? I want to know. ' I told him it went around to the other side ofthe world but after breakfast he declared it didn't . . . That it wentdown the well. Marilla says she caught him hanging over the well-boxfour times today, trying to reach down to the dark. "

"He's a limb, " declared Mr. Harrison. "He came over here yesterday andpulled six feathers out of Ginger's tail before I could get in from thebarn. The poor bird has been moping ever since. Those children must be asight of trouble to you folks. "

"Everything that's worth having is some trouble, " said Anne, secretlyresolving to forgive Davy's next offence, whatever it might be, since hehad avenged her on Ginger. 

Mr. Roger Pye brought the hall paint home that night and Mr. Joshua Pye, a surly, taciturn man, began painting the next day. He was not disturbedin his task. The hall was situated on what was called "the lower road. "In late autumn this road was always muddy and wet, and people going toCarmody traveled by the longer "upper" road. The hall was so closelysurrounded by fir woods that it was invisible unless you were near it. Mr. Joshua Pye painted away in the solitude and independence that wereso dear to his unsociable heart. 

Friday afternoon he finished his job and went home to Carmody. Soonafter his departure Mrs. Rachel Lynde drove by, having braved the mud ofthe lower road out of curiosity to see what the hall looked like in itsnew coat of paint. When she rounded the spruce curve she saw. 

The sight affected Mrs. Lynde oddly. She dropped the reins, held up herhands, and said "Gracious Providence!" She stared as if she could notbelieve her eyes. Then she laughed almost hysterically. 

"There must be some mistake . . . There must. I knew those Pyes would makea mess of things. "

Mrs. Lynde drove home, meeting several people on the road and stoppingto tell them about the hall. The news flew like wildfire. GilbertBlythe, poring over a text book at home, heard it from his father'shired boy at sunset, and rushed breathlessly to Green Gables, joined onthe way by Fred Wright. They found Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, and AnneShirley, despair personified, at the yard gate of Green Gables, underthe big leafless willows. 

"It isn't true surely, Anne?" exclaimed Gilbert. 

"It is true, " answered Anne, looking like the muse of tragedy. "Mrs. Lynde called on her way from Carmody to tell me. Oh, it is simplydreadful! What is the use of trying to improve anything?"

"What is dreadful?" asked Oliver Sloane, arriving at this moment with abandbox he had brought from town for Marilla. 

"Haven't you heard?" said Jane wrathfully. "Well, its simply this. . . Joshua Pye has gone and painted the hall blue instead of green. . . A deep, brilliant blue, the shade they use for painting carts andwheelbarrows. And Mrs. Lynde says it is the most hideous color for abuilding, especially when combined with a red roof, that she ever sawor imagined. You could simply have knocked me down with a feather when Iheard it. It's heartbreaking, after all the trouble we've had. "

"How on earth could such a mistake have happened?" wailed Diana. 

The blame of this unmerciful disaster was eventually narrowed down tothe Pyes. The Improvers had decided to use Morton-Harris paints andthe Morton-Harris paint cans were numbered according to a color card. A purchaser chose his shade on the card and ordered by the accompanyingnumber. Number 147 was the shade of green desired and when Mr. Roger Pyesent word to the Improvers by his son, John Andrew, that he was going totown and would get their paint for them, the Improvers told John Andrewto tell his father to get 147. John Andrew always averred that he didso, but Mr. Roger Pye as stanchly declared that John Andrew told him157; and there the matter stands to this day. 

That night there was blank dismay in every Avonlea house where anImprover lived. The gloom at Green Gables was so intense that itquenched even Davy. Anne wept and would not be comforted. 

"I must cry, even if I am almost seventeen, Marilla, " she sobbed. "Itis so mortifying. And it sounds the death knell of our society. We'llsimply be laughed out of existence. "

In life, as in dreams, however, things often go by contraries. TheAvonlea people did not laugh; they were too angry. Their money hadgone to paint the hall and consequently they felt themselves bitterlyaggrieved by the mistake. Public indignation centered on the Pyes. RogerPye and John Andrew had bungled the matter between them; and as forJoshua Pye, he must be a born fool not to suspect there was somethingwrong when he opened the cans and saw the color of the paint. JoshuaPye, when thus animadverted upon, retorted that the Avonlea taste incolors was no business of his, whatever his private opinion might be; hehad been hired to paint the hall, not to talk about it; and he meant tohave his money for it. 

The Improvers paid him his money in bitterness of spirit, afterconsulting Mr. Peter Sloane, who was a magistrate. 

"You'll have to pay it, " Peter told him. "You can't hold him responsiblefor the mistake, since he claims he was never told what the color wassupposed to be but just given the cans and told to go ahead. But it's aburning shame and that hall certainly does look awful. "

The luckless Improvers expected that Avonlea would be more prejudicedthan ever against them; but instead, public sympathy veered around intheir favor. People thought the eager, enthusiastic little band who hadworked so hard for their object had been badly used. Mrs. Lynde toldthem to keep on and show the Pyes that there really were people in theworld who could do things without making a muddle of them. Mr. MajorSpencer sent them word that he would clean out all the stumps along theroad front of his farm and seed it down with grass at his own expense;and Mrs. Hiram Sloane called at the school one day and beckoned Annemysteriously out into the porch to tell her that if the "Sassiety"wanted to make a geranium bed at the crossroads in the spring theyneedn't be afraid of her cow, for she would see that the maraudinganimal was kept within safe bounds. Even Mr. Harrison chuckled, if hechuckled at all, in private, and was all sympathy outwardly. 

"Never mind, Anne. Most paints fade uglier every year but that blue isas ugly as it can be to begin with, so it's bound to fade prettier. Andthe roof is shingled and painted all right. Folks will be able to sit inthe hall after this without being leaked on. You've accomplished so muchanyhow. "

"But Avonlea's blue hall will be a byword in all the neighboringsettlements from this time out, " said Anne bitterly. 

And it must be confessed that it was. 

X

Davy in Search of a Sensation

Anne, walking home from school through the Birch Path one Novemberafternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing. The day had been a good day; all had gone well in her little kingdom. St. Clair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the questionof his name; Prillie Rogerson's face had been so puffed up from theeffects of toothache that she did not once try to coquette with theboys in her vicinity. Barbara Shaw had met with only ONE accident . . . Spilling a dipper of water over the floor . . . And Anthony Pye had notbeen in school at all. 

"What a nice month this November has been!" said Anne, who had neverquite got over her childish habit of talking to herself. "November isusually such a disagreeable month . . . As if the year had suddenly foundout that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret overit. This year is growing old gracefully . . . Just like a stately old ladywho knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We'vehad lovely days and delicious twilights. This last fortnight has been sopeaceful, and even Davy has been almost well-behaved. I really thinkhe is improving a great deal. How quiet the woods are today . . . Nota murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops! It sounds likesurf on a faraway shore. How dear the woods are! You beautiful trees! Ilove every one of you as a friend. "

Anne paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss itscream-white trunk. Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her andlaughed. 

"Anne Shirley, you're only pretending to be grown up. I believe whenyou're alone you're as much a little girl as you ever were. "

"Well, one can't get over the habit of being a little girl all at once, "said Anne gaily. "You see, I was little for fourteen years and I've onlybeen grown-uppish for scarcely three. I'm sure I shall always feel likea child in the woods. These walks home from school are almost the onlytime I have for dreaming . . . Except the half-hour or so before I go tosleep. I'm so busy with teaching and studying and helping Marilla withthe twins that I haven't another moment for imagining things. You don'tknow what splendid adventures I have for a little while after I go tobed in the east gable every night. I always imagine I'm something verybrilliant and triumphant and splendid . . . A great prima donna or a RedCross nurse or a queen. Last night I was a queen. It's really splendidto imagine you are a queen. You have all the fun of it without any ofthe inconveniences and you can stop being a queen whenever you want to, which you couldn't in real life. But here in the woods I like best toimagine quite different things . . . I'm a dryad living in an old pine, ora little brown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf. That white birchyou caught me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference is, she'sa tree and I'm a girl, but that's no real difference. Where are yougoing, Diana?"

"Down to the Dicksons. I promised to help Alberta cut out her new dress. Can't you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?"

"I might . . . Since Fred Wright is away in town, " said Anne with a rathertoo innocent face. 

Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on. She did not lookoffended, however. 

Anne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons' that evening, but shedid not. When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of affairswhich banished every other thought from her mind. Marilla met her in theyard . . . A wild-eyed Marilla. 

"Anne, Dora is lost!"

"Dora! Lost!" Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard gate, and detected merriment in his eyes. "Davy, do you know where she is?"

"No, I don't, " said Davy stoutly. "I haven't seen her since dinner time, cross my heart. "

"I've been away ever since one o'clock, " said Marilla. "Thomas Lyndetook sick all of a sudden and Rachel sent up for me to go at once. WhenI left here Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy wasmaking mud pies behind the barn. I only got home half an hour ago . . . And no Dora to be seen. Davy declares he never saw her since I left. "

"Neither I did, " avowed Davy solemnly. 

"She must be somewhere around, " said Anne. "She would never wander faraway alone . . . You know how timid she is. Perhaps she has fallen asleepin one of the rooms. "

Marilla shook her head. 

"I've hunted the whole house through. But she may be in some of thebuildings. "

A thorough search followed. Every corner of house, yard, andoutbuildings was ransacked by those two distracted people. Anne rovedthe orchards and the Haunted Wood, calling Dora's name. Marilla took acandle and explored the cellar. Davy accompanied each of them in turn, and was fertile in thinking of places where Dora could possibly be. Finally they met again in the yard. 

"It's a most mysterious thing, " groaned Marilla. 

"Where can she be?" said Anne miserably

"Maybe she's tumbled into the well, " suggested Davy cheerfully. 

Anne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other's eyes. The thoughthad been with them both through their entire search but neither haddared to put it into words. 

"She . . . She might have, " whispered Marilla. 

Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to the wellbox and peered over. Thebucket sat on the shelf inside. Far down below was a tiny glimmer ofstill water. The Cuthbert well was the deepest in Avonlea. If Dora. . . But Anne could not face the idea. She shuddered and turned away. 

"Run across for Mr. Harrison, " said Marilla, wringing her hands. 

"Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away . . . They went to town today. I'll go for Mr. Barry. "

Mr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a coil of rope to which wasattached a claw-like instrument that had been the business end of agrubbing fork. Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken with horrorand dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy, astride the gate, watched the group with a face indicative of huge enjoyment. 

Finally Mr. Barry shook his head, with a relieved air. 

"She can't be down there. It's a mighty curious thing where she couldhave got to, though. Look here, young man, are you sure you've no ideawhere your sister is?"

"I've told you a dozen times that I haven't, " said Davy, with an injuredair. "Maybe a tramp come and stole her. "

"Nonsense, " said Marilla sharply, relieved from her horrible fear ofthe well. "Anne, do you suppose she could have strayed over to Mr. Harrison's? She has always been talking about his parrot ever since thattime you took her over. "

"I can't believe Dora would venture so far alone but I'll go over andsee, " said Anne. 

Nobody was looking at Davy just then or it would have been seen that avery decided change came over his face. He quietly slipped off the gateand ran, as fast as his fat legs could carry him, to the barn. 

Anne hastened across the fields to the Harrison establishment in novery hopeful frame of mind. The house was locked, the window shadeswere down, and there was no sign of anything living about the place. Shestood on the veranda and called Dora loudly. 

Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and swore with suddenfierceness; but between his outbursts Anne heard a plaintive cryfrom the little building in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as atoolhouse. Anne flew to the door, unhasped it, and caught up a smallmortal with a tearstained face who was sitting forlornly on an upturnednail keg. 

"Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us! How came you to behere?"

"Davy and I came over to see Ginger, " sobbed Dora, "but we couldn't seehim after all, only Davy made him swear by kicking the door. And thenDavy brought me here and run out and shut the door; and I couldn't getout. I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I'm so hungry andcold; and I thought you'd never come, Anne. "

"Davy?" But Anne could say no more. She carried Dora home with a heavyheart. Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was drowned out inthe pain caused by Davy's behavior. The freak of shutting Dora up mighteasily have been pardoned. But Davy had told falsehoods . . . Downrightcoldblooded falsehoods about it. That was the ugly fact and Anne couldnot shut her eyes to it. She could have sat down and cried with sheerdisappointment. She had grown to love Davy dearly . . . How dearly she hadnot known until this minute . . . And it hurt her unbearably to discoverthat he was guilty of deliberate falsehood. 

Marilla listened to Anne's tale in a silence that boded no goodDavy-ward; Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily dealtwith. When he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the sobbing, shivering Dora, got her her supper and put her to bed. Then she returnedto the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in, leading, or ratherpulling, the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she had just found hiddenaway in the darkest corner of the stable. 

She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor and then went andsat down by the east window. Anne was sitting limply by the west window. Between them stood the culprit. His back was toward Marilla and it wasa meek, subdued, frightened back; but his face was toward Anne andalthough it was a little shamefaced there was a gleam of comradeshipin Davy's eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and was going to bepunished for it, but could count on a laugh over it all with Anne lateron. 

But no half hidden smile answered him in Anne's gray eyes, as theremight have done had it been only a question of mischief. There wassomething else . . . Something ugly and repulsive. 

"How could you behave so, Davy?" she asked sorrowfully. 

Davy squirmed uncomfortably. 

"I just did it for fun. Things have been so awful quiet here for so longthat I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare. It was, too. "

In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over therecollection. 

"But you told a falsehood about it, Davy, " said Anne, more sorrowfullythan ever. 

Davy looked puzzled. 

"What's a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper?"

"I mean a story that was not true. "

"Course I did, " said Davy frankly. "If I hadn't you wouldn't have beenscared. I HAD to tell it. "

Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions. Davy'simpenitent attitude gave the finishing touch. Two big tears brimmed upin her eyes. 

"Oh, Davy, how could you?" she said, with a quiver in her voice. "Don'tyou know how wrong it was?"

Davy was aghast. Anne crying . . . He had made Anne cry! A flood of realremorse rolled like a wave over his warm little heart and engulfed it. He rushed to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms aroundher neck, and burst into tears. 

"I didn't know it was wrong to tell whoppers, " he sobbed. "How did youexpect me to know it was wrong? All Mr. Sprott's children told themREGULAR every day, and cross their hearts too. I s'pose Paul Irvingnever tells whoppers and here I've been trying awful hard to be as goodas him, but now I s'pose you'll never love me again. But I think youmight have told me it was wrong. I'm awful sorry I've made you cry, Anne, and I'll never tell a whopper again. "

Davy buried his face in Anne's shoulder and cried stormily. Anne, in asudden glad flash of understanding, held him tight and looked over hiscurly thatch at Marilla. 

"He didn't know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, Marilla. I think wemust forgive him for that part of it this time if he will promise neverto say what isn't true again. "

"I never will, now that I know it's bad, " asseverated Davy between sobs. "If you ever catch me telling a whopper again you can . . . " Davy gropedmentally for a suitable penance . . . "you can skin me alive, Anne. "

"Don't say 'whopper, ' Davy . . . Say 'falsehood, '" said the schoolma'am. 

"Why?" queried Davy, settling comfortably down and looking up witha tearstained, investigating face. "Why ain't whopper as good asfalsehood? I want to know. It's just as big a word. "

"It's slang; and it's wrong for little boys to use slang. "

"There's an awful lot of things it's wrong to do, " said Davy with asigh. "I never s'posed there was so many. I'm sorry it's wrong to tellwhop . . . Falsehoods, 'cause it's awful handy, but since it is I'm nevergoing to tell any more. What are you going to do to me for telling themthis time? I want to know. " Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla. 

"I don't want to be too hard on the child, " said Marilla. "I daresaynobody ever did tell him it was wrong to tell lies, and those Sprottchildren were no fit companions for him. Poor Mary was too sick to trainhim properly and I presume you couldn't expect a six-year-old child toknow things like that by instinct. I suppose we'll just have to assumehe doesn't know ANYTHING right and begin at the beginning. But he'llhave to be punished for shutting Dora up, and I can't think of any wayexcept to send him to bed without his supper and we've done that sooften. Can't you suggest something else, Anne? I should think you oughtto be able to, with that imagination you're always talking of. "

"But punishments are so horrid and I like to imagine only pleasantthings, " said Anne, cuddling Davy. "There are so many unpleasant thingsin the world already that there is no use in imagining any more. "

In the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual, there to remain until noonnext day. He evidently did some thinking, for when Anne went up to herroom a little later she heard him calling her name softly. Going in, shefound him sitting up in bed, with his elbows on his knees and his chinpropped on his hands. 

"Anne, " he said solemnly, "is it wrong for everybody to tell whop . . . Falsehoods? I want to know?"

"Yes, indeed. "

"Is it wrong for a grown-up person?"

"Yes. "

"Then, " said Davy decidedly, "Marilla is bad, for SHE tells them. Andshe's worse'n me, for I didn't know it was wrong but she does. "

"Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her life, " said Anneindignantly. 

"She did so. She told me last Tuesday that something dreadful WOULDhappen to me if I didn't say my prayers every night. And I haven't saidthem for over a week, just to see what would happen . . . And nothinghas, " concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone. 

Anne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the conviction that it wouldbe fatal, and then earnestly set about saving Marilla's reputation. 

"Why, Davy Keith, " she said solemnly, "something dreadful HAS happenedto you this very day. "

Davy looked sceptical. 

"I s'pose you mean being sent to bed without any supper, " he saidscornfully, "but THAT isn't dreadful. Course, I don't like it, but I'vebeen sent to bed so much since I come here that I'm getting used to it. And you don't save anything by making me go without supper either, for Ialways eat twice as much for breakfast. "

"I don't mean your being sent to bed. I mean the fact that you told afalsehood today. And, Davy, " . . . Anne leaned over the footboard of thebed and shook her finger impressively at the culprit . . . "for a boy totell what isn't true is almost the worst thing that could HAPPEN to him. . . Almost the very worst. So you see Marilla told you the truth. "

"But I thought the something bad would be exciting, " protested Davy inan injured tone. 

"Marilla isn't to blame for what you thought. Bad things aren't alwaysexciting. They're very often just nasty and stupid. "

"It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking down the well, though, " said Davy, hugging his knees. 

Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and then she collapsedon the sitting room lounge and laughed until her sides ached. 

"I wish you'd tell me the joke, " said Marilla, a little grimly. "Ihaven't seen much to laugh at today. "

"You'll laugh when you hear this, " assured Anne. And Marilla did laugh, which showed how much her education had advanced since the adoption ofAnne. But she sighed immediately afterwards. 

"I suppose I shouldn't have told him that, although I heard a ministersay it to a child once. But he did aggravate me so. It was that nightyou were at the Carmody concert and I was putting him to bed. He saidhe didn't see the good of praying until he got big enough to be of someimportance to God. Anne, I do not know what we are going to do with thatchild. I never saw his beat. I'm feeling clean discouraged. "

"Oh, don't say that, Marilla. Remember how bad I was when I came here. "

"Anne, you never were bad . . . NEVER. I see that now, when I've learnedwhat real badness is. You were always getting into terrible scrapes, I'll admit, but your motive was always good. Davy is just bad from sheerlove of it. "

"Oh, no, I don't think it is real badness with him either, " pleadedAnne. "It's just mischief. And it is rather quiet for him here, youknow. He has no other boys to play with and his mind has to havesomething to occupy it. Dora is so prim and proper she is no good fora boy's playmate. I really think it would be better to let them go toschool, Marilla. "

"No, " said Marilla resolutely, "my father always said that no childshould be cooped up in the four walls of a school until it was sevenyears old, and Mr. Allan says the same thing. The twins can have a fewlessons at home but go to school they shan't till they're seven. "

"Well, we must try to reform Davy at home then, " said Anne cheerfully. "With all his faults he's really a dear little chap. I can't help lovinghim. Marilla, it may be a dreadful thing to say, but honestly, I likeDavy better than Dora, for all she's so good. "

"I don't know but that I do, myself, " confessed Marilla, "and it isn'tfair, for Dora isn't a bit of trouble. There couldn't be a better childand you'd hardly know she was in the house. "

"Dora is too good, " said Anne. "She'd behave just as well if therewasn't a soul to tell her what to do. She was born already brought up, so she doesn't need us; and I think, " concluded Anne, hitting on a veryvital truth, "that we always love best the people who need us. Davyneeds us badly. "

"He certainly needs something, " agreed Marilla. "Rachel Lynde would sayit was a good spanking. "

XI

Facts and Fancies

"Teaching is really very interesting work, " wrote Anne to a Queen'sAcademy chum. "Jane says she thinks it is monotonous but I don't find itso. Something funny is almost sure to happen every day, and the childrensay such amusing things. Jane says she punishes her pupils whenthey make funny speeches, which is probably why she finds teachingmonotonous. This afternoon little Jimmy Andrews was trying to spell'speckled' and couldn't manage it. 'Well, ' he said finally, 'I can'tspell it but I know what it means. '

"'What?' I asked. 

"'St. Clair Donnell's face, miss. '

"St. Clair is certainly very much freckled, although I try to preventthe others from commenting on it . . . For I was freckled once and well doI remember it. But I don't think St. Clair minds. It was because Jimmycalled him 'St. Clair' that St. Clair pounded him on the way home fromschool. I heard of the pounding, but not officially, so I don't thinkI'll take any notice of it. 

"Yesterday I was trying to teach Lottie Wright to do addition. I said, 'If you had three candies in one hand and two in the other, how manywould you have altogether?' 'A mouthful, ' said Lottie. And in thenature study class, when I asked them to give me a good reason why toadsshouldn't be killed, Benjie Sloane gravely answered, 'Because it wouldrain the next day. '

"It's so hard not to laugh, Stella. I have to save up all my amusementuntil I get home, and Marilla says it makes her nervous to hear wildshrieks of mirth proceeding from the east gable without any apparentcause. She says a man in Grafton went insane once and that was how itbegan. 

"Did you know that Thomas a Becket was canonized as a SNAKE? Rose Bellsays he was . . . Also that William Tyndale WROTE the New Testament. Claude White says a 'glacier' is a man who puts in window frames!

"I think the most difficult thing in teaching, as well as the mostinteresting, is to get the children to tell you their real thoughtsabout things. One stormy day last week I gathered them around me atdinner hour and tried to get them to talk to me just as if I were one ofthemselves. I asked them to tell me the things they most wanted. Someof the answers were commonplace enough . . . Dolls, ponies, and skates. Others were decidedly original. Hester Boulter wanted 'to wear herSunday dress every day and eat in the sitting room. ' Hannah Bell wanted'to be good without having to take any trouble about it. ' Marjory White, aged ten, wanted to be a WIDOW. Questioned why, she gravely said that ifyou weren't married people called you an old maid, and if you were yourhusband bossed you; but if you were a widow there'd be no dangerof either. The most remarkable wish was Sally Bell's. She wanted a'honeymoon. ' I asked her if she knew what it was and she said shethought it was an extra nice kind of bicycle because her cousin inMontreal went on a honeymoon when he was married and he had always hadthe very latest in bicycles!

"Another day I asked them all to tell me the naughtiest thing they hadever done. I couldn't get the older ones to do so, but the third classanswered quite freely. Eliza Bell had 'set fire to her aunt's cardedrolls. ' Asked if she meant to do it she said, 'not altogether. ' She justtried a little end to see how it would burn and the whole bundle blazedup in a jiffy. Emerson Gillis had spent ten cents for candy when heshould have put it in his missionary box. Annetta Bell's worst crime was'eating some blueberries that grew in the graveyard. ' Willie White had'slid down the sheephouse roof a lot of times with his Sunday trouserson. ' 'But I was punished for it 'cause I had to wear patched pants toSunday School all summer, and when you're punished for a thing you don'thave to repent of it, ' declared Willie. 

"I wish you could see some of their compositions . . . So much do I wishit that I'll send you copies of some written recently. Last week I toldthe fourth class I wanted them to write me letters about anything theypleased, adding by way of suggestion that they might tell me of someplace they had visited or some interesting thing or person they hadseen. They were to write the letters on real note paper, seal them in anenvelope, and address them to me, all without any assistance from otherpeople. Last Friday morning I found a pile of letters on my desk andthat evening I realized afresh that teaching has its pleasures as wellas its pains. Those compositions would atone for much. Here is NedClay's, address, spelling, and grammar as originally penned. 

"'Miss teacher ShiRley

Green gabels. 

p. E. Island can

birds

"'Dear teacher I think I will write you a composition about birds. Birdsis very useful animals. My cat catches birds. His name is William but pacalls him tom. He is oll striped and he got one of his ears froz oflast winter. Only for that he would be a good-looking cat. My unklehas adopted a cat. It come to his house one day and woudent go away andunkle says it has forgot more than most people ever knowed. He lets itsleep on his rocking chare and my aunt says he thinks more of it than hedoes of his children. That is not right. We ought to be kind to catsand give them new milk but we ought not be better to them than to ourchildren. This is oll I can think of so no more at present from

edward blake ClaY. '"

"St. Clair Donnell's is, as usual, short and to the point. St. Clairnever wastes words. I do not think he chose his subject or added thepostscript out of malice aforethought. It is just that he has not agreat deal of tact or imagination. "

"'Dear Miss Shirley

"'You told us to describe something strange we have seen. I will describethe Avonlea Hall. It has two doors, an inside one and an outside one. It has six windows and a chimney. It has two ends and two sides. It ispainted blue. That is what makes it strange. It is built on the lowerCarmody road. It is the third most important building in Avonlea. Theothers are the church and the blacksmith shop. They hold debating clubsand lectures in it and concerts. 

"'Yours truly, "'Jacob Donnell. 

"'P. S. The hall is a very bright blue. '"

"Annetta Bell's letter was quite long, which surprised me, for writingessays is not Annetta's forte, and hers are generally as brief as St. Clair's. Annetta is a quiet little puss and a model of good behavior, but there isn't a shadow of orginality in her. Here is her letter. --

"'Dearest teacher, ""I think I will write you a letter to tell you how much I love you. Ilove you with my whole heart and soul and mind . . . With all there is ofme to love . . . And I want to serve you for ever. It would be my highestprivilege. That is why I try so hard to be good in school and learn mylessuns. 

"'You are so beautiful, my teacher. Your voice is like music and youreyes are like pansies when the dew is on them. You are like a tallstately queen. Your hair is like rippling gold. Anthony Pye says it isred, but you needn't pay any attention to Anthony. 

"'I have only known you for a few months but I cannot realize that therewas ever a time when I did not know you . . . When you had not come intomy life to bless and hallow it. I will always look back to this yearas the most wonderful in my life because it brought you to me. Besides, it's the year we moved to Avonlea from Newbridge. My love for you hasmade my life very rich and it has kept me from much of harm and evil. Iowe this all to you, my sweetest teacher. 

"'I shall never forget how sweet you looked the last time I saw you inthat black dress with flowers in your hair. I shall see you like thatfor ever, even when we are both old and gray. You will always be youngand fair to me, dearest teacher. I am thinking of you all the time. . . In the morning and at the noontide and at the twilight. I love you whenyou laugh and when you sigh . . . Even when you look disdainful. I neversaw you look cross though Anthony Pye says you always look so but Idon't wonder you look cross at him for he deserves it. I love you inevery dress . . . You seem more adorable in each new dress than the last. 

"'Dearest teacher, good night. The sun has set and the stars areshining . . . Stars that are as bright and beautiful as your eyes. I kissyour hands and face, my sweet. May God watch over you and protect youfrom all harm. 

""Your afecksionate pupil, "'Annetta Bell. '"

"This extraordinary letter puzzled me not a little. I knew Annettacouldn't have composed it any more than she could fly. When I went toschool the next day I took her for a walk down to the brook at recessand asked her to tell me the truth about the letter. Annetta criedand 'fessed up freely. She said she had never written a letter and shedidn't know how to, or what to say, but there was bundle of love lettersin her mother's top bureau drawer which had been written to her by anold 'beau. '

"'It wasn't father, ' sobbed Annetta, 'it was someone who was studyingfor a minister, and so he could write lovely letters, but ma didn'tmarry him after all. She said she couldn't make out what he was drivingat half the time. But I thought the letters were sweet and that I'd justcopy things out of them here and there to write you. I put "teacher"where he put "lady" and I put in something of my own when I could thinkof it and I changed some words. I put "dress" in place of "mood. " Ididn't know just what a "mood" was but I s'posed it was something towear. I didn't s'pose you'd know the difference. I don't see how youfound out it wasn't all mine. You must be awful clever, teacher. '

"I told Annetta it was very wrong to copy another person's letter andpass it off as her own. But I'm afraid that all Annetta repented of wasbeing found out. 

"'And I do love you, teacher, ' she sobbed. 'It was all true, even if theminister wrote it first. I do love you with all my heart. '

"It's very difficult to scold anybody properly under such circumstances. 

"Here is Barbara Shaw's letter. I can't reproduce the blots of theoriginal. 

"'Dear teacher, ""You said we might write about a visit. I never visited but once. It wasat my Aunt Mary's last winter. My Aunt Mary is a very particular womanand a great housekeeper. The first night I was there we were at tea. I knocked over a jug and broke it. Aunt Mary said she had had that jugever since she was married and nobody had ever broken it before. When wegot up I stepped on her dress and all the gathers tore out of the skirt. The next morning when I got up I hit the pitcher against the basinand cracked them both and I upset a cup of tea on the tablecloth atbreakfast. When I was helping Aunt Mary with the dinner dishes Idropped a china plate and it smashed. That evening I fell downstairs andsprained my ankle and had to stay in bed for a week. I heard Aunt Marytell Uncle Joseph it was a mercy or I'd have broken everything in thehouse. When I got better it was time to go home. I don't like visitingvery much. I like going to school better, especially since I came toAvonlea. 

"'Yours respectfully, ""Barbara Shaw. '"

"Willie White's began, ""Respected Miss, ""I want to tell you about my Very Brave Aunt. She lives in Ontario andone day she went out to the barn and saw a dog in the yard. The dog hadno business there so she got a stick and whacked him hard and drove himinto the barn and shut him up. Pretty soon a man came looking for aninaginary lion' (Query;--Did Willie mean a menagerie lion?) 'that hadrun away from a circus. And it turned out that the dog was a lion and myVery Brave Aunt had druv him into the barn with a stick. It was a wondershe was not et up but she was very brave. Emerson Gillis says if shethought it was a dog she wasn't any braver than if it really was adog. But Emerson is jealous because he hasn't got a Brave Aunt himself, nothing but uncles. '

"'I have kept the best for the last. You laugh at me because I think Paulis a genius but I am sure his letter will convince you that he is a veryuncommon child. Paul lives away down near the shore with his grandmotherand he has no playmates . . . No real playmates. You remember our SchoolManagement professor told us that we must not have 'favorites' amongour pupils, but I can't help loving Paul Irving the best of all mine. I don't think it does any harm, though, for everybody loves Paul, evenMrs. Lynde, who says she could never have believed she'd get so fond ofa Yankee. The other boys in school like him too. There is nothing weakor girlish about him in spite of his dreams and fancies. He is verymanly and can hold his own in all games. He fought St. Clair Donnellrecently because St. Clair said the Union Jack was away ahead of theStars and Stripes as a flag. The result was a drawn battle and a mutualagreement to respect each other's patriotism henceforth. St. Clair sayshe can hit the HARDEST but Paul can hit the OFTENEST. '"

"Paul's Letter. 

"'My dear teacher, "'You told us we might write you about some interesting people we knew. Ithink the most interesting people I know are my rock people and I meanto tell you about them. I have never told anybody about them exceptgrandma and father but I would like to have you know about thembecause you understand things. There are a great many people who do notunderstand things so there is no use in telling them. '

"'My rock people live at the shore. I used to visit them almost everyevening before the winter came. Now I can't go till spring, but theywill be there, for people like that never change . . . That is thesplendid thing about them. Nora was the first one of them I gotacquainted with and so I think I love her the best. She lives inAndrews' Cove and she has black hair and black eyes, and she knows allabout the mermaids and the water kelpies. You ought to hear the storiesshe can tell. Then there are the Twin Sailors. They don't live anywhere, they sail all the time, but they often come ashore to talk to me. Theyare a pair of jolly tars and they have seen everything in the world. . . And more than what is in the world. Do you know what happened to theyoungest Twin Sailor once? He was sailing and he sailed right into amoonglade. A moonglade is the track the full moon makes on the waterwhen it is rising from the sea, you know, teacher. Well, the youngestTwin Sailor sailed along the moonglade till he came right up to themoon, and there was a little golden door in the moon and he opened itand sailed right through. He had some wonderful adventures in the moonbut it would make this letter too long to tell them. '

"'Then there is the Golden Lady of the cave. One day I found a big cavedown on the shore and I went away in and after a while I found theGolden Lady. She has golden hair right down to her feet and her dressis all glittering and glistening like gold that is alive. And she has agolden harp and plays on it all day long . . . You can hear the music anytime along shore if you listen carefully but most people would think itwas only the wind among the rocks. I've never told Nora about the GoldenLady. I was afraid it might hurt her feelings. It even hurt her feelingsif I talked too long with the Twin Sailors. '

"'I always met the Twin Sailors at the Striped Rocks. The youngestTwin Sailor is very good-tempered but the oldest Twin Sailor can lookdreadfully fierce at times. I have my suspicions about that oldest Twin. I believe he'd be a pirate if he dared. There's really something verymysterious about him. He swore once and I told him if he ever didit again he needn't come ashore to talk to me because I'd promisedgrandmother I'd never associate with anybody that swore. He was prettywell scared, I can tell you, and he said if I would forgive him he wouldtake me to the sunset. So the next evening when I was sitting on theStriped Rocks the oldest Twin came sailing over the sea in an enchantedboat and I got in her. The boat was all pearly and rainbowy, like theinside of the mussel shells, and her sail was like moonshine. Well, wesailed right across to the sunset. Think of that, teacher, I've beenin the sunset. And what do you suppose it is? The sunset is a landall flowers. We sailed into a great garden, and the clouds are beds offlowers. We sailed into a great harbor, all the color of gold, andI stepped right out of the boat on a big meadow all covered withbuttercups as big as roses. I stayed there for ever so long. It seemednearly a year but the Oldest Twin says it was only a few minutes. Yousee, in the sunset land the time is ever so much longer than it is here. '

"'Your loving pupil Paul Irving. '

"'P. S. Of course, this letter isn't really true, teacher. P. I. '"

XII

A Jonah Day

It really began the night before with a restless, wakeful vigil ofgrumbling toothache. When Anne arose in the dull, bitter winter morningshe felt that life was flat, stale, and unprofitable. 

She went to school in no angelic mood. Her cheek was swollen and herface ached. The schoolroom was cold and smoky, for the fire refused toburn and the children were huddled about it in shivering groups. Annesent them to their seats with a sharper tone than she had ever usedbefore. Anthony Pye strutted to his with his usual impertinent swaggerand she saw him whisper something to his seat-mate and then glance ather with a grin. 

Never, so it seemed to Anne, had there been so many squeaky pencils asthere were that morning; and when Barbara Shaw came up to the desk witha sum she tripped over the coal scuttle with disastrous results. The coal rolled to every part of the room, her slate was broken intofragments, and when she picked herself up, her face, stained with coaldust, sent the boys into roars of laughter. 

Anne turned from the second reader class which she was hearing. 

"Really, Barbara, " she said icily, "if you cannot move without fallingover something you'd better remain in your seat. It is positivelydisgraceful for a girl of your age to be so awkward. "

Poor Barbara stumbled back to her desk, her tears combining with thecoal dust to produce an effect truly grotesque. Never before had herbeloved, sympathetic teacher spoken to her in such a tone or fashion, and Barbara was heartbroken. Anne herself felt a prick of conscience butit only served to increase her mental irritation, and the second readerclass remember that lesson yet, as well as the unmerciful inflictionof arithmetic that followed. Just as Anne was snapping the sums out St. Clair Donnell arrived breathlessly. 

"You are half an hour late, St. Clair, " Anne reminded him frigidly. "Whyis this?"

"Please, miss, I had to help ma make a pudding for dinner 'cause we'reexpecting company and Clarice Almira's sick, " was St. Clair's answer, given in a perfectly respectful voice but nevertheless provocative ofgreat mirth among his mates. 

"Take your seat and work out the six problems on page eighty-four ofyour arithmetic for punishment, " said Anne. St. Clair looked ratheramazed at her tone but he went meekly to his desk and took out hisslate. Then he stealthily passed a small parcel to Joe Sloane across theaisle. Anne caught him in the act and jumped to a fatal conclusion aboutthat parcel. 

Old Mrs. Hiram Sloane had lately taken to making and selling "nut cakes"by way of adding to her scanty income. The cakes were specially temptingto small boys and for several weeks Anne had had not a little trouble inregard to them. On their way to school the boys would invest their sparecash at Mrs. Hiram's, bring the cakes along with them to school, and, ifpossible, eat them and treat their mates during school hours. Anne hadwarned them that if they brought any more cakes to school they would beconfiscated; and yet here was St. Clair Donnell coolly passing a parcelof them, wrapped up in the blue and white striped paper Mrs. Hiram used, under her very eyes. 

"Joseph, " said Anne quietly, "bring that parcel here. "

Joe, startled and abashed, obeyed. He was a fat urchin who alwaysblushed and stuttered when he was frightened. Never did anybody lookmore guilty than poor Joe at that moment. 

"Throw it into the fire, " said Anne. 

Joe looked very blank. 

"P . . . P . . . P . . . Lease, m . . . M . . . Miss, " he began. 

"Do as I tell you, Joseph, without any words about it. "

"B . . . B . . . But m . . . M . . . Miss . . . Th . . . Th . . . They're . . . " gasped Joe in desperation. 

"Joseph, are you going to obey me or are you NOT?" said Anne. 

A bolder and more self-possessed lad than Joe Sloane would have beenoverawed by her tone and the dangerous flash of her eyes. This was a newAnne whom none of her pupils had ever seen before. Joe, with an agonizedglance at St. Clair, went to the stove, opened the big, square frontdoor, and threw the blue and white parcel in, before St. Clair, whohad sprung to his feet, could utter a word. Then he dodged back just intime. 

For a few moments the terrified occupants of Avonlea school did not knowwhether it was an earthquake or a volcanic explosion that had occurred. The innocent looking parcel which Anne had rashly supposed to containMrs. Hiram's nut cakes really held an assortment of firecrackersand pinwheels for which Warren Sloane had sent to town by St. Clair Donnell's father the day before, intending to have a birthdaycelebration that evening. The crackers went off in a thunderclap ofnoise and the pinwheels bursting out of the door spun madly around theroom, hissing and spluttering. Anne dropped into her chair white withdismay and all the girls climbed shrieking upon their desks. Joe Sloanestood as one transfixed in the midst of the commotion and St. Clair, helpless with laughter, rocked to and fro in the aisle. Prillie Rogersonfainted and Annetta Bell went into hysterics. 

It seemed a long time, although it was really only a few minutes, beforethe last pinwheel subsided. Anne, recovering herself, sprang to opendoors and windows and let out the gas and smoke which filled the room. Then she helped the girls carry the unconscious Prillie into the porch, where Barbara Shaw, in an agony of desire to be useful, poured a pailfulof half frozen water over Prillie's face and shoulders before anyonecould stop her. 

It was a full hour before quiet was restored . . . But it was a quietthat might be felt. Everybody realized that even the explosion had notcleared the teacher's mental atmosphere. Nobody, except Anthony Pye, dared whisper a word. Ned Clay accidentally squeaked his pencil whileworking a sum, caught Anne's eye and wished the floor would open andswallow him up. The geography class were whisked through a continentwith a speed that made them dizzy. The grammar class were parsedand analyzed within an inch of their lives. Chester Sloane, spelling"odoriferous" with two f's, was made to feel that he could never livedown the disgrace of it, either in this world or that which is to come. 

Anne knew that she had made herself ridiculous and that the incidentwould be laughed over that night at a score of tea-tables, but theknowledge only angered her further. In a calmer mood she could havecarried off the situation with a laugh but now that was impossible; soshe ignored it in icy disdain. 

When Anne returned to the school after dinner all the children wereas usual in their seats and every face was bent studiously over a deskexcept Anthony Pye's. He peered across his book at Anne, his black eyessparkling with curiosity and mockery. Anne twitched open the drawerof her desk in search of chalk and under her very hand a lively mousesprang out of the drawer, scampered over the desk, and leaped to thefloor. 

Anne screamed and sprang back, as if it had been a snake, and AnthonyPye laughed aloud. 

Then a silence fell . . . A very creepy, uncomfortable silence. AnnettaBell was of two minds whether to go into hysterics again or not, especially as she didn't know just where the mouse had gone. But shedecided not to. Who could take any comfort out of hysterics with ateacher so white-faced and so blazing-eyed standing before one?

"Who put that mouse in my desk?" said Anne. Her voice was quite low butit made a shiver go up and down Paul Irving's spine. Joe Sloane caughther eye, felt responsible from the crown of his head to the sole of hisfeet, but stuttered out wildly, "N . . . N . . . Not m . . . M . . . Me t . . . T . . . Teacher, n . . . N . . . Not m . . . M . . . Me. "

Anne paid no attention to the wretched Joseph. She looked at AnthonyPye, and Anthony Pye looked back unabashed and unashamed. 

"Anthony, was it you?"

"Yes, it was, " said Anthony insolently. 

Anne took her pointer from her desk. It was a long, heavy hardwoodpointer. 

"Come here, Anthony. "

It was far from being the most severe punishment Anthony Pye had everundergone. Anne, even the stormy-souled Anne she was at that moment, could not have punished any child cruelly. But the pointer nipped keenlyand finally Anthony's bravado failed him; he winced and the tears cameto his eyes. 

Anne, conscience-stricken, dropped the pointer and told Anthony to goto his seat. She sat down at her desk feeling ashamed, repentant, andbitterly mortified. Her quick anger was gone and she would have givenmuch to have been able to seek relief in tears. So all her boasts hadcome to this . . . She had actually whipped one of her pupils. How Janewould triumph! And how Mr. Harrison would chuckle! But worse thanthis, bitterest thought of all, she had lost her last chance of winningAnthony Pye. Never would he like her now. 

Anne, by what somebody has called "a Herculaneum effort, " kept back hertears until she got home that night. Then she shut herself in the eastgable room and wept all her shame and remorse and disappointment intoher pillows . . . Wept so long that Marilla grew alarmed, invaded theroom, and insisted on knowing what the trouble was. 

"The trouble is, I've got things the matter with my conscience, " sobbedAnne. "Oh, this has been such a Jonah day, Marilla. I'm so ashamed ofmyself. I lost my temper and whipped Anthony Pye. "

"I'm glad to hear it, " said Marilla with decision. "It's what you shouldhave done long ago. "

"Oh, no, no, Marilla. And I don't see how I can ever look those childrenin the face again. I feel that I have humiliated myself to the verydust. You don't know how cross and hateful and horrid I was. I can'tforget the expression in Paul Irving's eyes . . . He looked so surprisedand disappointed. Oh, Marilla, I HAVE tried so hard to be patient and towin Anthony's liking . . . And now it has all gone for nothing. "

Marilla passed her hard work-worn hand over the girl's glossy, tumbledhair with a wonderful tenderness. When Anne's sobs grew quieter shesaid, very gently for her, "You take things too much to heart, Anne. We all make mistakes . . . Butpeople forget them. And Jonah days come to everybody. As for AnthonyPye, why need you care if he does dislike you? He is the only one. "

"I can't help it. I want everybody to love me and it hurts me so whenanybody doesn't. And Anthony never will now. Oh, I just made an idiot ofmyself today, Marilla. I'll tell you the whole story. "

Marilla listened to the whole story, and if she smiled at certain partsof it Anne never knew. When the tale was ended she said briskly, "Well, never mind. This day's done and there's a new one comingtomorrow, with no mistakes in it yet, as you used to say yourself. Justcome downstairs and have your supper. You'll see if a good cup of teaand those plum puffs I made today won't hearten you up. "

"Plum puffs won't minister to a mind diseased, " said Annedisconsolately; but Marilla thought it a good sign that she hadrecovered sufficiently to adapt a quotation. 

The cheerful supper table, with the twins' bright faces, and Marilla'smatchless plum puffs . . . Of which Davy ate four . . . Did "hearten herup" considerably after all. She had a good sleep that night andawakened in the morning to find herself and the world transformed. Ithad snowed softly and thickly all through the hours of darkness and thebeautiful whiteness, glittering in the frosty sunshine, looked like amantle of charity cast over all the mistakes and humiliations of thepast. 

 "Every morn is a fresh beginning, Every morn is the world made new, "

sang Anne, as she dressed. 

Owing to the snow she had to go around by the road to school and shethought it was certainly an impish coincidence that Anthony Pye shouldcome ploughing along just as she left the Green Gables lane. She feltas guilty as if their positions were reversed; but to her unspeakableastonishment Anthony not only lifted his cap . . . Which he had never donebefore . . . But said easily, "Kind of bad walking, ain't it? Can I take those books for you, teacher?"

Anne surrendered her books and wondered if she could possibly be awake. Anthony walked on in silence to the school, but when Anne took her booksshe smiled down at him . . . Not the stereotyped "kind" smile she had sopersistently assumed for his benefit but a sudden outflashing of goodcomradeship. Anthony smiled . . . No, if the truth must be told, AnthonyGRINNED back. A grin is not generally supposed to be a respectful thing;yet Anne suddenly felt that if she had not yet won Anthony's liking shehad, somehow or other, won his respect. 

Mrs. Rachel Lynde came up the next Saturday and confirmed this. 

"Well, Anne, I guess you've won over Anthony Pye, that's what. He sayshe believes you are some good after all, even if you are a girl. Saysthat whipping you gave him was 'just as good as a man's. '"

"I never expected to win him by whipping him, though, " said Anne, a little mournfully, feeling that her ideals had played her falsesomewhere. "It doesn't seem right. I'm sure my theory of kindness can'tbe wrong. "

"No, but the Pyes are an exception to every known rule, that's what, "declared Mrs. Rachel with conviction. 

Mr. Harrison said, "Thought you'd come to it, " when he heard it, andJane rubbed it in rather unmercifully. 

XIII

A Golden Picnic

Anne, on her way to Orchard Slope, met Diana, bound for Green Gables, just where the mossy old log bridge spanned the brook below the HauntedWood, and they sat down by the margin of the Dryad's Bubble, where tinyferns were unrolling like curly-headed green pixy folk wakening up froma nap. 

"I was just on my way over to invite you to help me celebrate mybirthday on Saturday, " said Anne. 

"Your birthday? But your birthday was in March!"

"That wasn't my fault, " laughed Anne. "If my parents had consulted meit would never have happened then. I should have chosen to be born inspring, of course. It must be delightful to come into the world with themayflowers and violets. You would always feel that you were their fostersister. But since I didn't, the next best thing is to celebrate mybirthday in the spring. Priscilla is coming over Saturday and Jane willbe home. We'll all four start off to the woods and spend a golden daymaking the acquaintance of the spring. We none of us really know heryet, but we'll meet her back there as we never can anywhere else. Iwant to explore all those fields and lonely places anyhow. I have aconviction that there are scores of beautiful nooks there that havenever really been SEEN although they may have been LOOKED at. We'llmake friends with wind and sky and sun, and bring home the spring in ourhearts. "

"It SOUNDS awfully nice, " said Diana, with some inward distrust ofAnne's magic of words. "But won't it be very damp in some places yet?"

"Oh, we'll wear rubbers, " was Anne's concession to practicalities. "And I want you to come over early Saturday morning and help me preparelunch. I'm going to have the daintiest things possible . . . Things thatwill match the spring, you understand . . . Little jelly tarts and ladyfingers, and drop cookies frosted with pink and yellow icing, andbuttercup cake. And we must have sandwiches too, though they're NOT verypoetical. "

Saturday proved an ideal day for a picnic . . . A day of breeze and blue, warm, sunny, with a little rollicking wind blowing across meadowand orchard. Over every sunlit upland and field was a delicate, flower-starred green. 

Mr. Harrison, harrowing at the back of his farm and feeling some of thespring witch-work even in his sober, middle-aged blood, saw four girls, basket laden, tripping across the end of his field where it joined afringing woodland of birch and fir. Their blithe voices and laughterechoed down to him. 

"It's so easy to be happy on a day like this, isn't it?" Anne wassaying, with true Anneish philosophy. "Let's try to make this a reallygolden day, girls, a day to which we can always look back with delight. We're to seek for beauty and refuse to see anything else. 'Begone, dullcare!' Jane, you are thinking of something that went wrong in schoolyesterday. "

"How do you know?" gasped Jane, amazed. 

"Oh, I know the expression . . . I've felt it often enough on my own face. But put it out of your mind, there's a dear. It will keep till Monday. . . Or if it doesn't so much the better. Oh, girls, girls, see that patchof violets! There's something for memory's picture gallery. When I'meighty years old . . . If I ever am . . . I shall shut my eyes and seethose violets just as I see them now. That's the first good gift our dayhas given us. "

"If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet, " saidPriscilla. 

Anne glowed. 

"I'm so glad you SPOKE that thought, Priscilla, instead of justthinking it and keeping it to yourself. This world would be a much moreinteresting place . . . Although it IS very interesting anyhow . . . Ifpeople spoke out their real thoughts. "

"It would be too hot to hold some folks, " quoted Jane sagely. 

"I suppose it might be, but that would be their own faults for thinkingnasty things. Anyhow, we can tell all our thoughts today because we aregoing to have nothing but beautiful thoughts. Everybody can say justwhat comes into her head. THAT is conversation. Here's a little path Inever saw before. Let's explore it. "

The path was a winding one, so narrow that the girls walked in singlefile and even then the fir boughs brushed their faces. Under the firswere velvety cushions of moss, and further on, where the trees weresmaller and fewer, the ground was rich in a variety of green growingthings. 

"What a lot of elephant's ears, " exclaimed Diana. "I'm going to pick abig bunch, they're so pretty. "

"How did such graceful feathery things ever come to have such a dreadfulname?" asked Priscilla. 

"Because the person who first named them either had no imagination atall or else far too much, " said Anne, "Oh, girls, look at that!"

"That" was a shallow woodland pool in the center of a little open gladewhere the path ended. Later on in the season it would be dried upand its place filled with a rank growth of ferns; but now it was aglimmering placid sheet, round as a saucer and clear as crystal. Aring of slender young birches encircled it and little ferns fringed itsmargin. 

"HOW sweet!" said Jane. 

"Let us dance around it like wood-nymphs, " cried Anne, dropping herbasket and extending her hands. 

But the dance was not a success for the ground was boggy and Jane'srubbers came off. 

"You can't be a wood-nymph if you have to wear rubbers, " was herdecision. 

"Well, we must name this place before we leave it, " said Anne, yieldingto the indisputable logic of facts. "Everybody suggest a name and we'lldraw lots. Diana?"

"Birch Pool, " suggested Diana promptly. 

"Crystal Lake, " said Jane. 

Anne, standing behind them, implored Priscilla with her eyes not toperpetrate another such name and Priscilla rose to the occasion with"Glimmer-glass. " Anne's selection was "The Fairies' Mirror. "

The names were written on strips of birch bark with a pencil Schoolma'amJane produced from her pocket, and placed in Anne's hat. Then Priscillashut her eyes and drew one. "Crystal Lake, " read Jane triumphantly. Crystal Lake it was, and if Anne thought that chance had played the poola shabby trick she did not say so. 

Pushing through the undergrowth beyond, the girls came out to the younggreen seclusion of Mr. Silas Sloane's back pasture. Across it theyfound the entrance to a lane striking up through the woods and votedto explore it also. It rewarded their quest with a succession of prettysurprises. First, skirting Mr. Sloane's pasture, came an archway of wildcherry trees all in bloom. The girls swung their hats on their armsand wreathed their hair with the creamy, fluffy blossoms. Then the laneturned at right angles and plunged into a spruce wood so thick and darkthat they walked in a gloom as of twilight, with not a glimpse of sky orsunlight to be seen. 

"This is where the bad wood elves dwell, " whispered Anne. "They areimpish and malicious but they can't harm us, because they are notallowed to do evil in the spring. There was one peeping at us aroundthat old twisted fir; and didn't you see a group of them on that bigfreckly toadstool we just passed? The good fairies always dwell in thesunshiny places. "

"I wish there really were fairies, " said Jane. "Wouldn't it be nice tohave three wishes granted you . . . Or even only one? What would you wishfor, girls, if you could have a wish granted? I'd wish to be rich andbeautiful and clever. "

"I'd wish to be tall and slender, " said Diana. 

"I would wish to be famous, " said Priscilla. Anne thought of her hairand then dismissed the thought as unworthy. 

"I'd wish it might be spring all the time and in everybody's heart andall our lives, " she said. 

"But that, " said Priscilla, "would be just wishing this world were likeheaven. "

"Only like a part of heaven. In the other parts there would be summerand autumn . . . Yes, and a bit of winter, too. I think I want glitteringsnowy fields and white frosts in heaven sometimes. Don't you, Jane?"

"I . . . I don't know, " said Jane uncomfortably. Jane was a good girl, a member of the church, who tried conscientiously to live up to herprofession and believed everything she had been taught. But she neverthought about heaven any more than she could help, for all that. 

"Minnie May asked me the other day if we would wear our best dressesevery day in heaven, " laughed Diana. 

"And didn't you tell her we would?" asked Anne. 

"Mercy, no! I told her we wouldn't be thinking of dresses at all there. "

"Oh, I think we will . . . A LITTLE, " said Anne earnestly. "There'll beplenty of time in all eternity for it without neglecting more importantthings. I believe we'll all wear beautiful dresses . . . Or I supposeRAIMENT would be a more suitable way of speaking. I shall want to wearpink for a few centuries at first . . . It would take me that long to gettired of it, I feel sure. I do love pink so and I can never wear it inTHIS world. "

Past the spruces the lane dipped down into a sunny little open wherea log bridge spanned a brook; and then came the glory of a sunlitbeechwood where the air was like transparent golden wine, and the leavesfresh and green, and the wood floor a mosaic of tremulous sunshine. Thenmore wild cherries, and a little valley of lissome firs, and then a hillso steep that the girls lost their breath climbing it; but when theyreached the top and came out into the open the prettiest surprise of allawaited them. 

Beyond were the "back fields" of the farms that ran out to the upperCarmody road. Just before them, hemmed in by beeches and firs but opento the south, was a little corner and in it a garden . . . Or what hadonce been a garden. A tumbledown stone dyke, overgrown with mosses andgrass, surrounded it. Along the eastern side ran a row of garden cherrytrees, white as a snowdrift. There were traces of old paths still anda double line of rosebushes through the middle; but all the rest of thespace was a sheet of yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, mostlavish, wind-swayed bloom above the lush green grasses. 

"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" three of the girls cried. Anne only gazed ineloquent silence. 

"How in the world does it happen that there ever was a garden backhere?" said Priscilla in amazement. 

"It must be Hester Gray's garden, " said Diana. "I've heard mother speakof it but I never saw it before, and I wouldn't have supposed that itcould be in existence still. You've heard the story, Anne?"

"No, but the name seems familiar to me. "

"Oh, you've seen it in the graveyard. She is buried down there in thepoplar corner. You know the little brown stone with the opening gatescarved on it and 'Sacred to the memory of Hester Gray, aged twenty-two. 'Jordan Gray is buried right beside her but there's no stone to him. It'sa wonder Marilla never told you about it, Anne. To be sure, it happenedthirty years ago and everybody has forgotten. "

"Well, if there's a story we must have it, " said Anne. "Let's sit rightdown here among the narcissi and Diana will tell it. Why, girls, thereare hundreds of them . . . They've spread over everything. It looks as ifthe garden were carpeted with moonshine and sunshine combined. This isa discovery worth making. To think that I've lived within a mile of thisplace for six years and have never seen it before! Now, Diana. "

"Long ago, " began Diana, "this farm belonged to old Mr. David Gray. Hedidn't live on it . . . He lived where Silas Sloane lives now. He had oneson, Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work and whilehe was there he fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray. Shewas working in a store and she hated it. She'd been brought up in thecountry and she always wanted to get back. When Jordan asked her tomarry him she said she would if he'd take her away to some quiet spotwhere she'd see nothing but fields and trees. So he brought her toAvonlea. Mrs. Lynde said he was taking a fearful risk in marrying aYankee, and it's certain that Hester was very delicate and a very poorhousekeeper; but mother says she was very pretty and sweet and Jordanjust worshipped the ground she walked on. Well, Mr. Gray gave Jordanthis farm and he built a little house back here and Jordan and Hesterlived in it for four years. She never went out much and hardly anybodywent to see her except mother and Mrs. Lynde. Jordan made her thisgarden and she was crazy about it and spent most of her time in it. Shewasn't much of a housekeeper but she had a knack with flowers. And thenshe got sick. Mother says she thinks she was in consumption before sheever came here. She never really laid up but just grew weaker and weakerall the time. Jordan wouldn't have anybody to wait on her. He did it allhimself and mother says he was as tender and gentle as a woman. Everyday he'd wrap her in a shawl and carry her out to the garden and she'dlie there on a bench quite happy. They say she used to make Jordan kneeldown by her every night and morning and pray with her that she might dieout in the garden when the time came. And her prayer was answered. Oneday Jordan carried her out to the bench and then he picked all the rosesthat were out and heaped them over her; and she just smiled up at him. . . And closed her eyes . . . And that, " concluded Diana softly, "wasthe end. "

"Oh, what a dear story, " sighed Anne, wiping away her tears. 

"What became of Jordan?" asked Priscilla. 

"He sold the farm after Hester died and went back to Boston. Mr. JabezSloane bought the farm and hauled the little house out to the road. Jordan died about ten years after and he was brought home and buriedbeside Hester. "

"I can't understand how she could have wanted to live back here, awayfrom everything, " said Jane. 

"Oh, I can easily understand THAT, " said Anne thoughtfully. "I wouldn'twant it myself for a steady thing, because, although I love the fieldsand woods, I love people too. But I can understand it in Hester. Shewas tired to death of the noise of the big city and the crowds of peoplealways coming and going and caring nothing for her. She just wanted toescape from it all to some still, green, friendly place where she couldrest. And she got just what she wanted, which is something very fewpeople do, I believe. She had four beautiful years before she died. . . Four years of perfect happiness, so I think she was to be envied morethan pitied. And then to shut your eyes and fall asleep among roses, with the one you loved best on earth smiling down at you . . . Oh, I thinkit was beautiful!"

"She set out those cherry trees over there, " said Diana. "She toldmother she'd never live to eat their fruit, but she wanted to think thatsomething she had planted would go on living and helping to make theworld beautiful after she was dead. "

"I'm so glad we came this way, " said Anne, the shining-eyed. "This ismy adopted birthday, you know, and this garden and its story is thebirthday gift it has given me. Did your mother ever tell you what HesterGray looked like, Diana?"

"No . . . Only just that she was pretty. "

"I'm rather glad of that, because I can imagine what she looked like, without being hampered by facts. I think she was very slight and small, with softly curling dark hair and big, sweet, timid brown eyes, and alittle wistful, pale face. "

The girls left their baskets in Hester's garden and spent the restof the afternoon rambling in the woods and fields surrounding it, discovering many pretty nooks and lanes. When they got hungry they hadlunch in the prettiest spot of all . . . On the steep bank of a gurglingbrook where white birches shot up out of long feathery grasses. Thegirls sat down by the roots and did full justice to Anne's dainties, even the unpoetical sandwiches being greatly appreciated by hearty, unspoiled appetites sharpened by all the fresh air and exercise they hadenjoyed. Anne had brought glasses and lemonade for her guests, but forher own part drank cold brook water from a cup fashioned out of birchbark. The cup leaked, and the water tasted of earth, as brook wateris apt to do in spring; but Anne thought it more appropriate to theoccasion than lemonade. 

"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing. 

"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes onthe birch trees. 

"There . . . Down in the brook . . . That old green, mossy log with thewater flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'dbeen combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw. "

"I should rather call it a picture, " said Jane. "A poem is lines andverses. "

"Oh dear me, no. " Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherrycoronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward garmentsof the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces areYOU, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them . . . And that beautifulbit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees asoul . . . Even of a poem. "

"I wonder what a soul . . . A person's soul . . . Would look like, " saidPriscilla dreamily. 

"Like that, I should think, " answered Anne, pointing to a radiance ofsifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree. "Only with shape andfeatures of course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light. Andsome are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers . . . And somehave a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea . . . And some are pale andtransparent like mist at dawn. "

"I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers, " said Priscilla. 

"Then your soul is a golden narcissus, " said Anne, "and Diana's is likea red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome andsweet. "

"And your own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart, "finished Priscilla. 

Jane whispered to Diana that she really could not understand what theywere talking about. Could she?

The girls went home by the light of a calm golden sunset, their basketsfilled with narcissus blossoms from Hester's garden, some of which Annecarried to the cemetery next day and laid upon Hester's grave. Minstrelrobins were whistling in the firs and the frogs were singing in themarshes. All the basins among the hills were brimmed with topaz andemerald light. 

"Well, we have had a lovely time after all, " said Diana, as if she hadhardly expected to have it when she set out. 

"It has been a truly golden day, " said Priscilla. 

"I'm really awfully fond of the woods myself, " said Jane. 

Anne said nothing. She was looking afar into the western sky andthinking of little Hester Gray. 

XIV

A Danger Averted

Anne, walking home from the post office one Friday evening, was joinedby Mrs. Lynde, who was as usual cumbered with all the cares of churchand state. 

"I've just been down to Timothy Cotton's to see if I could get AliceLouise to help me for a few days, " she said. "I had her last week, for, though she's too slow to stop quick, she's better than nobody. Butshe's sick and can't come. Timothy's sitting there, too, coughing andcomplaining. He's been dying for ten years and he'll go on dying forten years more. That kind can't even die and have done with it . . . Theycan't stick to anything, even to being sick, long enough to finish it. They're a terrible shiftless family and what is to become of them Idon't know, but perhaps Providence does. "

Mrs. Lynde sighed as if she rather doubted the extent of Providentialknowledge on the subject. 

"Marilla was in about her eyes again Tuesday, wasn't she? What did thespecialist think of them?" she continued. 

"He was much pleased, " said Anne brightly. "He says there is a greatimprovement in them and he thinks the danger of her losing her sightcompletely is past. But he says she'll never be able to read much ordo any fine hand-work again. How are your preparations for your bazaarcoming on?"

The Ladies' Aid Society was preparing for a fair and supper, and Mrs. Lynde was the head and front of the enterprise. 

"Pretty well . . . And that reminds me. Mrs. Allan thinks it would be niceto fix up a booth like an old-time kitchen and serve a supper of bakedbeans, doughnuts, pie, and so on. We're collecting old-fashioned fixingseverywhere. Mrs. Simon Fletcher is going to lend us her mother's braidedrugs and Mrs. Levi Boulter some old chairs and Aunt Mary Shaw will lendus her cupboard with the glass doors. I suppose Marilla will let us haveher brass candlesticks? And we want all the old dishes we can get. Mrs. Allan is specially set on having a real blue willow ware platter if wecan find one. But nobody seems to have one. Do you know where we couldget one?"

"Miss Josephine Barry has one. I'll write and ask her if she'll lend itfor the occasion, " said Anne. 

"Well, I wish you would. I guess we'll have the supper in about afortnight's time. Uncle Abe Andrews is prophesying rain and storms forabout that time; and that's a pretty sure sign we'll have fine weather. "

The said "Uncle Abe, " it may be mentioned, was at least like otherprophets in that he had small honor in his own country. He was, infact, considered in the light of a standing joke, for few of his weatherpredictions were ever fulfilled. Mr. Elisha Wright, who labored underthe impression that he was a local wit, used to say that nobody inAvonlea ever thought of looking in the Charlottetown dailies for weatherprobabilities. No; they just asked Uncle Abe what it was going to betomorrow and expected the opposite. Nothing daunted, Uncle Abe kept onprophesying. 

"We want to have the fair over before the election comes off, " continuedMrs. Lynde, "for the candidates will be sure to come and spend lots ofmoney. The Tories are bribing right and left, so they might as well begiven a chance to spend their money honestly for once. "

Anne was a red-hot Conservative, out of loyalty to Matthew's memory, but she said nothing. She knew better than to get Mrs. Lynde startedon politics. She had a letter for Marilla, postmarked from a town inBritish Columbia. 

"It's probably from the children's uncle, " she said excitedly, when shegot home. "Oh, Marilla, I wonder what he says about them. "

"The best plan might be to open it and see, " said Marilla curtly. Aclose observer might have thought that she was excited also, but shewould rather have died than show it. 

Anne tore open the letter and glanced over the somewhat untidy andpoorly written contents. 

"He says he can't take the children this spring . . . He's been sick mostof the winter and his wedding is put off. He wants to know if we cankeep them till the fall and he'll try and take them then. We will, ofcourse, won't we Marilla?"

"I don't see that there is anything else for us to do, " said Marillarather grimly, although she felt a secret relief. "Anyhow they're not somuch trouble as they were . . . Or else we've got used to them. Davy hasimproved a great deal. "

"His MANNERS are certainly much better, " said Anne cautiously, as if shewere not prepared to say as much for his morals. 

Anne had come home from school the previous evening, to find Marillaaway at an Aid meeting, Dora asleep on the kitchen sofa, and Davy inthe sitting room closet, blissfully absorbing the contents of a jar ofMarilla's famous yellow plum preserves . . . "company jam, " Davy calledit . . . Which he had been forbidden to touch. He looked very guilty whenAnne pounced on him and whisked him out of the closet. 

"Davy Keith, don't you know that it is very wrong of you to be eatingthat jam, when you were told never to meddle with anything in THATcloset?"

"Yes, I knew it was wrong, " admitted Davy uncomfortably, "but plum jamis awful nice, Anne. I just peeped in and it looked so good I thoughtI'd take just a weeny taste. I stuck my finger in . . . " Anne groaned. . . "and licked it clean. And it was so much gooder than I'd ever thoughtthat I got a spoon and just SAILED IN. "

Anne gave him such a serious lecture on the sin of stealing plum jamthat Davy became conscience stricken and promised with repentant kissesnever to do it again. 

"Anyhow, there'll be plenty of jam in heaven, that's one comfort, " hesaid complacently. 

Anne nipped a smile in the bud. 

"Perhaps there will . . . If we want it, " she said, "But what makes youthink so?"

"Why, it's in the catechism, " said Davy. 

"Oh, no, there is nothing like THAT in the catechism, Davy. "

"But I tell you there is, " persisted Davy. "It was in that questionMarilla taught me last Sunday. 'Why should we love God?' It says, 'Because He makes preserves, and redeems us. ' Preserves is just a holyway of saying jam. "

"I must get a drink of water, " said Anne hastily. When she came back itcost her some time and trouble to explain to Davy that a certain commain the said catechism question made a great deal of difference in themeaning. 

"Well, I thought it was too good to be true, " he said at last, with asigh of disappointed conviction. "And besides, I didn't see when He'dfind time to make jam if it's one endless Sabbath day, as the hymnsays. I don't believe I want to go to heaven. Won't there ever be anySaturdays in heaven, Anne?"

"Yes, Saturdays, and every other kind of beautiful days. And every dayin heaven will be more beautiful than the one before it, Davy, " assuredAnne, who was rather glad that Marilla was not by to be shocked. Marilla, it is needless to say, was bringing the twins up in thegood old ways of theology and discouraged all fanciful speculationsthereupon. Davy and Dora were taught a hymn, a catechism question, andtwo Bible verses every Sunday. Dora learned meekly and recited like alittle machine, with perhaps as much understanding or interest as if shewere one. Davy, on the contrary, had a lively curiosity, and frequentlyasked questions which made Marilla tremble for his fate. 

"Chester Sloane says we'll do nothing all the time in heaven but walkaround in white dresses and play on harps; and he says he hopes he won'thave to go till he's an old man, 'cause maybe he'll like it better then. And he thinks it will be horrid to wear dresses and I think so too. Whycan't men angels wear trousers, Anne? Chester Sloane is interested inthose things, 'cause they're going to make a minister of him. He's gotto be a minister 'cause his grandmother left the money to send him tocollege and he can't have it unless he is a minister. She thought aminister was such a 'spectable thing to have in a family. Chester sayshe doesn't mind much . . . Though he'd rather be a blacksmith . . . Buthe's bound to have all the fun he can before he begins to be a minister, 'cause he doesn't expect to have much afterwards. I ain't going to be aminister. I'm going to be a storekeeper, like Mr. Blair, and keep heapsof candy and bananas. But I'd rather like going to your kind of a heavenif they'd let me play a mouth organ instead of a harp. Do you s'posethey would?"

"Yes, I think they would if you wanted it, " was all Anne could trustherself to say. 

The A. V. I. S. Met at Mr. Harmon Andrews' that evening and a fullattendance had been requested, since important business was to bediscussed. The A. V. I. S. Was in a flourishing condition, and had alreadyaccomplished wonders. Early in the spring Mr. Major Spencer had redeemedhis promise and had stumped, graded, and seeded down all the road frontof his farm. A dozen other men, some prompted by a determination not tolet a Spencer get ahead of them, others goaded into action by Improversin their own households, had followed his example. The result wasthat there were long strips of smooth velvet turf where once had beenunsightly undergrowth or brush. The farm fronts that had not been donelooked so badly by contrast that their owners were secretly shamed intoresolving to see what they could do another spring. The triangle ofground at the cross roads had also been cleared and seeded down, andAnne's bed of geraniums, unharmed by any marauding cow, was already setout in the center. 

Altogether, the Improvers thought that they were getting on beautifully, even if Mr. Levi Boulter, tactfully approached by a carefully selectedcommittee in regard to the old house on his upper farm, did bluntly tellthem that he wasn't going to have it meddled with. 

At this especial meeting they intended to draw up a petition to theschool trustees, humbly praying that a fence be put around the schoolgrounds; and a plan was also to be discussed for planting a fewornamental trees by the church, if the funds of the society wouldpermit of it . . . For, as Anne said, there was no use in startinganother subscription as long as the hall remained blue. The members wereassembled in the Andrews' parlor and Jane was already on her feet tomove the appointment of a committee which should find out and reporton the price of said trees, when Gertie Pye swept in, pompadoured andfrilled within an inch of her life. Gertie had a habit of being late. . . "to make her entrance more effective, " spiteful people said. Gertie's entrance in this instance was certainly effective, for shepaused dramatically on the middle of the floor, threw up her hands, rolled her eyes, and exclaimed, "I've just heard something perfectlyawful. What DO you think? Mr. Judson Parker IS GOING TO RENT ALL THEROAD FENCE OF HIS FARM TO A PATENT MEDICINE COMPANY TO PAINTADVERTISEMENTS ON. "

For once in her life Gertie Pye made all the sensation she desired. Ifshe had thrown a bomb among the complacent Improvers she could hardlyhave made more. 

"It CAN'T be true, " said Anne blankly. 

"That's just what _I_ said when I heard it first, don't you know, " saidGertie, who was enjoying herself hugely. "_I_ said it couldn't be true. . . That Judson Parker wouldn't have the HEART to do it, don't you know. But father met him this afternoon and asked him about it and he said itWAS true. Just fancy! His farm is side-on to the Newbridge road and howperfectly awful it will look to see advertisements of pills and plastersall along it, don't you know?"

The Improvers DID know, all too well. Even the least imaginative amongthem could picture the grotesque effect of half a mile of board fenceadorned with such advertisements. All thought of church and schoolgrounds vanished before this new danger. Parliamentary rules andregulations were forgotten, and Anne, in despair, gave up trying to keepminutes at all. Everybody talked at once and fearful was the hubbub. 

"Oh, let us keep calm, " implored Anne, who was the most excited of themall, "and try to think of some way of preventing him. "

"I don't know how you're going to prevent him, " exclaimed Jane bitterly. "Everybody knows what Judson Parker is. He'd do ANYTHING for money. Hehasn't a SPARK of public spirit or ANY sense of the beautiful. "

The prospect looked rather unpromising. Judson Parker and his sisterwere the only Parkers in Avonlea, so that no leverage could be exertedby family connections. Martha Parker was a lady of all too certainage who disapproved of young people in general and the Improversin particular. Judson was a jovial, smooth-spoken man, so uniformlygoodnatured and bland that it was surprising how few friends he had. Perhaps he had got the better in too many business transactions. . . Which seldom makes for popularity. He was reputed to be very "sharp"and it was the general opinion that he "hadn't much principle. "

"If Judson Parker has a chance to 'turn an honest penny, ' as he sayshimself, he'll never lose it, " declared Fred Wright. 

"Is there NOBODY who has any influence over him?" asked Annedespairingly. 

"He goes to see Louisa Spencer at White Sands, " suggested Carrie Sloane. "Perhaps she could coax him not to rent his fences. "

"Not she, " said Gilbert emphatically. "I know Louisa Spencer well. Shedoesn't 'believe' in Village Improvement Societies, but she DOES believein dollars and cents. She'd be more likely to urge Judson on than todissuade him. "

"The only thing to do is to appoint a committee to wait on him andprotest, " said Julia Bell, "and you must send girls, for he'd hardly becivil to boys . . . But _I_ won't go, so nobody need nominate me. "

"Better send Anne alone, " said Oliver Sloane. "She can talk Judson overif anybody can. "

Anne protested. She was willing to go and do the talking; but she musthave others with her "for moral support. " Diana and Jane were thereforeappointed to support her morally and the Improvers broke up, buzzinglike angry bees with indignation. Anne was so worried that she didn'tsleep until nearly morning, and then she dreamed that the trustees hadput a fence around the school and painted "Try Purple Pills" all overit. 

The committee waited on Judson Parker the next afternoon. Anne pleadedeloquently against his nefarious design and Jane and Diana supported hermorally and valiantly. Judson was sleek, suave, flattering; paid themseveral compliments of the delicacy of sunflowers; felt real bad torefuse such charming young ladies . . . But business was business;couldn't afford to let sentiment stand in the way these hard times. 

"But I'll tell what I WILL do, " he said, with a twinkle in his light, full eyes. "I'll tell the agent he must use only handsome, tasty colors. . . Red and yellow and so on. I'll tell him he mustn't paint the adsBLUE on any account. "

The vanquished committee retired, thinking things not lawful to beuttered. 

"We have done all we can do and must simply trust the rest toProvidence, " said Jane, with an unconscious imitation of Mrs. Lynde'stone and manner. 

"I wonder if Mr. Allan could do anything, " reflected Diana. 

Anne shook her head. 

"No, it's no use to worry Mr. Allan, especially now when the baby's sosick. Judson would slip away from him as smoothly as from us, althoughhe HAS taken to going to church quite regularly just now. That is simplybecause Louisa Spencer's father is an elder and very particular aboutsuch things. "

"Judson Parker is the only man in Avonlea who would dream of rentinghis fences, " said Jane indignantly. "Even Levi Boulter or Lorenzo Whitewould never stoop to that, tightfisted as they are. They would have toomuch respect for public opinion. "

Public opinion was certainly down on Judson Parker when the facts becameknown, but that did not help matters much. Judson chuckled to himselfand defied it, and the Improvers were trying to reconcile themselves tothe prospect of seeing the prettiest part of the Newbridge road defacedby advertisements, when Anne rose quietly at the president's callfor reports of committees on the occasion of the next meeting of theSociety, and announced that Mr. Judson Parker had instructed her toinform the Society that he was NOT going to rent his fences to thePatent Medicine Company. 

Jane and Diana stared as if they found it hard to believe their ears. Parliamentary etiquette, which was generally very strictly enforced inthe A. V. I. S. , forbade them giving instant vent to their curiosity, butafter the Society adjourned Anne was besieged for explanations. Anne hadno explanation to give. Judson Parker had overtaken her on the road thepreceding evening and told her that he had decided to humor the A. V. I. S. In its peculiar prejudice against patent medicine advertisements. Thatwas all Anne would say, then or ever afterwards, and it was the simpletruth; but when Jane Andrews, on her way home, confided to Oliver Sloaneher firm belief that there was more behind Judson Parker's mysteriouschange of heart than Anne Shirley had revealed, she spoke the truthalso. 

Anne had been down to old Mrs. Irving's on the shore road the precedingevening and had come home by a short cut which led her first over thelow-lying shore fields, and then through the beech wood below RobertDickson's, by a little footpath that ran out to the main road just abovethe Lake of Shining Waters . . . Known to unimaginative people as Barry'spond. 

Two men were sitting in their buggies, reined off to the side of theroad, just at the entrance of the path. One was Judson Parker; the otherwas Jerry Corcoran, a Newbridge man against whom, as Mrs. Lynde wouldhave told you in eloquent italics, nothing shady had ever been PROVED. He was an agent for agricultural implements and a prominent personagein matters political. He had a finger . . . Some people said ALL hisfingers . . . In every political pie that was cooked; and as Canada wason the eve of a general election Jerry Corcoran had been a busy manfor many weeks, canvassing the county in the interests of his party'scandidate. Just as Anne emerged from under the overhanging beech boughsshe heard Corcoran say, "If you'll vote for Amesbury, Parker . . . Well, I've a note for that pair of harrows you've got in the spring. I supposeyou wouldn't object to having it back, eh?"

"We . . . Ll, since you put it in that way, " drawled Judson with agrin, "I reckon I might as well do it. A man must look out for his owninterests in these hard times. "

Both saw Anne at this moment and conversation abruptly ceased. Annebowed frostily and walked on, with her chin slightly more tilted thanusual. Soon Judson Parker overtook her. 

"Have a lift, Anne?" he inquired genially. 

"Thank you, no, " said Anne politely, but with a fine, needle-likedisdain in her voice that pierced even Judson Parker's none toosensitive consciousness. His face reddened and he twitched his reinsangrily; but the next second prudential considerations checked him. Helooked uneasily at Anne, as she walked steadily on, glancing neither tothe right nor to the left. Had she heard Corcoran's unmistakableoffer and his own too plain acceptance of it? Confound Corcoran! Ifhe couldn't put his meaning into less dangerous phrases he'd getinto trouble some of these long-come-shorts. And confound redheadedschool-ma'ams with a habit of popping out of beechwoods where they hadno business to be. If Anne had heard, Judson Parker, measuring her cornin his own half bushel, as the country saying went, and cheating himselfthereby, as such people generally do, believed that she would tellit far and wide. Now, Judson Parker, as has been seen, was not overlyregardful of public opinion; but to be known as having accepted a bribewould be a nasty thing; and if it ever reached Isaac Spencer's earsfarewell forever to all hope of winning Louisa Jane with her comfortableprospects as the heiress of a well-to-do farmer. Judson Parker knewthat Mr. Spencer looked somewhat askance at him as it was; he could notafford to take any risks. 

"Ahem . . . Anne, I've been wanting to see you about that little matter wewere discussing the other day. I've decided not to let my fences tothat company after all. A society with an aim like yours ought to beencouraged. "

Anne thawed out the merest trifle. 

"Thank you, " she said. 

"And . . . And . . . You needn't mention that little conversation of minewith Jerry. "

"I have no intention of mentioning it in any case, " said Anne icily, forshe would have seen every fence in Avonlea painted with advertisementsbefore she would have stooped to bargain with a man who would sell hisvote. 

"Just so . . . Just so, " agreed Judson, imagining that they understoodeach other beautifully. "I didn't suppose you would. Of course, I wasonly stringing Jerry . . . He thinks he's so all-fired cute and smart. I've no intention of voting for Amesbury. I'm going to vote for Grant asI've always done . . . You'll see that when the election comes off. I justled Jerry on to see if he would commit himself. And it's all right aboutthe fence . . . You can tell the Improvers that. "

"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I've often heard, butI think there are some who could be spared, " Anne told her reflectionin the east gable mirror that night. "I wouldn't have mentioned thedisgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience is clear on THATscore. I really don't know who or what is to be thanked for this. _I_did nothing to bring it about, and it's hard to believe that Providenceever works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson Parker andJerry Corcoran have. "

XV

The Beginning of Vacation

Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when thewinds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadowswere long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key intoher pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, shehad been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction.. . . Only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strapoftener . . . And two delightful months of a well-earned vacationbeckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herselfas she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand. Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weeklypilgrimage to Matthew's grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla, had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but hismemory was still green in Anne's heart and always would be. She couldnever forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her thelove and sympathy her starved childhood had craved. 

At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow ofthe spruces . . . A boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitiveface. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces oftears on his cheeks. 

"I thought I'd wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going tothe graveyard, " he said, slipping his hand into hers. "I'm going there, too . . . I'm taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving'sgrave for grandma. And look, teacher, I'm going to put this bunch ofwhite roses beside Grandpa's grave in memory of my little mother. . . Because I can't go to her grave to put it there. But don't you thinkshe'll know all about it, just the same?"

"Yes, I am sure she will, Paul. "

"You see, teacher, it's just three years today since my little motherdied. It's such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever. . . And I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to methat I just can't bear it, it hurts so. "

Paul's voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses, hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes. 

"And yet, " said Anne, very softly, "you wouldn't want it to stop hurting . . . You wouldn't want to forget your little mother even if you could. "

"No, indeed, I wouldn't . . . That's just the way I feel. You're so goodat understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well . . . Not evengrandma, although she's so good to me. Father understood pretty well, but still I couldn't talk much to him about mother, because it made himfeel so bad. When he put his hand over his face I always knew it wastime to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfully lonesome withoutme; but you see he has nobody but a housekeeper now and he thinkshousekeepers are no good to bring up little boys, especially when he hasto be away from home so much on business. Grandmothers are better, nextto mothers. Someday, when I'm brought up, I'll go back to father andwe're never going to be parted again. "

Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that shefelt as if she had known them. She thought his mother must have beenvery like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and shehad an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deepand tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world. 

"Father's not very easy to get acquainted with, " Paul had said once. "Inever got really acquainted with him until after my little mother died. But he's splendid when you do get to know him. I love him the best inall the world, and Grandma Irving next, and then you, teacher. I'd loveyou next to father if it wasn't my DUTY to love Grandma Irving best, because she's doing so much for me. YOU know, teacher. I wish she wouldleave the lamp in my room till I go to sleep, though. She takes it rightout as soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn't be a coward. I'm NOT scared, but I'd RATHER have the light. My little mother usedalways to sit beside me and hold my hand till I went to sleep. I expectshe spoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know. "

No, Anne did not know this, although she might imagine it. She thoughtsadly of HER "little mother, " the mother who had thought her so"perfectly beautiful" and who had died so long ago and was buried besideher boyish husband in that unvisited grave far away. Anne could notremember her mother and for this reason she almost envied Paul. 

"My birthday is next week, " said Paul, as they walked up the long redhill, basking in the June sunshine, "and father wrote me that he issending me something that he thinks I'll like better than anything elsehe could send. I believe it has come already, for Grandma is keeping thebookcase drawer locked and that is something new. And when I asked herwhy, she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn't be toocurious. It's very exciting to have a birthday, isn't it? I'll beeleven. You'd never think it to look at me, would you? Grandma saysI'm very small for my age and that it's all because I don't eat enoughporridge. I do my very best, but Grandma gives such generous platefuls. . . There's nothing mean about Grandma, I can tell you. Ever since youand I had that talk about praying going home from Sunday Schoolthat day, teacher . . . When you said we ought to pray about all ourdifficulties . . . I've prayed every night that God would give me enoughgrace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge in the mornings. ButI've never been able to do it yet, and whether it's because I have toolittle grace or too much porridge I really can't decide. Grandma saysfather was brought up on porridge, and it certainly did work well inhis case, for you ought to see the shoulders he has. But sometimes, "concluded Paul with a sigh and a meditative air "I really think porridgewill be the death of me. "

Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not looking at her. All Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandson up inaccordance with the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals. 

"Let us hope not, dear, " she said cheerfully. "How are your rock peoplecoming on? Does the oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?"

"He HAS to, " said Paul emphatically. "He knows I won't associate withhim if he doesn't. He is really full of wickedness, I think. "

"And has Nora found out about the Golden Lady yet?"

"No; but I think she suspects. I'm almost sure she watched me the lasttime I went to the cave. _I_ don't mind if she finds out . . . It is onlyfor HER sake I don't want her to . . . So that her feelings won't be hurt. But if she is DETERMINED to have her feelings hurt it can't be helped. "

"If I were to go to the shore some night with you do you think I couldsee your rock people too?"

Paul shook his head gravely. 

"No, I don't think you could see MY rock people. I'm the only person whocan see them. But you could see rock people of your own. You're one ofthe kind that can. We're both that kind. YOU know, teacher, " he added, squeezing her hand chummily. "Isn't it splendid to be that kind, teacher?"

"Splendid, " Anne agreed, gray shining eyes looking down into blueshining ones. Anne and Paul both knew

 "How fair the realm Imagination opens to the view, "

and both knew the way to that happy land. There the rose of joy bloomedimmortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweetbells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded. Theknowledge of that land's geography . . . "east o' the sun, west o' themoon" . . . Is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. Itmust be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can neverdeface it or take it away. It is better to possess it, living in agarret, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it. 

The Avonlea graveyard was as yet the grass-grown solitude it had alwaysbeen. To be sure, the Improvers had an eye on it, and Priscilla Granthad read a paper on cemeteries before the last meeting of the Society. At some future time the Improvers meant to have the lichened, waywardold board fence replaced by a neat wire railing, the grass mown and theleaning monuments straightened up. 

Anne put on Matthew's grave the flowers she had brought for it, and thenwent over to the little poplar shaded corner where Hester Gray slept. Ever since the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on Hester'sgrave when she visited Matthew's. The evening before she had made apilgrimage back to the little deserted garden in the woods and broughttherefrom some of Hester's own white roses. 

"I thought you would like them better than any others, dear, " she saidsoftly. 

Anne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over the grass and shelooked up to see Mrs. Allan. They walked home together. 

Mrs. Allan's face was not the face of the girlbride whom the ministerhad brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloomand youthful curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes andmouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery accounted for some of them;and some new ones had come during the recent illness, now happily over, of her little son. But Mrs. Allan's dimples were as sweet and sudden asever, her eyes as clear and bright and true; and what her face lackedof girlish beauty was now more than atoned for in added tenderness andstrength. 

"I suppose you are looking forward to your vacation, Anne?" she said, asthey left the graveyard. 

Anne nodded. 

"Yes. . . . I could roll the word as a sweet morsel under my tongue. Ithink the summer is going to be lovely. For one thing, Mrs. Morgan iscoming to the Island in July and Priscilla is going to bring her up. Ifeel one of my old 'thrills' at the mere thought. "

"I hope you'll have a good time, Anne. You've worked very hard this pastyear and you have succeeded. "

"Oh, I don't know. I've come so far short in so many things. I haven'tdone what I meant to do when I began to teach last fall. I haven't livedup to my ideals. "

"None of us ever do, " said Mrs. Allan with a sigh. "But then, Anne, youknow what Lowell says, 'Not failure but low aim is crime. ' We must haveideals and try to live up to them, even if we never quite succeed. Lifewould be a sorry business without them. With them it's grand and great. Hold fast to your ideals, Anne. "

"I shall try. But I have to let go most of my theories, " said Anne, laughing a little. "I had the most beautiful set of theories you everknew when I started out as a schoolma'am, but every one of them hasfailed me at some pinch or another. "

"Even the theory on corporal punishment, " teased Mrs. Allan. 

But Anne flushed. 

"I shall never forgive myself for whipping Anthony. "

"Nonsense, dear, he deserved it. And it agreed with him. You have had notrouble with him since and he has come to think there's nobody like you. Your kindness won his love after the idea that a 'girl was no good' wasrooted out of his stubborn mind. "

"He may have deserved it, but that is not the point. If I had calmly anddeliberately decided to whip him because I thought it a just punishmentfor him I would not feel over it as I do. But the truth is, Mrs. Allan, that I just flew into a temper and whipped him because of that. I wasn'tthinking whether it was just or unjust . . . Even if he hadn't deserved itI'd have done it just the same. That is what humiliates me. "

"Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so just put it behind you. We shouldregret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forwardinto the future with us. There goes Gilbert Blythe on his wheel . . . Homefor his vacation too, I suppose. How are you and he getting on with yourstudies?"

"Pretty well. We plan to finish the Virgil tonight . . . There are onlytwenty lines to do. Then we are not going to study any more untilSeptember. "

"Do you think you will ever get to college?"

"Oh, I don't know. " Anne looked dreamily afar to the opal-tintedhorizon. "Marilla's eyes will never be much better than they are now, although we are so thankful to think that they will not get worse. Andthen there are the twins . . . Somehow I don't believe their uncle willever really send for them. Perhaps college may be around the bend in theroad, but I haven't got to the bend yet and I don't think much about itlest I might grow discontented. "

"Well, I should like to see you go to college, Anne; but if you neverdo, don't be discontented about it. We make our own lives wherever weare, after all . . . College can only help us to do it more easily. Theyare broad or narrow according to what we put into them, not what we getout. Life is rich and full here . . . Everywhere . . . If we can onlylearn how to open our whole hearts to its richness and fulness. "

"I think I understand what you mean, " said Anne thoughtfully, "and Iknow I have so much to feel thankful for . . . Oh, so much . . . My work, and Paul Irving, and the dear twins, and all my friends. Do you know, Mrs. Allan, I'm so thankful for friendship. It beautifies life so much. "

"True friendship is a very helpful thing indeed, " said Mrs. Allan, "and we should have a very high ideal of it, and never sully it by anyfailure in truth and sincerity. I fear the name of friendship is oftendegraded to a kind of intimacy that has nothing of real friendship init. "

"Yes . . . Like Gertie Pye's and Julia Bell's. They are very intimateand go everywhere together; but Gertie is always saying nasty things ofJulia behind her back and everybody thinks she is jealous of her becauseshe is always so pleased when anybody criticizes Julia. I think it isdesecration to call that friendship. If we have friends we should lookonly for the best in them and give them the best that is in us, don'tyou think? Then friendship would be the most beautiful thing in theworld. "

"Friendship IS very beautiful, " smiled Mrs. Allan, "but some day . . . "

Then she paused abruptly. In the delicate, white-browed face beside her, with its candid eyes and mobile features, there was still far more ofthe child than of the woman. Anne's heart so far harbored only dreams offriendship and ambition, and Mrs. Allan did not wish to brush the bloomfrom her sweet unconsciousness. So she left her sentence for the futureyears to finish. 

XVI

The Substance of Things Hoped For

"Anne, " said Davy appealingly, scrambling up on the shiny, leather-covered sofa in the Green Gables kitchen, where Anne sat, reading a letter, "Anne, I'm AWFUL hungry. You've no idea. "

"I'll get you a piece of bread and butter in a minute, " said Anneabsently. Her letter evidently contained some exciting news, for hercheeks were as pink as the roses on the big bush outside, and her eyeswere as starry as only Anne's eyes could be. 

"But I ain't bread and butter hungry, " said Davy in a disgusted tone. "I'm plum cake hungry. "

"Oh, " laughed Anne, laying down her letter and putting her arm aboutDavy to give him a squeeze, "that's a kind of hunger that can be enduredvery comfortably, Davy-boy. You know it's one of Marilla's rules thatyou can't have anything but bread and butter between meals. "

"Well, gimme a piece then . . . Please. "

Davy had been at last taught to say "please, " but he generally tackedit on as an afterthought. He looked with approval at the generous sliceAnne presently brought to him. "You always put such a nice lot of butteron it, Anne. Marilla spreads it pretty thin. It slips down a lot easierwhen there's plenty of butter. "

The slice "slipped down" with tolerable ease, judging from its rapiddisappearance. Davy slid head first off the sofa, turned a doublesomersault on the rug, and then sat up and announced decidedly, "Anne, I've made up my mind about heaven. I don't want to go there. "

"Why not?" asked Anne gravely. 

"Cause heaven is in Simon Fletcher's garret, and I don't like SimonFletcher. "

"Heaven in . . . Simon Fletcher's garret!" gasped Anne, too amazed evento laugh. "Davy Keith, whatever put such an extraordinary idea into yourhead?"

"Milty Boulter says that's where it is. It was last Sunday in SundaySchool. The lesson was about Elijah and Elisha, and I up and asked MissRogerson where heaven was. Miss Rogerson looked awful offended. She wascross anyhow, because when she'd asked us what Elijah left Elisha whenhe went to heaven Milty Boulter said, 'His old clo'es, ' and us fellowsall laughed before we thought. I wish you could think first and dothings afterwards, 'cause then you wouldn't do them. But Milty didn'tmean to be disrespeckful. He just couldn't think of the name of thething. Miss Rogerson said heaven was where God was and I wasn't to askquestions like that. Milty nudged me and said in a whisper, 'Heaven'sin Uncle Simon's garret and I'll esplain about it on the road home. ' Sowhen we was coming home he esplained. Milty's a great hand at esplainingthings. Even if he don't know anything about a thing he'll make up a lotof stuff and so you get it esplained all the same. His mother is Mrs. Simon's sister and he went with her to the funeral when his cousin, JaneEllen, died. The minister said she'd gone to heaven, though Milty saysshe was lying right before them in the coffin. But he s'posed theycarried the coffin to the garret afterwards. Well, when Milty and hismother went upstairs after it was all over to get her bonnet he askedher where heaven was that Jane Ellen had gone to, and she pointed rightto the ceiling and said, 'Up there. ' Milty knew there wasn't anythingbut the garret over the ceiling, so that's how HE found out. And he'sbeen awful scared to go to his Uncle Simon's ever since. "

Anne took Davy on her knee and did her best to straighten out thistheological tangle also. She was much better fitted for the task thanMarilla, for she remembered her own childhood and had an instinctiveunderstanding of the curious ideas that seven-year-olds sometimes getabout matters that are, of course, very plain and simple to grown uppeople. She had just succeeded in convincing Davy that heaven was NOT inSimon Fletcher's garret when Marilla came in from the garden, where sheand Dora had been picking peas. Dora was an industrious little soul andnever happier than when "helping" in various small tasks suited to herchubby fingers. She fed chickens, picked up chips, wiped dishes, and ranerrands galore. She was neat, faithful and observant; she never hadto be told how to do a thing twice and never forgot any of her littleduties. Davy, on the other hand, was rather heedless and forgetful; buthe had the born knack of winning love, and even yet Anne and Marillaliked him the better. 

While Dora proudly shelled the peas and Davy made boats of the pods, with masts of matches and sails of paper, Anne told Marilla about thewonderful contents of her letter. 

"Oh, Marilla, what do you think? I've had a letter from Priscilla andshe says that Mrs. Morgan is on the Island, and that if it is fineThursday they are going to drive up to Avonlea and will reach here abouttwelve. They will spend the afternoon with us and go to the hotel atWhite Sands in the evening, because some of Mrs. Morgan's Americanfriends are staying there. Oh, Marilla, isn't it wonderful? I can hardlybelieve I'm not dreaming. "

"I daresay Mrs. Morgan is a lot like other people, " said Marilla drily, although she did feel a trifle excited herself. Mrs. Morgan was a famouswoman and a visit from her was no commonplace occurrence. "They'll behere to dinner, then?"

"Yes; and oh, Marilla, may I cook every bit of the dinner myself? I wantto feel that I can do something for the author of 'The Rosebud Garden, 'if it is only to cook a dinner for her. You won't mind, will you?"

"Goodness, I'm not so fond of stewing over a hot fire in July that itwould vex me very much to have someone else do it. You're quite welcometo the job. "

"Oh, thank you, " said Anne, as if Marilla had just conferred atremendous favor, "I'll make out the menu this very night. "

"You'd better not try to put on too much style, " warned Marilla, alittle alarmed by the high-flown sound of 'menu. ' "You'll likely come togrief if you do. "

"Oh, I'm not going to put on any 'style, ' if you mean trying to do orhave things we don't usually have on festal occasions, " assured Anne. "That would be affectation, and, although I know I haven't as much senseand steadiness as a girl of seventeen and a schoolteacher ought to have, I'm not so silly as THAT. But I want to have everything as nice anddainty as possible. Davy-boy, don't leave those peapods on the backstairs . . . Someone might slip on them. I'll have a light soup to beginwith . . . You know I can make lovely cream-of-onion soup . . . And thena couple of roast fowls. I'll have the two white roosters. I have realaffection for those roosters and they've been pets ever since the grayhen hatched out just the two of them . . . Little balls of yellow down. But I know they would have to be sacrificed sometime, and surely therecouldn't be a worthier occasion than this. But oh, Marilla, _I_ cannotkill them . . . Not even for Mrs. Morgan's sake. I'll have to ask JohnHenry Carter to come over and do it for me. "

"I'll do it, " volunteered Davy, "if Marilla'll hold them by the legs, 'cause I guess it'd take both my hands to manage the axe. It's awfuljolly fun to see them hopping about after their heads are cut off. "

"Then I'll have peas and beans and creamed potatoes and a lettuce salad, for vegetables, " resumed Anne, "and for dessert, lemon pie with whippedcream, and coffee and cheese and lady fingers. I'll make the pies andlady fingers tomorrow and do up my white muslin dress. And I must tellDiana tonight, for she'll want to do up hers. Mrs. Morgan's heroinesare nearly always dressed in white muslin, and Diana and I have alwaysresolved that that was what we would wear if we ever met her. It willbe such a delicate compliment, don't you think? Davy, dear, you mustn'tpoke peapods into the cracks of the floor. I must ask Mr. And Mrs. Allanand Miss Stacy to dinner, too, for they're all very anxious to meet Mrs. Morgan. It's so fortunate she's coming while Miss Stacy is here. Davydear, don't sail the peapods in the water bucket . . . Go out to thetrough. Oh, I do hope it will be fine Thursday, and I think it will, forUncle Abe said last night when he called at Mr. Harrison's, that it wasgoing to rain most of this week. "

"That's a good sign, " agreed Marilla. 

Anne ran across to Orchard Slope that evening to tell the news to Diana, who was also very much excited over it, and they discussed the matter inthe hammock swung under the big willow in the Barry garden. 

"Oh, Anne, mayn't I help you cook the dinner?" implored Diana. "You knowI can make splendid lettuce salad. "

"Indeed you, may" said Anne unselfishly. "And I shall want you to helpme decorate too. I mean to have the parlor simply a BOWER of blossoms. . . And the dining table is to be adorned with wild roses. Oh, I dohope everything will go smoothly. Mrs. Morgan's heroines NEVER getinto scrapes or are taken at a disadvantage, and they are always soselfpossessed and such good housekeepers. They seem to be BORN goodhousekeepers. You remember that Gertrude in 'Edgewood Days' kept housefor her father when she was only eight years old. When I was eightyears old I hardly knew how to do a thing except bring up children. Mrs. Morgan must be an authority on girls when she has written so much aboutthem, and I do want her to have a good opinion of us. I've imaginedit all out a dozen different ways . . . What she'll look like, and whatshe'll say, and what I'll say. And I'm so anxious about my nose. Thereare seven freckles on it, as you can see. They came at the A. V. I S. Picnic, when I went around in the sun without my hat. I suppose it'sungrateful of me to worry over them, when I should be thankful they'renot spread all over my face as they once were; but I do wish they hadn'tcome . . . All Mrs. Morgan's heroines have such perfect complexions. Ican't recall a freckled one among them. "

"Yours are not very noticeable, " comforted Diana. "Try a little lemonjuice on them tonight. "

The next day Anne made her pies and lady fingers, did up her muslindress, and swept and dusted every room in the house . . . A quiteunnecessary proceeding, for Green Gables was, as usual, in the apple pieorder dear to Marilla's heart. But Anne felt that a fleck of dust wouldbe a desecration in a house that was to be honored by a visit fromCharlotte E. Morgan. She even cleaned out the "catch-all" closet underthe stairs, although there was not the remotest possibility of Mrs. Morgan's seeing its interior. 

"But I want to FEEL that it is in perfect order, even if she isn't tosee it, " Anne told Marilla. "You know, in her book 'Golden Keys, ' shemakes her two heroines Alice and Louisa take for their motto that verseof Longfellow's, 'In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the gods see everywhere, '

and so they always kept their cellar stairs scrubbed and never forgotto sweep under the beds. I should have a guilty conscience if I thoughtthis closet was in disorder when Mrs. Morgan was in the house. Eversince we read 'Golden Keys, ' last April, Diana and I have taken thatverse for our motto too. "

That night John Henry Carter and Davy between them contrived to executethe two white roosters, and Anne dressed them, the usually distastefultask glorified in her eyes by the destination of the plump birds. 

"I don't like picking fowls, " she told Marilla, "but isn't it fortunatewe don't have to put our souls into what our hands may be doing? I'vebeen picking chickens with my hands but in imagination I've been roamingthe Milky Way. "

"I thought you'd scattered more feathers over the floor than usual, "remarked Marilla. 

Then Anne put Davy to bed and made him promise that he would behaveperfectly the next day. 

"If I'm as good as good can be all day tomorrow will you let me be justas bad as I like all the next day?" asked Davy. 

"I couldn't do that, " said Anne discreetly, "but I'll take you and Dorafor a row in the flat right to the bottom of the pond, and we'll goashore on the sandhills and have a picnic. "

"It's a bargain, " said Davy. "I'll be good, you bet. I meant to go overto Mr. Harrison's and fire peas from my new popgun at Ginger but anotherday'll do as well. I espect it will be just like Sunday, but a picnic atthe shore'll make up for THAT. "

XVII

A Chapter of Accidents

Anne woke three times in the night and made pilgrimages to her window tomake sure that Uncle Abe's prediction was not coming true. Finally themorning dawned pearly and lustrous in a sky full of silver sheen andradiance, and the wonderful day had arrived. 

Diana appeared soon after breakfast, with a basket of flowers over onearm and HER muslin dress over the other . . . For it would not do to donit until all the dinner preparations were completed. Meanwhile she woreher afternoon pink print and a lawn apron fearfully and wonderfullyruffled and frilled; and very neat and pretty and rosy she was. 

"You look simply sweet, " said Anne admiringly. 

Diana sighed. 

"But I've had to let out every one of my dresses AGAIN. I weigh fourpounds more than I did in July. Anne, WHERE will this end? Mrs. Morgan'sheroines are all tall and slender. "

"Well, let's forget our troubles and think of our mercies, " said Annegaily. "Mrs. Allan says that whenever we think of anything that is atrial to us we should also think of something nice that we can setover against it. If you are slightly too plump you've got the dearestdimples; and if I have a freckled nose the SHAPE of it is all right. Doyou think the lemon juice did any good?"

"Yes, I really think it did, " said Diana critically; and, much elated, Anne led the way to the garden, which was full of airy shadows andwavering golden lights. 

"We'll decorate the parlor first. We have plenty of time, for Priscillasaid they'd be here about twelve or half past at the latest, so we'llhave dinner at one. "

There may have been two happier and more excited girls somewhere inCanada or the United States at that moment, but I doubt it. Every snipof the scissors, as rose and peony and bluebell fell, seemed to chirp, "Mrs. Morgan is coming today. " Anne wondered how Mr. Harrison COULD goon placidly mowing hay in the field across the lane, just as if nothingwere going to happen. 

The parlor at Green Gables was a rather severe and gloomy apartment, with rigid horsehair furniture, stiff lace curtains, and whiteantimacassars that were always laid at a perfectly correct angle, exceptat such times as they clung to unfortunate people's buttons. Even Annehad never been able to infuse much grace into it, for Marilla would notpermit any alterations. But it is wonderful what flowers can accomplishif you give them a fair chance; when Anne and Diana finished with theroom you would not have recognized it. 

A great blue bowlful of snowballs overflowed on the polished table. Theshining black mantelpiece was heaped with roses and ferns. Every shelfof the what-not held a sheaf of bluebells; the dark corners on eitherside of the grate were lighted up with jars full of glowing crimsonpeonies, and the grate itself was aflame with yellow poppies. Allthis splendor and color, mingled with the sunshine falling through thehoneysuckle vines at the windows in a leafy riot of dancing shadows overwalls and floor, made of the usually dismal little room the veritable"bower" of Anne's imagination, and even extorted a tribute of admirationfrom Marilla, who came in to criticize and remained to praise. 

"Now, we must set the table, " said Anne, in the tone of a priestessabout to perform some sacred rite in honor of a divinity. "We'll have abig vaseful of wild roses in the center and one single rose in frontof everybody's plate--and a special bouquet of rosebuds only by Mrs. Morgan's--an allusion to 'The Rosebud Garden' you know. "

The table was set in the sitting room, with Marilla's finest linen andthe best china, glass, and silver. You may be perfectly certain thatevery article placed on it was polished or scoured to the highestpossible perfection of gloss and glitter. 

Then the girls tripped out to the kitchen, which was filled withappetizing odors emanating from the oven, where the chickens werealready sizzling splendidly. Anne prepared the potatoes and Diana gotthe peas and beans ready. Then, while Diana shut herself into the pantryto compound the lettuce salad, Anne, whose cheeks were already beginningto glow crimson, as much with excitement as from the heat of the fire, prepared the bread sauce for the chickens, minced her onions for thesoup, and finally whipped the cream for her lemon pies. 

And what about Davy all this time? Was he redeeming his promise tobe good? He was, indeed. To be sure, he insisted on remaining in thekitchen, for his curiosity wanted to see all that went on. But as he satquietly in a corner, busily engaged in untying the knots in a piece ofherring net he had brought home from his last trip to the shore, nobodyobjected to this. 

At half past eleven the lettuce salad was made, the golden circles ofthe pies were heaped with whipped cream, and everything was sizzling andbubbling that ought to sizzle and bubble. 

"We'd better go and dress now, " said Anne, "for they may be here bytwelve. We must have dinner at sharp one, for the soup must be served assoon as it's done. "

Serious indeed were the toilet rites presently performed in the eastgable. Anne peered anxiously at her nose and rejoiced to see that itsfreckles were not at all prominent, thanks either to the lemon juiceor to the unusual flush on her cheeks. When they were ready they lookedquite as sweet and trim and girlish as ever did any of "Mrs. Morgan'sheroines. "

"I do hope I'll be able to say something once in a while, and not sitlike a mute, " said Diana anxiously. "All Mrs. Morgan's heroines converseso beautifully. But I'm afraid I'll be tongue-tied and stupid. And I'llbe sure to say 'I seen. ' I haven't often said it since Miss Stacy taughthere; but in moments of excitement it's sure to pop out. Anne, if Iwere to say 'I seen' before Mrs. Morgan I'd die of mortification. And itwould be almost as bad to have nothing to say. "

"I'm nervous about a good many things, " said Anne, "but I don't thinkthere is much fear that I won't be able to talk. "

And, to do her justice, there wasn't. 

Anne shrouded her muslin glories in a big apron and went down to concocther soup. Marilla had dressed herself and the twins, and looked moreexcited than she had ever been known to look before. At half past twelvethe Allans and Miss Stacy came. Everything was going well but Anne wasbeginning to feel nervous. It was surely time for Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan to arrive. She made frequent trips to the gate and looked asanxiously down the lane as ever her namesake in the Bluebeard storypeered from the tower casement. 

"Suppose they don't come at all?" she said piteously. 

"Don't suppose it. It would be too mean, " said Diana, who, however, wasbeginning to have uncomfortable misgivings on the subject. 

"Anne, " said Marilla, coming out from the parlor, "Miss Stacy wants tosee Miss Barry's willowware platter. "

Anne hastened to the sitting room closet to get the platter. She had, in accordance with her promise to Mrs. Lynde, written to Miss Barry ofCharlottetown, asking for the loan of it. Miss Barry was an old friendof Anne's, and she promptly sent the platter out, with a letter exhortingAnne to be very careful of it, for she had paid twenty dollars for it. The platter had served its purpose at the Aid bazaar and had then beenreturned to the Green Gables closet, for Anne would not trust anybodybut herself to take it back to town. 

She carried the platter carefully to the front door where her guestswere enjoying the cool breeze that blew up from the brook. It wasexamined and admired; then, just as Anne had taken it back into her ownhands, a terrific crash and clatter sounded from the kitchen pantry. Marilla, Diana, and Anne fled out, the latter pausing only long enoughto set the precious platter hastily down on the second step of thestairs. 

When they reached the pantry a truly harrowing spectacle met their eyes. . . A guilty looking small boy scrambling down from the table, with hisclean print blouse liberally plastered with yellow filling, and on thetable the shattered remnants of what had been two brave, becreamed lemonpies. 

Davy had finished ravelling out his herring net and had wound the twineinto a ball. Then he had gone into the pantry to put it up on the shelfabove the table, where he already kept a score or so of similar balls, which, so far as could be discovered, served no useful purpose save toyield the joy of possession. Davy had to climb on the table and reachover to the shelf at a dangerous angle . . . Something he had beenforbidden by Marilla to do, as he had come to grief once before in theexperiment. The result in this instance was disastrous. Davy slippedand came sprawling squarely down on the lemon pies. His clean blouse wasruined for that time and the pies for all time. It is, however, an illwind that blows nobody good, and the pig was eventually the gainer byDavy's mischance. 

"Davy Keith, " said Marilla, shaking him by the shoulder, "didn't Iforbid you to climb up on that table again? Didn't I?"

"I forgot, " whimpered Davy. "You've told me not to do such an awful lotof things that I can't remember them all. "

"Well, you march upstairs and stay there till after dinner. Perhapsyou'll get them sorted out in your memory by that time. No, Anne, neveryou mind interceding for him. I'm not punishing him because hespoiled your pies . . . That was an accident. I'm punishing him for hisdisobedience. Go, Davy, I say. "

"Ain't I to have any dinner?" wailed Davy. 

"You can come down after dinner is over and have yours in the kitchen. "

"Oh, all right, " said Davy, somewhat comforted. "I know Anne'll savesome nice bones for me, won't you, Anne? 'Cause you know I didn't meanto fall on the pies. Say, Anne, since they ARE spoiled can't I take someof the pieces upstairs with me?"

"No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy, " said Marilla, pushing himtoward the hall. 

"What shall we do for dessert?" asked Anne, looking regretfully at thewreck and ruin. 

"Get out a crock of strawberry preserves, " said Marilla consolingly. "There's plenty of whipped cream left in the bowl for it. "

One o'clock came . . . But no Priscilla or Mrs. Morgan. Anne was in anagony. Everything was done to a turn and the soup was just what soupshould be, but couldn't be depended on to remain so for any length oftime. 

"I don't believe they're coming after all, " said Marilla crossly. 

Anne and Diana sought comfort in each other's eyes. 

At half past one Marilla again emerged from the parlor. 

"Girls, we MUST have dinner. Everybody is hungry and it's no use waitingany longer. Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan are not coming, that's plain, andnothing is being improved by waiting. "

Anne and Diana set about lifting the dinner, with all the zest gone outof the performance. 

"I don't believe I'll be able to eat a mouthful, " said Diana dolefully. 

"Nor I. But I hope everything will be nice for Miss Stacy's and Mr. AndMrs. Allan's sakes, " said Anne listlessly. 

When Diana dished the peas she tasted them and a very peculiarexpression crossed her face. 

"Anne, did YOU put sugar in these peas?"

"Yes, " said Anne, mashing the potatoes with the air of one expected todo her duty. "I put a spoonful of sugar in. We always do. Don't you likeit?"

"But _I_ put a spoonful in too, when I set them on the stove, " saidDiana. 

Anne dropped her masher and tasted the peas also. Then she made agrimace. 

"How awful! I never dreamed you had put sugar in, because I knew yourmother never does. I happened to think of it, for a wonder . . . I'malways forgetting it . . . So I popped a spoonful in. "

"It's a case of too many cooks, I guess, " said Marilla, who had listenedto this dialogue with a rather guilty expression. "I didn't think you'dremember about the sugar, Anne, for I'm perfectly certain you never didbefore . . . So _I_ put in a spoonful. "

The guests in the parlor heard peal after peal of laughter from thekitchen, but they never knew what the fun was about. There were no greenpeas on the dinner table that day, however. 

"Well, " said Anne, sobering down again with a sigh of recollection, "wehave the salad anyhow and I don't think anything has happened to thebeans. Let's carry the things in and get it over. "

It cannot be said that that dinner was a notable success socially. The Allans and Miss Stacy exerted themselves to save the situation andMarilla's customary placidity was not noticeably ruffled. But Anneand Diana, between their disappointment and the reaction from theirexcitement of the forenoon, could neither talk nor eat. Anne triedheroically to bear her part in the conversation for the sake of herguests; but all the sparkle had been quenched in her for the time being, and, in spite of her love for the Allans and Miss Stacy, she couldn'thelp thinking how nice it would be when everybody had gone home and shecould bury her weariness and disappointment in the pillows of the eastgable. 

There is an old proverb that really seems at times to be inspired . . . "it never rains but it pours. " The measure of that day's tribulationswas not yet full. Just as Mr. Allan had finished returning thanks therearose a strange, ominous sound on the stairs, as of some hard, heavyobject bounding from step to step, finishing up with a grand smashat the bottom. Everybody ran out into the hall. Anne gave a shriek ofdismay. 

At the bottom of the stairs lay a big pink conch shell amid thefragments of what had been Miss Barry's platter; and at the top of thestairs knelt a terrified Davy, gazing down with wide-open eyes at thehavoc. 

"Davy, " said Marilla ominously, "did you throw that conch down ONPURPOSE?"

"No, I never did, " whimpered Davy. "I was just kneeling here, quiet asquiet, to watch you folks through the bannisters, and my foot struckthat old thing and pushed it off . . . And I'm awful hungry . . . And Ido wish you'd lick a fellow and have done with it, instead of alwayssending him upstairs to miss all the fun. "

"Don't blame Davy, " said Anne, gathering up the fragments with tremblingfingers. "It was my fault. I set that platter there and forgot all aboutit. I am properly punished for my carelessness; but oh, what will MissBarry say?"

"Well, you know she only bought it, so it isn't the same as if it was anheirloom, " said Diana, trying to console. 

The guests went away soon after, feeling that it was the most tactfulthing to do, and Anne and Diana washed the dishes, talking less thanthey had ever been known to do before. Then Diana went home with aheadache and Anne went with another to the east gable, where she stayeduntil Marilla came home from the post office at sunset, with a letterfrom Priscilla, written the day before. Mrs. Morgan had sprained herankle so severely that she could not leave her room. 

"And oh, Anne dear, " wrote Priscilla, "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid wewon't get up to Green Gables at all now, for by the time Aunty's ankleis well she will have to go back to Toronto. She has to be there by acertain date. "

"Well, " sighed Anne, laying the letter down on the red sandstone stepof the back porch, where she was sitting, while the twilight rained downout of a dappled sky, "I always thought it was too good to be true thatMrs. Morgan should really come. But there . . . That speech sounds aspessimistic as Miss Eliza Andrews and I'm ashamed of making it. Afterall, it was NOT too good to be true . . . Things just as good and farbetter are coming true for me all the time. And I suppose the events oftoday have a funny side too. Perhaps when Diana and I are old and graywe shall be able to laugh over them. But I feel that I can't expect todo it before then, for it has truly been a bitter disappointment. "

"You'll probably have a good many more and worse disappointments thanthat before you get through life, " said Marilla, who honestly thoughtshe was making a comforting speech. "It seems to me, Anne, that you arenever going to outgrow your fashion of setting your heart so on thingsand then crashing down into despair because you don't get them. "

"I know I'm too much inclined that, way" agreed Anne ruefully. "When Ithink something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on thewings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down toearth with a thud. But really, Marilla, the flying part IS gloriousas long as it lasts . . . It's like soaring through a sunset. I think italmost pays for the thud. "

"Well, maybe it does, " admitted Marilla. "I'd rather walk calmly alongand do without both flying and thud. But everybody has her own way ofliving . . . I used to think there was only one right way . . . But sinceI've had you and the twins to bring up I don't feel so sure of it. Whatare you going to do about Miss Barry's platter?"

"Pay her back the twenty dollars she paid for it, I suppose. I'm sothankful it wasn't a cherished heirloom because then no money couldreplace it. "

"Maybe you could find one like it somewhere and buy it for her. "

"I'm afraid not. Platters as old as that are very scarce. Mrs. Lyndecouldn't find one anywhere for the supper. I only wish I could, for ofcourse Miss Barry would just as soon have one platter as another, ifboth were equally old and genuine. Marilla, look at that big star overMr. Harrison's maple grove, with all that holy hush of silvery sky aboutit. It gives me a feeling that is like a prayer. After all, when onecan see stars and skies like that, little disappointments and accidentscan't matter so much, can they?"

"Where's Davy?" said Marilla, with an indifferent glance at the star. 

"In bed. I've promised to take him and Dora to the shore for a picnictomorrow. Of course, the original agreement was that he must be good. But he TRIED to be good . . . And I hadn't the heart to disappoint him. "

"You'll drown yourself or the twins, rowing about the pond in thatflat, " grumbled Marilla. "I've lived here for sixty years and I've neverbeen on the pond yet. "

"Well, it's never too late to mend, " said Anne roguishly. "Suppose youcome with us tomorrow. We'll shut Green Gables up and spend the wholeday at the shore, daffing the world aside. "

"No, thank you, " said Marilla, with indignant emphasis. "I'd be a nicesight, wouldn't I, rowing down the pond in a flat? I think I hear Rachelpronouncing on it. There's Mr. Harrison driving away somewhere. Do yousuppose there is any truth in the gossip that Mr. Harrison is going tosee Isabella Andrews?"

"No, I'm sure there isn't. He just called there one evening on businesswith Mr. Harmon Andrews and Mrs. Lynde saw him and said she knew he wascourting because he had a white collar on. I don't believe Mr. Harrisonwill ever marry. He seems to have a prejudice against marriage. "

"Well, you can never tell about those old bachelors. And if he had awhite collar on I'd agree with Rachel that it looks suspicious, for I'msure he never was seen with one before. "

"I think he only put it on because he wanted to conclude a business dealwith Harmon Andrews, " said Anne. "I've heard him say that's the onlytime a man needs to be particular about his appearance, because if helooks prosperous the party of the second part won't be so likely to tryto cheat him. I really feel sorry for Mr. Harrison; I don't believe hefeels satisfied with his life. It must be very lonely to have no one tocare about except a parrot, don't you think? But I notice Mr. Harrisondoesn't like to be pitied. Nobody does, I imagine. "

"There's Gilbert coming up the lane, " said Marilla. "If he wants you togo for a row on the pond mind you put on your coat and rubbers. There'sa heavy dew tonight. "

XVIII

An Adventure on the Tory Road

"Anne, " said Davy, sitting up in bed and propping his chin on his hands, "Anne, where is sleep? People go to sleep every night, and of course Iknow it's the place where I do the things I dream, but I want to knowWHERE it is and how I get there and back without knowing anything aboutit . . . And in my nighty too. Where is it?"

Anne was kneeling at the west gable window watching the sunset skythat was like a great flower with petals of crocus and a heart of fieryyellow. She turned her head at Davy's question and answered dreamily, "'Over the mountains of the moon, Down the valley of the shadow. '"

Paul Irving would have known the meaning of this, or made a meaning outof it for himself, if he didn't; but practical Davy, who, as Anneoften despairingly remarked, hadn't a particle of imagination, was onlypuzzled and disgusted. 

"Anne, I believe you're just talking nonsense. "

"Of course, I was, dear boy. Don't you know that it is only very foolishfolk who talk sense all the time?"

"Well, I think you might give a sensible answer when I ask a sensiblequestion, " said Davy in an injured tone. 

"Oh, you are too little to understand, " said Anne. But she felt ratherashamed of saying it; for had she not, in keen remembrance of manysimilar snubs administered in her own early years, solemnly vowed thatshe would never tell any child it was too little to understand? Yet hereshe was doing it . . . So wide sometimes is the gulf between theory andpractice. 

"Well, I'm doing my best to grow, " said Davy, "but it's a thing youcan't hurry much. If Marilla wasn't so stingy with her jam I believe I'dgrow a lot faster. "

"Marilla is not stingy, Davy, " said Anne severely. "It is veryungrateful of you to say such a thing. "

"There's another word that means the same thing and sounds a lot better, but I don't just remember it, " said Davy, frowning intently. "I heardMarilla say she was it, herself, the other day. "

"If you mean ECONOMICAL, it's a VERY different thing from being stingy. It is an excellent trait in a person if she is economical. If Marillahad been stingy she wouldn't have taken you and Dora when your motherdied. Would you have liked to live with Mrs. Wiggins?"

"You just bet I wouldn't!" Davy was emphatic on that point. "Nor I don'twant to go out to Uncle Richard neither. I'd far rather live here, evenif Marilla is that long-tailed word when it comes to jam, 'cause YOU'REhere, Anne. Say, Anne, won't you tell me a story 'fore I go to sleep? Idon't want a fairy story. They're all right for girls, I s'pose, but Iwant something exciting . . . Lots of killing and shooting in it, and ahouse on fire, and in'trusting things like that. "

Fortunately for Anne, Marilla called out at this moment from her room. 

"Anne, Diana's signaling at a great rate. You'd better see what shewants. "

Anne ran to the east gable and saw flashes of light coming through thetwilight from Diana's window in groups of five, which meant, accordingto their old childish code, "Come over at once for I have somethingimportant to reveal. " Anne threw her white shawl over her head andhastened through the Haunted Wood and across Mr. Bell's pasture cornerto Orchard Slope. 

"I've good news for you, Anne, " said Diana. "Mother and I have justgot home from Carmody, and I saw Mary Sentner from Spencer vale inMr. Blair's store. She says the old Copp girls on the Tory Road have awillow-ware platter and she thinks it's exactly like the one we had atthe supper. She says they'll likely sell it, for Martha Copp has neverbeen known to keep anything she COULD sell; but if they won't there's aplatter at Wesley Keyson's at Spencervale and she knows they'd sell it, but she isn't sure it's just the same kind as Aunt Josephine's. "

"I'll go right over to Spencervale after it tomorrow, " said Anneresolutely, "and you must come with me. It will be such a weight offmy mind, for I have to go to town day after tomorrow and how can I faceyour Aunt Josephine without a willow-ware platter? It would be evenworse than the time I had to confess about jumping on the spare roombed. "

Both girls laughed over the old memory . . . Concerning which, if any ofmy readers are ignorant and curious, I must refer them to Anne's earlierhistory. 

The next afternoon the girls fared forth on their platter huntingexpedition. It was ten miles to Spencervale and the day was notespecially pleasant for traveling. It was very warm and windless, andthe dust on the road was such as might have been expected after sixweeks of dry weather. 

"Oh, I do wish it would rain soon, " sighed Anne. "Everything is soparched up. The poor fields just seem pitiful to me and the trees seemto be stretching out their hands pleading for rain. As for my garden, ithurts me every time I go into it. I suppose I shouldn't complain abouta garden when the farmers' crops are suffering so. Mr. Harrison says hispastures are so scorched up that his poor cows can hardly get a bite toeat and he feels guilty of cruelty to animals every time he meets theireyes. "

After a wearisome drive the girls reached Spencervale and turned downthe "Tory" Road . . . A green, solitary highway where the strips of grassbetween the wheel tracks bore evidence to lack of travel. Along most ofits extent it was lined with thick-set young spruces crowding downto the roadway, with here and there a break where the back field ofa Spencervale farm came out to the fence or an expanse of stumps wasaflame with fireweed and goldenrod. 

"Why is it called the Tory Road?" asked Anne. 

"Mr. Allan says it is on the principle of calling a place a grovebecause there are no trees in it, " said Diana, "for nobody lives alongthe road except the Copp girls and old Martin Bovyer at the further end, who is a Liberal. The Tory government ran the road through when theywere in power just to show they were doing something. "

Diana's father was a Liberal, for which reason she and Anne neverdiscussed politics. Green Gables folk had always been Conservatives. 

Finally the girls came to the old Copp homestead . . . A place of suchexceeding external neatness that even Green Gables would have sufferedby contrast. The house was a very old-fashioned one, situated on aslope, which fact had necessitated the building of a stone basementunder one end. The house and out-buildings were all whitewashed to acondition of blinding perfection and not a weed was visible in the primkitchen garden surrounded by its white paling. 

"The shades are all down, " said Diana ruefully. "I believe that nobodyis home. "

This proved to be the case. The girls looked at each other inperplexity. 

"I don't know what to do, " said Anne. "If I were sure the platter wasthe right kind I would not mind waiting until they came home. But if itisn't it may be too late to go to Wesley Keyson's afterward. "

Diana looked at a certain little square window over the basement. 

"That is the pantry window, I feel sure, " she said, "because this houseis just like Uncle Charles' at Newbridge, and that is their pantrywindow. The shade isn't down, so if we climbed up on the roof of thatlittle house we could look into the pantry and might be able to see theplatter. Do you think it would be any harm?"

"No, I don't think so, " decided Anne, after due reflection, "since ourmotive is not idle curiosity. "

This important point of ethics being settled, Anne prepared to mount theaforesaid "little house, " a construction of lathes, with a peaked roof, which had in times past served as a habitation for ducks. The Copp girlshad given up keeping ducks . . . "because they were such untidy birds". .. And the house had not been in use for some years, save as an abode ofcorrection for setting hens. Although scrupulously whitewashed it hadbecome somewhat shaky, and Anne felt rather dubious as she scrambled upfrom the vantage point of a keg placed on a box. 

"I'm afraid it won't bear my weight, " she said as she gingerly steppedon the roof. 

"Lean on the window sill, " advised Diana, and Anne accordingly leaned. Much to her delight, she saw, as she peered through the pane, awillow-ware platter, exactly such as she was in quest of, on the shelfin front of the window. So much she saw before the catastrophe came. Inher joy Anne forgot the precarious nature of her footing, incautiouslyceased to lean on the window sill, gave an impulsive little hop ofpleasure . . . And the next moment she had crashed through the roof upto her armpits, and there she hung, quite unable to extricate herself. Diana dashed into the duck house and, seizing her unfortunate friend bythe waist, tried to draw her down. 

"Ow . . . Don't, " shrieked poor Anne. "There are some long splinterssticking into me. See if you can put something under my feet . . . Thenperhaps I can draw myself up. "

Diana hastily dragged in the previously mentioned keg and Anne foundthat it was just sufficiently high to furnish a secure resting place forher feet. But she could not release herself. 

"Could I pull you out if I crawled up?" suggested Diana. 

Anne shook her head hopelessly. 

"No . . . The splinters hurt too badly. If you can find an axe you mightchop me out, though. Oh dear, I do really begin to believe that I wasborn under an ill-omened star. "

Diana searched faithfully but no axe was to be found. 

"I'll have to go for help, " she said, returning to the prisoner. 

"No, indeed, you won't, " said Anne vehemently. "If you do the story ofthis will get out everywhere and I shall be ashamed to show my face. No, we must just wait until the Copp girls come home and bind themto secrecy. They'll know where the axe is and get me out. I'm notuncomfortable, as long as I keep perfectly still . . . Not uncomfortablein BODY I mean. I wonder what the Copp girls value this house at. Ishall have to pay for the damage I've done, but I wouldn't mind that ifI were only sure they would understand my motive in peeping in at theirpantry window. My sole comfort is that the platter is just the kind Iwant and if Miss Copp will only sell it to me I shall be resigned towhat has happened. "

"What if the Copp girls don't come home until after night . . . Or tilltomorrow?" suggested Diana. 

"If they're not back by sunset you'll have to go for other assistance, I suppose, " said Anne reluctantly, "but you mustn't go until you reallyhave to. Oh dear, this is a dreadful predicament. I wouldn't mind mymisfortunes so much if they were romantic, as Mrs. Morgan's heroines'always are, but they are always just simply ridiculous. Fancy what theCopp girls will think when they drive into their yard and see a girl'shead and shoulders sticking out of the roof of one of their outhouses. Listen . . . Is that a wagon? No, Diana, I believe it is thunder. "

Thunder it was undoubtedly, and Diana, having made a hasty pilgrimagearound the house, returned to announce that a very black cloud wasrising rapidly in the northwest. 

"I believe we're going to have a heavy thunder-shower, " she exclaimed indismay, "Oh, Anne, what will we do?"

"We must prepare for it, " said Anne tranquilly. A thunderstorm seemed atrifle in comparison with what had already happened. "You'd better drivethe horse and buggy into that open shed. Fortunately my parasol is inthe buggy. Here . . . Take my hat with you. Marilla told me I was a gooseto put on my best hat to come to the Tory Road and she was right, as shealways is. "

Diana untied the pony and drove into the shed, just as the first heavydrops of rain fell. There she sat and watched the resulting downpour, which was so thick and heavy that she could hardly see Anne through it, holding the parasol bravely over her bare head. There was not a greatdeal of thunder, but for the best part of an hour the rain camemerrily down. Occasionally Anne slanted back her parasol and waved anencouraging hand to her friend; But conversation at that distance wasquite out of the question. Finally the rain ceased, the sun came out, and Diana ventured across the puddles of the yard. 

"Did you get very wet?" she asked anxiously. 

"Oh, no, " returned Anne cheerfully. "My head and shoulders are quitedry and my skirt is only a little damp where the rain beat through thelathes. Don't pity me, Diana, for I haven't minded it at all. I keptthinking how much good the rain will do and how glad my garden must befor it, and imagining what the flowers and buds would think when thedrops began to fall. I imagined out a most interesting dialogue betweenthe asters and the sweet peas and the wild canaries in the lilac bushand the guardian spirit of the garden. When I go home I mean to writeit down. I wish I had a pencil and paper to do it now, because I daresayI'll forget the best parts before I reach home. "

Diana the faithful had a pencil and discovered a sheet of wrapping paperin the box of the buggy. Anne folded up her dripping parasol, put on herhat, spread the wrapping paper on a shingle Diana handed up, and wroteout her garden idyl under conditions that could hardly be considered asfavorable to literature. Nevertheless, the result was quite pretty, andDiana was "enraptured" when Anne read it to her. 

"Oh, Anne, it's sweet . . . Just sweet. DO send it to the 'CanadianWoman. '"

Anne shook her head. 

"Oh, no, it wouldn't be suitable at all. There is no PLOT in it, yousee. It's just a string of fancies. I like writing such things, but ofcourse nothing of the sort would ever do for publication, for editorsinsist on plots, so Priscilla says. Oh, there's Miss Sarah Copp now. PLEASE, Diana, go and explain. "

Miss Sarah Copp was a small person, garbed in shabby black, with a hatchosen less for vain adornment than for qualities that would wear well. She looked as amazed as might be expected on seeing the curioustableau in her yard, but when she heard Diana's explanation she was allsympathy. She hurriedly unlocked the back door, produced the axe, andwith a few skillfull blows set Anne free. The latter, somewhat tiredand stiff, ducked down into the interior of her prison and thankfullyemerged into liberty once more. 

"Miss Copp, " she said earnestly. "I assure you I looked into your pantrywindow only to discover if you had a willow-ware platter. I didn't seeanything else--I didn't LOOK for anything else. "

"Bless you, that's all right, " said Miss Sarah amiably. "You needn'tworry--there's no harm done. Thank goodness, we Copps keep our pantriespresentable at all times and don't care who sees into them. As for thatold duckhouse, I'm glad it's smashed, for maybe now Martha will agree tohaving it taken down. She never would before for fear it might come inhandy sometime and I've had to whitewash it every spring. But you mightas well argue with a post as with Martha. She went to town today--Idrove her to the station. And you want to buy my platter. Well, whatwill you give for it?"

"Twenty dollars, " said Anne, who was never meant to match business witswith a Copp, or she would not have offered her price at the start. 

"Well, I'll see, " said Miss Sarah cautiously. "That platter is minefortunately, or I'd never dare to sell it when Martha wasn't here. Asit is, I daresay she'll raise a fuss. Martha's the boss of thisestablishment I can tell you. I'm getting awful tired of living underanother woman's thumb. But come in, come in. You must be real tired andhungry. I'll do the best I can for you in the way of tea but I warn younot to expect anything but bread and butter and some cowcumbers. Marthalocked up all the cake and cheese and preserves afore she went. Shealways does, because she says I'm too extravagant with them if companycomes. "

The girls were hungry enough to do justice to any fare, and they enjoyedMiss Sarah's excellent bread and butter and "cowcumbers" thoroughly. When the meal was over Miss Sarah said, "I don't know as I mind selling the platter. But it's worth twenty-fivedollars. It's a very old platter. "

Diana gave Anne's foot a gentle kick under the table, meaning, "Don'tagree--she'll let it go for twenty if you hold out. " But Anne was notminded to take any chances in regard to that precious platter. Shepromptly agreed to give twenty-five and Miss Sarah looked as if she feltsorry she hadn't asked for thirty. 

"Well, I guess you may have it. I want all the money I can scare up justnow. The fact is--" Miss Sarah threw up her head importantly, with aproud flush on her thin cheeks--"I'm going to be married--to LutherWallace. He wanted me twenty years ago. I liked him real well but he waspoor then and father packed him off. I s'pose I shouldn't have let himgo so meek but I was timid and frightened of father. Besides, I didn'tknow men were so skurse. "

When the girls were safely away, Diana driving and Anne holdingthe coveted platter carefully on her lap, the green, rain-freshenedsolitudes of the Tory Road were enlivened by ripples of girlishlaughter. 

"I'll amuse your Aunt Josephine with the 'strange eventful history' ofthis afternoon when I go to town tomorrow. We've had a rather tryingtime but it's over now. I've got the platter, and that rain has laid thedust beautifully. So 'all's well that ends well. '"

"We're not home yet, " said Diana rather pessimistically, "and there'sno telling what may happen before we are. You're such a girl to haveadventures, Anne. "

"Having adventures comes natural to some people, " said Anne serenely. "You just have a gift for them or you haven't. "

XIX

Just a Happy Day

"After all, " Anne had said to Marilla once, "I believe the nicest andsweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderfulor exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string. "

Life at Green Gables was full of just such days, for Anne's adventuresand misadventures, like those of other people, did not all happen atonce, but were sprinkled over the year, with long stretches of harmless, happy days between, filled with work and dreams and laughter andlessons. Such a day came late in August. In the forenoon Anne and Dianarowed the delighted twins down the pond to the sandshore to pick "sweetgrass" and paddle in the surf, over which the wind was harping an oldlyric learned when the world was young. 

In the afternoon Anne walked down to the old Irving place to see Paul. She found him stretched out on the grassy bank beside the thick firgrove that sheltered the house on the north, absorbed in a book of fairytales. He sprang up radiantly at sight of her. 

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, teacher, " he said eagerly, "becauseGrandma's away. You'll stay and have tea with me, won't you? It's solonesome to have tea all by oneself. YOU know, teacher. I've had seriousthoughts of asking Young Mary Joe to sit down and eat her tea with me, but I expect Grandma wouldn't approve. She says the French have to bekept in their place. And anyhow, it's difficult to talk with Young MaryJoe. She just laughs and says, 'Well, yous do beat all de kids I everknowed. ' That isn't my idea of conversation. "

"Of course I'll stay to tea, " said Anne gaily. "I was dying to be asked. My mouth has been watering for some more of your grandma's deliciousshortbread ever since I had tea here before. "

Paul looked very sober. 

"If it depended on me, teacher, " he said, standing before Anne with hishands in his pockets and his beautiful little face shadowed with suddencare, "You should have shortbread with a right good will. But it dependson Mary Joe. I heard Grandma tell her before she left that she wasn't togive me any shortcake because it was too rich for little boys' stomachs. But maybe Mary Joe will cut some for you if I promise I won't eat any. Let us hope for the best. "

"Yes, let us, " agreed Anne, whom this cheerful philosophy suitedexactly, "and if Mary Joe proves hard-hearted and won't give me anyshortbread it doesn't matter in the least, so you are not to worry overthat. "

"You're sure you won't mind if she doesn't?" said Paul anxiously. 

"Perfectly sure, dear heart. "

"Then I won't worry, " said Paul, with a long breath of relief, "especially as I really think Mary Joe will listen to reason. She's nota naturally unreasonable person, but she has learned by experience thatit doesn't do to disobey Grandma's orders. Grandma is an excellent womanbut people must do as she tells them. She was very much pleased withme this morning because I managed at last to eat all my plateful ofporridge. It was a great effort but I succeeded. Grandma says she thinksshe'll make a man of me yet. But, teacher, I want to ask you a veryimportant question. You will answer it truthfully, won't you?"

"I'll try, " promised Anne. 

"Do you think I'm wrong in my upper story?" asked Paul, as if his veryexistence depended on her reply. 

"Goodness, no, Paul, " exclaimed Anne in amazement. "Certainly you'renot. What put such an idea into your head?"

"Mary Joe . . . But she didn't know I heard her. Mrs. Peter Sloane'shired girl, Veronica, came to see Mary Joe last evening and I heard themtalking in the kitchen as I was going through the hall. I heard Mary Joesay, 'Dat Paul, he is de queeres' leetle boy. He talks dat queer. I tinkdere's someting wrong in his upper story. ' I couldn't sleep last nightfor ever so long, thinking of it, and wondering if Mary Joe was right. Icouldn't bear to ask Grandma about it somehow, but I made up my mind I'dask you. I'm so glad you think I'm all right in my upper story. "

"Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant girl, and you arenever to worry about anything she says, " said Anne indignantly, secretlyresolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability ofrestraining Mary Joe's tongue. 

"Well, that's a weight off my mind, " said Paul. "I'm perfectly happynow, teacher, thanks to you. It wouldn't be nice to have something wrongin your upper story, would it, teacher? I suppose the reason MaryJoe imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about thingssometimes. "

"It is a rather dangerous practice, " admitted Anne, out of the depths ofher own experience. 

"Well, by and by I'll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Joe and you cansee for yourself if there's anything queer in them, " said Paul, "butI'll wait till it begins to get dark. That is the time I ache to tellpeople things, and when nobody else is handy I just HAVE to tell MaryJoe. But after this I won't, if it makes her imagine I'm wrong in myupper story. I'll just ache and bear it. "

"And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to Green Gables and tellme your thoughts, " suggested Anne, with all the gravity that endearedher to children, who so dearly love to be taken seriously. 

"Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won't be there when I go because he makesfaces at me. I don't mind VERY much because he is such a little boy andI am quite a big one, but still it is not pleasant to have faces madeat you. And Davy makes such terrible ones. Sometimes I am frightened hewill never get his face straightened out again. He makes them at mein church when I ought to be thinking of sacred things. Dora likes methough, and I like her, but not so well as I did before she toldMinnie May Barry that she meant to marry me when I grew up. I may marrysomebody when I grow up but I'm far too young to be thinking of it yet, don't you think, teacher?"

"Rather young, " agreed teacher. 

"Speaking of marrying, reminds me of another thing that has beentroubling me of late, " continued Paul. "Mrs. Lynde was down here oneday last week having tea with Grandma, and Grandma made me show hermy little mother's picture . . . The one father sent me for my birthdaypresent. I didn't exactly want to show it to Mrs. Lynde. Mrs. Lynde is agood, kind woman, but she isn't the sort of person you want to show yourmother's picture to. YOU know, teacher. But of course I obeyed Grandma. Mrs. Lynde said she was very pretty but kind of actressy looking, andmust have been an awful lot younger than father. Then she said, 'Some ofthese days your pa will be marrying again likely. How will you like tohave a new ma, Master Paul?' Well, the idea almost took my breath away, teacher, but I wasn't going to let Mrs. Lynde see THAT. I just lookedher straight in the face . . . Like this . . . And I said, 'Mrs. Lynde, father made a pretty good job of picking out my first mother and I couldtrust him to pick out just as good a one the second time. ' And I CANtrust him, teacher. But still, I hope, if he ever does give me a newmother, he'll ask my opinion about her before it's too late. There'sMary Joe coming to call us to tea. I'll go and consult with her aboutthe shortbread. "

As a result of the "consultation, " Mary Joe cut the shortbread and addeda dish of preserves to the bill of fare. Anne poured the tea and sheand Paul had a very merry meal in the dim old sitting room whose windowswere open to the gulf breezes, and they talked so much "nonsense" thatMary Joe was quite scandalized and told Veronica the next evening that"de school mees" was as queer as Paul. After tea Paul took Anne up tohis room to show her his mother's picture, which had been the mysteriousbirthday present kept by Mrs. Irving in the bookcase. Paul's littlelow-ceilinged room was a soft whirl of ruddy light from the sun that wassetting over the sea and swinging shadows from the fir trees that grewclose to the square, deep-set window. From out this soft glow and glamorshone a sweet, girlish face, with tender mother eyes, that was hangingon the wall at the foot of the bed. 

"That's my little mother, " said Paul with loving pride. "I got Grandmato hang it there where I'd see it as soon as I opened my eyes in themorning. I never mind not having the light when I go to bed now, becauseit just seems as if my little mother was right here with me. Father knewjust what I would like for a birthday present, although he never askedme. Isn't it wonderful how much fathers DO know?"

"Your mother was very lovely, Paul, and you look a little like her. Buther eyes and hair are darker than yours. "

"My eyes are the same color as father's, " said Paul, flying about theroom to heap all available cushions on the window seat, "but father'shair is gray. He has lots of it, but it is gray. You see, father isnearly fifty. That's ripe old age, isn't it? But it's only OUTSIDE he'sold. INSIDE he's just as young as anybody. Now, teacher, please sithere; and I'll sit at your feet. May I lay my head against your knee?That's the way my little mother and I used to sit. Oh, this is realsplendid, I think. "

"Now, I want to hear those thoughts which Mary Joe pronounces so queer, "said Anne, patting the mop of curls at her side. Paul never needed anycoaxing to tell his thoughts . . . At least, to congenial souls. 

"I thought them out in the fir grove one night, " he said dreamily. "Ofcourse I didn't BELIEVE them but I THOUGHT them. YOU know, teacher. Andthen I wanted to tell them to somebody and there was nobody but MaryJoe. Mary Joe was in the pantry setting bread and I sat down on thebench beside her and I said, 'Mary Joe, do you know what I think? Ithink the evening star is a lighthouse on the land where the fairiesdwell. ' And Mary Joe said, 'Well, yous are de queer one. Dare ain't nosuch ting as fairies. ' I was very much provoked. Of course, I knew thereare no fairies; but that needn't prevent my thinking there is. You know, teacher. But I tried again quite patiently. I said, 'Well then, MaryJoe, do you know what I think? I think an angel walks over the worldafter the sun sets . . . A great, tall, white angel, with silvery foldedwings . . . And sings the flowers and birds to sleep. Children can hearhim if they know how to listen. ' Then Mary Joe held up her hands allover flour and said, 'Well, yous are de queer leetle boy. Yous makeme feel scare. ' And she really did looked scared. I went out then andwhispered the rest of my thoughts to the garden. There was a littlebirch tree in the garden and it died. Grandma says the salt spraykilled it; but I think the dryad belonging to it was a foolish dryad whowandered away to see the world and got lost. And the little tree was solonely it died of a broken heart. "

"And when the poor, foolish little dryad gets tired of the world andcomes back to her tree HER heart will break, " said Anne. 

"Yes; but if dryads are foolish they must take the consequences, just asif they were real people, " said Paul gravely. "Do you know what I thinkabout the new moon, teacher? I think it is a little golden boat full ofdreams. "

"And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into yoursleep. "

"Exactly, teacher. Oh, you DO know. And I think the violets are littlesnips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes for thestars to shine through. And the buttercups are made out of old sunshine;and I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go to heaven. Now, teacher, do you see anything so very queer about those thoughts?"

"No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they are strange andbeautiful thoughts for a little boy to think, and so people who couldn'tthink anything of the sort themselves, if they tried for a hundredyears, think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul . . . Some dayyou are going to be a poet, I believe. "

When Anne reached home she found a very different type of boyhoodwaiting to be put to bed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressedhim he bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow. 

"Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers, " said Anne rebukingly. 

"No, I didn't forget, " said Davy defiantly, "but I ain't going to saymy prayers any more. I'm going to give up trying to be good, 'cause nomatter how good I am you'd like Paul Irving better. So I might as wellbe bad and have the fun of it. "

"I don't like Paul Irving BETTER, " said Anne seriously. "I like you justas well, only in a different way. "

"But I want you to like me the same way, " pouted Davy. 

"You can't like different people the same way. You don't like Dora andme the same way, do you?"

Davy sat up and reflected. 

"No . . . O . . . O, " he admitted at last, "I like Dora because she's mysister but I like you because you're YOU. "

"And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy, " saidAnne gaily. 

"Well, I kind of wish I'd said my prayers then, " said Davy, convinced bythis logic. "But it's too much bother getting out now to say them. I'llsay them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won't that do as well?"

No, Anne was positive it would not do as well. So Davy scrambled outand knelt down at her knee. When he had finished his devotions he leanedback on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her. 

"Anne, I'm gooder than I used to be. "

"Yes, indeed you are, Davy, " said Anne, who never hesitated to givecredit where credit was due. 

"I KNOW I'm gooder, " said Davy confidently, "and I'll tell you how Iknow it. Today Marilla give me two pieces of bread and jam, one for meand one for Dora. One was a good deal bigger than the other and Marilladidn't say which was mine. But I give the biggest piece to Dora. Thatwas good of me, wasn't it?"

"Very good, and very manly, Davy. "

"Of course, " admitted Davy, "Dora wasn't very hungry and she only ethalf her slice and then she give the rest to me. But I didn't know shewas going to do that when I give it to her, so I WAS good, Anne. "

In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad's Bubble and sawGilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had asudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how manlyhe looked--the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear, straightforwardeyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsomelad, even though he didn't look at all like her ideal man. She and Dianahad long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastesseemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and distinguished looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice. There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert'sphysiognomy, but of course that didn't matter in friendship!

Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and lookedapprovingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his idealwoman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, evento those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued tovex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy hashis dreams as have others, and in Gilbert's future there was always agirl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as aflower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy ofits goddess. Even in quiet Avonlea there were temptations to be metand faced. White Sands youth were a rather "fast" set, and Gilbert waspopular wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne'sfriendship and perhaps some distant day her love; and he watched overword and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were topass in judgment on it. She held over him the unconscious influence thatevery girl, whose ideals are high and pure, wields over her friends; aninfluence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those idealsand which she would as certainly lose if she were ever false to them. InGilbert's eyes Anne's greatest charm was the fact that she never stoopedto the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls--the smalljealousies, the little deceits and rivalries, the palpable bids forfavor. Anne held herself apart from all this, not consciously or ofdesign, but simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreignto her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal clear in its motives andaspirations. 

But Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into words, for he hadalready too good reason to know that Anne would mercilessly and frostilynip all attempts at sentiment in the bud--or laugh at him, which was tentimes worse. 

"You look like a real dryad under that birch tree, " he said teasingly. 

"I love birch trees, " said Anne, laying her cheek against the creamysatin of the slim bole, with one of the pretty, caressing gestures thatcame so natural to her. 

"Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr. Major Spencer has decided to setout a row of white birches all along the road front of his farm, by wayof encouraging the A. V. I. S. , " said Gilbert. "He was talking to me aboutit today. Major Spencer is the most progressive and public-spiritedman in Avonlea. And Mr. William Bell is going to set out a sprucehedge along his road front and up his lane. Our Society is getting onsplendidly, Anne. It is past the experimental stage and is an acceptedfact. The older folks are beginning to take an interest in it and theWhite Sands people are talking of starting one too. Even Elisha Wrighthas come around since that day the Americans from the hotel had thepicnic at the shore. They praised our roadsides so highly and said theywere so much prettier than in any other part of the Island. And when, indue time, the other farmers follow Mr. Spencer's good example and plantornamental trees and hedges along their road fronts Avonlea will be theprettiest settlement in the province. "

"The Aids are talking of taking up the graveyard, " said Anne, "and Ihope they will, because there will have to be a subscription for that, and it would be no use for the Society to try it after the hall affair. But the Aids would never have stirred in the matter if the Societyhadn't put it into their thoughts unofficially. Those trees we plantedon the church grounds are flourishing, and the trustees have promisedme that they will fence in the school grounds next year. If they do I'llhave an arbor day and every scholar shall plant a tree; and we'll have agarden in the corner by the road. "

"We've succeeded in almost all our plans so far, except in getting theold Boulter house removed, " said Gilbert, "and I've given THAT upin despair. Levi won't have it taken down just to vex us. There's acontrary streak in all the Boulters and it's strongly developed in him. "

"Julia Bell wants to send another committee to him, but I think thebetter way will just be to leave him severely alone, " said Anne sagely. 

"And trust to Providence, as Mrs. Lynde says, " smiled Gilbert. "Certainly, no more committees. They only aggravate him. Julia Bellthinks you can do anything, if you only have a committee to attemptit. Next spring, Anne, we must start an agitation for nice lawns andgrounds. We'll sow good seed betimes this winter. I've a treatise hereon lawns and lawnmaking and I'm going to prepare a paper on the subjectsoon. Well, I suppose our vacation is almost over. School opens Monday. Has Ruby Gillis got the Carmody school?"

"Yes; Priscilla wrote that she had taken her own home school, so theCarmody trustees gave it to Ruby. I'm sorry Priscilla is not comingback, but since she can't I'm glad Ruby has got the school. She will behome for Saturdays and it will seem like old times, to have her and Janeand Diana and myself all together again. "

Marilla, just home from Mrs. Lynde's, was sitting on the back porch stepwhen Anne returned to the house. 

"Rachel and I have decided to have our cruise to town tomorrow, " shesaid. "Mr. Lynde is feeling better this week and Rachel wants to gobefore he has another sick spell. "

"I intend to get up extra early tomorrow morning, for I've ever so muchto do, " said Anne virtuously. "For one thing, I'm going to shift thefeathers from my old bedtick to the new one. I ought to have done itlong ago but I've just kept putting it off . . . It's such a detestabletask. It's a very bad habit to put off disagreeable things, and I nevermean to again, or else I can't comfortably tell my pupils not to do it. That would be inconsistent. Then I want to make a cake for Mr. Harrisonand finish my paper on gardens for the A. V. I. S. , and write Stella, andwash and starch my muslin dress, and make Dora's new apron. "

"You won't get half done, " said Marilla pessimistically. "I never yetplanned to do a lot of things but something happened to prevent me. "

XX

The Way It Often Happens

Anne rose betimes the next morning and blithely greeted the fresh day, when the banners of the sunrise were shaken triumphantly across thepearly skies. Green Gables lay in a pool of sunshine, flecked with thedancing shadows of poplar and willow. Beyond the land was Mr. Harrison'swheatfield, a great, windrippled expanse of pale gold. The world wasso beautiful that Anne spent ten blissful minutes hanging idly over thegarden gate drinking the loveliness in. 

After breakfast Marilla made ready for her journey. Dora was to go withher, having been long promised this treat. 

"Now, Davy, you try to be a good boy and don't bother Anne, " shestraitly charged him. "If you are good I'll bring you a striped candycane from town. "

For alas, Marilla had stooped to the evil habit of bribing people to begood!

"I won't be bad on purpose, but s'posen I'm bad zacksidentally?" Davywanted to know. 

"You'll have to guard against accidents, " admonished Marilla. "Anne, ifMr. Shearer comes today get a nice roast and some steak. If he doesn'tyou'll have to kill a fowl for dinner tomorrow. "

Anne nodded. 

"I'm not going to bother cooking any dinner for just Davy and myselftoday, " she said. "That cold ham bone will do for noon lunch and I'llhave some steak fried for you when you come home at night. "

"I'm going to help Mr. Harrison haul dulse this morning, " announcedDavy. "He asked me to, and I guess he'll ask me to dinner too. Mr. Harrison is an awful kind man. He's a real sociable man. I hope I'll belike him when I grow up. I mean BEHAVE like him . . . I don't want to LOOKlike him. But I guess there's no danger, for Mrs. Lynde says I'm a veryhandsome child. Do you s'pose it'll last, Anne? I want to know?"

"I daresay it will, " said Anne gravely. "You ARE a handsome boy, Davy, " . . . Marilla looked volumes of disapproval . . . "but you must live up toit and be just as nice and gentlemanly as you look to be. "

"And you told Minnie May Barry the other day, when you found her crying'cause some one said she was ugly, that if she was nice and kind andloving people wouldn't mind her looks, " said Davy discontentedly. "Seemsto me you can't get out of being good in this world for some reason or'nother. You just HAVE to behave. "

"Don't you want to be good?" asked Marilla, who had learned a great dealbut had not yet learned the futility of asking such questions. 

"Yes, I want to be good but not TOO good, " said Davy cautiously. "Youdon't have to be very good to be a Sunday School superintendent. Mr. Bell's that, and he's a real bad man. "

"Indeed he's not, " said Marila indignantly. 

"He is . . . He says he is himself, " asseverated Davy. "He said it whenhe prayed in Sunday School last Sunday. He said he was a vile worm anda miserable sinner and guilty of the blackest 'niquity. What did he dothat was so bad, Marilla? Did he kill anybody? Or steal the collectioncents? I want to know. "

Fortunately Mrs. Lynde came driving up the lane at this moment andMarilla made off, feeling that she had escaped from the snare of thefowler, and wishing devoutly that Mr. Bell were not quite so highlyfigurative in his public petitions, especially in the hearing of smallboys who were always "wanting to know. "

Anne, left alone in her glory, worked with a will. The floor was swept, the beds made, the hens fed, the muslin dress washed and hung out on theline. Then Anne prepared for the transfer of feathers. She mounted tothe garret and donned the first old dress that came to hand . . . A navyblue cashmere she had worn at fourteen. It was decidedly on the shortside and as "skimpy" as the notable wincey Anne had worn upon theoccasion of her debut at Green Gables; but at least it would not bematerially injured by down and feathers. Anne completed her toilet bytying a big red and white spotted handkerchief that had belonged toMatthew over her head, and, thus accoutred, betook herself to thekitchen chamber, whither Marilla, before her departure, had helped hercarry the feather bed. 

A cracked mirror hung by the chamber window and in an unlucky momentAnne looked into it. There were those seven freckles on her nose, more rampant than ever, or so it seemed in the glare of light from theunshaded window. 

"Oh, I forgot to rub that lotion on last night, " she thought. "I'dbetter run down to the pantry and do it now. "

Anne had already suffered many things trying to remove those freckles. On one occasion the entire skin had peeled off her nose but the frecklesremained. A few days previously she had found a recipe for a frecklelotion in a magazine and, as the ingredients were within her reach, shestraightway compounded it, much to the disgust of Marilla, who thoughtthat if Providence had placed freckles on your nose it was your boundenduty to leave them there. 

Anne scurried down to the pantry, which, always dim from the big willowgrowing close to the window, was now almost dark by reason of the shadedrawn to exclude flies. Anne caught the bottle containing the lotionfrom the shelf and copiously anointed her nose therewith by means ofa little sponge sacred to the purpose. This important duty done, shereturned to her work. Any one who has ever shifted feathers from onetick to another will not need to be told that when Anne finished shewas a sight to behold. Her dress was white with down and fluff, and herfront hair, escaping from under the handkerchief, was adorned with averitable halo of feathers. At this auspicious moment a knock sounded atthe kitchen door. 

"That must be Mr. Shearer, " thought Anne. "I'm in a dreadful mess butI'll have to run down as I am, for he's always in a hurry. "

Down flew Anne to the kitchen door. If ever a charitable floor did opento swallow up a miserable, befeathered damsel the Green Gables porchfloor should promptly have engulfed Anne at that moment. On the doorstepwere standing Priscilla Grant, golden and fair in silk attire, a short, stout gray-haired lady in a tweed suit, and another lady, tallstately, wonderfully gowned, with a beautiful, highbred face and large, black-lashed violet eyes, whom Anne "instinctively felt, " as she wouldhave said in her earlier days, to be Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan. 

In the dismay of the moment one thought stood out from the confusion ofAnne's mind and she grasped at it as at the proverbial straw. All Mrs. Morgan's heroines were noted for "rising to the occasion. " No matterwhat their troubles were, they invariably rose to the occasion andshowed their superiority over all ills of time, space, and quantity. Anne therefore felt it was HER duty to rise to the occasion and she didit, so perfectly that Priscilla afterward declared she never admiredAnne Shirley more than at that moment. No matter what her outragedfeelings were she did not show them. She greeted Priscilla and wasintroduced to her companions as calmly and composedly as if she had beenarrayed in purple and fine linen. To be sure, it was somewhat of a shockto find that the lady she had instinctively felt to be Mrs. Morgan wasnot Mrs. Morgan at all, but an unknown Mrs. Pendexter, while the stoutlittle gray-haired woman was Mrs. Morgan; but in the greater shock thelesser lost its power. Anne ushered her guests to the spare room andthence into the parlor, where she left them while she hastened out tohelp Priscilla unharness her horse. 

"It's dreadful to come upon you so unexpectedly as this, " apologizedPriscilla, "but I did not know till last night that we were coming. AuntCharlotte is going away Monday and she had promised to spend today witha friend in town. But last night her friend telephoned to her not tocome because they were quarantined for scarlet fever. So I suggested wecome here instead, for I knew you were longing to see her. We calledat the White Sands Hotel and brought Mrs. Pendexter with us. She is afriend of aunt's and lives in New York and her husband is a millionaire. We can't stay very long, for Mrs. Pendexter has to be back at the hotelby five o'clock. "

Several times while they were putting away the horse Anne caughtPriscilla looking at her in a furtive, puzzled way. 

"She needn't stare at me so, " Anne thought a little resentfully. "If shedoesn't KNOW what it is to change a feather bed she might IMAGINE it. "

When Priscilla had gone to the parlor, and before Anne could escapeupstairs, Diana walked into the kitchen. Anne caught her astonishedfriend by the arm. 

"Diana Barry, who do you suppose is in that parlor at this very moment?Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan . . . And a New York millionaire's wife . . . Andhere I am like THIS . . . And NOT A THING IN THE HOUSE FOR DINNER BUT ACOLD HAM BONE, Diana!"

By this time Anne had become aware that Diana was staring at her inprecisely the same bewildered fashion as Priscilla had done. It wasreally too much. 

"Oh, Diana, don't look at me so, " she implored. "YOU, at least, mustknow that the neatest person in the world couldn't empty feathers fromone tick into another and remain neat in the process. "

"It . . . It . . . Isn't the feathers, " hesitated Diana. "It's . . . It's . . . Your nose, Anne. "

"My nose? Oh, Diana, surely nothing has gone wrong with it!"

Anne rushed to the little looking glass over the sink. One glancerevealed the fatal truth. Her nose was a brilliant scarlet!

Anne sat down on the sofa, her dauntless spirit subdued at last. 

"What is the matter with it?" asked Diana, curiosity overcomingdelicacy. 

"I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotion on it, but I must have usedthat red dye Marilla has for marking the pattern on her rugs, " was thedespairing response. "What shall I do?"

"Wash it off, " said Diana practically. 

"Perhaps it won't wash off. First I dye my hair; then I dye my nose. Marilla cut my hair off when I dyed it but that remedy would hardly bepracticable in this case. Well, this is another punishment for vanityand I suppose I deserve it . . . Though there's not much comfort in THAT. It is really almost enough to make one believe in ill-luck, though Mrs. Lynde says there is no such thing, because everything is foreordained. "

Fortunately the dye washed off easily and Anne, somewhat consoled, betook herself to the east gable while Diana ran home. Presently Annecame down again, clothed and in her right mind. The muslin dress she hadfondly hoped to wear was bobbing merrily about on the line outside, soshe was forced to content herself with her black lawn. She had the fireon and the tea steeping when Diana returned; the latter wore HER muslin, at least, and carried a covered platter in her hand. 

"Mother sent you this, " she said, lifting the cover and displaying anicely carved and jointed chicken to Anne's greatful eyes. 

The chicken was supplemented by light new bread, excellent butter andcheese, Marilla's fruit cake and a dish of preserved plums, floatingin their golden syrup as in congealed summer sunshine. There was a bigbowlful of pink-and-white asters also, by way of decoration; yet thespread seemed very meager beside the elaborate one formerly prepared forMrs. Morgan. 

Anne's hungry guests, however, did not seem to think anything waslacking and they ate the simple viands with apparent enjoyment. Butafter the first few moments Anne thought no more of what was or wasnot on her bill of fare. Mrs. Morgan's appearance might be somewhatdisappointing, as even her loyal worshippers had been forced to admit toeach other; but she proved to be a delightful conversationalist. She hadtraveled extensively and was an excellent storyteller. She had seenmuch of men and women, and crystalized her experiences into witty littlesentences and epigrams which made her hearers feel as if they werelistening to one of the people in clever books. But under all hersparkle there was a strongly felt undercurrent of true, womanly sympathyand kindheartedness which won affection as easily as her brilliancywon admiration. Nor did she monopolize the conversation. She could drawothers out as skillfully and fully as she could talk herself, and Anneand Diana found themselves chattering freely to her. Mrs. Pendexter saidlittle; she merely smiled with her lovely eyes and lips, and ate chickenand fruit cake and preserves with such exquisite grace that she conveyedthe impression of dining on ambrosia and honeydew. But then, as Annesaid to Diana later on, anybody so divinely beautiful as Mrs. Pendexterdidn't need to talk; it was enough for her just to LOOK. 

After dinner they all had a walk through Lover's Lane and Violet Valeand the Birch Path, then back through the Haunted Wood to the Dryad'sBubble, where they sat down and talked for a delightful last half hour. Mrs. Morgan wanted to know how the Haunted Wood came by its name, andlaughed until she cried when she heard the story and Anne's dramaticaccount of a certain memorable walk through it at the witching hour oftwilight. 

"It has indeed been a feast of reason and flow of soul, hasn't it?" saidAnne, when her guests had gone and she and Diana were alone again. "Idon't know which I enjoyed more . . . Listening to Mrs. Morgan or gazingat Mrs. Pendexter. I believe we had a nicer time than if we'd known theywere coming and been cumbered with much serving. You must stay to teawith me, Diana, and we'll talk it all over. "

"Priscilla says Mrs. Pendexter's husband's sister is married to anEnglish earl; and yet she took a second helping of the plum preserves, "said Diana, as if the two facts were somehow incompatible. 

"I daresay even the English earl himself wouldn't have turned up hisaristocratic nose at Marilla's plum preserves, " said Anne proudly. 

Anne did not mention the misfortune which had befallen HER nose whenshe related the day's history to Marilla that evening. But she took thebottle of freckle lotion and emptied it out of the window. 

"I shall never try any beautifying messes again, " she said, darklyresolute. "They may do for careful, deliberate people; but for anyone sohopelessly given over to making mistakes as I seem to be it's temptingfate to meddle with them. "

XXI

Sweet Miss Lavendar

School opened and Anne returned to her work, with fewer theories butconsiderably more experience. She had several new pupils, six- andseven-year-olds just venturing, round-eyed, into a world of wonder. Among them were Davy and Dora. Davy sat with Milty Boulter, who had beengoing to school for a year and was therefore quite a man of the world. Dora had made a compact at Sunday School the previous Sunday to sitwith Lily Sloane; but Lily Sloane not coming the first day, she wastemporarily assigned to Mirabel Cotton, who was ten years old andtherefore, in Dora's eyes, one of the "big girls. "

"I think school is great fun, " Davy told Marilla when he got home thatnight. "You said I'd find it hard to sit still and I did . . . You mostlydo tell the truth, I notice . . . But you can wriggle your legs aboutunder the desk and that helps a lot. It's splendid to have so many boysto play with. I sit with Milty Boulter and he's fine. He's longer thanme but I'm wider. It's nicer to sit in the back seats but you can't sitthere till your legs grow long enough to touch the floor. Milty drawed apicture of Anne on his slate and it was awful ugly and I told him if hemade pictures of Anne like that I'd lick him at recess. I thought firstI'd draw one of him and put horns and a tail on it, but I was afraid itwould hurt his feelings, and Anne says you should never hurt anyone'sfeelings. It seems it's dreadful to have your feelings hurt. It's betterto knock a boy down than hurt his feelings if you MUST do something. Milty said he wasn't scared of me but he'd just as soon call it somebodyelse to 'blige me, so he rubbed out Anne's name and printed BarbaraShaw's under it. Milty doesn't like Barbara 'cause she calls him a sweetlittle boy and once she patted him on his head. "

Dora said primly that she liked school; but she was very quiet, evenfor her; and when at twilight Marilla bade her go upstairs to bed shehesitated and began to cry. 

"I'm . . . I'm frightened, " she sobbed. "I . . . I don't want to goupstairs alone in the dark. "

"What notion have you got into your head now?" demanded Marilla. "I'msure you've gone to bed alone all summer and never been frightenedbefore. "

Dora still continued to cry, so Anne picked her up, cuddled hersympathetically, and whispered, "Tell Anne all about it, sweetheart. What are you frightened of?"

"Of . . . Of Mirabel Cotton's uncle, " sobbed Dora. "Mirabel Cotton told meall about her family today in school. Nearly everybody in her family hasdied . . . All her grandfathers and grandmothers and ever so many unclesand aunts. They have a habit of dying, Mirabel says. Mirabel's awfulproud of having so many dead relations, and she told me what they alldied of, and what they said, and how they looked in their coffins. AndMirabel says one of her uncles was seen walking around the house afterhe was buried. Her mother saw him. I don't mind the rest so much but Ican't help thinking about that uncle. "

Anne went upstairs with Dora and sat by her until she fell asleep. Thenext day Mirabel Cotton was kept in at recess and "gently but firmly"given to understand that when you were so unfortunate as to possess anuncle who persisted in walking about houses after he had been decentlyinterred it was not in good taste to talk about that eccentric gentlemanto your deskmate of tender years. Mirabel thought this very harsh. TheCottons had not much to boast of. How was she to keep up her prestigeamong her schoolmates if she were forbidden to make capital out of thefamily ghost?

September slipped by into a gold and crimson graciousness of October. One Friday evening Diana came over. 

"I'd a letter from Ella Kimball today, Anne, and she wants us to go overto tea tomorrow afternoon to meet her cousin, Irene Trent, from town. But we can't get one of our horses to go, for they'll all be in usetomorrow, and your pony is lame . . . So I suppose we can't go. "

"Why can't we walk?" suggested Anne. "If we go straight back through thewoods we'll strike the West Grafton road not far from the Kimball place. I was through that way last winter and I know the road. It's no morethan four miles and we won't have to walk home, for Oliver Kimball willbe sure to drive us. He'll be only too glad of the excuse, for he goesto see Carrie Sloane and they say his father will hardly ever let himhave a horse. "

It was accordingly arranged that they should walk, and the followingafternoon they set out, going by way of Lover's Lane to the back of theCuthbert farm, where they found a road leading into the heart of acresof glimmering beech and maple woods, which were all in a wondrous glowof flame and gold, lying in a great purple stillness and peace. 

"It's as if the year were kneeling to pray in a vast cathedral full ofmellow stained light, isn't it?" said Anne dreamily. "It doesn't seemright to hurry through it, does it? It seems irreverent, like running ina church. "

"We MUST hurry though, " said Diana, glancing at her watch. "We've leftourselves little enough time as it is. "

"Well, I'll walk fast but don't ask me to talk, " said Anne, quickeningher pace. "I just want to drink the day's loveliness in . . . I feel as ifshe were holding it out to my lips like a cup of airy wine and I'll takea sip at every step. "

Perhaps it was because she was so absorbed in "drinking it in" that Annetook the left turning when they came to a fork in the road. She shouldhave taken the right, but ever afterward she counted it the mostfortunate mistake of her life. They came out finally to a lonely, grassyroad, with nothing in sight along it but ranks of spruce saplings. 

"Why, where are we?" exclaimed Diana in bewilderment. "This isn't theWest Grafton road. "

"No, it's the base line road in Middle Grafton, " said Anne, rathershamefacedly. "I must have taken the wrong turning at the fork. Idon't know where we are exactly, but we must be all of three miles fromKimballs' still. "

"Then we can't get there by five, for it's half past four now, " saidDiana, with a despairing look at her watch. "We'll arrive after theyhave had their tea, and they'll have all the bother of getting ours overagain. "

"We'd better turn back and go home, " suggested Anne humbly. But Diana, after consideration, vetoed this. 

"No, we may as well go and spend the evening, since we have come thisfar. "

A few yards further on the girls came to a place where the road forkedagain. 

"Which of these do we take?" asked Diana dubiously. 

Anne shook her head. 

"I don't know and we can't afford to make any more mistakes. Here is agate and a lane leading right into the wood. There must be a house atthe other side. Let us go down and inquire. "

"What a romantic old lane this it, " said Diana, as they walked along itstwists and turns. It ran under patriarchal old firs whose branches metabove, creating a perpetual gloom in which nothing except moss couldgrow. On either hand were brown wood floors, crossed here and thereby fallen lances of sunlight. All was very still and remote, as if theworld and the cares of the world were far away. 

"I feel as if we were walking through an enchanted forest, " said Anne ina hushed tone. "Do you suppose we'll ever find our way back to thereal world again, Diana? We shall presently come to a palace with aspellbound princess in it, I think. "

Around the next turn they came in sight, not indeed of a palace, but ofa little house almost as surprising as a palace would have been in thisprovince of conventional wooden farmhouses, all as much alike in generalcharacteristics as if they had grown from the same seed. Anne stoppedshort in rapture and Diana exclaimed, "Oh, I know where we are now. That is the little stone house where Miss Lavendar Lewis lives . . . EchoLodge, she calls it, I think. I've often heard of it but I've never seenit before. Isn't it a romantic spot?"

"It's the sweetest, prettiest place I ever saw or imagined, " said Annedelightedly. "It looks like a bit out of a story book or a dream. "

The house was a low-eaved structure built of undressed blocks of redIsland sandstone, with a little peaked roof out of which peered twodormer windows, with quaint wooden hoods over them, and two greatchimneys. The whole house was covered with a luxuriant growth of ivy, finding easy foothold on the rough stonework and turned by autumn froststo most beautiful bronze and wine-red tints. 

Before the house was an oblong garden into which the lane gate wherethe girls were standing opened. The house bounded it on one side; onthe three others it was enclosed by an old stone dyke, so overgrown withmoss and grass and ferns that it looked like a high, green bank. On theright and left the tall, dark spruces spread their palm-like branchesover it; but below it was a little meadow, green with clover aftermath, sloping down to the blue loop of the Grafton River. No other house orclearing was in sight . . . Nothing but hills and valleys covered withfeathery young firs. 

"I wonder what sort of a person Miss Lewis is, " speculated Diana as theyopened the gate into the garden. "They say she is very peculiar. "

"She'll be interesting then, " said Anne decidedly. "Peculiar people arealways that at least, whatever else they are or are not. Didn't I tellyou we would come to an enchanted palace? I knew the elves hadn't wovenmagic over that lane for nothing. "

"But Miss Lavendar Lewis is hardly a spellbound princess, " laughedDiana. "She's an old maid . . . She's forty-five and quite gray, I'veheard. "

"Oh, that's only part of the spell, " asserted Anne confidently. "Atheart she's young and beautiful still . . . And if we only knew how tounloose the spell she would step forth radiant and fair again. But wedon't know how . . . It's always and only the prince who knows that. . . And Miss Lavendar's prince hasn't come yet. Perhaps some fatalmischance has befallen him . . . Though THAT'S against the law of allfairy tales. "

"I'm afraid he came long ago and went away again, " said Diana. "They sayshe used to be engaged to Stephan Irving . . . Paul's father . . . Whenthey were young. But they quarreled and parted. "

"Hush, " warned Anne. "The door is open. "

The girls paused in the porch under the tendrils of ivy and knockedat the open door. There was a patter of steps inside and a rather oddlittle personage presented herself . . . A girl of about fourteen, with afreckled face, a snub nose, a mouth so wide that it did really seem asif it stretched "from ear to ear, " and two long braids of fair hair tiedwith two enormous bows of blue ribbon. 

"Is Miss Lewis at home?" asked Diana. 

"Yes, ma'am. Come in, ma'am. I'll tell Miss Lavendar you're here, ma'am. She's upstairs, ma'am. "

With this the small handmaiden whisked out of sight and the girls, left alone, looked about them with delighted eyes. The interior of thiswonderful little house was quite as interesting as its exterior. 

The room had a low ceiling and two square, small-paned windows, curtained with muslin frills. All the furnishings were old-fashioned, but so well and daintily kept that the effect was delicious. But it mustbe candidly admitted that the most attractive feature, to two healthygirls who had just tramped four miles through autumn air, was a table, set out with pale blue china and laden with delicacies, while littlegolden-hued ferns scattered over the cloth gave it what Anne would havetermed "a festal air. "

"Miss Lavendar must be expecting company to tea, " she whispered. "Thereare six places set. But what a funny little girl she has. She lookedlike a messenger from pixy land. I suppose she could have told us theroad, but I was curious to see Miss Lavendar. S . . . S . . . Sh, she'scoming. "

And with that Miss Lavendar Lewis was standing in the doorway. The girlswere so surprised that they forgot good manners and simply stared. They had unconsciously been expecting to see the usual type of elderlyspinster as known to their experience . . . A rather angular personage, with prim gray hair and spectacles. Nothing more unlike Miss Lavendarcould possibly be imagined. 

She was a little lady with snow-white hair beautifully wavy and thick, and carefully arranged in becoming puffs and coils. Beneath it was analmost girlish face, pink cheeked and sweet lipped, with big soft browneyes and dimples . . . Actually dimples. She wore a very dainty gown ofcream muslin with pale-hued roses on it . . . A gown which would haveseemed ridiculously juvenile on most women of her age, but which suitedMiss Lavendar so perfectly that you never thought about it at all. 

"Charlotta the Fourth says that you wished to see me, " she said, in avoice that matched her appearance. 

"We wanted to ask the right road to West Grafton, " said Diana. "Weare invited to tea at Mr. Kimball's, but we took the wrong path comingthrough the woods and came out to the base line instead of the WestGrafton road. Do we take the right or left turning at your gate?"

"The left, " said Miss Lavendar, with a hesitating glance at her teatable. Then she exclaimed, as if in a sudden little burst of resolution, "But oh, won't you stay and have tea with me? Please, do. Mr. Kimball'swill have tea over before you get there. And Charlotta the Fourth and Iwill be so glad to have you. "

Diana looked mute inquiry at Anne. 

"We'd like to stay, " said Anne promptly, for she had made up her mindthat she wanted to know more of this surprising Miss Lavendar, "if itwon't inconvenience you. But you are expecting other guests, aren'tyou?"

Miss Lavendar looked at her tea table again, and blushed. 

"I know you'll think me dreadfully foolish, " she said. "I AM foolish. . . And I'm ashamed of it when I'm found out, but never unless I AMfound out. I'm not expecting anybody . . . I was just pretending I was. You see, I was so lonely. I love company . . . That is, the right kindof company.. . But so few people ever come here because it is so far outof the way. Charlotta the Fourth was lonely too. So I just pretended Iwas going to have a tea party. I cooked for it . . . And decorated thetable for it.. . And set it with my mother's wedding china . . . And Idressed up for it. " Diana secretly thought Miss Lavendar quite aspeculiar as report had pictured her. The idea of a woman of forty-fiveplaying at having a tea party, just as if she were a little girl! ButAnne of the shining eyes exclaimed joyfuly, "Oh, do YOU imagine thingstoo?"

That "too" revealed a kindred spirit to Miss Lavendar. 

"Yes, I do, " she confessed, boldly. "Of course it's silly in anybody asold as I am. But what is the use of being an independent old maid ifyou can't be silly when you want to, and when it doesn't hurt anybody?A person must have some compensations. I don't believe I could live attimes if I didn't pretend things. I'm not often caught at it though, andCharlotta the Fourth never tells. But I'm glad to be caught today, foryou have really come and I have tea all ready for you. Will you go up tothe spare room and take off your hats? It's the white door at the headof the stairs. I must run out to the kitchen and see that Charlotta theFourth isn't letting the tea boil. Charlotta the Fourth is a very goodgirl but she WILL let the tea boil. "

Miss Lavendar tripped off to the kitchen on hospitable thoughts intentand the girls found their way up to the spare room, an apartment aswhite as its door, lighted by the ivy-hung dormer window and looking, asAnne said, like the place where happy dreams grew. 

"This is quite an adventure, isn't it?" said Diana. "And isn't MissLavendar sweet, if she IS a little odd? She doesn't look a bit like anold maid. "

"She looks just as music sounds, I think, " answered Anne. 

When they went down Miss Lavendar was carrying in the teapot, and behindher, looking vastly pleased, was Charlotta the Fourth, with a plate ofhot biscuits. 

"Now, you must tell me your names, " said Miss Lavendar. "I'm so glad youare young girls. I love young girls. It's so easy to pretend I'm a girlmyself when I'm with them. I do hate" . . . With a little grimace . . . "tobelieve I'm old. Now, who are you . . . Just for convenience' sake? DianaBarry? And Anne Shirley? May I pretend that I've known you for a hundredyears and call you Anne and Diana right away?"

"You, may" the girls said both together. 

"Then just let's sit comfily down and eat everything, " said MissLavendar happily. "Charlotta, you sit at the foot and help with thechicken. It is so fortunate that I made the sponge cake and doughnuts. Of course, it was foolish to do it for imaginary guests . . . I knowCharlotta the Fourth thought so, didn't you, Charlotta? But you see howwell it has turned out. Of course they wouldn't have been wasted, forCharlotta the Fourth and I could have eaten them through time. Butsponge cake is not a thing that improves with time. "

That was a merry and memorable meal; and when it was over they all wentout to the garden, lying in the glamor of sunset. 

"I do think you have the loveliest place here, " said Diana, lookinground her admiringly. 

"Why do you call it Echo Lodge?" asked Anne. 

"Charlotta, " said Miss Lavendar, "go into the house and bring out thelittle tin horn that is hanging over the clock shelf. "

Charlotta the Fourth skipped off and returned with the horn. 

"Blow it, Charlotta, " commanded Miss Lavendar. 

Charlotta accordingly blew, a rather raucous, strident blast. There wasmoment's stillness . . . And then from the woods over the river came amultitude of fairy echoes, sweet, elusive, silvery, as if all the "hornsof elfland" were blowing against the sunset. Anne and Diana exclaimed indelight. 

"Now laugh, Charlotta . . . Laugh loudly. "

Charlotta, who would probably have obeyed if Miss Lavendar had told herto stand on her head, climbed upon the stone bench and laughed loudand heartily. Back came the echoes, as if a host of pixy people weremimicking her laughter in the purple woodlands and along the fir-fringedpoints. 

"People always admire my echoes very much, " said Miss Lavendar, as ifthe echoes were her personal property. "I love them myself. Theyare very good company . . . With a little pretending. On calm eveningsCharlotta the Fourth and I often sit out here and amuse ourselves withthem. Charlotta, take back the horn and hang it carefully in its place. "

"Why do you call her Charlotta the Fourth?" asked Diana, who wasbursting with curiosity on this point. 

"Just to keep her from getting mixed up with other Charlottas in mythoughts, " said Miss Lavendar seriously. "They all look so much alikethere's no telling them apart. Her name isn't really Charlotta at all. It is . . . Let me see . . . What is it? I THINK it's Leonora . . . Yes, itIS Leonora. You see, it is this way. When mother died ten years ago Icouldn't stay here alone . . . And I couldn't afford to pay the wages ofa grown-up girl. So I got little Charlotta Bowman to come and stay withme for board and clothes. Her name really was Charlotta . . . She wasCharlotta the First. She was just thirteen. She stayed with me tillshe was sixteen and then she went away to Boston, because she coulddo better there. Her sister came to stay with me then. Her name wasJulietta . . . Mrs. Bowman had a weakness for fancy names I think . . . But she looked so like Charlotta that I kept calling her that all thetime . . . And she didn't mind. So I just gave up trying to remember herright name. She was Charlotta the Second, and when she went away Evelinacame and she was Charlotta the Third. Now I have Charlotta the Fourth;but when she is sixteen . . . She's fourteen now . . . She will want togo to Boston too, and what I shall do then I really do not know. Charlotta the Fourth is the last of the Bowman girls, and the best. Theother Charlottas always let me see that they thought it silly of me topretend things but Charlotta the Fourth never does, no matter what shemay really think. I don't care what people think about me if they don'tlet me see it. "

"Well, " said Diana looking regretfully at the setting sun. "I supposewe must go if we want to get to Mr. Kimball's before dark. We've had alovely time, Miss Lewis. "

"Won't you come again to see me?" pleaded Miss Lavendar. 

Tall Anne put her arm about the little lady. 

"Indeed we shall, " she promised. "Now that we have discovered you we'llwear out our welcome coming to see you. Yes, we must go . . . 'we musttear ourselves away, ' as Paul Irving says every time he comes to GreenGables. "

"Paul Irving?" There was a subtle change in Miss Lavendar's voice. "Whois he? I didn't think there was anybody of that name in Avonlea. "

Anne felt vexed at her own heedlessness. She had forgotten about MissLavendar's old romance when Paul's name slipped out. 

"He is a little pupil of mine, " she explained slowly. "He came fromBoston last year to live with his grandmother, Mrs. Irving of the shoreroad. "

"Is he Stephen Irving's son?" Miss Lavendar asked, bending over hernamesake border so that her face was hidden. 

"Yes. "

"I'm going to give you girls a bunch of lavendar apiece, " said MissLavendar brightly, as if she had not heard the answer to her question. "It's very sweet, don't you think? Mother always loved it. She plantedthese borders long ago. Father named me Lavendar because he was so fondof it. The very first time he saw mother was when he visited her home inEast Grafton with her brother. He fell in love with her at first sight;and they put him in the spare room bed to sleep and the sheets werescented with lavendar and he lay awake all night and thought of her. Healways loved the scent of lavendar after that . . . And that was why hegave me the name. Don't forget to come back soon, girls dear. We'll belooking for you, Charlotta the Fourth and I. "

She opened the gate under the firs for them to pass through. She lookedsuddenly old and tired; the glow and radiance had faded from her face;her parting smile was as sweet with ineradicable youth as ever, butwhen the girls looked back from the first curve in the lane they saw hersitting on the old stone bench under the silver poplar in the middle ofthe garden with her head leaning wearily on her hand. 

"She does look lonely, " said Diana softly. "We must come often to seeher. "

"I think her parents gave her the only right and fitting name that couldpossibly be given her, " said Anne. "If they had been so blind as to nameher Elizabeth or Nellie or Muriel she must have been calledLavendar just the same, I think. It's so suggestive of sweetness andold-fashioned graces and 'silk attire. ' Now, my name just smacks ofbread and butter, patchwork and chores. "

"Oh, I don't think so, " said Diana. "Anne seems to me real stately andlike a queen. But I'd like Kerrenhappuch if it happened to be yourname. I think people make their names nice or ugly just by what they arethemselves. I can't bear Josie or Gertie for names now but before I knewthe Pye girls I thought them real pretty. "

"That's a lovely idea, Diana, " said Anne enthusiastically. "Living sothat you beautify your name, even if it wasn't beautiful to begin with. . . Making it stand in people's thoughts for something so lovely andpleasant that they never think of it by itself. Thank you, Diana. "

XXII

Odds and Ends

"So you had tea at the stone house with Lavendar Lewis?" said Marillaat the breakfast table next morning. "What is she like now? It's overfifteen years since I saw her last . . . It was one Sunday in Graftonchurch. I suppose she has changed a great deal. Davy Keith, when youwant something you can't reach, ask to have it passed and don't spreadyourself over the table in that fashion. Did you ever see Paul Irvingdoing that when he was here to meals?"

"But Paul's arms are longer'n mine, " brumbled Davy. "They've had elevenyears to grow and mine've only had seven. 'Sides, I DID ask, but youand Anne was so busy talking you didn't pay any 'tention. 'Sides, Paul'snever been here to any meal escept tea, and it's easier to be p'liteat tea than at breakfast. You ain't half as hungry. It's an awful longwhile between supper and breakfast. Now, Anne, that spoonful ain't anybigger than it was last year and I'M ever so much bigger. "

"Of course, I don't know what Miss Lavendar used to look like but Idon't fancy somehow that she has changed a great deal, " said Anne, aftershe had helped Davy to maple syrup, giving him two spoonfuls to pacifyhim. "Her hair is snow-white but her face is fresh and almost girlish, and she has the sweetest brown eyes . . . Such a pretty shade ofwood-brown with little golden glints in them . . . And her voice makesyou think of white satin and tinkling water and fairy bells all mixed uptogether. "

"She was reckoned a great beauty when she was a girl, " said Marilla. "Inever knew her very well but I liked her as far as I did know her. Somefolks thought her peculiar even then. DAVY, if ever I catch you at sucha trick again you'll be made to wait for your meals till everyone elseis done, like the French. "

Most conversations between Anne and Marilla in the presence of thetwins, were punctuated by these rebukes Davy-ward. In this instance, Davy, sad to relate, not being able to scoop up the last drops of hissyrup with his spoon, had solved the difficulty by lifting his plate inboth hands and applying his small pink tongue to it. Anne looked at himwith such horrified eyes that the little sinner turned red and said, half shamefacedly, half defiantly, "There ain't any wasted that way. "

"People who are different from other people are always called peculiar, "said Anne. "And Miss Lavendar is certainly different, though it's hardto say just where the difference comes in. Perhaps it is because she isone of those people who never grow old. "

"One might as well grow old when all your generation do, " said Marilla, rather reckless of her pronouns. "If you don't, you don't fit inanywhere. Far as I can learn Lavendar Lewis has just dropped out ofeverything. She's lived in that out of the way place until everybody hasforgotten her. That stone house is one of the oldest on the Island. OldMr. Lewis built it eighty years ago when he came out from England. Davy, stop joggling Dora's elbow. Oh, I saw you! You needn't try to lookinnocent. What does make you behave so this morning?"

"Maybe I got out of the wrong side of the bed, " suggested Davy. "MiltyBoulter says if you do that things are bound to go wrong with you allday. His grandmother told him. But which is the right side? And what areyou to do when your bed's against the wall? I want to know. "

"I've always wondered what went wrong between Stephen Irving andLavendar Lewis, " continued Marilla, ignoring Davy. "They were certainlyengaged twenty-five years ago and then all at once it was broken off. I don't know what the trouble was but it must have been somethingterrible, for he went away to the States and never come home since. "

"Perhaps it was nothing very dreadful after all. I think the littlethings in life often make more trouble than the big things, " said Anne, with one of those flashes of insight which experience could not havebettered. "Marilla, please don't say anything about my being at MissLavendar's to Mrs. Lynde. She'd be sure to ask a hundred questions andsomehow I wouldn't like it . . . Nor Miss Lavendar either if she knew, Ifeel sure. "

"I daresay Rachel would be curious, " admitted Marilla, "though shehasn't as much time as she used to have for looking after other people'saffairs. She's tied home now on account of Thomas; and she's feelingpretty downhearted, for I think she's beginning to lose hope of his evergetting better. Rachel will be left pretty lonely if anything happens tohim, with all her children settled out west, except Eliza in town; andshe doesn't like her husband. "

Marilla's pronouns slandered Eliza, who was very fond of her husband. 

"Rachel says if he'd only brace up and exert his will power he'd getbetter. But what is the use of asking a jellyfish to sit up straight?"continued Marilla. "Thomas Lynde never had any will power to exert. Hismother ruled him till he married and then Rachel carried it on. It's awonder he dared to get sick without asking her permission. But there, Ishouldn't talk so. Rachel has been a good wife to him. He'd never haveamounted to anything without her, that's certain. He was born to beruled; and it's well he fell into the hands of a clever, capable managerlike Rachel. He didn't mind her way. It saved him the bother of evermaking up his own mind about anything. Davy, do stop squirming like aneel. "

"I've nothing else to do, " protested Davy. "I can't eat any more, andit's no fun watching you and Anne eat. "

"Well, you and Dora go out and give the hens their wheat, " said Marilla. "And don't you try to pull any more feathers out of the white rooster'stail either. "

"I wanted some feathers for an Injun headdress, " said Davy sulkily. "Milty Boulter has a dandy one, made out of the feathers his mother givehim when she killed their old white gobbler. You might let me have some. That rooster's got ever so many more'n he wants. "

"You may have the old feather duster in the garret, " said Anne, "andI'll dye them green and red and yellow for you. "

"You do spoil that boy dreadfully, " said Marilla, when Davy, with aradiant face, had followed prim Dora out. Marilla's education had madegreat strides in the past six years; but she had not yet been able torid herself of the idea that it was very bad for a child to have toomany of its wishes indulged. 

"All the boys of his class have Indian headdresses, and Davy wants onetoo, " said Anne. "_I_ know how it feels . . . I'll never forget how I usedto long for puffed sleeves when all the other girls had them. And Davyisn't being spoiled. He is improving every day. Think what a differencethere is in him since he came here a year ago. "

"He certainly doesn't get into as much mischief since he began to go toschool, " acknowledged Marilla. "I suppose he works off the tendency withthe other boys. But it's a wonder to me we haven't heard from RichardKeith before this. Never a word since last May. "

"I'll be afraid to hear from him, " sighed Anne, beginning to clear awaythe dishes. "If a letter should come I'd dread opening it, for fear itwould tell us to send the twins to him. "

A month later a letter did come. But it was not from Richard Keith. Afriend of his wrote to say that Richard Keith had died of consumption afortnight previously. The writer of the letter was the executor of hiswill and by that will the sum of two thousand dollars was left to MissMarilla Cuthbert in trust for David and Dora Keith until they came ofage or married. In the meantime the interest was to be used for theirmaintenance. 

"It seems dreadful to be glad of anything in connection with a death, "said Anne soberly. "I'm sorry for poor Mr. Keith; but I AM glad that wecan keep the twins. "

"It's a very good thing about the money, " said Marilla practically. "Iwanted to keep them but I really didn't see how I could afford to doit, especially when they grew older. The rent of the farm doesn't do anymore than keep the house and I was bound that not a cent of your moneyshould be spent on them. You do far too much for them as it is. Doradidn't need that new hat you bought her any more than a cat needs twotails. But now the way is made clear and they are provided for. "

Davy and Dora were delighted when they heard that they were to live atGreen Gables, "for good. " The death of an uncle whom they had never seencould not weigh a moment in the balance against that. But Dora had onemisgiving. 

"Was Uncle Richard buried?" she whispered to Anne. 

"Yes, dear, of course. "

"He . . . He . . . Isn't like Mirabel Cotton's uncle, is he?" in a stillmore agitated whisper. "He won't walk about houses after being buried, will he, Anne?"

XXIII

Miss Lavendar's Romance

"I think I'll take a walk through to Echo Lodge this evening, " saidAnne, one Friday afternoon in December. 

"It looks like snow, " said Marilla dubiously. 

"I'll be there before the snow comes and I mean to stay all night. Dianacan't go because she has company, and I'm sure Miss Lavendar will belooking for me tonight. It's a whole fortnight since I was there. "

Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since that October day. Sometimes she and Diana drove around by the road; sometimes they walkedthrough the woods. When Diana could not go Anne went alone. Betweenher and Miss Lavendar had sprung up one of those fervent, helpfulfriendships possible only between a woman who has kept the freshness ofyouth in her heart and soul, and a girl whose imagination and intuitionsupplied the place of experience. Anne had at last discovered a real"kindred spirit, " while into the little lady's lonely, sequestered lifeof dreams Anne and Diana came with the wholesome joy and exhilaration ofthe outer existence, which Miss Lavendar, "the world forgetting, by theworld forgot, " had long ceased to share; they brought an atmosphere ofyouth and reality to the little stone house. Charlotta the Fourth alwaysgreeted them with her very widest smile . . . And Charlotta's smiles WEREfearfully wide . . . Loving them for the sake of her adored mistress aswell as for their own. Never had there been such "high jinks" held inthe little stone house as were held there that beautiful, late-lingeringautumn, when November seemed October over again, and even December apedthe sunshine and hazes of summer. 

But on this particular day it seemed as if December had remembered thatit was time for winter and had turned suddenly dull and brooding, witha windless hush predictive of coming snow. Nevertheless, Anne keenlyenjoyed her walk through the great gray maze of the beechlands; thoughalone she never found it lonely; her imagination peopled her pathwith merry companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pretendedconversation that was wittier and more fascinating than conversationsare apt to be in real life, where people sometimes fail most lamentablyto talk up to the requirements. In a "make believe" assembly of choicespirits everybody says just the thing you want her to say and so givesyou the chance to say just what YOU want to say. Attended by thisinvisible company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lanejust as broad, feathery flakes began to flutter down softly. 

At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big, broad-branching fir. She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head andshoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl. 

"You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies, " called Anne merrily. 

"I thought you would come tonight, Anne, " said Miss Lavendar, runningforward. "And I'm doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Hermother is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should havebeen very lonely if you hadn't come . . . Even the dreams and the echoeswouldn't have been enough company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are, "she added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the softrose-flush of walking on her face. "How pretty and how young! It's sodelightful to be seventeen, isn't it? I do envy you, " concluded MissLavendar candidly. 

"But you are only seventeen at heart, " smiled Anne. 

"No, I'm old . . . Or rather middle-aged, which is far worse, " sighed MissLavendar. "Sometimes I can pretend I'm not, but at other times I realizeit. And I can't reconcile myself to it as most women seem to. I'm justas rebellious as I was when I discovered my first gray hair. Now, Anne, don't look as if you were trying to understand. Seventeen CAN'Tunderstand. I'm going to pretend right away that I am seventeen too, andI can do it, now that you're here. You always bring youth in your handlike a gift. We're going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . What doyou want for tea? We'll have whatever you like. Do think of somethingnice and indigestible. "

There were sounds of riot and mirth in the little stone house thatnight. What with cooking and feasting and making candy and laughing and"pretending, " it is quite true that Miss Lavendar and Anne comportedthemselves in a fashion entirely unsuited to the dignity of a spinsterof forty-five and a sedate schoolma'am. Then, when they were tired, theysat down on the rug before the grate in the parlor, lighted only by thesoft fireshine and perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar's open rose-jaron the mantel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing aroundthe eaves and the snow was thudding softly against the windows, as if ahundred storm sprites were tapping for entrance. 

"I'm so glad you're here, Anne, " said Miss Lavendar, nibbling at hercandy. "If you weren't I should be blue . . . Very blue . . . Almost navyblue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and thesunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wantsreal things then. But you don't know this . . . Seventeen never knowsit. At seventeen dreams DO satisfy because you think the realities arewaiting for you further on. When I was seventeen, Anne, I didn't thinkforty-five would find me a white-haired little old maid with nothing butdreams to fill my life. "

"But you aren't an old maid, " said Anne, smiling into Miss Lavendar'swistful woodbrown eyes. "Old maids are BORN . . . They don't BECOME. "

"Some are born old maids, some achieve old maidenhood, and some have oldmaidenhood thrust upon them, " parodied Miss Lavendar whimsically. 

"You are one of those who have achieved it then, " laughed Anne, "andyou've done it so beautifully that if every old maid were like you theywould come into the fashion, I think. "

"I always like to do things as well as possible, " said Miss Lavendarmeditatively, "and since an old maid I had to be I was determined to bea very nice one. People say I'm odd; but it's just because I follow myown way of being an old maid and refuse to copy the traditional pattern. Anne, did anyone ever tell you anything about Stephen Irving and me?"

"Yes, " said Anne candidly, "I've heard that you and he were engagedonce. "

"So we were . . . Twenty-five years ago . . . A lifetime ago. And wewere to have been married the next spring. I had my wedding dress made, although nobody but mother and Stephen ever knew THAT. We'd been engagedin a way almost all our lives, you might say. When Stephen was a littleboy his mother would bring him here when she came to see my mother; andthe second time he ever came . . . He was nine and I was six . . . Hetold me out in the garden that he had pretty well made up his mind tomarry me when he grew up. I remember that I said 'Thank you'; and whenhe was gone I told mother very gravely that there was a great weight offmy mind, because I wasn't frightened any more about having to be an oldmaid. How poor mother laughed!"

"And what went wrong?" asked Anne breathlessly. 

"We had just a stupid, silly, commonplace quarrel. So commonplace that, if you'll believe me, I don't even remember just how it began. I hardlyknow who was the more to blame for it. Stephen did really begin it, butI suppose I provoked him by some foolishness of mine. He had a rival ortwo, you see. I was vain and coquettish and liked to tease him a little. He was a very high-strung, sensitive fellow. Well, we parted in a temperon both sides. But I thought it would all come right; and it would haveif Stephen hadn't come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I'm sorry to say". . . Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if she were about to confess apredilection for murdering people, "that I am a dreadfully sulky person. Oh, you needn't smile, . . . It's only too true. I DO sulk; and Stephencame back before I had finished sulking. I wouldn't listen to him and Iwouldn't forgive him; and so he went away for good. He was too proud tocome again. And then I sulked because he didn't come. I might have sentfor him perhaps, but I couldn't humble myself to do that. I was justas proud as he was . . . Pride and sulkiness make a very bad combination, Anne. But I could never care for anybody else and I didn't want to. I knew I would rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marryanybody who wasn't Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now, of course. How sympathetic you look, Anne . . . As sympathetic as onlyseventeen can look. But don't overdo it. I'm really a very happy, contented little person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break, if ever a heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not comingback. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life isn't half as dreadful asit is in books. It's a good deal like a bad tooth . . . Though you won'tthink THAT a very romantic simile. It takes spells of aching and givesyou a sleepless night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoylife and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing thematter with it. And now you're looking disappointed. You don't thinkI'm half as interesting a person as you did five minutes ago when youbelieved I was always the prey of a tragic memory bravely hidden beneathexternal smiles. That's the worst . . . Or the best . . . Of real life, Anne. It WON'T let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make youcomfortable . . . And succeeding... Even when you're determined to beunhappy and romantic. Isn't this candy scrumptious? I've eaten far morethan is good for me already but I'm going to keep recklessly on. "

After a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly, "It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen's son that first day you werehere, Anne. I've never been able to mention him to you since, but I'vewanted to know all about him. What sort of a boy is he?"

"He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, Miss Lavendar . . . Andhe pretends things too, just as you and I do. "

"I'd like to see him, " said Miss Lavendar softly, as if talking toherself. "I wonder if he looks anything like the little dream-boy wholives here with me . . . MY little dream-boy. "

"If you would like to see Paul I'll bring him through with me sometime, "said Anne. 

"I would like it . . . But not too soon. I want to get used to thethought. There might be more pain than pleasure in it . . . If he lookedtoo much like Stephen . . . Or if he didn't look enough like him. In amonth's time you may bring him. "

Accordingly, a month later Anne and Paul walked through the woods tothe stone house, and met Miss Lavendar in the lane. She had not beenexpecting them just then and she turned very pale. 

"So this is Stephen's boy, " she said in a low tone, taking Paul's handand looking at him as he stood, beautiful and boyish, in his smartlittle fur coat and cap. "He . . . He is very like his father. "

"Everybody says I'm a chip off the old block, " remarked Paul, quite athis ease. 

Anne, who had been watching the little scene, drew a relieved breath. She saw that Miss Lavendar and Paul had "taken" to each other, and thatthere would be no constraint or stiffness. Miss Lavendar was a verysensible person, in spite of her dreams and romance, and afterthat first little betrayal she tucked her feelings out of sight andentertained Paul as brightly and naturally as if he were anybody's sonwho had come to see her. They all had a jolly afternoon together andsuch a feast of fat things by way of supper as would have made old Mrs. Irving hold up her hands in horror, believing that Paul's digestionwould be ruined for ever. 

"Come again, laddie, " said Miss Lavendar, shaking hands with him atparting. 

"You may kiss me if you like, " said Paul gravely. 

Miss Lavendar stooped and kissed him. 

"How did you know I wanted to?" she whispered. 

"Because you looked at me just as my little mother used to do when shewanted to kiss me. As a rule, I don't like to be kissed. Boys don't. Youknow, Miss Lewis. But I think I rather like to have you kiss me. And ofcourse I'll come to see you again. I think I'd like to have you for aparticular friend of mine, if you don't object. "

"I . . . I don't think I shall object, " said Miss Lavendar. She turnedand went in very quickly; but a moment later she was waving a gay andsmiling good-bye to them from the window. 

"I like Miss Lavendar, " announced Paul, as they walked through the beechwoods. "I like the way she looked at me, and I like her stone house, andI like Charlotta the Fourth. I wish Grandma Irving had a Charlotta theFourth instead of a Mary Joe. I feel sure Charlotta the Fourth wouldn'tthink I was wrong in my upper story when I told her what I think aboutthings. Wasn't that a splendid tea we had, teacher? Grandma says a boyshouldn't be thinking about what he gets to eat, but he can't help itsometimes when he is real hungry. YOU know, teacher. I don't think MissLavendar would make a boy eat porridge for breakfast if he didn't likeit. She'd get things for him he did like. But of course" . . . Paul wasnothing if not fair-minded . . . "that mightn't be very good for him. It'svery nice for a change though, teacher. YOU know. "

XXIV

A Prophet in His Own Country

One May day Avonlea folks were mildly excited over some "AvonleaNotes, " signed "Observer, " which appeared in the Charlottetown 'DailyEnterprise. ' Gossip ascribed the authorship thereof to Charlie Sloane, partly because the said Charlie had indulged in similar literary flightsin times past, and partly because one of the notes seemed to embody asneer at Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea juvenile society persisted in regardingGilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane as rivals in the good graces of acertain damsel with gray eyes and an imagination. 

Gossip, as usual, was wrong. Gilbert Blythe, aided and abetted by Anne, had written the notes, putting in the one about himself as a blind. Onlytwo of the notes have any bearing on this history:

"Rumor has it that there will be a wedding in our village ere thedaisies are in bloom. A new and highly respected citizen will lead tothe hymeneal altar one of our most popular ladies. 

"Uncle Abe, our well-known weather prophet, predicts a violent stormof thunder and lightning for the evening of the twenty-third of May, beginning at seven o'clock sharp. The area of the storm will extend overthe greater part of the Province. People traveling that evening will dowell to take umbrellas and mackintoshes with them. "

"Uncle Abe really has predicted a storm for sometime this spring, " saidGilbert, "but do you suppose Mr. Harrison really does go to see IsabellaAndrews?"

"No, " said Anne, laughing, "I'm sure he only goes to play checkers withMr. Harrison Andrews, but Mrs. Lynde says she knows Isabella Andrewsmust be going to get married, she's in such good spirits this spring. "

Poor old Uncle Abe felt rather indignant over the notes. He suspectedthat "Observer" was making fun of him. He angrily denied having assignedany particular date for his storm but nobody believed him. 

Life in Avonlea continued on the smooth and even tenor of its way. The "planting" was put in; the Improvers celebrated an Arbor Day. EachImprover set out, or caused to be set out, five ornamental trees. As thesociety now numbered forty members, this meant a total of two hundredyoung trees. Early oats greened over the red fields; apple orchardsflung great blossoming arms about the farmhouses and the Snow Queenadorned itself as a bride for her husband. Anne liked to sleep with herwindow open and let the cherry fragrance blow over her face all night. She thought it very poetical. Marilla thought she was risking her life. 

"Thanksgiving should be celebrated in the spring, " said Anne one eveningto Marilla, as they sat on the front door steps and listened to thesilver-sweet chorus of the frogs. "I think it would be ever so muchbetter than having it in November when everything is dead or asleep. Then you have to remember to be thankful; but in May one simply can'thelp being thankful . . . That they are alive, if for nothing else. Ifeel exactly as Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden before thetrouble began. IS that grass in the hollow green or golden? It seems tome, Marilla, that a pearl of a day like this, when the blossoms are outand the winds don't know where to blow from next for sheer crazy delightmust be pretty near as good as heaven. "

Marilla looked scandalized and glanced apprehensively around to makesure the twins were not within earshot. They came around the corner ofthe house just then. 

"Ain't it an awful nice-smelling evening?" asked Davy, sniffingdelightedly as he swung a hoe in his grimy hands. He had been workingin his garden. That spring Marilla, by way of turning Davy's passion forreveling in mud and clay into useful channels, had given him and Doraa small plot of ground for a garden. Both had eagerly gone to work ina characteristic fashion. Dora planted, weeded, and watered carefully, systematically, and dispassionately. As a result, her plot was alreadygreen with prim, orderly little rows of vegetables and annuals. Davy, however, worked with more zeal than discretion; he dug and hoed andraked and watered and transplanted so energetically that his seeds hadno chance for their lives. 

"How is your garden coming on, Davy-boy?" asked Anne. 

"Kind of slow, " said Davy with a sigh. "I don't know why the thingsdon't grow better. Milty Boulter says I must have planted them in thedark of the moon and that's the whole trouble. He says you must neversow seeds or kill pork or cut your hair or do any 'portant thing in thewrong time of the moon. Is that true, Anne? I want to know. "

"Maybe if you didn't pull your plants up by the roots every other day tosee how they're getting on 'at the other end, ' they'd do better, " saidMarilla sarcastically. 

"I only pulled six of them up, " protested Davy. "I wanted to see ifthere was grubs at the roots. Milty Boulter said if it wasn't the moon'sfault it must be grubs. But I only found one grub. He was a great bigjuicy curly grub. I put him on a stone and got another stone and smashedhim flat. He made a jolly SQUISH I tell you. I was sorry there wasn'tmore of them. Dora's garden was planted same time's mine and her thingsare growing all right. It CAN'T be the moon, " Davy concluded in areflective tone. 

"Marilla, look at that apple tree, " said Anne. "Why, the thing is human. It is reaching out long arms to pick its own pink skirts daintily up andprovoke us to admiration. "

"Those Yellow Duchess trees always bear well, " said Marillacomplacently. "That tree'll be loaded this year. I'm real glad. . . They're great for pies. "

But neither Marilla nor Anne nor anybody else was fated to make pies outof Yellow Duchess apples that year. 

The twenty-third of May came . . . An unseasonably warm day, as nonerealized more keenly than Anne and her little beehive of pupils, sweltering over fractions and syntax in the Avonlea schoolroom. A hotbreeze blew all the forenoon; but after noon hour it died away into aheavy stillness. At half past three Anne heard a low rumble of thunder. She promptly dismissed school at once, so that the children might gethome before the storm came. 

As they went out to the playground Anne perceived a certain shadow andgloom over the world in spite of the fact that the sun was still shiningbrightly. Annetta Bell caught her hand nervously. 

"Oh, teacher, look at that awful cloud!"

Anne looked and gave an exclamation of dismay. In the northwest a massof cloud, such as she had never in all her life beheld before, wasrapidly rolling up. It was dead black, save where its curled and fringededges showed a ghastly, livid white. There was something about itindescribably menacing as it gloomed up in the clear blue sky; now andagain a bolt of lightning shot across it, followed by a savage growl. Ithung so low that it almost seemed to be touching the tops of the woodedhills. 

Mr. Harmon Andrews came clattering up the hill in his truck wagon, urging his team of grays to their utmost speed. He pulled them to a haltopposite the school. 

"Guess Uncle Abe's hit it for once in his life, Anne, " he shouted. "Hisstorm's coming a leetle ahead of time. Did ye ever see the like of thatcloud? Here, all you young ones, that are going my way, pile in, andthose that ain't scoot for the post office if ye've more'n a quarter ofa mile to go, and stay there till the shower's over. "

Anne caught Davy and Dora by the hands and flew down the hill, along theBirch Path, and past Violet Vale and Willowmere, as fast as the twins'fat legs could go. They reached Green Gables not a moment too soon andwere joined at the door by Marilla, who had been hustling her ducks andchickens under shelter. As they dashed into the kitchen the light seemedto vanish, as if blown out by some mighty breath; the awful cloud rolledover the sun and a darkness as of late twilight fell across the world. At the same moment, with a crash of thunder and a blinding glare oflightning, the hail swooped down and blotted the landscape out in onewhite fury. 

Through all the clamor of the storm came the thud of torn branchesstriking the house and the sharp crack of breaking glass. In threeminutes every pane in the west and north windows was broken and thehail poured in through the apertures covering the floor with stones, thesmallest of which was as big as a hen's egg. For three quarters of anhour the storm raged unabated and no one who underwent it ever forgotit. Marilla, for once in her life shaken out of her composure by sheerterror, knelt by her rocking chair in a corner of the kitchen, gaspingand sobbing between the deafening thunder peals. Anne, white as paper, had dragged the sofa away from the window and sat on it with a twin oneither side. Davy at the first crash had howled, "Anne, Anne, is it theJudgment Day? Anne, Anne, I never meant to be naughty, " and thenhad buried his face in Anne's lap and kept it there, his little bodyquivering. Dora, somewhat pale but quite composed, sat with her handclasped in Anne's, quiet and motionless. It is doubtful if an earthquakewould have disturbed Dora. 

Then, almost as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased. The hailstopped, the thunder rolled and muttered away to the eastward, and thesun burst out merry and radiant over a world so changed that it seemedan absurd thing to think that a scant three quarters of an hour couldhave effected such a transformation. 

Marilla rose from her knees, weak and trembling, and dropped on herrocker. Her face was haggard and she looked ten years older. 

"Have we all come out of that alive?" she asked solemnly. 

"You bet we have, " piped Davy cheerfully, quite his own man again. "Iwasn't a bit scared either . . . Only just at the first. It come on afellow so sudden. I made up my mind quick as a wink that I wouldn'tfight Teddy Sloane Monday as I'd promised; but now maybe I will. Say, Dora, was you scared?"

"Yes, I was a little scared, " said Dora primly, "but I held tight toAnne's hand and said my prayers over and over again. "

"Well, I'd have said my prayers too if I'd have thought of it, " saidDavy; "but, " he added triumphantly, "you see I came through just as safeas you for all I didn't say them. "

Anne got Marilla a glassful of her potent currant wine . . . HOW potentit was Anne, in her earlier days, had had all too good reason to know. . . And then they went to the door to look out on the strange scene. 

Far and wide was a white carpet, knee deep, of hailstones; drifts ofthem were heaped up under the eaves and on the steps. When, three orfour days later, those hailstones melted, the havoc they had wrought wasplainly seen, for every green growing thing in the field or garden wascut off. Not only was every blossom stripped from the apple trees butgreat boughs and branches were wrenched away. And out of the two hundredtrees set out by the Improvers by far the greater number were snappedoff or torn to shreds. 

"Can it possibly be the same world it was an hour ago?" asked Anne, dazedly. "It MUST have taken longer than that to play such havoc. "

"The like of this has never been known in Prince Edward Island, " saidMarilla, "never. I remember when I was a girl there was a bad storm, butit was nothing to this. We'll hear of terrible destruction, you may besure. "

"I do hope none of the children were caught out in it, " murmured Anneanxiously. As it was discovered later, none of the children had been, since all those who had any distance to go had taken Mr. Andrews'excellent advice and sought refuge at the post office. 

"There comes John Henry Carter, " said Marilla. 

John Henry came wading through the hailstones with a rather scared grin. 

"Oh, ain't this awful, Miss Cuthbert? Mr. Harrison sent me over to seeif yous had come out all right. "

"We're none of us killed, " said Marilla grimly, "and none of thebuildings was struck. I hope you got off equally well. "

"Yas'm. Not quite so well, ma'am. We was struck. The lightning knockedover the kitchen chimbly and come down the flue and knocked overGinger's cage and tore a hole in the floor and went into the sullar. Yas'm. "

"Was Ginger hurt?" queried Anne. 

"Yas'm. He was hurt pretty bad. He was killed. " Later on Anne went overto comfort Mr. Harrison. She found him sitting by the table, strokingGinger's gay dead body with a trembling hand. 

"Poor Ginger won't call you any more names, Anne, " he said mournfully. 

Anne could never have imagined herself crying on Ginger's account, butthe tears came into her eyes. 

"He was all the company I had, Anne . . . And now he's dead. Well, well, I'm an old fool to care so much. I'll let on I don't care. I know you'regoing to say something sympathetic as soon as I stop talking . . . Butdon't. If you did I'd cry like a baby. Hasn't this been a terriblestorm? I guess folks won't laugh at Uncle Abe's predictions again. Seemsas if all the storms that he's been prophesying all his life that neverhappened came all at once. Beats all how he struck the very day though, don't it? Look at the mess we have here. I must hustle round and getsome boards to patch up that hole in the floor. "

Avonlea folks did nothing the next day but visit each other andcompare damages. The roads were impassable for wheels by reason of thehailstones, so they walked or rode on horseback. The mail came late withill tidings from all over the province. Houses had been struck, peoplekilled and injured; the whole telephone and telegraph system had beendisorganized, and any number of young stock exposed in the fields hadperished. 

Uncle Abe waded out to the blacksmith's forge early in the morning andspent the whole day there. It was Uncle Abe's hour of triumph and heenjoyed it to the full. It would be doing Uncle Abe an injustice to saythat he was glad the storm had happened; but since it had to be he wasvery glad he had predicted it . . . To the very day, too. Uncle Abe forgotthat he had ever denied setting the day. As for the trifling discrepancyin the hour, that was nothing. 

Gilbert arrived at Green Gables in the evening and found Marilla andAnne busily engaged in nailing strips of oilcloth over the brokenwindows. 

"Goodness only knows when we'll get glass for them, " said Marilla. "Mr. Barry went over to Carmody this afternoon but not a pane could he getfor love or money. Lawson and Blair were cleaned out by the Carmodypeople by ten o'clock. Was the storm bad at White Sands, Gilbert?"

"I should say so. I was caught in the school with all the children andI thought some of them would go mad with fright. Three of them fainted, and two girls took hysterics, and Tommy Blewett did nothing but shriekat the top of his voice the whole time. "

"I only squealed once, " said Davy proudly. "My garden was all smashedflat, " he continued mournfully, "but so was Dora's, " he added in a tonewhich indicated that there was yet balm in Gilead. 

Anne came running down from the west gable. 

"Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news? Mr. Levi Boulter's old housewas struck and burned to the ground. It seems to me that I'm dreadfullywicked to feel glad over THAT, when so much damage has been done. Mr. Boulter says he believes the A. V. I. S. Magicked up that storm onpurpose. "

"Well, one thing is certain, " said Gilbert, laughing, "'Observer' hasmade Uncle Abe's reputation as a weather prophet. 'Uncle Abe's storm'will go down in local history. It is a most extraordinary coincidencethat it should have come on the very day we selected. I actually have ahalf guilty feeling, as if I really had 'magicked' it up. We may aswell rejoice over the old house being removed, for there's not much torejoice over where our young trees are concerned. Not ten of them haveescaped. "

"Ah, well, we'll just have to plant them over again next spring, " saidAnne philosophically. "That is one good thing about this world . . . Thereare always sure to be more springs. "

XXV

An Avonlea Scandal

One blithe June morning, a fortnight after Uncle Abe's storm, Anne cameslowly through the Green Gables yard from the garden, carrying in herhands two blighted stalks of white narcissus. 

"Look, Marilla, " she said sorrowfully, holding up the flowers before theeyes of a grim lady, with her hair coifed in a green gingham apron, whowas going into the house with a plucked chicken, "these are the onlybuds the storm spared . . . And even they are imperfect. I'm so sorry. . . I wanted some for Matthew's grave. He was always so fond of Junelilies. "

"I kind of miss them myself, " admitted Marilla, "though it doesn't seemright to lament over them when so many worse things have happened. . . All the crops destroyed as well as the fruit. "

"But people have sown their oats over again, " said Anne comfortingly, "and Mr. Harrison says he thinks if we have a good summer they will comeout all right though late. And my annuals are all coming up again . . . But oh, nothing can replace the June lilies. Poor little Hester Graywill have none either. I went all the way back to her garden last nightbut there wasn't one. I'm sure she'll miss them. "

"I don't think it's right for you to say such things, Anne, I reallydon't, " said Marilla severely. "Hester Gray has been dead for thirtyyears and her spirit is in heaven . . . I hope. "

"Yes, but I believe she loves and remembers her garden here still, " saidAnne. "I'm sure no matter how long I'd lived in heaven I'd like to lookdown and see somebody putting flowers on my grave. If I had had a gardenhere like Hester Gray's it would take me more than thirty years, even inheaven, to forget being homesick for it by spells. "

"Well, don't let the twins hear you talking like that, " was Marilla'sfeeble protest, as she carried her chicken into the house. 

Anne pinned her narcissi on her hair and went to the lane gate, whereshe stood for awhile sunning herself in the June brightness beforegoing in to attend to her Saturday morning duties. The world was growinglovely again; old Mother Nature was doing her best to remove the tracesof the storm, and, though she was not to succeed fully for many a moon, she was really accomplishing wonders. 

"I wish I could just be idle all day today, " Anne told a bluebird, whowas singing and swinging on a willow bough, "but a schoolma'am, who isalso helping to bring up twins, can't indulge in laziness, birdie. Howsweet you are singing, little bird. You are just putting the feelings ofmy heart into song ever so much better than I could myself. Why, who iscoming?"

An express wagon was jolting up the lane, with two people on the frontseat and a big trunk behind. When it drew near Anne recognized thedriver as the son of the station agent at Bright River; but hiscompanion was a stranger . . . A scrap of a woman who sprang nimbly downat the gate almost before the horse came to a standstill. She was a verypretty little person, evidently nearer fifty than forty, but with rosycheeks, sparkling black eyes, and shining black hair, surmounted bya wonderful beflowered and beplumed bonnet. In spite of having driveneight miles over a dusty road she was as neat as if she had just steppedout of the proverbial bandbox. 

"Is this where Mr. James A. Harrison lives?" she inquired briskly. 

"No, Mr. Harrison lives over there, " said Anne, quite lost inastonishment. 

"Well, I DID think this place seemed too tidy . . . MUCH too tidy forJames A. To be living here, unless he has greatly changed since I knewhim, " chirped the little lady. "Is it true that James A. Is going to bemarried to some woman living in this settlement?"

"No, oh no, " cried Anne, flushing so guiltily that the stranger lookedcuriously at her, as if she half suspected her of matrimonial designs onMr. Harrison. 

"But I saw it in an Island paper, " persisted the Fair Unknown. "A friendsent a marked copy to me . . . Friends are always so ready to do suchthings. James A. 's name was written in over 'new citizen. '"

"Oh, that note was only meant as a joke, " gasped Anne. "Mr. Harrison hasno intention of marrying ANYBODY. I assure you he hasn't. "

"I'm very glad to hear it, " said the rosy lady, climbing nimbly back toher seat in the wagon, "because he happens to be married already. _I_am his wife. Oh, you may well look surprised. I suppose he has beenmasquerading as a bachelor and breaking hearts right and left. Well, well, James A. , " nodding vigorously over the fields at the long whitehouse, "your fun is over. I am here . . . Though I wouldn't have botheredcoming if I hadn't thought you were up to some mischief. I suppose, "turning to Anne, "that parrot of his is as profane as ever?"

"His parrot . . . Is dead . . . I THINK, " gasped poor Anne, who couldn'thave felt sure of her own name at that precise moment. 

"Dead! Everything will be all right then, " cried the rosy ladyjubilantly. "I can manage James A. If that bird is out of the way. "

With which cryptic utterance she went joyfully on her way and Anne flewto the kitchen door to meet Marilla. 

"Anne, who was that woman?"

"Marilla, " said Anne solemnly, but with dancing eyes, "do I look as if Iwere crazy?"

"Not more so than usual, " said Marilla, with no thought of beingsarcastic. 

"Well then, do you think I am awake?"

"Anne, what nonsense has got into you? Who was that woman, I say?"

"Marilla, if I'm not crazy and not asleep she can't be such stuff asdreams are made of . . . She must be real. Anyway, I'm sure I couldn'thave imagined such a bonnet. She says she is Mr. Harrison's wife, Marilla. "

Marilla stared in her turn. 

"His wife! Anne Shirley! Then what has he been passing himself off as anunmarried man for?"

"I don't suppose he did, really, " said Anne, trying to be just. "Henever said he wasn't married. People simply took it for granted. OhMarilla, what will Mrs. Lynde say to this?"

They found out what Mrs. Lynde had to say when she came up that evening. Mrs. Lynde wasn't surprised! Mrs. Lynde had always expected somethingof the sort! Mrs. Lynde had always known there was SOMETHING about Mr. Harrison!

"To think of his deserting his wife!" she said indignantly. "It's likesomething you'd read of in the States, but who would expect such a thingto happen right here in Avonlea?"

"But we don't know that he deserted her, " protested Anne, determined tobelieve her friend innocent till he was proved guilty. "We don't knowthe rights of it at all. "

"Well, we soon will. I'm going straight over there, " said Mrs. Lynde, who had never learned that there was such a word as delicacy in thedictionary. "I'm not supposed to know anything about her arrival, andMr. Harrison was to bring some medicine for Thomas from Carmody today, so that will be a good excuse. I'll find out the whole story and come inand tell you on the way back. "

Mrs. Lynde rushed in where Anne had feared to tread. Nothing would haveinduced the latter to go over to the Harrison place; but she had hernatural and proper share of curiosity and she felt secretly glad thatMrs. Lynde was going to solve the mystery. She and Marilla waitedexpectantly for that good lady's return, but waited in vain. Mrs. Lyndedid not revisit Green Gables that night. Davy, arriving home at nineo'clock from the Boulter place, explained why. 

"I met Mrs. Lynde and some strange woman in the Hollow, " he said, "andgracious, how they were talking both at once! Mrs. Lynde said to tellyou she was sorry it was too late to call tonight. Anne, I'm awfulhungry. We had tea at Milty's at four and I think Mrs. Boulter is realmean. She didn't give us any preserves or cake . . . And even the breadwas skurce. "

"Davy, when you go visiting you must never criticize anything you aregiven to eat, " said Anne solemnly. "It is very bad manners. "

"All right . . . I'll only think it, " said Davy cheerfully. "Do give afellow some supper, Anne. "

Anne looked at Marilla, who followed her into the pantry and shut thedoor cautiously. 

"You can give him some jam on his bread, I know what tea at LeviBoulter's is apt to be. "

Davy took his slice of bread and jam with a sigh. 

"It's a kind of disappointing world after all, " he remarked. "Milty hasa cat that takes fits . . . She's took a fit regular every day for threeweeks. Milty says it's awful fun to watch her. I went down today onpurpose to see her have one but the mean old thing wouldn't take a fitand just kept healthy as healthy, though Milty and me hung round allthe afternoon and waited. But never mind" . . . Davy brightened up as theinsidious comfort of the plum jam stole into his soul . . . "maybe I'llsee her in one sometime yet. It doesn't seem likely she'd stop havingthem all at once when she's been so in the habit of it, does it? Thisjam is awful nice. "

Davy had no sorrows that plum jam could not cure. 

Sunday proved so rainy that there was no stirring abroad; but by Mondayeverybody had heard some version of the Harrison story. The schoolbuzzed with it and Davy came home, full of information. 

"Marilla, Mr. Harrison has a new wife . . . Well, not ezackly new, butthey've stopped being married for quite a spell, Milty says. I alwayss'posed people had to keep on being married once they'd begun, but Miltysays no, there's ways of stopping if you can't agree. Milty says one wayis just to start off and leave your wife, and that's what Mr. Harrisondid. Milty says Mr. Harrison left his wife because she throwed things athim . . . HARD things . . . And Arty Sloane says it was because shewouldn't let him smoke, and Ned Clay says it was 'cause she never let upscolding him. I wouldn't leave MY wife for anything like that. I'd justput my foot down and say, 'Mrs. Davy, you've just got to do what'llplease ME 'cause I'm a MAN. ' THAT'D settle her pretty quick I guess. ButAnnetta Clay says SHE left HIM because he wouldn't scrape his boots atthe door and she doesn't blame her. I'm going right over to Mr. Harrison's this minute to see what she's like. "

Davy soon returned, somewhat cast down. 

"Mrs. Harrison was away . . . She's gone to Carmody with Mrs. Rachel Lyndeto get new paper for the parlor. And Mr. Harrison said to tell Anne togo over and see him 'cause he wants to have a talk with her. And say, the floor is scrubbed, and Mr. Harrison is shaved, though there wasn'tany preaching yesterday. "

The Harrison kitchen wore a very unfamiliar look to Anne. The floor wasindeed scrubbed to a wonderful pitch of purity and so was every articleof furniture in the room; the stove was polished until she could see herface in it; the walls were whitewashed and the window panes sparkledin the sunlight. By the table sat Mr. Harrison in his working clothes, which on Friday had been noted for sundry rents and tatters but whichwere now neatly patched and brushed. He was sprucely shaved and whatlittle hair he had was carefully trimmed. 

"Sit down, Anne, sit down, " said Mr. Harrison in a tone but two degreesremoved from that which Avonlea people used at funerals. "Emily'sgone over to Carmody with Rachel Lynde . . . She's struck up a lifelongfriendship already with Rachel Lynde. Beats all how contrary womenare. Well, Anne, my easy times are over . . . All over. It's neatness andtidiness for me for the rest of my natural life, I suppose. "

Mr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully, but an irrepressibletwinkle in his eye betrayed him. 

"Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife is come back, " cried Anne, shakingher finger at him. "You needn't pretend you're not, because I can see itplainly. "

Mr. Harrison relaxed into a sheepish smile. 

"Well . . . Well . . . I'm getting used to it, " he conceded. "I can't sayI was sorry to see Emily. A man really needs some protection in acommunity like this, where he can't play a game of checkers with aneighbor without being accused of wanting to marry that neighbor'ssister and having it put in the paper. "

"Nobody would have supposed you went to see Isabella Andrews if youhadn't pretended to be unmarried, " said Anne severely. 

"I didn't pretend I was. If anybody'd have asked me if I was married I'dhave said I was. But they just took it for granted. I wasn't anxious totalk about the matter . . . I was feeling too sore over it. It would havebeen nuts for Mrs. Rachel Lynde if she had known my wife had left me, wouldn't it now?"

"But some people say that you left her. "

"She started it, Anne, she started it. I'm going to tell you the wholestory, for I don't want you to think worse of me than I deserve . . . Norof Emily neither. But let's go out on the veranda. Everything is sofearful neat in here that it kind of makes me homesick. I suppose I'llget used to it after awhile but it eases me up to look at the yard. Emily hasn't had time to tidy it up yet. "

As soon as they were comfortably seated on the veranda Mr. Harrisonbegan his tale of woe. 

"I lived in Scottsford, New Brunswick, before I came here, Anne. Mysister kept house for me and she suited me fine; she was just reasonablytidy and she let me alone and spoiled me . . . So Emily says. But threeyears ago she died. Before she died she worried a lot about what wasto become of me and finally she got me to promise I'd get married. Sheadvised me to take Emily Scott because Emily had money of her own andwas a pattern housekeeper. I said, says I, 'Emily Scott wouldn't look atme. ' 'You ask her and see, ' says my sister; and just to ease her mind Ipromised her I would . . . And I did. And Emily said she'd have me. Neverwas so surprised in my life, Anne . . . A smart pretty little woman likeher and an old fellow like me. I tell you I thought at first I was inluck. Well, we were married and took a little wedding trip to St. Johnfor a fortnight and then we went home. We got home at ten o'clock atnight, and I give you my word, Anne, that in half an hour that woman wasat work housecleaning. Oh, I know you're thinking my house needed it . . . You've got a very expressive face, Anne; your thoughts just come outon it like print . . . But it didn't, not that bad. It had got prettymixed up while I was keeping bachelor's hall, I admit, but I'd got awoman to come in and clean it up before I was married and there'd beenconsiderable painting and fixing done. I tell you if you took Emily intoa brand new white marble palace she'd be into the scrubbing as soon asshe could get an old dress on. Well, she cleaned house till one o'clockthat night and at four she was up and at it again. And she kept on thatway . . . Far's I could see she never stopped. It was scour and sweep anddust everlasting, except on Sundays, and then she was just longing forMonday to begin again. But it was her way of amusing herself and Icould have reconciled myself to it if she'd left me alone. But thatshe wouldn't do. She'd set out to make me over but she hadn't caught meyoung enough. I wasn't allowed to come into the house unless I changedmy boots for slippers at the door. I darsn't smoke a pipe for my lifeunless I went to the barn. And I didn't use good enough grammar. Emily'dbeen a schoolteacher in her early life and she'd never got over it. Thenshe hated to see me eating with my knife. Well, there it was, pick andnag everlasting. But I s'pose, Anne, to be fair, _I_ was cantankeroustoo. I didn't try to improve as I might have done . . . I just got crankyand disagreeable when she found fault. I told her one day she hadn'tcomplained of my grammar when I proposed to her. It wasn't an overlytactful thing to say. A woman would forgive a man for beating her soonerthan for hinting she was too much pleased to get him. Well, we bickeredalong like that and it wasn't exactly pleasant, but we might have gotused to each other after a spell if it hadn't been for Ginger. Gingerwas the rock we split on at last. Emily didn't like parrots and shecouldn't stand Ginger's profane habits of speech. I was attached to thebird for my brother the sailor's sake. My brother the sailor was a petof mine when we were little tads and he'd sent Ginger to me when he wasdying. I didn't see any sense in getting worked up over his swearing. There's nothing I hate worse'n profanity in a human being, but in aparrot, that's just repeating what it's heard with no more understandingof it than I'd have of Chinese, allowances might be made. But Emilycouldn't see it that way. Women ain't logical. She tried to break Gingerof swearing but she hadn't any better success than she had in trying tomake me stop saying 'I seen' and 'them things. ' Seemed as if the moreshe tried the worse Ginger got, same as me. 

"Well, things went on like this, both of us getting raspier, till theCLIMAX came. Emily invited our minister and his wife to tea, and anotherminister and HIS wife that was visiting them. I'd promised to put Gingeraway in some safe place where nobody would hear him . . . Emily wouldn'ttouch his cage with a ten-foot pole . . . And I meant to do it, for Ididn't want the ministers to hear anything unpleasant in my house. Butit slipped my mind . . . Emily was worrying me so much about clean collarsand grammar that it wasn't any wonder . . . And I never thought of thatpoor parrot till we sat down to tea. Just as minister number one was inthe very middle of saying grace, Ginger, who was on the veranda outsidethe dining room window, lifted up HIS voice. The gobbler had come intoview in the yard and the sight of a gobbler always had an unwholesomeeffect on Ginger. He surpassed himself that time. You can smile, Anne, and I don't deny I've chuckled some over it since myself, but at thetime I felt almost as much mortified as Emily. I went out and carriedGinger to the barn. I can't say I enjoyed the meal. I knew by the lookof Emily that there was trouble brewing for Ginger and James A. When thefolks went away I started for the cow pasture and on the way I did somethinking. I felt sorry for Emily and kind of fancied I hadn't been sothoughtful of her as I might; and besides, I wondered if the ministerswould think that Ginger had learned his vocabulary from me. The longand short of it was, I decided that Ginger would have to be mercifullydisposed of and when I'd druv the cows home I went in to tell Emilyso. But there was no Emily and there was a letter on the table . . . Justaccording to the rule in story books. Emily writ that I'd have to choosebetween her and Ginger; she'd gone back to her own house and there shewould stay till I went and told her I'd got rid of that parrot. 

"I was all riled up, Anne, and I said she might stay till doomsday ifshe waited for that; and I stuck to it. I packed up her belongings andsent them after her. It made an awful lot of talk . . . Scottsford waspretty near as bad as Avonlea for gossip . . . And everybody sympathizedwith Emily. It kept me all cross and cantankerous and I saw I'd have toget out or I'd never have any peace. I concluded I'd come to the Island. I'd been here when I was a boy and I liked it; but Emily had always saidshe wouldn't live in a place where folks were scared to walk out afterdark for fear they'd fall off the edge. So, just to be contrary, I movedover here. And that's all there is to it. I hadn't ever heard a wordfrom or about Emily till I come home from the back field Saturday andfound her scrubbing the floor but with the first decent dinner I'd hadsince she left me all ready on the table. She told me to eat it firstand then we'd talk . . . By which I concluded that Emily had learned somelessons about getting along with a man. So she's here and she's going tostay . . . Seeing that Ginger's dead and the Island's some bigger than shethought. There's Mrs. Lynde and her now. No, don't go, Anne. Stay andget acquainted with Emily. She took quite a notion to you Saturday . . . Wanted to know who that handsome redhaired girl was at the next house. "

Mrs. Harrison welcomed Anne radiantly and insisted on her staying totea. 

"James A. Has been telling me all about you and how kind you've been, making cakes and things for him, " she said. "I want to get acquaintedwith all my new neighbors just as soon as possible. Mrs. Lynde is alovely woman, isn't she? So friendly. "

When Anne went home in the sweet June dusk, Mrs. Harrison went with heracross the fields where the fireflies were lighting their starry lamps. 

"I suppose, " said Mrs. Harrison confidentially, "that James A. Has toldyou our story?"

"Yes. "

"Then I needn't tell it, for James A. Is a just man and he would tellthe truth. The blame was far from being all on his side. I can see thatnow. I wasn't back in my own house an hour before I wished I hadn't beenso hasty but I wouldn't give in. I see now that I expected too much ofa man. And I was real foolish to mind his bad grammar. It doesn't matterif a man does use bad grammar so long as he is a good provider anddoesn't go poking round the pantry to see how much sugar you've usedin a week. I feel that James A. And I are going to be real happy now. I wish I knew who 'Observer' is, so that I could thank him. I owe him areal debt of gratitude. "

Anne kept her own counsel and Mrs. Harrison never knew that hergratitude found its way to its object. Anne felt rather bewilderedover the far-reaching consequences of those foolish "notes. " They hadreconciled a man to his wife and made the reputation of a prophet. 

Mrs. Lynde was in the Green Gables kitchen. She had been telling thewhole story to Marilla. 

"Well, and how do you like Mrs. Harrison?" she asked Anne. 

"Very much. I think she's a real nice little woman. "

"That's exactly what she is, " said Mrs. Rachel with emphasis, "and asI've just been sayin' to Marilla, I think we ought all to overlook Mr. Harrison's peculiarities for her sake and try to make her feel at homehere, that's what. Well, I must get back. Thomas'll be wearying for me. I get out a little since Eliza came and he's seemed a lot better thesepast few days, but I never like to be long away from him. I hear GilbertBlythe has resigned from White Sands. He'll be off to college in thefall, I suppose. "

Mrs. Rachel looked sharply at Anne, but Anne was bending over a sleepyDavy nodding on the sofa and nothing was to be read in her face. Shecarried Davy away, her oval girlish cheek pressed against his curlyyellow head. As they went up the stairs Davy flung a tired arm aboutAnne's neck and gave her a warm hug and a sticky kiss. 

"You're awful nice, Anne. Milty Boulter wrote on his slate today andshowed it to Jennie Sloane, "'Roses red and vi'lets blue, Sugar's sweet, and so are you"

and that 'spresses my feelings for you ezackly, Anne. "

XXVI

Around the Bend

Thomas Lynde faded out of life as quietly and unobtrusively as he hadlived it. His wife was a tender, patient, unwearied nurse. SometimesRachel had been a little hard on her Thomas in health, when his slownessor meekness had provoked her; but when he became ill no voice could belower, no hand more gently skillful, no vigil more uncomplaining. 

"You've been a good wife to me, Rachel, " he once said simply, when shewas sitting by him in the dusk, holding his thin, blanched old handin her work-hardened one. "A good wife. I'm sorry I ain't leaving youbetter off; but the children will look after you. They're all smart, capable children, just like their mother. A good mother . . . A goodwoman . . . . "

He had fallen asleep then, and the next morning, just as the white dawnwas creeping up over the pointed firs in the hollow, Marilla went softlyinto the east gable and wakened Anne. 

"Anne, Thomas Lynde is gone . . . Their hired boy just brought the word. I'm going right down to Rachel. "

On the day after Thomas Lynde's funeral Marilla went about Green Gableswith a strangely preoccupied air. Occasionally she looked at Anne, seemed on the point of saying something, then shook her head andbuttoned up her mouth. After tea she went down to see Mrs. Rachel; andwhen she returned she went to the east gable, where Anne was correctingschool exercises. 

"How is Mrs. Lynde tonight?" asked the latter. 

"She's feeling calmer and more composed, " answered Marilla, sittingdown on Anne's bed . . . A proceeding which betokened some unusual mentalexcitement, for in Marilla's code of household ethics to sit on abed after it was made up was an unpardonable offense. "But she's verylonely. Eliza had to go home today . . . Her son isn't well and she feltshe couldn't stay any longer. "

"When I've finished these exercises I'll run down and chat awhile withMrs. Lynde, " said Anne. "I had intended to study some Latin compositiontonight but it can wait. "

"I suppose Gilbert Blythe is going to college in the fall, " said Marillajerkily. "How would you like to go too, Anne?"

Anne looked up in astonishment. 

"I would like it, of course, Marilla. But it isn't possible. "

"I guess it can be made possible. I've always felt that you should go. I've never felt easy to think you were giving it all up on my account. "

"But Marilla, I've never been sorry for a moment that I stayedhome. I've been so happy . . . Oh, these past two years have just beendelightful. "

"Oh, yes, I know you've been contented enough. But that isn't thequestion exactly. You ought to go on with your education. You've savedenough to put you through one year at Redmond and the money the stockbrought in will do for another year . . . And there's scholarships andthings you might win. "

"Yes, but I can't go, Marilla. Your eyes are better, of course; but Ican't leave you alone with the twins. They need so much looking after. "

"I won't be alone with them. That's what I meant to discuss with you. I had a long talk with Rachel tonight. Anne, she's feeling dreadful badover a good many things. She's not left very well off. It seems theymortgaged the farm eight years ago to give the youngest boy a startwhen he went west; and they've never been able to pay much more than theinterest since. And then of course Thomas' illness has cost a good deal, one way or another. The farm will have to be sold and Rachel thinksthere'll be hardly anything left after the bills are settled. She saysshe'll have to go and live with Eliza and it's breaking her heart tothink of leaving Avonlea. A woman of her age doesn't make new friendsand interests easy. And, Anne, as she talked about it the thought cameto me that I would ask her to come and live with me, but I thought Iought to talk it over with you first before I said anything to her. If Ihad Rachel living with me you could go to college. How do you feel aboutit?"

"I feel . . . As if . . . Somebody . . . Had handed me . . . The moon. . . And I didn't know . . . Exactly . . . What to do . . . With it, "said Anne dazedly. "But as for asking Mrs. Lynde to come here, that isfor you to decide, Marilla. Do you think . . . Are you sure . . . Youwould like it? Mrs. Lynde is a good woman and a kind neighbor, but . . . But . . . "

"But she's got her faults, you mean to say? Well, she has, of course;but I think I'd rather put up with far worse faults than see Rachel goaway from Avonlea. I'd miss her terrible. She's the only close friendI've got here and I'd be lost without her. We've been neighbors forforty-five years and we've never had a quarrel . . . Though we came rathernear it that time you flew at Mrs. Rachel for calling you homely andredhaired. Do you remember, Anne?"

"I should think I do, " said Anne ruefully. "People don't forget thingslike that. How I hated poor Mrs. Rachel at that moment!"

"And then that 'apology' you made her. Well, you were a handful, in allconscience, Anne. I did feel so puzzled and bewildered how to manageyou. Matthew understood you better. "

"Matthew understood everything, " said Anne softly, as she always spokeof him. 

"Well, I think it could be managed so that Rachel and I wouldn't clashat all. It always seemed to me that the reason two women can't get alongin one house is that they try to share the same kitchen and get in eachother's way. Now, if Rachel came here, she could have the north gablefor her bedroom and the spare room for a kitchen as well as not, for wedon't really need a spare room at all. She could put her stove thereand what furniture she wanted to keep, and be real comfortable andindependent. She'll have enough to live on of course... Her children'llsee to that... So all I'd be giving her would be house room. Yes, Anne, far as I'm concerned I'd like it. "

"Then ask her, " said Anne promptly. "I'd be very sorry myself to seeMrs. Rachel go away. "

"And if she comes, " continued Marilla, "You can go to college as well asnot. She'll be company for me and she'll do for the twins what I can'tdo, so there's no reason in the world why you shouldn't go. "

Anne had a long meditation at her window that night. Joy and regretstruggled together in her heart. She had come at last . . . Suddenly andunexpectedly . . . To the bend in the road; and college was around it, with a hundred rainbow hopes and visions; but Anne realized as well thatwhen she rounded that curve she must leave many sweet things behind. . . All the little simple duties and interests which had grown so dear toher in the last two years and which she had glorified into beauty anddelight by the enthusiasm she had put into them. She must give up herschool . . . And she loved every one of her pupils, even the stupid andnaughty ones. The mere thought of Paul Irving made her wonder if Redmondwere such a name to conjure with after all. 

"I've put out a lot of little roots these two years, " Anne told themoon, "and when I'm pulled up they're going to hurt a great deal. Butit's best to go, I think, and, as Marilla says, there's no good reasonwhy I shouldn't. I must get out all my ambitions and dust them. "

Anne sent in her resignation the next day; and Mrs. Rachel, after aheart to heart talk with Marilla, gratefully accepted the offer of ahome at Green Gables. She elected to remain in her own house for thesummer, however; the farm was not to be sold until the fall and therewere many arrangements to be made. 

"I certainly never thought of living as far off the road as GreenGables, " sighed Mrs. Rachel to herself. "But really, Green Gablesdoesn't seem as out of the world as it used to do . . . Anne has lots ofcompany and the twins make it real lively. And anyhow, I'd rather liveat the bottom of a well than leave Avonlea. "

These two decisions being noised abroad speedily ousted the arrival ofMrs. Harrison in popular gossip. Sage heads were shaken over MarillaCuthbert's rash step in asking Mrs. Rachel to live with her. Peopleopined that they wouldn't get on together. They were both "too fond oftheir own way, " and many doleful predictions were made, none of whichdisturbed the parties in question at all. They had come to a clear anddistinct understanding of the respective duties and rights of their newarrangements and meant to abide by them. 

"I won't meddle with you nor you with me, " Mrs. Rachel had saiddecidedly, "and as for the twins, I'll be glad to do all I can for them;but I won't undertake to answer Davy's questions, that's what. I'm notan encyclopedia, neither am I a Philadelphia lawyer. You'll miss Annefor that. "

"Sometimes Anne's answers were about as queer as Davy's questions, " saidMarilla drily. "The twins will miss her and no mistake; but her futurecan't be sacrificed to Davy's thirst for information. When he asksquestions I can't answer I'll just tell him children should be seen andnot heard. That was how I was brought up, and I don't know but what itwas just as good a way as all these new-fangled notions for trainingchildren. "

"Well, Anne's methods seem to have worked fairly well with Davy, " saidMrs. Lynde smilingly. "He is a reformed character, that's what. "

"He isn't a bad little soul, " conceded Marilla. "I never expected toget as fond of those children as I have. Davy gets round you somehow. . . And Dora is a lovely child, although she is . . . Kind of . . . Well, kind of . . . "

"Monotonous? Exactly, " supplied Mrs. Rachel. "Like a book where everypage is the same, that's what. Dora will make a good, reliable womanbut she'll never set the pond on fire. Well, that sort of folks arecomfortable to have round, even if they're not as interesting as theother kind. "

Gilbert Blythe was probably the only person to whom the news of Anne'sresignation brought unmixed pleasure. Her pupils looked upon it asa sheer catastrophe. Annetta Bell had hysterics when she went home. Anthony Pye fought two pitched and unprovoked battles with other boys byway of relieving his feelings. Barbara Shaw cried all night. Paul Irvingdefiantly told his grandmother that she needn't expect him to eat anyporridge for a week. 

"I can't do it, Grandma, " he said. "I don't really know if I can eatANYTHING. I feel as if there was a dreadful lump in my throat. I'd havecried coming home from school if Jake Donnell hadn't been watching me. I believe I will cry after I go to bed. It wouldn't show on my eyestomorrow, would it? And it would be such a relief. But anyway, I can'teat porridge. I'm going to need all my strength of mind to bear upagainst this, Grandma, and I won't have any left to grapple withporridge. Oh Grandma, I don't know what I'll do when my beautifulteacher goes away. Milty Boulter says he bets Jane Andrews will getthe school. I suppose Miss Andrews is very nice. But I know she won'tunderstand things like Miss Shirley. "

Diana also took a very pessimistic view of affairs. 

"It will be horribly lonesome here next winter, " she mourned, onetwilight when the moonlight was raining "airy silver" through the cherryboughs and filling the east gable with a soft, dream-like radiancein which the two girls sat and talked, Anne on her low rocker by thewindow, Diana sitting Turkfashion on the bed. "You and Gilbert willbe gone . . . And the Allans too. They are going to call Mr. Allan toCharlottetown and of course he'll accept. It's too mean. We'll bevacant all winter, I suppose, and have to listen to a long string ofcandidates . . . And half of them won't be any good. "

"I hope they won't call Mr. Baxter from East Grafton here, anyhow, "said Anne decidedly. "He wants the call but he does preach such gloomysermons. Mr. Bell says he's a minister of the old school, but Mrs. Lyndesays there's nothing whatever the matter with him but indigestion. Hiswife isn't a very good cook, it seems, and Mrs. Lynde says that when aman has to eat sour bread two weeks out of three his theology is boundto get a kink in it somewhere. Mrs. Allan feels very badly about goingaway. She says everybody has been so kind to her since she came hereas a bride that she feels as if she were leaving lifelong friends. Andthen, there's the baby's grave, you know. She says she doesn't see howshe can go away and leave that . . . It was such a little mite of a thingand only three months old, and she says she is afraid it will miss itsmother, although she knows better and wouldn't say so to Mr. Allan foranything. She says she has slipped through the birch grove back of themanse nearly every night to the graveyard and sung a little lullaby toit. She told me all about it last evening when I was up putting some ofthose early wild roses on Matthew's grave. I promised her that as longas I was in Avonlea I would put flowers on the baby's grave and when Iwas away I felt sure that . . . "

"That I would do it, " supplied Diana heartily. "Of course I will. AndI'll put them on Matthew's grave too, for your sake, Anne. "

"Oh, thank you. I meant to ask you to if you would. And on little HesterGray's too? Please don't forget hers. Do you know, I've thought anddreamed so much about little Hester Gray that she has become strangelyreal to me. I think of her, back there in her little garden in thatcool, still, green corner; and I have a fancy that if I could steal backthere some spring evening, just at the magic time 'twixt light anddark, and tiptoe so softly up the beech hill that my footsteps could notfrighten her, I would find the garden just as it used to be, all sweetwith June lilies and early roses, with the tiny house beyond it all hungwith vines; and little Hester Gray would be there, with her soft eyes, and the wind ruffling her dark hair, wandering about, putting herfingertips under the chins of the lilies and whispering secrets with theroses; and I would go forward, oh, so softly, and hold out my hands andsay to her, 'Little Hester Gray, won't you let me be your playmate, forI love the roses too?' And we would sit down on the old bench and talka little and dream a little, or just be beautifully silent together. Andthen the moon would rise and I would look around me . . . And there wouldbe no Hester Gray and no little vine-hung house, and no roses . . . Onlyan old waste garden starred with June lilies amid the grasses, and thewind sighing, oh, so sorrowfully in the cherry trees. And I would notknow whether it had been real or if I had just imagined it all. " Dianacrawled up and got her back against the headboard of the bed. When yourcompanion of twilight hour said such spooky things it was just as wellnot to be able to fancy there was anything behind you. 

"I'm afraid the Improvement Society will go down when you and Gilbertare both gone, " she remarked dolefully. 

"Not a bit of fear of it, " said Anne briskly, coming back from dreamlandto the affairs of practical life. "It is too firmly established forthat, especially since the older people are becoming so enthusiasticabout it. Look what they are doing this summer for their lawns andlanes. Besides, I'll be watching for hints at Redmond and I'll write apaper for it next winter and send it over. Don't take such a gloomy viewof things, Diana. And don't grudge me my little hour of gladness andjubilation now. Later on, when I have to go away, I'll feel anything butglad. "

"It's all right for you to be glad . . . You're going to college andyou'll have a jolly time and make heaps of lovely new friends. "

"I hope I shall make new friends, " said Anne thoughtfully. "Thepossibilities of making new friends help to make life very fascinating. But no matter how many friends I make they'll never be as dear to me asthe old ones . . . Especially a certain girl with black eyes and dimples. Can you guess who she is, Diana?"

"But there'll be so many clever girls at Redmond, " sighed Diana, "andI'm only a stupid little country girl who says 'I seen' sometimes. . . Though I really know better when I stop to think. Well, of course thesepast two years have really been too pleasant to last. I know SOMEBODYwho is glad you are going to Redmond anyhow. Anne, I'm going to askyou a question . . . A serious question. Don't be vexed and do answerseriously. Do you care anything for Gilbert?"

"Ever so much as a friend and not a bit in the way you mean, " said Annecalmly and decidedly; she also thought she was speaking sincerely. 

Diana sighed. She wished, somehow, that Anne had answered differently. 

"Don't you mean EVER to be married, Anne?"

"Perhaps . . . Some day . . . When I meet the right one, " said Anne, smiling dreamily up at the moonlight. 

"But how can you be sure when you do meet the right one?" persistedDiana. 

"Oh, I should know him . . . SOMETHING would tell me. You know what myideal is, Diana. "

"But people's ideals change sometimes. "

"Mine won't. And I COULDN'T care for any man who didn't fulfill it. "

"What if you never meet him?"

"Then I shall die an old maid, " was the cheerful response. "I daresay itisn't the hardest death by any means. "

"Oh, I suppose the dying would be easy enough; it's the living an oldmaid I shouldn't like, " said Diana, with no intention of being humorous. "Although I wouldn't mind being an old maid VERY much if I could be onelike Miss Lavendar. But I never could be. When I'm forty-five I'll behorribly fat. And while there might be some romance about a thin oldmaid there couldn't possibly be any about a fat one. Oh, mind you, Nelson Atkins proposed to Ruby Gillis three weeks ago. Ruby told me allabout it. She says she never had any intention of taking him, becauseany one who married him will have to go in with the old folks; but Rubysays that he made such a perfectly beautiful and romantic proposal thatit simply swept her off her feet. But she didn't want to do anythingrash so she asked for a week to consider; and two days later she wasat a meeting of the Sewing Circle at his mother's and there was a bookcalled 'The Complete Guide to Etiquette, ' lying on the parlor table. Ruby said she simply couldn't describe her feelings when in a sectionof it headed, 'The Deportment of Courtship and Marriage, ' she found thevery proposal Nelson had made, word for word. She went home and wrotehim a perfectly scathing refusal; and she says his father and motherhave taken turns watching him ever since for fear he'll drown himself inthe river; but Ruby says they needn't be afraid; for in the Deportmentof Courtship and Marriage it told how a rejected lover should behaveand there's nothing about drowning in THAT. And she says Wilbur Blairis literally pining away for her but she's perfectly helpless in thematter. "

Anne made an impatient movement. 

"I hate to say it . . . It seems so disloyal . . . But, well, I don'tlike Ruby Gillis now. I liked her when we went to school and Queen'stogether . . . Though not so well as you and Jane of course. But this lastyear at Carmody she seems so different . . . So . . . So . . . "

"I know, " nodded Diana. "It's the Gillis coming out in her . . . Shecan't help it. Mrs. Lynde says that if ever a Gillis girl thought aboutanything but the boys she never showed it in her walk and conversation. She talks about nothing but boys and what compliments they pay her, andhow crazy they all are about her at Carmody. And the strange thing is, they ARE, too . . . " Diana admitted this somewhat resentfully. "Lastnight when I saw her in Mr. Blair's store she whispered to me that she'djust made a new 'mash. ' I wouldn't ask her who it was, because Iknew she was dying to BE asked. Well, it's what Ruby always wanted, Isuppose. You remember even when she was little she always said she meantto have dozens of beaus when she grew up and have the very gayest timeshe could before she settled down. She's so different from Jane, isn'tshe? Jane is such a nice, sensible, lady-like girl. "

"Dear old Jane is a jewel, " agreed Anne, "but, " she added, leaningforward to bestow a tender pat on the plump, dimpled little hand hangingover her pillow, "there's nobody like my own Diana after all. Doyou remember that evening we first met, Diana, and 'swore' eternalfriendship in your garden? We've kept that 'oath, ' I think . . . We'venever had a quarrel nor even a coolness. I shall never forget the thrillthat went over me the day you told me you loved me. I had had such alonely, starved heart all through my childhood. I'm just beginning torealize how starved and lonely it really was. Nobody cared anything forme or wanted to be bothered with me. I should have been miserable ifit hadn't been for that strange little dream-life of mine, wherein Iimagined all the friends and love I craved. But when I came to GreenGables everything was changed. And then I met you. You don't know whatyour friendship meant to me. I want to thank you here and now, dear, forthe warm and true affection you've always given me. "

"And always, always will, " sobbed Diana. "I shall NEVER love anybody. . . Any GIRL . . . Half as well as I love you. And if I ever do marryand have a little girl of my own I'm going to name her ANNE. "

XXVII

An Afternoon at the Stone House

"Where are you going, all dressed up, Anne?" Davy wanted to know. "Youlook bully in that dress. "

Anne had come down to dinner in a new dress of pale green muslin . . . The first color she had worn since Matthew's death. It became herperfectly, bringing out all the delicate, flower-like tints of her faceand the gloss and burnish of her hair. 

"Davy, how many times have I told you that you mustn't use that word, "she rebuked. "I'm going to Echo Lodge. "

"Take me with you, " entreated Davy. 

"I would if I were driving. But I'm going to walk and it's too far foryour eight-year-old legs. Besides, Paul is going with me and I fear youdon't enjoy yourself in his company. "

"Oh, I like Paul lots better'n I did, " said Davy, beginning to makefearful inroads into his pudding. "Since I've got pretty good myself Idon't mind his being gooder so much. If I can keep on I'll catch up withhim some day, both in legs and goodness. 'Sides, Paul's real nice tous second primer boys in school. He won't let the other big boys meddlewith us and he shows us lots of games. "

"How came Paul to fall into the brook at noon hour yesterday?" askedAnne. "I met him on the playground, such a dripping figure that I senthim promptly home for clothes without waiting to find out what hadhappened. "

"Well, it was partly a zacksident, " explained Davy. "He stuck his headin on purpose but the rest of him fell in zacksidentally. We was alldown at the brook and Prillie Rogerson got mad at Paul about something. . . She's awful mean and horrid anyway, if she IS pretty . . . And saidthat his grandmother put his hair up in curl rags every night. Paulwouldn't have minded what she said, I guess, but Gracie Andrews laughed, and Paul got awful red, 'cause Gracie's his girl, you know. He's CLEANGONE on her . . . Brings her flowers and carries her books as far as theshore road. He got as red as a beet and said his grandmother didn't doany such thing and his hair was born curly. And then he laid down onthe bank and stuck his head right into the spring to show them. Oh, it wasn't the spring we drink out of . . . " seeing a horrified look onMarilla's face . . . "it was the little one lower down. But the bank'sawful slippy and Paul went right in. I tell you he made a bully splash. Oh, Anne, Anne, I didn't mean to say that . . . It just slipped out beforeI thought. He made a SPLENDID splash. But he looked so funny when hecrawled out, all wet and muddy. The girls laughed more'n ever, butGracie didn't laugh. She looked sorry. Gracie's a nice girl but she'sgot a snub nose. When I get big enough to have a girl I won't have onewith a snub nose . . . I'll pick one with a pretty nose like yours, Anne. "

"A boy who makes such a mess of syrup all over his face when he iseating his pudding will never get a girl to look at him, " said Marillaseverely. 

"But I'll wash my face before I go courting, " protested Davy, trying toimprove matters by rubbing the back of his hand over the smears. "AndI'll wash behind my ears too, without being told. I remembered to thismorning, Marilla. I don't forget half as often as I did. But . . . " andDavy sighed . . . "there's so many corners about a fellow that it's awfulhard to remember them all. Well, if I can't go to Miss Lavendar's I'llgo over and see Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison's an awful nice woman, Itell you. She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-purpose for littleboys, and she always gives me the scrapings out of a pan she's mixedup a plum cake in. A good many plums stick to the sides, you see. Mr. Harrison was always a nice man, but he's twice as nice since he gotmarried over again. I guess getting married makes folks nicer. Why don'tYOU get married, Marilla? I want to know. "

Marilla's state of single blessedness had never been a sore point withher, so she answered amiably, with an exchange of significant looks withAnne, that she supposed it was because nobody would have her. 

"But maybe you never asked anybody to have you, " protested Davy. 

"Oh, Davy, " said Dora primly, shocked into speaking without being spokento, "it's the MEN that have to do the asking. "

"I don't know why they have to do it ALWAYS, " grumbled Davy. "Seemsto me everything's put on the men in this world. Can I have some morepudding, Marilla?"

"You've had as much as was good for you, " said Marilla; but she gave hima moderate second helping. 

"I wish people could live on pudding. Why can't they, Marilla? I want toknow. "

"Because they'd soon get tired of it. "

"I'd like to try that for myself, " said skeptical Davy. "But I guessit's better to have pudding only on fish and company days than none atall. They never have any at Milty Boulter's. Milty says when companycomes his mother gives them cheese and cuts it herself . . . One littlebit apiece and one over for manners. "

"If Milty Boulter talks like that about his mother at least you needn'trepeat it, " said Marilla severely. 

"Bless my soul, " . . . Davy had picked this expression up from Mr. Harrison and used it with great gusto . . . "Milty meant it as acompelment. He's awful proud of his mother, cause folks say she couldscratch a living on a rock. "

"I . . . I suppose them pesky hens are in my pansy bed again, " saidMarilla, rising and going out hurriedly. 

The slandered hens were nowhere near the pansy bed and Marilla did noteven glance at it. Instead, she sat down on the cellar hatch and laugheduntil she was ashamed of herself. 

When Anne and Paul reached the stone house that afternoon they foundMiss Lavendar and Charlotta the Fourth in the garden, weeding, raking, clipping, and trimming as if for dear life. Miss Lavendar herself, allgay and sweet in the frills and laces she loved, dropped her shearsand ran joyously to meet her guests, while Charlotta the Fourth grinnedcheerfully. 

"Welcome, Anne. I thought you'd come today. You belong to the afternoonso it brought you. Things that belong together are sure to cometogether. What a lot of trouble that would save some people if they onlyknew it. But they don't . . . And so they waste beautiful energy movingheaven and earth to bring things together that DON'T belong. And you, Paul . . . Why, you've grown! You're half a head taller than when you werehere before. "

"Yes, I've begun to grow like pigweed in the night, as Mrs. Lyndesays, " said Paul, in frank delight over the fact. "Grandma says it's theporridge taking effect at last. Perhaps it is. Goodness knows . . . " Paulsighed deeply . . . "I've eaten enough to make anyone grow. I do hope, now that I've begun, I'll keep on till I'm as tall as father. He is sixfeet, you know, Miss Lavendar. "

Yes, Miss Lavendar did know; the flush on her pretty cheeks deepeneda little; she took Paul's hand on one side and Anne's on the other andwalked to the house in silence. 

"Is it a good day for the echoes, Miss Lavendar?" queried Paulanxiously. The day of his first visit had been too windy for echoes andPaul had been much disappointed. 

"Yes, just the best kind of a day, " answered Miss Lavendar, rousingherself from her reverie. "But first we are all going to have somethingto eat. I know you two folks didn't walk all the way back here throughthose beechwoods without getting hungry, and Charlotta the Fourth andI can eat any hour of the day . . . We have such obliging appetites. Sowe'll just make a raid on the pantry. Fortunately it's lovely andfull. I had a presentiment that I was going to have company today andCharlotta the Fourth and I prepared. "

"I think you are one of the people who always have nice things intheir pantry, " declared Paul. "Grandma's like that too. But she doesn'tapprove of snacks between meals. I wonder, " he added meditatively, "if IOUGHT to eat them away from home when I know she doesn't approve. "

"Oh, I don't think she would disapprove after you have had a long walk. That makes a difference, " said Miss Lavendar, exchanging amused glanceswith Anne over Paul's brown curls. "I suppose that snacks ARE extremelyunwholesome. That is why we have them so often at Echo Lodge. We. . . Charlotta the Fourth and I . . . Live in defiance of every known lawof diet. We eat all sorts of indigestible things whenever we happen tothink of it, by day or night; and we flourish like green bay trees. We are always intending to reform. When we read any article in a paperwarning us against something we like we cut it out and pin it up on thekitchen wall so that we'll remember it. But we never can somehow . . . Until after we've gone and eaten that very thing. Nothing has everkilled us yet; but Charlotta the Fourth has been known to have baddreams after we had eaten doughnuts and mince pie and fruit cake beforewe went to bed. "

"Grandma lets me have a glass of milk and a slice of bread and butterbefore I go to bed; and on Sunday nights she puts jam on the bread, "said Paul. "So I'm always glad when it's Sunday night . . . For morereasons than one. Sunday is a very long day on the shore road. Grandmasays it's all too short for her and that father never found Sundaystiresome when he was a little boy. It wouldn't seem so long if I couldtalk to my rock people but I never do that because Grandma doesn'tapprove of it on Sundays. I think a good deal; but I'm afraid mythoughts are worldly. Grandma says we should never think anything butreligious thoughts on Sundays. But teacher here said once that everyreally beautiful thought was religious, no matter what it was about, orwhat day we thought it on. But I feel sure Grandma thinks that sermonsand Sunday School lessons are the only things you can think trulyreligious thoughts about. And when it comes to a difference of opinionbetween Grandma and teacher I don't know what to do. In my heart" . . . Paul laid his hand on his breast and raised very serious blue eyes toMiss Lavendar's immediately sympathetic face . . . "I agree with teacher. But then, you see, Grandma has brought father up HER way and made abrilliant success of him; and teacher has never brought anybody up yet, though she's helping with Davy and Dora. But you can't tell how they'llturn out till they ARE grown up. So sometimes I feel as if it might besafer to go by Grandma's opinions. "

"I think it would, " agreed Anne solemnly. "Anyway, I daresay that ifyour Grandma and I both got down to what we really do mean, under ourdifferent ways of expressing it, we'd find out we both meant much thesame thing. You'd better go by her way of expressing it, since it's beenthe result of experience. We'll have to wait until we see how the twinsdo turn out before we can be sure that my way is equally good. " Afterlunch they went back to the garden, where Paul made the acquaintance ofthe echoes, to his wonder and delight, while Anne and Miss Lavendar saton the stone bench under the poplar and talked. 

"So you are going away in the fall?" said Miss Lavendar wistfully. "Iought to be glad for your sake, Anne . . . But I'm horribly, selfishlysorry. I shall miss you so much. Oh, sometimes, I think it is of no useto make friends. They only go out of your life after awhile and leave ahurt that is worse than the emptiness before they came. "

"That sounds like something Miss Eliza Andrews might say but never MissLavendar, " said Anne. "NOTHING is worse than emptiness . . . And I'm notgoing out of your life. There are such things as letters and vacations. Dearest, I'm afraid you're looking a little pale and tired. "

"Oh . . . Hoo . . . Hoo . . . Hoo, " went Paul on the dyke, where he hadbeen making noises diligently . . . Not all of them melodious in themaking, but all coming back transmuted into the very gold and silver ofsound by the fairy alchemists over the river. Miss Lavendar made animpatient movement with her pretty hands. 

"I'm just tired of everything . . . Even of the echoes. There is nothingin my life but echoes . . . Echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking. Oh Anne, it's horrid of me to talk likethis when I have company. It's just that I'm getting old and it doesn'tagree with me. I know I'll be fearfully cranky by the time I'm sixty. But perhaps all I need is a course of blue pills. " At this momentCharlotta the Fourth, who had disappeared after lunch, returned, andannounced that the northeast corner of Mr. John Kimball's pasture wasred with early strawberries, and wouldn't Miss Shirley like to go andpick some. 

"Early strawberries for tea!" exclaimed Miss Lavendar. "Oh, I'm not soold as I thought . . . And I don't need a single blue pill! Girls, whenyou come back with your strawberries we'll have tea out here under thesilver poplar. I'll have it all ready for you with home-grown cream. "

Anne and Charlotta the Fourth accordingly betook themselves back to Mr. Kimball's pasture, a green remote place where the air was as soft asvelvet and fragrant as a bed of violets and golden as amber. 

"Oh, isn't it sweet and fresh back here?" breathed Anne. "I just feel asif I were drinking in the sunshine. "

"Yes, ma'am, so do I. That's just exactly how I feel too, ma'am, " agreedCharlotta the Fourth, who would have said precisely the same thing ifAnne had remarked that she felt like a pelican of the wilderness. Alwaysafter Anne had visited Echo Lodge Charlotta the Fourth mounted to herlittle room over the kitchen and tried before her looking glass to speakand look and move like Anne. Charlotta could never flatter herselfthat she quite succeeded; but practice makes perfect, as Charlotta hadlearned at school, and she fondly hoped that in time she might catch thetrick of that dainty uplift of chin, that quick, starry outflashingof eyes, that fashion of walking as if you were a bough swaying in thewind. It seemed so easy when you watched Anne. Charlotta the Fourthadmired Anne wholeheartedly. It was not that she thought her so veryhandsome. Diana Barry's beauty of crimson cheek and black curls wasmuch more to Charlotta the Fourth's taste than Anne's moonshine charm ofluminous gray eyes and the pale, everchanging roses of her cheeks. 

"But I'd rather look like you than be pretty, " she told Anne sincerely. 

Anne laughed, sipped the honey from the tribute, and cast away thesting. She was used to taking her compliments mixed. Public opinionnever agreed on Anne's looks. People who had heard her called handsomemet her and were disappointed. People who had heard her called plainsaw her and wondered where other people's eyes were. Anne herself wouldnever believe that she had any claim to beauty. When she looked in theglass all she saw was a little pale face with seven freckles on the nosethereof. Her mirror never revealed to her the elusive, ever-varying playof feeling that came and went over her features like a rosy illuminatingflame, or the charm of dream and laughter alternating in her big eyes. 

While Anne was not beautiful in any strictly defined sense of the wordshe possessed a certain evasive charm and distinction of appearance thatleft beholders with a pleasurable sense of satisfaction in that softlyrounded girlhood of hers, with all its strongly felt potentialities. Those who knew Anne best felt, without realizing that they felt it, thather greatest attraction was the aura of possibility surrounding her. . . The power of future development that was in her. She seemed to walk inan atmosphere of things about to happen. 

As they picked, Charlotta the Fourth confided to Anne her fearsregarding Miss Lavendar. The warm-hearted little handmaiden was honestlyworried over her adored mistress' condition. 

"Miss Lavendar isn't well, Miss Shirley, ma'am. I'm sure she isn't, though she never complains. She hasn't seemed like herself this longwhile, ma'am . . . Not since that day you and Paul were here togetherbefore. I feel sure she caught cold that night, ma'am. After you and himhad gone she went out and walked in the garden for long after dark withnothing but a little shawl on her. There was a lot of snow on the walksand I feel sure she got a chill, ma'am. Ever since then I've noticed heracting tired and lonesome like. She don't seem to take an interest inanything, ma'am. She never pretends company's coming, nor fixes up forit, nor nothing, ma'am. It's only when you come she seems to chirk up abit. And the worst sign of all, Miss Shirley, ma'am . . . " Charlotta theFourth lowered her voice as if she were about to tell some exceedinglyweird and awful symptom indeed . . . "is that she never gets cross nowwhen I breaks things. Why, Miss Shirley, ma'am, yesterday I brukher green and yaller bowl that's always stood on the bookcase. Hergrandmother brought it out from England and Miss Lavendar was awfulchoice of it. I was dusting it just as careful, Miss Shirley, ma'am, andit slipped out, so fashion, afore I could grab holt of it, and bruk intoabout forty millyun pieces. I tell you I was sorry and scared. I thoughtMiss Lavendar would scold me awful, ma'am; and I'd ruther she had thantake it the way she did. She just come in and hardly looked at it andsaid, 'It's no matter, Charlotta. Take up the pieces and throw themaway. ' Just like that, Miss Shirley, ma'am . . . 'take up the pieces andthrow them away, ' as if it wasn't her grandmother's bowl from England. Oh, she isn't well and I feel awful bad about it. She's got nobody tolook after her but me. "

Charlotta the Fourth's eyes brimmed up with tears. Anne patted thelittle brown paw holding the cracked pink cup sympathetically. 

"I think Miss Lavendar needs a change, Charlotta. She stays here alonetoo much. Can't we induce her to go away for a little trip?"

Charlotta shook her head, with its rampant bows, disconsolately. 

"I don't think so, Miss Shirley, ma'am. Miss Lavendar hates visiting. She's only got three relations she ever visits and she says she justgoes to see them as a family duty. Last time when she come home she saidshe wasn't going to visit for family duty no more. 'I've come home inlove with loneliness, Charlotta, ' she says to me, 'and I never want tostray from my own vine and fig tree again. My relations try so hard tomake an old lady of me and it has a bad effect on me. ' Just like that, Miss Shirley, ma'am. 'It has a very bad effect on me. ' So I don't thinkit would do any good to coax her to go visiting. "

"We must see what can be done, " said Anne decidedly, as she put the lastpossible berry in her pink cup. "Just as soon as I have my vacation I'llcome through and spend a whole week with you. We'll have a picnic everyday and pretend all sorts of interesting things, and see if we can'tcheer Miss Lavendar up. "

"That will be the very thing, Miss Shirley, ma'am, " exclaimed Charlottathe Fourth in rapture. She was glad for Miss Lavendar's sake and for herown too. With a whole week in which to study Anne constantly she wouldsurely be able to learn how to move and behave like her. 

When the girls got back to Echo Lodge they found that Miss Lavendarand Paul had carried the little square table out of the kitchen tothe garden and had everything ready for tea. Nothing ever tasted sodelicious as those strawberries and cream, eaten under a great bluesky all curdled over with fluffy little white clouds, and in the longshadows of the wood with its lispings and its murmurings. After tea Annehelped Charlotta wash the dishes in the kitchen, while Miss Lavendar saton the stone bench with Paul and heard all about his rock people. Shewas a good listener, this sweet Miss Lavendar, but just at the last itstruck Paul that she had suddenly lost interest in the Twin Sailors. 

"Miss Lavendar, why do you look at me like that?" he asked gravely. 

"How do I look, Paul?"

"Just as if you were looking through me at somebody I put you in mindof, " said Paul, who had such occasional flashes of uncanny insight thatit wasn't quite safe to have secrets when he was about. 

"You do put me in mind of somebody I knew long ago, " said Miss Lavendardreamily. 

"When you were young?"

"Yes, when I was young. Do I seem very old to you, Paul?"

"Do you know, I can't make up my mind about that, " said Paulconfidentially. "Your hair looks old . . . I never knew a young personwith white hair. But your eyes are as young as my beautiful teacher'swhen you laugh. I tell you what, Miss Lavendar" . . . Paul's voice andface were as solemn as a judge's . . . "I think you would make a splendidmother. You have just the right look in your eyes . . . The look mylittle mother always had. I think it's a pity you haven't any boys ofyour own. "

"I have a little dream boy, Paul. "

"Oh, have you really? How old is he?"

"About your age I think. He ought to be older because I dreamed him longbefore you were born. But I'll never let him get any older than elevenor twelve; because if I did some day he might grow up altogether andthen I'd lose him. "

"I know, " nodded Paul. "That's the beauty of dream-people . . . They stayany age you want them. You and my beautiful teacher and me myself arethe only folks in the world that I know of that have dream-people. Isn'tit funny and nice we should all know each other? But I guess that kindof people always find each other out. Grandma never has dream-people andMary Joe thinks I'm wrong in the upper story because I have them. But Ithink it's splendid to have them. YOU know, Miss Lavendar. Tell me allabout your little dream-boy. "

"He has blue eyes and curly hair. He steals in and wakens me with a kissevery morning. Then all day he plays here in the garden . . . And I playwith him. Such games as we have. We run races and talk with the echoes;and I tell him stories. And when twilight comes . . . "

"I know, " interrupted Paul eagerly. "He comes and sits beside you . . . SO . . . Because of course at twelve he'd be too big to climb into yourlap . . . And lays his head on your shoulder . . . SO . . . And you putyour arms about him and hold him tight, tight, and rest your cheek onhis head . . . Yes, that's the very way. Oh, you DO know, MissLavendar. "

Anne found the two of them there when she came out of the stone house, and something in Miss Lavendar's face made her hate to disturb them. 

"I'm afraid we must go, Paul, if we want to get home before dark. MissLavendar, I'm going to invite myself to Echo Lodge for a whole weekpretty soon. "

"If you come for a week I'll keep you for two, " threatened MissLavendar. 

XXVIII

The Prince Comes Back to the Enchanted Palace

The last day of school came and went. A triumphant "semi-annualexamination" was held and Anne's pupils acquitted themselves splendidly. At the close they gave her an address and a writing desk. All the girlsand ladies present cried, and some of the boys had it cast up to themlater on that they cried too, although they always denied it. 

Mrs. Harmon Andrews, Mrs. Peter Sloane, and Mrs. William Bell walkedhome together and talked things over. 

"I do think it is such a pity Anne is leaving when the children seemso much attached to her, " sighed Mrs. Peter Sloane, who had a habit ofsighing over everything and even finished off her jokes that way. "Tobe sure, " she added hastily, "we all know we'll have a good teacher nextyear too. "

"Jane will do her duty, I've no doubt, " said Mrs. Andrews ratherstiffly. "I don't suppose she'll tell the children quite so many fairytales or spend so much time roaming about the woods with them. But shehas her name on the Inspector's Roll of Honor and the Newbridge peopleare in a terrible state over her leaving. "

"I'm real glad Anne is going to college, " said Mrs. Bell. "She hasalways wanted it and it will be a splendid thing for her. "

"Well, I don't know. " Mrs. Andrews was determined not to agree fullywith anybody that day. "I don't see that Anne needs any more education. She'll probably be marrying Gilbert Blythe, if his infatuation for herlasts till he gets through college, and what good will Latin and Greekdo her then? If they taught you at college how to manage a man theremight be some sense in her going. "

Mrs. Harmon Andrews, so Avonlea gossip whispered, had never learnedhow to manage her "man, " and as a result the Andrews household was notexactly a model of domestic happiness. 

"I see that the Charlottetown call to Mr. Allan is up before thePresbytery, " said Mrs. Bell. "That means we'll be losing him soon, Isuppose. "

"They're not going before September, " said Mrs. Sloane. "It will bea great loss to the community . . . Though I always did think that Mrs. Allan dressed rather too gay for a minister's wife. But we are none ofus perfect. Did you notice how neat and snug Mr. Harrison looked today?I never saw such a changed man. He goes to church every Sunday and hassubscribed to the salary. "

"Hasn't that Paul Irving grown to be a big boy?" said Mrs. Andrews. "Hewas such a mite for his age when he came here. I declare I hardly knewhim today. He's getting to look a lot like his father. "

"He's a smart boy, " said Mrs. Bell. 

"He's smart enough, but" . . . Mrs. Andrews lowered her voice . . . "Ibelieve he tells queer stories. Gracie came home from school one daylast week with the greatest rigmarole he had told her about people wholived down at the shore . . . Stories there couldn't be a word of truthin, you know. I told Gracie not to believe them, and she said Pauldidn't intend her to. But if he didn't what did he tell them to herfor?"

"Anne says Paul is a genius, " said Mrs. Sloane. 

"He may be. You never know what to expect of them Americans, " said Mrs. Andrews. Mrs. Andrews' only acquaintance with the word "genius" wasderived from the colloquial fashion of calling any eccentric individual"a queer genius. " She probably thought, with Mary Joe, that it meant aperson with something wrong in his upper story. 

Back in the schoolroom Anne was sitting alone at her desk, as she hadsat on the first day of school two years before, her face leaning on herhand, her dewy eyes looking wistfully out of the window to the Lake ofShining Waters. Her heart was so wrung over the parting with her pupilsthat for a moment college had lost all its charm. She still felt theclasp of Annetta Bell's arms about her neck and heard the childishwail, "I'll NEVER love any teacher as much as you, Miss Shirley, never, never. "

For two years she had worked earnestly and faithfully, making manymistakes and learning from them. She had had her reward. She had taughther scholars something, but she felt that they had taught her muchmore . . . Lessons of tenderness, self-control, innocent wisdom, loreof childish hearts. Perhaps she had not succeeded in "inspiring" anywonderful ambitions in her pupils, but she had taught them, more by herown sweet personality than by all her careful precepts, that it was goodand necessary in the years that were before them to live their livesfinely and graciously, holding fast to truth and courtesy and kindness, keeping aloof from all that savored of falsehood and meanness andvulgarity. They were, perhaps, all unconscious of having learned suchlessons; but they would remember and practice them long after they hadforgotten the capital of Afghanistan and the dates of the Wars of theRoses. 

"Another chapter in my life is closed, " said Anne aloud, as she lockedher desk. She really felt very sad over it; but the romance in the ideaof that "closed chapter" did comfort her a little. 

Anne spent a fortnight at Echo Lodge early in her vacation and everybodyconcerned had a good time. 

She took Miss Lavendar on a shopping expedition to town and persuadedher to buy a new organdy dress; then came the excitement of cuttingand making it together, while the happy Charlotta the Fourth basted andswept up clippings. Miss Lavendar had complained that she could not feelmuch interest in anything, but the sparkle came back to her eyes overher pretty dress. 

"What a foolish, frivolous person I must be, " she sighed. "I'mwholesomely ashamed to think that a new dress . . . Even it is aforget-me-not organdy . . . Should exhilarate me so, when a goodconscience and an extra contribution to Foreign Missions couldn't doit. "

Midway in her visit Anne went home to Green Gables for a day to mend thetwins' stockings and settle up Davy's accumulated store of questions. Inthe evening she went down to the shore road to see Paul Irving. As shepassed by the low, square window of the Irving sitting room she caughta glimpse of Paul on somebody's lap; but the next moment he came flyingthrough the hall. 

"Oh, Miss Shirley, " he cried excitedly, "you can't think what hashappened! Something so splendid. Father is here . . . Just think of that!Father is here! Come right in. Father, this is my beautiful teacher. YOUknow, father. "

Stephen Irving came forward to meet Anne with a smile. He was a tall, handsome man of middle age, with iron-gray hair, deep-set, dark blueeyes, and a strong, sad face, splendidly modeled about chin and brow. Just the face for a hero of romance, Anne thought with a thrill ofintense satisfaction. It was so disappointing to meet someone who oughtto be a hero and find him bald or stooped, or otherwise lacking inmanly beauty. Anne would have thought it dreadful if the object of MissLavendar's romance had not looked the part. 

"So this is my little son's 'beautiful teacher, ' of whom I have heardso much, " said Mr. Irving with a hearty handshake. "Paul's letters havebeen so full of you, Miss Shirley, that I feel as if I were pretty wellacquainted with you already. I want to thank you for what you have donefor Paul. I think that your influence has been just what he needed. Mother is one of the best and dearest of women; but her robust, matter-of-fact Scotch common sense could not always understand atemperament like my laddie's. What was lacking in her you have supplied. Between you, I think Paul's training in these two past years has been asnearly ideal as a motherless boy's could be. "

Everybody likes to be appreciated. Under Mr. Irving's praise Anne'sface "burst flower like into rosy bloom, " and the busy, weary man of theworld, looking at her, thought he had never seen a fairer, sweeter slipof girlhood than this little "down east" schoolteacher with her red hairand wonderful eyes. 

Paul sat between them blissfully happy. 

"I never dreamed father was coming, " he said radiantly. "Even Grandmadidn't know it. It was a great surprise. As a general thing . . . " Paulshook his brown curls gravely . . . "I don't like to be surprised. Youlose all the fun of expecting things when you're surprised. But in acase like this it is all right. Father came last night after I had goneto bed. And after Grandma and Mary Joe had stopped being surprised heand Grandma came upstairs to look at me, not meaning to wake me up tillmorning. But I woke right up and saw father. I tell you I just sprang athim. "

"With a hug like a bear's, " said Mr. Irving, putting his arms aroundPaul's shoulder smilingly. "I hardly knew my boy, he had grown so bigand brown and sturdy. "

"I don't know which was the most pleased to see father, Grandma or I, "continued Paul. "Grandma's been in kitchen all day making the thingsfather likes to eat. She wouldn't trust them to Mary Joe, she says. That's HER way of showing gladness. _I_ like best just to sit and talkto father. But I'm going to leave you for a little while now if you'llexcuse me. I must get the cows for Mary Joe. That is one of my dailyduties. "

When Paul had scampered away to do his "daily duty" Mr. Irving talked toAnne of various matters. But Anne felt that he was thinking of somethingelse underneath all the time. Presently it came to the surface. 

"In Paul's last letter he spoke of going with you to visit an old . . . Friend of mine . . . Miss Lewis at the stone house in Grafton. Do you knowher well?"

"Yes, indeed, she is a very dear friend of mine, " was Anne's demurereply, which gave no hint of the sudden thrill that tingled over herfrom head to foot at Mr. Irving's question. Anne "felt instinctively"that romance was peeping at her around a corner. 

Mr. Irving rose and went to the window, looking out on a great, golden, billowing sea where a wild wind was harping. For a few moments there wassilence in the little dark-walled room. Then he turned and looked downinto Anne's sympathetic face with a smile, half-whimsical, half-tender. 

"I wonder how much you know, " he said. 

"I know all about it, " replied Anne promptly. "You see, " she explainedhastily, "Miss Lavendar and I are very intimate. She wouldn't tellthings of such a sacred nature to everybody. We are kindred spirits. "

"Yes, I believe you are. Well, I am going to ask a favor of you. I wouldlike to go and see Miss Lavendar if she will let me. Will you ask her ifI may come?"

Would she not? Oh, indeed she would! Yes, this was romance, the very, the real thing, with all the charm of rhyme and story and dream. It wasa little belated, perhaps, like a rose blooming in October which shouldhave bloomed in June; but none the less a rose, all sweetness andfragrance, with the gleam of gold in its heart. Never did Anne'sfeet bear her on a more willing errand than on that walk through thebeechwoods to Grafton the next morning. She found Miss Lavendar in thegarden. Anne was fearfully excited. Her hands grew cold and her voicetrembled. 

"Miss Lavendar, I have something to tell you . . . Something veryimportant. Can you guess what it is?"

Anne never supposed that Miss Lavendar could GUESS; but Miss Lavendar'sface grew very pale and Miss Lavendar said in a quiet, still voice, from which all the color and sparkle that Miss Lavendar's voice usuallysuggested had faded. 

"Stephen Irving is home?"

"How did you know? Who told you?" cried Anne disappointedly, vexed thather great revelation had been anticipated. 

"Nobody. I knew that must be it, just from the way you spoke. "

"He wants to come and see you, " said Anne. "May I send him word that hemay?"

"Yes, of course, " fluttered Miss Lavendar. "There is no reason why heshouldn't. He is only coming as any old friend might. "

Anne had her own opinion about that as she hastened into the house towrite a note at Miss Lavendar's desk. 

"Oh, it's delightful to be living in a storybook, " she thought gaily. "It will come out all right of course . . . It must . . . And Paul willhave a mother after his own heart and everybody will be happy. But Mr. Irving will take Miss Lavendar away . . . And dear knows what willhappen to the little stone house . . . And so there are two sides to it, as there seems to be to everything in this world. " The important notewas written and Anne herself carried it to the Grafton post office, where she waylaid the mail carrier and asked him to leave it at theAvonlea office. 

"It's so very important, " Anne assured him anxiously. The mail carrierwas a rather grumpy old personage who did not at all look the part of amessenger of Cupid; and Anne was none too certain that his memory was tobe trusted. But he said he would do his best to remember and she had tobe contented with that. 

Charlotta the Fourth felt that some mystery pervaded the stone housethat afternoon . . . A mystery from which she was excluded. Miss Lavendarroamed about the garden in a distracted fashion. Anne, too, seemedpossessed by a demon of unrest, and walked to and fro and went up anddown. Charlotta the Fourth endured it till patience ceased to be avirtue; then she confronted Anne on the occasion of that romantic youngperson's third aimless peregrination through the kitchen. 

"Please, Miss Shirley, ma'am, " said Charlotta the Fourth, with anindignant toss of her very blue bows, "it's plain to be seen you andMiss Lavendar have got a secret and I think, begging your pardon if I'mtoo forward, Miss Shirley, ma'am, that it's real mean not to tell mewhen we've all been such chums. "

"Oh, Charlotta dear, I'd have told you all about it if it were mysecret . . . But it's Miss Lavendar's, you see. However, I'll tell youthis much . . . And if nothing comes of it you must never breathe a wordabout it to a living soul. You see, Prince Charming is coming tonight. He came long ago, but in a foolish moment went away and wandered afarand forgot the secret of the magic pathway to the enchanted castle, where the princess was weeping her faithful heart out for him. Butat last he remembered it again and the princess is waiting still. . . Because nobody but her own dear prince could carry her off. "

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, what is that in prose?" gasped the mystifiedCharlotta. 

Anne laughed. 

"In prose, an old friend of Miss Lavendar's is coming to see hertonight. "

"Do you mean an old beau of hers?" demanded the literal Charlotta. 

"That is probably what I do mean . . . In prose, " answered Anne gravely. "It is Paul's father . . . Stephen Irving. And goodness knows what willcome of it, but let us hope for the best, Charlotta. "

"I hope that he'll marry Miss Lavendar, " was Charlotta's unequivocalresponse. "Some women's intended from the start to be old maids, and I'mafraid I'm one of them, Miss Shirley, ma'am, because I've awful littlepatience with the men. But Miss Lavendar never was. And I've been awfulworried, thinking what on earth she'd do when I got so big I'd HAVE togo to Boston. There ain't any more girls in our family and dearknows what she'd do if she got some stranger that might laugh at herpretendings and leave things lying round out of their place and notbe willing to be called Charlotta the Fifth. She might get someone whowouldn't be as unlucky as me in breaking dishes but she'd never getanyone who'd love her better. "

And the faithful little handmaiden dashed to the oven door with a sniff. 

They went through the form of having tea as usual that night at EchoLodge; but nobody really ate anything. After tea Miss Lavendar went toher room and put on her new forget-me-not organdy, while Anne did herhair for her. Both were dreadfully excited; but Miss Lavendar pretendedto be very calm and indifferent. 

"I must really mend that rent in the curtain tomorrow, " she saidanxiously, inspecting it as if it were the only thing of any importancejust then. "Those curtains have not worn as well as they should, considering the price I paid. Dear me, Charlotta has forgotten to dustthe stair railing AGAIN. I really MUST speak to her about it. "

Anne was sitting on the porch steps when Stephen Irving came down thelane and across the garden. 

"This is the one place where time stands still, " he said, looking aroundhim with delighted eyes. "There is nothing changed about this house orgarden since I was here twenty-five years ago. It makes me feel youngagain. "

"You know time always does stand still in an enchanted palace, " saidAnne seriously. "It is only when the prince comes that things begin tohappen. "

Mr. Irving smiled a little sadly into her uplifted face, all astar withits youth and promise. 

"Sometimes the prince comes too late, " he said. He did not ask Anneto translate her remark into prose. Like all kindred spirits he"understood. "

"Oh, no, not if he is the real prince coming to the true princess, " saidAnne, shaking her red head decidedly, as she opened the parlor door. When he had gone in she shut it tightly behind him and turned toconfront Charlotta the Fourth, who was in the hall, all "nods and becksand wreathed smiles. "

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, " she breathed, "I peeked from the kitchenwindow . . . And he's awful handsome . . . And just the right age for MissLavendar. And oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, do you think it would be muchharm to listen at the door?"

"It would be dreadful, Charlotta, " said Anne firmly, "so just you comeaway with me out of the reach of temptation. "

"I can't do anything, and it's awful to hang round just waiting, " sighedCharlotta. "What if he don't propose after all, Miss Shirley, ma'am?You can never be sure of them men. My older sister, Charlotta theFirst, thought she was engaged to one once. But it turned out HE had adifferent opinion and she says she'll never trust one of them again. AndI heard of another case where a man thought he wanted one girl awful badwhen it was really her sister he wanted all the time. When a man don'tknow his own mind, Miss Shirley, ma'am, how's a poor woman going to besure of it?"

"We'll go to the kitchen and clean the silver spoons, " said Anne. "That's a task which won't require much thinking fortunately . . . For ICOULDN'T think tonight. And it will pass the time. "

It passed an hour. Then, just as Anne laid down the last shining spoon, they heard the front door shut. Both sought comfort fearfully in eachother's eyes. 

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, " gasped Charlotta, "if he's going away thisearly there's nothing into it and never will be. " They flew to thewindow. Mr. Irving had no intention of going away. He and Miss Lavendarwere strolling slowly down the middle path to the stone bench. 

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, he's got his arm around her waist, " whisperedCharlotta the Fourth delightedly. "He must have proposed to her or she'dnever allow it. "

Anne caught Charlotta the Fourth by her own plump waist and danced heraround the kitchen until they were both out of breath. 

"Oh, Charlotta, " she cried gaily, "I'm neither a prophetess nor thedaughter of a prophetess but I'm going to make a prediction. There'llbe a wedding in this old stone house before the maple leaves are red. Doyou want that translated into prose, Charlotta?"

"No, I can understand that, " said Charlotta. "A wedding ain't poetry. Why, Miss Shirley, ma'am, you're crying! What for?"

"Oh, because it's all so beautiful . . . And story bookish . . . Andromantic . . . And sad, " said Anne, winking the tears out of her eyes. "It's all perfectly lovely . . . But there's a little sadness mixed up init too, somehow. "

"Oh, of course there's a resk in marrying anybody, " conceded Charlottathe Fourth, "but, when all's said and done, Miss Shirley, ma'am, there'smany a worse thing than a husband. "

XXIX

Poetry and Prose

For the next month Anne lived in what, for Avonlea, might be calleda whirl of excitement. The preparation of her own modest outfit forRedmond was of secondary importance. Miss Lavendar was getting ready tobe married and the stone house was the scene of endless consultationsand plannings and discussions, with Charlotta the Fourth hovering on theoutskirts of things in agitated delight and wonder. Then the dressmakercame, and there was the rapture and wretchedness of choosing fashionsand being fitted. Anne and Diana spent half their time at Echo Lodge andthere were nights when Anne could not sleep for wondering whether shehad done right in advising Miss Lavendar to select brown rather thannavy blue for her traveling dress, and to have her gray silk madeprincess. 

Everybody concerned in Miss Lavendar's story was very happy. Paul Irvingrushed to Green Gables to talk the news over with Anne as soon as hisfather had told him. 

"I knew I could trust father to pick me out a nice little secondmother, " he said proudly. "It's a fine thing to have a father you candepend on, teacher. I just love Miss Lavendar. Grandma is pleased, too. She says she's real glad father didn't pick out an American for hissecond wife, because, although it turned out all right the first time, such a thing wouldn't be likely to happen twice. Mrs. Lynde says shethoroughly approves of the match and thinks its likely Miss Lavendarwill give up her queer notions and be like other people, now that she'sgoing to be married. But I hope she won't give her queer notions up, teacher, because I like them. And I don't want her to be like otherpeople. There are too many other people around as it is. YOU know, teacher. "

Charlotta the Fourth was another radiant person. 

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it has all turned out so beautiful. When Mr. Irving and Miss Lavendar come back from their tower I'm to go up toBoston and live with them . . . And me only fifteen, and the other girlsnever went till they were sixteen. Ain't Mr. Irving splendid? Hejust worships the ground she treads on and it makes me feel so queersometimes to see the look in his eyes when he's watching her. It beggarsdescription, Miss Shirley, ma'am. I'm awful thankful they're so fondof each other. It's the best way, when all's said and done, though somefolks can get along without it. I've got an aunt who has been marriedthree times and says she married the first time for love and the lasttwo times for strictly business, and was happy with all three except atthe times of the funerals. But I think she took a resk, Miss Shirley, ma'am. "

"Oh, it's all so romantic, " breathed Anne to Marilla that night. "If Ihadn't taken the wrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball's I'd neverhave known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn't met her I'd never have takenPaul there . . . And he'd never have written to his father about visitingMiss Lavendar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco. Mr. Irving says whenever he got that letter he made up his mind to send hispartner to San Francisco and come here instead. He hadn't heard anythingof Miss Lavendar for fifteen years. Somebody had told him then thatshe was to be married and he thought she was and never asked anybodyanything about her. And now everything has come right. And I had ahand in bringing it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde says, everything isforeordained and it was bound to happen anyway. But even so, it's niceto think one was an instrument used by predestination. Yes indeed, it'svery romantic. "

"I can't see that it's so terribly romantic at all, " said Marilla rathercrisply. Marilla thought Anne was too worked up about it and had plentyto do with getting ready for college without "traipsing" to Echo Lodgetwo days out of three helping Miss Lavendar. "In the first place twoyoung fools quarrel and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the Statesand after a spell gets married up there and is perfectly happy from allaccounts. Then his wife dies and after a decent interval he thinks he'llcome home and see if his first fancy'll have him. Meanwhile, she's beenliving single, probably because nobody nice enough came along to wanther, and they meet and agree to be married after all. Now, where is theromance in all that?"

"Oh, there isn't any, when you put it that way, " gasped Anne, ratheras if somebody had thrown cold water over her. "I suppose that's howit looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it throughpoetry . . . And _I_ think it's nicer . . . " Anne recovered herself andher eyes shone and her cheeks flushed . . . "to look at it throughpoetry. "

Marilla glanced at the radiant young face and refrained from furthersarcastic comments. Perhaps some realization came to her that after allit was better to have, like Anne, "the vision and the faculty divine". . . That gift which the world cannot bestow or take away, of looking atlife through some transfiguring . . . Or revealing? . . . Medium, wherebyeverything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wearing a glory anda freshness not visible to those who, like herself and Charlotta theFourth, looked at things only through prose. 

"When's the wedding to be?" she asked after a pause. 

"The last Wednesday in August. They are to be married in the gardenunder the honeysuckle trellis . . . The very spot where Mr. Irvingproposed to her twenty-five years ago. Marilla, that IS romantic, evenin prose. There's to be nobody there except Mrs. Irving and Paul andGilbert and Diana and I, and Miss Lavendar's cousins. And they willleave on the six o'clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast. Whenthey come back in the fall Paul and Charlotta the Fourth are to go up toBoston to live with them. But Echo Lodge is to be left just as it is. . . Only of course they'll sell the hens and cow, and board up the windows. . . And every summer they're coming down to live in it. I'm so glad. Itwould have hurt me dreadfully next winter at Redmond to think of thatdear stone house all stripped and deserted, with empty rooms . . . Or farworse still, with other people living in it. But I can think of it now, just as I've always seen it, waiting happily for the summer to bringlife and laughter back to it again. "

There was more romance in the world than that which had fallen tothe share of the middle-aged lovers of the stone house. Anne stumbledsuddenly on it one evening when she went over to Orchard Slope by thewood cut and came out into the Barry garden. Diana Barry and Fred Wrightwere standing together under the big willow. Diana was leaning againstthe gray trunk, her lashes cast down on very crimson cheeks. One handwas held by Fred, who stood with his face bent toward her, stammeringsomething in low earnest tones. There were no other people in the worldexcept their two selves at that magic moment; so neither of them sawAnne, who, after one dazed glance of comprehension, turned and spednoiselessly back through the spruce wood, never stopping till she gainedher own gable room, where she sat breathlessly down by her window andtried to collect her scattered wits. 

"Diana and Fred are in love with each other, " she gasped. "Oh, it doesseem so . . . So . . . So HOPELESSLY grown up. "

Anne, of late, had not been without her suspicions that Diana wasproving false to the melancholy Byronic hero of her early dreams. Butas "things seen are mightier than things heard, " or suspected, therealization that it was actually so came to her with almost the shock ofperfect surprise. This was succeeded by a queer, little lonely feeling. . . As if, somehow, Diana had gone forward into a new world, shuttinga gate behind her, leaving Anne on the outside. 

"Things are changing so fast it almost frightens me, " Anne thought, a little sadly. "And I'm afraid that this can't help making somedifference between Diana and me. I'm sure I can't tell her all mysecrets after this . . . She might tell Fred. And what CAN she see inFred? He's very nice and jolly . . . But he's just Fred Wright. "

It is always a very puzzling question . . . What can somebody see insomebody else? But how fortunate after all that it is so, for ifeverybody saw alike . . . Well, in that case, as the old Indian said, "Everybody would want my squaw. " It was plain that Diana DID seesomething in Fred Wright, however Anne's eyes might be holden. Dianacame to Green Gables the next evening, a pensive, shy young lady, andtold Anne the whole story in the dusky seclusion of the east gable. Bothgirls cried and kissed and laughed. 

"I'm so happy, " said Diana, "but it does seem ridiculous to think of mebeing engaged. "

"What is it really like to be engaged?" asked Anne curiously. 

"Well, that all depends on who you're engaged to, " answered Diana, withthat maddening air of superior wisdom always assumed by those who areengaged over those who are not. "It's perfectly lovely to be engaged toFred . . . But I think it would be simply horrid to be engaged to anyoneelse. "

"There's not much comfort for the rest of us in that, seeing that thereis only one Fred, " laughed Anne. 

"Oh, Anne, you don't understand, " said Diana in vexation. "I didn'tmean THAT . . . It's so hard to explain. Never mind, you'll understandsometime, when your own turn comes. "

"Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understand now. What is an imaginationfor if not to enable you to peep at life through other people's eyes?"

"You must be my bridesmaid, you know, Anne. Promise me that . . . Wherever you may be when I'm married. "

"I'll come from the ends of the earth if necessary, " promised Annesolemnly. 

"Of course, it won't be for ever so long yet, " said Diana, blushing. "Three years at the very least . . . For I'm only eighteen and mother saysno daughter of hers shall be married before she's twenty-one. Besides, Fred's father is going to buy the Abraham Fletcher farm for him and hesays he's got to have it two thirds paid for before he'll give it to himin his own name. But three years isn't any too much time to get readyfor housekeeping, for I haven't a speck of fancy work made yet. But I'mgoing to begin crocheting doilies tomorrow. Myra Gillis had thirty-sevendoilies when she was married and I'm determined I shall have as many asshe had. "

"I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to keep house with onlythirty-six doilies, " conceded Anne, with a solemn face but dancing eyes. 

Diana looked hurt. 

"I didn't think you'd make fun of me, Anne, " she said reproachfully. 

"Dearest, I wasn't making fun of you, " cried Anne repentantly. "Iwas only teasing you a bit. I think you'll make the sweetest littlehousekeeper in the world. And I think it's perfectly lovely of you to beplanning already for your home o'dreams. "

Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, "home o'dreams, " than itcaptivated her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one ofher own. It was, of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud, and melancholy; but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in hangingabout too, helping her arrange pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplishsundry other tasks which a proud and melancholy hero evidentlyconsidered beneath his dignity. Anne tried to banish Gilbert's imagefrom her castle in Spain but, somehow, he went on being there, soAnne, being in a hurry, gave up the attempt and pursued her aerialarchitecture with such success that her "home o'dreams" was built andfurnished before Diana spoke again. 

"I suppose, Anne, you must think it's funny I should like Fred so wellwhen he's so different from the kind of man I've always said I wouldmarry . . . The tall, slender kind? But somehow I wouldn't want Fred to betall and slender . . . Because, don't you see, he wouldn't be Fred then. Of course, " added Diana rather dolefully, "we will be a dreadfully pudgycouple. But after all that's better than one of us being short and fatand the other tall and lean, like Morgan Sloane and his wife. Mrs. Lyndesays it always makes her think of the long and short of it when she seesthem together. "

"Well, " said Anne to herself that night, as she brushed her hair beforeher gilt framed mirror, "I am glad Diana is so happy and satisfied. But when my turn comes . . . If it ever does . . . I do hope there'll besomething a little more thrilling about it. But then Diana thought sotoo, once. I've heard her say time and again she'd never get engaged anypoky commonplace way . . . He'd HAVE to do something splendid to win her. But she has changed. Perhaps I'll change too. But I won't . . . AndI'm determined I won't. Oh, I think these engagements are dreadfullyunsettling things when they happen to your intimate friends. "

XXX

A Wedding at the Stone House

The last week in August came. Miss Lavendar was to be married in it. Two weeks later Anne and Gilbert would leave for Redmond College. In aweek's time Mrs. Rachel Lynde would move to Green Gables and set upher lares and penates in the erstwhile spare room, which was alreadyprepared for her coming. She had sold all her superfluous householdplenishings by auction and was at present reveling in the congenialoccupation of helping the Allans pack up. Mr. Allan was to preach hisfarewell sermon the next Sunday. The old order was changing rapidly togive place to the new, as Anne felt with a little sadness threading allher excitement and happiness. 

"Changes ain't totally pleasant but they're excellent things, " said Mr. Harrison philosophically. "Two years is about long enough for thingsto stay exactly the same. If they stayed put any longer they might growmossy. "

Mr. Harrison was smoking on his veranda. His wife had self-sacrificinglytold that he might smoke in the house if he took care to sit by anopen window. Mr. Harrison rewarded this concession by going outdoorsaltogether to smoke in fine weather, and so mutual goodwill reigned. 

Anne had come over to ask Mrs. Harrison for some of her yellow dahlias. She and Diana were going through to Echo Lodge that evening to help MissLavendar and Charlotta the Fourth with their final preparations for themorrow's bridal. Miss Lavendar herself never had dahlias; she did notlike them and they would not have suited the fine retirement of herold-fashioned garden. But flowers of any kind were rather scarce inAvonlea and the neighboring districts that summer, thanks to Uncle Abe'sstorm; and Anne and Diana thought that a certain old cream-colored stonejug, usually kept sacred to doughnuts, brimmed over with yellow dahlias, would be just the thing to set in a dim angle of the stone house stairs, against the dark background of red hall paper. 

"I s'pose you'll be starting off for college in a fortnight's time?"continued Mr. Harrison. "Well, we're going to miss you an awful lot, Emily and me. To be sure, Mrs. Lynde'll be over there in your place. There ain't nobody but a substitute can be found for them. "

The irony of Mr. Harrison's tone is quite untransferable to paper. Inspite of his wife's intimacy with Mrs. Lynde, the best that could besaid of the relationship between her and Mr. Harrison even under the newregime, was that they preserved an armed neutrality. 

"Yes, I'm going, " said Anne. "I'm very glad with my head . . . And verysorry with my heart. "

"I s'pose you'll be scooping up all the honors that are lying roundloose at Redmond. "

"I may try for one or two of them, " confessed Anne, "but I don't care somuch for things like that as I did two years ago. What I want to get outof my college course is some knowledge of the best way of living lifeand doing the most and best with it. I want to learn to understand andhelp other people and myself. "

Mr. Harrison nodded. 

"That's the idea exactly. That's what college ought to be for, insteadof for turning out a lot of B. A. 's, so chock full of book-learningand vanity that there ain't room for anything else. You're all right. College won't be able to do you much harm, I reckon. "

Diana and Anne drove over to Echo Lodge after tea, taking with them allthe flowery spoil that several predatory expeditions in their own andtheir neighbors' gardens had yielded. They found the stone house agogwith excitement. Charlotta the Fourth was flying around with such vimand briskness that her blue bows seemed really to possess the power ofbeing everywhere at once. Like the helmet of Navarre, Charlotta's bluebows waved ever in the thickest of the fray. 

"Praise be to goodness you've come, " she said devoutly, "for there'sheaps of things to do . . . And the frosting on that cake WON'T harden. . . And there's all the silver to be rubbed up yet . . . And thehorsehair trunk to be packed . . . And the roosters for the chickensalad are running out there beyant the henhouse yet, crowing, MissShirley, ma'am. And Miss Lavendar ain't to be trusted to do a thing. Iwas thankful when Mr. Irving came a few minutes ago and took her off fora walk in the woods. Courting's all right in its place, Miss Shirley, ma'am, but if you try to mix it up with cooking and scouringeverything's spoiled. That's MY opinion, Miss Shirley, ma'am. "

Anne and Diana worked so heartily that by ten o'clock even Charlottathe Fourth was satisfied. She braided her hair in innumerable plaits andtook her weary little bones off to bed. 

"But I'm sure I shan't sleep a blessed wink, Miss Shirley, ma'am, forfear that something'll go wrong at the last minute . . . The cream won'twhip . . . Or Mr. Irving'll have a stroke and not be able to come. "

"He isn't in the habit of having strokes, is he?" asked Diana, thedimpled corners of her mouth twitching. To Diana, Charlotta the Fourthwas, if not exactly a thing of beauty, certainly a joy forever. 

"They're not things that go by habit, " said Charlotta the Fourth withdignity. "They just HAPPEN . . . And there you are. ANYBODY can have astroke. You don't have to learn how. Mr. Irving looks a lot like anuncle of mine that had one once just as he was sitting down to dinnerone day. But maybe everything'll go all right. In this world you've justgot to hope for the best and prepare for the worst and take whatever Godsends. "

"The only thing I'm worried about is that it won't be fine tomorrow, "said Diana. "Uncle Abe predicted rain for the middle of the week, andever since the big storm I can't help believing there's a good deal inwhat Uncle Abe says. "

Anne, who knew better than Diana just how much Uncle Abe had to do withthe storm, was not much disturbed by this. She slept the sleep of thejust and weary, and was roused at an unearthly hour by Charlotta theFourth. 

"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it's awful to call you so early, " came wailingthrough the keyhole, "but there's so much to do yet . . . And oh, MissShirley, ma'am, I'm skeered it's going to rain and I wish you'd get upand tell me you think it ain't. " Anne flew to the window, hoping againsthope that Charlotta the Fourth was saying this merely by way of rousingher effectually. But alas, the morning did look unpropitious. Below thewindow Miss Lavendar's garden, which should have been a glory of palevirgin sunshine, lay dim and windless; and the sky over the firs wasdark with moody clouds. 

"Isn't it too mean!" said Diana. 

"We must hope for the best, " said Anne determinedly. "If it only doesn'tactually rain, a cool, pearly gray day like this would really be nicerthan hot sunshine. "

"But it will rain, " mourned Charlotta, creeping into the room, a figureof fun, with her many braids wound about her head, the ends, tied upwith white thread, sticking out in all directions. "It'll hold off tillthe last minute and then pour cats and dogs. And all the folks will getsopping . . . And track mud all over the house . . . And they won't beable to be married under the honeysuckle . . . And it's awful unluckyfor no sun to shine on a bride, say what you will, Miss Shirley, ma'am. _I_ knew things were going too well to last. "

Charlotta the Fourth seemed certainly to have borrowed a leaf out ofMiss Eliza Andrews' book. 

It did not rain, though it kept on looking as if it meant to. By noonthe rooms were decorated, the table beautifully laid; and upstairs waswaiting a bride, "adorned for her husband. "

"You do look sweet, " said Anne rapturously. 

"Lovely, " echoed Diana. 

"Everything's ready, Miss Shirley, ma'am, and nothing dreadful hashappened YET, " was Charlotta's cheerful statement as she betook herselfto her little back room to dress. Out came all the braids; the resultantrampant crinkliness was plaited into two tails and tied, not with twobows alone, but with four, of brand-new ribbon, brightly blue. The twoupper bows rather gave the impression of overgrown wings sprouting fromCharlotta's neck, somewhat after the fashion of Raphael's cherubs. ButCharlotta the Fourth thought them very beautiful, and after she hadrustled into a white dress, so stiffly starched that it could standalone, she surveyed herself in her glass with great satisfaction . . . Asatisfaction which lasted until she went out in the hall and caughta glimpse through the spare room door of a tall girl in some softlyclinging gown, pinning white, star-like flowers on the smooth ripples ofher ruddy hair. 

"Oh, I'll NEVER be able to look like Miss Shirley, " thought poorCharlotta despairingly. "You just have to be born so, I guess . . . Don'tseem's if any amount of practice could give you that AIR. "

By one o'clock the guests had come, including Mr. And Mrs. Allan, forMr. Allan was to perform the ceremony in the absence of the Graftonminister on his vacation. There was no formality about the marriage. Miss Lavendar came down the stairs to meet her bridegroom at the foot, and as he took her hand she lifted her big brown eyes to his with a lookthat made Charlotta the Fourth, who intercepted it, feel queerer thanever. They went out to the honeysuckle arbor, where Mr. Allan wasawaiting them. The guests grouped themselves as they pleased. Anne andDiana stood by the old stone bench, with Charlotta the Fourth betweenthem, desperately clutching their hands in her cold, tremulous littlepaws. 

Mr. Allan opened his blue book and the ceremony proceeded. Just asMiss Lavendar and Stephen Irving were pronounced man and wife a verybeautiful and symbolic thing happened. The sun suddenly burst throughthe gray and poured a flood of radiance on the happy bride. Instantlythe garden was alive with dancing shadows and flickering lights. 

"What a lovely omen, " thought Anne, as she ran to kiss the bride. Thenthe three girls left the rest of the guests laughing around the bridalpair while they flew into the house to see that all was in readiness forthe feast. 

"Thanks be to goodness, it's over, Miss Shirley, ma'am, " breathedCharlotta the Fourth, "and they're married safe and sound, no matterwhat happens now. The bags of rice are in the pantry, ma'am, and the oldshoes are behind the door, and the cream for whipping is on the sullarsteps. "

At half past two Mr. And Mrs. Irving left, and everybody went to BrightRiver to see them off on the afternoon train. As Miss Lavendar . . . Ibeg her pardon, Mrs. Irving . . . Stepped from the door of her old homeGilbert and the girls threw the rice and Charlotta the Fourth hurled anold shoe with such excellent aim that she struck Mr. Allan squarely onthe head. But it was reserved for Paul to give the prettiest send-off. He popped out of the porch ringing furiously a huge old brass dinnerbell which had adorned the dining room mantel. Paul's only motive was tomake a joyful noise; but as the clangor died away, from point and curveand hill across the river came the chime of "fairy wedding bells, "ringing clearly, sweetly, faintly and more faint, as if Miss Lavendar'sbeloved echoes were bidding her greeting and farewell. And so, amid thisbenediction of sweet sounds, Miss Lavendar drove away from the old lifeof dreams and make-believes to a fuller life of realities in the busyworld beyond. 

Two hours later Anne and Charlotta the Fourth came down the lane again. Gilbert had gone to West Grafton on an errand and Diana had to keep anengagement at home. Anne and Charlotta had come back to put things inorder and lock up the little stone house. The garden was a pool of lategolden sunshine, with butterflies hovering and bees booming; but thelittle house had already that indefinable air of desolation which alwaysfollows a festivity. 

"Oh dear me, don't it look lonesome?" sniffed Charlotta the Fourth, whohad been crying all the way home from the station. "A wedding ain't muchcheerfuller than a funeral after all, when it's all over, Miss Shirley, ma'am. "

A busy evening followed. The decorations had to be removed, the disheswashed, the uneaten delicacies packed into a basket for the delectationof Charlotta the Fourth's young brothers at home. Anne would not restuntil everything was in apple-pie order; after Charlotta had gone homewith her plunder Anne went over the still rooms, feeling like one whotrod alone some banquet hall deserted, and closed the blinds. Thenshe locked the door and sat down under the silver poplar to wait forGilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedly thinking "long, longthoughts. "

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" asked Gilbert, coming down the walk. He had left his horse and buggy out at the road. 

"Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving, " answered Anne dreamily. "Isn't itbeautiful to think how everything has turned out . . . How they have cometogether again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?"

"Yes, it's beautiful, " said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne'suplifted face, "but wouldn't it have been more beautiful still, Anne, ifthere had been NO separation or misunderstanding . . . If they had comehand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them butthose which belonged to each other?"

For a moment Anne's heart fluttered queerly and for the first time hereyes faltered under Gilbert's gaze and a rosy flush stained thepaleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before herinner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation ofunsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, romance did notcome into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down;perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways;perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft ofillumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . Perhaps . . . Love unfolded naturally out of a beautifulfriendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath. 

Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lanewas not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the eveningbefore. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger, and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery, its pain and gladness. 

Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence he read the historyof the next four years in the light of Anne's remembered blush. Fouryears of earnest, happy work . . . And then the guerdon of a usefulknowledge gained and a sweet heart won. 

Behind them in the garden the little stone house brooded among theshadows. It was lonely but not forsaken. It had not yet done with dreamsand laughter and the joy of life; there were to be future summers forthe little stone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And over the river inpurple durance the echoes bided their time. 

 [Note:

 The correct words were obtained from the L. C. Page & Company, Inc. Edition of this book copyright 1909 - Thirteenth Impression, April 1911. 

 Italic emphases have been CAPITALIZED for emphasis, other italics, such as titles have been 'Placed in Single Quotes. ' Italic I's are _I_. 

 Most spellings and combined words have been left as they were in the majority of the editions originally published. Some spelling errors we presume were not intended have been corrected. ]