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diff --git a/51-0.zip b/51-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index a037d59..0000000 --- a/51-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/51-h.zip b/51-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index a4c74a4..0000000 --- a/51-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51.txt b/old/51.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e6339c3..0000000 --- a/old/51.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9336 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Anne Of The Island, by Lucy Maud Montgomery - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Anne Of The Island - -Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery - -Release Date: March 7, 2006 [EBook #51] -Last updated: November 23, 2012 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF THE ISLAND *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger - - - - - -ANNE of the ISLAND - -by Lucy Maud Montgomery - - - - - to - - all the girls - all over the world - who have "wanted more" - about ANNE - - - - All precious things discovered late - To those that seek them issue forth, - For Love in sequel works with Fate, - And draws the veil from hidden worth. - --TENNYSON - - - - Table of Contents - - I The Shadow of Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 - II Garlands of Autumn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 - III Greeting and Farewell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 - IV April's Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 - V Letters from Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 - VI In the Park. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 - VII Home Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 - VIII Anne's First Proposal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .105 - IX An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend. . . . . . .113 - X Patty's Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .126 - XI The Round of Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .139 - XII "Averil's Atonement" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .153 - XIII The Way of Transgressors . . . . . . . . . . . . . .165 - XIV The Summons. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .181 - XV A Dream Turned Upside Down . . . . . . . . . . . . .194 - XVI Adjusted Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .202 - XVII A Letter from Davy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .219 - XVIII Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl . . . . . . .225 - XIX An Interlude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .234 - XX Gilbert Speaks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .240 - XXI Roses of Yesterday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .249 - XXII Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables . . . . . . .256 - XXIII Paul Cannot Find the Rock People . . . . . . . . . .263 - XXIV Enter Jonas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .269 - XXV Enter Prince Charming. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .278 - XXVI Enter Christine. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .288 - XXVII Mutual Confidences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .294 - XXVIII A June Evening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .303 - XXIX Diana's Wedding. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .311 - XXX Mrs. Skinner's Romance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .317 - XXXI Anne to Philippa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .323 - XXXII Tea with Mrs. Douglas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .328 - XXXIII "He Just Kept Coming and Coming" . . . . . . . . . .336 - XXXIV John Douglas Speaks at Last. . . . . . . . . . . . .342 - XXXV The Last Redmond Year Opens. . . . . . . . . . . . .350 - XXXV1 The Gardners' Call . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .361 - XXXVII Full-fledged B.A.'s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .370 - XXXVIII False Dawn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .379 - XXXIX Deals with Weddings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .388 - XL A Book of Revelation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .400 - XLI Love Takes Up the Glass of Time. . . . . . . . . . .407 - - - - - -ANNE of the ISLAND - -by Lucy Maud Montgomery - - - - -Chapter I - -The Shadow of Change - - -"Harvest is ended and summer is gone," quoted Anne Shirley, gazing -across the shorn fields dreamily. She and Diana Barry had been picking -apples in the Green Gables orchard, but were now resting from their -labors in a sunny corner, where airy fleets of thistledown drifted by -on the wings of a wind that was still summer-sweet with the incense of -ferns in the Haunted Wood. - -But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn. The sea was -roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare and sere, scarfed -with golden rod, the brook valley below Green Gables overflowed -with asters of ethereal purple, and the Lake of Shining Waters was -blue--blue--blue; not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure -of summer, but a clear, steadfast, serene blue, as if the water -were past all moods and tenses of emotion and had settled down to a -tranquility unbroken by fickle dreams. - -"It has been a nice summer," said Diana, twisting the new ring on her -left hand with a smile. "And Miss Lavendar's wedding seemed to come as -a sort of crown to it. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving are on the Pacific -coast now." - -"It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the world," -sighed Anne. - -"I can't believe it is only a week since they were married. Everything -has changed. Miss Lavendar and Mr. and Mrs. Allan gone--how lonely the -manse looks with the shutters all closed! I went past it last night, and -it made me feel as if everybody in it had died." - -"We'll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allan," said Diana, -with gloomy conviction. "I suppose we'll have all kinds of supplies this -winter, and half the Sundays no preaching at all. And you and Gilbert -gone--it will be awfully dull." - -"Fred will be here," insinuated Anne slyly. - -"When is Mrs. Lynde going to move up?" asked Diana, as if she had not -heard Anne's remark. - -"Tomorrow. I'm glad she's coming--but it will be another change. Marilla -and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday. Do you know, -I hated to do it? Of course, it was silly--but it did seem as if we -were committing sacrilege. That old spare room has always seemed like -a shrine to me. When I was a child I thought it the most wonderful -apartment in the world. You remember what a consuming desire I had to -sleep in a spare room bed--but not the Green Gables spare room. Oh, no, -never there! It would have been too terrible--I couldn't have slept a -wink from awe. I never WALKED through that room when Marilla sent me in -on an errand--no, indeed, I tiptoed through it and held my breath, as if -I were in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it. The pictures -of George Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington hung there, one on each -side of the mirror, and frowned so sternly at me all the time I was in, -especially if I dared peep in the mirror, which was the only one in the -house that didn't twist my face a little. I always wondered how Marilla -dared houseclean that room. And now it's not only cleaned but stripped -bare. George Whitefield and the Duke have been relegated to the upstairs -hall. 'So passes the glory of this world,'" concluded Anne, with a -laugh in which there was a little note of regret. It is never pleasant -to have our old shrines desecrated, even when we have outgrown them. - -"I'll be so lonesome when you go," moaned Diana for the hundredth time. -"And to think you go next week!" - -"But we're together still," said Anne cheerily. "We mustn't let next -week rob us of this week's joy. I hate the thought of going myself--home -and I are such good friends. Talk of being lonesome! It's I who should -groan. YOU'LL be here with any number of your old friends--AND Fred! -While I shall be alone among strangers, not knowing a soul!" - -"EXCEPT Gilbert--AND Charlie Sloane," said Diana, imitating Anne's -italics and slyness. - -"Charlie Sloane will be a great comfort, of course," agreed Anne -sarcastically; whereupon both those irresponsible damsels laughed. Diana -knew exactly what Anne thought of Charlie Sloane; but, despite sundry -confidential talks, she did not know just what Anne thought of Gilbert -Blythe. To be sure, Anne herself did not know that. - -"The boys may be boarding at the other end of Kingsport, for all I -know," Anne went on. "I am glad I'm going to Redmond, and I am sure I -shall like it after a while. But for the first few weeks I know I won't. -I shan't even have the comfort of looking forward to the weekend visit -home, as I had when I went to Queen's. Christmas will seem like a -thousand years away." - -"Everything is changing--or going to change," said Diana sadly. "I have -a feeling that things will never be the same again, Anne." - -"We have come to a parting of the ways, I suppose," said Anne -thoughtfully. "We had to come to it. Do you think, Diana, that being -grown-up is really as nice as we used to imagine it would be when we -were children?" - -"I don't know--there are SOME nice things about it," answered Diana, -again caressing her ring with that little smile which always had the -effect of making Anne feel suddenly left out and inexperienced. "But -there are so many puzzling things, too. Sometimes I feel as if being -grown-up just frightened me--and then I would give anything to be a -little girl again." - -"I suppose we'll get used to being grownup in time," said Anne -cheerfully. "There won't be so many unexpected things about it by and -by--though, after all, I fancy it's the unexpected things that give -spice to life. We're eighteen, Diana. In two more years we'll be twenty. -When I was ten I thought twenty was a green old age. In no time you'll -be a staid, middle-aged matron, and I shall be nice, old maid Aunt Anne, -coming to visit you on vacations. You'll always keep a corner for me, -won't you, Di darling? Not the spare room, of course--old maids can't -aspire to spare rooms, and I shall be as 'umble as Uriah Heep, and quite -content with a little over-the-porch or off-the-parlor cubby hole." - -"What nonsense you do talk, Anne," laughed Diana. "You'll marry somebody -splendid and handsome and rich--and no spare room in Avonlea will be -half gorgeous enough for you--and you'll turn up your nose at all the -friends of your youth." - -"That would be a pity; my nose is quite nice, but I fear turning it up -would spoil it," said Anne, patting that shapely organ. "I haven't so -many good features that I could afford to spoil those I have; so, even -if I should marry the King of the Cannibal Islands, I promise you I -won't turn up my nose at you, Diana." - -With another gay laugh the girls separated, Diana to return to Orchard -Slope, Anne to walk to the Post Office. She found a letter awaiting her -there, and when Gilbert Blythe overtook her on the bridge over the Lake -of Shining Waters she was sparkling with the excitement of it. - -"Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too," she exclaimed. "Isn't that -splendid? I hoped she would, but she didn't think her father would -consent. He has, however, and we're to board together. I feel that I can -face an army with banners--or all the professors of Redmond in one fell -phalanx--with a chum like Priscilla by my side." - -"I think we'll like Kingsport," said Gilbert. "It's a nice old burg, -they tell me, and has the finest natural park in the world. I've heard -that the scenery in it is magnificent." - -"I wonder if it will be--can be--any more beautiful than this," murmured -Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes of those to -whom "home" must always be the loveliest spot in the world, no matter -what fairer lands may lie under alien stars. - -They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of the -enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed from -her sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot. The fine, -empurpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies, but the moon -was rising and the water lay like a great, silver dream in her light. -Remembrance wove a sweet and subtle spell over the two young creatures. - -"You are very quiet, Anne," said Gilbert at last. - -"I'm afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty will -vanish just like a broken silence," breathed Anne. - -Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying on the -rail of the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still -boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled -his soul. But Anne snatched her hand away and turned quickly. The spell -of the dusk was broken for her. - -"I must go home," she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness. -"Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I'm sure the twins will be -in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really shouldn't have stayed -away so long." - -She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached the -Green Gables lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get a word in -edgewise. Anne felt rather relieved when they parted. There had been a -new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert, ever -since that fleeting moment of revelation in the garden of Echo -Lodge. Something alien had intruded into the old, perfect, school-day -comradeship--something that threatened to mar it. - -"I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before," she thought, -half-resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane. -"Our friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense. -It mustn't be spoiled--I won't let it. Oh, WHY can't boys be just -sensible!" - -Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly "sensible" that -she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert's, as -distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had rested -there; and still less sensible that the sensation was far from being an -unpleasant one--very different from that which had attended a similar -demonstration on Charlie Sloane's part, when she had been sitting out a -dance with him at a White Sands party three nights before. Anne shivered -over the disagreeable recollection. But all problems connected with -infatuated swains vanished from her mind when she entered the -homely, unsentimental atmosphere of the Green Gables kitchen where an -eight-year-old boy was crying grievously on the sofa. - -"What is the matter, Davy?" asked Anne, taking him up in her arms. -"Where are Marilla and Dora?" - -"Marilla's putting Dora to bed," sobbed Davy, "and I'm crying 'cause -Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heels over head, and scraped -all the skin off her nose, and--" - -"Oh, well, don't cry about it, dear. Of course, you are sorry for her, -but crying won't help her any. She'll be all right tomorrow. Crying -never helps any one, Davy-boy, and--" - -"I ain't crying 'cause Dora fell down cellar," said Davy, cutting short -Anne's wellmeant preachment with increasing bitterness. "I'm crying, -cause I wasn't there to see her fall. I'm always missing some fun or -other, seems to me." - -"Oh, Davy!" Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter. "Would you -call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the steps and get hurt?" - -"She wasn't MUCH hurt," said Davy, defiantly. "'Course, if she'd been -killed I'd have been real sorry, Anne. But the Keiths ain't so easy -killed. They're like the Blewetts, I guess. Herb Blewett fell off the -hayloft last Wednesday, and rolled right down through the turnip chute -into the box stall, where they had a fearful wild, cross horse, and -rolled right under his heels. And still he got out alive, with only -three bones broke. Mrs. Lynde says there are some folks you can't kill -with a meat-axe. Is Mrs. Lynde coming here tomorrow, Anne?" - -"Yes, Davy, and I hope you'll be always very nice and good to her." - -"I'll be nice and good. But will she ever put me to bed at nights, -Anne?" - -"Perhaps. Why?" - -"'Cause," said Davy very decidedly, "if she does I won't say my prayers -before her like I do before you, Anne." - -"Why not?" - -"'Cause I don't think it would be nice to talk to God before strangers, -Anne. Dora can say hers to Mrs. Lynde if she likes, but _I_ won't. I'll -wait till she's gone and then say 'em. Won't that be all right, Anne?" - -"Yes, if you are sure you won't forget to say them, Davy-boy." - -"Oh, I won't forget, you bet. I think saying my prayers is great fun. -But it won't be as good fun saying them alone as saying them to you. -I wish you'd stay home, Anne. I don't see what you want to go away and -leave us for." - -"I don't exactly WANT to, Davy, but I feel I ought to go." - -"If you don't want to go you needn't. You're grown up. When _I_'m grown -up I'm not going to do one single thing I don't want to do, Anne." - -"All your life, Davy, you'll find yourself doing things you don't want -to do." - -"I won't," said Davy flatly. "Catch me! I have to do things I don't want -to now 'cause you and Marilla'll send me to bed if I don't. But when I -grow up you can't do that, and there'll be nobody to tell me not to do -things. Won't I have the time! Say, Anne, Milty Boulter says his mother -says you're going to college to see if you can catch a man. Are you, -Anne? I want to know." - -For a second Anne burned with resentment. Then she laughed, reminding -herself that Mrs. Boulter's crude vulgarity of thought and speech could -not harm her. - -"No, Davy, I'm not. I'm going to study and grow and learn about many -things." - -"What things?" - - "'Shoes and ships and sealing wax - And cabbages and kings,'" - -quoted Anne. - -"But if you DID want to catch a man how would you go about it? I want -to know," persisted Davy, for whom the subject evidently possessed a -certain fascination. - -"You'd better ask Mrs. Boulter," said Anne thoughtlessly. "I think it's -likely she knows more about the process than I do." - -"I will, the next time I see her," said Davy gravely. - -"Davy! If you do!" cried Anne, realizing her mistake. - -"But you just told me to," protested Davy aggrieved. - -"It's time you went to bed," decreed Anne, by way of getting out of the -scrape. - -After Davy had gone to bed Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and sat -there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the water -laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind. Anne had always loved -that brook. Many a dream had she spun over its sparkling water in -days gone by. She forgot lovelorn youths, and the cayenne speeches of -malicious neighbors, and all the problems of her girlish existence. In -imagination she sailed over storied seas that wash the distant shining -shores of "faery lands forlorn," where lost Atlantis and Elysium lie, -with the evening star for pilot, to the land of Heart's Desire. And she -was richer in those dreams than in realities; for things seen pass away, -but the things that are unseen are eternal. - - - - -Chapter II - -Garlands of Autumn - - -The following week sped swiftly, crowded with innumerable "last things," -as Anne called them. Good-bye calls had to be made and received, being -pleasant or otherwise, according to whether callers and called-upon -were heartily in sympathy with Anne's hopes, or thought she was too much -puffed-up over going to college and that it was their duty to "take her -down a peg or two." - -The A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party in honor of Anne and Gilbert one -evening at the home of Josie Pye, choosing that place, partly because -Mr. Pye's house was large and convenient, partly because it was strongly -suspected that the Pye girls would have nothing to do with the affair if -their offer of the house for the party was not accepted. It was a very -pleasant little time, for the Pye girls were gracious, and said and did -nothing to mar the harmony of the occasion--which was not according -to their wont. Josie was unusually amiable--so much so that she even -remarked condescendingly to Anne, - -"Your new dress is rather becoming to you, Anne. Really, you look ALMOST -PRETTY in it." - -"How kind of you to say so," responded Anne, with dancing eyes. Her -sense of humor was developing, and the speeches that would have hurt her -at fourteen were becoming merely food for amusement now. Josie suspected -that Anne was laughing at her behind those wicked eyes; but she -contented herself with whispering to Gertie, as they went downstairs, -that Anne Shirley would put on more airs than ever now that she was -going to college--you'd see! - -All the "old crowd" was there, full of mirth and zest and youthful -lightheartedness. Diana Barry, rosy and dimpled, shadowed by the -faithful Fred; Jane Andrews, neat and sensible and plain; Ruby Gillis, -looking her handsomest and brightest in a cream silk blouse, with red -geraniums in her golden hair; Gilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane, both -trying to keep as near the elusive Anne as possible; Carrie Sloane, -looking pale and melancholy because, so it was reported, her father -would not allow Oliver Kimball to come near the place; Moody Spurgeon -MacPherson, whose round face and objectionable ears were as round and -objectionable as ever; and Billy Andrews, who sat in a corner all the -evening, chuckled when any one spoke to him, and watched Anne Shirley -with a grin of pleasure on his broad, freckled countenance. - -Anne had known beforehand of the party, but she had not known that she -and Gilbert were, as the founders of the Society, to be presented with -a very complimentary "address" and "tokens of respect"--in her case a -volume of Shakespeare's plays, in Gilbert's a fountain pen. She was so -taken by surprise and pleased by the nice things said in the address, -read in Moody Spurgeon's most solemn and ministerial tones, that the -tears quite drowned the sparkle of her big gray eyes. She had worked -hard and faithfully for the A.V.I.S., and it warmed the cockles of her -heart that the members appreciated her efforts so sincerely. And they -were all so nice and friendly and jolly--even the Pye girls had their -merits; at that moment Anne loved all the world. - -She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather spoiled -all. Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something sentimental -to her as they ate their supper on the moonlit verandah; and Anne, to -punish him, was gracious to Charlie Sloane and allowed the latter to -walk home with her. She found, however, that revenge hurts nobody quite -so much as the one who tries to inflict it. Gilbert walked airily off -with Ruby Gillis, and Anne could hear them laughing and talking gaily as -they loitered along in the still, crisp autumn air. They were evidently -having the best of good times, while she was horribly bored by Charlie -Sloane, who talked unbrokenly on, and never, even by accident, said one -thing that was worth listening to. Anne gave an occasional absent "yes" -or "no," and thought how beautiful Ruby had looked that night, how -very goggly Charlie's eyes were in the moonlight--worse even than by -daylight--and that the world, somehow, wasn't quite such a nice place as -she had believed it to be earlier in the evening. - -"I'm just tired out--that is what is the matter with me," she said, when -she thankfully found herself alone in her own room. And she honestly -believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy, as from some secret, -unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart the next evening, when she saw -Gilbert striding down through the Haunted Wood and crossing the old log -bridge with that firm, quick step of his. So Gilbert was not going to -spend this last evening with Ruby Gillis after all! - -"You look tired, Anne," he said. - -"I am tired, and, worse than that, I'm disgruntled. I'm tired because -I've been packing my trunk and sewing all day. But I'm disgruntled -because six women have been here to say good-bye to me, and every one of -the six managed to say something that seemed to take the color right -out of life and leave it as gray and dismal and cheerless as a November -morning." - -"Spiteful old cats!" was Gilbert's elegant comment. - -"Oh, no, they weren't," said Anne seriously. "That is just the trouble. -If they had been spiteful cats I wouldn't have minded them. But they are -all nice, kind, motherly souls, who like me and whom I like, and that is -why what they said, or hinted, had such undue weight with me. They let -me see they thought I was crazy going to Redmond and trying to take -a B.A., and ever since I've been wondering if I am. Mrs. Peter Sloane -sighed and said she hoped my strength would hold out till I got through; -and at once I saw myself a hopeless victim of nervous prostration at the -end of my third year; Mrs. Eben Wright said it must cost an awful lot -to put in four years at Redmond; and I felt all over me that it was -unpardonable of me to squander Marilla's money and my own on such a -folly. Mrs. Jasper Bell said she hoped I wouldn't let college spoil me, -as it did some people; and I felt in my bones that the end of my four -Redmond years would see me a most insufferable creature, thinking I knew -it all, and looking down on everything and everybody in Avonlea; Mrs. -Elisha Wright said she understood that Redmond girls, especially those -who belonged to Kingsport, were 'dreadful dressy and stuck-up,' and she -guessed I wouldn't feel much at home among them; and I saw myself, a -snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country girl, shuffling through Redmond's -classic halls in coppertoned boots." - -Anne ended with a laugh and a sigh commingled. With her sensitive nature -all disapproval had weight, even the disapproval of those for whose -opinions she had scant respect. For the time being life was savorless, -and ambition had gone out like a snuffed candle. - -"You surely don't care for what they said," protested Gilbert. "You know -exactly how narrow their outlook on life is, excellent creatures though -they are. To do anything THEY have never done is anathema maranatha. You -are the first Avonlea girl who has ever gone to college; and you -know that all pioneers are considered to be afflicted with moonstruck -madness." - -"Oh, I know. But FEELING is so different from KNOWING. My common sense -tells me all you can say, but there are times when common sense has -no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of my soul. Really, -after Mrs. Elisha went away I hardly had the heart to finish packing." - -"You're just tired, Anne. Come, forget it all and take a walk with -me--a ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh. There should be -something there I want to show you." - -"Should be! Don't you know if it is there?" - -"No. I only know it should be, from something I saw there in spring. -Come on. We'll pretend we are two children again and we'll go the way of -the wind." - -They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of the -preceding evening, was very nice to Gilbert; and Gilbert, who was -learning wisdom, took care to be nothing save the schoolboy comrade -again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla watched them from the kitchen window. - -"That'll be a match some day," Mrs. Lynde said approvingly. - -Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it went -against her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde's gossipy -matter-of-fact way. - -"They're only children yet," she said shortly. - -Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly. - -"Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old folks, -Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never grow up, that's -what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert's a man, and he worships the -ground she walks on, as any one can see. He's a fine fellow, and Anne -can't do better. I hope she won't get any romantic nonsense into her -head at Redmond. I don't approve of them coeducational places and never -did, that's what. I don't believe," concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, "that -the students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt." - -"They must study a little," said Marilla, with a smile. - -"Precious little," sniffed Mrs. Rachel. "However, I think Anne will. She -never was flirtatious. But she doesn't appreciate Gilbert at his full -value, that's what. Oh, I know girls! Charlie Sloane is wild about her, -too, but I'd never advise her to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes are good, -honest, respectable people, of course. But when all's said and done, -they're SLOANES." - -Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were Sloanes -might not be very illuminating, but she understood. Every village has -such a family; good, honest, respectable people they may be, but SLOANES -they are and must ever remain, though they speak with the tongues of men -and angels. - -Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being -settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the -Haunted Wood. Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset -radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The distant spruce -groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows barred the upland -meadows. But around them a little wind sang among the fir tassels, and -in it there was the note of autumn. - -"This wood really is haunted now--by old memories," said Anne, stooping -to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness by frost. "It -seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used to be play here -still, and sit by the Dryad's Bubble in the twilights, trysting with -the ghosts. Do you know, I can never go up this path in the dusk without -feeling a bit of the old fright and shiver? There was one especially -horrifying phantom which we created--the ghost of the murdered child -that crept up behind you and laid cold fingers on yours. I confess that, -to this day, I cannot help fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind -me when I come here after nightfall. I'm not afraid of the White Lady or -the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never imagined that -baby's ghost into existence. How angry Marilla and Mrs. Barry were over -that affair," concluded Anne, with reminiscent laughter. - -The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas, -threaded with gossamers. Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces and -a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley they found the "something" Gilbert was -looking for. - -"Ah, here it is," he said with satisfaction. - -"An apple tree--and away back here!" exclaimed Anne delightedly. - -"Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple tree, too, here in the very midst -of pines and beeches, a mile away from any orchard. I was here one day -last spring and found it, all white with blossom. So I resolved I'd come -again in the fall and see if it had been apples. See, it's loaded. They -look good, too--tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild -seedlings are green and uninviting." - -"I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed," said Anne -dreamily. "And how it has grown and flourished and held its own here all -alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!" - -"Here's a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, Anne--it will -serve for a woodland throne. I'll climb for some apples. They all grow -high--the tree had to reach up to the sunlight." - -The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a white, -white flesh, faintly veined with red; and, besides their own proper -apple taste, they had a certain wild, delightful tang no orchard-grown -apple ever possessed. - -"The fatal apple of Eden couldn't have had a rarer flavor," commented -Anne. "But it's time we were going home. See, it was twilight three -minutes ago and now it's moonlight. What a pity we couldn't have caught -the moment of transformation. But such moments never are caught, I -suppose." - -"Let's go back around the marsh and home by way of Lover's Lane. Do you -feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne?" - -"Not I. Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul. I feel that I -shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there." - -"And after those four years--what?" - -"Oh, there's another bend in the road at their end," answered Anne -lightly. "I've no idea what may be around it--I don't want to have. It's -nicer not to know." - -Lover's Lane was a dear place that night, still and mysteriously dim -in the pale radiance of the moonlight. They loitered through it in a -pleasant chummy silence, neither caring to talk. - -"If Gilbert were always as he has been this evening how nice and simple -everything would be," reflected Anne. - -Gilbert was looking at Anne, as she walked along. In her light dress, -with her slender delicacy, she made him think of a white iris. - -"I wonder if I can ever make her care for me," he thought, with a pang -of self-distrust. - - - - -Chapter III - -Greeting and Farewell - - -Charlie Sloane, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the -following Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana was to -drive her to the station and they wanted this, their last drive together -for some time, to be a pleasant one. But when Anne went to bed Sunday -night the east wind was moaning around Green Gables with an ominous -prophecy which was fulfilled in the morning. Anne awoke to find -raindrops pattering against her window and shadowing the pond's gray -surface with widening rings; hills and sea were hidden in mist, and the -whole world seemed dim and dreary. Anne dressed in the cheerless gray -dawn, for an early start was necessary to catch the boat train; she -struggled against the tears that WOULD well up in her eyes in spite of -herself. She was leaving the home that was so dear to her, and something -told her that she was leaving it forever, save as a holiday refuge. -Things would never be the same again; coming back for vacations would -not be living there. And oh, how dear and beloved everything was--that -little white porch room, sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the old Snow -Queen at the window, the brook in the hollow, the Dryad's Bubble, the -Haunted Woods, and Lover's Lane--all the thousand and one dear spots -where memories of the old years bided. Could she ever be really happy -anywhere else? - -Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal. Davy, -for the first time in his life probably, could not eat, but blubbered -shamelessly over his porridge. Nobody else seemed to have much appetite, -save Dora, who tucked away her rations comfortably. Dora, like the -immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who "went on cutting bread and -butter" when her frenzied lover's body had been carried past on a -shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures who are seldom disturbed -by anything. Even at eight it took a great deal to ruffle Dora's -placidity. She was sorry Anne was going away, of course, but was that -any reason why she should fail to appreciate a poached egg on toast? Not -at all. And, seeing that Davy could not eat his, Dora ate it for him. - -Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy face -glowing above her raincoat. The good-byes had to be said then somehow. -Mrs. Lynde came in from her quarters to give Anne a hearty embrace and -warn her to be careful of her health, whatever she did. Marilla, brusque -and tearless, pecked Anne's cheek and said she supposed they'd hear from -her when she got settled. A casual observer might have concluded that -Anne's going mattered very little to her--unless said observer had -happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne primly and -squeezed out two decorous little tears; but Davy, who had been crying on -the back porch step ever since they rose from the table, refused to say -good-bye at all. When he saw Anne coming towards him he sprang to his -feet, bolted up the back stairs, and hid in a clothes closet, out of -which he would not come. His muffled howls were the last sounds Anne -heard as she left Green Gables. - -It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, to which station they had -to go, since the branch line train from Carmody did not connect with the -boat train. Charlie and Gilbert were on the station platform when they -reached it, and the train was whistling. Anne had just time to get her -ticket and trunk check, say a hurried farewell to Diana, and hasten on -board. She wished she were going back with Diana to Avonlea; she knew -she was going to die of homesickness. And oh, if only that dismal rain -would stop pouring down as if the whole world were weeping over summer -vanished and joys departed! Even Gilbert's presence brought her no -comfort, for Charlie Sloane was there, too, and Sloanishness could be -tolerated only in fine weather. It was absolutely insufferable in rain. - -But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbor things took a turn -for the better. The rain ceased and the sun began to burst out goldenly -now and again between the rents in the clouds, burnishing the gray seas -with copper-hued radiance, and lighting up the mists that curtained the -Island's red shores with gleams of gold foretokening a fine day after -all. Besides, Charlie Sloane promptly became so seasick that he had to -go below, and Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck. - -"I am very glad that all the Sloanes get seasick as soon as they go on -water," thought Anne mercilessly. "I am sure I couldn't take my farewell -look at the 'ould sod' with Charlie standing there pretending to look -sentimentally at it, too." - -"Well, we're off," remarked Gilbert unsentimentally. - -"Yes, I feel like Byron's 'Childe Harold'--only it isn't really my -'native shore' that I'm watching," said Anne, winking her gray eyes -vigorously. "Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one's native shore is -the land one loves the best, and that's good old P.E.I. for me. I can't -believe I didn't always live here. Those eleven years before I came seem -like a bad dream. It's seven years since I crossed on this boat--the -evening Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself, in -that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, exploring decks and -cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine evening; and how those -red Island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now I'm crossing the strait -again. Oh, Gilbert, I do hope I'll like Redmond and Kingsport, but I'm -sure I won't!" - -"Where's all your philosophy gone, Anne?" - -"It's all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness and -homesickness. I've longed for three years to go to Redmond--and now -I'm going--and I wish I weren't! Never mind! I shall be cheerful and -philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I MUST have that, -'as a went'--and I'll have to wait until I get into my boardinghouse -bed tonight, wherever it may be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be -herself again. I wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet." - -It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they -found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne -felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by Priscilla -Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday. - -"Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you're as tired as I was when I -got here Saturday night." - -"Tired! Priscilla, don't talk of it. I'm tired, and green, and -provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake take your -poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think." - -"I'll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I've a cab ready outside." - -"It's such a blessing you're here, Prissy. If you weren't I think I -should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and weep bitter -tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness of -strangers!" - -"Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up this past -year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. And of course -that's Charlie Sloane. HE hasn't changed--couldn't! He looked just like -that when he was born, and he'll look like that when he's eighty. This -way, dear. We'll be home in twenty minutes." - -"Home!" groaned Anne. "You mean we'll be in some horrible boardinghouse, -in a still more horrible hall bedroom, looking out on a dingy back -yard." - -"It isn't a horrible boardinghouse, Anne-girl. Here's our cab. Hop -in--the driver will get your trunk. Oh, yes, the boardinghouse--it's -really a very nice place of its kind, as you'll admit tomorrow morning -when a good night's sleep has turned your blues rosy pink. It's a big, -old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. John Street, just a nice little -constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the 'residence' of great -folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street and its houses only dream -now of better days. They're so big that people living in them have -to take boarders just to fill up. At least, that is the reason our -landladies are very anxious to impress on us. They're delicious, -Anne--our landladies, I mean." - -"How many are there?" - -"Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins about -fifty years ago." - -"I can't get away from twins, it seems," smiled Anne. "Wherever I go -they confront me." - -"Oh, they're not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of -thirty they never were twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old, not too -gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less gracefully still. I -don't know whether Miss Hannah can smile or not; I've never caught -her at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all the time and that's worse. -However, they're nice, kind souls, and they take two boarders every -year because Miss Hannah's economical soul cannot bear to 'waste room -space'--not because they need to or have to, as Miss Ada has told me -seven times since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are -hall bedrooms, and mine does look out on the back yard. Your room is -a front one and looks out on Old St. John's graveyard, which is just -across the street." - -"That sounds gruesome," shivered Anne. "I think I'd rather have the back -yard view." - -"Oh, no, you wouldn't. Wait and see. Old St. John's is a darling place. -It's been a graveyard so long that it's ceased to be one and has become -one of the sights of Kingsport. I was all through it yesterday for a -pleasure exertion. There's a big stone wall and a row of enormous trees -all around it, and rows of trees all through it, and the queerest old -tombstones, with the queerest and quaintest inscriptions. You'll go -there to study, Anne, see if you don't. Of course, nobody is ever buried -there now. But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument to the -memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. It is just -opposite the entrance gates and there's 'scope for imagination' in it, -as you used to say. Here's your trunk at last--and the boys coming to -say good night. Must I really shake hands with Charlie Sloane, Anne? -His hands are always so cold and fishy-feeling. We must ask them to call -occasionally. Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have 'young gentlemen -callers' two evenings in the week, if they went away at a reasonable -hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be sure they didn't sit -on her beautiful cushions. I promised to see to it; but goodness knows -where else they CAN sit, unless they sit on the floor, for there are -cushions on EVERYTHING. Miss Ada even has an elaborate Battenburg one on -top of the piano." - -Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla's gay chatter had the intended -effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the time being, and -did not even return in full force when she finally found herself alone -in her little bedroom. She went to her window and looked out. The street -below was dim and quiet. Across it the moon was shining above the trees -in Old St. John's, just behind the great dark head of the lion on the -monument. Anne wondered if it could have been only that morning that she -had left Green Gables. She had the sense of a long passage of time which -one day of change and travel gives. - -"I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now," she -mused. "But I won't think about it--that way homesickness lies. I'm not -even going to have my good cry. I'll put that off to a more convenient -season, and just now I'll go calmly and sensibly to bed and to sleep." - - - - -Chapter IV - -April's Lady - - -Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial days, -and wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame in garments -fashioned like those of her youth. Here and there it sprouts out into -modernity, but at heart it is still unspoiled; it is full of curious -relics, and haloed by the romance of many legends of the past. Once it -was a mere frontier station on the fringe of the wilderness, and those -were the days when Indians kept life from being monotonous to the -settlers. Then it grew to be a bone of contention between the British -and the French, being occupied now by the one and now by the other, -emerging from each occupation with some fresh scar of battling nations -branded on it. - -It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over by tourists, -a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond the town, and several -antiquated cannon in its public squares. It has other historic spots -also, which may be hunted out by the curious, and none is more quaint -and delightful than Old St. John's Cemetery at the very core of the -town, with streets of quiet, old-time houses on two sides, and busy, -bustling, modern thoroughfares on the others. Every citizen of Kingsport -feels a thrill of possessive pride in Old St. John's, for, if he be of -any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with a queer, -crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively over the grave, -on which all the main facts of his history are recorded. For the most -part no great art or skill was lavished on those old tombstones. The -larger number are of roughly chiselled brown or gray native stone, and -only in a few cases is there any attempt at ornamentation. Some are -adorned with skull and cross-bones, and this grizzly decoration is -frequently coupled with a cherub's head. Many are prostrate and in -ruins. Into almost all Time's tooth has been gnawing, until some -inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can only be -deciphered with difficulty. The graveyard is very full and very bowery, -for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and willows, -beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly, forever -crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite undisturbed by -the clamor of traffic just beyond. - -Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John's the next -afternoon. She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and -registered as students, after which there was nothing more to do that -day. The girls gladly made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to -be surrounded by crowds of strangers, most of whom had a rather alien -appearance, as if not quite sure where they belonged. - -The "freshettes" stood about in detached groups of two or three, -looking askance at each other; the "freshies," wiser in their day and -generation, had banded themselves together on the big staircase of the -entrance hall, where they were shouting out glees with all the vigor of -youthful lungs, as a species of defiance to their traditional enemies, -the Sophomores, a few of whom were prowling loftily about, looking -properly disdainful of the "unlicked cubs" on the stairs. Gilbert and -Charlie were nowhere to be seen. - -"Little did I think the day would ever come when I'd be glad of the -sight of a Sloane," said Priscilla, as they crossed the campus, "but I'd -welcome Charlie's goggle eyes almost ecstatically. At least, they'd be -familiar eyes." - -"Oh," sighed Anne. "I can't describe how I felt when I was standing -there, waiting my turn to be registered--as insignificant as the -teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket. It's bad enough to feel -insignificant, but it's unbearable to have it grained into your soul -that you will never, can never, be anything but insignificant, and that -is how I did feel--as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of -those Sophs might step on me. I knew I would go down to my grave unwept, -unhonored and unsung." - -"Wait till next year," comforted Priscilla. "Then we'll be able to look -as bored and sophisticated as any Sophomore of them all. No doubt it is -rather dreadful to feel insignificant; but I think it's better than -to feel as big and awkward as I did--as if I were sprawled all over -Redmond. That's how I felt--I suppose because I was a good two inches -taller than any one else in the crowd. I wasn't afraid a Soph might walk -over me; I was afraid they'd take me for an elephant, or an overgrown -sample of a potato-fed Islander." - -"I suppose the trouble is we can't forgive big Redmond for not being -little Queen's," said Anne, gathering about her the shreds of her old -cheerful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit. "When we left -Queen's we knew everybody and had a place of our own. I suppose we have -been unconsciously expecting to take life up at Redmond just where we -left off at Queen's, and now we feel as if the ground had slipped from -under our feet. I'm thankful that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha -Wright know, or ever will know, my state of mind at present. They would -exult in saying 'I told you so,' and be convinced it was the beginning -of the end. Whereas it is just the end of the beginning." - -"Exactly. That sounds more Anneish. In a little while we'll be -acclimated and acquainted, and all will be well. Anne, did you notice -the girl who stood alone just outside the door of the coeds' dressing -room all the morning--the pretty one with the brown eyes and crooked -mouth?" - -"Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the only -creature there who LOOKED as lonely and friendless as I FELT. I had YOU, -but she had no one." - -"I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too. Several times I saw her -make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never did it--too shy, -I suppose. I wished she would come. If I hadn't felt so much like the -aforesaid elephant I'd have gone to her. But I couldn't lumber across -that big hall with all those boys howling on the stairs. She was the -prettiest freshette I saw today, but probably favor is deceitful and -even beauty is vain on your first day at Redmond," concluded Priscilla -with a laugh. - -"I'm going across to Old St. John's after lunch," said Anne. "I don't -know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get cheered up, but -it seems the only get-at-able place where there are trees, and trees -I must have. I'll sit on one of those old slabs and shut my eyes and -imagine I'm in the Avonlea woods." - -Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest in Old -St. John's to keep her eyes wide open. They went in by the entrance -gates, past the simple, massive, stone arch surmounted by the great lion -of England. - - "'And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, - And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,'" - -quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill. They found themselves in a -dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring. Up and down -the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the quaint, voluminous -epitaphs, carved in an age that had more leisure than our own. - -"'Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,'" read Anne from a -worn, gray slab, "'for many years Keeper of His Majesty's Ordnance at -Kingsport. He served in the army till the peace of 1763, when he retired -from bad health. He was a brave officer, the best of husbands, the best -of fathers, the best of friends. He died October 29th, 1792, aged 84 -years.' There's an epitaph for you, Prissy. There is certainly some -'scope for imagination' in it. How full such a life must have been of -adventure! And as for his personal qualities, I'm sure human eulogy -couldn't go further. I wonder if they told him he was all those best -things while he was alive." - -"Here's another," said Priscilla. "Listen-- - -'To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, -1840, aged 43 years. This is raised as a tribute of affection by one -whom he served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a -friend, deserving the fullest confidence and attachment.'" - -"A very good epitaph," commented Anne thoughtfully. "I wouldn't wish a -better. We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact that we are -faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones nothing more need -be added. Here's a sorrowful little gray stone, Prissy--'to the memory -of a favorite child.' And here is another 'erected to the memory of one -who is buried elsewhere.' I wonder where that unknown grave is. Really, -Pris, the graveyards of today will never be as interesting as this. You -were right--I shall come here often. I love it already. I see we're not -alone here--there's a girl down at the end of this avenue." - -"Yes, and I believe it's the very girl we saw at Redmond this morning. -I've been watching her for five minutes. She has started to come up the -avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times has she turned -and gone back. Either she's dreadfully shy or she has got something on -her conscience. Let's go and meet her. It's easier to get acquainted in -a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe." - -They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger, who was -sitting on a gray slab under an enormous willow. She was certainly very -pretty, with a vivid, irregular, bewitching type of prettiness. There -was a gloss as of brown nuts on her satin-smooth hair and a soft, ripe -glow on her round cheeks. Her eyes were big and brown and velvety, under -oddly-pointed black brows, and her crooked mouth was rose-red. She -wore a smart brown suit, with two very modish little shoes peeping from -beneath it; and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed with golden-brown -poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable air which pertains to the -"creation" of an artist in millinery. Priscilla had a sudden stinging -consciousness that her own hat had been trimmed by her village store -milliner, and Anne wondered uncomfortably if the blouse she had made -herself, and which Mrs. Lynde had fitted, looked VERY countrified and -home-made besides the stranger's smart attire. For a moment both girls -felt like turning back. - -But they had already stopped and turned towards the gray slab. It was -too late to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently concluded -that they were coming to speak to her. Instantly she sprang up and came -forward with outstretched hand and a gay, friendly smile in which there -seemed not a shadow of either shyness or burdened conscience. - -"Oh, I want to know who you two girls are," she exclaimed eagerly. "I've -been DYING to know. I saw you at Redmond this morning. Say, wasn't it -AWFUL there? For the time I wished I had stayed home and got married." - -Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this -unexpected conclusion. The brown-eyed girl laughed, too. - -"I really did. I COULD have, you know. Come, let's all sit down on this -gravestone and get acquainted. It won't be hard. I know we're going -to adore each other--I knew it as soon as I saw you at Redmond this -morning. I wanted so much to go right over and hug you both." - -"Why didn't you?" asked Priscilla. - -"Because I simply couldn't make up my mind to do it. I never can make -up my mind about anything myself--I'm always afflicted with indecision. -Just as soon as I decide to do something I feel in my bones that another -course would be the correct one. It's a dreadful misfortune, but I was -born that way, and there is no use in blaming me for it, as some people -do. So I couldn't make up my mind to go and speak to you, much as I -wanted to." - -"We thought you were too shy," said Anne. - -"No, no, dear. Shyness isn't among the many failings--or virtues--of -Philippa Gordon--Phil for short. Do call me Phil right off. Now, what -are your handles?" - -"She's Priscilla Grant," said Anne, pointing. - -"And SHE'S Anne Shirley," said Priscilla, pointing in turn. - -"And we're from the Island," said both together. - -"I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia," said Philippa. - -"Bolingbroke!" exclaimed Anne. "Why, that is where I was born." - -"Do you really mean it? Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all." - -"No, it doesn't," retorted Anne. "Wasn't it Dan O'Connell who said that -if a man was born in a stable it didn't make him a horse? I'm Island to -the core." - -"Well, I'm glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway. It makes us kind of -neighbors, doesn't it? And I like that, because when I tell you secrets -it won't be as if I were telling them to a stranger. I have to tell -them. I can't keep secrets--it's no use to try. That's my worst -failing--that, and indecision, as aforesaid. Would you believe it?--it -took me half an hour to decide which hat to wear when I was coming -here--HERE, to a graveyard! At first I inclined to my brown one with -the feather; but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with -the floppy brim would be more becoming. When I got IT pinned in place -I liked the brown one better. At last I put them close together on the -bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin. The pin speared the pink -one, so I put it on. It is becoming, isn't it? Tell me, what do you -think of my looks?" - -At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla -laughed again. But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa's hand, - -"We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw at -Redmond." - -Philippa's crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile over -very white little teeth. - -"I thought that myself," was her next astounding statement, "but I -wanted some one else's opinion to bolster mine up. I can't decide even -on my own appearance. Just as soon as I've decided that I'm pretty -I begin to feel miserably that I'm not. Besides, have a horrible old -great-aunt who is always saying to me, with a mournful sigh, 'You were -such a pretty baby. It's strange how children change when they grow up.' -I adore aunts, but I detest great-aunts. Please tell me quite often that -I am pretty, if you don't mind. I feel so much more comfortable when I -can believe I'm pretty. And I'll be just as obliging to you if you want -me to--I CAN be, with a clear conscience." - -"Thanks," laughed Anne, "but Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced of -our own good looks that we don't need any assurance about them, so you -needn't trouble." - -"Oh, you're laughing at me. I know you think I'm abominably vain, but -I'm not. There really isn't one spark of vanity in me. And I'm never a -bit grudging about paying compliments to other girls when they deserve -them. I'm so glad I know you folks. I came up on Saturday and I've -nearly died of homesickness ever since. It's a horrible feeling, isn't -it? In Bolingbroke I'm an important personage, and in Kingsport I'm just -nobody! There were times when I could feel my soul turning a delicate -blue. Where do you hang out?" - -"Thirty-eight St. John's Street." - -"Better and better. Why, I'm just around the corner on Wallace Street. -I don't like my boardinghouse, though. It's bleak and lonesome, and my -room looks out on such an unholy back yard. It's the ugliest place -in the world. As for cats--well, surely ALL the Kingsport cats can't -congregate there at night, but half of them must. I adore cats on hearth -rugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires, but cats in back yards at -midnight are totally different animals. The first night I was here I -cried all night, and so did the cats. You should have seen my nose in -the morning. How I wished I had never left home!" - -"I don't know how you managed to make up your mind to come to Redmond at -all, if you are really such an undecided person," said amused Priscilla. - -"Bless your heart, honey, I didn't. It was father who wanted me to come -here. His heart was set on it--why, I don't know. It seems perfectly -ridiculous to think of me studying for a B.A. degree, doesn't it? Not -but what I can do it, all right. I have heaps of brains." - -"Oh!" said Priscilla vaguely. - -"Yes. But it's such hard work to use them. And B.A.'s are such learned, -dignified, wise, solemn creatures--they must be. No, _I_ didn't want -to come to Redmond. I did it just to oblige father. He IS such a duck. -Besides, I knew if I stayed home I'd have to get married. Mother wanted -that--wanted it decidedly. Mother has plenty of decision. But I really -hated the thought of being married for a few years yet. I want to have -heaps of fun before I settle down. And, ridiculous as the idea of my -being a B.A. is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still more -absurd, isn't it? I'm only eighteen. No, I concluded I would rather come -to Redmond than be married. Besides, how could I ever have made up my -mind which man to marry?" - -"Were there so many?" laughed Anne. - -"Heaps. The boys like me awfully--they really do. But there were only -two that mattered. The rest were all too young and too poor. I must -marry a rich man, you know." - -"Why must you?" - -"Honey, you couldn't imagine ME being a poor man's wife, could you? I -can't do a single useful thing, and I am VERY extravagant. Oh, no, my -husband must have heaps of money. So that narrowed them down to two. -But I couldn't decide between two any easier than between two hundred. -I knew perfectly well that whichever one I chose I'd regret all my life -that I hadn't married the other." - -"Didn't you--love--either of them?" asked Anne, a little hesitatingly. -It was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the great mystery and -transformation of life. - -"Goodness, no. _I_ couldn't love anybody. It isn't in me. Besides I -wouldn't want to. Being in love makes you a perfect slave, _I_ think. -And it would give a man such power to hurt you. I'd be afraid. No, no, -Alec and Alonzo are two dear boys, and I like them both so much that I -really don't know which I like the better. That is the trouble. Alec -is the best looking, of course, and I simply couldn't marry a man who -wasn't handsome. He is good-tempered too, and has lovely, curly, black -hair. He's rather too perfect--I don't believe I'd like a perfect -husband--somebody I could never find fault with." - -"Then why not marry Alonzo?" asked Priscilla gravely. - -"Think of marrying a name like Alonzo!" said Phil dolefully. "I don't -believe I could endure it. But he has a classic nose, and it WOULD be a -comfort to have a nose in the family that could be depended on. I can't -depend on mine. So far, it takes after the Gordon pattern, but I'm so -afraid it will develop Byrne tendencies as I grow older. I examine it -every day anxiously to make sure it's still Gordon. Mother was a Byrne -and has the Byrne nose in the Byrnest degree. Wait till you see it. I -adore nice noses. Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley. Alonzo's -nose nearly turned the balance in his favor. But ALONZO! No, I couldn't -decide. If I could have done as I did with the hats--stood them both -up together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hatpin--it would have been -quite easy." - -"What did Alec and Alonzo feel like when you came away?" queried -Priscilla. - -"Oh, they still have hope. I told them they'd have to wait till I could -make up my mind. They're quite willing to wait. They both worship me, -you know. Meanwhile, I intend to have a good time. I expect I shall have -heaps of beaux at Redmond. I can't be happy unless I have, you know. But -don't you think the freshmen are fearfully homely? I saw only one really -handsome fellow among them. He went away before you came. I heard his -chum call him Gilbert. His chum had eyes that stuck out THAT FAR. But -you're not going yet, girls? Don't go yet." - -"I think we must," said Anne, rather coldly. "It's getting late, and -I've some work to do." - -"But you'll both come to see me, won't you?" asked Philippa, getting up -and putting an arm around each. "And let me come to see you. I want to -be chummy with you. I've taken such a fancy to you both. And I haven't -quite disgusted you with my frivolity, have I?" - -"Not quite," laughed Anne, responding to Phil's squeeze, with a return -of cordiality. - -"Because I'm not half so silly as I seem on the surface, you know. You -just accept Philippa Gordon, as the Lord made her, with all her faults, -and I believe you'll come to like her. Isn't this graveyard a sweet -place? I'd love to be buried here. Here's a grave I didn't see -before--this one in the iron railing--oh, girls, look, see--the stone -says it's the grave of a middy who was killed in the fight between the -Shannon and the Chesapeake. Just fancy!" - -Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses -thrilling with sudden excitement. The old graveyard, with its -over-arching trees and long aisles of shadows, faded from her sight. -Instead, she saw the Kingsport Harbor of nearly a century agone. Out of -the mist came slowly a great frigate, brilliant with "the meteor flag of -England." Behind her was another, with a still, heroic form, wrapped in -his own starry flag, lying on the quarter deck--the gallant Lawrence. -Time's finger had turned back his pages, and that was the Shannon -sailing triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize. - -"Come back, Anne Shirley--come back," laughed Philippa, pulling her arm. -"You're a hundred years away from us. Come back." - -Anne came back with a sigh; her eyes were shining softly. - -"I've always loved that old story," she said, "and although the -English won that victory, I think it was because of the brave, defeated -commander I love it. This grave seems to bring it so near and make it -so real. This poor little middy was only eighteen. He 'died of desperate -wounds received in gallant action'--so reads his epitaph. It is such as -a soldier might wish for." - -Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of purple -pansies she wore and dropped it softly on the grave of the boy who had -perished in the great sea-duel. - -"Well, what do you think of our new friend?" asked Priscilla, when Phil -had left them. - -"I like her. There is something very lovable about her, in spite of all -her nonsense. I believe, as she says herself, that she isn't half as -silly as she sounds. She's a dear, kissable baby--and I don't know that -she'll ever really grow up." - -"I like her, too," said Priscilla, decidedly. "She talks as much about -boys as Ruby Gillis does. But it always enrages or sickens me to hear -Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at Phil. Now, what -is the why of that?" - -"There is a difference," said Anne meditatively. "I think it's because -Ruby is really so CONSCIOUS of boys. She plays at love and love-making. -Besides, you feel, when she is boasting of her beaux that she is doing -it to rub it well into you that you haven't half so many. Now, when Phil -talks of her beaux it sounds as if she was just speaking of chums. She -really looks upon boys as good comrades, and she is pleased when she has -dozens of them tagging round, simply because she likes to be popular and -to be thought popular. Even Alex and Alonzo--I'll never be able to -think of those two names separately after this--are to her just two -playfellows who want her to play with them all their lives. I'm glad -we met her, and I'm glad we went to Old St. John's. I believe I've put -forth a tiny soul-root into Kingsport soil this afternoon. I hope so. I -hate to feel transplanted." - - - - -Chapter V - -Letters from Home - - -For the next three weeks Anne and Priscilla continued to feel as -strangers in a strange land. Then, suddenly, everything seemed to fall -into focus--Redmond, professors, classes, students, studies, social -doings. Life became homogeneous again, instead of being made up of -detached fragments. The Freshmen, instead of being a collection of -unrelated individuals, found themselves a class, with a class spirit, a -class yell, class interests, class antipathies and class ambitions. -They won the day in the annual "Arts Rush" against the Sophomores, -and thereby gained the respect of all the classes, and an enormous, -confidence-giving opinion of themselves. For three years the Sophomores -had won in the "rush"; that the victory of this year perched upon the -Freshmen's banner was attributed to the strategic generalship of Gilbert -Blythe, who marshalled the campaign and originated certain new tactics, -which demoralized the Sophs and swept the Freshmen to triumph. As -a reward of merit he was elected president of the Freshman Class, a -position of honor and responsibility--from a Fresh point of view, -at least--coveted by many. He was also invited to join the -"Lambs"--Redmondese for Lamba Theta--a compliment rarely paid to a -Freshman. As a preparatory initiation ordeal he had to parade the -principal business streets of Kingsport for a whole day wearing a -sunbonnet and a voluminous kitchen apron of gaudily flowered calico. -This he did cheerfully, doffing his sunbonnet with courtly grace when he -met ladies of his acquaintance. Charlie Sloane, who had not been asked -to join the Lambs, told Anne he did not see how Blythe could do it, and -HE, for his part, could never humiliate himself so. - -"Fancy Charlie Sloane in a 'caliker' apron and a 'sunbunnit,'" giggled -Priscilla. "He'd look exactly like his old Grandmother Sloane. -Gilbert, now, looked as much like a man in them as in his own proper -habiliments." - -Anne and Priscilla found themselves in the thick of the social life of -Redmond. That this came about so speedily was due in great measure to -Philippa Gordon. Philippa was the daughter of a rich and well-known man, -and belonged to an old and exclusive "Bluenose" family. This, combined -with her beauty and charm--a charm acknowledged by all who met -her--promptly opened the gates of all cliques, clubs and classes in -Redmond to her; and where she went Anne and Priscilla went, too. Phil -"adored" Anne and Priscilla, especially Anne. She was a loyal little -soul, crystal-free from any form of snobbishness. "Love me, love my -friends" seemed to be her unconscious motto. Without effort, she took -them with her into her ever widening circle of acquaintanceship, and the -two Avonlea girls found their social pathway at Redmond made very -easy and pleasant for them, to the envy and wonderment of the other -freshettes, who, lacking Philippa's sponsorship, were doomed to remain -rather on the fringe of things during their first college year. - -To Anne and Priscilla, with their more serious views of life, Phil -remained the amusing, lovable baby she had seemed on their first -meeting. Yet, as she said herself, she had "heaps" of brains. When or -where she found time to study was a mystery, for she seemed always in -demand for some kind of "fun," and her home evenings were crowded -with callers. She had all the "beaux" that heart could desire, for -nine-tenths of the Freshmen and a big fraction of all the other classes -were rivals for her smiles. She was naively delighted over this, and -gleefully recounted each new conquest to Anne and Priscilla, with -comments that might have made the unlucky lover's ears burn fiercely. - -"Alec and Alonzo don't seem to have any serious rival yet," remarked -Anne, teasingly. - -"Not one," agreed Philippa. "I write them both every week and tell -them all about my young men here. I'm sure it must amuse them. But, of -course, the one I like best I can't get. Gilbert Blythe won't take any -notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a nice little kitten -he'd like to pat. Too well I know the reason. I owe you a grudge, Queen -Anne. I really ought to hate you and instead I love you madly, and I'm -miserable if I don't see you every day. You're different from any girl -I ever knew before. When you look at me in a certain way I feel what an -insignificant, frivolous little beast I am, and I long to be better -and wiser and stronger. And then I make good resolutions; but the first -nice-looking mannie who comes my way knocks them all out of my head. -Isn't college life magnificent? It's so funny to think I hated it that -first day. But if I hadn't I might never got really acquainted with you. -Anne, please tell me over again that you like me a little bit. I yearn -to hear it." - -"I like you a big bit--and I think you're a dear, sweet, adorable, -velvety, clawless, little--kitten," laughed Anne, "but I don't see when -you ever get time to learn your lessons." - -Phil must have found time for she held her own in every class of her -year. Even the grumpy old professor of Mathematics, who detested coeds, -and had bitterly opposed their admission to Redmond, couldn't floor her. -She led the freshettes everywhere, except in English, where Anne Shirley -left her far behind. Anne herself found the studies of her Freshman year -very easy, thanks in great part to the steady work she and Gilbert had -put in during those two past years in Avonlea. This left her more time -for a social life which she thoroughly enjoyed. But never for a moment -did she forget Avonlea and the friends there. To her, the happiest -moments in each week were those in which letters came from home. It -was not until she had got her first letters that she began to think -she could ever like Kingsport or feel at home there. Before they came, -Avonlea had seemed thousands of miles away; those letters brought it -near and linked the old life to the new so closely that they began to -seem one and the same, instead of two hopelessly segregated existences. -The first batch contained six letters, from Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis, -Diana Barry, Marilla, Mrs. Lynde and Davy. Jane's was a copperplate -production, with every "t" nicely crossed and every "i" precisely -dotted, and not an interesting sentence in it. She never mentioned the -school, concerning which Anne was avid to hear; she never answered one -of the questions Anne had asked in her letter. But she told Anne how -many yards of lace she had recently crocheted, and the kind of weather -they were having in Avonlea, and how she intended to have her new dress -made, and the way she felt when her head ached. Ruby Gillis wrote a -gushing epistle deploring Anne's absence, assuring her she was horribly -missed in everything, asking what the Redmond "fellows" were like, and -filling the rest with accounts of her own harrowing experiences with her -numerous admirers. It was a silly, harmless letter, and Anne would have -laughed over it had it not been for the postscript. "Gilbert seems to be -enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters," wrote Ruby. "I don't think -Charlie is so stuck on it." - -So Gilbert was writing to Ruby! Very well. He had a perfect right to, -of course. Only--!! Anne did not know that Ruby had written the first -letter and that Gilbert had answered it from mere courtesy. She tossed -Ruby's letter aside contemptuously. But it took all Diana's breezy, -newsy, delightful epistle to banish the sting of Ruby's postscript. -Diana's letter contained a little too much Fred, but was otherwise -crowded and crossed with items of interest, and Anne almost felt herself -back in Avonlea while reading it. Marilla's was a rather prim and -colorless epistle, severely innocent of gossip or emotion. Yet somehow -it conveyed to Anne a whiff of the wholesome, simple life at Green -Gables, with its savor of ancient peace, and the steadfast abiding love -that was there for her. Mrs. Lynde's letter was full of church news. -Having broken up housekeeping, Mrs. Lynde had more time than ever to -devote to church affairs and had flung herself into them heart and soul. -She was at present much worked up over the poor "supplies" they were -having in the vacant Avonlea pulpit. - -"I don't believe any but fools enter the ministry nowadays," she wrote -bitterly. "Such candidates as they have sent us, and such stuff as -they preach! Half of it ain't true, and, what's worse, it ain't sound -doctrine. The one we have now is the worst of the lot. He mostly takes -a text and preaches about something else. And he says he doesn't believe -all the heathen will be eternally lost. The idea! If they won't all the -money we've been giving to Foreign Missions will be clean wasted, that's -what! Last Sunday night he announced that next Sunday he'd preach on the -axe-head that swam. I think he'd better confine himself to the Bible and -leave sensational subjects alone. Things have come to a pretty pass if -a minister can't find enough in Holy Writ to preach about, that's what. -What church do you attend, Anne? I hope you go regularly. People are apt -to get so careless about church-going away from home, and I understand -college students are great sinners in this respect. I'm told many of -them actually study their lessons on Sunday. I hope you'll never sink -that low, Anne. Remember how you were brought up. And be very careful -what friends you make. You never know what sort of creatures are in them -colleges. Outwardly they may be as whited sepulchers and inwardly as -ravening wolves, that's what. You'd better not have anything to say to -any young man who isn't from the Island. - -"I forgot to tell you what happened the day the minister called here. It -was the funniest thing I ever saw. I said to Marilla, 'If Anne had been -here wouldn't she have had a laugh?' Even Marilla laughed. You know he's -a very short, fat little man with bow legs. Well, that old pig of Mr. -Harrison's--the big, tall one--had wandered over here that day again and -broke into the yard, and it got into the back porch, unbeknowns to us, -and it was there when the minister appeared in the doorway. It made one -wild bolt to get out, but there was nowhere to bolt to except between -them bow legs. So there it went, and, being as it was so big and the -minister so little, it took him clean off his feet and carried him away. -His hat went one way and his cane another, just as Marilla and I got to -the door. I'll never forget the look of him. And that poor pig was near -scared to death. I'll never be able to read that account in the Bible -of the swine that rushed madly down the steep place into the sea without -seeing Mr. Harrison's pig careering down the hill with that minister. I -guess the pig thought he had the Old Boy on his back instead of inside -of him. I was thankful the twins weren't about. It wouldn't have been -the right thing for them to have seen a minister in such an undignified -predicament. Just before they got to the brook the minister jumped off -or fell off. The pig rushed through the brook like mad and up through -the woods. Marilla and I run down and helped the minister get up and -brush his coat. He wasn't hurt, but he was mad. He seemed to hold -Marilla and me responsible for it all, though we told him the pig didn't -belong to us, and had been pestering us all summer. Besides, what did he -come to the back door for? You'd never have caught Mr. Allan doing that. -It'll be a long time before we get a man like Mr. Allan. But it's an -ill wind that blows no good. We've never seen hoof or hair of that pig -since, and it's my belief we never will. - -"Things is pretty quiet in Avonlea. I don't find Green Gables as -lonesome as I expected. I think I'll start another cotton warp quilt -this winter. Mrs. Silas Sloane has a handsome new apple-leaf pattern. - -"When I feel that I must have some excitement I read the murder trials -in that Boston paper my niece sends me. I never used to do it, but -they're real interesting. The States must be an awful place. I hope -you'll never go there, Anne. But the way girls roam over the earth now -is something terrible. It always makes me think of Satan in the Book of -Job, going to and fro and walking up and down. I don't believe the Lord -ever intended it, that's what. - -"Davy has been pretty good since you went away. One day he was bad and -Marilla punished him by making him wear Dora's apron all day, and then -he went and cut all Dora's aprons up. I spanked him for that and then he -went and chased my rooster to death. - -"The MacPhersons have moved down to my place. She's a great housekeeper -and very particular. She's rooted all my June lilies up because she says -they make a garden look so untidy. Thomas set them lilies out when we -were married. Her husband seems a nice sort of a man, but she can't get -over being an old maid, that's what. - -"Don't study too hard, and be sure and put your winter underclothes on -as soon as the weather gets cool. Marilla worries a lot about you, but I -tell her you've got a lot more sense than I ever thought you would have -at one time, and that you'll be all right." - -Davy's letter plunged into a grievance at the start. - -"Dear anne, please write and tell marilla not to tie me to the rale of -the bridge when I go fishing the boys make fun of me when she does. Its -awful lonesome here without you but grate fun in school. Jane andrews -is crosser than you. I scared mrs. lynde with a jacky lantern last nite. -She was offel mad and she was mad cause I chased her old rooster round -the yard till he fell down ded. I didn't mean to make him fall down ded. -What made him die, anne, I want to know. mrs. lynde threw him into the -pig pen she mite of sold him to mr. blair. mr. blair is giving 50 sense -apeace for good ded roosters now. I herd mrs. lynde asking the minister -to pray for her. What did she do that was so bad, anne, I want to know. -I've got a kite with a magnificent tail, anne. Milty bolter told me a -grate story in school yesterday. it is troo. old Joe Mosey and Leon were -playing cards one nite last week in the woods. The cards were on a stump -and a big black man bigger than the trees come along and grabbed the -cards and the stump and disapered with a noys like thunder. Ill bet they -were skared. Milty says the black man was the old harry. was he, anne, I -want to know. Mr. kimball over at spenservale is very sick and will have -to go to the hospitable. please excuse me while I ask marilla if thats -spelled rite. Marilla says its the silem he has to go to not the other -place. He thinks he has a snake inside of him. whats it like to have a -snake inside of you, anne. I want to know. mrs. lawrence bell is sick -to. mrs. lynde says that all that is the matter with her is that she -thinks too much about her insides." - -"I wonder," said Anne, as she folded up her letters, "what Mrs. Lynde -would think of Philippa." - - - - -Chapter VI - -In the Park - - -"What are you going to do with yourselves today, girls?" asked Philippa, -popping into Anne's room one Saturday afternoon. - -"We are going for a walk in the park," answered Anne. "I ought to stay -in and finish my blouse. But I couldn't sew on a day like this. There's -something in the air that gets into my blood and makes a sort of glory -in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I'd sew a crooked seam. So it's -ho for the park and the pines." - -"Does 'we' include any one but yourself and Priscilla?" - -"Yes, it includes Gilbert and Charlie, and we'll be very glad if it will -include you, also." - -"But," said Philippa dolefully, "if I go I'll have to be gooseberry, and -that will be a new experience for Philippa Gordon." - -"Well, new experiences are broadening. Come along, and you'll be able -to sympathize with all poor souls who have to play gooseberry often. But -where are all the victims?" - -"Oh, I was tired of them all and simply couldn't be bothered with any -of them today. Besides, I've been feeling a little blue--just a pale, -elusive azure. It isn't serious enough for anything darker. I wrote Alec -and Alonzo last week. I put the letters into envelopes and addressed -them, but I didn't seal them up. That evening something funny happened. -That is, Alec would think it funny, but Alonzo wouldn't be likely to. -I was in a hurry, so I snatched Alec's letter--as I thought--out of the -envelope and scribbled down a postscript. Then I mailed both letters. I -got Alonzo's reply this morning. Girls, I had put that postscript to his -letter and he was furious. Of course he'll get over it--and I don't -care if he doesn't--but it spoiled my day. So I thought I'd come to you -darlings to get cheered up. After the football season opens I won't -have any spare Saturday afternoons. I adore football. I've got the most -gorgeous cap and sweater striped in Redmond colors to wear to the games. -To be sure, a little way off I'll look like a walking barber's pole. -Do you know that that Gilbert of yours has been elected Captain of the -Freshman football team?" - -"Yes, he told us so last evening," said Priscilla, seeing that outraged -Anne would not answer. "He and Charlie were down. We knew they were -coming, so we painstakingly put out of sight or out of reach all Miss -Ada's cushions. That very elaborate one with the raised embroidery I -dropped on the floor in the corner behind the chair it was on. I thought -it would be safe there. But would you believe it? Charlie Sloane made -for that chair, noticed the cushion behind it, solemnly fished it up, -and sat on it the whole evening. Such a wreck of a cushion as it was! -Poor Miss Ada asked me today, still smiling, but oh, so reproachfully, -why I had allowed it to be sat upon. I told her I hadn't--that it was -a matter of predestination coupled with inveterate Sloanishness and I -wasn't a match for both combined." - -"Miss Ada's cushions are really getting on my nerves," said Anne. "She -finished two new ones last week, stuffed and embroidered within an inch -of their lives. There being absolutely no other cushionless place to -put them she stood them up against the wall on the stair landing. They -topple over half the time and if we come up or down the stairs in the -dark we fall over them. Last Sunday, when Dr. Davis prayed for all those -exposed to the perils of the sea, I added in thought 'and for all those -who live in houses where cushions are loved not wisely but too well!' -There! we're ready, and I see the boys coming through Old St. John's. Do -you cast in your lot with us, Phil?" - -"I'll go, if I can walk with Priscilla and Charlie. That will be a -bearable degree of gooseberry. That Gilbert of yours is a darling, Anne, -but why does he go around so much with Goggle-eyes?" - -Anne stiffened. She had no great liking for Charlie Sloane; but he was -of Avonlea, so no outsider had any business to laugh at him. - -"Charlie and Gilbert have always been friends," she said coldly. -"Charlie is a nice boy. He's not to blame for his eyes." - -"Don't tell me that! He is! He must have done something dreadful in a -previous existence to be punished with such eyes. Pris and I are going -to have such sport with him this afternoon. We'll make fun of him to his -face and he'll never know it." - -Doubtless, "the abandoned P's," as Anne called them, did carry out their -amiable intentions. But Sloane was blissfully ignorant; he thought he -was quite a fine fellow to be walking with two such coeds, especially -Philippa Gordon, the class beauty and belle. It must surely impress -Anne. She would see that some people appreciated him at his real value. - -Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying the calm, -still beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of the park, on the -road that climbed and twisted round the harbor shore. - -"The silence here is like a prayer, isn't it?" said Anne, her face -upturned to the shining sky. "How I love the pines! They seem to strike -their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. It is so comforting -to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. I always feel so -happy out here." - - "'And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken - As by some spell divine, - Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken - From out the gusty pine,'" - -quoted Gilbert. - -"They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don't they, Anne?" - -"I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines -for comfort," said Anne dreamily. - -"I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne," said Gilbert, who -could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous creature -beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the highest heights can -also plunge to the deepest depths, and that the natures which enjoy most -keenly are those which also suffer most sharply. - -"But there must--sometime," mused Anne. "Life seems like a cup of glory -held to my lips just now. But there must be some bitterness in it--there -is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day. Well, I hope I shall be -strong and brave to meet it. And I hope it won't be through my own -fault that it will come. Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday -evening--that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength -with them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly -or wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn't talk -of sorrow on an afternoon like this. It's meant for the sheer joy of -living, isn't it?" - -"If I had my way I'd shut everything out of your life but happiness and -pleasure, Anne," said Gilbert in the tone that meant "danger ahead." - -"Then you would be very unwise," rejoined Anne hastily. "I'm sure no -life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and -sorrow--though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that -we admit it. Come--the others have got to the pavilion and are beckoning -to us." - -They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn sunset of -deep red fire and pallid gold. To their left lay Kingsport, its roofs -and spires dim in their shroud of violet smoke. To their right lay the -harbor, taking on tints of rose and copper as it stretched out into the -sunset. Before them the water shimmered, satin smooth and silver gray, -and beyond, clean shaven William's Island loomed out of the mist, -guarding the town like a sturdy bulldog. Its lighthouse beacon flared -through the mist like a baleful star, and was answered by another in the -far horizon. - -"Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?" asked Philippa. "I don't -want William's Island especially, but I'm sure I couldn't get it if I -did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort, right beside the -flag. Doesn't he look as if he had stepped out of a romance?" - -"Speaking of romance," said Priscilla, "we've been looking for -heather--but, of course, we couldn't find any. It's too late in the -season, I suppose." - -"Heather!" exclaimed Anne. "Heather doesn't grow in America, does it?" - -"There are just two patches of it in the whole continent," said Phil, -"one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, I -forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch, camped here -one year, and, when the men shook out the straw of their beds in the -spring, some seeds of heather took root." - -"Oh, how delightful!" said enchanted Anne. - -"Let's go home around by Spofford Avenue," suggested Gilbert. "We can -see all 'the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.' Spofford -Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport. Nobody can build -on it unless he's a millionaire." - -"Oh, do," said Phil. "There's a perfectly killing little place I want to -show you, Anne. IT wasn't built by a millionaire. It's the first place -after you leave the park, and must have grown while Spofford Avenue was -still a country road. It DID grow--it wasn't built! I don't care for the -houses on the Avenue. They're too brand new and plateglassy. But this -little spot is a dream--and its name--but wait till you see it." - -They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park. Just -on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a plain road, was -a little white frame house with groups of pines on either side of it, -stretching their arms protectingly over its low roof. It was covered -with red and gold vines, through which its green-shuttered windows -peeped. Before it was a tiny garden, surrounded by a low stone wall. -October though it was, the garden was still very sweet with dear, -old-fashioned, unworldly flowers and shrubs--sweet may, southern-wood, -lemon verbena, alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. A tiny -brick wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from the gate to the front -porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some remote -country village; yet there was something about it that made its -nearest neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a tobacco king, look -exceedingly crude and showy and ill-bred by contrast. As Phil said, it -was the difference between being born and being made. - -"It's the dearest place I ever saw," said Anne delightedly. "It gives -me one of my old, delightful funny aches. It's dearer and quainter than -even Miss Lavendar's stone house." - -"It's the name I want you to notice especially," said Phil. "Look--in -white letters, around the archway over the gate. 'Patty's Place.' Isn't -that killing? Especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and -Cedarcrofts? 'Patty's Place,' if you please! I adore it." - -"Have you any idea who Patty is?" asked Priscilla. - -"Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I've -discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they've lived there for -hundreds of years, more or less--maybe a little less, Anne. Exaggeration -is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand that wealthy folk have -tried to buy the lot time and again--it's really worth a small fortune -now, you know--but 'Patty' won't sell upon any consideration. -And there's an apple orchard behind the house in place of a back -yard--you'll see it when we get a little past--a real apple orchard on -Spofford Avenue!" - -"I'm going to dream about 'Patty's Place' tonight," said Anne. "Why, I -feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by any chance, we'll ever see -the inside of it." - -"It isn't likely," said Priscilla. - -Anne smiled mysteriously. - -"No, it isn't likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a queer, -creepy, crawly feeling--you can call it a presentiment, if you -like--that 'Patty's Place' and I are going to be better acquainted yet." - - - - -Chapter VII - -Home Again - - -Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest of -the term flew by on wings of wind. Before they realized it the Redmond -students found themselves in the grind of Christmas examinations, -emerging therefrom more or less triumphantly. The honor of leading in -the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne, Gilbert and Philippa; -Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane scraped through respectably, and -comported himself as complacently as if he had led in everything. - -"I can't really believe that this time tomorrow I'll be in Green -Gables," said Anne on the night before departure. "But I shall be. And -you, Phil, will be in Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo." - -"I'm longing to see them," admitted Phil, between the chocolate she was -nibbling. "They really are such dear boys, you know. There's to be no -end of dances and drives and general jamborees. I shall never forgive -you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with me for the holidays." - -"'Never' means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you to ask -me--and I'd love to go to Bolingbroke some day. But I can't go this -year--I MUST go home. You don't know how my heart longs for it." - -"You won't have much of a time," said Phil scornfully. "There'll be one -or two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the old gossips will talk -you over to your face and behind your back. You'll die of lonesomeness, -child." - -"In Avonlea?" said Anne, highly amused. - -"Now, if you'd come with me you'd have a perfectly gorgeous time. -Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne--your hair and your style -and, oh, everything! You're so DIFFERENT. You'd be such a success--and -I would bask in reflected glory--'not the rose but near the rose.' Do -come, after all, Anne." - -"Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but I'll -paint one to offset it. I'm going home to an old country farmhouse, once -green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple orchards. There is a -brook below and a December fir wood beyond, where I've heard harps swept -by the fingers of rain and wind. There is a pond nearby that will be -gray and brooding now. There will be two oldish ladies in the house, -one tall and thin, one short and fat; and there will be two twins, one -a perfect model, the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a 'holy terror.' There -will be a little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang -thick, and a big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the -height of luxury after a boardinghouse mattress. How do you like my -picture, Phil?" - -"It seems a very dull one," said Phil, with a grimace. - -"Oh, but I've left out the transforming thing," said Anne softly. -"There'll be love there, Phil--faithful, tender love, such as I'll never -find anywhere else in the world--love that's waiting for me. That makes -my picture a masterpiece, doesn't it, even if the colors are not very -brilliant?" - -Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up to -Anne, and put her arms about her. - -"Anne, I wish I was like you," she said soberly. - -Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they drove -home together under silent, star-sown depths of sky. Green Gables had a -very festal appearance as they drove up the lane. There was a light in -every window, the glow breaking out through the darkness like flame-red -blossoms swung against the dark background of the Haunted Wood. And in -the yard was a brave bonfire with two gay little figures dancing around -it, one of which gave an unearthly yell as the buggy turned in under the -poplars. - -"Davy means that for an Indian war-whoop," said Diana. "Mr. Harrison's -hired boy taught it to him, and he's been practicing it up to welcome -you with. Mrs. Lynde says it has worn her nerves to a frazzle. He creeps -up behind her, you know, and then lets go. He was determined to have a -bonfire for you, too. He's been piling up branches for a fortnight -and pestering Marilla to be let pour some kerosene oil over it before -setting it on fire. I guess she did, by the smell, though Mrs. Lynde -said up to the last that Davy would blow himself and everybody else up -if he was let." - -Anne was out of the buggy by this time, and Davy was rapturously hugging -her knees, while even Dora was clinging to her hand. - -"Isn't that a bully bonfire, Anne? Just let me show you how to poke -it--see the sparks? I did it for you, Anne, 'cause I was so glad you -were coming home." - -The kitchen door opened and Marilla's spare form darkened against the -inner light. She preferred to meet Anne in the shadows, for she -was horribly afraid that she was going to cry with joy--she, stern, -repressed Marilla, who thought all display of deep emotion unseemly. -Mrs. Lynde was behind her, sonsy, kindly, matronly, as of yore. The love -that Anne had told Phil was waiting for her surrounded her and enfolded -her with its blessing and its sweetness. Nothing, after all, could -compare with old ties, old friends, and old Green Gables! How starry -Anne's eyes were as they sat down to the loaded supper table, how pink -her cheeks, how silver-clear her laughter! And Diana was going to stay -all night, too. How like the dear old times it was! And the rose-bud -tea-set graced the table! With Marilla the force of nature could no -further go. - -"I suppose you and Diana will now proceed to talk all night," said -Marilla sarcastically, as the girls went upstairs. Marilla was always -sarcastic after any self-betrayal. - -"Yes," agreed Anne gaily, "but I'm going to put Davy to bed first. He -insists on that." - -"You bet," said Davy, as they went along the hall. "I want somebody to -say my prayers to again. It's no fun saying them alone." - -"You don't say them alone, Davy. God is always with you to hear you." - -"Well, I can't see Him," objected Davy. "I want to pray to somebody I -can see, but I WON'T say them to Mrs. Lynde or Marilla, there now!" - -Nevertheless, when Davy was garbed in his gray flannel nighty, he did -not seem in a hurry to begin. He stood before Anne, shuffling one bare -foot over the other, and looked undecided. - -"Come, dear, kneel down," said Anne. - -Davy came and buried his head in Anne's lap, but he did not kneel down. - -"Anne," he said in a muffled voice. "I don't feel like praying after -all. I haven't felt like it for a week now. I--I DIDN'T pray last night -nor the night before." - -"Why not, Davy?" asked Anne gently. - -"You--you won't be mad if I tell you?" implored Davy. - -Anne lifted the little gray-flannelled body on her knee and cuddled his -head on her arm. - -"Do I ever get 'mad' when you tell me things, Davy?" - -"No-o-o, you never do. But you get sorry, and that's worse. You'll be -awful sorry when I tell you this, Anne--and you'll be 'shamed of me, I -s'pose." - -"Have you done something naughty, Davy, and is that why you can't say -your prayers?" - -"No, I haven't done anything naughty--yet. But I want to do it." - -"What is it, Davy?" - -"I--I want to say a bad word, Anne," blurted out Davy, with a desperate -effort. "I heard Mr. Harrison's hired boy say it one day last week, -and ever since I've been wanting to say it ALL the time--even when I'm -saying my prayers." - -"Say it then, Davy." - -Davy lifted his flushed face in amazement. - -"But, Anne, it's an AWFUL bad word." - -"SAY IT!" - -Davy gave her another incredulous look, then in a low voice he said the -dreadful word. The next minute his face was burrowing against her. - -"Oh, Anne, I'll never say it again--never. I'll never WANT to say it -again. I knew it was bad, but I didn't s'pose it was so--so--I didn't -s'pose it was like THAT." - -"No, I don't think you'll ever want to say it again, Davy--or think it, -either. And I wouldn't go about much with Mr. Harrison's hired boy if I -were you." - -"He can make bully war-whoops," said Davy a little regretfully. - -"But you don't want your mind filled with bad words, do you, Davy--words -that will poison it and drive out all that is good and manly?" - -"No," said Davy, owl-eyed with introspection. - -"Then don't go with those people who use them. And now do you feel as if -you could say your prayers, Davy?" - -"Oh, yes," said Davy, eagerly wriggling down on his knees, "I can say -them now all right. I ain't scared now to say 'if I should die before I -wake,' like I was when I was wanting to say that word." - -Probably Anne and Diana did empty out their souls to each other that -night, but no record of their confidences has been preserved. They both -looked as fresh and bright-eyed at breakfast as only youth can look -after unlawful hours of revelry and confession. There had been no snow -up to this time, but as Diana crossed the old log bridge on her homeward -way the white flakes were beginning to flutter down over the fields -and woods, russet and gray in their dreamless sleep. Soon the far-away -slopes and hills were dim and wraith-like through their gauzy scarfing, -as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her hair and was -waiting for her wintry bridegroom. So they had a white Christmas after -all, and a very pleasant day it was. In the forenoon letters and gifts -came from Miss Lavendar and Paul; Anne opened them in the cheerful Green -Gables kitchen, which was filled with what Davy, sniffing in ecstasy, -called "pretty smells." - -"Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving are settled in their new home now," -reported Anne. "I am sure Miss Lavendar is perfectly happy--I know it -by the general tone of her letter--but there's a note from Charlotta the -Fourth. She doesn't like Boston at all, and she is fearfully homesick. -Miss Lavendar wants me to go through to Echo Lodge some day while -I'm home and light a fire to air it, and see that the cushions aren't -getting moldy. I think I'll get Diana to go over with me next week, and -we can spend the evening with Theodora Dix. I want to see Theodora. By -the way, is Ludovic Speed still going to see her?" - -"They say so," said Marilla, "and he's likely to continue it. Folks have -given up expecting that that courtship will ever arrive anywhere." - -"I'd hurry him up a bit, if I was Theodora, that's what," said Mrs. -Lynde. And there is not the slightest doubt but that she would. - -There was also a characteristic scrawl from Philippa, full of Alec and -Alonzo, what they said and what they did, and how they looked when they -saw her. - -"But I can't make up my mind yet which to marry," wrote Phil. "I do wish -you had come with me to decide for me. Some one will have to. When I saw -Alec my heart gave a great thump and I thought, 'He might be the right -one.' And then, when Alonzo came, thump went my heart again. So that's -no guide, though it should be, according to all the novels I've ever -read. Now, Anne, YOUR heart wouldn't thump for anybody but the genuine -Prince Charming, would it? There must be something radically wrong with -mine. But I'm having a perfectly gorgeous time. How I wish you were -here! It's snowing today, and I'm rapturous. I was so afraid we'd have -a green Christmas and I loathe them. You know, when Christmas is a dirty -grayey-browney affair, looking as if it had been left over a hundred -years ago and had been in soak ever since, it is called a GREEN -Christmas! Don't ask me why. As Lord Dundreary says, 'there are thome -thingth no fellow can underthtand.' - -"Anne, did you ever get on a street car and then discover that you -hadn't any money with you to pay your fare? I did, the other day. It's -quite awful. I had a nickel with me when I got on the car. I thought it -was in the left pocket of my coat. When I got settled down comfortably -I felt for it. It wasn't there. I had a cold chill. I felt in the other -pocket. Not there. I had another chill. Then I felt in a little inside -pocket. All in vain. I had two chills at once. - -"I took off my gloves, laid them on the seat, and went over all my -pockets again. It was not there. I stood up and shook myself, and then -looked on the floor. The car was full of people, who were going home -from the opera, and they all stared at me, but I was past caring for a -little thing like that. - -"But I could not find my fare. I concluded I must have put it in my -mouth and swallowed it inadvertently. - -"I didn't know what to do. Would the conductor, I wondered, stop the -car and put me off in ignominy and shame? Was it possible that I could -convince him that I was merely the victim of my own absentmindedness, -and not an unprincipled creature trying to obtain a ride upon false -pretenses? How I wished that Alec or Alonzo were there. But they weren't -because I wanted them. If I HADN'T wanted them they would have been -there by the dozen. And I couldn't decide what to say to the conductor -when he came around. As soon as I got one sentence of explanation -mapped out in my mind I felt nobody could believe it and I must compose -another. It seemed there was nothing to do but trust in Providence, and -for all the comfort that gave me I might as well have been the old lady -who, when told by the captain during a storm that she must put her trust -in the Almighty exclaimed, 'Oh, Captain, is it as bad as that?' - -"Just at the conventional moment, when all hope had fled, and the -conductor was holding out his box to the passenger next to me, I -suddenly remembered where I had put that wretched coin of the realm. -I hadn't swallowed it after all. I meekly fished it out of the index -finger of my glove and poked it in the box. I smiled at everybody and -felt that it was a beautiful world." - -The visit to Echo Lodge was not the least pleasant of many pleasant -holiday outings. Anne and Diana went back to it by the old way of the -beech woods, carrying a lunch basket with them. Echo Lodge, which had -been closed ever since Miss Lavendar's wedding, was briefly thrown open -to wind and sunshine once more, and firelight glimmered again in the -little rooms. The perfume of Miss Lavendar's rose bowl still filled the -air. It was hardly possible to believe that Miss Lavendar would not come -tripping in presently, with her brown eyes a-star with welcome, and -that Charlotta the Fourth, blue of bow and wide of smile, would not -pop through the door. Paul, too, seemed hovering around, with his fairy -fancies. - -"It really makes me feel a little bit like a ghost revisiting the old -time glimpses of the moon," laughed Anne. "Let's go out and see if the -echoes are at home. Bring the old horn. It is still behind the kitchen -door." - -The echoes were at home, over the white river, as silver-clear and -multitudinous as ever; and when they had ceased to answer the girls -locked up Echo Lodge again and went away in the perfect half hour that -follows the rose and saffron of a winter sunset. - - - - -Chapter VIII - -Anne's First Proposal - - -The old year did not slip away in a green twilight, with a pinky-yellow -sunset. Instead, it went out with a wild, white bluster and blow. It was -one of the nights when the storm-wind hurtles over the frozen meadows -and black hollows, and moans around the eaves like a lost creature, and -drives the snow sharply against the shaking panes. - -"Just the sort of night people like to cuddle down between their -blankets and count their mercies," said Anne to Jane Andrews, who had -come up to spend the afternoon and stay all night. But when they were -cuddled between their blankets, in Anne's little porch room, it was not -her mercies of which Jane was thinking. - -"Anne," she said very solemnly, "I want to tell you something. May I" - -Anne was feeling rather sleepy after the party Ruby Gillis had given the -night before. She would much rather have gone to sleep than listen -to Jane's confidences, which she was sure would bore her. She had no -prophetic inkling of what was coming. Probably Jane was engaged, -too; rumor averred that Ruby Gillis was engaged to the Spencervale -schoolteacher, about whom all the girls were said to be quite wild. - -"I'll soon be the only fancy-free maiden of our old quartet," thought -Anne, drowsily. Aloud she said, "Of course." - -"Anne," said Jane, still more solemnly, "what do you think of my brother -Billy?" - -Anne gasped over this unexpected question, and floundered helplessly -in her thoughts. Goodness, what DID she think of Billy Andrews? She -had never thought ANYTHING about him--round-faced, stupid, perpetually -smiling, good-natured Billy Andrews. Did ANYBODY ever think about Billy -Andrews? - -"I--I don't understand, Jane," she stammered. "What do you -mean--exactly?" - -"Do you like Billy?" asked Jane bluntly. - -"Why--why--yes, I like him, of course," gasped Anne, wondering if she -were telling the literal truth. Certainly she did not DISlike Billy. -But could the indifferent tolerance with which she regarded him, when he -happened to be in her range of vision, be considered positive enough for -liking? WHAT was Jane trying to elucidate? - -"Would you like him for a husband?" asked Jane calmly. - -"A husband!" Anne had been sitting up in bed, the better to wrestle with -the problem of her exact opinion of Billy Andrews. Now she fell flatly -back on her pillows, the very breath gone out of her. "Whose husband?" - -"Yours, of course," answered Jane. "Billy wants to marry you. He's -always been crazy about you--and now father has given him the upper farm -in his own name and there's nothing to prevent him from getting married. -But he's so shy he couldn't ask you himself if you'd have him, so he got -me to do it. I'd rather not have, but he gave me no peace till I said I -would, if I got a good chance. What do you think about it, Anne?" - -Was it a dream? Was it one of those nightmare things in which you find -yourself engaged or married to some one you hate or don't know, without -the slightest idea how it ever came about? No, she, Anne Shirley, was -lying there, wide awake, in her own bed, and Jane Andrews was beside -her, calmly proposing for her brother Billy. Anne did not know whether -she wanted to writhe or laugh; but she could do neither, for Jane's -feelings must not be hurt. - -"I--I couldn't marry Bill, you know, Jane," she managed to gasp. "Why, -such an idea never occurred to me--never!" - -"I don't suppose it did," agreed Jane. "Billy has always been far too -shy to think of courting. But you might think it over, Anne. Billy is a -good fellow. I must say that, if he is my brother. He has no bad habits -and he's a great worker, and you can depend on him. 'A bird in the hand -is worth two in the bush.' He told me to tell you he'd be quite willing -to wait till you got through college, if you insisted, though he'd -RATHER get married this spring before the planting begins. He'd always -be very good to you, I'm sure, and you know, Anne, I'd love to have you -for a sister." - -"I can't marry Billy," said Anne decidedly. She had recovered her wits, -and was even feeling a little angry. It was all so ridiculous. "There is -no use thinking of it, Jane. I don't care anything for him in that way, -and you must tell him so." - -"Well, I didn't suppose you would," said Jane with a resigned sigh, -feeling that she had done her best. "I told Billy I didn't believe it -was a bit of use to ask you, but he insisted. Well, you've made your -decision, Anne, and I hope you won't regret it." - -Jane spoke rather coldly. She had been perfectly sure that the enamored -Billy had no chance at all of inducing Anne to marry him. Nevertheless, -she felt a little resentment that Anne Shirley, who was, after all, -merely an adopted orphan, without kith or kin, should refuse her -brother--one of the Avonlea Andrews. Well, pride sometimes goes before a -fall, Jane reflected ominously. - -Anne permitted herself to smile in the darkness over the idea that she -might ever regret not marrying Billy Andrews. - -"I hope Billy won't feel very badly over it," she said nicely. - -Jane made a movement as if she were tossing her head on her pillow. - -"Oh, he won't break his heart. Billy has too much good sense for that. -He likes Nettie Blewett pretty well, too, and mother would rather he -married her than any one. She's such a good manager and saver. I think, -when Billy is once sure you won't have him, he'll take Nettie. Please -don't mention this to any one, will you, Anne?" - -"Certainly not," said Anne, who had no desire whatever to publish abroad -the fact that Billy Andrews wanted to marry her, preferring her, when -all was said and done, to Nettie Blewett. Nettie Blewett! - -"And now I suppose we'd better go to sleep," suggested Jane. - -To sleep went Jane easily and speedily; but, though very unlike MacBeth -in most respects, she had certainly contrived to murder sleep for Anne. -That proposed-to damsel lay on a wakeful pillow until the wee sma's, but -her meditations were far from being romantic. It was not, however, until -the next morning that she had an opportunity to indulge in a good laugh -over the whole affair. When Jane had gone home--still with a hint of -frost in voice and manner because Anne had declined so ungratefully -and decidedly the honor of an alliance with the House of Andrews--Anne -retreated to the porch room, shut the door, and had her laugh out at -last. - -"If I could only share the joke with some one!" she thought. "But I -can't. Diana is the only one I'd want to tell, and, even if I hadn't -sworn secrecy to Jane, I can't tell Diana things now. She tells -everything to Fred--I know she does. Well, I've had my first proposal. I -supposed it would come some day--but I certainly never thought it would -be by proxy. It's awfully funny--and yet there's a sting in it, too, -somehow." - -Anne knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she did not put -it into words. She had had her secret dreams of the first time some one -should ask her the great question. And it had, in those dreams, always -been very romantic and beautiful: and the "some one" was to be very -handsome and dark-eyed and distinguished-looking and eloquent, whether -he were Prince Charming to be enraptured with "yes," or one to whom a -regretful, beautifully worded, but hopeless refusal must be given. If -the latter, the refusal was to be expressed so delicately that it would -be next best thing to acceptance, and he would go away, after kissing -her hand, assuring her of his unalterable, life-long devotion. And it -would always be a beautiful memory, to be proud of and a little sad -about, also. - -And now, this thrilling experience had turned out to be merely -grotesque. Billy Andrews had got his sister to propose for him because -his father had given him the upper farm; and if Anne wouldn't "have him" -Nettie Blewett would. There was romance for you, with a vengeance! Anne -laughed--and then sighed. The bloom had been brushed from one little -maiden dream. Would the painful process go on until everything became -prosaic and hum-drum? - - - - -Chapter IX - - -An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend - - -The second term at Redmond sped as quickly as had the first--"actually -whizzed away," Philippa said. Anne enjoyed it thoroughly in all its -phases--the stimulating class rivalry, the making and deepening of new -and helpful friendships, the gay little social stunts, the doings of the -various societies of which she was a member, the widening of horizons -and interests. She studied hard, for she had made up her mind to win the -Thorburn Scholarship in English. This being won, meant that she could -come back to Redmond the next year without trenching on Marilla's small -savings--something Anne was determined she would not do. - -Gilbert, too, was in full chase after a scholarship, but found plenty -of time for frequent calls at Thirty-eight, St. John's. He was Anne's -escort at nearly all the college affairs, and she knew that their names -were coupled in Redmond gossip. Anne raged over this but was helpless; -she could not cast an old friend like Gilbert aside, especially when -he had grown suddenly wise and wary, as behooved him in the dangerous -proximity of more than one Redmond youth who would gladly have taken his -place by the side of the slender, red-haired coed, whose gray eyes were -as alluring as stars of evening. Anne was never attended by the crowd of -willing victims who hovered around Philippa's conquering march through -her Freshman year; but there was a lanky, brainy Freshie, a jolly, -little, round Sophomore, and a tall, learned Junior who all liked to -call at Thirty-eight, St. John's, and talk over 'ologies and 'isms, as -well as lighter subjects, with Anne, in the becushioned parlor of that -domicile. Gilbert did not love any of them, and he was exceedingly -careful to give none of them the advantage over him by any untimely -display of his real feelings Anne-ward. To her he had become again the -boy-comrade of Avonlea days, and as such could hold his own against -any smitten swain who had so far entered the lists against him. As a -companion, Anne honestly acknowledged nobody could be so satisfactory as -Gilbert; she was very glad, so she told herself, that he had evidently -dropped all nonsensical ideas--though she spent considerable time -secretly wondering why. - -Only one disagreeable incident marred that winter. Charlie Sloane, -sitting bolt upright on Miss Ada's most dearly beloved cushion, asked -Anne one night if she would promise "to become Mrs. Charlie Sloane some -day." Coming after Billy Andrews' proxy effort, this was not quite the -shock to Anne's romantic sensibilities that it would otherwise have -been; but it was certainly another heart-rending disillusion. She was -angry, too, for she felt that she had never given Charlie the slightest -encouragement to suppose such a thing possible. But what could you -expect of a Sloane, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde would ask scornfully? Charlie's -whole attitude, tone, air, words, fairly reeked with Sloanishness. "He -was conferring a great honor--no doubt whatever about that. And when -Anne, utterly insensible to the honor, refused him, as delicately and -considerately as she could--for even a Sloane had feelings which ought -not to be unduly lacerated--Sloanishness still further betrayed itself. -Charlie certainly did not take his dismissal as Anne's imaginary -rejected suitors did. Instead, he became angry, and showed it; he said -two or three quite nasty things; Anne's temper flashed up mutinously and -she retorted with a cutting little speech whose keenness pierced even -Charlie's protective Sloanishness and reached the quick; he caught up -his hat and flung himself out of the house with a very red face; Anne -rushed upstairs, falling twice over Miss Ada's cushions on the way, -and threw herself on her bed, in tears of humiliation and rage. Had -she actually stooped to quarrel with a Sloane? Was it possible anything -Charlie Sloane could say had power to make her angry? Oh, this was -degradation, indeed--worse even than being the rival of Nettie Blewett! - -"I wish I need never see the horrible creature again," she sobbed -vindictively into her pillows. - -She could not avoid seeing him again, but the outraged Charlie took care -that it should not be at very close quarters. Miss Ada's cushions were -henceforth safe from his depredations, and when he met Anne on the -street, or in Redmond's halls, his bow was icy in the extreme. Relations -between these two old schoolmates continued to be thus strained for -nearly a year! Then Charlie transferred his blighted affections to a -round, rosy, snub-nosed, blue-eyed, little Sophomore who appreciated -them as they deserved, whereupon he forgave Anne and condescended to be -civil to her again; in a patronizing manner intended to show her just -what she had lost. - -One day Anne scurried excitedly into Priscilla's room. - -"Read that," she cried, tossing Priscilla a letter. "It's from -Stella--and she's coming to Redmond next year--and what do you think of -her idea? I think it's a perfectly splendid one, if we can only carry it -out. Do you suppose we can, Pris?" - -"I'll be better able to tell you when I find out what it is," said -Priscilla, casting aside a Greek lexicon and taking up Stella's letter. -Stella Maynard had been one of their chums at Queen's Academy and had -been teaching school ever since. - -"But I'm going to give it up, Anne dear," she wrote, "and go to college -next year. As I took the third year at Queen's I can enter the Sophomore -year. I'm tired of teaching in a back country school. Some day I'm going -to write a treatise on 'The Trials of a Country Schoolmarm.' It will -be a harrowing bit of realism. It seems to be the prevailing impression -that we live in clover, and have nothing to do but draw our quarter's -salary. My treatise shall tell the truth about us. Why, if a week should -pass without some one telling me that I am doing easy work for big pay I -would conclude that I might as well order my ascension robe 'immediately -and to onct.' 'Well, you get your money easy,' some rate-payer will -tell me, condescendingly. 'All you have to do is to sit there and hear -lessons.' I used to argue the matter at first, but I'm wiser now. -Facts are stubborn things, but as some one has wisely said, not half so -stubborn as fallacies. So I only smile loftily now in eloquent silence. -Why, I have nine grades in my school and I have to teach a little of -everything, from investigating the interiors of earthworms to the study -of the solar system. My youngest pupil is four--his mother sends him to -school to 'get him out of the way'--and my oldest twenty--it 'suddenly -struck him' that it would be easier to go to school and get an education -than follow the plough any longer. In the wild effort to cram all sorts -of research into six hours a day I don't wonder if the children feel -like the little boy who was taken to see the biograph. 'I have to look -for what's coming next before I know what went last,' he complained. I -feel like that myself. - -"And the letters I get, Anne! Tommy's mother writes me that Tommy is not -coming on in arithmetic as fast as she would like. He is only in simple -reduction yet, and Johnny Johnson is in fractions, and Johnny isn't half -as smart as her Tommy, and she can't understand it. And Susy's father -wants to know why Susy can't write a letter without misspelling half -the words, and Dick's aunt wants me to change his seat, because that bad -Brown boy he is sitting with is teaching him to say naughty words. - -"As to the financial part--but I'll not begin on that. Those whom the -gods wish to destroy they first make country schoolmarms! - -"There, I feel better, after that growl. After all, I've enjoyed these -past two years. But I'm coming to Redmond. - -"And now, Anne, I've a little plan. You know how I loathe boarding. -I've boarded for four years and I'm so tired of it. I don't feel like -enduring three years more of it. - -"Now, why can't you and Priscilla and I club together, rent a little -house somewhere in Kingsport, and board ourselves? It would be cheaper -than any other way. Of course, we would have to have a housekeeper and -I have one ready on the spot. You've heard me speak of Aunt Jamesina? -She's the sweetest aunt that ever lived, in spite of her name. She can't -help that! She was called Jamesina because her father, whose name was -James, was drowned at sea a month before she was born. I always call her -Aunt Jimsie. Well, her only daughter has recently married and gone to -the foreign mission field. Aunt Jamesina is left alone in a great big -house, and she is horribly lonesome. She will come to Kingsport and keep -house for us if we want her, and I know you'll both love her. The more -I think of the plan the more I like it. We could have such good, -independent times. - -"Now, if you and Priscilla agree to it, wouldn't it be a good idea -for you, who are on the spot, to look around and see if you can find a -suitable house this spring? That would be better than leaving it till -the fall. If you could get a furnished one so much the better, but if -not, we can scare up a few sticks of finiture between us and old family -friends with attics. Anyhow, decide as soon as you can and write me, so -that Aunt Jamesina will know what plans to make for next year." - -"I think it's a good idea," said Priscilla. - -"So do I," agreed Anne delightedly. "Of course, we have a nice -boardinghouse here, but, when all's said and done, a boardinghouse isn't -home. So let's go house-hunting at once, before exams come on." - -"I'm afraid it will be hard enough to get a really suitable house," -warned Priscilla. "Don't expect too much, Anne. Nice houses in nice -localities will probably be away beyond our means. We'll likely have to -content ourselves with a shabby little place on some street whereon live -people whom to know is to be unknown, and make life inside compensate -for the outside." - -Accordingly they went house-hunting, but to find just what they wanted -proved even harder than Priscilla had feared. Houses there were galore, -furnished and unfurnished; but one was too big, another too small; this -one too expensive, that one too far from Redmond. Exams were on and -over; the last week of the term came and still their "house o'dreams," -as Anne called it, remained a castle in the air. - -"We shall have to give up and wait till the fall, I suppose," said -Priscilla wearily, as they rambled through the park on one of April's -darling days of breeze and blue, when the harbor was creaming and -shimmering beneath the pearl-hued mists floating over it. "We may find -some shack to shelter us then; and if not, boardinghouses we shall have -always with us." - -"I'm not going to worry about it just now, anyway, and spoil this lovely -afternoon," said Anne, gazing around her with delight. The fresh chill -air was faintly charged with the aroma of pine balsam, and the sky above -was crystal clear and blue--a great inverted cup of blessing. "Spring is -singing in my blood today, and the lure of April is abroad on the air. -I'm seeing visions and dreaming dreams, Pris. That's because the wind is -from the west. I do love the west wind. It sings of hope and gladness, -doesn't it? When the east wind blows I always think of sorrowful rain -on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore. When I get old I shall have -rheumatism when the wind is east." - -"And isn't it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments for -the first time and sally forth, like this, in spring attire?" laughed -Priscilla. "Don't you feel as if you had been made over new?" - -"Everything is new in the spring," said Anne. "Springs themselves are -always so new, too. No spring is ever just like any other spring. It -always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness. See -how green the grass is around that little pond, and how the willow buds -are bursting." - -"And exams are over and gone--the time of Convocation will come -soon--next Wednesday. This day next week we'll be home." - -"I'm glad," said Anne dreamily. "There are so many things I want to do. -I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze blowing down -over Mr. Harrison's fields. I want to hunt ferns in the Haunted Wood -and gather violets in Violet Vale. Do you remember the day of our golden -picnic, Priscilla? I want to hear the frogs singing and the poplars -whispering. But I've learned to love Kingsport, too, and I'm glad I'm -coming back next fall. If I hadn't won the Thorburn I don't believe I -could have. I COULDN'T take any of Marilla's little hoard." - -"If we could only find a house!" sighed Priscilla. "Look over there at -Kingsport, Anne--houses, houses everywhere, and not one for us." - -"Stop it, Pris. 'The best is yet to be.' Like the old Roman, we'll find -a house or build one. On a day like this there's no such word as fail in -my bright lexicon." - -They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing miracle -and glory and wonder of the springtide; and they went home as usual, by -way of Spofford Avenue, that they might have the delight of looking at -Patty's Place. - -"I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right away--'by -the pricking of my thumbs,'" said Anne, as they went up the slope. -"It's a nice story-bookish feeling. Why--why--why! Priscilla Grant, look -over there and tell me if it's true, or am I seein' things?" - -Priscilla looked. Anne's thumbs and eyes had not deceived her. Over the -arched gateway of Patty's Place dangled a little, modest sign. It said -"To Let, Furnished. Inquire Within." - -"Priscilla," said Anne, in a whisper, "do you suppose it's possible that -we could rent Patty's Place?" - -"No, I don't," averred Priscilla. "It would be too good to be -true. Fairy tales don't happen nowadays. I won't hope, Anne. The -disappointment would be too awful to bear. They're sure to want more for -it than we can afford. Remember, it's on Spofford Avenue." - -"We must find out anyhow," said Anne resolutely. "It's too late to call -this evening, but we'll come tomorrow. Oh, Pris, if we can get this -darling spot! I've always felt that my fortunes were linked with Patty's -Place, ever since I saw it first." - - - - -Chapter X - -Patty's Place - - -The next evening found them treading resolutely the herring-bone walk -through the tiny garden. The April wind was filling the pine trees with -its roundelay, and the grove was alive with robins--great, plump, saucy -fellows, strutting along the paths. The girls rang rather timidly, and -were admitted by a grim and ancient handmaiden. The door opened directly -into a large living-room, where by a cheery little fire sat two other -ladies, both of whom were also grim and ancient. Except that one looked -to be about seventy and the other fifty, there seemed little -difference between them. Each had amazingly big, light-blue eyes behind -steel-rimmed spectacles; each wore a cap and a gray shawl; each was -knitting without haste and without rest; each rocked placidly and looked -at the girls without speaking; and just behind each sat a large white -china dog, with round green spots all over it, a green nose and green -ears. Those dogs captured Anne's fancy on the spot; they seemed like the -twin guardian deities of Patty's Place. - -For a few minutes nobody spoke. The girls were too nervous to find -words, and neither the ancient ladies nor the china dogs seemed -conversationally inclined. Anne glanced about the room. What a dear -place it was! Another door opened out of it directly into the pine grove -and the robins came boldly up on the very step. The floor was spotted -with round, braided mats, such as Marilla made at Green Gables, but -which were considered out of date everywhere else, even in Avonlea. And -yet here they were on Spofford Avenue! A big, polished grandfather's -clock ticked loudly and solemnly in a corner. There were delightful -little cupboards over the mantelpiece, behind whose glass doors -gleamed quaint bits of china. The walls were hung with old prints and -silhouettes. In one corner the stairs went up, and at the first low turn -was a long window with an inviting seat. It was all just as Anne had -known it must be. - -By this time the silence had grown too dreadful, and Priscilla nudged -Anne to intimate that she must speak. - -"We--we--saw by your sign that this house is to let," said Anne faintly, -addressing the older lady, who was evidently Miss Patty Spofford. - -"Oh, yes," said Miss Patty. "I intended to take that sign down today." - -"Then--then we are too late," said Anne sorrowfully. "You've let it to -some one else?" - -"No, but we have decided not to let it at all." - -"Oh, I'm so sorry," exclaimed Anne impulsively. "I love this place so. I -did hope we could have got it." - -Then did Miss Patty lay down her knitting, take off her specs, rub them, -put them on again, and for the first time look at Anne as at a human -being. The other lady followed her example so perfectly that she might -as well have been a reflection in a mirror. - -"You LOVE it," said Miss Patty with emphasis. "Does that mean that -you really LOVE it? Or that you merely like the looks of it? The girls -nowadays indulge in such exaggerated statements that one never can tell -what they DO mean. It wasn't so in my young days. THEN a girl did not -say she LOVED turnips, in just the same tone as she might have said she -loved her mother or her Savior." - -Anne's conscience bore her up. - -"I really do love it," she said gently. "I've loved it ever since I saw -it last fall. My two college chums and I want to keep house next year -instead of boarding, so we are looking for a little place to rent; and -when I saw that this house was to let I was so happy." - -"If you love it, you can have it," said Miss Patty. "Maria and I decided -today that we would not let it after all, because we did not like any of -the people who have wanted it. We don't HAVE to let it. We can afford to -go to Europe even if we don't let it. It would help us out, but not for -gold will I let my home pass into the possession of such people as have -come here and looked at it. YOU are different. I believe you do love it -and will be good to it. You can have it." - -"If--if we can afford to pay what you ask for it," hesitated Anne. - -Miss Patty named the amount required. Anne and Priscilla looked at each -other. Priscilla shook her head. - -"I'm afraid we can't afford quite so much," said Anne, choking back her -disappointment. "You see, we are only college girls and we are poor." - -"What were you thinking you could afford?" demanded Miss Patty, ceasing -not to knit. - -Anne named her amount. Miss Patty nodded gravely. - -"That will do. As I told you, it is not strictly necessary that we -should let it at all. We are not rich, but we have enough to go to -Europe on. I have never been in Europe in my life, and never expected or -wanted to go. But my niece there, Maria Spofford, has taken a fancy -to go. Now, you know a young person like Maria can't go globetrotting -alone." - -"No--I--I suppose not," murmured Anne, seeing that Miss Patty was quite -solemnly in earnest. - -"Of course not. So I have to go along to look after her. I expect to -enjoy it, too; I'm seventy years old, but I'm not tired of living yet. -I daresay I'd have gone to Europe before if the idea had occurred to me. -We shall be away for two years, perhaps three. We sail in June and -we shall send you the key, and leave all in order for you to take -possession when you choose. We shall pack away a few things we prize -especially, but all the rest will be left." - -"Will you leave the china dogs?" asked Anne timidly. - -"Would you like me to?" - -"Oh, indeed, yes. They are delightful." - -A pleased expression came into Miss Patty's face. - -"I think a great deal of those dogs," she said proudly. "They are over -a hundred years old, and they have sat on either side of this fireplace -ever since my brother Aaron brought them from London fifty years ago. -Spofford Avenue was called after my brother Aaron." - -"A fine man he was," said Miss Maria, speaking for the first time. "Ah, -you don't see the like of him nowadays." - -"He was a good uncle to you, Maria," said Miss Patty, with evident -emotion. "You do well to remember him." - -"I shall always remember him," said Miss Maria solemnly. "I can see him, -this minute, standing there before that fire, with his hands under his -coat-tails, beaming on us." - -Miss Maria took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but Miss Patty -came resolutely back from the regions of sentiment to those of business. - -"I shall leave the dogs where they are, if you will promise to be very -careful of them," she said. "Their names are Gog and Magog. Gog looks -to the right and Magog to the left. And there's just one thing more. You -don't object, I hope, to this house being called Patty's Place?" - -"No, indeed. We think that is one of the nicest things about it." - -"You have sense, I see," said Miss Patty in a tone of great -satisfaction. "Would you believe it? All the people who came here to -rent the house wanted to know if they couldn't take the name off the -gate during their occupation of it. I told them roundly that the name -went with the house. This has been Patty's Place ever since my brother -Aaron left it to me in his will, and Patty's Place it shall remain until -I die and Maria dies. After that happens the next possessor can call it -any fool name he likes," concluded Miss Patty, much as she might have -said, "After that--the deluge." "And now, wouldn't you like to go over -the house and see it all before we consider the bargain made?" - -Further exploration still further delighted the girls. Besides the -big living-room, there was a kitchen and a small bedroom downstairs. -Upstairs were three rooms, one large and two small. Anne took an -especial fancy to one of the small ones, looking out into the big -pines, and hoped it would be hers. It was papered in pale blue and had -a little, old-timey toilet table with sconces for candles. There was a -diamond-paned window with a seat under the blue muslin frills that would -be a satisfying spot for studying or dreaming. - -"It's all so delicious that I know we are going to wake up and find it a -fleeting vision of the night," said Priscilla as they went away. - -"Miss Patty and Miss Maria are hardly such stuff as dreams are made of," -laughed Anne. "Can you fancy them 'globe-trotting'--especially in those -shawls and caps?" - -"I suppose they'll take them off when they really begin to trot," said -Priscilla, "but I know they'll take their knitting with them everywhere. -They simply couldn't be parted from it. They will walk about Westminster -Abbey and knit, I feel sure. Meanwhile, Anne, we shall be living in -Patty's Place--and on Spofford Avenue. I feel like a millionairess even -now." - -"I feel like one of the morning stars that sang for joy," said Anne. - -Phil Gordon crept into Thirty-eight, St. John's, that night and flung -herself on Anne's bed. - -"Girls, dear, I'm tired to death. I feel like the man without a -country--or was it without a shadow? I forget which. Anyway, I've been -packing up." - -"And I suppose you are worn out because you couldn't decide which things -to pack first, or where to put them," laughed Priscilla. - -"E-zackly. And when I had got everything jammed in somehow, and my -landlady and her maid had both sat on it while I locked it, I discovered -I had packed a whole lot of things I wanted for Convocation at the very -bottom. I had to unlock the old thing and poke and dive into it for an -hour before I fished out what I wanted. I would get hold of something -that felt like what I was looking for, and I'd yank it up, and it would -be something else. No, Anne, I did NOT swear." - -"I didn't say you did." - -"Well, you looked it. But I admit my thoughts verged on the profane. And -I have such a cold in the head--I can do nothing but sniffle, sigh -and sneeze. Isn't that alliterative agony for you? Queen Anne, do say -something to cheer me up." - -"Remember that next Thursday night, you'll be back in the land of Alec -and Alonzo," suggested Anne. - -Phil shook her head dolefully. - -"More alliteration. No, I don't want Alec and Alonzo when I have a -cold in the head. But what has happened you two? Now that I look at -you closely you seem all lighted up with an internal iridescence. Why, -you're actually SHINING! What's up?" - -"We are going to live in Patty's Place next winter," said Anne -triumphantly. "Live, mark you, not board! We've rented it, and Stella -Maynard is coming, and her aunt is going to keep house for us." - -Phil bounced up, wiped her nose, and fell on her knees before Anne. - -"Girls--girls--let me come, too. Oh, I'll be so good. If there's no room -for me I'll sleep in the little doghouse in the orchard--I've seen it. -Only let me come." - -"Get up, you goose." - -"I won't stir off my marrow bones till you tell me I can live with you -next winter." - -Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. Then Anne said slowly, "Phil -dear, we'd love to have you. But we may as well speak plainly. I'm -poor--Pris is poor--Stella Maynard is poor--our housekeeping will have -to be very simple and our table plain. You'd have to live as we would. -Now, you are rich and your boardinghouse fare attests the fact." - -"Oh, what do I care for that?" demanded Phil tragically. "Better a -dinner of herbs where your chums are than a stalled ox in a lonely -boardinghouse. Don't think I'm ALL stomach, girls. I'll be willing to -live on bread and water--with just a LEETLE jam--if you'll let me come." - -"And then," continued Anne, "there will be a good deal of work to be -done. Stella's aunt can't do it all. We all expect to have our chores to -do. Now, you--" - -"Toil not, neither do I spin," finished Philippa. "But I'll learn to do -things. You'll only have to show me once. I CAN make my own bed to begin -with. And remember that, though I can't cook, I CAN keep my temper. -That's something. And I NEVER growl about the weather. That's more. Oh, -please, please! I never wanted anything so much in my life--and this -floor is awfully hard." - -"There's just one more thing," said Priscilla resolutely. "You, Phil, -as all Redmond knows, entertain callers almost every evening. Now, at -Patty's Place we can't do that. We have decided that we shall be at home -to our friends on Friday evenings only. If you come with us you'll have -to abide by that rule." - -"Well, you don't think I'll mind that, do you? Why, I'm glad of it. -I knew I should have had some such rule myself, but I hadn't enough -decision to make it or stick to it. When I can shuffle off the -responsibility on you it will be a real relief. If you won't let me cast -in my lot with you I'll die of the disappointment and then I'll come -back and haunt you. I'll camp on the very doorstep of Patty's Place and -you won't be able to go out or come in without falling over my spook." - -Again Anne and Priscilla exchanged eloquent looks. - -"Well," said Anne, "of course we can't promise to take you until we've -consulted with Stella; but I don't think she'll object, and, as far as -we are concerned, you may come and glad welcome." - -"If you get tired of our simple life you can leave us, and no questions -asked," added Priscilla. - -Phil sprang up, hugged them both jubilantly, and went on her way -rejoicing. - -"I hope things will go right," said Priscilla soberly. - -"We must MAKE them go right," avowed Anne. "I think Phil will fit into -our 'appy little 'ome very well." - -"Oh, Phil's a dear to rattle round with and be chums. And, of course, -the more there are of us the easier it will be on our slim purses. But -how will she be to live with? You have to summer and winter with any one -before you know if she's LIVABLE or not." - -"Oh, well, we'll all be put to the test, as far as that goes. And -we must quit us like sensible folk, living and let live. Phil isn't -selfish, though she's a little thoughtless, and I believe we will all -get on beautifully in Patty's Place." - - - - -Chapter XI - -The Round of Life - - -Anne was back in Avonlea with the luster of the Thorburn Scholarship -on her brow. People told her she hadn't changed much, in a tone which -hinted they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn't. Avonlea -had not changed, either. At least, so it seemed at first. But as Anne -sat in the Green Gables pew, on the first Sunday after her return, and -looked over the congregation, she saw several little changes which, all -coming home to her at once, made her realize that time did not quite -stand still, even in Avonlea. A new minister was in the pulpit. In the -pews more than one familiar face was missing forever. Old "Uncle Abe," -his prophesying over and done with, Mrs. Peter Sloane, who had sighed, -it was to be hoped, for the last time, Timothy Cotton, who, as Mrs. -Rachel Lynde said "had actually managed to die at last after practicing -at it for twenty years," and old Josiah Sloane, whom nobody knew in his -coffin because he had his whiskers neatly trimmed, were all sleeping in -the little graveyard behind the church. And Billy Andrews was married -to Nettie Blewett! They "appeared out" that Sunday. When Billy, beaming -with pride and happiness, showed his be-plumed and be-silked bride into -the Harmon Andrews' pew, Anne dropped her lids to hide her dancing eyes. -She recalled the stormy winter night of the Christmas holidays when Jane -had proposed for Billy. He certainly had not broken his heart over his -rejection. Anne wondered if Jane had also proposed to Nettie for him, or -if he had mustered enough spunk to ask the fateful question himself. All -the Andrews family seemed to share in his pride and pleasure, from -Mrs. Harmon in the pew to Jane in the choir. Jane had resigned from the -Avonlea school and intended to go West in the fall. - -"Can't get a beau in Avonlea, that's what," said Mrs. Rachel Lynde -scornfully. "SAYS she thinks she'll have better health out West. I never -heard her health was poor before." - -"Jane is a nice girl," Anne had said loyally. "She never tried to -attract attention, as some did." - -"Oh, she never chased the boys, if that's what you mean," said Mrs. -Rachel. "But she'd like to be married, just as much as anybody, that's -what. What else would take her out West to some forsaken place whose -only recommendation is that men are plenty and women scarce? Don't you -tell me!" - -But it was not at Jane, Anne gazed that day in dismay and surprise. It -was at Ruby Gillis, who sat beside her in the choir. What had happened -to Ruby? She was even handsomer than ever; but her blue eyes were -too bright and lustrous, and the color of her cheeks was hectically -brilliant; besides, she was very thin; the hands that held her hymn-book -were almost transparent in their delicacy. - -"Is Ruby Gillis ill?" Anne asked of Mrs. Lynde, as they went home from -church. - -"Ruby Gillis is dying of galloping consumption," said Mrs. Lynde -bluntly. "Everybody knows it except herself and her FAMILY. They won't -give in. If you ask THEM, she's perfectly well. She hasn't been able -to teach since she had that attack of congestion in the winter, but she -says she's going to teach again in the fall, and she's after the White -Sands school. She'll be in her grave, poor girl, when White Sands school -opens, that's what." - -Anne listened in shocked silence. Ruby Gillis, her old school-chum, -dying? Could it be possible? Of late years they had grown apart; but the -old tie of school-girl intimacy was there, and made itself felt sharply -in the tug the news gave at Anne's heartstrings. Ruby, the brilliant, -the merry, the coquettish! It was impossible to associate the thought of -her with anything like death. She had greeted Anne with gay cordiality -after church, and urged her to come up the next evening. - -"I'll be away Tuesday and Wednesday evenings," she had whispered -triumphantly. "There's a concert at Carmody and a party at White Sands. -Herb Spencer's going to take me. He's my LATEST. Be sure to come up -tomorrow. I'm dying for a good talk with you. I want to hear all about -your doings at Redmond." - -Anne knew that Ruby meant that she wanted to tell Anne all about her own -recent flirtations, but she promised to go, and Diana offered to go with -her. - -"I've been wanting to go to see Ruby for a long while," she told Anne, -when they left Green Gables the next evening, "but I really couldn't -go alone. It's so awful to hear Ruby rattling on as she does, and -pretending there is nothing the matter with her, even when she can -hardly speak for coughing. She's fighting so hard for her life, and yet -she hasn't any chance at all, they say." - -The girls walked silently down the red, twilit road. The robins were -singing vespers in the high treetops, filling the golden air with their -jubilant voices. The silver fluting of the frogs came from marshes and -ponds, over fields where seeds were beginning to stir with life and -thrill to the sunshine and rain that had drifted over them. The air -was fragrant with the wild, sweet, wholesome smell of young raspberry -copses. White mists were hovering in the silent hollows and violet stars -were shining bluely on the brooklands. - -"What a beautiful sunset," said Diana. "Look, Anne, it's just like a -land in itself, isn't it? That long, low back of purple cloud is the -shore, and the clear sky further on is like a golden sea." - -"If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul wrote of in his old -composition--you remember?--how nice it would be," said Anne, rousing -from her reverie. "Do you think we could find all our yesterdays there, -Diana--all our old springs and blossoms? The beds of flowers that Paul -saw there are the roses that have bloomed for us in the past?" - -"Don't!" said Diana. "You make me feel as if we were old women with -everything in life behind us." - -"I think I've almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor Ruby," -said Anne. "If it is true that she is dying any other sad thing might be -true, too." - -"You don't mind calling in at Elisha Wright's for a moment, do you?" -asked Diana. "Mother asked me to leave this little dish of jelly for -Aunt Atossa." - -"Who is Aunt Atossa?" - -"Oh, haven't you heard? She's Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencervale--Mrs. -Elisha Wright's aunt. She's father's aunt, too. Her husband died last -winter and she was left very poor and lonely, so the Wrights took her to -live with them. Mother thought we ought to take her, but father put his -foot down. Live with Aunt Atossa he would not." - -"Is she so terrible?" asked Anne absently. - -"You'll probably see what she's like before we can get away," said Diana -significantly. "Father says she has a face like a hatchet--it cuts the -air. But her tongue is sharper still." - -Late as it was Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright -kitchen. She wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was decidedly -untidy. Aunt Atossa did not like being "caught in a kilter," so she went -out of her way to be disagreeable. - -"Oh, so you're Anne Shirley?" she said, when Diana introduced Anne. -"I've heard of you." Her tone implied that she had heard nothing good. -"Mrs. Andrews was telling me you were home. She said you had improved a -good deal." - -There was no doubt Aunt Atossa thought there was plenty of room for -further improvement. She ceased not from cutting sets with much energy. - -"Is it any use to ask you to sit down?" she inquired sarcastically. "Of -course, there's nothing very entertaining here for you. The rest are all -away." - -"Mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb jelly," said Diana -pleasantly. "She made it today and thought you might like some." - -"Oh, thanks," said Aunt Atossa sourly. "I never fancy your mother's -jelly--she always makes it too sweet. However, I'll try to worry some -down. My appetite's been dreadful poor this spring. I'm far from well," -continued Aunt Atossa solemnly, "but still I keep a-doing. People who -can't work aren't wanted here. If it isn't too much trouble will you be -condescending enough to set the jelly in the pantry? I'm in a hurry to -get these spuds done tonight. I suppose you two LADIES never do anything -like this. You'd be afraid of spoiling your hands." - -"I used to cut potato sets before we rented the farm," smiled Anne. - -"I do it yet," laughed Diana. "I cut sets three days last week. Of -course," she added teasingly, "I did my hands up in lemon juice and kid -gloves every night after it." - -Aunt Atossa sniffed. - -"I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly magazines you -read so many of. I wonder your mother allows you. But she always spoiled -you. We all thought when George married her she wouldn't be a suitable -wife for him." - -Aunt Atossa sighed heavily, as if all forebodings upon the occasion of -George Barry's marriage had been amply and darkly fulfilled. - -"Going, are you?" she inquired, as the girls rose. "Well, I suppose you -can't find much amusement talking to an old woman like me. It's such a -pity the boys ain't home." - -"We want to run in and see Ruby Gillis a little while," explained Diana. - -"Oh, anything does for an excuse, of course," said Aunt Atossa, amiably. -"Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do decently. -It's college airs, I s'pose. You'd be wiser to keep away from Ruby -Gillis. The doctors say consumption's catching. I always knew Ruby'd get -something, gadding off to Boston last fall for a visit. People who ain't -content to stay home always catch something." - -"People who don't go visiting catch things, too. Sometimes they even -die," said Diana solemnly. - -"Then they don't have themselves to blame for it," retorted Aunt Atossa -triumphantly. "I hear you are to be married in June, Diana." - -"There is no truth in that report," said Diana, blushing. - -"Well, don't put it off too long," said Aunt Atossa significantly. -"You'll fade soon--you're all complexion and hair. And the Wrights are -terrible fickle. You ought to wear a hat, MISS SHIRLEY. Your nose is -freckling scandalous. My, but you ARE redheaded! Well, I s'pose we're -all as the Lord made us! Give Marilla Cuthbert my respects. She's never -been to see me since I come to Avonlea, but I s'pose I oughtn't to -complain. The Cuthberts always did think themselves a cut higher than -any one else round here." - -"Oh, isn't she dreadful?" gasped Diana, as they escaped down the lane. - -"She's worse than Miss Eliza Andrews," said Anne. "But then think of -living all your life with a name like Atossa! Wouldn't it sour almost -any one? She should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. It -might have helped her a great deal. It certainly helped me in the days -when I didn't like ANNE." - -"Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up," said Diana. -"Josie's mother and Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, I'm -glad that's over. She's so malicious--she seems to put a bad flavor in -everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. One time they had -a minister in Spencervale who was a very good, spiritual man but very -deaf. He couldn't hear any ordinary conversation at all. Well, they used -to have a prayer meeting on Sunday evenings, and all the church members -present would get up and pray in turn, or say a few words on some Bible -verse. But one evening Aunt Atossa bounced up. She didn't either pray or -preach. Instead, she lit into everybody else in the church and gave them -a fearful raking down, calling them right out by name and telling them -how they all had behaved, and casting up all the quarrels and scandals -of the past ten years. Finally she wound up by saying that she was -disgusted with Spencervale church and she never meant to darken its door -again, and she hoped a fearful judgment would come upon it. Then she sat -down out of breath, and the minister, who hadn't heard a word she said, -immediately remarked, in a very devout voice, 'amen! The Lord grant our -dear sister's prayer!' You ought to hear father tell the story." - -"Speaking of stories, Diana," remarked Anne, in a significant, -confidential tone, "do you know that lately I have been wondering if -I could write a short story--a story that would be good enough to be -published?" - -"Why, of course you could," said Diana, after she had grasped the -amazing suggestion. "You used to write perfectly thrilling stories years -ago in our old Story Club." - -"Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories," smiled Anne. "I've -been thinking about it a little of late, but I'm almost afraid to try, -for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating." - -"I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan's first stories were -rejected. But I'm sure yours wouldn't be, Anne, for it's likely editors -have more sense nowadays." - -"Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story last -winter and it was published in the Canadian Woman. I really do think I -could write one at least as good." - -"And will you have it published in the Canadian Woman?" - -"I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what -kind of a story I write." - -"What is it to be about?" - -"I don't know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe this -is very necessary from an editor's point of view. The only thing I've -settled on is the heroine's name. It is to be AVERIL LESTER. Rather -pretty, don't you think? Don't mention this to any one, Diana. I haven't -told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. HE wasn't very encouraging--he -said there was far too much trash written nowadays as it was, and he'd -expected something better of me, after a year at college." - -"What does Mr. Harrison know about it?" demanded Diana scornfully. - -They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard Kimball, -of Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring at each other -across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Ruby was dressed -in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She laughed and -chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had gone she took Anne -upstairs to display her new summer dresses. - -"I've a blue silk to make up yet, but it's a little heavy for summer -wear. I think I'll leave it until the fall. I'm going to teach in White -Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in church -yesterday was real dinky. But I like something brighter for myself. -Did you notice those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They've both come -determined to sit each other out. I don't care a single bit about either -of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. Sometimes I really -do think he's MR. RIGHT. At Christmas I thought the Spencervale -schoolmaster was that. But I found out something about him that turned -me against him. He nearly went insane when I turned him down. I wish -those two boys hadn't come tonight. I wanted to have a nice good talk -with you, Anne, and tell you such heaps of things. You and I were always -good chums, weren't we?" - -Ruby slipped her arm about Anne's waist with a shallow little laugh. But -just for a moment their eyes met, and, behind all the luster of Ruby's, -Anne saw something that made her heart ache. - -"Come up often, won't you, Anne?" whispered Ruby. "Come alone--I want -you." - -"Are you feeling quite well, Ruby?" - -"Me! Why, I'm perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. Of course, -that congestion last winter pulled me down a little. But just see my -color. I don't look much like an invalid, I'm sure." - -Ruby's voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne, as -if in resentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever, -apparently so much absorbed in bantering her two swains that Diana and -Anne felt rather out of it and soon went away. - - - - -Chapter XII - -"Averil's Atonement" - - -"What are you dreaming of, Anne?" - -The two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the brook. -Ferns nodded in it, and little grasses were green, and wild pears hung -finely-scented, white curtains around it. - -Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh. - -"I was thinking out my story, Diana." - -"Oh, have you really begun it?" cried Diana, all alight with eager -interest in a moment. - -"Yes, I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty well -thought out. I've had such a time to get a suitable plot. None of the -plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named AVERIL." - -"Couldn't you have changed her name?" - -"No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn't do it, any -more than I could change yours. AVERIL was so real to me that no matter -what other name I tried to give her I just thought of her as AVERIL -behind it all. But finally I got a plot that matched her. Then came the -excitement of choosing names for all my characters. You have no idea -how fascinating that is. I've lain awake for hours thinking over those -names. The hero's name is PERCEVAL DALRYMPLE." - -"Have you named ALL the characters?" asked Diana wistfully. "If you -hadn't I was going to ask you to let me name one--just some unimportant -person. I'd feel as if I had a share in the story then." - -"You may name the little hired boy who lived with the LESTERS," conceded -Anne. "He is not very important, but he is the only one left unnamed." - -"Call him RAYMOND FITZOSBORNE," suggested Diana, who had a store of such -names laid away in her memory, relics of the old "Story Club," which she -and Anne and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis had had in their schooldays. - -Anne shook her head doubtfully. - -"I'm afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, Diana. I -couldn't imagine a Fitzosborne feeding pigs and picking up chips, could -you?" - -Diana didn't see why, if you had an imagination at all, you couldn't -stretch it to that extent; but probably Anne knew best, and the chore -boy was finally christened ROBERT RAY, to be called BOBBY should -occasion require. - -"How much do you suppose you'll get for it?" asked Diana. - -But Anne had not thought about this at all. She was in pursuit of fame, -not filthy lucre, and her literary dreams were as yet untainted by -mercenary considerations. - -"You'll let me read it, won't you?" pleaded Diana. - -"When it is finished I'll read it to you and Mr. Harrison, and I shall -want you to criticize it SEVERELY. No one else shall see it until it is -published." - -"How are you going to end it--happily or unhappily?" - -"I'm not sure. I'd like it to end unhappily, because that would be so -much more romantic. But I understand editors have a prejudice against -sad endings. I heard Professor Hamilton say once that nobody but a -genius should try to write an unhappy ending. And," concluded Anne -modestly, "I'm anything but a genius." - -"Oh I like happy endings best. You'd better let him marry her," said -Diana, who, especially since her engagement to Fred, thought this was -how every story should end. - -"But you like to cry over stories?" - -"Oh, yes, in the middle of them. But I like everything to come right at -last." - -"I must have one pathetic scene in it," said Anne thoughtfully. "I might -let ROBERT RAY be injured in an accident and have a death scene." - -"No, you mustn't kill BOBBY off," declared Diana, laughing. "He belongs -to me and I want him to live and flourish. Kill somebody else if you -have to." - -For the next fortnight Anne writhed or reveled, according to mood, in -her literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a brilliant -idea, now despairing because some contrary character would NOT behave -properly. Diana could not understand this. - -"MAKE them do as you want them to," she said. - -"I can't," mourned Anne. "Averil is such an unmanageable heroine. She -WILL do and say things I never meant her to. Then that spoils everything -that went before and I have to write it all over again." - -Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in -the seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her "pathetic scene" -without sacrificing ROBERT RAY, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana as -she read it. Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly; but, when -the end came, she looked a little disappointed. - -"Why did you kill MAURICE LENNOX?" she asked reproachfully. - -"He was the villain," protested Anne. "He had to be punished." - -"I like him best of them all," said unreasonable Diana. - -"Well, he's dead, and he'll have to stay dead," said Anne, rather -resentfully. "If I had let him live he'd have gone on persecuting AVERIL -and PERCEVAL." - -"Yes--unless you had reformed him." - -"That wouldn't have been romantic, and, besides, it would have made the -story too long." - -"Well, anyway, it's a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make you -famous, of that I'm sure. Have you got a title for it?" - -"Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I call it AVERIL'S ATONEMENT. -Doesn't that sound nice and alliterative? Now, Diana, tell me candidly, -do you see any faults in my story?" - -"Well," hesitated Diana, "that part where AVERIL makes the cake doesn't -seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. It's just what -anybody might do. Heroines shouldn't do cooking, _I_ think." - -"Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it's one of the best parts -of the whole story," said Anne. And it may be stated that in this she -was quite right. - -Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison -was much harder to please. First he told her there was entirely too much -description in the story. - -"Cut out all those flowery passages," he said unfeelingly. - -Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and -she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though -it took three re-writings before the story could be pruned down to -please the fastidious Mr. Harrison. - -"I've left out ALL the descriptions but the sunset," she said at last. -"I simply COULDN'T let it go. It was the best of them all." - -"It hasn't anything to do with the story," said Mr. Harrison, "and you -shouldn't have laid the scene among rich city people. What do you know -of them? Why didn't you lay it right here in Avonlea--changing the name, -of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lynde would probably think she was the -heroine." - -"Oh, that would never have done," protested Anne. "Avonlea is the -dearest place in the world, but it isn't quite romantic enough for the -scene of a story." - -"I daresay there's been many a romance in Avonlea--and many a tragedy, -too," said Mr. Harrison drily. "But your folks ain't like real folks -anywhere. They talk too much and use too high-flown language. There's -one place where that DALRYMPLE chap talks even on for two pages, and -never lets the girl get a word in edgewise. If he'd done that in real -life she'd have pitched him." - -"I don't believe it," said Anne flatly. In her secret soul she thought -that the beautiful, poetical things said to AVERIL would win any girl's -heart completely. Besides, it was gruesome to hear of AVERIL, the -stately, queen-like AVERIL, "pitching" any one. AVERIL "declined her -suitors." - -"Anyhow," resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, "I don't see why MAURICE -LENNOX didn't get her. He was twice the man the other is. He did bad -things, but he did them. Perceval hadn't time for anything but mooning." - -"Mooning." That was even worse than "pitching!" - -"MAURICE LENNOX was the villain," said Anne indignantly. "I don't see -why every one likes him better than PERCEVAL." - -"Perceval is too good. He's aggravating. Next time you write about a -hero put a little spice of human nature in him." - -"AVERIL couldn't have married MAURICE. He was bad." - -"She'd have reformed him. You can reform a man; you can't reform a -jelly-fish, of course. Your story isn't bad--it's kind of interesting, -I'll admit. But you're too young to write a story that would be worth -while. Wait ten years." - -Anne made up her mind that the next time she wrote a story she wouldn't -ask anybody to criticize it. It was too discouraging. She would not read -the story to Gilbert, although she told him about it. - -"If it is a success you'll see it when it is published, Gilbert, but if -it is a failure nobody shall ever see it." - -Marilla knew nothing about the venture. In imagination Anne saw herself -reading a story out of a magazine to Marilla, entrapping her into praise -of it--for in imagination all things are possible--and then triumphantly -announcing herself the author. - -One day Anne took to the Post Office a long, bulky envelope, addressed, -with the delightful confidence of youth and inexperience, to the very -biggest of the "big" magazines. Diana was as excited over it as Anne -herself. - -"How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it?" she asked. - -"It shouldn't be longer than a fortnight. Oh, how happy and proud I -shall be if it is accepted!" - -"Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to send -them more. You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan some day, Anne, and then -how proud I'll be of knowing you," said Diana, who possessed, at least, -the striking merit of an unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces of -her friends. - -A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter -awakening. One evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable, with -suspicious-looking eyes. On the table lay a long envelope and a crumpled -manuscript. - -"Anne, your story hasn't come back?" cried Diana incredulously. - -"Yes, it has," said Anne shortly. - -"Well, that editor must be crazy. What reason did he give?" - -"No reason at all. There is just a printed slip saying that it wasn't -found acceptable." - -"I never thought much of that magazine, anyway," said Diana hotly. -"The stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the -Canadian Woman, although it costs so much more. I suppose the editor -is prejudiced against any one who isn't a Yankee. Don't be discouraged, -Anne. Remember how Mrs. Morgan's stories came back. Send yours to the -Canadian Woman." - -"I believe I will," said Anne, plucking up heart. "And if it is -published I'll send that American editor a marked copy. But I'll cut the -sunset out. I believe Mr. Harrison was right." - -Out came the sunset; but in spite of this heroic mutilation the editor -of the Canadian Woman sent Averil's Atonement back so promptly that the -indignant Diana declared that it couldn't have been read at all, and -vowed she was going to stop her subscription immediately. Anne took this -second rejection with the calmness of despair. She locked the story away -in the garret trunk where the old Story Club tales reposed; but first -she yielded to Diana's entreaties and gave her a copy. - -"This is the end of my literary ambitions," she said bitterly. - -She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening he asked -her bluntly if her story had been accepted. - -"No, the editor wouldn't take it," she answered briefly. - -Mr. Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile. - -"Well, I suppose you'll keep on writing them," he said encouragingly. - -"No, I shall never try to write a story again," declared Anne, with the -hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face. - -"I wouldn't give up altogether," said Mr. Harrison reflectively. "I'd -write a story once in a while, but I wouldn't pester editors with it. -I'd write of people and places like I knew, and I'd make my characters -talk everyday English; and I'd let the sun rise and set in the usual -quiet way without much fuss over the fact. If I had to have villains -at all, I'd give them a chance, Anne--I'd give them a chance. There are -some terrible bad men in the world, I suppose, but you'd have to go a -long piece to find them--though Mrs. Lynde believes we're all bad. But -most of us have got a little decency somewhere in us. Keep on writing, -Anne." - -"No. It was very foolish of me to attempt it. When I'm through Redmond -I'll stick to teaching. I can teach. I can't write stories." - -"It'll be time for you to be getting a husband when you're through -Redmond," said Mr. Harrison. "I don't believe in putting marrying off -too long--like I did." - -Anne got up and marched home. There were times when Mr. Harrison was -really intolerable. "Pitching," "mooning," and "getting a husband." Ow!! - - - - -Chapter XIII - -The Way of Transgressors - - -Davy and Dora were ready for Sunday School. They were going alone, which -did not often happen, for Mrs. Lynde always attended Sunday School. But -Mrs. Lynde had twisted her ankle and was lame, so she was staying home -this morning. The twins were also to represent the family at church, for -Anne had gone away the evening before to spend Sunday with friends in -Carmody, and Marilla had one of her headaches. - -Davy came downstairs slowly. Dora was waiting in the hall for him, -having been made ready by Mrs. Lynde. Davy had attended to his own -preparations. He had a cent in his pocket for the Sunday School -collection, and a five-cent piece for the church collection; he carried -his Bible in one hand and his Sunday School quarterly in the other; -he knew his lesson and his Golden Text and his catechism question -perfectly. Had he not studied them--perforce--in Mrs. Lynde's kitchen, -all last Sunday afternoon? Davy, therefore, should have been in a placid -frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism, he was -inwardly as a ravening wolf. - -Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora. - -"Are you clean?" she demanded severely. - -"Yes--all of me that shows," Davy answered with a defiant scowl. - -Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davy's neck and ears. -But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davy -would likely take to his heels and she could not pursue him today. - -"Well, be sure you behave yourselves," she warned them. "Don't walk in -the dust. Don't stop in the porch to talk to the other children. Don't -squirm or wriggle in your places. Don't forget the Golden Text. Don't -lose your collection or forget to put it in. Don't whisper at prayer -time, and don't forget to pay attention to the sermon." - -Davy deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, followed by the -meek Dora. But his soul seethed within. Davy had suffered, or thought he -had suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs. Rachel Lynde -since she had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lynde could not live with -anybody, whether they were nine or ninety, without trying to bring -them up properly. And it was only the preceding afternoon that she had -interfered to influence Marilla against allowing Davy to go fishing with -the Timothy Cottons. Davy was still boiling over this. - -As soon as he was out of the lane Davy stopped and twisted his -countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora, -although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest -he should never in the world be able to get it straightened out again. - -"Darn her," exploded Davy. - -"Oh, Davy, don't swear," gasped Dora in dismay. - -"'Darn' isn't swearing--not real swearing. And I don't care if it is," -retorted Davy recklessly. - -"Well, if you MUST say dreadful words don't say them on Sunday," pleaded -Dora. - -Davy was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt -that, perhaps, he had gone a little too far. - -"I'm going to invent a swear word of my own," he declared. - -"God will punish you if you do," said Dora solemnly. - -"Then I think God is a mean old scamp," retorted Davy. "Doesn't He know -a fellow must have some way of 'spressing his feelings?" - -"Davy!!!" said Dora. She expected that Davy would be struck down dead on -the spot. But nothing happened. - -"Anyway, I ain't going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynde's bossing," -spluttered Davy. "Anne and Marilla may have the right to boss me, but -SHE hasn't. I'm going to do every single thing she told me not to do. -You watch me." - -In grim, deliberate silence, while Dora watched him with the fascination -of horror, Davy stepped off the green grass of the roadside, ankle deep -into the fine dust which four weeks of rainless weather had made on the -road, and marched along in it, shuffling his feet viciously until he was -enveloped in a hazy cloud. - -"That's the beginning," he announced triumphantly. "And I'm going to -stop in the porch and talk as long as there's anybody there to talk -to. I'm going to squirm and wriggle and whisper, and I'm going to say -I don't know the Golden Text. And I'm going to throw away both of my -collections RIGHT NOW." - -And Davy hurled cent and nickel over Mr. Barry's fence with fierce -delight. - -"Satan made you do that," said Dora reproachfully. - -"He didn't," cried Davy indignantly. "I just thought it out for myself. -And I've thought of something else. I'm not going to Sunday School -or church at all. I'm going up to play with the Cottons. They told me -yesterday they weren't going to Sunday School today, 'cause their mother -was away and there was nobody to make them. Come along, Dora, we'll have -a great time." - -"I don't want to go," protested Dora. - -"You've got to," said Davy. "If you don't come I'll tell Marilla that -Frank Bell kissed you in school last Monday." - -"I couldn't help it. I didn't know he was going to," cried Dora, -blushing scarlet. - -"Well, you didn't slap him or seem a bit cross," retorted Davy. "I'll -tell her THAT, too, if you don't come. We'll take the short cut up this -field." - -"I'm afraid of those cows," protested poor Dora, seeing a prospect of -escape. - -"The very idea of your being scared of those cows," scoffed Davy. "Why, -they're both younger than you." - -"They're bigger," said Dora. - -"They won't hurt you. Come along, now. This is great. When I grow up -I ain't going to bother going to church at all. I believe I can get to -heaven by myself." - -"You'll go to the other place if you break the Sabbath day," said -unhappy Dora, following him sorely against her will. - -But Davy was not scared--yet. Hell was very far off, and the delights of -a fishing expedition with the Cottons were very near. He wished Dora -had more spunk. She kept looking back as if she were going to cry every -minute, and that spoiled a fellow's fun. Hang girls, anyway. Davy did -not say "darn" this time, even in thought. He was not sorry--yet--that -he had said it once, but it might be as well not to tempt the Unknown -Powers too far on one day. - -The small Cottons were playing in their back yard, and hailed Davy's -appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabel -Cotton were all alone. Their mother and older sisters were away. Dora -was thankful Mirabel was there, at least. She had been afraid she would -be alone in a crowd of boys. Mirabel was almost as bad as a boy--she was -so noisy and sunburned and reckless. But at least she wore dresses. - -"We've come to go fishing," announced Davy. - -"Whoop," yelled the Cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once, -Mirabel leading the van with a tin can. Dora could have sat down and -cried. Oh, if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her! Then -she could have defied Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School. - -They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be -seen by people going to church. They had to resort to the brook in the -woods behind the Cotton house. But it was full of trout, and they had a -glorious time that morning--at least the Cottons certainly had, and -Davy seemed to have it. Not being entirely bereft of prudence, he had -discarded boots and stockings and borrowed Tommy Cotton's overalls. Thus -accoutered, bog and marsh and undergrowth had no terrors for him. Dora -was frankly and manifestly miserable. She followed the others in their -peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her Bible and quarterly -tightly and thinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved class where -she should be sitting that very moment, before a teacher she adored. -Instead, here she was roaming the woods with those half-wild Cottons, -trying to keep her boots clean and her pretty white dress free from -rents and stains. Mirabel had offered the loan of an apron but Dora had -scornfully refused. - -The trout bit as they always do on Sundays. In an hour the transgressors -had all the fish they wanted, so they returned to the house, much to -Dora's relief. She sat primly on a hencoop in the yard while the others -played an uproarious game of tag; and then they all climbed to the top -of the pig-house roof and cut their initials on the saddleboard. The -flat-roofed henhouse and a pile of straw beneath gave Davy another -inspiration. They spent a splendid half hour climbing on the roof and -diving off into the straw with whoops and yells. - -But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. When the rumble of -wheels over the pond bridge told that people were going home from church -Davy knew they must go. He discarded Tommy's overalls, resumed his own -rightful attire, and turned away from his string of trout with a sigh. -No use to think of taking them home. - -"Well, hadn't we a splendid time?" he demanded defiantly, as they went -down the hill field. - -"I hadn't," said Dora flatly. "And I don't believe you -had--really--either," she added, with a flash of insight that was not to -be expected of her. - -"I had so," cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too -much. "No wonder you hadn't--just sitting there like a--like a mule." - -"I ain't going to, 'sociate with the Cottons," said Dora loftily. - -"The Cottons are all right," retorted Davy. "And they have far better -times than we have. They do just as they please and say just what they -like before everybody. _I_'m going to do that, too, after this." - -"There are lots of things you wouldn't dare say before everybody," -averred Dora. - -"No, there isn't." - -"There is, too. Would you," demanded Dora gravely, "would you say -'tomcat' before the minister?" - -This was a staggerer. Davy was not prepared for such a concrete example -of the freedom of speech. But one did not have to be consistent with -Dora. - -"Of course not," he admitted sulkily. - -"'Tomcat' isn't a holy word. I wouldn't mention such an animal before a -minister at all." - -"But if you had to?" persisted Dora. - -"I'd call it a Thomas pussy," said Davy. - -"_I_ think 'gentleman cat' would be more polite," reflected Dora. - -"YOU thinking!" retorted Davy with withering scorn. - -Davy was not feeling comfortable, though he would have died before he -admitted it to Dora. Now that the exhilaration of truant delights had -died away, his conscience was beginning to give him salutary twinges. -After all, perhaps it would have been better to have gone to Sunday -School and church. Mrs. Lynde might be bossy; but there was always a -box of cookies in her kitchen cupboard and she was not stingy. At this -inconvenient moment Davy remembered that when he had torn his new school -pants the week before, Mrs. Lynde had mended them beautifully and never -said a word to Marilla about them. - -But Davy's cup of iniquity was not yet full. He was to discover that one -sin demands another to cover it. They had dinner with Mrs. Lynde that -day, and the first thing she asked Davy was, - -"Were all your class in Sunday School today?" - -"Yes'm," said Davy with a gulp. "All were there--'cept one." - -"Did you say your Golden Text and catechism?" - -"Yes'm." - -"Did you put your collection in?" - -"Yes'm." - -"Was Mrs. Malcolm MacPherson in church?" - -"I don't know." This, at least, was the truth, thought wretched Davy. - -"Was the Ladies' Aid announced for next week?" - -"Yes'm"--quakingly. - -"Was prayer-meeting?" - -"I--I don't know." - -"YOU should know. You should listen more attentively to the -announcements. What was Mr. Harvey's text?" - -Davy took a frantic gulp of water and swallowed it and the last protest -of conscience together. He glibly recited an old Golden Text learned -several weeks ago. Fortunately Mrs. Lynde now stopped questioning him; -but Davy did not enjoy his dinner. - -He could only eat one helping of pudding. - -"What's the matter with you?" demanded justly astonished Mrs. Lynde. -"Are you sick?" - -"No," muttered Davy. - -"You look pale. You'd better keep out of the sun this afternoon," -admonished Mrs. Lynde. - -"Do you know how many lies you told Mrs. Lynde?" asked Dora -reproachfully, as soon as they were alone after dinner. - -Davy, goaded to desperation, turned fiercely. - -"I don't know and I don't care," he said. "You just shut up, Dora -Keith." - -Then poor Davy betook himself to a secluded retreat behind the woodpile -to think over the way of transgressors. - -Green Gables was wrapped in darkness and silence when Anne reached home. -She lost no time going to bed, for she was very tired and sleepy. There -had been several Avonlea jollifications the preceding week, involving -rather late hours. Anne's head was hardly on her pillow before she was -half asleep; but just then her door was softly opened and a pleading -voice said, "Anne." - -Anne sat up drowsily. - -"Davy, is that you? What is the matter?" - -A white-clad figure flung itself across the floor and on to the bed. - -"Anne," sobbed Davy, getting his arms about her neck. "I'm awful glad -you're home. I couldn't go to sleep till I'd told somebody." - -"Told somebody what?" - -"How mis'rubul I am." - -"Why are you miserable, dear?" - -"'Cause I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful bad--badder'n I've -ever been yet." - -"What did you do?" - -"Oh, I'm afraid to tell you. You'll never like me again, Anne. I -couldn't say my prayers tonight. I couldn't tell God what I'd done. I -was 'shamed to have Him know." - -"But He knew anyway, Davy." - -"That's what Dora said. But I thought p'raps He mightn't have noticed -just at the time. Anyway, I'd rather tell you first." - -"WHAT is it you did?" - -Out it all came in a rush. - -"I run away from Sunday School--and went fishing with the Cottons--and -I told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde--oh! 'most half a -dozen--and--and--I--I said a swear word, Anne--a pretty near swear word, -anyhow--and I called God names." - -There was silence. Davy didn't know what to make of it. Was Anne so -shocked that she never would speak to him again? - -"Anne, what are you going to do to me?" he whispered. - -"Nothing, dear. You've been punished already, I think." - -"No, I haven't. Nothing's been done to me." - -"You've been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven't you?" - -"You bet!" said Davy emphatically. - -"That was your conscience punishing you, Davy." - -"What's my conscience? I want to know." - -"It's something in you, Davy, that always tells you when you are doing -wrong and makes you unhappy if you persist in doing it. Haven't you -noticed that?" - -"Yes, but I didn't know what it was. I wish I didn't have it. I'd have -lots more fun. Where is my conscience, Anne? I want to know. Is it in my -stomach?" - -"No, it's in your soul," answered Anne, thankful for the darkness, since -gravity must be preserved in serious matters. - -"I s'pose I can't get clear of it then," said Davy with a sigh. "Are you -going to tell Marilla and Mrs. Lynde on me, Anne?" - -"No, dear, I'm not going to tell any one. You are sorry you were -naughty, aren't you?" - -"You bet!" - -"And you'll never be bad like that again." - -"No, but--" added Davy cautiously, "I might be bad some other way." - -"You won't say naughty words, or run away on Sundays, or tell falsehoods -to cover up your sins?" - -"No. It doesn't pay," said Davy. - -"Well, Davy, just tell God you are sorry and ask Him to forgive you." - -"Have YOU forgiven me, Anne?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"Then," said Davy joyously, "I don't care much whether God does or not." - -"Davy!" - -"Oh--I'll ask Him--I'll ask Him," said Davy quickly, scrambling off the -bed, convinced by Anne's tone that he must have said something dreadful. -"I don't mind asking Him, Anne.--Please, God, I'm awful sorry I behaved -bad today and I'll try to be good on Sundays always and please forgive -me.--There now, Anne." - -"Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy." - -"All right. Say, I don't feel mis'rubul any more. I feel fine. Good -night." - -"Good night." - -Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh--how -sleepy--she was! In another second-- - -"Anne!" Davy was back again by her bed. Anne dragged her eyes open. - -"What is it now, dear?" she asked, trying to keep a note of impatience -out of her voice. - -"Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you s'pose, if I -practice hard, I can learn to spit just like him?" - -Anne sat up. - -"Davy Keith," she said, "go straight to your bed and don't let me catch -you out of it again tonight! Go, now!" - -Davy went, and stood not upon the order of his going. - - - - -Chapter XIV - -The Summons - - -Anne was sitting with Ruby Gillis in the Gillis' garden after the day -had crept lingeringly through it and was gone. It had been a warm, smoky -summer afternoon. The world was in a splendor of out-flowering. The idle -valleys were full of hazes. The woodways were pranked with shadows and -the fields with the purple of the asters. - -Anne had given up a moonlight drive to the White Sands beach that she -might spend the evening with Ruby. She had so spent many evenings -that summer, although she often wondered what good it did any one, and -sometimes went home deciding that she could not go again. - -Ruby grew paler as the summer waned; the White Sands school was given -up--"her father thought it better that she shouldn't teach till New -Year's"--and the fancy work she loved oftener and oftener fell from -hands grown too weary for it. But she was always gay, always hopeful, -always chattering and whispering of her beaux, and their rivalries and -despairs. It was this that made Anne's visits hard for her. What had -once been silly or amusing was gruesome, now; it was death peering -through a wilful mask of life. Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her, and -never let her go until she had promised to come again soon. Mrs. Lynde -grumbled about Anne's frequent visits, and declared she would catch -consumption; even Marilla was dubious. - -"Every time you go to see Ruby you come home looking tired out," she -said. - -"It's so very sad and dreadful," said Anne in a low tone. "Ruby doesn't -seem to realize her condition in the least. And yet I somehow feel she -needs help--craves it--and I want to give it to her and can't. All the -time I'm with her I feel as if I were watching her struggle with an -invisible foe--trying to push it back with such feeble resistance as she -has. That is why I come home tired." - -But tonight Anne did not feel this so keenly. Ruby was strangely quiet. -She said not a word about parties and drives and dresses and "fellows." -She lay in the hammock, with her untouched work beside her, and a -white shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. Her long yellow braids of -hair--how Anne had envied those beautiful braids in old schooldays!--lay -on either side of her. She had taken the pins out--they made her head -ache, she said. The hectic flush was gone for the time, leaving her pale -and childlike. - -The moon rose in the silvery sky, empearling the clouds around her. -Below, the pond shimmered in its hazy radiance. Just beyond the -Gillis homestead was the church, with the old graveyard beside it. The -moonlight shone on the white stones, bringing them out in clear-cut -relief against the dark trees behind. - -"How strange the graveyard looks by moonlight!" said Ruby suddenly. -"How ghostly!" she shuddered. "Anne, it won't be long now before I'll -be lying over there. You and Diana and all the rest will be going about, -full of life--and I'll be there--in the old graveyard--dead!" - -The surprise of it bewildered Anne. For a few moments she could not -speak. - -"You know it's so, don't you?" said Ruby insistently. - -"Yes, I know," answered Anne in a low tone. "Dear Ruby, I know." - -"Everybody knows it," said Ruby bitterly. "I know it--I've known it all -summer, though I wouldn't give in. And, oh, Anne"--she reached out and -caught Anne's hand pleadingly, impulsively--"I don't want to die. I'm -AFRAID to die." - -"Why should you be afraid, Ruby?" asked Anne quietly. - -"Because--because--oh, I'm not afraid but that I'll go to heaven, -Anne. I'm a church member. But--it'll be all so different. I think--and -think--and I get so frightened--and--and--homesick. Heaven must be very -beautiful, of course, the Bible says so--but, Anne, IT WON'T BE WHAT -I'VE BEEN USED TO." - -Through Anne's mind drifted an intrusive recollection of a funny story -she had heard Philippa Gordon tell--the story of some old man who had -said very much the same thing about the world to come. It had sounded -funny then--she remembered how she and Priscilla had laughed over it. -But it did not seem in the least humorous now, coming from Ruby's pale, -trembling lips. It was sad, tragic--and true! Heaven could not be what -Ruby had been used to. There had been nothing in her gay, frivolous -life, her shallow ideals and aspirations, to fit her for that great -change, or make the life to come seem to her anything but alien and -unreal and undesirable. Anne wondered helplessly what she could say -that would help her. Could she say anything? "I think, Ruby," she began -hesitatingly--for it was difficult for Anne to speak to any one of the -deepest thoughts of her heart, or the new ideas that had vaguely begun -to shape themselves in her mind, concerning the great mysteries of life -here and hereafter, superseding her old childish conceptions, and it -was hardest of all to speak of them to such as Ruby Gillis--"I think, -perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about heaven--what it is and what -it holds for us. I don't think it can be so very different from life -here as most people seem to think. I believe we'll just go on living, a -good deal as we live here--and be OURSELVES just the same--only it will -be easier to be good and to--follow the highest. All the hindrances -and perplexities will be taken away, and we shall see clearly. Don't be -afraid, Ruby." - -"I can't help it," said Ruby pitifully. "Even if what you say about -heaven is true--and you can't be sure--it may be only that imagination -of yours--it won't be JUST the same. It CAN'T be. I want to go on living -HERE. I'm so young, Anne. I haven't had my life. I've fought so hard to -live--and it isn't any use--I have to die--and leave EVERYTHING I care -for." Anne sat in a pain that was almost intolerable. She could not tell -comforting falsehoods; and all that Ruby said was so horribly true. She -WAS leaving everything she cared for. She had laid up her treasures -on earth only; she had lived solely for the little things of life--the -things that pass--forgetting the great things that go onward into -eternity, bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a -mere passing from one dwelling to the other--from twilight to unclouded -day. God would take care of her there--Anne believed--she would -learn--but now it was no wonder her soul clung, in blind helplessness, -to the only things she knew and loved. - -Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted up her bright, beautiful blue -eyes to the moonlit skies. - -"I want to live," she said, in a trembling voice. "I want to live -like other girls. I--I want to be married, Anne--and--and--have little -children. You know I always loved babies, Anne. I couldn't say this to -any one but you. I know you understand. And then poor Herb--he--he -loves me and I love him, Anne. The others meant nothing to me, but HE -does--and if I could live I would be his wife and be so happy. Oh, Anne, -it's hard." - -Ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbed convulsively. Anne pressed her -hand in an agony of sympathy--silent sympathy, which perhaps helped Ruby -more than broken, imperfect words could have done; for presently she -grew calmer and her sobs ceased. - -"I'm glad I've told you this, Anne," she whispered. "It has helped me -just to say it all out. I've wanted to all summer--every time you came. -I wanted to talk it over with you--but I COULDN'T. It seemed as if it -would make death so SURE if I SAID I was going to die, or if any one -else said it or hinted it. I wouldn't say it, or even think it. In the -daytime, when people were around me and everything was cheerful, it -wasn't so hard to keep from thinking of it. But in the night, when I -couldn't sleep--it was so dreadful, Anne. I couldn't get away from -it then. Death just came and stared me in the face, until I got so -frightened I could have screamed. - -"But you won't be frightened any more, Ruby, will you? You'll be brave, -and believe that all is going to be well with you." - -"I'll try. I'll think over what you have said, and try to believe it. -And you'll come up as often as you can, won't you, Anne?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"It--it won't be very long now, Anne. I feel sure of that. And I'd -rather have you than any one else. I always liked you best of all the -girls I went to school with. You were never jealous, or mean, like some -of them were. Poor Em White was up to see me yesterday. You remember Em -and I were such chums for three years when we went to school? And then -we quarrelled the time of the school concert. We've never spoken to each -other since. Wasn't it silly? Anything like that seems silly NOW. But -Em and I made up the old quarrel yesterday. She said she'd have spoken -years ago, only she thought I wouldn't. And I never spoke to her -because I was sure she wouldn't speak to me. Isn't it strange how people -misunderstand each other, Anne?" - -"Most of the trouble in life comes from misunderstanding, I think," said -Anne. "I must go now, Ruby. It's getting late--and you shouldn't be out -in the damp." - -"You'll come up soon again." - -"Yes, very soon. And if there's anything I can do to help you I'll be so -glad." - -"I know. You HAVE helped me already. Nothing seems quite so dreadful -now. Good night, Anne." - -"Good night, dear." - -Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had changed -something for her. Life held a different meaning, a deeper purpose. -On the surface it would go on just the same; but the deeps had been -stirred. It must not be with her as with poor butterfly Ruby. When she -came to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the -shrinking terror of something wholly different--something for which -accustomed thought and ideal and aspiration had unfitted her. The little -things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the -things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of -heaven must be begun here on earth. - -That good night in the garden was for all time. Anne never saw Ruby in -life again. The next night the A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party to Jane -Andrews before her departure for the West. And, while light feet danced -and bright eyes laughed and merry tongues chattered, there came a -summons to a soul in Avonlea that might not be disregarded or evaded. -The next morning the word went from house to house that Ruby Gillis was -dead. She had died in her sleep, painlessly and calmly, and on her face -was a smile--as if, after all, death had come as a kindly friend to lead -her over the threshold, instead of the grisly phantom she had dreaded. - -Mrs. Rachel Lynde said emphatically after the funeral that Ruby Gillis -was the handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. Her loveliness, as she -lay, white-clad, among the delicate flowers that Anne had placed about -her, was remembered and talked of for years in Avonlea. Ruby had always -been beautiful; but her beauty had been of the earth, earthy; it had -had a certain insolent quality in it, as if it flaunted itself in the -beholder's eye; spirit had never shone through it, intellect had never -refined it. But death had touched it and consecrated it, bringing out -delicate modelings and purity of outline never seen before--doing what -life and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have -done for Ruby. Anne, looking down through a mist of tears, at her old -playfellow, thought she saw the face God had meant Ruby to have, and -remembered it so always. - -Mrs. Gillis called Anne aside into a vacant room before the funeral -procession left the house, and gave her a small packet. - -"I want you to have this," she sobbed. "Ruby would have liked you to -have it. It's the embroidered centerpiece she was working at. It isn't -quite finished--the needle is sticking in it just where her poor little -fingers put it the last time she laid it down, the afternoon before she -died." - -"There's always a piece of unfinished work left," said Mrs. Lynde, with -tears in her eyes. "But I suppose there's always some one to finish it." - -"How difficult it is to realize that one we have always known can really -be dead," said Anne, as she and Diana walked home. "Ruby is the first of -our schoolmates to go. One by one, sooner or later, all the rest of us -must follow." - -"Yes, I suppose so," said Diana uncomfortably. She did not want to talk -of that. She would have preferred to have discussed the details of the -funeral--the splendid white velvet casket Mr. Gillis had insisted on -having for Ruby--"the Gillises must always make a splurge, even at -funerals," quoth Mrs. Rachel Lynde--Herb Spencer's sad face, the -uncontrolled, hysteric grief of one of Ruby's sisters--but Anne would -not talk of these things. She seemed wrapped in a reverie in which Diana -felt lonesomely that she had neither lot nor part. - -"Ruby Gillis was a great girl to laugh," said Davy suddenly. "Will she -laugh as much in heaven as she did in Avonlea, Anne? I want to know." - -"Yes, I think she will," said Anne. - -"Oh, Anne," protested Diana, with a rather shocked smile. - -"Well, why not, Diana?" asked Anne seriously. "Do you think we'll never -laugh in heaven?" - -"Oh--I--I don't know" floundered Diana. "It doesn't seem just right, -somehow. You know it's rather dreadful to laugh in church." - -"But heaven won't be like church--all the time," said Anne. - -"I hope it ain't," said Davy emphatically. "If it is I don't want to -go. Church is awful dull. Anyway, I don't mean to go for ever so long. I -mean to live to be a hundred years old, like Mr. Thomas Blewett of White -Sands. He says he's lived so long 'cause he always smoked tobacco and it -killed all the germs. Can I smoke tobacco pretty soon, Anne?" - -"No, Davy, I hope you'll never use tobacco," said Anne absently. - -"What'll you feel like if the germs kill me then?" demanded Davy. - - - - -Chapter XV - -A Dream Turned Upside Down - - -"Just one more week and we go back to Redmond," said Anne. She was -happy at the thought of returning to work, classes and Redmond friends. -Pleasing visions were also being woven around Patty's Place. There was -a warm pleasant sense of home in the thought of it, even though she had -never lived there. - -But the summer had been a very happy one, too--a time of glad living -with summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome things; -a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which -she had learned to live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play more -heartily. - -"All life lessons are not learned at college," she thought. "Life -teaches them everywhere." - -But alas, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for Anne, -by one of those impish happenings which are like a dream turned upside -down. - -"Been writing any more stories lately?" inquired Mr. Harrison genially -one evening when Anne was taking tea with him and Mrs. Harrison. - -"No," answered Anne, rather crisply. - -"Well, no offense meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloane told me the other day that a -big envelope addressed to the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company of -Montreal had been dropped into the post office box a month ago, and she -suspicioned that somebody was trying for the prize they'd offered for -the best story that introduced the name of their baking powder. She said -it wasn't addressed in your writing, but I thought maybe it was you." - -"Indeed, no! I saw the prize offer, but I'd never dream of competing -for it. I think it would be perfectly disgraceful to write a story to -advertise a baking powder. It would be almost as bad as Judson Parker's -patent medicine fence." - -So spake Anne loftily, little dreaming of the valley of humiliation -awaiting her. That very evening Diana popped into the porch gable, -bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, carrying a letter. - -"Oh, Anne, here's a letter for you. I was at the office, so I thought -I'd bring it along. Do open it quick. If it is what I believe it is I -shall just be wild with delight." Anne, puzzled, opened the letter and -glanced over the typewritten contents. - - -Miss Anne Shirley, - -Green Gables, - -Avonlea, P.E. Island. - -"DEAR MADAM: We have much pleasure in informing you that your charming -story 'Averil's Atonement' has won the prize of twenty-five dollars -offered in our recent competition. We enclose the check herewith. We are -arranging for the publication of the story in several prominent Canadian -newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed in pamphlet form for -distribution among our patrons. Thanking you for the interest you have -shown in our enterprise, we remain, - -"Yours very truly, - -"THE ROLLINGS RELIABLE - -"BAKING POWDER Co." - - -"I don't understand," said Anne, blankly. - -Diana clapped her hands. - -"Oh, I KNEW it would win the prize--I was sure of it. _I_ sent your -story into the competition, Anne." - -"Diana--Barry!" - -"Yes, I did," said Diana gleefully, perching herself on the bed. "When -I saw the offer I thought of your story in a minute, and at first -I thought I'd ask you to send it in. But then I was afraid you -wouldn't--you had so little faith left in it. So I just decided I'd send -the copy you gave me, and say nothing about it. Then, if it didn't win -the prize, you'd never know and you wouldn't feel badly over it, because -the stories that failed were not to be returned, and if it did you'd -have such a delightful surprise." - -Diana was not the most discerning of mortals, but just at this moment it -struck her that Anne was not looking exactly overjoyed. The surprise was -there, beyond doubt--but where was the delight? - -"Why, Anne, you don't seem a bit pleased!" she exclaimed. - -Anne instantly manufactured a smile and put it on. - -"Of course I couldn't be anything but pleased over your unselfish wish -to give me pleasure," she said slowly. "But you know--I'm so amazed--I -can't realize it--and I don't understand. There wasn't a word in my -story about--about--" Anne choked a little over the word--"baking -powder." - -"Oh, _I_ put that in," said Diana, reassured. "It was as easy as -wink--and of course my experience in our old Story Club helped me. You -know the scene where Averil makes the cake? Well, I just stated that -she used the Rollings Reliable in it, and that was why it turned out so -well; and then, in the last paragraph, where PERCEVAL clasps AVERIL in -his arms and says, 'Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will bring us -the fulfilment of our home of dreams,' I added, 'in which we will never -use any baking powder except Rollings Reliable.'" - -"Oh," gasped poor Anne, as if some one had dashed cold water on her. - -"And you've won the twenty-five dollars," continued Diana jubilantly. -"Why, I heard Priscilla say once that the Canadian Woman only pays five -dollars for a story!" - -Anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers. - -"I can't take it--it's yours by right, Diana. You sent the story in and -made the alterations. I--I would certainly never have sent it. So you -must take the check." - -"I'd like to see myself," said Diana scornfully. "Why, what I did wasn't -any trouble. The honor of being a friend of the prizewinner is enough -for me. Well, I must go. I should have gone straight home from the post -office for we have company. But I simply had to come and hear the news. -I'm so glad for your sake, Anne." - -Anne suddenly bent forward, put her arms about Diana, and kissed her -cheek. - -"I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, Diana," -she said, with a little tremble in her voice, "and I assure you I -appreciate the motive of what you've done." - -Diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herself away, and poor Anne, -after flinging the innocent check into her bureau drawer as if it -were blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and -outraged sensibility. Oh, she could never live this down--never! - -Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, for he had -called at Orchard Slope and heard the news. But his congratulations died -on his lips at sight of Anne's face. - -"Why, Anne, what is the matter? I expected to find you radiant over -winning Rollings Reliable prize. Good for you!" - -"Oh, Gilbert, not you," implored Anne, in an ET-TU BRUTE tone. "I -thought YOU would understand. Can't you see how awful it is?" - -"I must confess I can't. WHAT is wrong?" - -"Everything," moaned Anne. "I feel as if I were disgraced forever. What -do you think a mother would feel like if she found her child tattooed -over with a baking powder advertisement? I feel just the same. I loved -my poor little story, and I wrote it out of the best that was in me. -And it is SACRILEGE to have it degraded to the level of a baking powder -advertisement. Don't you remember what Professor Hamilton used to tell -us in the literature class at Queen's? He said we were never to write -a word for a low or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the very -highest ideals. What will he think when he hears I've written a story to -advertise Rollings Reliable? And, oh, when it gets out at Redmond! Think -how I'll be teased and laughed at!" - -"That you won't," said Gilbert, wondering uneasily if it were that -confounded Junior's opinion in particular over which Anne was worried. -"The Reds will think just as I thought--that you, being like nine out of -ten of us, not overburdened with worldly wealth, had taken this way of -earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year. I don't see -that there's anything low or unworthy about that, or anything ridiculous -either. One would rather write masterpieces of literature no doubt--but -meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid." - -This commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case cheered Anne a little. -At least it removed her dread of being laughed at, though the deeper -hurt of an outraged ideal remained. - - - - -Chapter XVI - -Adjusted Relationships - - -"It's the homiest spot I ever saw--it's homier than home," avowed -Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. They were all -assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty's Place--Anne and -Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah-Cat, -and Gog and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing over the walls; -the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, -sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like -creamy moons. - -It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and -already all believed the experiment would be a success. The first -fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they -had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing their little -establishment, and adjusting different opinions. - -Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return -to college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant. -Her prize story had been published in the Island papers; and Mr. William -Blair had, upon the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, green and -yellow pamphlets, containing it, one of which he gave to every customer. -He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly dropped them all in -the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was the consequence of her own ideals -only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite splendid that she should have -won the prize. Her many friends regarded her with honest admiration; her -few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pye said she believed Anne Shirley -had just copied the story; she was sure she remembered reading it in -a paper years before. The Sloanes, who had found out or guessed that -Charlie had been "turned down," said they didn't think it was much to be -proud of; almost any one could have done it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa -told Anne she was very sorry to hear she had taken to writing novels; -nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do it; that was what came of -adopting orphans from goodness knew where, with goodness knew what -kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was darkly dubious about the -propriety of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled to it by -that twenty-five dollar check. - -"It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, that's -what," she said, half-proudly, half-severely. - -All things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. And -it was very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced Soph with -hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. Pris and Stella and -Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloane, looking more important than ever a -Sophomore looked before, Phil, with the Alec-and-Alonzo question still -unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been -teaching school ever since leaving Queen's, but his mother had concluded -it was high time he gave it up and turned his attention to learning -how to be a minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell on hard luck at the very -beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless Sophs, who were -among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and shaved -half of his head. In this guise the luckless Moody Spurgeon had to go -about until his hair grew again. He told Anne bitterly that there were -times when he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to be a -minister. - -Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty's Place ready for -her. Miss Patty had sent the key to Anne, with a letter in which she -said Gog and Magog were packed in a box under the spare-room bed, but -might be taken out when wanted; in a postscript she added that she hoped -the girls would be careful about putting up pictures. The living room -had been newly papered five years before and she and Miss Maria did -not want any more holes made in that new paper than was absolutely -necessary. For the rest she trusted everything to Anne. - -How those girls enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, it -was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of homemaking -without the bother of a husband. All brought something with them to -adorn or make comfortable the little house. Pris and Phil and Stella had -knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to hang -according to taste, in reckless disregard of Miss Patty's new paper. - -"We'll putty the holes up when we leave, dear--she'll never know," they -said to protesting Anne. - -Diana had given Anne a pine needle cushion and Miss Ada had given both -her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla -had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for -Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her -five more. - -"You take them," she said authoritatively. "They might as well be in use -as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw." - -No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of -mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of -Patty's Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors. -Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display. -The gruff old millionaire who lived "next door" came over and wanted to -buy the gorgeous red and yellow "tulip-pattern" one which Mrs. Rachel -had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by -Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much -to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. That -highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it to -spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on -having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife. - -Mrs. Lynde's quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. Patty's -Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a -rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very -glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde's quilts, and hoped that the loan -of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness. Anne had the blue -room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one. -Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and -Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room. Rusty -at first slept on the doorstep. - -Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became -aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent -smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. Was her hat -crooked? Was her belt loose? Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for -the first time, saw Rusty. - -Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most -forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was -well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both -ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl -ludicrously swollen. As for color, if a once black cat had been well and -thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif's -thin, draggled, unsightly fur. - -Anne "shooed," but the cat would not "shoo." As long as she stood he sat -back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good -eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself to his -company until she reached the gate of Patty's Place, which she coldly -shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. -But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the -rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon -Anne's lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant "miaow." - -"Anne," said Stella severely, "do you own that animal?" - -"No, I do NOT," protested disgusted Anne. "The creature followed me home -from somewhere. I couldn't get rid of him. Ugh, get down. I like decent -cats reasonably well; but I don't like beasties of your complexion." - -Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne's lap -and began to purr. - -"He has evidently adopted you," laughed Priscilla. - -"I won't BE adopted," said Anne stubbornly. - -"The poor creature is starving," said Phil pityingly. "Why, his bones -are almost coming through his skin." - -"Well, I'll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he -came," said Anne resolutely. - -The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the -doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the -door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; -of nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out of compassion the -girls fed him; but when a week had passed they decided that something -must be done. The cat's appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had -resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had -been seen washing his face. - -"But for all that we can't keep him," said Stella. "Aunt Jimsie is -coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her. We can't -keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight all the time -with the Sarah-cat. He's a fighter by nature. He had a pitched battle -last evening with the tobacco-king's cat and routed him, horse, foot and -artillery." - -"We must get rid of him," agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject -of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of -lamb-like meekness. "But the question is--how? How can four unprotected -females get rid of a cat who won't be got rid of?" - -"We must chloroform him," said Phil briskly. "That is the most humane -way." - -"Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?" demanded Anne -gloomily. - -"I do, honey. It's one of my few--sadly few--useful accomplishments. -I've disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and -give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag--there's one -in the back porch--put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box. -Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under -the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it -till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were -asleep. No pain--no struggle." - -"It sounds easy," said Anne dubiously. - -"It IS easy. Just leave it to me. I'll see to it," said Phil -reassuringly. - -Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was -lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed -into Anne's lap. Anne's heart misgave her. This poor creature loved -her--trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction? - -"Here, take him," she said hastily to Phil. "I feel like a murderess." - -"He won't suffer, you know," comforted Phil, but Anne had fled. - -The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that day. -But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried. - -"Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard," declared Phil, "and -Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That's the part I always -hate." - -The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil -gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but -distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box. - -"He--he isn't dead," gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the kitchen -doorstep. - -"He must be," said Phil incredulously. - -Another tiny mew proved that he wasn't. The two girls stared at each -other. - -"What will we do?" questioned Anne. - -"Why in the world don't you come?" demanded Stella, appearing in the -doorway. "We've got the grave ready. 'What silent still and silent -all?'" she quoted teasingly. - -"'Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent's -fall,'" promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box. - -A burst of laughter broke the tension. - -"We must leave him here till morning," said Phil, replacing the stone. -"He hasn't mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his -dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of our -guilty consciences." - -But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay -leap to Anne's shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately. -Never was there a cat more decidedly alive. - -"Here's a knot hole in the box," groaned Phil. "I never saw it. That's -why he didn't die. Now, we've got to do it all over again." - -"No, we haven't," declared Anne suddenly. "Rusty isn't going to be -killed again. He's my cat--and you've just got to make the best of it." - -"Oh, well, if you'll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat," said -Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair. - -From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o'nights on the -scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land. -By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably -respectable. But, like Kipling's cat, he "walked by himself." His paw -was against every cat, and every cat's paw against him. One by one he -vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human -beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke -him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like very improper -language greeted any one who did. - -"The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable," declared Stella. - -"Him was a nice old pussens, him was," vowed Anne, cuddling her pet -defiantly. - -"Well, I don't know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to -live together," said Stella pesimistically. "Cat-fights in the orchard -o'nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom are -unthinkable." In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and -Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina was -enthroned in the rocking chair before the open fire they figuratively -bowed down and worshipped her. - -Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular -face, and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable -youth, and as full of hopes as a girl's. She had pink cheeks and -snow-white hair which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears. - -"It's a very old-fashioned way," she said, knitting industriously -at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. "But _I_ am -old-fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, -too. I don't say they're any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I -daresay they're a good deal the worse. But they've worn nice and -easy. New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more -comfortable. I'm old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes and -opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to look -after you and keep you proper, but I'm not going to do it. You're old -enough to know how to behave if you're ever going to be. So, as far as I -am concerned," concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her young -eyes, "you can all go to destruction in your own way." - -"Oh, will somebody separate those cats?" pleaded Stella, shudderingly. - -Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph. -Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had -gone to live in Vancouver. - -"She couldn't take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I -really couldn't refuse. He's a beautiful cat--that is, his disposition -is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many colors." - -It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a -walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. His -legs were white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a huge -patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other. His tail was -yellow with a gray tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch -over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek -and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition. In one respect, if in no -other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not neither did -he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer -cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things. - -Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After -they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner -which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down -before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She was a large, sleek, -gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity which was not at all -impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin. She had been given -to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman. - -"Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat," -explained Aunt Jamesina. "She is eight years old, and a remarkable -mouser. Don't worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat NEVER fights and Joseph -rarely." - -"They'll have to fight here in self-defense," said Stella. - -At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half -way across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short; -his tail expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his -back rose up in a defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a -fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the -Sarah-cat. - -The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him -curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her -capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked -himself up dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears? -He looked dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The -Sarah-cat deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet -operations. Rusty decided that he would not. He never did. From that -time on the Sarah-cat ruled the roost. Rusty never again interfered with -her. - -But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his -disgrace, swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight -upon occasion and fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles. -Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at sight. Anne took Rusty's part and -detested Joseph. Stella was in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed. - -"Let them fight it out," she said tolerantly. "They'll make friends after -a bit. Joseph needs some exercise--he was getting too fat. And Rusty has -to learn he isn't the only cat in the world." - -Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn -enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their -paws about each other, and gravely washed each other's faces. - -"We've all got used to each other," said Phil. "And I've learned how to -wash dishes and sweep a floor." - -"But you needn't try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat," -laughed Anne. - -"It was all the fault of the knothole," protested Phil. - -"It was a good thing the knothole was there," said Aunt Jamesina rather -severely. "Kittens HAVE to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be -overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be done to death--unless he -sucks eggs." - -"You wouldn't have thought Rusty very decent if you'd seen him when he -came here," said Stella. "He positively looked like the Old Nick." - -"I don't believe Old Nick can be so very, ugly" said Aunt Jamesina -reflectively. "He wouldn't do so much harm if he was. _I_ always think -of him as a rather handsome gentleman." - - - - -Chapter XVII - -A Letter from Davy - - -"It's beginning to snow, girls," said Phil, coming in one November -evening, "and there are the loveliest little stars and crosses all over -the garden walk. I never noticed before what exquisite things snowflakes -really are. One has time to notice things like that in the simple life. -Bless you all for permitting me to live it. It's really delightful to -feel worried because butter has gone up five cents a pound." - -"Has it?" demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts. - -"It has--and here's your butter. I'm getting quite expert at marketing. -It's better fun than flirting," concluded Phil gravely. - -"Everything is going up scandalously," sighed Stella. - -"Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free," said Aunt -Jamesina. - -"And so is laughter," added Anne. "There's no tax on it yet and that is -well, because you're all going to laugh presently. I'm going to read -you Davy's letter. His spelling has improved immensely this past year, -though he is not strong on apostrophes, and he certainly possesses -the gift of writing an interesting letter. Listen and laugh, before we -settle down to the evening's study-grind." - -"Dear Anne," ran Davy's letter, "I take my pen to tell you that we are -all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. It's snowing some -today and Marilla says the old woman in the sky is shaking her feather -beds. Is the old woman in the sky God's wife, Anne? I want to know. - -"Mrs. Lynde has been real sick but she is better now. She fell down the -cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold of the shelf -with all the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it gave way and went -down with her and made a splendid crash. Marilla thought it was an -earthquake at first. - -"One of the stewpans was all dinged up and Mrs. Lynde straned her ribs. -The doctor came and gave her medicine to rub on her ribs but she didn't -under stand him and took it all inside instead. The doctor said it was -a wonder it dident kill her but it dident and it cured her ribs and Mrs. -Lynde says doctors dont know much anyhow. But we couldent fix up the -stewpan. Marilla had to throw it out. Thanksgiving was last week. There -was no school and we had a great dinner. I et mince pie and rost turkey -and frut cake and donuts and cheese and jam and choklut cake. Marilla -said I'd die but I dident. Dora had earake after it, only it wasent in -her ears it was in her stummick. I dident have earake anywhere. - -"Our new teacher is a man. He does things for jokes. Last week he made -all us third-class boys write a composishun on what kind of a wife we'd -like to have and the girls on what kind of a husband. He laughed fit to -kill when he read them. This was mine. I thought youd like to see it. - -"'The kind of a wife I'd like to Have. - -"'She must have good manners and get my meals on time and do what I tell -her and always be very polite to me. She must be fifteen yers old. She -must be good to the poor and keep her house tidy and be good tempered -and go to church regularly. She must be very handsome and have curly -hair. If I get a wife that is just what I like Ill be an awful good -husband to her. I think a woman ought to be awful good to her husband. -Some poor women haven't any husbands. - -"'THE END.'" - - -"I was at Mrs. Isaac Wrights funeral at White Sands last week. The -husband of the corpse felt real sorry. Mrs. Lynde says Mrs. Wrights -grandfather stole a sheep but Marilla says we mustent speak ill of the -dead. Why mustent we, Anne? I want to know. It's pretty safe, ain't it? - -"Mrs. Lynde was awful mad the other day because I asked her if she was -alive in Noah's time. I dident mean to hurt her feelings. I just wanted -to know. Was she, Anne? - -"Mr. Harrison wanted to get rid of his dog. So he hunged him once but he -come to life and scooted for the barn while Mr. Harrison was digging the -grave, so he hunged him again and he stayed dead that time. Mr. Harrison -has a new man working for him. He's awful okward. Mr. Harrison says he -is left handed in both his feet. Mr. Barry's hired man is lazy. Mrs. -Barry says that but Mr. Barry says he aint lazy exactly only he thinks -it easier to pray for things than to work for them. - -"Mrs. Harmon Andrews prize pig that she talked so much of died in a fit. -Mrs. Lynde says it was a judgment on her for pride. But I think it -was hard on the pig. Milty Boulter has been sick. The doctor gave -him medicine and it tasted horrid. I offered to take it for him for a -quarter but the Boulters are so mean. Milty says he'd rather take it -himself and save his money. I asked Mrs. Boulter how a person would go -about catching a man and she got awful mad and said she dident know, -shed never chased men. - -"The A.V.I.S. is going to paint the hall again. They're tired of having -it blue. - -"The new minister was here to tea last night. He took three pieces of -pie. If I did that Mrs. Lynde would call me piggy. And he et fast and -took big bites and Marilla is always telling me not to do that. Why can -ministers do what boys can't? I want to know. - -"I haven't any more news. Here are six kisses. xxxxxx. Dora sends one. -Heres hers. x. - -"Your loving friend DAVID KEITH" - - -"P.S. Anne, who was the devils father? I want to know." - - - - -Chapter XVIII - -Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl - - -When Christmas holidays came the girls of Patty's Place scattered to -their respective homes, but Aunt Jamesina elected to stay where she was. - -"I couldn't go to any of the places I've been invited and take those -three cats," she said. "And I'm not going to leave the poor creatures -here alone for nearly three weeks. If we had any decent neighbors who -would feed them I might, but there's nothing except millionaires on this -street. So I'll stay here and keep Patty's Place warm for you." - -Anne went home with the usual joyous anticipations--which were not -wholly fulfilled. She found Avonlea in the grip of such an early, cold, -and stormy winter as even the "oldest inhabitant" could not recall. -Green Gables was literally hemmed in by huge drifts. Almost every day of -that ill-starred vacation it stormed fiercely; and even on fine days it -drifted unceasingly. No sooner were the roads broken than they filled -in again. It was almost impossible to stir out. The A.V.I.S. tried, on -three evenings, to have a party in honor of the college students, and on -each evening the storm was so wild that nobody could go, so they gave up -the attempt in despair. Anne, despite her love of and loyalty to Green -Gables, could not help thinking longingly of Patty's Place, its cosy -open fire, Aunt Jamesina's mirthful eyes, the three cats, the merry -chatter of the girls, the pleasantness of Friday evenings when college -friends dropped in to talk of grave and gay. - -Anne was lonely; Diana, during the whole of the holidays, was imprisoned -at home with a bad attack of bronchitis. She could not come to Green -Gables and it was rarely Anne could get to Orchard Slope, for the old -way through the Haunted Wood was impassable with drifts, and the long -way over the frozen Lake of Shining Waters was almost as bad. Ruby -Gillis was sleeping in the white-heaped graveyard; Jane Andrews was -teaching a school on western prairies. Gilbert, to be sure, was still -faithful, and waded up to Green Gables every possible evening. But -Gilbert's visits were not what they once were. Anne almost dreaded them. -It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden silence -and find Gilbert's hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite unmistakable -expression in their grave depths; and it was still more disconcerting -to find herself blushing hotly and uncomfortably under his gaze, just as -if--just as if--well, it was very embarrassing. Anne wished herself back -at Patty's Place, where there was always somebody else about to take the -edge off a delicate situation. At Green Gables Marilla went promptly to -Mrs. Lynde's domain when Gilbert came and insisted on taking the twins -with her. The significance of this was unmistakable and Anne was in a -helpless fury over it. - -Davy, however, was perfectly happy. He reveled in getting out in the -morning and shoveling out the paths to the well and henhouse. He gloried -in the Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and Mrs. Lynde vied with -each other in preparing for Anne, and he was reading an enthralling -tale, in a school library book, of a wonderful hero who seemed blessed -with a miraculous faculty for getting into scrapes from which he was -usually delivered by an earthquake or a volcanic explosion, which blew -him high and dry out of his troubles, landed him in a fortune, and -closed the story with proper ECLAT. - -"I tell you it's a bully story, Anne," he said ecstatically. "I'd ever -so much rather read it than the Bible." - -"Would you?" smiled Anne. - -Davy peered curiously at her. - -"You don't seem a bit shocked, Anne. Mrs. Lynde was awful shocked when I -said it to her." - -"No, I'm not shocked, Davy. I think it's quite natural that a -nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the Bible. -But when you are older I hope and think that you will realize what a -wonderful book the Bible is." - -"Oh, I think some parts of it are fine," conceded Davy. "That story -about Joseph now--it's bully. But if I'd been Joseph _I_ wouldn't have -forgive the brothers. No, siree, Anne. I'd have cut all their heads off. -Mrs. Lynde was awful mad when I said that and shut the Bible up and said -she'd never read me any more of it if I talked like that. So I don't -talk now when she reads it Sunday afternoons; I just think things and -say them to Milty Boulter next day in school. I told Milty the story -about Elisha and the bears and it scared him so he's never made fun of -Mr. Harrison's bald head once. Are there any bears on P.E. Island, Anne? -I want to know." - -"Not nowadays," said Anne, absently, as the wind blew a scud of snow -against the window. "Oh, dear, will it ever stop storming." - -"God knows," said Davy airily, preparing to resume his reading. - -Anne WAS shocked this time. - -"Davy!" she exclaimed reproachfully. - -"Mrs. Lynde says that," protested Davy. "One night last week Marilla -said 'Will Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix EVER get married?" and Mrs. -Lynde said, "'God knows'--just like that." - -"Well, it wasn't right for her to say it," said Anne, promptly deciding -upon which horn of this dilemma to empale herself. "It isn't right for -anybody to take that name in vain or speak it lightly, Davy. Don't ever -do it again." - -"Not if I say it slow and solemn, like the minister?" queried Davy -gravely. - -"No, not even then." - -"Well, I won't. Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix live in Middle Grafton -and Mrs. Rachel says he has been courting her for a hundred years. Won't -they soon be too old to get married, Anne? I hope Gilbert won't court -YOU that long. When are you going to be married, Anne? Mrs. Lynde says -it's a sure thing." - -"Mrs. Lynde is a--" began Anne hotly; then stopped. "Awful old gossip," -completed Davy calmly. "That's what every one calls her. But is it a -sure thing, Anne? I want to know." - -"You're a very silly little boy, Davy," said Anne, stalking haughtily -out of the room. The kitchen was deserted and she sat down by the window -in the fast falling wintry twilight. The sun had set and the wind had -died down. A pale chilly moon looked out behind a bank of purple clouds -in the west. The sky faded out, but the strip of yellow along the -western horizon grew brighter and fiercer, as if all the stray gleams -of light were concentrating in one spot; the distant hills, rimmed with -priest-like firs, stood out in dark distinctness against it. Anne looked -across the still, white fields, cold and lifeless in the harsh light of -that grim sunset, and sighed. She was very lonely; and she was sad at -heart; for she was wondering if she would be able to return to Redmond -next year. It did not seem likely. The only scholarship possible in the -Sophomore year was a very small affair. She would not take Marilla's -money; and there seemed little prospect of being able to earn enough in -the summer vacation. - -"I suppose I'll just have to drop out next year," she thought drearily, -"and teach a district school again until I earn enough to finish my -course. And by that time all my old class will have graduated and -Patty's Place will be out of the question. But there! I'm not going to -be a coward. I'm thankful I can earn my way through if necessary." - -"Here's Mr. Harrison wading up the lane," announced Davy, running out. -"I hope he's brought the mail. It's three days since we got it. I want -to see what them pesky Grits are doing. I'm a Conservative, Anne. And I -tell you, you have to keep your eye on them Grits." - -Mr. Harrison had brought the mail, and merry letters from Stella and -Priscilla and Phil soon dissipated Anne's blues. Aunt Jamesina, too, had -written, saying that she was keeping the hearth-fire alight, and that -the cats were all well, and the house plants doing fine. - -"The weather has been real cold," she wrote, "so I let the cats sleep -in the house--Rusty and Joseph on the sofa in the living-room, and the -Sarah-cat on the foot of my bed. It's real company to hear her purring -when I wake up in the night and think of my poor daughter in the foreign -field. If it was anywhere but in India I wouldn't worry, but they say -the snakes out there are terrible. It takes all the Sarah-cats's purring -to drive away the thought of those snakes. I have enough faith for -everything but the snakes. I can't think why Providence ever made them. -Sometimes I don't think He did. I'm inclined to believe the Old Harry -had a hand in making THEM." - -Anne had left a thin, typewritten communication till the last, thinking -it unimportant. When she had read it she sat very still, with tears in -her eyes. - -"What is the matter, Anne?" asked Marilla. - -"Miss Josephine Barry is dead," said Anne, in a low tone. - -"So she has gone at last," said Marilla. "Well, she has been sick for -over a year, and the Barrys have been expecting to hear of her death any -time. It is well she is at rest for she has suffered dreadfully, Anne. -She was always kind to you." - -"She has been kind to the last, Marilla. This letter is from her lawyer. -She has left me a thousand dollars in her will." - -"Gracious, ain't that an awful lot of money," exclaimed Davy. "She's -the woman you and Diana lit on when you jumped into the spare room bed, -ain't she? Diana told me that story. Is that why she left you so much?" - -"Hush, Davy," said Anne gently. She slipped away to the porch gable with -a full heart, leaving Marilla and Mrs. Lynde to talk over the news to -their hearts' content. - -"Do you s'pose Anne will ever get married now?" speculated Davy -anxiously. "When Dorcas Sloane got married last summer she said if she'd -had enough money to live on she'd never have been bothered with a -man, but even a widower with eight children was better'n living with a -sister-in-law." - -"Davy Keith, do hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel severely. "The way -you talk is scandalous for a small boy, that's what." - - - - -Chapter XIX - -An Interlude - - -"To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I've left my -teens behind me forever," said Anne, who was curled up on the hearth-rug -with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesina who was reading in her pet -chair. They were alone in the living room. Stella and Priscilla had -gone to a committee meeting and Phil was upstairs adorning herself for a -party. - -"I suppose you feel kind of, sorry" said Aunt Jamesina. "The teens are -such a nice part of life. I'm glad I've never gone out of them myself." - -Anne laughed. - -"You never will, Aunty. You'll be eighteen when you should be a hundred. -Yes, I'm sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy told me -long ago that by the time I was twenty my character would be formed, -for good or evil. I don't feel that it's what it should be. It's full of -flaws." - -"So's everybody's," said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. "Mine's cracked in -a hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you are twenty -your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or -'tother, and would go on developing in that line. Don't worry over it, -Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and yourself, and have a -good time. That's my philosophy and it's always worked pretty well. -Where's Phil off to tonight?" - -"She's going to a dance, and she's got the sweetest dress for it--creamy -yellow silk and cobwebby lace. It just suits those brown tints of hers." - -"There's magic in the words 'silk' and 'lace,' isn't there?" said Aunt -Jamesina. "The very sound of them makes me feel like skipping off to -a dance. And YELLOW silk. It makes one think of a dress of sunshine. -I always wanted a yellow silk dress, but first my mother and then my -husband wouldn't hear of it. The very first thing I'm going to do when I -get to heaven is to get a yellow silk dress." - -Amid Anne's peal of laughter Phil came downstairs, trailing clouds of -glory, and surveyed herself in the long oval mirror on the wall. - -"A flattering looking glass is a promoter of amiability," she said. -"The one in my room does certainly make me green. Do I look pretty nice, -Anne?" - -"Do you really know how pretty you are, Phil?" asked Anne, in honest -admiration. - -"Of course I do. What are looking glasses and men for? That wasn't what -I meant. Are all my ends tucked in? Is my skirt straight? And would this -rose look better lower down? I'm afraid it's too high--it will make me -look lop-sided. But I hate things tickling my ears." - -"Everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is -lovely." - -"Anne, there's one thing in particular I like about you--you're so -ungrudging. There isn't a particle of envy in you." - -"Why should she be envious?" demanded Aunt Jamesina. "She's not quite as -goodlooking as you, maybe, but she's got a far handsomer nose." - -"I know it," conceded Phil. - -"My nose always has been a great comfort to me," confessed Anne. - -"And I love the way your hair grows on your forehead, Anne. And that -one wee curl, always looking as if it were going to drop, but never -dropping, is delicious. But as for noses, mine is a dreadful worry to -me. I know by the time I'm forty it will be Byrney. What do you think -I'll look like when I'm forty, Anne?" - -"Like an old, matronly, married woman," teased Anne. - -"I won't," said Phil, sitting down comfortably to wait for her escort. -"Joseph, you calico beastie, don't you dare jump on my lap. I won't go -to a dance all over cat hairs. No, Anne, I WON'T look matronly. But no -doubt I'll be married." - -"To Alec or Alonzo?" asked Anne. - -"To one of them, I suppose," sighed Phil, "if I can ever decide which." - -"It shouldn't be hard to decide," scolded Aunt Jamesina. - -"I was born a see-saw Aunty, and nothing can ever prevent me from -teetering." - -"You ought to be more levelheaded, Philippa." - -"It's best to be levelheaded, of course," agreed Philippa, "but you miss -lots of fun. As for Alec and Alonzo, if you knew them you'd understand -why it's difficult to choose between them. They're equally nice." - -"Then take somebody who is nicer" suggested Aunt Jamesina. "There's that -Senior who is so devoted to you--Will Leslie. He has such nice, large, -mild eyes." - -"They're a little bit too large and too mild--like a cow's," said Phil -cruelly. - -"What do you say about George Parker?" - -"There's nothing to say about him except that he always looks as if he -had just been starched and ironed." - -"Marr Holworthy then. You can't find a fault with him." - -"No, he would do if he wasn't poor. I must marry a rich man, Aunt -Jamesina. That--and good looks--is an indispensable qualification. I'd -marry Gilbert Blythe if he were rich." - -"Oh, would you?" said Anne, rather viciously. - -"We don't like that idea a little bit, although we don't want Gilbert -ourselves, oh, no," mocked Phil. "But don't let's talk of disagreeable -subjects. I'll have to marry sometime, I suppose, but I shall put off -the evil day as long as I can." - -"You mustn't marry anybody you don't love, Phil, when all's said and -done," said Aunt Jamesina. - - "'Oh, hearts that loved in the good old way - Have been out o' the fashion this many a day.'" - -trilled Phil mockingly. "There's the carriage. I fly--Bi-bi, you two -old-fashioned darlings." - -When Phil had gone Aunt Jamesina looked solemnly at Anne. - -"That girl is pretty and sweet and goodhearted, but do you think she is -quite right in her mind, by spells, Anne?" - -"Oh, I don't think there's anything the matter with Phil's mind," said -Anne, hiding a smile. "It's just her way of talking." - -Aunt Jamesina shook her head. - -"Well, I hope so, Anne. I do hope so, because I love her. But _I_ can't -understand her--she beats me. She isn't like any of the girls I ever -knew, or any of the girls I was myself." - -"How many girls were you, Aunt Jimsie?" - -"About half a dozen, my dear." - - - - -Chapter XX - -Gilbert Speaks - - -"This has been a dull, prosy day," yawned Phil, stretching herself idly -on the sofa, having previously dispossessed two exceedingly indignant -cats. - -Anne looked up from Pickwick Papers. Now that spring examinations were -over she was treating herself to Dickens. - -"It has been a prosy day for us," she said thoughtfully, "but to some -people it has been a wonderful day. Some one has been rapturously happy -in it. Perhaps a great deed has been done somewhere today--or a great -poem written--or a great man born. And some heart has been broken, -Phil." - -"Why did you spoil your pretty thought by tagging that last sentence -on, honey?" grumbled Phil. "I don't like to think of broken hearts--or -anything unpleasant." - -"Do you think you'll be able to shirk unpleasant things all your life, -Phil?" - -"Dear me, no. Am I not up against them now? You don't call Alec and -Alonzo pleasant things, do you, when they simply plague my life out?" - -"You never take anything seriously, Phil." - -"Why should I? There are enough folks who do. The world needs people -like me, Anne, just to amuse it. It would be a terrible place if -EVERYBODY were intellectual and serious and in deep, deadly earnest. MY -mission is, as Josiah Allen says, 'to charm and allure.' Confess now. -Hasn't life at Patty's Place been really much brighter and pleasanter -this past winter because I've been here to leaven you?" - -"Yes, it has," owned Anne. - -"And you all love me--even Aunt Jamesina, who thinks I'm stark mad. So -why should I try to be different? Oh, dear, I'm so sleepy. I was awake -until one last night, reading a harrowing ghost story. I read it in bed, -and after I had finished it do you suppose I could get out of bed to put -the light out? No! And if Stella had not fortunately come in late that -lamp would have burned good and bright till morning. When I heard Stella -I called her in, explained my predicament, and got her to put out the -light. If I had got out myself to do it I knew something would grab -me by the feet when I was getting in again. By the way, Anne, has Aunt -Jamesina decided what to do this summer?" - -"Yes, she's going to stay here. I know she's doing it for the sake of -those blessed cats, although she says it's too much trouble to open her -own house, and she hates visiting." - -"What are you reading?" - -"Pickwick." - -"That's a book that always makes me hungry," said Phil. "There's so much -good eating in it. The characters seem always to be reveling on ham and -eggs and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard rummage after reading -Pickwick. The mere thought reminds me that I'm starving. Is there any -tidbit in the pantry, Queen Anne?" - -"I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it." - -Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the orchard in -company with Rusty. It was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night in early -spring. The snow was not quite all gone from the park; a little dingy -bank of it yet lay under the pines of the harbor road, screened from the -influence of April suns. It kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the -evening air. But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and Gilbert -had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. He came up from -the park, his hands full of it. - -Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the -poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset -with the very perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air--a -wondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in -Araby's perfume, and where she reigned queen and chatelaine. She frowned -as she saw Gilbert coming through the orchard. Of late she had managed -not to be left alone with Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly now; and -even Rusty had deserted her. - -Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers. - -"Don't these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?" - -Anne took them and buried her face in them. - -"I'm in Mr. Silas Sloane's barrens this very minute," she said -rapturously. - -"I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?" - -"No, not for a fortnight. I'm going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke -before I go home. You'll be in Avonlea before I will." - -"No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I've been -offered a job in the Daily News office and I'm going to take it." - -"Oh," said Anne vaguely. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer would -be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect. "Well," -she concluded flatly, "it is a good thing for you, of course." - -"Yes, I've been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next year." - -"You mustn't work too HARD," said Anne, without any very clear idea of -what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil would come out. -"You've studied very constantly this winter. Isn't this a delightful -evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets under that -old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had discovered a gold -mine." - -"You are always discovering gold mines," said Gilbert--also absently. - -"Let us go and see if we can find some more," suggested Anne eagerly. -"I'll call Phil and--" - -"Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne," said Gilbert quietly, -taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. "There is -something I want to say to you." - -"Oh, don't say it," cried Anne, pleadingly. "Don't--PLEASE, Gilbert." - -"I must. Things can't go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. You -know I do. I--I can't tell you how much. Will you promise me that some -day you'll be my wife?" - -"I--I can't," said Anne miserably. "Oh, Gilbert--you--you've spoiled -everything." - -"Don't you care for me at all?" Gilbert asked after a very dreadful -pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up. - -"Not--not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I -don't love you, Gilbert." - -"But can't you give me some hope that you will--yet?" - -"No, I can't," exclaimed Anne desperately. "I never, never can love -you--in that way--Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again." - -There was another pause--so long and so dreadful that Anne was driven at -last to look up. Gilbert's face was white to the lips. And his eyes--but -Anne shuddered and looked away. There was nothing romantic about this. -Must proposals be either grotesque or--horrible? Could she ever forget -Gilbert's face? - -"Is there anybody else?" he asked at last in a low voice. - -"No--no," said Anne eagerly. "I don't care for any one like THAT--and I -LIKE you better than anybody else in the world, Gilbert. And we must--we -must go on being friends, Gilbert." - -Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh. - -"Friends! Your friendship can't satisfy me, Anne. I want your love--and -you tell me I can never have that." - -"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert," was all Anne could say. Where, -oh, where were all the gracious and graceful speeches wherewith, in -imagination, she had been wont to dismiss rejected suitors? - -Gilbert released her hand gently. - -"There isn't anything to forgive. There have been times when I thought -you did care. I've deceived myself, that's all. Goodbye, Anne." - -Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind -the pines, and cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably -precious had gone out of her life. It was Gilbert's friendship, of -course. Oh, why must she lose it after this fashion? - -"What is the matter, honey?" asked Phil, coming in through the moonlit -gloom. - -Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a thousand -miles away. - -"I suppose you've gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an idiot, -Anne Shirley!" - -"Do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don't love?" said -Anne coldly, goaded to reply. - -"You don't know love when you see it. You've tricked something out with -your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to -look like that. There, that's the first sensible thing I've ever said in -my life. I wonder how I managed it?" - -"Phil," pleaded Anne, "please go away and leave me alone for a little -while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct it." - -"Without any Gilbert in it?" said Phil, going. - -A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. -Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all Gilbert's -fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must just learn -to live without it. - - - - -Chapter XXI - -Roses of Yesterday - - -The fortnight Anne spent in Bolingbroke was a very pleasant one, with a -little under current of vague pain and dissatisfaction running through -it whenever she thought about Gilbert. There was not, however, much time -to think about him. "Mount Holly," the beautiful old Gordon homestead, -was a very gay place, overrun by Phil's friends of both sexes. There was -quite a bewildering succession of drives, dances, picnics and boating -parties, all expressively lumped together by Phil under the head of -"jamborees"; Alec and Alonzo were so constantly on hand that Anne -wondered if they ever did anything but dance attendance on that -will-o'-the-wisp of a Phil. They were both nice, manly fellows, but Anne -would not be drawn into any opinion as to which was the nicer. - -"And I depended so on you to help me make up my mind which of them I -should promise to marry," mourned Phil. - -"You must do that for yourself. You are quite expert at making up -your mind as to whom other people should marry," retorted Anne, rather -caustically. - -"Oh, that's a very different thing," said Phil, truly. - -But the sweetest incident of Anne's sojourn in Bolingbroke was the visit -to her birthplace--the little shabby yellow house in an out-of-the-way -street she had so often dreamed about. She looked at it with delighted -eyes, as she and Phil turned in at the gate. - -"It's almost exactly as I've pictured it," she said. "There is no -honeysuckle over the windows, but there is a lilac tree by the gate, -and--yes, there are the muslin curtains in the windows. How glad I am it -is still painted yellow." - -A very tall, very thin woman opened the door. - -"Yes, the Shirleys lived here twenty years ago," she said, in answer to -Anne's question. "They had it rented. I remember 'em. They both died of -fever at onct. It was turrible sad. They left a baby. I guess it's dead -long ago. It was a sickly thing. Old Thomas and his wife took it--as if -they hadn't enough of their own." - -"It didn't die," said Anne, smiling. "I was that baby." - -"You don't say so! Why, you have grown," exclaimed the woman, as if she -were much surprised that Anne was not still a baby. "Come to look at -you, I see the resemblance. You're complected like your pa. He had -red hair. But you favor your ma in your eyes and mouth. She was a nice -little thing. My darter went to school to her and was nigh crazy about -her. They was buried in the one grave and the School Board put up a -tombstone to them as a reward for faithful service. Will you come in?" - -"Will you let me go all over the house?" asked Anne eagerly. - -"Laws, yes, you can if you like. 'Twon't take you long--there ain't much -of it. I keep at my man to build a new kitchen, but he ain't one of your -hustlers. The parlor's in there and there's two rooms upstairs. Just -prowl about yourselves. I've got to see to the baby. The east room was -the one you were born in. I remember your ma saying she loved to see the -sunrise; and I mind hearing that you was born just as the sun was rising -and its light on your face was the first thing your ma saw." - -Anne went up the narrow stairs and into that little east room with a -full heart. It was as a shrine to her. Here her mother had dreamed the -exquisite, happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; here that red sunrise -light had fallen over them both in the sacred hour of birth; here her -mother had died. Anne looked about her reverently, her eyes with tears. -It was for her one of the jeweled hours of life that gleam out radiantly -forever in memory. - -"Just to think of it--mother was younger than I am now when I was born," -she whispered. - -When Anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall. She -held out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon. - -"Here's a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs when I -came here," she said. "I dunno what they are--I never bothered to look -in 'em, but the address on the top one is 'Miss Bertha Willis,' and that -was your ma's maiden name. You can take 'em if you'd keer to have 'em." - -"Oh, thank you--thank you," cried Anne, clasping the packet rapturously. - -"That was all that was in the house," said her hostess. "The furniture -was all sold to pay the doctor bills, and Mrs. Thomas got your ma's -clothes and little things. I reckon they didn't last long among that -drove of Thomas youngsters. They was destructive young animals, as I -mind 'em." - -"I haven't one thing that belonged to my mother," said Anne, chokily. -"I--I can never thank you enough for these letters." - -"You're quite welcome. Laws, but your eyes is like your ma's. She could -just about talk with hers. Your father was sorter homely but awful nice. -I mind hearing folks say when they was married that there never was two -people more in love with each other--Pore creatures, they didn't live -much longer; but they was awful happy while they was alive, and I s'pose -that counts for a good deal." - -Anne longed to get home to read her precious letters; but she made one -little pilgrimage first. She went alone to the green corner of the "old" -Bolingbroke cemetery where her father and mother were buried, and left -on their grave the white flowers she carried. Then she hastened back -to Mount Holly, shut herself up in her room, and read the letters. -Some were written by her father, some by her mother. There were not -many--only a dozen in all--for Walter and Bertha Shirley had not been -often separated during their courtship. The letters were yellow and -faded and dim, blurred with the touch of passing years. No profound -words of wisdom were traced on the stained and wrinkled pages, but only -lines of love and trust. The sweetness of forgotten things clung to -them--the far-off, fond imaginings of those long-dead lovers. Bertha -Shirley had possessed the gift of writing letters which embodied the -charming personality of the writer in words and thoughts that retained -their beauty and fragrance after the lapse of time. The letters were -tender, intimate, sacred. To Anne, the sweetest of all was the one -written after her birth to the father on a brief absence. It was full -of a proud young mother's accounts of "baby"--her cleverness, her -brightness, her thousand sweetnesses. - -"I love her best when she is asleep and better still when she is awake," -Bertha Shirley had written in the postscript. Probably it was the last -sentence she had ever penned. The end was very near for her. - -"This has been the most beautiful day of my life," Anne said to Phil -that night. "I've FOUND my father and mother. Those letters have made -them REAL to me. I'm not an orphan any longer. I feel as if I had opened -a book and found roses of yesterday, sweet and beloved, between its -leaves." - - - - -Chapter XXII - -Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables - - -The firelight shadows were dancing over the kitchen walls at Green -Gables, for the spring evening was chilly; through the open east window -drifted in the subtly sweet voices of the night. Marilla was sitting by -the fire--at least, in body. In spirit she was roaming olden ways, with -feet grown young. Of late Marilla had thus spent many an hour, when she -thought she should have been knitting for the twins. - -"I suppose I'm growing old," she said. - -Yet Marilla had changed but little in the past nine years, save to grow -something thinner, and even more angular; there was a little more gray -in the hair that was still twisted up in the same hard knot, with two -hairpins--WERE they the same hairpins?--still stuck through it. But her -expression was very different; the something about the mouth which had -hinted at a sense of humor had developed wonderfully; her eyes were -gentler and milder, her smile more frequent and tender. - -Marilla was thinking of her whole past life, her cramped but not unhappy -childhood, the jealously hidden dreams and the blighted hopes of her -girlhood, the long, gray, narrow, monotonous years of dull middle life -that followed. And the coming of Anne--the vivid, imaginative, impetuous -child with her heart of love, and her world of fancy, bringing with her -color and warmth and radiance, until the wilderness of existence had -blossomed like the rose. Marilla felt that out of her sixty years she -had lived only the nine that had followed the advent of Anne. And Anne -would be home tomorrow night. - -The kitchen door opened. Marilla looked up expecting to see Mrs. Lynde. -Anne stood before her, tall and starry-eyed, with her hands full of -Mayflowers and violets. - -"Anne Shirley!" exclaimed Marilla. For once in her life she was -surprised out of her reserve; she caught her girl in her arms and -crushed her and her flowers against her heart, kissing the bright hair -and sweet face warmly. "I never looked for you till tomorrow night. How -did you get from Carmody?" - -"Walked, dearest of Marillas. Haven't I done it a score of times in -the Queen's days? The mailman is to bring my trunk tomorrow; I just got -homesick all at once, and came a day earlier. And oh! I've had such a -lovely walk in the May twilight; I stopped by the barrens and picked -these Mayflowers; I came through Violet-Vale; it's just a big bowlful -of violets now--the dear, sky-tinted things. Smell them, Marilla--drink -them in." - -Marilla sniffed obligingly, but she was more interested in Anne than in -drinking violets. - -"Sit down, child. You must be real tired. I'm going to get you some -supper." - -"There's a darling moonrise behind the hills tonight, Marilla, and oh, -how the frogs sang me home from Carmody! I do love the music of the -frogs. It seems bound up with all my happiest recollections of old -spring evenings. And it always reminds me of the night I came here -first. Do you remember it, Marilla?" - -"Well, yes," said Marilla with emphasis. "I'm not likely to forget it -ever." - -"They used to sing so madly in the marsh and brook that year. I would -listen to them at my window in the dusk, and wonder how they could seem -so glad and so sad at the same time. Oh, but it's good to be home again! -Redmond was splendid and Bolingbroke delightful--but Green Gables is -HOME." - -"Gilbert isn't coming home this summer, I hear," said Marilla. - -"No." Something in Anne's tone made Marilla glance at her sharply, but -Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her violets in a bowl. "See, -aren't they sweet?" she went on hurriedly. "The year is a book, isn't -it, Marilla? Spring's pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, -summer's in roses, autumn's in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and -evergreen." - -"Did Gilbert do well in his examinations?" persisted Marilla. - -"Excellently well. He led his class. But where are the twins and Mrs. -Lynde?" - -"Rachel and Dora are over at Mr. Harrison's. Davy is down at Boulters'. -I think I hear him coming now." - -Davy burst in, saw Anne, stopped, and then hurled himself upon her with -a joyful yell. - -"Oh, Anne, ain't I glad to see you! Say, Anne, I've grown two inches -since last fall. Mrs. Lynde measured me with her tape today, and say, -Anne, see my front tooth. It's gone. Mrs. Lynde tied one end of a string -to it and the other end to the door, and then shut the door. I sold it -to Milty for two cents. Milty's collecting teeth." - -"What in the world does he want teeth for?" asked Marilla. - -"To make a necklace for playing Indian Chief," explained Davy, climbing -upon Anne's lap. "He's got fifteen already, and everybody's else's -promised, so there's no use in the rest of us starting to collect, too. -I tell you the Boulters are great business people." - -"Were you a good boy at Mrs. Boulter's?" asked Marilla severely. - -"Yes; but say, Marilla, I'm tired of being good." - -"You'd get tired of being bad much sooner, Davy-boy," said Anne. - -"Well, it'd be fun while it lasted, wouldn't it?" persisted Davy. "I -could be sorry for it afterwards, couldn't I?" - -"Being sorry wouldn't do away with the consequences of being bad, Davy. -Don't you remember the Sunday last summer when you ran away from Sunday -School? You told me then that being bad wasn't worth while. What were -you and Milty doing today?" - -"Oh, we fished and chased the cat, and hunted for eggs, and yelled at -the echo. There's a great echo in the bush behind the Boulter barn. Say, -what is echo, Anne; I want to know." - -"Echo is a beautiful nymph, Davy, living far away in the woods, and -laughing at the world from among the hills." - -"What does she look like?" - -"Her hair and eyes are dark, but her neck and arms are white as snow. -No mortal can ever see how fair she is. She is fleeter than a deer, and -that mocking voice of hers is all we can know of her. You can hear her -calling at night; you can hear her laughing under the stars. But you -can never see her. She flies afar if you follow her, and laughs at you -always just over the next hill." - -"Is that true, Anne? Or is it a whopper?" demanded Davy staring. - -"Davy," said Anne despairingly, "haven't you sense enough to distinguish -between a fairytale and a falsehood?" - -"Then what is it that sasses back from the Boulter bush? I want to -know," insisted Davy. - -"When you are a little older, Davy, I'll explain it all to you." - -The mention of age evidently gave a new turn to Davy's thoughts for -after a few moments of reflection, he whispered solemnly: - -"Anne, I'm going to be married." - -"When?" asked Anne with equal solemnity. - -"Oh, not until I'm grown-up, of course." - -"Well, that's a relief, Davy. Who is the lady?" - -"Stella Fletcher; she's in my class at school. And say, Anne, she's the -prettiest girl you ever saw. If I die before I grow up you'll keep an -eye on her, won't you?" - -"Davy Keith, do stop talking such nonsense," said Marilla severely. - -"'Tisn't nonsense," protested Davy in an injured tone. "She's my -promised wife, and if I was to die she'd be my promised widow, wouldn't -she? And she hasn't got a soul to look after her except her old -grandmother." - -"Come and have your supper, Anne," said Marilla, "and don't encourage -that child in his absurd talk." - - - - -Chapter XXIII - -Paul Cannot Find the Rock People - - -Life was very pleasant in Avonlea that summer, although Anne, amid -all her vacation joys, was haunted by a sense of "something gone which -should be there." She would not admit, even in her inmost reflections, -that this was caused by Gilbert's absence. But when she had to walk home -alone from prayer meetings and A.V.I.S. pow-wows, while Diana and Fred, -and many other gay couples, loitered along the dusky, starlit country -roads, there was a queer, lonely ache in her heart which she could not -explain away. Gilbert did not even write to her, as she thought he might -have done. She knew he wrote to Diana occasionally, but she would -not inquire about him; and Diana, supposing that Anne heard from him, -volunteered no information. Gilbert's mother, who was a gay, frank, -light-hearted lady, but not overburdened with tact, had a very -embarrassing habit of asking Anne, always in a painfully distinct voice -and always in the presence of a crowd, if she had heard from Gilbert -lately. Poor Anne could only blush horribly and murmur, "not very -lately," which was taken by all, Mrs. Blythe included, to be merely a -maidenly evasion. - -Apart from this, Anne enjoyed her summer. Priscilla came for a merry -visit in June; and, when she had gone, Mr. and Mrs. Irving, Paul and -Charlotta the Fourth came "home" for July and August. - -Echo Lodge was the scene of gaieties once more, and the echoes over the -river were kept busy mimicking the laughter that rang in the old garden -behind the spruces. - -"Miss Lavendar" had not changed, except to grow even sweeter and -prettier. Paul adored her, and the companionship between them was -beautiful to see. - -"But I don't call her 'mother' just by itself," he explained to Anne. -"You see, THAT name belongs just to my own little mother, and I can't -give it to any one else. You know, teacher. But I call her 'Mother -Lavendar' and I love her next best to father. I--I even love her a -LITTLE better than you, teacher." - -"Which is just as it ought to be," answered Anne. - -Paul was thirteen now and very tall for his years. His face and eyes -were as beautiful as ever, and his fancy was still like a prism, -separating everything that fell upon it into rainbows. He and Anne had -delightful rambles to wood and field and shore. Never were there two -more thoroughly "kindred spirits." - -Charlotta the Fourth had blossomed out into young ladyhood. She wore her -hair now in an enormous pompador and had discarded the blue ribbon bows -of auld lang syne, but her face was as freckled, her nose as snubbed, -and her mouth and smiles as wide as ever. - -"You don't think I talk with a Yankee accent, do you, Miss Shirley, -ma'am?" she demanded anxiously. - -"I don't notice it, Charlotta." - -"I'm real glad of that. They said I did at home, but I thought likely -they just wanted to aggravate me. I don't want no Yankee accent. Not -that I've a word to say against the Yankees, Miss Shirley, ma'am. -They're real civilized. But give me old P.E. Island every time." - -Paul spent his first fortnight with his grandmother Irving in Avonlea. -Anne was there to meet him when he came, and found him wild with -eagerness to get to the shore--Nora and the Golden Lady and the Twin -Sailors would be there. He could hardly wait to eat his supper. Could -he not see Nora's elfin face peering around the point, watching for him -wistfully? But it was a very sober Paul who came back from the shore in -the twilight. - -"Didn't you find your Rock People?" asked Anne. - -Paul shook his chestnut curls sorrowfully. - -"The Twin Sailors and the Golden Lady never came at all," he said. "Nora -was there--but Nora is not the same, teacher. She is changed." - -"Oh, Paul, it is you who are changed," said Anne. "You have grown too -old for the Rock People. They like only children for playfellows. I -am afraid the Twin Sailors will never again come to you in the pearly, -enchanted boat with the sail of moonshine; and the Golden Lady will play -no more for you on her golden harp. Even Nora will not meet you much -longer. You must pay the penalty of growing-up, Paul. You must leave -fairyland behind you." - -"You two talk as much foolishness as ever you did," said old Mrs. -Irving, half-indulgently, half-reprovingly. - -"Oh, no, we don't," said Anne, shaking her head gravely. "We are getting -very, very wise, and it is such a pity. We are never half so interesting -when we have learned that language is given us to enable us to conceal -our thoughts." - -"But it isn't--it is given us to exchange our thoughts," said Mrs. -Irving seriously. She had never heard of Tallyrand and did not -understand epigrams. - -Anne spent a fortnight of halcyon days at Echo Lodge in the golden prime -of August. While there she incidentally contrived to hurry Ludovic Speed -in his leisurely courting of Theodora Dix, as related duly in another -chronicle of her history.(1) Arnold Sherman, an elderly friend of the -Irvings, was there at the same time, and added not a little to the -general pleasantness of life. - - (1 Chronicles of Avonlea.) - -"What a nice play-time this has been," said Anne. "I feel like a giant -refreshed. And it's only a fortnight more till I go back to Kingsport, -and Redmond and Patty's Place. Patty's Place is the dearest spot, Miss -Lavendar. I feel as if I had two homes--one at Green Gables and one -at Patty's Place. But where has the summer gone? It doesn't seem a day -since I came home that spring evening with the Mayflowers. When I -was little I couldn't see from one end of the summer to the other. It -stretched before me like an unending season. Now, ''tis a handbreadth, -'tis a tale.'" - -"Anne, are you and Gilbert Blythe as good friends as you used to be?" -asked Miss Lavendar quietly. - -"I am just as much Gilbert's friend as ever I was, Miss Lavendar." - -Miss Lavendar shook her head. - -"I see something's gone wrong, Anne. I'm going to be impertinent and ask -what. Have you quarrelled?" - -"No; it's only that Gilbert wants more than friendship and I can't give -him more." - -"Are you sure of that, Anne?" - -"Perfectly sure." - -"I'm very, very sorry." - -"I wonder why everybody seems to think I ought to marry Gilbert Blythe," -said Anne petulantly. - -"Because you were made and meant for each other, Anne--that is why. You -needn't toss that young head of yours. It's a fact." - - - - -Chapter XXIV - -Enter Jonas - - -"PROSPECT POINT, "August 20th. - -"Dear Anne--spelled--with--an--E," wrote Phil, "I must prop my eyelids -open long enough to write you. I've neglected you shamefully this -summer, honey, but all my other correspondents have been neglected, too. -I have a huge pile of letters to answer, so I must gird up the loins -of my mind and hoe in. Excuse my mixed metaphors. I'm fearfully sleepy. -Last night Cousin Emily and I were calling at a neighbor's. There were -several other callers there, and as soon as those unfortunate creatures -left, our hostess and her three daughters picked them all to pieces. I -knew they would begin on Cousin Emily and me as soon as the door shut -behind us. When we came home Mrs. Lilly informed us that the aforesaid -neighbor's hired boy was supposed to be down with scarlet fever. You can -always trust Mrs. Lilly to tell you cheerful things like that. I have -a horror of scarlet fever. I couldn't sleep when I went to bed for -thinking of it. I tossed and tumbled about, dreaming fearful dreams when -I did snooze for a minute; and at three I wakened up with a high fever, -a sore throat, and a raging headache. I knew I had scarlet fever; I got -up in a panic and hunted up Cousin Emily's 'doctor book' to read up the -symptoms. Anne, I had them all. So I went back to bed, and knowing the -worst, slept like a top the rest of the night. Though why a top should -sleep sounder than anything else I never could understand. But this -morning I was quite well, so it couldn't have been the fever. I suppose -if I did catch it last night it couldn't have developed so soon. I can -remember that in daytime, but at three o'clock at night I never can be -logical. - -"I suppose you wonder what I'm doing at Prospect Point. Well, I always -like to spend a month of summer at the shore, and father insists that -I come to his second-cousin Emily's 'select boardinghouse' at Prospect -Point. So a fortnight ago I came as usual. And as usual old 'Uncle Mark -Miller' brought me from the station with his ancient buggy and what he -calls his 'generous purpose' horse. He is a nice old man and gave me -a handful of pink peppermints. Peppermints always seem to me such a -religious sort of candy--I suppose because when I was a little girl -Grandmother Gordon always gave them to me in church. Once I asked, -referring to the smell of peppermints, 'Is that the odor of sanctity?' I -didn't like to eat Uncle Mark's peppermints because he just fished them -loose out of his pocket, and had to pick some rusty nails and other -things from among them before he gave them to me. But I wouldn't hurt -his dear old feelings for anything, so I carefully sowed them along the -road at intervals. When the last one was gone, Uncle Mark said, a little -rebukingly, 'Ye shouldn't a'et all them candies to onct, Miss Phil. -You'll likely have the stummick-ache.' - -"Cousin Emily has only five boarders besides myself--four old ladies and -one young man. My right-hand neighbor is Mrs. Lilly. She is one of those -people who seem to take a gruesome pleasure in detailing all their many -aches and pains and sicknesses. You cannot mention any ailment but she -says, shaking her head, 'Ah, I know too well what that is'--and then you -get all the details. Jonas declares he once spoke of locomotor ataxia in -hearing and she said she knew too well what that was. She suffered from -it for ten years and was finally cured by a traveling doctor. - -"Who is Jonas? Just wait, Anne Shirley. You'll hear all about Jonas in -the proper time and place. He is not to be mixed up with estimable old -ladies. - -"My left-hand neighbor at the table is Mrs. Phinney. She always speaks -with a wailing, dolorous voice--you are nervously expecting her to burst -into tears every moment. She gives you the impression that life to her -is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak of a laugh, -is a frivolity truly reprehensible. She has a worse opinion of me than -Aunt Jamesina, and she doesn't love me hard to atone for it, as Aunty J. -does, either. - -"Miss Maria Grimsby sits cati-corner from me. The first day I came I -remarked to Miss Maria that it looked a little like rain--and Miss Maria -laughed. I said the road from the station was very pretty--and Miss -Maria laughed. I said there seemed to be a few mosquitoes left yet--and -Miss Maria laughed. I said that Prospect Point was as beautiful as -ever--and Miss Maria laughed. If I were to say to Miss Maria, 'My father -has hanged himself, my mother has taken poison, my brother is in the -penitentiary, and I am in the last stages of consumption,' Miss Maria -would laugh. She can't help it--she was born so; but is very sad and -awful. - -"The fifth old lady is Mrs. Grant. She is a sweet old thing; but -she never says anything but good of anybody and so she is a very -uninteresting conversationalist. - -"And now for Jonas, Anne. - -"That first day I came I saw a young man sitting opposite me at the -table, smiling at me as if he had known me from my cradle. I knew, for -Uncle Mark had told me, that his name was Jonas Blake, that he was a -Theological Student from St. Columbia, and that he had taken charge of -the Point Prospect Mission Church for the summer. - -"He is a very ugly young man--really, the ugliest young man I've ever -seen. He has a big, loose-jointed figure with absurdly long legs. His -hair is tow-color and lank, his eyes are green, and his mouth is big, -and his ears--but I never think about his ears if I can help it. - -"He has a lovely voice--if you shut your eyes he is adorable--and he -certainly has a beautiful soul and disposition. - -"We were good chums right way. Of course he is a graduate of Redmond, -and that is a link between us. We fished and boated together; and we -walked on the sands by moonlight. He didn't look so homely by moonlight -and oh, he was nice. Niceness fairly exhaled from him. The old -ladies--except Mrs. Grant--don't approve of Jonas, because he laughs and -jokes--and because he evidently likes the society of frivolous me better -than theirs. - -"Somehow, Anne, I don't want him to think me frivolous. This is -ridiculous. Why should I care what a tow-haired person called Jonas, -whom I never saw before thinks of me? - -"Last Sunday Jonas preached in the village church. I went, of course, -but I couldn't realize that Jonas was going to preach. The fact that he -was a minister--or going to be one--persisted in seeming a huge joke to -me. - -"Well, Jonas preached. And, by the time he had preached ten minutes, I -felt so small and insignificant that I thought I must be invisible to -the naked eye. Jonas never said a word about women and he never -looked at me. But I realized then and there what a pitiful, frivolous, -small-souled little butterfly I was, and how horribly different I must -be from Jonas' ideal woman. SHE would be grand and strong and noble. He -was so earnest and tender and true. He was everything a minister ought -to be. I wondered how I could ever have thought him ugly--but he really -is!--with those inspired eyes and that intellectual brow which the -roughly-falling hair hid on week days. - -"It was a splendid sermon and I could have listened to it forever, and -it made me feel utterly wretched. Oh, I wish I was like YOU, Anne. - -"He caught up with me on the road home, and grinned as cheerfully as -usual. But his grin could never deceive me again. I had seen the REAL -Jonas. I wondered if he could ever see the REAL PHIL--whom NOBODY, not -even you, Anne, has ever seen yet. - -"'Jonas,' I said--I forgot to call him Mr. Blake. Wasn't it dreadful? -But there are times when things like that don't matter--'Jonas, you were -born to be a minister. You COULDN'T be anything else.' - -"'No, I couldn't,' he said soberly. 'I tried to be something else for -a long time--I didn't want to be a minister. But I came to see at last -that it was the work given me to do--and God helping me, I shall try to -do it.' - -"His voice was low and reverent. I thought that he would do his work and -do it well and nobly; and happy the woman fitted by nature and training -to help him do it. SHE would be no feather, blown about by every fickle -wind of fancy. SHE would always know what hat to put on. Probably she -would have only one. Ministers never have much money. But she wouldn't -mind having one hat or none at all, because she would have Jonas. - -"Anne Shirley, don't you dare to say or hint or think that I've -fallen in love with Mr. Blake. Could I care for a lank, poor, ugly -theologue--named Jonas? As Uncle Mark says, 'It's impossible, and what's -more it's improbable.' - -"Good night, PHIL." - -"P.S. It is impossible--but I am horribly afraid it's true. I'm happy -and wretched and scared. HE can NEVER care for me, I know. Do you think -I could ever develop into a passable minister's wife, Anne? And WOULD -they expect me to lead in prayer? P G." - - - - -Chapter XXV - -Enter Prince Charming - - -"I'm contrasting the claims of indoors and out," said Anne, looking from -the window of Patty's Place to the distant pines of the park. - -"I've an afternoon to spend in sweet doing nothing, Aunt Jimsie. Shall -I spend it here where there is a cosy fire, a plateful of delicious -russets, three purring and harmonious cats, and two impeccable china -dogs with green noses? Or shall I go to the park, where there is the -lure of gray woods and of gray water lapping on the harbor rocks?" - -"If I was as young as you, I'd decide in favor of the park," said Aunt -Jamesina, tickling Joseph's yellow ear with a knitting needle. - -"I thought that you claimed to be as young as any of us, Aunty," teased -Anne. - -"Yes, in my soul. But I'll admit my legs aren't as young as yours. You -go and get some fresh air, Anne. You look pale lately." - -"I think I'll go to the park," said Anne restlessly. "I don't feel like -tame domestic joys today. I want to feel alone and free and wild. The -park will be empty, for every one will be at the football match." - -"Why didn't you go to it?" - -"'Nobody axed me, sir, she said'--at least, nobody but that horrid -little Dan Ranger. I wouldn't go anywhere with him; but rather than hurt -his poor little tender feelings I said I wasn't going to the game at -all. I don't mind. I'm not in the mood for football today somehow." - -"You go and get some fresh air," repeated Aunt Jamesina, "but take your -umbrella, for I believe it's going to rain. I've rheumatism in my leg." - -"Only old people should have rheumatism, Aunty." - -"Anybody is liable to rheumatism in her legs, Anne. It's only old people -who should have rheumatism in their souls, though. Thank goodness, I -never have. When you get rheumatism in your soul you might as well go -and pick out your coffin." - -It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, -sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed -through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great -sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul. Anne was not wont to be -troubled with soul fog. But, somehow, since her return to Redmond for -this third year, life had not mirrored her spirit back to her with its -old, perfect, sparkling clearness. - -Outwardly, existence at Patty's Place was the same pleasant round -of work and study and recreation that it had always been. On Friday -evenings the big, fire-lighted livingroom was crowded by callers -and echoed to endless jest and laughter, while Aunt Jamesina smiled -beamingly on them all. The "Jonas" of Phil's letter came often, running -up from St. Columbia on the early train and departing on the late. He -was a general favorite at Patty's Place, though Aunt Jamesina shook her -head and opined that divinity students were not what they used to be. - -"He's VERY nice, my dear," she told Phil, "but ministers ought to be -graver and more dignified." - -"Can't a man laugh and laugh and be a Christian still?" demanded Phil. - -"Oh, MEN--yes. But I was speaking of MINISTERS, my dear," said Aunt -Jamesina rebukingly. "And you shouldn't flirt so with Mr. Blake--you -really shouldn't." - -"I'm not flirting with him," protested Phil. - -Nobody believed her, except Anne. The others thought she was amusing -herself as usual, and told her roundly that she was behaving very badly. - -"Mr. Blake isn't of the Alec-and-Alonzo type, Phil," said Stella -severely. "He takes things seriously. You may break his heart." - -"Do you really think I could?" asked Phil. "I'd love to think so." - -"Philippa Gordon! I never thought you were utterly unfeeling. The idea -of you saying you'd love to break a man's heart!" - -"I didn't say so, honey. Quote me correctly. I said I'd like to think I -COULD break it. I would like to know I had the POWER to do it." - -"I don't understand you, Phil. You are leading that man on -deliberately--and you know you don't mean anything by it." - -"I mean to make him ask me to marry him if I can," said Phil calmly. - -"I give you up," said Stella hopelessly. - -Gilbert came occasionally on Friday evenings. He seemed always in good -spirits, and held his own in the jests and repartee that flew about. -He neither sought nor avoided Anne. When circumstances brought them -in contact he talked to her pleasantly and courteously, as to any -newly-made acquaintance. The old camaraderie was gone entirely. Anne -felt it keenly; but she told herself she was very glad and thankful that -Gilbert had got so completely over his disappointment in regard to her. -She had really been afraid, that April evening in the orchard, that she -had hurt him terribly and that the wound would be long in healing. Now -she saw that she need not have worried. Men have died and the worms -have eaten them but not for love. Gilbert evidently was in no danger of -immediate dissolution. He was enjoying life, and he was full of ambition -and zest. For him there was to be no wasting in despair because a woman -was fair and cold. Anne, as she listened to the ceaseless badinage that -went on between him and Phil, wondered if she had only imagined that -look in his eyes when she had told him she could never care for him. - -There were not lacking those who would gladly have stepped into -Gilbert's vacant place. But Anne snubbed them without fear and without -reproach. If the real Prince Charming was never to come she would have -none of a substitute. So she sternly told herself that gray day in the -windy park. - -Suddenly the rain of Aunt Jamesina's prophecy came with a swish and -rush. Anne put up her umbrella and hurried down the slope. As she turned -out on the harbor road a savage gust of wind tore along it. Instantly -her umbrella turned wrong side out. Anne clutched at it in despair. And -then--there came a voice close to her. - -"Pardon me--may I offer you the shelter of my umbrella?" - -Anne looked up. Tall and handsome and distinguished-looking--dark, -melancholy, inscrutable eyes--melting, musical, sympathetic voice--yes, -the very hero of her dreams stood before her in the flesh. He could not -have more closely resembled her ideal if he had been made to order. - -"Thank you," she said confusedly. - -"We'd better hurry over to that little pavillion on the point," -suggested the unknown. "We can wait there until this shower is over. It -is not likely to rain so heavily very long." - -The words were very commonplace, but oh, the tone! And the smile which -accompanied them! Anne felt her heart beating strangely. - -Together they scurried to the pavilion and sat breathlessly down under -its friendly roof. Anne laughingly held up her false umbrella. - -"It is when my umbrella turns inside out that I am convinced of the -total depravity of inanimate things," she said gaily. - -The raindrops sparkled on her shining hair; its loosened rings curled -around her neck and forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes big and -starry. Her companion looked down at her admiringly. She felt herself -blushing under his gaze. Who could he be? Why, there was a bit of the -Redmond white and scarlet pinned to his coat lapel. Yet she had thought -she knew, by sight at least, all the Redmond students except the -Freshmen. And this courtly youth surely was no Freshman. - -"We are schoolmates, I see," he said, smiling at Anne's colors. "That -ought to be sufficient introduction. My name is Royal Gardner. And you -are the Miss Shirley who read the Tennyson paper at the Philomathic the -other evening, aren't you?" - -"Yes; but I cannot place you at all," said Anne, frankly. "Please, where -DO you belong?" - -"I feel as if I didn't belong anywhere yet. I put in my Freshman and -Sophomore years at Redmond two years ago. I've been in Europe ever -since. Now I've come back to finish my Arts course." - -"This is my Junior year, too," said Anne. - -"So we are classmates as well as collegemates. I am reconciled to the -loss of the years that the locust has eaten," said her companion, with a -world of meaning in those wonderful eyes of his. - -The rain came steadily down for the best part of an hour. But the time -seemed really very short. When the clouds parted and a burst of pale -November sunshine fell athwart the harbor and the pines Anne and her -companion walked home together. By the time they had reached the gate of -Patty's Place he had asked permission to call, and had received it. Anne -went in with cheeks of flame and her heart beating to her fingertips. -Rusty, who climbed into her lap and tried to kiss her, found a very -absent welcome. Anne, with her soul full of romantic thrills, had no -attention to spare just then for a crop-eared pussy cat. - -That evening a parcel was left at Patty's Place for Miss Shirley. It was -a box containing a dozen magnificent roses. Phil pounced impertinently -on the card that fell from it, read the name and the poetical quotation -written on the back. - -"Royal Gardner!" she exclaimed. "Why, Anne, I didn't know you were -acquainted with Roy Gardner!" - -"I met him in the park this afternoon in the rain," explained Anne -hurriedly. "My umbrella turned inside out and he came to my rescue with -his." - -"Oh!" Phil peered curiously at Anne. "And is that exceedingly -commonplace incident any reason why he should send us longstemmed roses -by the dozen, with a very sentimental rhyme? Or why we should blush -divinest rosy-red when we look at his card? Anne, thy face betrayeth -thee." - -"Don't talk nonsense, Phil. Do you know Mr. Gardner?" - -"I've met his two sisters, and I know of him. So does everybody -worthwhile in Kingsport. The Gardners are among the richest, bluest, -of Bluenoses. Roy is adorably handsome and clever. Two years ago his -mother's health failed and he had to leave college and go abroad with -her--his father is dead. He must have been greatly disappointed to have -to give up his class, but they say he was perfectly sweet about it. -Fee--fi--fo--fum, Anne. I smell romance. Almost do I envy you, but not -quite. After all, Roy Gardner isn't Jonas." - -"You goose!" said Anne loftily. But she lay long awake that night, nor -did she wish for sleep. Her waking fancies were more alluring than any -vision of dreamland. Had the real Prince come at last? Recalling those -glorious dark eyes which had gazed so deeply into her own, Anne was very -strongly inclined to think he had. - - - - -Chapter XXVI - -Enter Christine - - -The girls at Patty's Place were dressing for the reception which the -Juniors were giving for the Seniors in February. Anne surveyed herself -in the mirror of the blue room with girlish satisfaction. She had a -particularly pretty gown on. Originally it had been only a simple little -slip of cream silk with a chiffon overdress. But Phil had insisted on -taking it home with her in the Christmas holidays and embroidering tiny -rosebuds all over the chiffon. Phil's fingers were deft, and the result -was a dress which was the envy of every Redmond girl. Even Allie Boone, -whose frocks came from Paris, was wont to look with longing eyes on that -rosebud concoction as Anne trailed up the main staircase at Redmond in -it. - -Anne was trying the effect of a white orchid in her hair. Roy Gardner -had sent her white orchids for the reception, and she knew no other -Redmond girl would have them that night--when Phil came in with admiring -gaze. - -"Anne, this is certainly your night for looking handsome. Nine nights -out of ten I can easily outshine you. The tenth you blossom out suddenly -into something that eclipses me altogether. How do you manage it?" - -"It's the dress, dear. Fine feathers." - -"'Tisn't. The last evening you flamed out into beauty you wore your old -blue flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you. If Roy hadn't already -lost head and heart about you he certainly would tonight. But I don't -like orchids on you, Anne. No; it isn't jealousy. Orchids don't seem to -BELONG to you. They're too exotic--too tropical--too insolent. Don't put -them in your hair, anyway." - -"Well, I won't. I admit I'm not fond of orchids myself. I don't think -they're related to me. Roy doesn't often send them--he knows I like -flowers I can live with. Orchids are only things you can visit with." - -"Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the evening--but--he isn't -coming himself. He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting in the slums! I -don't believe he wanted to come. Anne, I'm horribly afraid Jonas doesn't -really care anything about me. And I'm trying to decide whether I'll -pine away and die, or go on and get my B.A. and be sensible and useful." - -"You couldn't possibly be sensible and useful, Phil, so you'd better -pine away and die," said Anne cruelly. - -"Heartless Anne!" - -"Silly Phil! You know quite well that Jonas loves you." - -"But--he won't TELL me so. And I can't MAKE him. He LOOKS it, I'll -admit. But speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes isn't a really reliable -reason for embroidering doilies and hemstitching tablecloths. I don't -want to begin such work until I'm really engaged. It would be tempting -Fate." - -"Mr. Blake is afraid to ask you to marry him, Phil. He is poor and can't -offer you a home such as you've always had. You know that is the only -reason he hasn't spoken long ago." - -"I suppose so," agreed Phil dolefully. "Well"--brightening up--"if he -WON'T ask me to marry him I'll ask him, that's all. So it's bound to -come right. I won't worry. By the way, Gilbert Blythe is going about -constantly with Christine Stuart. Did you know?" - -Anne was trying to fasten a little gold chain about her throat. She -suddenly found the clasp difficult to manage. WHAT was the matter with -it--or with her fingers? - -"No," she said carelessly. "Who is Christine Stuart?" - -"Ronald Stuart's sister. She's in Kingsport this winter studying music. -I haven't seen her, but they say she's very pretty and that Gilbert is -quite crazy over her. How angry I was when you refused Gilbert, Anne. -But Roy Gardner was foreordained for you. I can see that now. You were -right, after all." - -Anne did not blush, as she usually did when the girls assumed that her -eventual marriage to Roy Gardner was a settled thing. All at once she -felt rather dull. Phil's chatter seemed trivial and the reception a -bore. She boxed poor Rusty's ears. - -"Get off that cushion instantly, you cat, you! Why don't you stay down -where you belong?" - -Anne picked up her orchids and went downstairs, where Aunt Jamesina was -presiding over a row of coats hung before the fire to warm. Roy Gardner -was waiting for Anne and teasing the Sarah-cat while he waited. The -Sarah-cat did not approve of him. She always turned her back on him. -But everybody else at Patty's Place liked him very much. Aunt Jamesina, -carried away by his unfailing and deferential courtesy, and the pleading -tones of his delightful voice, declared he was the nicest young man she -ever knew, and that Anne was a very fortunate girl. Such remarks made -Anne restive. Roy's wooing had certainly been as romantic as girlish -heart could desire, but--she wished Aunt Jamesina and the girls would -not take things so for granted. When Roy murmured a poetical compliment -as he helped her on with her coat, she did not blush and thrill as -usual; and he found her rather silent in their brief walk to Redmond. -He thought she looked a little pale when she came out of the coeds' -dressing room; but as they entered the reception room her color and -sparkle suddenly returned to her. She turned to Roy with her gayest -expression. He smiled back at her with what Phil called "his deep, -black, velvety smile." Yet she really did not see Roy at all. She was -acutely conscious that Gilbert was standing under the palms just across -the room talking to a girl who must be Christine Stuart. - -She was very handsome, in the stately style destined to become rather -massive in middle life. A tall girl, with large dark-blue eyes, ivory -outlines, and a gloss of darkness on her smooth hair. - -"She looks just as I've always wanted to look," thought Anne miserably. -"Rose-leaf complexion--starry violet eyes--raven hair--yes, she has them -all. It's a wonder her name isn't Cordelia Fitzgerald into the bargain! -But I don't believe her figure is as good as mine, and her nose -certainly isn't." - -Anne felt a little comforted by this conclusion. - - - - -Chapter XXVII - -Mutual Confidences - - -March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, -bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed -by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of -moonshine. - -Over the girls at Patty's Place was falling the shadow of April -examinations. They were studying hard; even Phil had settled down to -text and notebooks with a doggedness not to be expected of her. - -"I'm going to take the Johnson Scholarship in Mathematics," she -announced calmly. "I could take the one in Greek easily, but I'd rather -take the mathematical one because I want to prove to Jonas that I'm -really enormously clever." - -"Jonas likes you better for your big brown eyes and your crooked smile -than for all the brains you carry under your curls," said Anne. - -"When I was a girl it wasn't considered lady-like to know anything about -Mathematics," said Aunt Jamesina. "But times have changed. I don't know -that it's all for the better. Can you cook, Phil?" - -"No, I never cooked anything in my life except a gingerbread and it was -a failure--flat in the middle and hilly round the edges. You know the -kind. But, Aunty, when I begin in good earnest to learn to cook don't -you think the brains that enable me to win a mathematical scholarship -will also enable me to learn cooking just as well?" - -"Maybe," said Aunt Jamesina cautiously. "I am not decrying the higher -education of women. My daughter is an M.A. She can cook, too. But -I taught her to cook BEFORE I let a college professor teach her -Mathematics." - -In mid-March came a letter from Miss Patty Spofford, saying that she and -Miss Maria had decided to remain abroad for another year. - -"So you may have Patty's Place next winter, too," she wrote. "Maria and -I are going to run over Egypt. I want to see the Sphinx once before I -die." - -"Fancy those two dames 'running over Egypt'! I wonder if they'll look up -at the Sphinx and knit," laughed Priscilla. - -"I'm so glad we can keep Patty's Place for another year," said Stella. -"I was afraid they'd come back. And then our jolly little nest here -would be broken up--and we poor callow nestlings thrown out on the cruel -world of boardinghouses again." - -"I'm off for a tramp in the park," announced Phil, tossing her book -aside. "I think when I am eighty I'll be glad I went for a walk in the -park tonight." - -"What do you mean?" asked Anne. - -"Come with me and I'll tell you, honey." - -They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March -evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, brooding -silence--a silence which was yet threaded through with many little -silvery sounds which you could hear if you hearkened as much with your -soul as your ears. The girls wandered down a long pineland aisle that -seemed to lead right out into the heart of a deep-red, overflowing -winter sunset. - -"I'd go home and write a poem this blessed minute if I only knew how," -declared Phil, pausing in an open space where a rosy light was staining -the green tips of the pines. "It's all so wonderful here--this great, -white stillness, and those dark trees that always seem to be thinking." - -"'The woods were God's first temples,'" quoted Anne softly. "One can't -help feeling reverent and adoring in such a place. I always feel so near -Him when I walk among the pines." - -"Anne, I'm the happiest girl in the world," confessed Phil suddenly. - -"So Mr. Blake has asked you to marry him at last?" said Anne calmly. - -"Yes. And I sneezed three times while he was asking me. Wasn't that -horrid? But I said 'yes' almost before he finished--I was so afraid he -might change his mind and stop. I'm besottedly happy. I couldn't really -believe before that Jonas would ever care for frivolous me." - -"Phil, you're not really frivolous," said Anne gravely. "'Way down -underneath that frivolous exterior of yours you've got a dear, loyal, -womanly little soul. Why do you hide it so?" - -"I can't help it, Queen Anne. You are right--I'm not frivolous at heart. -But there's a sort of frivolous skin over my soul and I can't take it -off. As Mrs. Poyser says, I'd have to be hatched over again and hatched -different before I could change it. But Jonas knows the real me and -loves me, frivolity and all. And I love him. I never was so surprised -in my life as I was when I found out I loved him. I'd never thought it -possible to fall in love with an ugly man. Fancy me coming down to one -solitary beau. And one named Jonas! But I mean to call him Jo. That's -such a nice, crisp little name. I couldn't nickname Alonzo." - -"What about Alec and Alonzo?" - -"Oh, I told them at Christmas that I never could marry either of them. -It seems so funny now to remember that I ever thought it possible that I -might. They felt so badly I just cried over both of them--howled. But I -knew there was only one man in the world I could ever marry. I had made -up my own mind for once and it was real easy, too. It's very delightful -to feel so sure, and know it's your own sureness and not somebody -else's." - -"Do you suppose you'll be able to keep it up?" - -"Making up my mind, you mean? I don't know, but Jo has given me a -splendid rule. He says, when I'm perplexed, just to do what I would -wish I had done when I shall be eighty. Anyhow, Jo can make up his mind -quickly enough, and it would be uncomfortable to have too much mind in -the same house." - -"What will your father and mother say?" - -"Father won't say much. He thinks everything I do right. But mother WILL -talk. Oh, her tongue will be as Byrney as her nose. But in the end it -will be all right." - -"You'll have to give up a good many things you've always had, when you -marry Mr. Blake, Phil." - -"But I'll have HIM. I won't miss the other things. We're to be married -a year from next June. Jo graduates from St. Columbia this spring, you -know. Then he's going to take a little mission church down on Patterson -Street in the slums. Fancy me in the slums! But I'd go there or to -Greenland's icy mountains with him." - -"And this is the girl who would NEVER marry a man who wasn't rich," -commented Anne to a young pine tree. - -"Oh, don't cast up the follies of my youth to me. I shall be poor as -gaily as I've been rich. You'll see. I'm going to learn how to cook -and make over dresses. I've learned how to market since I've lived -at Patty's Place; and once I taught a Sunday School class for a whole -summer. Aunt Jamesina says I'll ruin Jo's career if I marry him. But -I won't. I know I haven't much sense or sobriety, but I've got what is -ever so much better--the knack of making people like me. There is a -man in Bolingbroke who lisps and always testifies in prayer-meeting. -He says, 'If you can't thine like an electric thtar thine like a -candlethtick.' I'll be Jo's little candlestick." - -"Phil, you're incorrigible. Well, I love you so much that I can't make -nice, light, congratulatory little speeches. But I'm heart-glad of your -happiness." - -"I know. Those big gray eyes of yours are brimming over with real -friendship, Anne. Some day I'll look the same way at you. You're going -to marry Roy, aren't you, Anne?" - -"My dear Philippa, did you ever hear of the famous Betty Baxter, who -'refused a man before he'd axed her'? I am not going to emulate that -celebrated lady by either refusing or accepting any one before he 'axes' -me." - -"All Redmond knows that Roy is crazy about you," said Phil candidly. -"And you DO love him, don't you, Anne?" - -"I--I suppose so," said Anne reluctantly. She felt that she ought to be -blushing while making such a confession; but she was not; on the other -hand, she always blushed hotly when any one said anything about Gilbert -Blythe or Christine Stuart in her hearing. Gilbert Blythe and Christine -Stuart were nothing to her--absolutely nothing. But Anne had given up -trying to analyze the reason of her blushes. As for Roy, of course she -was in love with him--madly so. How could she help it? Was he not her -ideal? Who could resist those glorious dark eyes, and that pleading -voice? Were not half the Redmond girls wildly envious? And what a -charming sonnet he had sent her, with a box of violets, on her birthday! -Anne knew every word of it by heart. It was very good stuff of its kind, -too. Not exactly up to the level of Keats or Shakespeare--even Anne -was not so deeply in love as to think that. But it was very tolerable -magazine verse. And it was addressed to HER--not to Laura or Beatrice or -the Maid of Athens, but to her, Anne Shirley. To be told in rhythmical -cadences that her eyes were stars of the morning--that her cheek had -the flush it stole from the sunrise--that her lips were redder than the -roses of Paradise, was thrillingly romantic. Gilbert would never have -dreamed of writing a sonnet to her eyebrows. But then, Gilbert could -see a joke. She had once told Roy a funny story--and he had not seen -the point of it. She recalled the chummy laugh she and Gilbert had had -together over it, and wondered uneasily if life with a man who had no -sense of humor might not be somewhat uninteresting in the long run. But -who could expect a melancholy, inscrutable hero to see the humorous side -of things? It would be flatly unreasonable. - - - - -Chapter XXVIII - -A June Evening - - -"I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always -June," said Anne, as she came through the spice and bloom of the twilit -orchard to the front door steps, where Marilla and Mrs. Rachel were -sitting, talking over Mrs. Samson Coates' funeral, which they had -attended that day. Dora sat between them, diligently studying her -lessons; but Davy was sitting tailor-fashion on the grass, looking as -gloomy and depressed as his single dimple would let him. - -"You'd get tired of it," said Marilla, with a sigh. - -"I daresay; but just now I feel that it would take me a long time to get -tired of it, if it were all as charming as today. Everything loves June. -Davy-boy, why this melancholy November face in blossom-time?" - -"I'm just sick and tired of living," said the youthful pessimist. - -"At ten years? Dear me, how sad!" - -"I'm not making fun," said Davy with dignity. "I'm -dis--dis--discouraged"--bringing out the big word with a valiant effort. - -"Why and wherefore?" asked Anne, sitting down beside him. - -"'Cause the new teacher that come when Mr. Holmes got sick give me ten -sums to do for Monday. It'll take me all day tomorrow to do them. It -isn't fair to have to work Saturdays. Milty Boulter said he wouldn't do -them, but Marilla says I've got to. I don't like Miss Carson a bit." - -"Don't talk like that about your teacher, Davy Keith," said Mrs. Rachel -severely. "Miss Carson is a very fine girl. There is no nonsense about -her." - -"That doesn't sound very attractive," laughed Anne. "I like people to -have a little nonsense about them. But I'm inclined to have a better -opinion of Miss Carson than you have. I saw her in prayer-meeting last -night, and she has a pair of eyes that can't always look sensible. Now, -Davy-boy, take heart of grace. 'Tomorrow will bring another day' and -I'll help you with the sums as far as in me lies. Don't waste this -lovely hour 'twixt light and dark worrying over arithmetic." - -"Well, I won't," said Davy, brightening up. "If you help me with the -sums I'll have 'em done in time to go fishing with Milty. I wish old -Aunt Atossa's funeral was tomorrow instead of today. I wanted to go to -it 'cause Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa would be sure to rise -up in her coffin and say sarcastic things to the folks that come to see -her buried. But Marilla said she didn't." - -"Poor Atossa laid in her coffin peaceful enough," said Mrs. Lynde -solemnly. "I never saw her look so pleasant before, that's what. Well, -there weren't many tears shed over her, poor old soul. The Elisha -Wrights are thankful to be rid of her, and I can't say I blame them a -mite." - -"It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and not -leave one person behind you who is sorry you are gone," said Anne, -shuddering. - -"Nobody except her parents ever loved poor Atossa, that's certain, not -even her husband," averred Mrs. Lynde. "She was his fourth wife. He'd -sort of got into the habit of marrying. He only lived a few years after -he married her. The doctor said he died of dyspepsia, but I shall always -maintain that he died of Atossa's tongue, that's what. Poor soul, she -always knew everything about her neighbors, but she never was very well -acquainted with herself. Well, she's gone anyhow; and I suppose the next -excitement will be Diana's wedding." - -"It seems funny and horrible to think of Diana's being married," sighed -Anne, hugging her knees and looking through the gap in the Haunted Wood -to the light that was shining in Diana's room. - -"I don't see what's horrible about it, when she's doing so well," said -Mrs. Lynde emphatically. "Fred Wright has a fine farm and he is a model -young man." - -"He certainly isn't the wild, dashing, wicked, young man Diana once -wanted to marry," smiled Anne. "Fred is extremely good." - -"That's just what he ought to be. Would you want Diana to marry a wicked -man? Or marry one yourself?" - -"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to marry anybody who was wicked, but I think -I'd like it if he COULD be wicked and WOULDN'T. Now, Fred is HOPELESSLY -good." - -"You'll have more sense some day, I hope," said Marilla. - -Marilla spoke rather bitterly. She was grievously disappointed. She knew -Anne had refused Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea gossip buzzed over the fact, -which had leaked out, nobody knew how. Perhaps Charlie Sloane had -guessed and told his guesses for truth. Perhaps Diana had betrayed it -to Fred and Fred had been indiscreet. At all events it was known; Mrs. -Blythe no longer asked Anne, in public or private, if she had heard -lately from Gilbert, but passed her by with a frosty bow. Anne, who -had always liked Gilbert's merry, young-hearted mother, was grieved in -secret over this. Marilla said nothing; but Mrs. Lynde gave Anne many -exasperated digs about it, until fresh gossip reached that worthy lady, -through the medium of Moody Spurgeon MacPherson's mother, that Anne had -another "beau" at college, who was rich and handsome and good all in -one. After that Mrs. Rachel held her tongue, though she still wished in -her inmost heart that Anne had accepted Gilbert. Riches were all very -well; but even Mrs. Rachel, practical soul though she was, did not -consider them the one essential. If Anne "liked" the Handsome Unknown -better than Gilbert there was nothing more to be said; but Mrs. Rachel -was dreadfully afraid that Anne was going to make the mistake of -marrying for money. Marilla knew Anne too well to fear this; but she -felt that something in the universal scheme of things had gone sadly -awry. - -"What is to be, will be," said Mrs. Rachel gloomily, "and what isn't -to be happens sometimes. I can't help believing it's going to happen in -Anne's case, if Providence doesn't interfere, that's what." Mrs. Rachel -sighed. She was afraid Providence wouldn't interfere; and she didn't -dare to. - -Anne had wandered down to the Dryad's Bubble and was curled up among the -ferns at the root of the big white birch where she and Gilbert had so -often sat in summers gone by. He had gone into the newspaper office -again when college closed, and Avonlea seemed very dull without him. He -never wrote to her, and Anne missed the letters that never came. To be -sure, Roy wrote twice a week; his letters were exquisite compositions -which would have read beautifully in a memoir or biography. Anne felt -herself more deeply in love with him than ever when she read them; but -her heart never gave the queer, quick, painful bound at sight of his -letters which it had given one day when Mrs. Hiram Sloane had handed her -out an envelope addressed in Gilbert's black, upright handwriting. Anne -had hurried home to the east gable and opened it eagerly--to find a -typewritten copy of some college society report--"only that and nothing -more." Anne flung the harmless screed across her room and sat down to -write an especially nice epistle to Roy. - -Diana was to be married in five more days. The gray house at Orchard -Slope was in a turmoil of baking and brewing and boiling and stewing, -for there was to be a big, old-timey wedding. Anne, of course, was to -be bridesmaid, as had been arranged when they were twelve years old, and -Gilbert was coming from Kingsport to be best man. Anne was enjoying the -excitement of the various preparations, but under it all she carried a -little heartache. She was, in a sense, losing her dear old chum; Diana's -new home would be two miles from Green Gables, and the old constant -companionship could never be theirs again. Anne looked up at Diana's -light and thought how it had beaconed to her for many years; but soon it -would shine through the summer twilights no more. Two big, painful tears -welled up in her gray eyes. - -"Oh," she thought, "how horrible it is that people have to grow up--and -marry--and CHANGE!" - - - - -Chapter XXIX - -Diana's Wedding - - -"After all, the only real roses are the pink ones," said Anne, as she -tied white ribbon around Diana's bouquet in the westward-looking gable at -Orchard Slope. "They are the flowers of love and faith." - -Diana was standing nervously in the middle of the room, arrayed in her -bridal white, her black curls frosted over with the film of her wedding -veil. Anne had draped that veil, in accordance with the sentimental -compact of years before. - -"It's all pretty much as I used to imagine it long ago, when I wept over -your inevitable marriage and our consequent parting," she laughed. "You -are the bride of my dreams, Diana, with the 'lovely misty veil'; and -I am YOUR bridesmaid. But, alas! I haven't the puffed sleeves--though -these short lace ones are even prettier. Neither is my heart wholly -breaking nor do I exactly hate Fred." - -"We are not really parting, Anne," protested Diana. "I'm not going far -away. We'll love each other just as much as ever. We've always kept that -'oath' of friendship we swore long ago, haven't we?" - -"Yes. We've kept it faithfully. We've had a beautiful friendship, Diana. -We've never marred it by one quarrel or coolness or unkind word; and -I hope it will always be so. But things can't be quite the same after -this. You'll have other interests. I'll just be on the outside. But -'such is life' as Mrs. Rachel says. Mrs. Rachel has given you one of -her beloved knitted quilts of the 'tobacco stripe' pattern, and she says -when I am married she'll give me one, too." - -"The mean thing about your getting married is that I won't be able to be -your bridesmaid," lamented Diana. - -"I'm to be Phil's bridesmaid next June, when she marries Mr. Blake, and -then I must stop, for you know the proverb 'three times a bridesmaid, -never a bride,'" said Anne, peeping through the window over the pink -and snow of the blossoming orchard beneath. "Here comes the minister, -Diana." - -"Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, suddenly turning very pale and beginning to -tremble. "Oh, Anne--I'm so nervous--I can't go through with it--Anne, I -know I'm going to faint." - -"If you do I'll drag you down to the rainwater hogshed and drop you in," -said Anne unsympathetically. "Cheer up, dearest. Getting married can't -be so very terrible when so many people survive the ceremony. See how -cool and composed I am, and take courage." - -"Wait till your turn comes, Miss Anne. Oh, Anne, I hear father coming -upstairs. Give me my bouquet. Is my veil right? Am I very pale?" - -"You look just lovely. Di, darling, kiss me good-bye for the last time. -Diana Barry will never kiss me again." - -"Diana Wright will, though. There, mother's calling. Come." - -Following the simple, old-fashioned way in vogue then, Anne went down to -the parlor on Gilbert's arm. They met at the top of the stairs for the -first time since they had left Kingsport, for Gilbert had arrived only -that day. Gilbert shook hands courteously. He was looking very well, -though, as Anne instantly noted, rather thin. He was not pale; there was -a flush on his cheek that had burned into it as Anne came along the hall -towards him, in her soft, white dress with lilies-of-the-valley in the -shining masses of her hair. As they entered the crowded parlor together -a little murmur of admiration ran around the room. "What a fine-looking -pair they are," whispered the impressible Mrs. Rachel to Marilla. - -Fred ambled in alone, with a very red face, and then Diana swept in on -her father's arm. She did not faint, and nothing untoward occurred to -interrupt the ceremony. Feasting and merry-making followed; then, as the -evening waned, Fred and Diana drove away through the moonlight to their -new home, and Gilbert walked with Anne to Green Gables. - -Something of their old comradeship had returned during the informal -mirth of the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking over that well-known -road with Gilbert again! - -The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear the -whisper of roses in blossom--the laughter of daisies--the piping of -grasses--many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. The beauty of -moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world. - -"Can't we take a ramble up Lovers' Lane before you go in?" asked Gilbert -as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters, in which the -moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold. - -Anne assented readily. Lovers' Lane was a veritable path in a fairyland -that night--a shimmering, mysterious place, full of wizardry in the -white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had been a time when such -a walk with Gilbert through Lovers' Lane would have been far too -dangerous. But Roy and Christine had made it very safe now. Anne found -herself thinking a good deal about Christine as she chatted lightly to -Gilbert. She had met her several times before leaving Kingsport, and had -been charmingly sweet to her. Christine had also been charmingly -sweet. Indeed, they were a most cordial pair. But for all that, their -acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. Evidently Christine was -not a kindred spirit. - -"Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?" asked Gilbert. - -"No. I'm going down east to Valley Road next week. Esther Haythorne -wants me to teach for her through July and August. They have a summer -term in that school, and Esther isn't feeling well. So I'm going to -substitute for her. In one way I don't mind. Do you know, I'm beginning -to feel a little bit like a stranger in Avonlea now? It makes me -sorry--but it's true. It's quite appalling to see the number of -children who have shot up into big boys and girls--really young men and -women--these past two years. Half of my pupils are grown up. It makes me -feel awfully old to see them in the places you and I and our mates used -to fill." - -Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise--which -showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to go -back to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist -of hope and illusion, and possessed an indefinable something that had -passed away forever. Where was it now--the glory and the dream? - -"'So wags the world away,'" quoted Gilbert practically, and a trifle -absently. Anne wondered if he were thinking of Christine. Oh, Avonlea -was going to be so lonely now--with Diana gone! - - - - -Chapter XXX - -Mrs. Skinner's Romance - - -Anne stepped off the train at Valley Road station and looked about to -see if any one had come to meet her. She was to board with a certain -Miss Janet Sweet, but she saw no one who answered in the least to her -preconception of that lady, as formed from Esther's letter. The only -person in sight was an elderly woman, sitting in a wagon with mail bags -piled around her. Two hundred would have been a charitable guess at her -weight; her face was as round and red as a harvest-moon and almost -as featureless. She wore a tight, black, cashmere dress, made in the -fashion of ten years ago, a little dusty black straw hat trimmed with -bows of yellow ribbon, and faded black lace mits. - -"Here, you," she called, waving her whip at Anne. "Are you the new -Valley Road schoolma'am?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, I thought so. Valley Road is noted for its good-looking -schoolma'ams, just as Millersville is noted for its humly ones. Janet -Sweet asked me this morning if I could bring you out. I said, 'Sartin -I kin, if she don't mind being scrunched up some. This rig of mine's -kinder small for the mail bags and I'm some heftier than Thomas!' Just -wait, miss, till I shift these bags a bit and I'll tuck you in somehow. -It's only two miles to Janet's. Her next-door neighbor's hired boy is -coming for your trunk tonight. My name is Skinner--Amelia Skinner." - -Anne was eventually tucked in, exchanging amused smiles with herself -during the process. - -"Jog along, black mare," commanded Mrs. Skinner, gathering up the reins -in her pudgy hands. "This is my first trip on the mail rowte. Thomas -wanted to hoe his turnips today so he asked me to come. So I jest sot -down and took a standing-up snack and started. I sorter like it. O' -course it's rather tejus. Part of the time I sits and thinks and the -rest I jest sits. Jog along, black mare. I want to git home airly. -Thomas is terrible lonesome when I'm away. You see, we haven't been -married very long." - -"Oh!" said Anne politely. - -"Just a month. Thomas courted me for quite a spell, though. It was real -romantic." Anne tried to picture Mrs. Skinner on speaking terms with -romance and failed. - -"Oh?" she said again. - -"Yes. Y'see, there was another man after me. Jog along, black mare. I'd -been a widder so long folks had given up expecting me to marry again. -But when my darter--she's a schoolma'am like you--went out West to teach -I felt real lonesome and wasn't nowise sot against the idea. Bime-by -Thomas began to come up and so did the other feller--William Obadiah -Seaman, his name was. For a long time I couldn't make up my mind which -of them to take, and they kep' coming and coming, and I kep' worrying. -Y'see, W.O. was rich--he had a fine place and carried considerable -style. He was by far the best match. Jog along, black mare." - -"Why didn't you marry him?" asked Anne. - -"Well, y'see, he didn't love me," answered Mrs. Skinner, solemnly. - -Anne opened her eyes widely and looked at Mrs. Skinner. But there was -not a glint of humor on that lady's face. Evidently Mrs. Skinner saw -nothing amusing in her own case. - -"He'd been a widder-man for three yers, and his sister kept house for -him. Then she got married and he just wanted some one to look after his -house. It was worth looking after, too, mind you that. It's a handsome -house. Jog along, black mare. As for Thomas, he was poor, and if his -house didn't leak in dry weather it was about all that could be said for -it, though it looks kind of pictureaskew. But, y'see, I loved Thomas, -and I didn't care one red cent for W.O. So I argued it out with myself. -'Sarah Crowe,' say I--my first was a Crowe--'you can marry your rich man -if you like but you won't be happy. Folks can't get along together in -this world without a little bit of love. You'd just better tie up to -Thomas, for he loves you and you love him and nothing else ain't going -to do you.' Jog along, black mare. So I told Thomas I'd take him. All -the time I was getting ready I never dared drive past W.O.'s place for -fear the sight of that fine house of his would put me in the swithers -again. But now I never think of it at all, and I'm just that comfortable -and happy with Thomas. Jog along, black mare." - -"How did William Obadiah take it?" queried Anne. - -"Oh, he rumpussed a bit. But he's going to see a skinny old maid in -Millersville now, and I guess she'll take him fast enough. She'll make -him a better wife than his first did. W.O. never wanted to marry her. -He just asked her to marry him 'cause his father wanted him to, never -dreaming but that she'd say 'no.' But mind you, she said 'yes.' There -was a predicament for you. Jog along, black mare. She was a great -housekeeper, but most awful mean. She wore the same bonnet for eighteen -years. Then she got a new one and W.O. met her on the road and didn't -know her. Jog along, black mare. I feel that I'd a narrer escape. I -might have married him and been most awful miserable, like my poor -cousin, Jane Ann. Jane Ann married a rich man she didn't care anything -about, and she hasn't the life of a dog. She come to see me last week -and says, says she, 'Sarah Skinner, I envy you. I'd rather live in a -little hut on the side of the road with a man I was fond of than in my -big house with the one I've got.' Jane Ann's man ain't such a bad sort, -nuther, though he's so contrary that he wears his fur coat when the -thermometer's at ninety. The only way to git him to do anything is to -coax him to do the opposite. But there ain't any love to smooth things -down and it's a poor way of living. Jog along, black mare. There's -Janet's place in the hollow--'Wayside,' she calls it. Quite -pictureaskew, ain't it? I guess you'll be glad to git out of this, with -all them mail bags jamming round you." - -"Yes, but I have enjoyed my drive with you very much," said Anne -sincerely. - -"Git away now!" said Mrs. Skinner, highly flattered. "Wait till I tell -Thomas that. He always feels dretful tickled when I git a compliment. -Jog along, black mare. Well, here we are. I hope you'll git on well in -the school, miss. There's a short cut to it through the ma'sh back of -Janet's. If you take that way be awful keerful. If you once got stuck in -that black mud you'd be sucked right down and never seen or heard tell -of again till the day of judgment, like Adam Palmer's cow. Jog along, -black mare." - - - -Chapter XXXI - -Anne to Philippa - - -"Anne Shirley to Philippa Gordon, greeting. - -"Well-beloved, it's high time I was writing you. Here am I, installed -once more as a country 'schoolma'am' at Valley Road, boarding at -'Wayside,' the home of Miss Janet Sweet. Janet is a dear soul and very -nicelooking; tall, but not over-tall; stoutish, yet with a certain -restraint of outline suggestive of a thrifty soul who is not going to -be overlavish even in the matter of avoirdupois. She has a knot of soft, -crimpy, brown hair with a thread of gray in it, a sunny face with rosy -cheeks, and big, kind eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Moreover, she is -one of those delightful, old-fashioned cooks who don't care a bit if -they ruin your digestion as long as they can give you feasts of fat -things. - -"I like her; and she likes me--principally, it seems, because she had a -sister named Anne who died young. - -"'I'm real glad to see you,' she said briskly, when I landed in her -yard. 'My, you don't look a mite like I expected. I was sure you'd be -dark--my sister Anne was dark. And here you're redheaded!' - -"For a few minutes I thought I wasn't going to like Janet as much as I -had expected at first sight. Then I reminded myself that I really must -be more sensible than to be prejudiced against any one simply because -she called my hair red. Probably the word 'auburn' was not in Janet's -vocabulary at all. - -"'Wayside' is a dear sort of little spot. The house is small and white, -set down in a delightful little hollow that drops away from the road. -Between road and house is an orchard and flower-garden all mixed -up together. The front door walk is bordered with quahog -clam-shells--'cow-hawks,' Janet calls them; there is Virginia Creeper -over the porch and moss on the roof. My room is a neat little spot 'off -the parlor'--just big enough for the bed and me. Over the head of my -bed there is a picture of Robby Burns standing at Highland Mary's -grave, shadowed by an enormous weeping willow tree. Robby's face is so -lugubrious that it is no wonder I have bad dreams. Why, the first night -I was here I dreamed I COULDN'T LAUGH. - -"The parlor is tiny and neat. Its one window is so shaded by a huge -willow that the room has a grotto-like effect of emerald gloom. There -are wonderful tidies on the chairs, and gay mats on the floor, and books -and cards carefully arranged on a round table, and vases of dried grass -on the mantel-piece. Between the vases is a cheerful decoration of -preserved coffin plates--five in all, pertaining respectively to Janet's -father and mother, a brother, her sister Anne, and a hired man who died -here once! If I go suddenly insane some of these days 'know all men by -these presents' that those coffin-plates have caused it. - -"But it's all delightful and I said so. Janet loved me for it, just -as she detested poor Esther because Esther had said so much shade was -unhygienic and had objected to sleeping on a feather bed. Now, I glory -in feather-beds, and the more unhygienic and feathery they are the more -I glory. Janet says it is such a comfort to see me eat; she had been -so afraid I would be like Miss Haythorne, who wouldn't eat anything but -fruit and hot water for breakfast and tried to make Janet give up frying -things. Esther is really a dear girl, but she is rather given to fads. -The trouble is that she hasn't enough imagination and HAS a tendency to -indigestion. - -"Janet told me I could have the use of the parlor when any young men -called! I don't think there are many to call. I haven't seen a young man -in Valley Road yet, except the next-door hired boy--Sam Toliver, a very -tall, lank, tow-haired youth. He came over one evening recently and sat -for an hour on the garden fence, near the front porch where Janet and I -were doing fancy-work. The only remarks he volunteered in all that -time were, 'Hev a peppermint, miss! Dew now-fine thing for carARRH, -peppermints,' and, 'Powerful lot o' jump-grasses round here ternight. -Yep.' - -"But there is a love affair going on here. It seems to be my fortune to -be mixed up, more or less actively, with elderly love affairs. Mr. and -Mrs. Irving always say that I brought about their marriage. Mrs. Stephen -Clark of Carmody persists in being most grateful to me for a suggestion -which somebody else would probably have made if I hadn't. I do really -think, though, that Ludovic Speed would never have got any further along -than placid courtship if I had not helped him and Theodora Dix out. - -"In the present affair I am only a passive spectator. I've tried once -to help things along and made an awful mess of it. So I shall not meddle -again. I'll tell you all about it when we meet." - - - - -Chapter XXXII - -Tea with Mrs. Douglas - - -On the first Thursday night of Anne's sojourn in Valley Road Janet asked -her to go to prayer-meeting. Janet blossomed out like a rose to attend -that prayer-meeting. She wore a pale-blue, pansy-sprinkled muslin dress -with more ruffles than one would ever have supposed economical Janet -could be guilty of, and a white leghorn hat with pink roses and three -ostrich feathers on it. Anne felt quite amazed. Later on, she found out -Janet's motive in so arraying herself--a motive as old as Eden. - -Valley Road prayer-meetings seemed to be essentially feminine. There -were thirty-two women present, two half-grown boys, and one solitary -man, beside the minister. Anne found herself studying this man. He was -not handsome or young or graceful; he had remarkably long legs--so -long that he had to keep them coiled up under his chair to dispose of -them--and he was stoop-shouldered. His hands were big, his hair wanted -barbering, and his moustache was unkempt. But Anne thought she liked his -face; it was kind and honest and tender; there was something else in it, -too--just what, Anne found it hard to define. She finally concluded that -this man had suffered and been strong, and it had been made manifest -in his face. There was a sort of patient, humorous endurance in his -expression which indicated that he would go to the stake if need be, but -would keep on looking pleasant until he really had to begin squirming. - -When prayer-meeting was over this man came up to Janet and said, - -"May I see you home, Janet?" - -Janet took his arm--"as primly and shyly as if she were no more than -sixteen, having her first escort home," Anne told the girls at Patty's -Place later on. - -"Miss Shirley, permit me to introduce Mr. Douglas," she said stiffly. - -Mr. Douglas nodded and said, "I was looking at you in prayer-meeting, -miss, and thinking what a nice little girl you were." - -Such a speech from ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have -annoyed Anne bitterly; but the way in which Mr. Douglas said it made -her feel that she had received a very real and pleasing compliment. -She smiled appreciatively at him and dropped obligingly behind on the -moonlit road. - -So Janet had a beau! Anne was delighted. Janet would make a paragon of a -wife--cheery, economical, tolerant, and a very queen of cooks. It would -be a flagrant waste on Nature's part to keep her a permanent old maid. - -"John Douglas asked me to take you up to see his mother," said Janet -the next day. "She's bed-rid a lot of the time and never goes out of -the house. But she's powerful fond of company and always wants to see my -boarders. Can you go up this evening?" - -Anne assented; but later in the day Mr. Douglas called on his mother's -behalf to invite them up to tea on Saturday evening. - -"Oh, why didn't you put on your pretty pansy dress?" asked Anne, when -they left home. It was a hot day, and poor Janet, between her excitement -and her heavy black cashmere dress, looked as if she were being broiled -alive. - -"Old Mrs. Douglas would think it terrible frivolous and unsuitable, I'm -afraid. John likes that dress, though," she added wistfully. - -The old Douglas homestead was half a mile from "Wayside" cresting a -windy hill. The house itself was large and comfortable, old enough to be -dignified, and girdled with maple groves and orchards. There were big, -trim barns behind it, and everything bespoke prosperity. Whatever the -patient endurance in Mr. Douglas' face had meant it hadn't, so Anne -reflected, meant debts and duns. - -John Douglas met them at the door and took them into the sitting-room, -where his mother was enthroned in an armchair. - -Anne had expected old Mrs. Douglas to be tall and thin, because Mr. -Douglas was. Instead, she was a tiny scrap of a woman, with soft -pink cheeks, mild blue eyes, and a mouth like a baby's. Dressed in a -beautiful, fashionably-made black silk dress, with a fluffy white shawl -over her shoulders, and her snowy hair surmounted by a dainty lace cap, -she might have posed as a grandmother doll. - -"How do you do, Janet dear?" she said sweetly. "I am so glad to see you -again, dear." She put up her pretty old face to be kissed. "And this is -our new teacher. I'm delighted to meet you. My son has been singing your -praises until I'm half jealous, and I'm sure Janet ought to be wholly -so." - -Poor Janet blushed, Anne said something polite and conventional, and -then everybody sat down and made talk. It was hard work, even for Anne, -for nobody seemed at ease except old Mrs. Douglas, who certainly did not -find any difficulty in talking. She made Janet sit by her and -stroked her hand occasionally. Janet sat and smiled, looking horribly -uncomfortable in her hideous dress, and John Douglas sat without -smiling. - -At the tea table Mrs. Douglas gracefully asked Janet to pour the tea. -Janet turned redder than ever but did it. Anne wrote a description of -that meal to Stella. - -"We had cold tongue and chicken and strawberry preserves, lemon pie and -tarts and chocolate cake and raisin cookies and pound cake and fruit -cake--and a few other things, including more pie--caramel pie, I think -it was. After I had eaten twice as much as was good for me, Mrs. Douglas -sighed and said she feared she had nothing to tempt my appetite. - -"'I'm afraid dear Janet's cooking has spoiled you for any other,' she -said sweetly. 'Of course nobody in Valley Road aspires to rival HER. -WON'T you have another piece of pie, Miss Shirley? You haven't eaten -ANYTHING.' - -"Stella, I had eaten a helping of tongue and one of chicken, three -biscuits, a generous allowance of preserves, a piece of pie, a tart, and -a square of chocolate cake!" - -After tea Mrs. Douglas smiled benevolently and told John to take "dear -Janet" out into the garden and get her some roses. "Miss Shirley will -keep me company while you are out--won't you?" she said plaintively. She -settled down in her armchair with a sigh. - -"I am a very frail old woman, Miss Shirley. For over twenty years I've -been a great sufferer. For twenty long, weary years I've been dying by -inches." - -"How painful!" said Anne, trying to be sympathetic and succeeding only -in feeling idiotic. - -"There have been scores of nights when they've thought I could never -live to see the dawn," went on Mrs. Douglas solemnly. "Nobody knows what -I've gone through--nobody can know but myself. Well, it can't last very -much longer now. My weary pilgrimage will soon be over, Miss Shirley. -It is a great comfort to me that John will have such a good wife to look -after him when his mother is gone--a great comfort, Miss Shirley." - -"Janet is a lovely woman," said Anne warmly. - -"Lovely! A beautiful character," assented Mrs. Douglas. "And a perfect -housekeeper--something I never was. My health would not permit it, Miss -Shirley. I am indeed thankful that John has made such a wise choice. I -hope and believe that he will be happy. He is my only son, Miss Shirley, -and his happiness lies very near my heart." - -"Of course," said Anne stupidly. For the first time in her life she was -stupid. Yet she could not imagine why. She seemed to have absolutely -nothing to say to this sweet, smiling, angelic old lady who was patting -her hand so kindly. - -"Come and see me soon again, dear Janet," said Mrs. Douglas lovingly, -when they left. "You don't come half often enough. But then I suppose -John will be bringing you here to stay all the time one of these days." -Anne, happening to glance at John Douglas, as his mother spoke, gave a -positive start of dismay. He looked as a tortured man might look when -his tormentors gave the rack the last turn of possible endurance. She -felt sure he must be ill and hurried poor blushing Janet away. - -"Isn't old Mrs. Douglas a sweet woman?" asked Janet, as they went down -the road. - -"M--m," answered Anne absently. She was wondering why John Douglas had -looked so. - -"She's been a terrible sufferer," said Janet feelingly. "She takes -terrible spells. It keeps John all worried up. He's scared to leave home -for fear his mother will take a spell and nobody there but the hired -girl." - - - - -Chapter XXXIII - -"He Just Kept Coming and Coming" - - -Three days later Anne came home from school and found Janet crying. -Tears and Janet seemed so incongruous that Anne was honestly alarmed. - -"Oh, what is the matter?" she cried anxiously. - -"I'm--I'm forty today," sobbed Janet. - -"Well, you were nearly that yesterday and it didn't hurt," comforted -Anne, trying not to smile. - -"But--but," went on Janet with a big gulp, "John Douglas won't ask me to -marry him." - -"Oh, but he will," said Anne lamely. "You must give him time, Janet - -"Time!" said Janet with indescribable scorn. "He has had twenty years. -How much time does he want?" - -"Do you mean that John Douglas has been coming to see you for twenty -years?" - -"He has. And he has never so much as mentioned marriage to me. And I -don't believe he ever will now. I've never said a word to a mortal about -it, but it seems to me I've just got to talk it out with some one at -last or go crazy. John Douglas begun to go with me twenty years ago, -before mother died. Well, he kept coming and coming, and after a spell I -begun making quilts and things; but he never said anything about getting -married, only just kept coming and coming. There wasn't anything I could -do. Mother died when we'd been going together for eight years. I thought -he maybe would speak out then, seeing as I was left alone in the world. -He was real kind and feeling, and did everything he could for me, but -he never said marry. And that's the way it has been going on ever since. -People blame ME for it. They say I won't marry him because his mother is -so sickly and I don't want the bother of waiting on her. Why, I'd LOVE -to wait on John's mother! But I let them think so. I'd rather they'd -blame me than pity me! It's so dreadful humiliating that John won't ask -me. And WHY won't he? Seems to me if I only knew his reason I wouldn't -mind it so much." - -"Perhaps his mother doesn't want him to marry anybody," suggested Anne. - -"Oh, she does. She's told me time and again that she'd love to see John -settled before her time comes. She's always giving him hints--you heard -her yourself the other day. I thought I'd ha' gone through the floor." - -"It's beyond me," said Anne helplessly. She thought of Ludovic Speed. -But the cases were not parallel. John Douglas was not a man of Ludovic's -type. - -"You should show more spirit, Janet," she went on resolutely. "Why -didn't you send him about his business long ago?" - -"I couldn't," said poor Janet pathetically. "You see, Anne, I've always -been awful fond of John. He might just as well keep coming as not, for -there was never anybody else I'd want, so it didn't matter." - -"But it might have made him speak out like a man," urged Anne. - -Janet shook her head. - -"No, I guess not. I was afraid to try, anyway, for fear he'd think I -meant it and just go. I suppose I'm a poor-spirited creature, but that -is how I feel. And I can't help it." - -"Oh, you COULD help it, Janet. It isn't too late yet. Take a firm stand. -Let that man know you are not going to endure his shillyshallying any -longer. I'LL back you up." - -"I dunno," said Janet hopelessly. "I dunno if I could ever get up enough -spunk. Things have drifted so long. But I'll think it over." - -Anne felt that she was disappointed in John Douglas. She had liked him -so well, and she had not thought him the sort of man who would play fast -and loose with a woman's feelings for twenty years. He certainly should -be taught a lesson, and Anne felt vindictively that she would enjoy -seeing the process. Therefore she was delighted when Janet told her, as -they were going to prayer-meeting the next night, that she meant to show -some "sperrit." - -"I'll let John Douglas see I'm not going to be trodden on any longer." - -"You are perfectly right," said Anne emphatically. - -When prayer-meeting was over John Douglas came up with his usual -request. Janet looked frightened but resolute. - -"No, thank you," she said icily. "I know the road home pretty well -alone. I ought to, seeing I've been traveling it for forty years. So you -needn't trouble yourself, MR. Douglas." - -Anne was looking at John Douglas; and, in that brilliant moonlight, -she saw the last twist of the rack again. Without a word he turned and -strode down the road. - -"Stop! Stop!" Anne called wildly after him, not caring in the least for -the other dumbfounded onlookers. "Mr. Douglas, stop! Come back." - -John Douglas stopped but he did not come back. Anne flew down the road, -caught his arm and fairly dragged him back to Janet. - -"You must come back," she said imploringly. "It's all a mistake, Mr. -Douglas--all my fault. I made Janet do it. She didn't want to--but it's -all right now, isn't it, Janet?" - -Without a word Janet took his arm and walked away. Anne followed them -meekly home and slipped in by the back door. - -"Well, you are a nice person to back me up," said Janet sarcastically. - -"I couldn't help it, Janet," said Anne repentantly. "I just felt as if I -had stood by and seen murder done. I HAD to run after him." - -"Oh, I'm just as glad you did. When I saw John Douglas making off down -that road I just felt as if every little bit of joy and happiness that -was left in my life was going with him. It was an awful feeling." - -"Did he ask you why you did it?" asked Anne. - -"No, he never said a word about it," replied Janet dully. - - - - -Chapter XXXIV - -John Douglas Speaks at Last - - -Anne was not without a feeble hope that something might come of it after -all. But nothing did. John Douglas came and took Janet driving, and -walked home from prayer-meeting with her, as he had been doing for -twenty years, and as he seemed likely to do for twenty years more. The -summer waned. Anne taught her school and wrote letters and studied a -little. Her walks to and from school were pleasant. She always went by -way of the swamp; it was a lovely place--a boggy soil, green with the -greenest of mossy hillocks; a silvery brook meandered through it and -spruces stood erectly, their boughs a-trail with gray-green mosses, -their roots overgrown with all sorts of woodland lovelinesses. - -Nevertheless, Anne found life in Valley Road a little monotonous. To be -sure, there was one diverting incident. - -She had not seen the lank, tow-headed Samuel of the peppermints since -the evening of his call, save for chance meetings on the road. But one -warm August night he appeared, and solemnly seated himself on the rustic -bench by the porch. He wore his usual working habiliments, consisting of -varipatched trousers, a blue jean shirt, out at the elbows, and a ragged -straw hat. He was chewing a straw and he kept on chewing it while he -looked solemnly at Anne. Anne laid her book aside with a sigh and took -up her doily. Conversation with Sam was really out of the question. - -After a long silence Sam suddenly spoke. - -"I'm leaving over there," he said abruptly, waving his straw in the -direction of the neighboring house. - -"Oh, are you?" said Anne politely. - -"Yep." - -"And where are you going now?" - -"Wall, I've been thinking some of gitting a place of my own. There's -one that'd suit me over at Millersville. But ef I rents it I'll want a -woman." - -"I suppose so," said Anne vaguely. - -"Yep." - -There was another long silence. Finally Sam removed his straw again and -said, - -"Will yeh hev me?" - -"Wh--a--t!" gasped Anne. - -"Will yeh hev me?" - -"Do you mean--MARRY you?" queried poor Anne feebly. - -"Yep." - -"Why, I'm hardly acquainted with you," cried Anne indignantly. - -"But yeh'd git acquainted with me after we was married," said Sam. - -Anne gathered up her poor dignity. - -"Certainly I won't marry you," she said haughtily. - -"Wall, yeh might do worse," expostulated Sam. "I'm a good worker and -I've got some money in the bank." - -"Don't speak of this to me again. Whatever put such an idea into your -head?" said Anne, her sense of humor getting the better of her wrath. It -was such an absurd situation. - -"Yeh're a likely-looking girl and hev a right-smart way o' stepping," -said Sam. "I don't want no lazy woman. Think it over. I won't change my -mind yit awhile. Wall, I must be gitting. Gotter milk the cows." - -Anne's illusions concerning proposals had suffered so much of late years -that there were few of them left. So she could laugh wholeheartedly over -this one, not feeling any secret sting. She mimicked poor Sam to Janet -that night, and both of them laughed immoderately over his plunge into -sentiment. - -One afternoon, when Anne's sojourn in Valley Road was drawing to a -close, Alec Ward came driving down to "Wayside" in hot haste for Janet. - -"They want you at the Douglas place quick," he said. "I really believe -old Mrs. Douglas is going to die at last, after pretending to do it for -twenty years." - -Janet ran to get her hat. Anne asked if Mrs. Douglas was worse than -usual. - -"She's not half as bad," said Alec solemnly, "and that's what makes me -think it's serious. Other times she'd be screaming and throwing herself -all over the place. This time she's lying still and mum. When Mrs. -Douglas is mum she is pretty sick, you bet." - -"You don't like old Mrs. Douglas?" said Anne curiously. - -"I like cats as IS cats. I don't like cats as is women," was Alec's -cryptic reply. - -Janet came home in the twilight. - -"Mrs. Douglas is dead," she said wearily. "She died soon after I got -there. She just spoke to me once--'I suppose you'll marry John now?' she -said. It cut me to the heart, Anne. To think John's own mother thought -I wouldn't marry him because of her! I couldn't say a word either--there -were other women there. I was thankful John had gone out." - -Janet began to cry drearily. But Anne brewed her a hot drink of ginger -tea to her comforting. To be sure, Anne discovered later on that she -had used white pepper instead of ginger; but Janet never knew the -difference. - -The evening after the funeral Janet and Anne were sitting on the front -porch steps at sunset. The wind had fallen asleep in the pinelands and -lurid sheets of heat-lightning flickered across the northern skies. -Janet wore her ugly black dress and looked her very worst, her eyes and -nose red from crying. They talked little, for Janet seemed faintly -to resent Anne's efforts to cheer her up. She plainly preferred to be -miserable. - -Suddenly the gate-latch clicked and John Douglas strode into the garden. -He walked towards them straight over the geranium bed. Janet stood -up. So did Anne. Anne was a tall girl and wore a white dress; but John -Douglas did not see her. - -"Janet," he said, "will you marry me?" - -The words burst out as if they had been wanting to be said for twenty -years and MUST be uttered now, before anything else. - -Janet's face was so red from crying that it couldn't turn any redder, so -it turned a most unbecoming purple. - -"Why didn't you ask me before?" she said slowly. - -"I couldn't. She made me promise not to--mother made me promise not to. -Nineteen years ago she took a terrible spell. We thought she couldn't -live through it. She implored me to promise not to ask you to marry me -while she was alive. I didn't want to promise such a thing, even though -we all thought she couldn't live very long--the doctor only gave her -six months. But she begged it on her knees, sick and suffering. I had to -promise." - -"What had your mother against me?" cried Janet. - -"Nothing--nothing. She just didn't want another woman--ANY woman--there -while she was living. She said if I didn't promise she'd die right -there and I'd have killed her. So I promised. And she's held me to that -promise ever since, though I've gone on my knees to her in my turn to -beg her to let me off." - -"Why didn't you tell me this?" asked Janet chokingly. "If I'd only -KNOWN! Why didn't you just tell me?" - -"She made me promise I wouldn't tell a soul," said John hoarsely. -"She swore me to it on the Bible; Janet, I'd never have done it if I'd -dreamed it was to be for so long. Janet, you'll never know what I've -suffered these nineteen years. I know I've made you suffer, too, but -you'll marry me for all, won't you, Janet? Oh, Janet, won't you? I've -come as soon as I could to ask you." - -At this moment the stupefied Anne came to her senses and realized that -she had no business to be there. She slipped away and did not see Janet -until the next morning, when the latter told her the rest of the story. - -"That cruel, relentless, deceitful old woman!" cried Anne. - -"Hush--she's dead," said Janet solemnly. "If she wasn't--but she IS. -So we mustn't speak evil of her. But I'm happy at last, Anne. And I -wouldn't have minded waiting so long a bit if I'd only known why." - -"When are you to be married?" - -"Next month. Of course it will be very quiet. I suppose people will talk -terrible. They'll say I made enough haste to snap John up as soon as his -poor mother was out of the way. John wanted to let them know the truth -but I said, 'No, John; after all she was your mother, and we'll keep the -secret between us, and not cast any shadow on her memory. I don't mind -what people say, now that I know the truth myself. It don't matter a -mite. Let it all be buried with the dead' says I to him. So I coaxed him -round to agree with me." - -"You're much more forgiving than I could ever be," Anne said, rather -crossly. - -"You'll feel differently about a good many things when you get to be my -age," said Janet tolerantly. "That's one of the things we learn as we -grow older--how to forgive. It comes easier at forty than it did at -twenty." - - - - -Chapter XXXV - -The Last Redmond Year Opens - - -"Here we are, all back again, nicely sunburned and rejoicing as a strong -man to run a race," said Phil, sitting down on a suitcase with a sigh of -pleasure. "Isn't it jolly to see this dear old Patty's Place again--and -Aunty--and the cats? Rusty has lost another piece of ear, hasn't he?" - -"Rusty would be the nicest cat in the world if he had no ears at all," -declared Anne loyally from her trunk, while Rusty writhed about her lap -in a frenzy of welcome. - -"Aren't you glad to see us back, Aunty?" demanded Phil. - -"Yes. But I wish you'd tidy things up," said Aunt Jamesina plaintively, -looking at the wilderness of trunks and suitcases by which the four -laughing, chattering girls were surrounded. "You can talk just as well -later on. Work first and then play used to be my motto when I was a -girl." - -"Oh, we've just reversed that in this generation, Aunty. OUR motto is -play your play and then dig in. You can do your work so much better if -you've had a good bout of play first." - -"If you are going to marry a minister," said Aunt Jamesina, picking up -Joseph and her knitting and resigning herself to the inevitable with the -charming grace that made her the queen of housemothers, "you will have -to give up such expressions as 'dig in.'" - -"Why?" moaned Phil. "Oh, why must a minister's wife be supposed to utter -only prunes and prisms? I shan't. Everybody on Patterson Street uses -slang--that is to say, metaphorical language--and if I didn't they would -think me insufferably proud and stuck up." - -"Have you broken the news to your family?" asked Priscilla, feeding the -Sarah-cat bits from her lunchbasket. - -Phil nodded. - -"How did they take it?" - -"Oh, mother rampaged. But I stood rockfirm--even I, Philippa Gordon, who -never before could hold fast to anything. Father was calmer. Father's -own daddy was a minister, so you see he has a soft spot in his heart for -the cloth. I had Jo up to Mount Holly, after mother grew calm, and -they both loved him. But mother gave him some frightful hints in every -conversation regarding what she had hoped for me. Oh, my vacation -pathway hasn't been exactly strewn with roses, girls dear. But--I've won -out and I've got Jo. Nothing else matters." - -"To you," said Aunt Jamesina darkly. - -"Nor to Jo, either," retorted Phil. "You keep on pitying him. Why, pray? -I think he's to be envied. He's getting brains, beauty, and a heart of -gold in ME." - -"It's well we know how to take your speeches," said Aunt Jamesina -patiently. "I hope you don't talk like that before strangers. What would -they think?" - -"Oh, I don't want to know what they think. I don't want to see myself as -others see me. I'm sure it would be horribly uncomfortable most of the -time. I don't believe Burns was really sincere in that prayer, either." - -"Oh, I daresay we all pray for some things that we really don't want, if -we were only honest enough to look into our hearts," owned Aunt Jamesina -candidly. "I've a notion that such prayers don't rise very far. _I_ used -to pray that I might be enabled to forgive a certain person, but I know -now I really didn't want to forgive her. When I finally got that I DID -want to I forgave her without having to pray about it." - -"I can't picture you as being unforgiving for long," said Stella. - -"Oh, I used to be. But holding spite doesn't seem worth while when you -get along in years." - -"That reminds me," said Anne, and told the tale of John and Janet. - -"And now tell us about that romantic scene you hinted so darkly at in -one of your letters," demanded Phil. - -Anne acted out Samuel's proposal with great spirit. The girls shrieked -with laughter and Aunt Jamesina smiled. - -"It isn't in good taste to make fun of your beaux," she said severely; -"but," she added calmly, "I always did it myself." - -"Tell us about your beaux, Aunty," entreated Phil. "You must have had -any number of them." - -"They're not in the past tense," retorted Aunt Jamesina. "I've got them -yet. There are three old widowers at home who have been casting sheep's -eyes at me for some time. You children needn't think you own all the -romance in the world." - -"Widowers and sheep's eyes don't sound very romantic, Aunty." - -"Well, no; but young folks aren't always romantic either. Some of my -beaux certainly weren't. I used to laugh at them scandalous, poor boys. -There was Jim Elwood--he was always in a sort of day-dream--never seemed -to sense what was going on. He didn't wake up to the fact that I'd said -'no' till a year after I'd said it. When he did get married his wife -fell out of the sleigh one night when they were driving home from church -and he never missed her. Then there was Dan Winston. He knew too much. -He knew everything in this world and most of what is in the next. He -could give you an answer to any question, even if you asked him when the -Judgment Day was to be. Milton Edwards was real nice and I liked him but -I didn't marry him. For one thing, he took a week to get a joke through -his head, and for another he never asked me. Horatio Reeve was the most -interesting beau I ever had. But when he told a story he dressed it up -so that you couldn't see it for frills. I never could decide whether he -was lying or just letting his imagination run loose." - -"And what about the others, Aunty?" - -"Go away and unpack," said Aunt Jamesina, waving Joseph at them by -mistake for a needle. "The others were too nice to make fun of. I shall -respect their memory. There's a box of flowers in your room, Anne. They -came about an hour ago." - -After the first week the girls of Patty's Place settled down to a steady -grind of study; for this was their last year at Redmond and graduation -honors must be fought for persistently. Anne devoted herself to English, -Priscilla pored over classics, and Philippa pounded away at Mathematics. -Sometimes they grew tired, sometimes they felt discouraged, sometimes -nothing seemed worth the struggle for it. In one such mood Stella -wandered up to the blue room one rainy November evening. Anne sat on the -floor in a little circle of light cast by the lamp beside her, amid a -surrounding snow of crumpled manuscript. - -"What in the world are you doing?" - -"Just looking over some old Story Club yarns. I wanted something to -cheer AND inebriate. I'd studied until the world seemed azure. So I came -up here and dug these out of my trunk. They are so drenched in tears and -tragedy that they are excruciatingly funny." - -"I'm blue and discouraged myself," said Stella, throwing herself on the -couch. "Nothing seems worthwhile. My very thoughts are old. I've thought -them all before. What is the use of living after all, Anne?" - -"Honey, it's just brain fag that makes us feel that way, and the -weather. A pouring rainy night like this, coming after a hard day's -grind, would squelch any one but a Mark Tapley. You know it IS -worthwhile to live." - -"Oh, I suppose so. But I can't prove it to myself just now." - -"Just think of all the great and noble souls who have lived and worked -in the world," said Anne dreamily. "Isn't it worthwhile to come after -them and inherit what they won and taught? Isn't it worthwhile to think -we can share their inspiration? And then, all the great souls that will -come in the future? Isn't it worthwhile to work a little and prepare the -way for them--make just one step in their path easier?" - -"Oh, my mind agrees with you, Anne. But my soul remains doleful and -uninspired. I'm always grubby and dingy on rainy nights." - -"Some nights I like the rain--I like to lie in bed and hear it pattering -on the roof and drifting through the pines." - -"I like it when it stays on the roof," said Stella. "It doesn't always. -I spent a gruesome night in an old country farmhouse last summer. The -roof leaked and the rain came pattering down on my bed. There was no -poetry in THAT. I had to get up in the 'mirk midnight' and chivy round -to pull the bedstead out of the drip--and it was one of those solid, -old-fashioned beds that weigh a ton--more or less. And then that -drip-drop, drip-drop kept up all night until my nerves just went to -pieces. You've no idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling -with a mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like -ghostly footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you laughing -over, Anne?" - -"These stories. As Phil would say they are killing--in more senses than -one, for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines -we had--and how we dressed them! - -"Silks--satins--velvets--jewels--laces--they never wore anything else. -Here is one of Jane Andrews' stories depicting her heroine as sleeping -in a beautiful white satin nightdress trimmed with seed pearls." - -"Go on," said Stella. "I begin to feel that life is worth living as long -as there's a laugh in it." - -"Here's one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball -'glittering from head to foot with large diamonds of the first water.' -But what booted beauty or rich attire? 'The paths of glory lead but to -the grave.' They must either be murdered or die of a broken heart. There -was no escape for them." - -"Let me read some of your stories." - -"Well, here's my masterpiece. Note its cheerful title--'My Graves.' I -shed quarts of tears while writing it, and the other girls shed gallons -while I read it. Jane Andrews' mother scolded her frightfully because -she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that week. It's a harrowing -tale of the wanderings of a Methodist minister's wife. I made her a -Methodist because it was necessary that she should wander. She buried a -child every place she lived in. There were nine of them and their -graves were severed far apart, ranging from Newfoundland to Vancouver. I -described the children, pictured their several death beds, and detailed -their tombstones and epitaphs. I had intended to bury the whole nine -but when I had disposed of eight my invention of horrors gave out and I -permitted the ninth to live as a hopeless cripple." - -While Stella read My Graves, punctuating its tragic paragraphs with -chuckles, and Rusty slept the sleep of a just cat who has been out all -night curled up on a Jane Andrews tale of a beautiful maiden of fifteen -who went to nurse in a leper colony--of course dying of the loathsome -disease finally--Anne glanced over the other manuscripts and recalled -the old days at Avonlea school when the members of the Story Club, -sitting under the spruce trees or down among the ferns by the brook, had -written them. What fun they had had! How the sunshine and mirth of those -olden summers returned as she read. Not all the glory that was Greece -or the grandeur that was Rome could weave such wizardry as those funny, -tearful tales of the Story Club. Among the manuscripts Anne found one -written on sheets of wrapping paper. A wave of laughter filled her -gray eyes as she recalled the time and place of its genesis. It was the -sketch she had written the day she fell through the roof of the Cobb -duckhouse on the Tory Road. - -Anne glanced over it, then fell to reading it intently. It was a little -dialogue between asters and sweet-peas, wild canaries in the lilac bush, -and the guardian spirit of the garden. After she had read it, she -sat, staring into space; and when Stella had gone she smoothed out the -crumpled manuscript. - -"I believe I will," she said resolutely. - - - - -Chapter XXXVI - -The Gardners'Call - - -"Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Aunt Jimsie," said Phil. -"Here are three for Stella, and two for Pris, and a glorious fat one for -me from Jo. There's nothing for you, Anne, except a circular." - -Nobody noticed Anne's flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed her -carelessly. But a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a transfigured -Anne. - -"Honey, what good thing has happened?" - -"The Youth's Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a fortnight -ago," said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were accustomed to -having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite succeeding. - -"Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? -Did they pay you for it?" - -"Yes; they've sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that -he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an -old sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in--but I never -really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot," said Anne, -recalling the bitter experience of Averil's Atonement. - -"What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let's all go up -town and get drunk," suggested Phil. - -"I AM going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some sort," -declared Anne gaily. "At all events it isn't tainted money--like the -check I got for that horrible Reliable Baking Powder story. I spent IT -usefully for clothes and hated them every time I put them on." - -"Think of having a real live author at Patty's Place," said Priscilla. - -"It's a great responsibility," said Aunt Jamesina solemnly. - -"Indeed it is," agreed Pris with equal solemnity. "Authors are kittle -cattle. You never know when or how they will break out. Anne may make -copy of us." - -"I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great -responsibility," said Aunt Jamesina severely, "and I hope Anne realizes, -it. My daughter used to write stories before she went to the foreign -field, but now she has turned her attention to higher things. She used -to say her motto was 'Never write a line you would be ashamed to read -at your own funeral.' You'd better take that for yours, Anne, if you are -going to embark in literature. Though, to be sure," added Aunt Jamesina -perplexedly, "Elizabeth always used to laugh when she said it. She -always laughed so much that I don't know how she ever came to decide -on being a missionary. I'm thankful she did--I prayed that she -might--but--I wish she hadn't." - -Then Aunt Jamesina wondered why those giddy girls all laughed. - -Anne's eyes shone all that day; literary ambitions sprouted and budded -in her brain; their exhilaration accompanied her to Jennie Cooper's -walking party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and Christine, walking -just ahead of her and Roy, could quite subdue the sparkle of her starry -hopes. Nevertheless, she was not so rapt from things of earth as to be -unable to notice that Christine's walk was decidedly ungraceful. - -"But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face. So like a man," thought -Anne scornfully. - -"Shall you be home Saturday afternoon?" asked Roy. - -"Yes." - -"My mother and sisters are coming to call on you," said Roy quietly. - -Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but it -was hardly a pleasant one. She had never met any of Roy's family; she -realized the significance of his statement; and it had, somehow, an -irrevocableness about it that chilled her. - -"I shall be glad to see them," she said flatly; and then wondered if she -really would be glad. She ought to be, of course. But would it not be -something of an ordeal? Gossip had filtered to Anne regarding the light -in which the Gardners viewed the "infatuation" of son and brother. Roy -must have brought pressure to bear in the matter of this call. Anne -knew she would be weighed in the balance. From the fact that they had -consented to call she understood that, willingly or unwillingly, they -regarded her as a possible member of their clan. - -"I shall just be myself. I shall not TRY to make a good impression," -thought Anne loftily. But she was wondering what dress she would better -wear Saturday afternoon, and if the new style of high hair-dressing -would suit her better than the old; and the walking party was rather -spoiled for her. By night she had decided that she would wear her brown -chiffon on Saturday, but would do her hair low. - -Friday afternoon none of the girls had classes at Redmond. Stella took -the opportunity to write a paper for the Philomathic Society, and was -sitting at the table in the corner of the living-room with an untidy -litter of notes and manuscript on the floor around her. Stella always -vowed she never could write anything unless she threw each sheet down as -she completed it. Anne, in her flannel blouse and serge skirt, with her -hair rather blown from her windy walk home, was sitting squarely in the -middle of the floor, teasing the Sarah-cat with a wishbone. Joseph and -Rusty were both curled up in her lap. A warm plummy odor filled the -whole house, for Priscilla was cooking in the kitchen. Presently she -came in, enshrouded in a huge work-apron, with a smudge of flour on her -nose, to show Aunt Jamesina the chocolate cake she had just iced. - -At this auspicious moment the knocker sounded. Nobody paid any attention -to it save Phil, who sprang up and opened it, expecting a boy with the -hat she had bought that morning. On the doorstep stood Mrs. Gardner and -her daughters. - -Anne scrambled to her feet somehow, emptying two indignant cats out of -her lap as she did so, and mechanically shifting her wishbone from her -right hand to her left. Priscilla, who would have had to cross the room -to reach the kitchen door, lost her head, wildly plunged the chocolate -cake under a cushion on the inglenook sofa, and dashed upstairs. Stella -began feverishly gathering up her manuscript. Only Aunt Jamesina and -Phil remained normal. Thanks to them, everybody was soon sitting at -ease, even Anne. Priscilla came down, apronless and smudgeless, Stella -reduced her corner to decency, and Phil saved the situation by a stream -of ready small talk. - -Mrs. Gardner was tall and thin and handsome, exquisitely gowned, cordial -with a cordiality that seemed a trifle forced. Aline Gardner was a -younger edition of her mother, lacking the cordiality. She endeavored -to be nice, but succeeded only in being haughty and patronizing. Dorothy -Gardner was slim and jolly and rather tomboyish. Anne knew she was Roy's -favorite sister and warmed to her. She would have looked very much -like Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes instead of roguish hazel ones. -Thanks to her and Phil, the call really went off very well, except for -a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere and two rather untoward -incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to themselves, began a game of chase, -and sprang madly into Mrs. Gardner's silken lap and out of it in their -wild career. Mrs. Gardner lifted her lorgnette and gazed after their -flying forms as if she had never seen cats before, and Anne, choking -back slightly nervous laughter, apologized as best she could. - -"You are fond of cats?" said Mrs. Gardner, with a slight intonation of -tolerant wonder. - -Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of cats, -but Mrs. Gardner's tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she remembered -that Mrs. John Blythe was so fond of cats that she kept as many as her -husband would allow. - -"They ARE adorable animals, aren't they?" she said wickedly. - -"I have never liked cats," said Mrs. Gardner remotely. - -"I love them," said Dorothy. "They are so nice and selfish. Dogs are -TOO good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But cats are -gloriously human." - -"You have two delightful old china dogs there. May I look at them -closely?" said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace and -thereby becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. Picking up -Magog, she sat down on the cushion under which was secreted Priscilla's -chocolate cake. Priscilla and Anne exchanged agonized glances but -could do nothing. The stately Aline continued to sit on the cushion and -discuss china dogs until the time of departure. - -Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne's hand and whisper -impulsively. - -"I KNOW you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all about -you. I'm the only one of the family he tells things to, poor boy--nobody -COULD confide in mamma and Aline, you know. What glorious times you -girls must have here! Won't you let me come often and have a share in -them?" - -"Come as often as you like," Anne responded heartily, thankful that one -of Roy's sisters was likable. She would never like Aline, so much was -certain; and Aline would never like her, though Mrs. Gardner might be -won. Altogether, Anne sighed with relief when the ordeal was over. - - "'Of all sad words of tongue or pen - The saddest are it might have been,'" - -quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. "This cake is now what -you might call a flat failure. And the cushion is likewise ruined. Never -tell me that Friday isn't unlucky." - -"People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn't come on -Friday," said Aunt Jamesina. - -"I fancy it was Roy's mistake," said Phil. "That boy isn't really -responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where IS Anne?" - -Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying. But she made herself -laugh instead. Rusty and Joseph had been TOO awful! And Dorothy WAS a -dear. - - - - -Chapter XXXVII - -Full-fledged B.A.'s - - -"I wish I were dead, or that it were tomorrow night," groaned Phil. - -"If you live long enough both wishes will come true," said Anne calmly. - -"It's easy for you to be serene. You're at home in Philosophy. I'm -not--and when I think of that horrible paper tomorrow I quail. If I -should fail in it what would Jo say?" - -"You won't fail. How did you get on in Greek today?" - -"I don't know. Perhaps it was a good paper and perhaps it was bad enough -to make Homer turn over in his grave. I've studied and mulled over -notebooks until I'm incapable of forming an opinion of anything. How -thankful little Phil will be when all this examinating is over." - -"Examinating? I never heard such a word." - -"Well, haven't I as good a right to make a word as any one else?" -demanded Phil. - -"Words aren't made--they grow," said Anne. - -"Never mind--I begin faintly to discern clear water ahead where no -examination breakers loom. Girls, do you--can you realize that our -Redmond Life is almost over?" - -"I can't," said Anne, sorrowfully. "It seems just yesterday that Pris -and I were alone in that crowd of Freshmen at Redmond. And now we are -Seniors in our final examinations." - -"'Potent, wise, and reverend Seniors,'" quoted Phil. "Do you suppose we -really are any wiser than when we came to Redmond?" - -"You don't act as if you were by times," said Aunt Jamesina severely. - -"Oh, Aunt Jimsie, haven't we been pretty good girls, take us by and -large, these three winters you've mothered us?" pleaded Phil. - -"You've been four of the dearest, sweetest, goodest girls that ever went -together through college," averred Aunt Jamesina, who never spoiled a -compliment by misplaced economy. - -"But I mistrust you haven't any too much sense yet. It's not to be -expected, of course. Experience teaches sense. You can't learn it in a -college course. You've been to college four years and I never was, but I -know heaps more than you do, young ladies." - - "'There are lots of things that never go by rule, - There's a powerful pile o' knowledge - That you never get at college, - There are heaps of things you never learn at school,'" - -quoted Stella. - -"Have you learned anything at Redmond except dead languages and geometry -and such trash?" queried Aunt Jamesina. - -"Oh, yes. I think we have, Aunty," protested Anne. - -"We've learned the truth of what Professor Woodleigh told us last -Philomathic," said Phil. "He said, 'Humor is the spiciest condiment in -the feast of existence. Laugh at your mistakes but learn from them, joke -over your troubles but gather strength from them, make a jest of -your difficulties but overcome them.' Isn't that worth learning, Aunt -Jimsie?" - -"Yes, it is, dearie. When you've learned to laugh at the things that -should be laughed at, and not to laugh at those that shouldn't, you've -got wisdom and understanding." - -"What have you got out of your Redmond course, Anne?" murmured Priscilla -aside. - -"I think," said Anne slowly, "that I really have learned to look upon -each little hindrance as a jest and each great one as the foreshadowing -of victory. Summing up, I think that is what Redmond has given me." - -"I shall have to fall back on another Professor Woodleigh quotation to -express what it has done for me," said Priscilla. "You remember that -he said in his address, 'There is so much in the world for us all if we -only have the eyes to see it, and the heart to love it, and the hand -to gather it to ourselves--so much in men and women, so much in art and -literature, so much everywhere in which to delight, and for which to be -thankful.' I think Redmond has taught me that in some measure, Anne." - -"Judging from what you all, say" remarked Aunt Jamesina, "the sum -and substance is that you can learn--if you've got natural gumption -enough--in four years at college what it would take about twenty years -of living to teach you. Well, that justifies higher education in my -opinion. It's a matter I was always dubious about before." - -"But what about people who haven't natural gumption, Aunt Jimsie?" - -"People who haven't natural gumption never learn," retorted Aunt -Jamesina, "neither in college nor life. If they live to be a hundred -they really don't know anything more than when they were born. It's -their misfortune not their fault, poor souls. But those of us who have -some gumption should duly thank the Lord for it." - -"Will you please define what gumption is, Aunt Jimsie?" asked Phil. - -"No, I won't, young woman. Any one who has gumption knows what it is, -and any one who hasn't can never know what it is. So there is no need of -defining it." - -The busy days flew by and examinations were over. Anne took High Honors -in English. Priscilla took Honors in Classics, and Phil in Mathematics. -Stella obtained a good all-round showing. Then came Convocation. - -"This is what I would once have called an epoch in my life," said -Anne, as she took Roy's violets out of their box and gazed at them -thoughtfully. She meant to carry them, of course, but her eyes wandered -to another box on her table. It was filled with lilies-of-the-valley, as -fresh and fragrant as those which bloomed in the Green Gables yard when -June came to Avonlea. Gilbert Blythe's card lay beside it. - -Anne wondered why Gilbert should have sent her flowers for Convocation. -She had seen very little of him during the past winter. He had come to -Patty's Place only one Friday evening since the Christmas holidays, and -they rarely met elsewhere. She knew he was studying very hard, aiming at -High Honors and the Cooper Prize, and he took little part in the social -doings of Redmond. Anne's own winter had been quite gay socially. -She had seen a good deal of the Gardners; she and Dorothy were very -intimate; college circles expected the announcement of her engagement to -Roy any day. Anne expected it herself. Yet just before she left Patty's -Place for Convocation she flung Roy's violets aside and put Gilbert's -lilies-of-the-valley in their place. She could not have told why she -did it. Somehow, old Avonlea days and dreams and friendships seemed very -close to her in this attainment of her long-cherished ambitions. She -and Gilbert had once picturedout merrily the day on which they should -be capped and gowned graduates in Arts. The wonderful day had come and -Roy's violets had no place in it. Only her old friend's flowers seemed -to belong to this fruition of old-blossoming hopes which he had once -shared. - -For years this day had beckoned and allured to her; but when it came the -one single, keen, abiding memory it left with her was not that of the -breathless moment when the stately president of Redmond gave her cap and -diploma and hailed her B.A.; it was not of the flash in Gilbert's eyes -when he saw her lilies, nor the puzzled pained glance Roy gave her as he -passed her on the platform. It was not of Aline Gardner's condescending -congratulations, or Dorothy's ardent, impulsive good wishes. It was of -one strange, unaccountable pang that spoiled this long-expected day for -her and left in it a certain faint but enduring flavor of bitterness. - -The Arts graduates gave a graduation dance that night. When Anne dressed -for it she tossed aside the pearl beads she usually wore and took from -her trunk the small box that had come to Green Gables on Christmas day. -In it was a thread-like gold chain with a tiny pink enamel heart as a -pendant. On the accompanying card was written, "With all good wishes -from your old chum, Gilbert." Anne, laughing over the memory the enamel -heart conjured up the fatal day when Gilbert had called her "Carrots" -and vainly tried to make his peace with a pink candy heart, had written -him a nice little note of thanks. But she had never worn the trinket. -Tonight she fastened it about her white throat with a dreamy smile. - -She and Phil walked to Redmond together. Anne walked in silence; Phil -chattered of many things. Suddenly she said, - -"I heard today that Gilbert Blythe's engagement to Christine Stuart was -to be announced as soon as Convocation was over. Did you hear anything -of it?" - -"No," said Anne. - -"I think it's true," said Phil lightly. - -Anne did not speak. In the darkness she felt her face burning. She -slipped her hand inside her collar and caught at the gold chain. One -energetic twist and it gave way. Anne thrust the broken trinket into her -pocket. Her hands were trembling and her eyes were smarting. - -But she was the gayest of all the gay revellers that night, and told -Gilbert unregretfully that her card was full when he came to ask her for -a dance. Afterwards, when she sat with the girls before the dying embers -at Patty's Place, removing the spring chilliness from their satin skins, -none chatted more blithely than she of the day's events. - -"Moody Spurgeon MacPherson called here tonight after you left," said -Aunt Jamesina, who had sat up to keep the fire on. "He didn't know about -the graduation dance. That boy ought to sleep with a rubber band around -his head to train his ears not to stick out. I had a beau once who did -that and it improved him immensely. It was I who suggested it to him and -he took my advice, but he never forgave me for it." - -"Moody Spurgeon is a very serious young man," yawned Priscilla. "He -is concerned with graver matters than his ears. He is going to be a -minister, you know." - -"Well, I suppose the Lord doesn't regard the ears of a man," said Aunt -Jamesina gravely, dropping all further criticism of Moody Spurgeon. -Aunt Jamesina had a proper respect for the cloth even in the case of an -unfledged parson. - - - - -Chapter XXXVIII - -False Dawn - - -"Just imagine--this night week I'll be in Avonlea--delightful thought!" -said Anne, bending over the box in which she was packing Mrs. Rachel -Lynde's quilts. "But just imagine--this night week I'll be gone forever -from Patty's Place--horrible thought!" - -"I wonder if the ghost of all our laughter will echo through the maiden -dreams of Miss Patty and Miss Maria," speculated Phil. - -Miss Patty and Miss Maria were coming home, after having trotted over -most of the habitable globe. - -"We'll be back the second week in May" wrote Miss Patty. "I expect -Patty's Place will seem rather small after the Hall of the Kings at -Karnak, but I never did like big places to live in. And I'll be glad -enough to be home again. When you start traveling late in life you're -apt to do too much of it because you know you haven't much time left, -and it's a thing that grows on you. I'm afraid Maria will never be -contented again." - -"I shall leave here my fancies and dreams to bless the next comer," said -Anne, looking around the blue room wistfully--her pretty blue room where -she had spent three such happy years. She had knelt at its window to -pray and had bent from it to watch the sunset behind the pines. She -had heard the autumn raindrops beating against it and had welcomed -the spring robins at its sill. She wondered if old dreams could haunt -rooms--if, when one left forever the room where she had joyed and -suffered and laughed and wept, something of her, intangible and -invisible, yet nonetheless real, did not remain behind like a voiceful -memory. - -"I think," said Phil, "that a room where one dreams and grieves and -rejoices and lives becomes inseparably connected with those processes -and acquires a personality of its own. I am sure if I came into this -room fifty years from now it would say 'Anne, Anne' to me. What nice -times we've had here, honey! What chats and jokes and good chummy -jamborees! Oh, dear me! I'm to marry Jo in June and I know I will -be rapturously happy. But just now I feel as if I wanted this lovely -Redmond life to go on forever." - -"I'm unreasonable enough just now to wish that, too," admitted Anne. "No -matter what deeper joys may come to us later on we'll never again have -just the same delightful, irresponsible existence we've had here. It's -over forever, Phil." - -"What are you going to do with Rusty?" asked Phil, as that privileged -pussy padded into the room. - -"I am going to take him home with me and Joseph and the Sarah-cat," -announced Aunt Jamesina, following Rusty. "It would be a shame to -separate those cats now that they have learned to live together. It's a -hard lesson for cats and humans to learn." - -"I'm sorry to part with Rusty," said Anne regretfully, "but it would be -no use to take him to Green Gables. Marilla detests cats, and Davy would -tease his life out. Besides, I don't suppose I'll be home very long. -I've been offered the principalship of the Summerside High School." - -"Are you going to accept it?" asked Phil. - -"I--I haven't decided yet," answered Anne, with a confused flush. - -Phil nodded understandingly. Naturally Anne's plans could not be settled -until Roy had spoken. He would soon--there was no doubt of that. And -there was no doubt that Anne would say "yes" when he said "Will -you please?" Anne herself regarded the state of affairs with a -seldom-ruffled complacency. She was deeply in love with Roy. True, it -was not just what she had imagined love to be. But was anything in life, -Anne asked herself wearily, like one's imagination of it? It was the old -diamond disillusion of childhood repeated--the same disappointment she -had felt when she had first seen the chill sparkle instead of the purple -splendor she had anticipated. "That's not my idea of a diamond," she had -said. But Roy was a dear fellow and they would be very happy together, -even if some indefinable zest was missing out of life. When Roy came -down that evening and asked Anne to walk in the park every one at -Patty's Place knew what he had come to say; and every one knew, or -thought they knew, what Anne's answer would be. - -"Anne is a very fortunate girl," said Aunt Jamesina. - -"I suppose so," said Stella, shrugging her shoulders. "Roy is a nice -fellow and all that. But there's really nothing in him." - -"That sounds very like a jealous remark, Stella Maynard," said Aunt -Jamesina rebukingly. - -"It does--but I am not jealous," said Stella calmly. "I love Anne and I -like Roy. Everybody says she is making a brilliant match, and even Mrs. -Gardner thinks her charming now. It all sounds as if it were made in -heaven, but I have my doubts. Make the most of that, Aunt Jamesina." - -Roy asked Anne to marry him in the little pavilion on the harbor shore -where they had talked on the rainy day of their first meeting. Anne -thought it very romantic that he should have chosen that spot. And his -proposal was as beautifully worded as if he had copied it, as one of -Ruby Gillis' lovers had done, out of a Deportment of Courtship and -Marriage. The whole effect was quite flawless. And it was also sincere. -There was no doubt that Roy meant what he said. There was no false note -to jar the symphony. Anne felt that she ought to be thrilling from head -to foot. But she wasn't; she was horribly cool. When Roy paused for his -answer she opened her lips to say her fateful yes. And then--she found -herself trembling as if she were reeling back from a precipice. To her -came one of those moments when we realize, as by a blinding flash of -illumination, more than all our previous years have taught us. She -pulled her hand from Roy's. - -"Oh, I can't marry you--I can't--I can't," she cried, wildly. - -Roy turned pale--and also looked rather foolish. He had--small blame to -him--felt very sure. - -"What do you mean?" he stammered. - -"I mean that I can't marry you," repeated Anne desperately. "I thought I -could--but I can't." - -"Why can't you?" Roy asked more calmly. - -"Because--I don't care enough for you." - -A crimson streak came into Roy's face. - -"So you've just been amusing yourself these two years?" he said slowly. - -"No, no, I haven't," gasped poor Anne. Oh, how could she explain? She -COULDN'T explain. There are some things that cannot be explained. "I did -think I cared--truly I did--but I know now I don't." - -"You have ruined my life," said Roy bitterly. - -"Forgive me," pleaded Anne miserably, with hot cheeks and stinging eyes. - -Roy turned away and stood for a few minutes looking out seaward. When he -came back to Anne, he was very pale again. - -"You can give me no hope?" he said. - -Anne shook her head mutely. - -"Then--good-bye," said Roy. "I can't understand it--I can't believe -you are not the woman I've believed you to be. But reproaches are idle -between us. You are the only woman I can ever love. I thank you for your -friendship, at least. Good-bye, Anne." - -"Good-bye," faltered Anne. When Roy had gone she sat for a long time in -the pavilion, watching a white mist creeping subtly and remorselessly -landward up the harbor. It was her hour of humiliation and self-contempt -and shame. Their waves went over her. And yet, underneath it all, was a -queer sense of recovered freedom. - -She slipped into Patty's Place in the dusk and escaped to her room. But -Phil was there on the window seat. - -"Wait," said Anne, flushing to anticipate the scene. "Wait til you hear -what I have to say. Phil, Roy asked me to marry him-and I refused." - -"You--you REFUSED him?" said Phil blankly. - -"Yes." - -"Anne Shirley, are you in your senses?" - -"I think so," said Anne wearily. "Oh, Phil, don't scold me. You don't -understand." - -"I certainly don't understand. You've encouraged Roy Gardner in every -way for two years--and now you tell me you've refused him. Then you've -just been flirting scandalously with him. Anne, I couldn't have believed -it of YOU." - -"I WASN'T flirting with him--I honestly thought I cared up to the last -minute--and then--well, I just knew I NEVER could marry him." - -"I suppose," said Phil cruelly, "that you intended to marry him for his -money, and then your better self rose up and prevented you." - -"I DIDN'T. I never thought about his money. Oh, I can't explain it to -you any more than I could to him." - -"Well, I certainly think you have treated Roy shamefully," said Phil in -exasperation. "He's handsome and clever and rich and good. What more do -you want?" - -"I want some one who BELONGS in my life. He doesn't. I was swept off -my feet at first by his good looks and knack of paying romantic -compliments; and later on I thought I MUST be in love because he was my -dark-eyed ideal." - -"I am bad enough for not knowing my own mind, but you are worse," said -Phil. - -"_I_ DO know my own mind," protested Anne. "The trouble is, my mind -changes and then I have to get acquainted with it all over again." - -"Well, I suppose there is no use in saying anything to you." - -"There is no need, Phil. I'm in the dust. This has spoiled everything -backwards. I can never think of Redmond days without recalling the -humiliation of this evening. Roy despises me--and you despise me--and I -despise myself." - -"You poor darling," said Phil, melting. "Just come here and let me -comfort you. I've no right to scold you. I'd have married Alec or Alonzo -if I hadn't met Jo. Oh, Anne, things are so mixed-up in real life. They -aren't clear-cut and trimmed off, as they are in novels." - -"I hope that NO one will ever again ask me to marry him as long as I -live," sobbed poor Anne, devoutly believing that she meant it. - - - - -Chapter XXXIX - -Deals with Weddings - - -Anne felt that life partook of the nature of an anticlimax during the -first few weeks after her return to Green Gables. She missed the merry -comradeship of Patty's Place. She had dreamed some brilliant dreams -during the past winter and now they lay in the dust around her. In her -present mood of self-disgust, she could not immediately begin dreaming -again. And she discovered that, while solitude with dreams is glorious, -solitude without them has few charms. - -She had not seen Roy again after their painful parting in the park -pavilion; but Dorothy came to see her before she left Kingsport. - -"I'm awfully sorry you won't marry Roy," she said. "I did want you for a -sister. But you are quite right. He would bore you to death. I love him, -and he is a dear sweet boy, but really he isn't a bit interesting. He -looks as if he ought to be, but he isn't." - -"This won't spoil OUR friendship, will it, Dorothy?" Anne had asked -wistfully. - -"No, indeed. You're too good to lose. If I can't have you for a sister -I mean to keep you as a chum anyway. And don't fret over Roy. He is -feeling terribly just now--I have to listen to his outpourings every -day--but he'll get over it. He always does." - -"Oh--ALWAYS?" said Anne with a slight change of voice. "So he has 'got -over it' before?" - -"Dear me, yes," said Dorothy frankly. "Twice before. And he raved to me -just the same both times. Not that the others actually refused him--they -simply announced their engagements to some one else. Of course, when he -met you he vowed to me that he had never really loved before--that the -previous affairs had been merely boyish fancies. But I don't think you -need worry." - -Anne decided not to worry. Her feelings were a mixture of relief and -resentment. Roy had certainly told her she was the only one he had ever -loved. No doubt he believed it. But it was a comfort to feel that she -had not, in all likelihood, ruined his life. There were other goddesses, -and Roy, according to Dorothy, must needs be worshipping at some shrine. -Nevertheless, life was stripped of several more illusions, and Anne -began to think drearily that it seemed rather bare. - -She came down from the porch gable on the evening of her return with a -sorrowful face. - -"What has happened to the old Snow Queen, Marilla?" - -"Oh, I knew you'd feel bad over that," said Marilla. "I felt bad myself. -That tree was there ever since I was a young girl. It blew down in the -big gale we had in March. It was rotten at the core." - -"I'll miss it so," grieved Anne. "The porch gable doesn't seem the same -room without it. I'll never look from its window again without a sense -of loss. And oh, I never came home to Green Gables before that Diana -wasn't here to welcome me." - -"Diana has something else to think of just now," said Mrs. Lynde -significantly. - -"Well, tell me all the Avonlea news," said Anne, sitting down on the -porch steps, where the evening sunshine fell over her hair in a fine -golden rain. - -"There isn't much news except what we've wrote you," said Mrs. Lynde. "I -suppose you haven't heard that Simon Fletcher broke his leg last week. -It's a great thing for his family. They're getting a hundred things done -that they've always wanted to do but couldn't as long as he was about, -the old crank." - -"He came of an aggravating family," remarked Marilla. - -"Aggravating? Well, rather! His mother used to get up in prayer-meeting -and tell all her children's shortcomings and ask prayers for them. -'Course it made them mad, and worse than ever." - -"You haven't told Anne the news about Jane," suggested Marilla. - -"Oh, Jane," sniffed Mrs. Lynde. "Well," she conceded grudgingly, "Jane -Andrews is home from the West--came last week--and she's going to be -married to a Winnipeg millionaire. You may be sure Mrs. Harmon lost no -time in telling it far and wide." - -"Dear old Jane--I'm so glad," said Anne heartily. "She deserves the good -things of life." - -"Oh, I ain't saying anything against Jane. She's a nice enough girl. But -she isn't in the millionaire class, and you'll find there's not much to -recommend that man but his money, that's what. Mrs. Harmon says he's an -Englishman who has made money in mines but _I_ believe he'll turn out to -be a Yankee. He certainly must have money, for he has just showered Jane -with jewelry. Her engagement ring is a diamond cluster so big that it -looks like a plaster on Jane's fat paw." - -Mrs. Lynde could not keep some bitterness out of her tone. Here was -Jane Andrews, that plain little plodder, engaged to a millionaire, while -Anne, it seemed, was not yet bespoken by any one, rich or poor. And Mrs. -Harmon Andrews did brag insufferably. - -"What has Gilbert Blythe been doing to at college?" asked Marilla. "I -saw him when he came home last week, and he is so pale and thin I hardly -knew him." - -"He studied very hard last winter," said Anne. "You know he took High -Honors in Classics and the Cooper Prize. It hasn't been taken for five -years! So I think he's rather run down. We're all a little tired." - -"Anyhow, you're a B.A. and Jane Andrews isn't and never will be," said -Mrs. Lynde, with gloomy satisfaction. - -A few evenings later Anne went down to see Jane, but the latter was -away in Charlottetown--"getting sewing done," Mrs. Harmon informed Anne -proudly. "Of course an Avonlea dressmaker wouldn't do for Jane under the -circumstances." - -"I've heard something very nice about Jane," said Anne. - -"Yes, Jane has done pretty well, even if she isn't a B.A.," said Mrs. -Harmon, with a slight toss of her head. "Mr. Inglis is worth millions, -and they're going to Europe on their wedding tour. When they come back -they'll live in a perfect mansion of marble in Winnipeg. Jane has only -one trouble--she can cook so well and her husband won't let her cook. He -is so rich he hires his cooking done. They're going to keep a cook and -two other maids and a coachman and a man-of-all-work. But what about -YOU, Anne? I don't hear anything of your being married, after all your -college-going." - -"Oh," laughed Anne, "I am going to be an old maid. I really can't find -any one to suit me." It was rather wicked of her. She deliberately meant -to remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became an old maid it was not because -she had not had at least one chance of marriage. But Mrs. Harmon took -swift revenge. - -"Well, the over-particular girls generally get left, I notice. And -what's this I hear about Gilbert Blythe being engaged to a Miss Stuart? -Charlie Sloane tells me she is perfectly beautiful. Is it true?" - -"I don't know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss Stuart," replied -Anne, with Spartan composure, "but it is certainly true that she is very -lovely." - -"I once thought you and Gilbert would have made a match of it," said -Mrs. Harmon. "If you don't take care, Anne, all of your beaux will slip -through your fingers." - -Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. You could not -fence with an antagonist who met rapier thrust with blow of battle axe. - -"Since Jane is away," she said, rising haughtily, "I don't think I can -stay longer this morning. I'll come down when she comes home." - -"Do," said Mrs. Harmon effusively. "Jane isn't a bit proud. She just -means to associate with her old friends the same as ever. She'll be real -glad to see you." - -Jane's millionaire arrived the last of May and carried her off in a -blaze of splendor. Mrs. Lynde was spitefully gratified to find that -Mr. Inglis was every day of forty, and short and thin and grayish. Mrs. -Lynde did not spare him in her enumeration of his shortcomings, you may -be sure. - -"It will take all his gold to gild a pill like him, that's what," said -Mrs. Rachel solemnly. - -"He looks kind and good-hearted," said Anne loyally, "and I'm sure he -thinks the world of Jane." - -"Humph!" said Mrs. Rachel. - -Phil Gordon was married the next week and Anne went over to Bolingbroke -to be her bridesmaid. Phil made a dainty fairy of a bride, and the Rev. -Jo was so radiant in his happiness that nobody thought him plain. - -"We're going for a lovers' saunter through the land of Evangeline," said -Phil, "and then we'll settle down on Patterson Street. Mother thinks -it is terrible--she thinks Jo might at least take a church in a decent -place. But the wilderness of the Patterson slums will blossom like the -rose for me if Jo is there. Oh, Anne, I'm so happy my heart aches with -it." - -Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends; but it is -sometimes a little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by a happiness -that is not your own. And it was just the same when she went back to -Avonlea. This time it was Diana who was bathed in the wonderful glory -that comes to a woman when her first-born is laid beside her. Anne -looked at the white young mother with a certain awe that had never -entered into her feelings for Diana before. Could this pale woman with -the rapture in her eyes be the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked Diana -she had played with in vanished schooldays? It gave her a queer desolate -feeling that she herself somehow belonged only in those past years and -had no business in the present at all. - -"Isn't he perfectly beautiful?" said Diana proudly. - -The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred--just as round, just as -red. Anne really could not say conscientiously that she thought him -beautiful, but she vowed sincerely that he was sweet and kissable and -altogether delightful. - -"Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE," said -Diana. "But now that little Fred is here I wouldn't exchange him for a -million girls. He just COULDN'T have been anything but his own precious -self." - -"'Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,'" quoted Mrs. Allan -gaily. "If little Anne HAD come you'd have felt just the same about -her." - -Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving it. -She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her old girl friends -had welcomed her back rapturously. The reigning minister's wife was an -estimable lady, but she was not exactly a kindred spirit. - -"I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk," sighed Diana. "I -just long to hear him say 'mother.' And oh, I'm determined that his -first memory of me shall be a nice one. The first memory I have of -my mother is of her slapping me for something I had done. I am sure I -deserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I love her dearly. -But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer." - -"I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of all -my memories," said Mrs. Allan. "I was five years old, and I had been -allowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters. When school -came out my sisters went home in different groups, each supposing I was -with the other. Instead I had run off with a little girl I had played -with at recess. We went to her home, which was near the school, and -began making mud pies. We were having a glorious time when my older -sister arrived, breathless and angry. - -"'You naughty girl" she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and dragging -me along with her. 'Come home this minute. Oh, you're going to catch it! -Mother is awful cross. She is going to give you a good whipping.' - -"I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor little heart. -I have never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk home. I -had not meant to be naughty. Phemy Cameron had asked me to go home with -her and I had not known it was wrong to go. And now I was to be whipped -for it. When we got home my sister dragged me into the kitchen where -mother was sitting by the fire in the twilight. My poor wee legs were -trembling so that I could hardly stand. And mother--mother just took me -up in her arms, without one word of rebuke or harshness, kissed me -and held me close to her heart. 'I was so frightened you were lost, -darling,' she said tenderly. I could see the love shining in her eyes as -she looked down on me. She never scolded or reproached me for what I had -done--only told me I must never go away again without asking permission. -She died very soon afterwards. That is the only memory I have of her. -Isn't it a beautiful one?" - -Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of the -Birch Path and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons. -It was a darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was heavy with blossom -fragrance--almost too heavy. The cloyed senses recoiled from it as -from an overfull cup. The birches of the path had grown from the fairy -saplings of old to big trees. Everything had changed. Anne felt that she -would be glad when the summer was over and she was away at work again. -Perhaps life would not seem so empty then. - - "'I've tried the world--it wears no more - The coloring of romance it wore,'" - -sighed Anne--and was straightway much comforted by the romance in the -idea of the world being denuded of romance! - - - - -Chapter XL - -A Book of Revelation - - -The Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent -a happy three weeks there in July. Miss Lavendar had not changed; -Charlotta the Fourth was a very grown-up young lady now, but still -adored Anne sincerely. - -"When all's said and done, Miss Shirley, ma'am, I haven't seen any one -in Boston that's equal to you," she said frankly. - -Paul was almost grown up, too. He was sixteen, his chestnut curls had -given place to close-cropped brown locks, and he was more interested -in football than fairies. But the bond between him and his old teacher -still held. Kindred spirits alone do not change with changing years. - -It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to Green -Gables. One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes sweep over the -gulf was ravaging the sea. As Anne came in the first raindrops dashed -against the panes. - -"Was that Paul who brought you home?" asked Marilla. "Why didn't you -make him stay all night. It's going to be a wild evening." - -"He'll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think. -Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight. Well, I've had a splendid visit, -but I'm glad to see you dear folks again. 'East, west, hame's best.' -Davy, have you been growing again lately?" - -"I've growed a whole inch since you left," said Davy proudly. "I'm as -tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain't I glad. He'll have to stop crowing -about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is -dying?" Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at Davy. Her -face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint. - -"Davy, hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel angrily. "Anne, don't -look like that--DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT! We didn't mean to tell you so -suddenly." - -"Is--it--true?" asked Anne in a voice that was not hers. - -"Gilbert is very ill," said Mrs. Lynde gravely. "He took down with -typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of -it?" - -"No," said that unknown voice. - -"It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he'd been -terribly run down. They've a trained nurse and everything's been done. -DON'T look like that, Anne. While there's life there's hope." - -"Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of -him," reiterated Davy. - -Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly -out of the kitchen. - -"Oh, DON'T look so, dear," said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old arms -about the pallid girl. "I haven't given up hope, indeed I haven't. He's -got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that's what." - -Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde's arms away from her, walked blindly across -the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its -window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. The -rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods was -full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air -throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. And -Gilbert was dying! - -There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the -Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil -through the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert--had always -loved him! She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him -out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her right hand -and cast it from her. And the knowledge had come too late--too late even -for the bitter solace of being with him at the last. If she had not been -so blind--so foolish--she would have had the right to go to him now. But -he would never know that she loved him--he would go away from this -life thinking that she did not care. Oh, the black years of emptiness -stretching before her! She could not live through them--she could not! -She cowered down by her window and wished, for the first time in her -gay young life, that she could die, too. If Gilbert went away from her, -without one word or sign or message, she could not live. Nothing was of -any value without him. She belonged to him and he to her. In her hour -of supreme agony she had no doubt of that. He did not love Christine -Stuart--never had loved Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool she had been -not to realize what the bond was that had held her to Gilbert--to think -that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And -now she must pay for her folly as for a crime. - -Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook -their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away. -The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne -saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern -hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. The clouds rolled themselves away -into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and -silvery. A hush fell over the world. - -Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the -rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and -cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was lilting up -the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote came in sight. - -Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched -at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George -Fletcher's hired man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the -Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt. Pacifique would know -if--if--Pacifique would know what there was to be known. - -Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not -see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost past -before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call, "Pacifique!" - -Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning. - -"Pacifique," said Anne faintly, "did you come from George Fletcher's -this morning?" - -"Sure," said Pacifique amiably. "I got de word las' night dat my fader, -he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn't go den, so I start vair -early dis mornin'. I'm goin' troo de woods for short cut." - -"Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?" Anne's desperation -drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable than -this hideous suspense. - -"He's better," said Pacifique. "He got de turn las' night. De doctor say -he'll be all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat boy, -he jus' keel himself at college. Well, I mus' hurry. De old man, he'll -be in hurry to see me." - -Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with -eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He was -a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he was as -beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains. Never, as -long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique's brown, round, black-eyed -face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had given to her -the oil of joy for mourning. - -Long after Pacifique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music -and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane Anne stood -under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some -great dread has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled -with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of -new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the -birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. -A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her -lips, - -"Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning." - - - - -XLI - -Love Takes Up the Glass of Time - - -"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through -September woods and 'over hills where spices grow,' this afternoon," -said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. "Suppose we visit -Hester Gray's garden." - -Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy, -green stuff, looked up rather blankly. - -"Oh, I wish I could," she said slowly, "but I really can't, Gilbert. I'm -going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening, you know. I've got to -do something to this dress, and by the time it's finished I'll have to -get ready. I'm so sorry. I'd love to go." - -"Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?" asked Gilbert, apparently -not much disappointed. - -"Yes, I think so." - -"In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should -otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is to be married -tonight. Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne--Phil's, Alice's, -and Jane's. I'll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her wedding." - -"You really can't blame her when you think of the tremendous Andrews -connection who had to be invited. The house could hardly hold them all. -I was only bidden by grace of being Jane's old chum--at least on Jane's -part. I think Mrs. Harmon's motive for inviting me was to let me see -Jane's surpassing gorgeousness." - -"Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn't tell where -the diamonds left off and Jane began?" - -Anne laughed. - -"She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and white -satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, prim little -Jane was almost lost to sight. But she was VERY happy, and so was Mr. -Inglis--and so was Mrs. Harmon." - -"Is that the dress you're going to wear tonight?" asked Gilbert, looking -down at the fluffs and frills. - -"Yes. Isn't it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. The -Haunted Wood is full of them this summer." - -Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown, -with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and -white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision made -him catch his breath. But he turned lightly away. - -"Well, I'll be up tomorrow. Hope you'll have a nice time tonight." - -Anne looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was -friendly--very friendly--far too friendly. He had come quite often to -Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their old comradeship -had returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. The rose of love -made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast. And -Anne had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but -friendship. In the common light of common day her radiant certainty of -that rapt morning had faded. She was haunted by a miserable fear that -her mistake could never be rectified. It was quite likely that it was -Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. Perhaps he was even engaged -to her. Anne tried to put all unsettling hopes out of her heart, and -reconcile herself to a future where work and ambition must take the -place of love. She could do good, if not noble, work as a teacher; and -the success her little sketches were beginning to meet with in certain -editorial sanctums augured well for her budding literary dreams. -But--but--Anne picked up her green dress and sighed again. - -When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him, -fresh as the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the -preceding night. She wore a green dress--not the one she had worn to -the wedding, but an old one which Gilbert had told her at a Redmond -reception he liked especially. It was just the shade of green that -brought out the rich tints of her hair, and the starry gray of her -eyes and the iris-like delicacy of her skin. Gilbert, glancing at her -sideways as they walked along a shadowy woodpath, thought she had never -looked so lovely. Anne, glancing sideways at Gilbert, now and then, -thought how much older he looked since his illness. It was as if he had -put boyhood behind him forever. - -The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry -when they reached Hester Gray's garden, and sat down on the old bench. -But it was beautiful there, too--as beautiful as it had been on the -faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and -she had found it. Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets; -now golden rod had kindled its fairy torches in the corners and asters -dotted it bluely. The call of the brook came up through the woods from -the valley of birches with all its old allurement; the mellow air -was full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences -bleached silvery gray in the suns of many summers, and long hills -scarfed with the shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the -west wind old dreams returned. - -"I think," said Anne softly, "that 'the land where dreams come true' is -in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley." - -"Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?" asked Gilbert. - -Something in his tone--something she had not heard since that miserable -evening in the orchard at Patty's Place--made Anne's heart beat wildly. -But she made answer lightly. - -"Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn't do for us to have all our dreams -fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream -about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting -from the asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell -them. I'm sure they would be very beautiful." - -Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked. - -"I have a dream," he said slowly. "I persist in dreaming it, although it -has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home -with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends--and -YOU!" - -Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking -over her like a wave. It almost frightened her. - -"I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again -today will you give me a different answer?" - -Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all -the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a -moment. He wanted no other answer. - -They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden -must have been, crept over it. There was so much to talk over and -recall--things said and done and heard and thought and felt and -misunderstood. - -"I thought you loved Christine Stuart," Anne told him, as reproachfully -as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she loved Roy -Gardner. - -Gilbert laughed boyishly. - -"Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it and she -knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was -coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I -would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. -So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of -the nicest girls I've ever known. I knew college gossip credited us with -being in love with each other. I didn't care. Nothing mattered much to -me for a time there, after you told me you could never love me, Anne. -There was nobody else--there never could be anybody else for me but you. -I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in -school." - -"I don't see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a little -fool," said Anne. - -"Well, I tried to stop," said Gilbert frankly, "not because I thought -you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance -for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn't--and I can't tell -you, either, what it's meant to me these two years to believe you were -going to marry him, and be told every week by some busybody that your -engagement was on the point of being announced. I believed it until one -blessed day when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from -Phil Gordon--Phil Blake, rather--in which she told me there was really -nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to 'try again.' Well, the -doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that." - -Anne laughed--then shivered. - -"I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I -knew--I KNEW then--and I thought it was too late." - -"But it wasn't, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, -doesn't it? Let's resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all -our lives for the gift it has given us." - -"It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly. "I've always -loved this old garden of Hester Gray's, and now it will be dearer than -ever." - -"But I'll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne," said Gilbert -sadly. "It will be three years before I'll finish my medical course. And -even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls." - -Anne laughed. - -"I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. You see I'm -quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be -all very well, but there is more 'scope for imagination' without them. -And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy, -waiting and working for each other--and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be -very sweet now." - -Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home -together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of -love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever -bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Anne Of The Island, by Lucy Maud Montgomery - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF THE ISLAND *** - -***** This file should be named 51.txt or 51.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/51/ - -Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.07.02.92*END* - - - - - - ANNE of the ISLAND - - by - - Lucy Maud Montgomery - - - - - to - all the girls all over the world - who have "wanted more" about - ANNE - - - - All precious things discovered late - To those that seek them issue forth, - For Love in sequel works with Fate, - And draws the veil from hidden worth. - -TENNYSON - - - - Table of Contents - -I The Shadow of Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 -II Garlands of Autumn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 -III Greeting and Farewell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 -IV April's Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 -V Letters from Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 -VI In the Park. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 -VII Home Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 -VIII Anne's First Proposal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .105 -IX An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend. . . . . . .113 -X Patty's Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .126 -XI The Round of Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .139 -XII "Averil's Atonement" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .153 -XIII The Way of Transgressors . . . . . . . . . . . . . .165 -XIV The Summons. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .181 -XV A Dream Turned Upside Down . . . . . . . . . . . . .194 -XVI Adjusted Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .202 -XVII A Letter from Davy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .219 -XVIII Miss Josepine Remembers the Anne-girl. . . . . . . .225 -XIX An Interlude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .234 -XX Gilbert Speaks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .240 -XXI Roses of Yesterday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .249 -XXII Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables . . . . . . .256 -XXIII Paul Cannot Find the Rock People . . . . . . . . . .263 -XXIV Enter Jonas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .269 -XXV Enter Prince Charming. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .278 -XXVI Enter Christine. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .288 -XXVII Mutual Confidences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .294 -XXVIII A June Evening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .303 -XXIX Diana's Wedding. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .311 -XXX Mrs. Skinner's Romance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .317 -XXXI Anne to Philippa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .323 -XXXII Tea with Mrs. Douglas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .328 -XXXIII "He Just Kept Coming and Coming" . . . . . . . . . .336 -XXXIV John Douglas Speaks at Last. . . . . . . . . . . . .342 -XXXV The Last Redmond Year Opens. . . . . . . . . . . . .350 -XXXV1 The Gardners' Call . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .361 -XXXVII Full-fledged B.A.'s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .370 -XXXVIII False Dawn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .379 -XXXIX Deals with Weddings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .388 -XL A Book of Revelation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .400 -XLI Love Takes Up the Glass of Time. . . . . . . . . . .407 - - - - - - ANNE of the ISLAND - by - Lucy Maud Montgomery - - - - -Chapter I - -The Shadow of Change - - -"Harvest is ended and summer is gone," quoted Anne Shirley, -gazing across the shorn fields dreamily. She and Diana Barry had -been picking apples in the Green Gables orchard, but were now -resting from their labors in a sunny corner, where airy fleets of -thistledown drifted by on the wings of a wind that was still -summer-sweet with the incense of ferns in the Haunted Wood. - -But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn. -The sea was roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare -and sere, scarfed with golden rod, the brook valley below Green -Gables overflowed with asters of ethereal purple, and the Lake of -Shining Waters was blue -- blue -- blue; not the changeful blue -of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, steadfast, -serene blue, as if the water were past all moods and tenses of emotion -and had settled down to a tranquility unbroken by fickle dreams. - -"It has been a nice summer," said Diana, twisting the new ring on -her left hand with a smile. "And Miss Lavendar's wedding seemed -to come as a sort of crown to it. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving -are on the Pacific coast now." - -"It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the world," -sighed Anne. - -"I can't believe it is only a week since they were married. -Everything has changed. Miss Lavendar and Mr. and Mrs. Allan gone --- how lonely the manse looks with the shutters all closed! -I went past it last night, and it made me feel as if everybody -in it had died." - -"We'll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allan," said Diana, -with gloomy conviction. "I suppose we'll have all kinds of supplies -this winter, and half the Sundays no preaching at all. And you and -Gilbert gone -- it will be awfully dull." - -"Fred will be here," insinuated Anne slyly. - -"When is Mrs. Lynde going to move up?" asked Diana, as if she -had not heard Anne's remark. - -"Tomorrow. I'm glad she's coming -- but it will be another change. -Marilla and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday. -Do you know, I hated to do it? Of course, it was silly -- but -it did seem as if we were committing sacrilege. That old spare -room has always seemed like a shrine to me. When I was a child -I thought it the most wonderful apartment in the world. You -remember what a consuming desire I had to sleep in a spare room bed --- but not the Green Gables spare room. Oh, no, never there! -It would have been too terrible -- I couldn't have slept a wink -from awe. I never WALKED through that room when Marilla sent me in -on an errand -- no, indeed, I tiptoed through it and held my breath, -as if I were in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it. -The pictures of George Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington -hung there, one on each side of the mirror, and frowned so sternly -at me all the time I was in, especially if I dared peep in the mirror, -which was the only one in the house that didn't twist my face a little. -I always wondered how Marilla dared houseclean that room. And now it's -not only cleaned but stripped bare. George Whitefield and the Duke -have been relegated to the upstairs hall. `So passes the glory of -this world,' " concluded Anne, with a laugh in which there was a -little note of regret. It is never pleasant to have our old -shrines desecrated, even when we have outgrown them. - -"I'll be so lonesome when you go," moaned Diana for the hundredth time. -"And to think you go next week!" - -"But we're together still," said Anne cheerily. "We mustn't let next -week rob us of this week's joy. I hate the thought of going myself --- home and I are such good friends. Talk of being lonesome! -It's I who should groan. YOU'LL be here with any number of your -old friends -- AND Fred! While I shall be alone among strangers, -not knowing a soul!" - -"EXCEPT Gilbert -- AND Charlie Sloane," said Diana, imitating -Anne's italics and slyness. - -"Charlie Sloane will be a great comfort, of course," agreed Anne -sarcastically; whereupon both those irresponsible damsels laughed. -Diana knew exactly what Anne thought of Charlie Sloane; but, -despite sundry confidential talks, she did not know just what -Anne thought of Gilbert Blythe. To be sure, Anne herself -did not know that. - -"The boys may be boarding at the other end of Kingsport, for all -I know," Anne went on. "I am glad I'm going to Redmond, and I am -sure I shall like it after a while. But for the first few weeks -I know I won't. I shan't even have the comfort of looking forward -to the weekend visit home, as I had when I went to Queen's. -Christmas will seem like a thousand years away." - -"Everything is changing -- or going to change," said Diana sadly. -"I have a feeling that things will never be the same again, Anne." - -"We have come to a parting of the ways, I suppose," said Anne -thoughtfully. "We had to come to it. Do you think, Diana, that -being grown-up is really as nice as we used to imagine it would -be when we were children?" - -"I don't know -- there are SOME nice things about it," answered -Diana, again caressing her ring with that little smile which -always had the effect of making Anne feel suddenly left out and -inexperienced. "But there are so many puzzling things, too. -Sometimes I feel as if being grown-up just frightened me -- and -then I would give anything to be a little girl again." - -"I suppose we'll get used to being grownup in time," said Anne -cheerfully. "There won't be so many unexpected things about it -by and by -- though, after all, I fancy it's the unexpected -things that give spice to life. We're eighteen, Diana. In two -more years we'll be twenty. When I was ten I thought twenty was -a green old age. In no time you'll be a staid, middle-aged -matron, and I shall be nice, old maid Aunt Anne, coming to visit -you on vacations. You'll always keep a corner for me, won't you, -Di darling? Not the spare room, of course -- old maids can't -aspire to spare rooms, and I shall be as 'umble as Uriah Heep, -and quite content with a little over-the-porch or off-the-parlor -cubby hole." - -"What nonsense you do talk, Anne," laughed Diana. "You'll marry -somebody splendid and handsome and rich -- and no spare room in -Avonlea will be half gorgeous enough for you -- and you'll turn -up your nose at all the friends of your youth." - -"That would be a pity; my nose is quite nice, but I fear turning -it up would spoil it," said Anne, patting that shapely organ. -"I haven't so many good features that I could afford to spoil -those I have; so, even if I should marry the King of the Cannibal -Islands, I promise you I won't turn up my nose at you, Diana." - -With another gay laugh the girls separated, Diana to return to -Orchard Slope, Anne to walk to the Post Office. She found a -letter awaiting her there, and when Gilbert Blythe overtook her -on the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters she was sparkling -with the excitement of it. - -"Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too," she exclaimed. -"Isn't that splendid? I hoped she would, but she didn't think -her father would consent. He has, however, and we're to board -together. I feel that I can face an army with banners -- or all -the professors of Redmond in one fell phalanx -- with a chum like -Priscilla by my side." - -"I think we'll like Kingsport," said Gilbert. "It's a nice old -burg, they tell me, and has the finest natural park in the world. -I've heard that the scenery in it is magnificent." - -"I wonder if it will be -- can be -- any more beautiful than this," -murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes -of those to whom "home" must always be the loveliest spot in the world, -no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars. - -They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of -the enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed -from her sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot. -The fine, empurpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies, -but the moon was rising and the water lay like a great, silver dream -in her light. Remembrance wove a sweet and subtle spell over the -two young creatures. - -"You are very quiet, Anne," said Gilbert at last. - -"I'm afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty -will vanish just like a broken silence," breathed Anne. - -Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying -on the rail of the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, -his still boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope -that thrilled his soul. But Anne snatched her hand away and -turned quickly. The spell of the dusk was broken for her. - -"I must go home," she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness. -"Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I'm sure the twins will -be in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really shouldn't have -stayed away so long." - -She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached -the Green Gables lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get -a word in edgewise. Anne felt rather relieved when they parted. -There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with -regard to Gilbert, ever since that fleeting moment of revelation -in the garden of Echo Lodge. Something alien had intruded into -the old, perfect, school-day comradeship -- something that -threatened to mar it. - -"I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before," she thought, half- -resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane. -"Our friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense. -It mustn't be spoiled -- I won't let it. Oh, WHY can't boys be -just sensible!" - -Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly "sensible" that -she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert's, -as distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had -rested there; and still less sensible that the sensation was far -from being an unpleasant one -- very different from that which -had attended a similar demonstration on Charlie Sloane's part, -when she had been sitting out a dance with him at a White Sands -party three nights before. Anne shivered over the disagreeable -recollection. But all problems connected with infatuated swains -vanished from her mind when she entered the homely, unsentimental -atmosphere of the Green Gables kitchen where an eight-year-old -boy was crying grievously on the sofa. - -"What is the matter, Davy?" asked Anne, taking him up in her arms. -"Where are Marilla and Dora?" - -"Marilla's putting Dora to bed," sobbed Davy, "and I'm crying -'cause Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heels over head, -and scraped all the skin off her nose, and -- " - -"Oh, well, don't cry about it, dear. Of course, you are sorry -for her, but crying won't help her any. She'll be all right -tomorrow. Crying never helps any one, Davy-boy, and -- " - -"I ain't crying 'cause Dora fell down cellar," said Davy, cutting -short Anne's wellmeant preachment with increasing bitterness. -"I'm crying, cause I wasn't there to see her fall. I'm always -missing some fun or other, seems to me." - -"Oh, Davy!" Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter. -"Would you call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the -steps and get hurt?" - -"She wasn't MUCH hurt," said Davy, defiantly. "'Course, if -she'd been killed I'd have been real sorry, Anne. But the Keiths -ain't so easy killed. They're like the Blewetts, I guess. Herb -Blewett fell off the hayloft last Wednesday, and rolled right -down through the turnip chute into the box stall, where they had -a fearful wild, cross horse, and rolled right under his heels. -And still he got out alive, with only three bones broke. Mrs. -Lynde says there are some folks you can't kill with a meat-axe. -Is Mrs. Lynde coming here tomorrow, Anne?" - -"Yes, Davy, and I hope you'll be always very nice and good to her." - -"I'll be nice and good. But will she ever put me to bed at nights, Anne?" - -"Perhaps. Why?" - -"'Cause," said Davy very decidedly, "if she does I won't say my -prayers before her like I do before you, Anne." - -"Why not?" - -"'Cause I don't think it would be nice to talk to God before -strangers, Anne. Dora can say hers to Mrs. Lynde if she likes, -but _I_ won't. I'll wait till she's gone and then say 'em. Won't -that be all right, Anne?" - -"Yes, if you are sure you won't forget to say them, Davy-boy." - -"Oh, I won't forget, you bet. I think saying my prayers is great fun. -But it won't be as good fun saying them alone as saying them to you. -I wish you'd stay home, Anne. I don't see what you want to go away -and leave us for." - -"I don't exactly WANT to, Davy, but I feel I ought to go." - -"If you don't want to go you needn't. You're grown up. When _I_'m -grown up I'm not going to do one single thing I don't want to do, Anne." - -"All your life, Davy, you'll find yourself doing things you don't -want to do." - -"I won't," said Davy flatly. "Catch me! I have to do things I -don't want to now 'cause you and Marilla'll send me to bed if I don't. -But when I grow up you can't do that, and there'll be nobody to tell me -not to do things. Won't I have the time! Say, Anne, Milty Boulter says -his mother says you're going to college to see if you can catch a man. -Are you, Anne? I want to know." - -For a second Anne burned with resentment. Then she laughed, -reminding herself that Mrs. Boulter's crude vulgarity of thought -and speech could not harm her. - -"No, Davy, I'm not. I'm going to study and grow and learn about many things." - -"What things?" - - "`Shoes and ships and sealing wax - And cabbages and kings,'" - -quoted Anne. - -"But if you DID want to catch a man how would you go about it? -I want to know," persisted Davy, for whom the subject evidently -possessed a certain fascination. - -"You'd better ask Mrs. Boulter," said Anne thoughtlessly. "I -think it's likely she knows more about the process than I do." - -"I will, the next time I see her," said Davy gravely. - -"Davy! If you do!" cried Anne, realizing her mistake. - -"But you just told me to," protested Davy aggrieved. - -"It's time you went to bed," decreed Anne, by way of getting out -of the scrape. - -After Davy had gone to bed Anne wandered down to Victoria Island -and sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, -while the water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind. -Anne had always loved that brook. Many a dream had she spun over -its sparkling water in days gone by. She forgot lovelorn youths, -and the cayenne speeches of malicious neighbors, and all the -problems of her girlish existence. In imagination she sailed -over storied seas that wash the distant shining shores of "faery -lands forlorn," where lost Atlantis and Elysium lie, with the -evening star for pilot, to the land of Heart's Desire. And she -was richer in those dreams than in realities; for things seen -pass away, but the things that are unseen are eternal. - - - - -Chapter II - -Garlands of Autumn - - -The following week sped swiftly, crowded with innumerable "last things," -as Anne called them. Good-bye calls had to be made and received, being -pleasant or otherwise, according to whether callers and called-upon were -heartily in sympathy with Anne's hopes, or thought she was too much -puffed-up over going to college and that it was their duty to "take her -down a peg or two." - -The A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party in honor of Anne and Gilbert -one evening at the home of Josie Pye, choosing that place, partly -because Mr. Pye's house was large and convenient, partly because -it was strongly suspected that the Pye girls would have nothing -to do with the affair if their offer of the house for the party -was not accepted. It was a very pleasant little time, for the -Pye girls were gracious, and said and did nothing to mar the -harmony of the occasion -- which was not according to their wont. -Josie was unusually amiable -- so much so that she even remarked -condescendingly to Anne, - -"Your new dress is rather becoming to you, Anne. Really, you -look ALMOST PRETTY in it." - -"How kind of you to say so," responded Anne, with dancing eyes. -Her sense of humor was developing, and the speeches that would -have hurt her at fourteen were becoming merely food for amusement -now. Josie suspected that Anne was laughing at her behind those -wicked eyes; but she contented herself with whispering to Gertie, -as they went downstairs, that Anne Shirley would put on more airs -than ever now that she was going to college -- you'd see! - -All the "old crowd" was there, full of mirth and zest and -youthful lightheartedness. Diana Barry, rosy and dimpled, -shadowed by the faithful Fred; Jane Andrews, neat and sensible -and plain; Ruby Gillis, looking her handsomest and brightest in a -cream silk blouse, with red geraniums in her golden hair; Gilbert -Blythe and Charlie Sloane, both trying to keep as near the -elusive Anne as possible; Carrie Sloane, looking pale and -melancholy because, so it was reported, her father would not -allow Oliver Kimball to come near the place; Moody Spurgeon -MacPherson, whose round face and objectionable ears were as round -and objectionable as ever; and Billy Andrews, who sat in a corner all -the evening, chuckled when any one spoke to him, and watched Anne -Shirley with a grin of pleasure on his broad, freckled countenance. - -Anne had known beforehand of the party, but she had not known -that she and Gilbert were, as the founders of the Society, to be -presented with a very complimentary "address" and "tokens of -respect" -- in her case a volume of Shakespeare's plays, in -Gilbert's a fountain pen. She was so taken by surprise and -pleased by the nice things said in the address, read in Moody -Spurgeon's most solemn and ministerial tones, that the tears -quite drowned the sparkle of her big gray eyes. She had worked -hard and faithfully for the A.V.I.S., and it warmed the cockles -of her heart that the members appreciated her efforts so sincerely. -And they were all so nice and friendly and jolly -- even the Pye -girls had their merits; at that moment Anne loved all the world. - -She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather -spoiled all. Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something -sentimental to her as they ate their supper on the moonlit -verandah; and Anne, to punish him, was gracious to Charlie Sloane -and allowed the latter to walk home with her. She found, -however, that revenge hurts nobody quite so much as the one who -tries to inflict it. Gilbert walked airily off with Ruby Gillis, -and Anne could hear them laughing and talking gaily as they -loitered along in the still, crisp autumn air. They were -evidently having the best of good times, while she was horribly -bored by Charlie Sloane, who talked unbrokenly on, and never, -even by accident, said one thing that was worth listening to. -Anne gave an occasional absent "yes" or "no," and thought how -beautiful Ruby had looked that night, how very goggly Charlie's -eyes were in the moonlight -- worse even than by daylight -- and -that the world, somehow, wasn't quite such a nice place as she -had believed it to be earlier in the evening. - -"I'm just tired out -- that is what is the matter with me," -she said, when she thankfully found herself alone in her own room. -And she honestly believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy, -as from some secret, unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart -the next evening, when she saw Gilbert striding down through the -Haunted Wood and crossing the old log bridge with that firm, -quick step of his. So Gilbert was not going to spend this last -evening with Ruby Gillis after all! - -"You look tired, Anne," he said. - -"I am tired, and, worse than that, I'm disgruntled. I'm tired -because I've been packing my trunk and sewing all day. But I'm -disgruntled because six women have been here to say good-bye to -me, and every one of the six managed to say something that seemed -to take the color right out of life and leave it as gray and -dismal and cheerless as a November morning." - -"Spiteful old cats!" was Gilbert's elegant comment. - -"Oh, no, they weren't," said Anne seriously. "That is just the -trouble. If they had been spiteful cats I wouldn't have minded -them. But they are all nice, kind, motherly souls, who like me -and whom I like, and that is why what they said, or hinted, had -such undue weight with me. They let me see they thought I was -crazy going to Redmond and trying to take a B.A., and ever since -I've been wondering if I am. Mrs. Peter Sloane sighed and said -she hoped my strength would hold out till I got through; and at -once I saw myself a hopeless victim of nervous prostration at the -end of my third year; Mrs. Eben Wright said it must cost an awful -lot to put in four years at Redmond; and I felt all over me that -it was unpardonable of me to squander Marilla's money and my own -on such a folly. Mrs. Jasper Bell said she hoped I wouldn't let -college spoil me, as it did some people; and I felt in my bones -that the end of my four Redmond years would see me a most -insufferable creature, thinking I knew it all, and looking down -on everything and everybody in Avonlea; Mrs. Elisha Wright said -she understood that Redmond girls, especially those who belonged -to Kingsport, were 'dreadful dressy and stuck-up,' and she -guessed I wouldn't feel much at home among them; and I saw -myself, a snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country girl, shuffling -through Redmond's classic halls in coppertoned boots." - -Anne ended with a laugh and a sigh commingled. With her sensitive -nature all disapproval had weight, even the disapproval of those -for whose opinions she had scant respect. For the time being life -was savorless, and ambition had gone out like a snuffed candle. - -"You surely don't care for what they said," protested Gilbert. -"You know exactly how narrow their outlook on life is, excellent -creatures though they are. To do anything THEY have never done -is anathema maranatha. You are the first Avonlea girl who has -ever gone to college; and you know that all pioneers are considered -to be afflicted with moonstruck madness." - -"Oh, I know. But FEELING is so different from KNOWING. My common -sense tells me all you can say, but there are times when common -sense has no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of -my soul. Really, after Mrs. Elisha went away I hardly had the -heart to finish packing." - -"You're just tired, Anne. Come, forget it all and take a walk -with me -- a ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh. -There should be something there I want to show you." - -"Should be! Don't you know if it is there?" - -"No. I only know it should be, from something I saw there in spring. -Come on. We'll pretend we are two children again and we'll go the -way of the wind." - -They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of -the preceding evening, was very nice to Gilbert; and Gilbert, who -was learning wisdom, took care to be nothing save the schoolboy -comrade again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla watched them from the -kitchen window. - -"That'll be a match some day," Mrs. Lynde said approvingly. - -Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it -went against her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde's -gossipy matter-of-fact way. - -"They're only children yet," she said shortly. - -Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly. - -"Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old -folks, Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never -grow up, that's what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert's a man, -and he worships the ground she walks on, as any one can see. -He's a fine fellow, and Anne can't do better. I hope she won't -get any romantic nonsense into her head at Redmond. I don't -approve of them coeducational places and never did, that's what. -I don't believe," concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, "that the -students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt." - -"They must study a little," said Marilla, with a smile. - -"Precious little," sniffed Mrs. Rachel. "However, I think Anne -will. She never was flirtatious. But she doesn't appreciate -Gilbert at his full value, that's what. Oh, I know girls! -Charlie Sloane is wild about her, too, but I'd never advise her -to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes are good, honest, respectable people, -of course. But when all's said and done, they're SLOANES." - -Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were -Sloanes might not be very illuminating, but she understood. -Every village has such a family; good, honest, respectable people -they may be, but SLOANES they are and must ever remain, though -they speak with the tongues of men and angels. - -Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus -being settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows -of the Haunted Wood. Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in -an amber sunset radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. -The distant spruce groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows -barred the upland meadows. But around them a little wind sang among -the fir tassels, and in it there was the note of autumn. - -"This wood really is haunted now -- by old memories," said Anne, -stooping to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness -by frost. "It seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used -to be play here still, and sit by the Dryad's Bubble in the -twilights, trysting with the ghosts. Do you know, I can never go -up this path in the dusk without feeling a bit of the old fright -and shiver? There was one especially horrifying phantom which we -created -- the ghost of the murdered child that crept up behind -you and laid cold fingers on yours. I confess that, to this day, -I cannot help fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind me -when I come here after nightfall. I'm not afraid of the White -Lady or the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never -imagined that baby's ghost into existence. How angry Marilla -and Mrs. Barry were over that affair," concluded Anne, with -reminiscent laughter. - -The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas, -threaded with gossamers. Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces -and a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley they found the "something" -Gilbert was looking for. - -"Ah, here it is," he said with satisfaction. - -"An apple tree -- and away back here!" exclaimed Anne delightedly. - -"Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple tree, too, here in the very -midst of pines and beeches, a mile away from any orchard. I was -here one day last spring and found it, all white with blossom. -So I resolved I'd come again in the fall and see if it had been -apples. See, it's loaded. They look good, too -- tawny as -russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild seedlings are -green and uninviting." - -"I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed," said -Anne dreamily." And how it has grown and flourished and held its -own here all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!" - -"Here's a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, Anne -- -it will serve for a woodland throne. I'll climb for some apples. -They all grow high -- the tree had to reach up to the sunlight." - -The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a -white, white flesh, faintly veined with red; and, besides their -own proper apple taste, they had a certain wild, delightful tang -no orchard-grown apple ever possessed. - -"The fatal apple of Eden couldn't have had a rarer flavor," -commented Anne. "But it's time we were going home. See, it was -twilight three minutes ago and now it's moonlight. What a pity -we couldn't have caught the moment of transformation. But such -moments never are caught, I suppose." - -"Let's go back around the marsh and home by way of Lover's Lane. -Do you feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne?" - -"Not I. Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul. I feel -that I shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there." - -"And after those four years -- what?" - -"Oh, there's another bend in the road at their end," answered -Anne lightly. "I've no idea what may be around it -- I don't -want to have. It's nicer not to know." - -Lover's Lane was a dear place that night, still and mysteriously -dim in the pale radiance of the moonlight. They loitered through -it in a pleasant chummy silence, neither caring to talk. - -"If Gilbert were always as he has been this evening how nice and -simple everything would be," reflected Anne. - -Gilbert was looking at Anne, as she walked along. In her light dress, -with her slender delicacy, she made him think of a white iris. - -"I wonder if I can ever make her care for me," he thought, with a -pang of self-destruct. - - - - -Chapter III - -Greeting and Farewell - - -Charlie Sloane, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the -following Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana -was to drive her to the station and they wanted this, their last -drive together for some time, to be a pleasant one. But when Anne -went to bed Sunday night the east wind was moaning around Green -Gables with an ominous prophecy which was fulfilled in the morning. -Anne awoke to find raindrops pattering against her window and -shadowing the pond's gray surface with widening rings; hills and -sea were hidden in mist, and the whole world seemed dim and dreary. -Anne dressed in the cheerless gray dawn, for an early start was -necessary to catch the boat train; she struggled against the tears -that WOULD well up in her eyes in spite of herself. She was leaving -the home that was so dear to her, and something told her that she was -leaving it forever, save as a holiday refuge. Things would never be -the same again; coming back for vacations would not be living there. -And oh, how dear and beloved everything was -- that little white porch room, -sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the old Snow Queen at the window, -the brook in the hollow, the Dryad's Bubble, the Haunted Woods, -and Lover's Lane -- all the thousand and one dear spots where memories -of the old years bided. Could she ever be really happy anywhere else? - -Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal. -Davy, for the first time in his life probably, could not eat, but -blubbered shamelessly over his porridge. Nobody else seemed to -have much appetite, save Dora, who tucked away her rations comfortably. -Dora, like the immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who "went on -cutting bread and butter" when her frenzied lover's body had been -carried past on a shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures -who are seldom disturbed by anything. Even at eight it took a -great deal to ruffle Dora's placidity. She was sorry Anne was -going away, of course, but was that any reason why she should -fail to appreciate a poached egg on toast? Not at all. And, -seeing that Davy could not eat his, Dora ate it for him. - -Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy -face glowing above her raincoat. The good-byes had to be said -then somehow. Mrs. Lynde came in from her quarters to give Anne -a hearty embrace and warn her to be careful of her health, -whatever she did. Marilla, brusque and tearless, pecked Anne's -cheek and said she supposed they'd hear from her when she got -settled. A casual observer might have concluded that Anne's -going mattered very little to her -- unless said observer had -happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne primly -and squeezed out two decorous little tears; but Davy, who had -been crying on the back porch step ever since they rose from the -table, refused to say good-bye at all. When he saw Anne coming -towards him he sprang to his feet, bolted up the back stairs, and -hid in a clothes closet, out of which he would not come. His muffled -howls were the last sounds Anne heard as she left Green Gables. - -It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, to which station -they had to go, since the branch line train from Carmody did not -connect with the boat train. Charlie and Gilbert were on the -station platform when they reached it, and the train was whistling. -Anne had just time to get her ticket and trunk check, say a hurried -farewell to Diana, and hasten on board. She wished she were going back -with Diana to Avonlea; she knew she was going to die of homesickness. -And oh, if only that dismal rain would stop pouring down as if the -whole world were weeping over summer vanished and joys departed! -Even Gilbert's presence brought her no comfort, for Charlie Sloane -was there, too, and Sloanishness could be tolerated only in fine weather. -It was absolutely insufferable in rain. - -But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbor things took -a turn for the better. The rain ceased and the sun began to -burst out goldenly now and again between the rents in the clouds, -burnishing the gray seas with copper-hued radiance, and lighting -up the mists that curtained the Island's red shores with gleams -of gold foretokening a fine day after all. Besides, Charlie -Sloane promptly became so seasick that he had to go below, and -Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck. - -"I am very glad that all the Sloanes get seasick as soon as they -go on water," thought Anne mercilessly. "I am sure I couldn't -take my farewell look at the `ould sod' with Charlie standing -there pretending to look sentimentally at it, too." - -"Well, we're off," remarked Gilbert unsentimentally. - -"Yes, I feel like Byron's `Childe Harold' -- only it isn't really -my `native shore' that I'm watching," said Anne, winking her gray -eyes vigorously. "Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one's -native shore is the land one loves the best, and that's good old -P.E.I. for me. I can't believe I didn't always live here. -Those eleven years before I came seem like a bad dream. -It's seven years since I crossed on this boat -- the evening -Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself, -in that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, exploring -decks and cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine evening; -and how those red Island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now I'm -crossing the strait again. Oh, Gilbert, I do hope I'll like Redmond -and Kingsport, but I'm sure I won't!" - -"Where's all your philosophy gone, Anne?" - -"It's all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness -and homesickness. I've longed for three years to go to Redmond --- and now I'm going -- and I wish I weren't! Never mind! I -shall be cheerful and philosophical again after I have just one -good cry. I MUST have that, `as a went' -- and I'll have to wait -until I get into my boardinghouse bed tonight, wherever it may -be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be herself again. I -wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet." - -It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and -they found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. -Anne felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by -Priscilla Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday. - -"Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you're as tired as I was -when I got here Saturday night." - -"Tired! Priscilla, don't talk of it. I'm tired, and green, -and provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake -take your poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can -hear herself think." - -"I'll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I've a cab ready outside." - -"It's such a blessing you're here, Prissy. If you weren't I -think I should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and -weep bitter tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a -howling wilderness of strangers!" - -"Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up -this past year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. -And of course that's Charlie Sloane. HE hasn't changed -- couldn't! -He looked just like that when he was born, and he'll look like that -when he's eighty. This way, dear. We'll be home in twenty minutes." - -"Home!" groaned Anne. "You mean we'll be in some horrible boardinghouse, -in a still more horrible hall bedroom, looking out on a dingy back yard." - -"It isn't a horrible boardinghouse, Anne-girl. Here's our cab. -Hop in -- the driver will get your trunk. Oh, yes, the boardinghouse --- it's really a very nice place of its kind, as you'll admit tomorrow -morning when a good night's sleep has turned your blues rosy pink. -It's a big, old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. John Street, -just a nice little constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the -`residence' of great folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street -and its houses only dream now of better days. They're so big that -people living in them have to take boarders just to fill up. At least, -that is the reason our landladies are very anxious to impress on us. -They're delicious, Anne -- our landladies, I mean." - -"How many are there?" - -"Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins -about fifty years ago." - -"I can't get away from twins, it seems," smiled Anne. "Wherever I -go they confront me." - -"Oh, they're not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of -thirty they never were twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old, -not too gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less -gracefully still. I don't know whether Miss Hannah can smile or -not; I've never caught her at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all -the time and that's worse. However, they're nice, kind souls, -and they take two boarders every year because Miss Hannah's -economical soul cannot bear to `waste room space' -- not because -they need to or have to, as Miss Ada has told me seven times -since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are hall -bedrooms, and mine does look out on the back yard. Your room is -a front one and looks out on Old St. John's graveyard, which is -just across the street." - -"That sounds gruesome," shivered Anne. "I think I'd rather have -the back yard view." - -"Oh, no, you wouldn't. Wait and see. Old St. John's is a -darling place. It's been a graveyard so long that it's ceased to -be one and has become one of the sights of Kingsport. I was all -through it yesterday for a pleasure exertion. There's a big -stone wall and a row of enormous trees all around it, and rows of -trees all through it, and the queerest old tombstones, with the -queerest and quaintest inscriptions. You'll go there to study, Anne, -see if you don't. Of course, nobody is ever buried there now. -But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument to the -memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. -It is just opposite the entrance gates and there's `scope for -imagination' in it, as you used to say. Here's your trunk at -last -- and the boys coming to say good night. Must I really -shake hands with Charlie Sloane, Anne? His hands are always so -cold and fishy-feeling. We must ask them to call occasionally. -Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have `young gentlemen -callers' two evenings in the week, if they went away at a -reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be -sure they didn't sit on her beautiful cushions. I promised to -see to it; but goodness knows where else they CAN sit, unless -they sit on the floor, for there are cushions on EVERYTHING. -Miss Ada even has an elaborate Battenburg one on top of the piano." - -Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla's gay chatter had the -intended effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the -time being, and did not even return in full force when she -finally found herself alone in her little bedroom. She went to -her window and looked out. The street below was dim and quiet. -Across it the moon was shining above the trees in Old St. John's, -just behind the great dark head of the lion on the monument. -Anne wondered if it could have been only that morning that -she had left Green Gables. She had the sense of a long -passage of time which one day of change and travel gives. - -"I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now," -she mused. "But I won't think about it -- that way homesickness -lies. I'm not even going to have my good cry. I'll put that off -to a more convenient season, and just now I'll go calmly and -sensibly to bed and to sleep." - - - - -Chapter IV - -April's Lady - - -Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial -days, and wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame -in garments fashioned like those of her youth. Here and there -it sprouts out into modernity, but at heart it is still unspoiled; -it is full of curious relics, and haloed by the romance of many -legends of the past. Once it was a mere frontier station on the -fringe of the wilderness, and those were the days when Indians -kept life from being monotonous to the settlers. Then it grew -to be a bone of contention between the British and the French, -being occupied now by the one and now by the other, emerging from -each occupation with some fresh scar of battling nations branded on it. - -It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over -by tourists, a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond -the town, and several antiquated cannon in its public squares. -It has other historic spots also, which may be hunted out by the -curious, and none is more quaint and delightful than Old St. John's -Cemetery at the very core of the town, with streets of quiet, -old-time houses on two sides, and busy, bustling, modern -thoroughfares on the others. Every citizen of Kingsport feels a -thrill of possessive pride in Old St. John's, for, if he be of -any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with a -queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively -over the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are -recorded. For the most part no great art or skill was lavished -on those old tombstones. The larger number are of roughly -chiselled brown or gray native stone, and only in a few cases is -there any attempt at ornamentation. Some are adorned with skull -and cross-bones, and this grizzly decoration is frequently -coupled with a cherub's head. Many are prostrate and in ruins. -Into almost all Time's tooth has been gnawing, until some -inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can only be -deciphered with difficulty. The graveyard is very full and very -bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and -willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly, -forever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite -undisturbed by the clamor of traffic just beyond. - -Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John's the next afternoon. -She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and registered as -students, after which there was nothing more to do that day. The girls -gladly made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to be surrounded -by crowds of strangers, most of whom had a rather alien appearance, -as if not quite sure where they belonged. - -The "freshettes" stood about in detached groups of two or three, -looking askance at each other; the "freshies," wiser in their day -and generation, had banded themselves together on the big -staircase of the entrance hall, where they were shouting out -glees with all the vigor of youthful lungs, as a species of -defiance to their traditional enemies, the Sophomores, a few of -whom were prowling loftily about, looking properly disdainful of -the "unlicked cubs" on the stairs. Gilbert and Charlie were -nowhere to be seen. - -"Little did I think the day would ever come when I'd be glad of -the sight of a Sloane," said Priscilla, as they crossed the -campus, "but I'd welcome Charlie's goggle eyes almost -ecstatically. At least, they'd be familiar eyes." - -"Oh," sighed Anne. "I can't describe how I felt when I was -standing there, waiting my turn to be registered -- as -insignificant as the teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket. -It's bad enough to feel insignificant, but it's unbearable to -have it grained into your soul that you will never, can never, -be anything but insignificant, and that is how I did feel -- -as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of those Sophs -might step on me. I knew I would go down to my grave unwept, -unhonored and unsung." - -"Wait till next year," comforted Priscilla. "Then we'll be able -to look as bored and sophisticated as any Sophomore of them all. -No doubt it is rather dreadful to feel insignificant; but I think -it's better than to feel as big and awkward as I did -- as if I were -sprawled all over Redmond. That's how I felt -- I suppose because -I was a good two inches taller than any one else in the crowd. -I wasn't afraid a Soph might walk over me; I was afraid they'd take -me for an elephant, or an overgrown sample of a potato-fed Islander." - -"I suppose the trouble is we can't forgive big Redmond for not -being little Queen's," said Anne, gathering about her the shreds -of her old cheerful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit. -"When we left Queen's we knew everybody and had a place of our own. -I suppose we have been unconsciously expecting to take life -up at Redmond just where we left off at Queen's, and now we feel -as if the ground had slipped from under our feet. I'm thankful -that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha Wright know, or ever -will know, my state of mind at present. They would exult in -saying `I told you so,' and be convinced it was the beginning of -the end. Whereas it is just the end of the beginning." - -"Exactly. That sounds more Anneish. In a little while we'll be -acclimated and acquainted, and all will be well. Anne, did you -notice the girl who stood alone just outside the door of the -coeds' dressing room all the morning -- the pretty one with the -brown eyes and crooked mouth?" - -"Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the -only creature there who LOOKED as lonely and friendless as I FELT. -I had YOU, but she had no one." - -"I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too. Several times I -saw her make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never -did it -- too shy, I suppose. I wished she would come. If I hadn't -felt so much like the aforesaid elephant I'd have gone to her. -But I couldn't lumber across that big hall with all those boys -howling on the stairs. She was the prettiest freshette I saw today, -but probably favor is deceitful and even beauty is vain on your -first day at Redmond," concluded Priscilla with a laugh. - -"I'm going across to Old St. John's after lunch," said Anne. -"I don't know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get -cheered up, but it seems the only get-at-able place where there -are trees, and trees I must have. I'll sit on one of those old -slabs and shut my eyes and imagine I'm in the Avonlea woods." - -Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest -in Old St. John's to keep her eyes wide open. They went in by -the entrance gates, past the simple, massive, stone arch -surmounted by the great lion of England. - - "`And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, - And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,'" - -quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill. They found themselves -in a dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring. -Up and down the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the -quaint, voluminous epitaphs, carved in an age that had more -leisure than our own. - -"`Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,'" read Anne -from a worn, gray slab, "`for many years Keeper of His Majesty's -Ordnance at Kingsport. He served in the army till the peace of -1763, when he retired from bad health. He was a brave officer, -the best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of friends. -He died October 29th, 1792, aged 84 years.' There's an epitaph -for you, Prissy. There is certainly some `scope for imagination' -in it. How full such a life must have been of adventure! And as -for his personal qualities, I'm sure human eulogy couldn't go -further. I wonder if they told him he was all those best things -while he was alive." - -"Here's another," said Priscilla. "Listen -- - -`To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, -1840, aged 43 years. This is raised as a tribute of affection by one -whom he served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a friend, -deserving the fullest confidence and attachment.' " - -"A very good epitaph," commented Anne thoughtfully. "I wouldn't -wish a better. We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact -that we are faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones -nothing more need be added. Here's a sorrowful little gray stone, -Prissy -- `to the memory of a favorite child.' And here is another -`erected to the memory of one who is buried elsewhere.' I wonder -where that unknown grave is. Really, Pris, the graveyards of today -will never be as interesting as this. You were right -- I shall -come here often. I love it already. I see we're not alone here --- there's a girl down at the end of this avenue." - -"Yes, and I believe it's the very girl we saw at Redmond this morning. -I've been watching her for five minutes. She has started to come up -the avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times has she -turned and gone back. Either she's dreadfully shy or she has got -something on her conscience. Let's go and meet her. It's easier -to get acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe." - -They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger, who -was sitting on a gray slab under an enormous willow. She was -certainly very pretty, with a vivid, irregular, bewitching type -of prettiness. There was a gloss as of brown nuts on her -satin-smooth hair and a soft, ripe glow on her round cheeks. -Her eyes were big and brown and velvety, under oddly-pointed -black brows, and her crooked mouth was rose-red. She wore a -smart brown suit, with two very modish little shoes peeping -from beneath it; and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed with -golden-brown poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable air -which pertains to the "creation" of an artist in millinery. -Priscilla had a sudden stinging consciousness that her own hat -had been trimmed by her village store milliner, and Anne wondered -uncomfortably if the blouse she had made herself, and which Mrs. -Lynde had fitted, looked VERY countrified and home-made besides -the stranger's smart attire. For a moment both girls felt like -turning back. - -But they had already stopped and turned towards the gray slab. -It was too late to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently -concluded that they were coming to speak to her. Instantly she -sprang up and came forward with outstretched hand and a gay, -friendly smile in which there seemed not a shadow of either -shyness or burdened conscience. - -"Oh, I want to know who you two girls are," she exclaimed eagerly. -"I've been DYING to know. I saw you at Redmond this morning. -Say, wasn't it AWFUL there? For the time I wished I had stayed -home and got married." - -Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this -unexpected conclusion. The brown-eyed girl laughed, too. - -"I really did. I COULD have, you know. Come, let's all sit down -on this gravestone and get acquainted. It won't be hard. I know -we're going to adore each other -- I knew it as soon as I saw you -at Redmond this morning. I wanted so much to go right over and -hug you both." - -"Why didn't you?" asked Priscilla. - -"Because I simply couldn't make up my mind to do it. I never can -make up my mind about anything myself -- I'm always afflicted -with indecision. Just as soon as I decide to do something I feel -in my bones that another course would be the correct one. It's a -dreadful misfortune, but I was born that way, and there is no use -in blaming me for it, as some people do. So I couldn't make up -my mind to go and speak to you, much as I wanted to." - -"We thought you were too shy," said Anne. - -"No, no, dear. Shyness isn't among the many failings -- or -virtues -- of Philippa Gordon -- Phil for short. Do call me Phil -right off. Now, what are your handles?" - -"She's Priscilla Grant," said Anne, pointing. - -"And SHE'S Anne Shirley," said Priscilla, pointing in turn. - -"And we're from the Island," said both together. - -"I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia," said Philippa. - -"Bolingbroke!" exclaimed Anne. "Why, that is where I was born." - -"Do you really mean it? Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all." - -"No, it doesn't," retorted Anne. "Wasn't it Dan O'Connell who -said that if a man was born in a stable it didn't make him a horse? -I'm Island to the core." - -"Well, I'm glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway. It makes us -kind of neighbors, doesn't it? And I like that, because when I tell -you secrets it won't be as if I were telling them to a stranger. -I have to tell them. I can't keep secrets -- it's no use to try. -That's my worst failing -- that, and indecision, as aforesaid. -Would you believe it? -- it took me half an hour to decide which -hat to wear when I was coming here -- HERE, to a graveyard! -At first I inclined to my brown one with the feather; -but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with the -floppy brim would be more becoming. When I got IT pinned in -place I liked the brown one better. At last I put them close -together on the bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin. -The pin speared the pink one, so I put it on. It is becoming, -isn't it? Tell me, what do you think of my looks?" - -At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla -laughed again. But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa's -hand, - -"We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw -at Redmond." - -Philippa's crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile -over very white little teeth. - -"I thought that myself," was her next astounding statement, -"but I wanted some one else's opinion to bolster mine up. -I can't decide even on my own appearance. Just as soon as I've -decided that I'm pretty I begin to feel miserably that I'm not. -Besides, have a horrible old great-aunt who is always saying to me, -with a mournful sigh, `You were such a pretty baby. It's strange how -children change when they grow up.' I adore aunts, but I detest great- -aunts. Please tell me quite often that I am pretty, if you don't mind. -I feel so much more comfortable when I can believe I'm pretty. And -I'll be just as obliging to you if you want me to -- I CAN be, with -a clear conscience." - -"Thanks," laughed Anne, "but Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced -of our own good looks that we don't need any assurance about them, -so you needn't trouble." - -"Oh, you're laughing at me. I know you think I'm abominably vain, -but I'm not. There really isn't one spark of vanity in me. -And I'm never a bit grudging about paying compliments to other -girls when they deserve them. I'm so glad I know you folks. -I came up on Saturday and I've nearly died of homesickness -ever since. It's a horrible feeling, isn't it? In Bolingbroke -I'm an important personage, and in Kingsport I'm just nobody! -There were times when I could feel my soul turning a delicate blue. -Where do you hang out?" - -"Thirty-eight St. John's Street." - -"Better and better. Why, I'm just around the corner on Wallace Street. -I don't like my boardinghouse, though. It's bleak and lonesome, and -my room looks out on such an unholy back yard. It's the ugliest place -in the world. As for cats -- well, surely ALL the Kingsport cats can't -congregate there at night, but half of them must. I adore cats on -hearth rugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires, but cats in back -yards at midnight are totally different animals. The first night -I was here I cried all night, and so did the cats. You should have -seen my nose in the morning. How I wished I had never left home!" - -"I don't know how you managed to make up your mind to come to -Redmond at all, if you are really such an undecided person," said -amused Priscilla. - -"Bless your heart, honey, I didn't. It was father who wanted me -to come here. His heart was set on it -- why, I don't know. It -seems perfectly ridiculous to think of me studying for a B.A. -degree, doesn't it? Not but what I can do it, all right. -I have heaps of brains." - -"Oh!" said Priscilla vaguely. - -"Yes. But it's such hard work to use them. And B.A.'s are such -learned, dignified, wise, solemn creatures -- they must be. No, -_I_ didn't want to come to Redmond. I did it just to oblige father. -He IS such a duck. Besides, I knew if I stayed home I'd have to -get married. Mother wanted that -- wanted it decidedly. Mother -has plenty of decision. But I really hated the thought of -being married for a few years yet. I want to have heaps of fun -before I settle down. And, ridiculous as the idea of my being a -B.A. is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still more -absurd, isn't it? I'm only eighteen. No, I concluded I would -rather come to Redmond than be married. Besides, how could I -ever have made up my mind which man to marry?" - -"Were there so many?" laughed Anne. - -"Heaps. The boys like me awfully -- they really do. But there -were only two that mattered. The rest were all too young and too -poor. I must marry a rich man, you know." - -"Why must you?" - -"Honey, you couldn't imagine ME being a poor man's wife, could you? -I can't do a single useful thing, and I am VERY extravagant. Oh, no, -my husband must have heaps of money. So that narrowed them down to two. -But I couldn't decide between two any easier than between two hundred. -I knew perfectly well that whichever one I chose I'd regret all my life -that I hadn't married the other." - -"Didn't you -- love -- either of them?" asked Anne, a little hesitatingly. -It was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the great mystery and -transformation of life. - -"Goodness, no. _I_ couldn't love anybody. It isn't in me. -Besides I wouldn't want to. Being in love makes you a perfect -slave, _I_ think. And it would give a man such power to hurt you. -I'd be afraid. No, no, Alec and Alonzo are two dear boys, and I like -them both so much that I really don't know which I like the better. -That is the trouble. Alec is the best looking, of course, and I -simply couldn't marry a man who wasn't handsome. He is good-tempered -too, and has lovely, curly, black hair. He's rather too perfect -- -I don't believe I'd like a perfect husband -- somebody I could never -find fault with." - -"Then why not marry Alonzo?" asked Priscilla gravely. - -"Think of marrying a name like Alonzo!" said Phil dolefully. -"I don't believe I could endure it. But he has a classic nose, -and it WOULD be a comfort to have a nose in the family that could -be depended on. I can't depend on mine. So far, it takes after the -Gordon pattern, but I'm so afraid it will develop Byrne tendencies -as I grow older. I examine it every day anxiously to make sure it's -still Gordon. Mother was a Byrne and has the Byrne nose in the -Byrnest degree. Wait till you see it. I adore nice noses. -Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley. Alonzo's nose nearly -turned the balance in his favor. But ALONZO! No, I couldn't decide. -If I could have done as I did with the hats -- stood them both up -together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hatpin -- it would have -been quite easy." - -"What did Alec and Alonzo feel like when you came away?" queried Priscilla. - -"Oh, they still have hope. I told them they'd have to wait -till I could make up my mind. They're quite willing to wait. -They both worship me, you know. Meanwhile, I intend to have -a good time. I expect I shall have heaps of beaux at Redmond. -I can't be happy unless I have, you know. But don't you think -the freshmen are fearfully homely? - -I saw only one really handsome fellow among them. He went away -before you came. I heard his chum call him Gilbert. His chum -had eyes that stuck out THAT FAR. But you're not going yet, girls? -Don't go yet." - -"I think we must," said Anne, rather coldly. "It's getting late, -and I've some work to do." - -"But you'll both come to see me, won't you?" asked Philippa, -getting up and putting an arm around each. "And let me come to -see you. I want to be chummy with you. I've taken such a fancy -to you both. And I haven't quite disgusted you with my frivolity, -have I?" - -"Not quite," laughed Anne, responding to Phil's squeeze, with a -return of cordiality. - -"Because I'm not half so silly as I seem on the surface, you -know. You just accept Philippa Gordon, as the Lord made her, -with all her faults, and I believe you'll come to like her. -Isn't this graveyard a sweet place? I'd love to be buried here. -Here's a grave I didn't see before -- this one in the iron -railing -- oh, girls, look, see -- the stone says it's the grave -of a middy who was killed in the fight between the Shannon and -the Chesapeake. Just fancy!" - -Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses -thrilling with sudden excitement. The old graveyard, with its -over-arching trees and long aisles of shadows, faded from her sight. -Instead, she saw the Kingsport Harbor of nearly a century agone. -Out of the mist came slowly a great frigate, brilliant with -"the meteor flag of England." Behind her was another, with -a still, heroic form, wrapped in his own starry flag, lying on -the quarter deck -- the gallant Lawrence. Time's finger had -turned back his pages, and that was the Shannon sailing -triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize. - -"Come back, Anne Shirley -- come back," laughed Philippa, pulling -her arm. "You're a hundred years away from us. Come back." - -Anne came back with a sigh; her eyes were shining softly. - -"I've always loved that old story," she said, "and although the -English won that victory, I think it was because of the brave, -defeated commander I love it. This grave seems to bring it so -near and make it so real. This poor little middy was only -eighteen. He `died of desperate wounds received in gallant -action' -- so reads his epitaph. It is such as a soldier might -wish for." - -Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of -purple pansies she wore and dropped it softly on the grave of the -boy who had perished in the great sea-duel. - -"Well, what do you think of our new friend?" asked Priscilla, -when Phil had left them. - -"I like her. There is something very lovable about her, in spite -of all her nonsense. I believe, as she says herself, that she -isn't half as silly as she sounds. She's a dear, kissable baby --- and I don't know that she'll ever really grow up." - -"I like her, too," said Priscilla, decidedly. "She talks as much -about boys as Ruby Gillis does. But it always enrages or sickens -me to hear Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at -Phil. Now, what is the why of that?" - -"There is a difference," said Anne meditatively. "I think it's -because Ruby is really so CONSCIOUS of boys. She plays at love -and love-making. Besides, you feel, when she is boasting of her -beaux that she is doing it to rub it well into you that you -haven't half so many. Now, when Phil talks of her beaux it -sounds as if she was just speaking of chums. She really looks -upon boys as good comrades, and she is pleased when she has -dozens of them tagging round, simply because she likes to be -popular and to be thought popular. Even Alex and Alonzo -- I'll -never be able to think of those two names separately after this --- are to her just two playfellows who want her to play with them -all their lives. I'm glad we met her, and I'm glad we went to -Old St. John's. I believe I've put forth a tiny soul-root into -Kingsport soil this afternoon. I hope so. I hate to feel transplanted." - - - - -Chapter V - -Letters from Home - - -For the next three weeks Anne and Priscilla continued to feel as -strangers in a strange land. Then, suddenly, everything seemed -to fall into focus -- Redmond, professors, classes, students, -studies, social doings. Life became homogeneous again, instead -of being made up of detached fragments. The Freshmen, instead of -being a collection of unrelated individuals, found themselves a -class, with a class spirit, a class yell, class interests, class -antipathies and class ambitions. They won the day in the annual -"Arts Rush" against the Sophomores, and thereby gained the -respect of all the classes, and an enormous, confidence-giving -opinion of themselves. For three years the Sophomores had won in -the "rush"; that the victory of this year perched upon the -Freshmen's banner was attributed to the strategic generalship of -Gilbert Blythe, who marshalled the campaign and originated -certain new tactics, which demoralized the Sophs and swept the -Freshmen to triumph. As a reward of merit he was elected -president of the Freshman Class, a position of honor and -responsibility -- from a Fresh point of view, at least -- coveted -by many. He was also invited to join the "Lambs" -- Redmondese -for Lamba Theta -- a compliment rarely paid to a Freshman. As a -preparatory initiation ordeal he had to parade the principal -business streets of Kingsport for a whole day wearing a sunbonnet -and a voluminous kitchen apron of gaudily flowered calico. This -he did cheerfully, doffing his sunbonnet with courtly grace when -he met ladies of his acquaintance. Charlie Sloane, who had not -been asked to join the Lambs, told Anne he did not see how Blythe -could do it, and HE, for his part, could never humiliate himself so. - -"Fancy Charlie Sloane in a `caliker' apron and a `sunbunnit,' " -giggled Priscilla. "He'd look exactly like his old Grandmother -Sloane. Gilbert, now, looked as much like a man in them as in -his own proper habiliments." - -Anne and Priscilla found themselves in the thick of the social -life of Redmond. That this came about so speedily was due in -great measure to Philippa Gordon. Philippa was the daughter of a -rich and well-known man, and belonged to an old and exclusive -"Bluenose" family. This, combined with her beauty and charm -- a -charm acknowledged by all who met her -- promptly opened the -gates of all cliques, clubs and classes in Redmond to her; and -where she went Anne and Priscilla went, too. Phil "adored" Anne -and Priscilla, especially Anne. She was a loyal little soul, -crystal-free from any form of snobbishness. "Love me, love my -friends" seemed to be her unconscious motto. Without effort, -she took them with her into her ever widening circle of -acquaintanceship, and the two Avonlea girls found their social -pathway at Redmond made very easy and pleasant for them, to the -envy and wonderment of the other freshettes, who, lacking -Philippa's sponsorship, were doomed to remain rather on the -fringe of things during their first college year. - -To Anne and Priscilla, with their more serious views of life, -Phil remained the amusing, lovable baby she had seemed on their -first meeting. Yet, as she said herself, she had "heaps" of -brains. When or where she found time to study was a mystery, for -she seemed always in demand for some kind of "fun," and her home -evenings were crowded with callers. She had all the "beaux" that -heart could desire, for nine-tenths of the Freshmen and a big -fraction of all the other classes were rivals for her smiles. -She was naively delighted over this, and gleefully recounted each -new conquest to Anne and Priscilla, with comments that might have -made the unlucky lover's ears burn fiercely. - -"Alec and Alonzo don't seem to have any serious rival yet," -remarked Anne, teasingly. - -"Not one," agreed Philippa. "I write them both every week and -tell them all about my young men here. I'm sure it must amuse them. -But, of course, the one I like best I can't get. Gilbert Blythe -won't take any notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a -nice little kitten he'd like to pat. Too well I know the reason. -I owe you a grudge, Queen Anne. I really ought to hate you and -instead I love you madly, and I'm miserable if I don't see you -every day. You're different from any girl I ever knew before. -When you look at me in a certain way I feel what an -insignificant, frivolous little beast I am, and I long to -be better and wiser and stronger. And then I make good -resolutions; but the first nice-looking mannie who comes my way -knocks them all out of my head. Isn't college life magnificent? -It's so funny to think I hated it that first day. But if I hadn't -I might never got really acquainted with you. Anne, please tell me -over again that you like me a little bit. I yearn to hear it." - -"I like you a big bit -- and I think you're a dear, sweet, -adorable, velvety, clawless, little -- kitten," laughed Anne, -"but I don't see when you ever get time to learn your lessons." - -Phil must have found time for she held her own in every class of -her year. Even the grumpy old professor of Mathematics, who -detested coeds, and had bitterly opposed their admission to -Redmond, couldn't floor her. She led the freshettes everywhere, -except in English, where Anne Shirley left her far behind. Anne -herself found the studies of her Freshman year very easy, thanks -in great part to the steady work she and Gilbert had put in -during those two past years in Avonlea. This left her more time -for a social life which she thoroughly enjoyed. But never for a -moment did she forget Avonlea and the friends there. To her, the -happiest moments in each week were those in which letters came -from home. It was not until she had got her first letters that -she began to think she could ever like Kingsport or feel at home -there. Before they came, Avonlea had seemed thousands of miles -away; those letters brought it near and linked the old life to -the new so closely that they began to seem one and the same, -instead of two hopelessly segregated existences. The first batch -contained six letters, from Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis, Diana -Barry, Marilla, Mrs. Lynde and Davy. Jane's was a copperplate -production, with every "t" nicely crossed and every "i" precisely -dotted, and not an interesting sentence in it. She never -mentioned the school, concerning which Anne was avid to hear; she -never answered one of the questions Anne had asked in her letter. -But she told Anne how many yards of lace she had recently -crocheted, and the kind of weather they were having in Avonlea, -and how she intended to have her new dress made, and the way she -felt when her head ached. Ruby Gillis wrote a gushing epistle -deploring Anne's absence, assuring her she was horribly missed in -everything, asking what the Redmond "fellows" were like, and -filling the rest with accounts of her own harrowing experiences -with her numerous admirers. It was a silly, harmless letter, and -Anne would have laughed over it had it not been for the postscript. -"Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters," -wrote Ruby. "I don't think Charlie is so stuck on it." - -So Gilbert was writing to Ruby! Very well. He had a perfect -right to, of course. Only -- !! Anne did not know that Ruby had -written the first letter and that Gilbert had answered it from -mere courtesy. She tossed Ruby's letter aside contemptuously. -But it took all Diana's breezy, newsy, delightful epistle to -banish the sting of Ruby's postscript. Diana's letter contained -a little too much Fred, but was otherwise crowded and crossed -with items of interest, and Anne almost felt herself back in -Avonlea while reading it. Marilla's was a rather prim and -colorless epistle, severely innocent of gossip or emotion. -Yet somehow it conveyed to Anne a whiff of the wholesome, simple -life at Green Gables, with its savor of ancient peace, and the -steadfast abiding love that was there for her. Mrs. Lynde's -letter was full of church news. Having broken up housekeeping, -Mrs. Lynde had more time than ever to devote to church affairs -and had flung herself into them heart and soul. She was at -present much worked up over the poor "supplies" they were having -in the vacant Avonlea pulpit. - -"I don't believe any but fools enter the ministry nowadays," she -wrote bitterly. "Such candidates as they have sent us, and such -stuff as they preach! Half of it ain't true, and, what's worse, -it ain't sound doctrine. The one we have now is the worst of the -lot. He mostly takes a text and preaches about something else. -And he says he doesn't believe all the heathen will be eternally -lost. The idea! If they won't all the money we've been giving -to Foreign Missions will be clean wasted, that's what! Last -Sunday night he announced that next Sunday he'd preach on the -axe-head that swam. I think he'd better confine himself to the -Bible and leave sensational subjects alone. Things have come to -a pretty pass if a minister can't find enough in Holy Writ to -preach about, that's what. What church do you attend, Anne? I -hope you go regularly. People are apt to get so careless about -church-going away from home, and I understand college students -are great sinners in this respect. I'm told many of them actually -study their lessons on Sunday. I hope you'll never sink that low, -Anne. Remember how you were brought up. And be very careful what -friends you make. You never know what sort of creatures are in -them colleges. Outwardly they may be as whited sepulchers and -inwardly as ravening wolves, that's what. You'd better not have -anything to say to any young man who isn't from the Island. - -"I forgot to tell you what happened the day the minister called -here. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. I said to Marilla, -`If Anne had been here wouldn't she have had a laugh?' Even -Marilla laughed. You know he's a very short, fat little man with -bow legs. Well, that old pig of Mr. Harrison's -- the big, tall -one -- had wandered over here that day again and broke into the -yard, and it got into the back porch, unbeknowns to us, and it -was there when the minister appeared in the doorway. It made one -wild bolt to get out, but there was nowhere to bolt to except -between them bow legs. So there it went, and, being as it was so -big and the minister so little, it took him clean off his feet -and carried him away. His hat went one way and his cane another, -just as Marilla and I got to the door. I'll never forget the -look of him. And that poor pig was near scared to death. I'll -never be able to read that account in the Bible of the swine that -rushed madly down the steep place into the sea without seeing -Mr. Harrison's pig careering down the hill with that minister. -I guess the pig thought he had the Old Boy on his back instead -of inside of him. I was thankful the twins weren't about. -It wouldn't have been the right thing for them to have seen -a minister in such an undignified predicament. Just before -they got to the brook the minister jumped off or fell off. -The pig rushed through the brook like mad and up through the woods. -Marilla and I run down and helped the minister get up and brush -his coat. He wasn't hurt, but he was mad. He seemed to hold -Marilla and me responsible for it all, though we told him the pig -didn't belong to us, and had been pestering us all summer. -Besides, what did he come to the back door for? You'd never have -caught Mr. Allan doing that. It'll be a long time before we get -a man like Mr. Allan. But it's an ill wind that blows no good. -We've never seen hoof or hair of that pig since, and it's my -belief we never will. - -"Things is pretty quiet in Avonlea. I don't find Green Gables -as lonesome as I expected. I think I'll start another cotton -warp quilt this winter. Mrs. Silas Sloane has a handsome new -apple-leaf pattern. - -"When I feel that I must have some excitement I read the murder -trials in that Boston paper my niece sends me. I never used to -do it, but they're real interesting. The States must be an awful -place. I hope you'll never go there, Anne. But the way girls -roam over the earth now is something terrible. It always makes -me think of Satan in the Book of Job, going to and fro and walking -up and down. I don't believe the Lord ever intended it, that's what. - -"Davy has been pretty good since you went away. One day he was -bad and Marilla punished him by making him wear Dora's apron all -day, and then he went and cut all Dora's aprons up. I spanked -him for that and then he went and chased my rooster to death. - -"The MacPhersons have moved down to my place. She's a great -housekeeper and very particular. She's rooted all my June lilies -up because she says they make a garden look so untidy. Thomas -set them lilies out when we were married. Her husband seems a -nice sort of a man, but she can't get over being an old maid, -that's what. - -"Don't study too hard, and be sure and put your winter -underclothes on as soon as the weather gets cool. -Marilla worries a lot about you, but I tell her you've -got a lot more sense than I ever thought you would have -at one time, and that you'll be all right." - -Davy's letter plunged into a grievance at the start. - -"Dear anne, please write and tell marilla not to tie me to the -rale of the bridge when I go fishing the boys make fun of me when -she does. Its awful lonesome here without you but grate fun in -school. Jane andrews is crosser than you. I scared mrs. lynde -with a jacky lantern last nite. She was offel mad and she was -mad cause I chased her old rooster round the yard till he fell -down ded. I didn't mean to make him fall down ded. What made -him die, anne, I want to know. mrs. lynde threw him into the -pig pen she mite of sold him to mr. blair. mr. blair is giving -50 sense apeace for good ded roosters now. I herd mrs. lynde -asking the minister to pray for her. What did she do that was so -bad, anne, I want to know. I've got a kite with a magnificent -tail, anne. Milty bolter told me a grate story in school -yesterday. it is troo. old Joe Mosey and Leon were playing -cards one nite last week in the woods. The cards were on a stump -and a big black man bigger than the trees come along and grabbed -the cards and the stump and disapered with a noys like thunder. -Ill bet they were skared. Milty says the black man was the old -harry. was he, anne, I want to know. Mr. kimball over at -spenservale is very sick and will have to go to the hospitable. -please excuse me while I ask marilla if thats spelled rite. -Marilla says its the silem he has to go to not the other place. -He thinks he has a snake inside of him. whats it like to have a -snake inside of you, anne. I want to know. mrs. lawrence bell -is sick to. mrs. lynde says that all that is the matter with -her is that she thinks too much about her insides." - -"I wonder," said Anne, as she folded up her letters, "what Mrs. -Lynde would think of Philippa." - - - - -Chapter VI - -In the Park - - -"What are you going to do with yourselves today, girls?" -asked Philippa, popping into Anne's room one Saturday afternoon. - -"We are going for a walk in the park," answered Anne. "I ought to -stay in and finish my blouse. But I couldn't sew on a day like this. -There's something in the air that gets into my blood and makes a sort -of glory in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I'd sew a crooked seam. -So it's ho for the park and the pines." - -"Does `we' include any one but yourself and Priscilla?" - -"Yes, it includes Gilbert and Charlie, and we'll be very glad if -it will include you, also." - -"But," said Philippa dolefully, "if I go I'll have to be gooseberry, -and that will be a new experience for Philippa Gordon." - -"Well, new experiences are broadening. Come along, and you'll be -able to sympathize with all poor souls who have to play -gooseberry often. But where are all the victims?" - -"Oh, I was tired of them all and simply couldn't be bothered with -any of them today. Besides, I've been feeling a little blue -- -just a pale, elusive azure. It isn't serious enough for anything -darker. I wrote Alec and Alonzo last week. I put the letters -into envelopes and addressed them, but I didn't seal them up. -That evening something funny happened. That is, Alec would think -it funny, but Alonzo wouldn't be likely to. I was in a hurry, so -I snatched Alec's letter -- as I thought -- out of the envelope -and scribbled down a postscript. Then I mailed both letters. I -got Alonzo's reply this morning. Girls, I had put that postscript -to his letter and he was furious. Of course he'll get over it -- -and I don't care if he doesn't -- but it spoiled my day. -So I thought I'd come to you darlings to get cheered up. -After the football season opens I won't have any spare Saturday -afternoons. I adore football. I've got the most gorgeous -cap and sweater striped in Redmond colors to wear to the games. -To be sure, a little way off I'll look like a walking barber's pole. -Do you know that that Gilbert of yours has been elected Captain of -the Freshman football team?" - -"Yes, he told us so last evening," said Priscilla, seeing that -outraged Anne would not answer. "He and Charlie were down. -We knew they were coming, so we painstakingly put out of sight -or out of reach all Miss Ada's cushions. That very elaborate one -with the raised embroidery I dropped on the floor in the corner -behind the chair it was on. I thought it would be safe there. -But would you believe it? Charlie Sloane made for that chair, -noticed the cushion behind it, solemnly fished it up, and sat on -it the whole evening. Such a wreck of a cushion as it was! Poor -Miss Ada asked me today, still smiling, but oh, so reproachfully, -why I had allowed it to be sat upon. I told her I hadn't -- that -it was a matter of predestination coupled with inveterate -Sloanishness and I wasn't a match for both combined." - -"Miss Ada's cushions are really getting on my nerves," said Anne. -"She finished two new ones last week, stuffed and embroidered -within an inch of their lives. There being absolutely no other -cushionless place to put them she stood them up against the wall -on the stair landing. They topple over half the time and if we -come up or down the stairs in the dark we fall over them. Last -Sunday, when Dr. Davis prayed for all those exposed to the -perils of the sea, I added in thought `and for all those who live -in houses where cushions are loved not wisely but too well!' -There! we're ready, and I see the boys coming through Old St. John's. -Do you cast in your lot with us, Phil?" - -"I'll go, if I can walk with Priscilla and Charlie. That will be -a bearable degree of gooseberry. That Gilbert of yours is a -darling, Anne, but why does he go around so much with Goggle-eyes?" - -Anne stiffened. She had no great liking for Charlie Sloane; but -he was of Avonlea, so no outsider had any business to laugh at him. - -"Charlie and Gilbert have always been friends," she said coldly. -"Charlie is a nice boy. He's not to blame for his eyes." - -"Don't tell me that! He is! He must have done something -dreadful in a previous existence to be punished with such eyes. -Pris and I are going to have such sport with him this afternoon. -We'll make fun of him to his face and he'll never know it." - -Doubtless, "the abandoned P's," as Anne called them, did carry -out their amiable intentions. But Sloane was blissfully -ignorant; he thought he was quite a fine fellow to be walking -with two such coeds, especially Philippa Gordon, the class beauty -and belle. It must surely impress Anne. She would see that some -people appreciated him at his real value. - -Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying -the calm, still beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of -the park, on the road that climbed and twisted round the harbor shore. - -"The silence here is like a prayer, isn't it?" said Anne, -her face upturned to the shining sky. "How I love the pines! -They seem to strike their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. -It is so comforting to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. -I always feel so happy out here." - - "`And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken - As by some spell divine, - Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken - From out the gusty pine,'" - -quoted Gilbert. - -"They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don't they, Anne?" - -"I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the -pines for comfort," said Anne dreamily. - -"I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne," said Gilbert, -who could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous -creature beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the -highest heights can also plunge to the deepest depths, and that -the natures which enjoy most keenly are those which also suffer -most sharply. - -"But there must -- sometime," mused Anne. "Life seems like a cup -of glory held to my lips just now. But there must be some -bitterness in it -- there is in every cup. I shall taste mine -some day. Well, I hope I shall be strong and brave to meet it. -And I hope it won't be through my own fault that it will come. -Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday evening -- that -the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with them, -while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or -wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn't talk -of sorrow on an afternoon like this. It's meant for the sheer -joy of living, isn't it?" - -"If I had my way I'd shut everything out of your life but -happiness and pleasure, Anne," said Gilbert in the tone that -meant "danger ahead." - -"Then you would be very unwise," rejoined Anne hastily. "I'm sure -no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some -trial and sorrow -- though I suppose it is only when we are pretty -comfortable that we admit it. Come -- the others have got to the -pavilion and are beckoning to us." - -They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn -sunset of deep red fire and pallid gold. To their left lay -Kingsport, its roofs and spires dim in their shroud of violet smoke. -To their right lay the harbor, taking on tints of rose and copper as -it stretched out into the sunset. Before them the water shimmered, -satin smooth and silver gray, and beyond, clean shaven William's -Island loomed out of the mist, guarding the town like a sturdy bulldog. -Its lighthouse beacon flared through the mist like a baleful star, -and was answered by another in the far horizon. - -"Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?" asked Philippa. -"I don't want William's Island especially, but I'm sure I couldn't -get it if I did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort, -right beside the flag. Doesn't he look as if he had stepped out -of a romance?" - -"Speaking of romance," said Priscilla, "we've been looking for -heather -- but, of course, we couldn't find any. It's too late -in the season, I suppose." - -"Heather!" exclaimed Anne. "Heather doesn't grow in America, -does it?" - -"There are just two patches of it in the whole continent," said Phil, -"one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, -I forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch, -camped here one year, and, when the men shook out the straw of -their beds in the spring, some seeds of heather took root." - -"Oh, how delightful!" said enchanted Anne. - -"Let's go home around by Spofford Avenue," suggested Gilbert. -"We can see all `the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles -dwell.' Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in -Kingsport. Nobody can build on it unless he's a millionaire." - -"Oh, do," said Phil. "There's a perfectly killing little place I -want to show you, Anne. IT wasn't built by a millionaire. It's -the first place after you leave the park, and must have grown -while Spofford Avenue was still a country road. It DID grow -- -it wasn't built! I don't care for the houses on the Avenue. -They're too brand new and plateglassy. But this little spot is a -dream -- and its name -- but wait till you see it." - -They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park. -Just on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a -plain road, was a little white frame house with groups of pines -on either side of it, stretching their arms protectingly over its -low roof. It was covered with red and gold vines, through which -its green-shuttered windows peeped. Before it was a tiny garden, -surrounded by a low stone wall. October though it was, the -garden was still very sweet with dear, old-fashioned, unworldly -flowers and shrubs -- sweet may, southern-wood, lemon verbena, -alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. A tiny brick -wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from the gate to the front -porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some -remote country village; yet there was something about it that -made its nearest neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a -tobacco king, look exceedingly crude and showy and ill-bred by -contrast. As Phil said, it was the difference between being born -and being made. - -"It's the dearest place I ever saw," said Anne delightedly. "It -gives me one of my old, delightful funny aches. It's dearer and -quainter than even Miss Lavendar's stone house." - -"It's the name I want you to notice especially," said Phil. -"Look -- in white letters, around the archway over the gate. -`Patty's Place.' Isn't that killing? Especially on this Avenue -of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts? `Patty's Place,' -if you please! I adore it." - -"Have you any idea who Patty is?" asked Priscilla. - -"Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I've -discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they've lived -there for hundreds of years, more or less -- maybe a little less, -Anne. Exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand -that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot time and again -- it's -really worth a small fortune now, you know -- but `Patty' won't sell -upon any consideration. And there's an apple orchard behind the house -in place of a back yard -- you'll see it when we get a little past -- -a real apple orchard on Spofford Avenue!" - -"I'm going to dream about `Patty's Place' tonight," said Anne. -"Why, I feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by any chance, -we'll ever see the inside of it." - -"It isn't likely," said Priscilla. - -Anne smiled mysteriously. - -"No, it isn't likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a -queer, creepy, crawly feeling -- you can call it a presentiment, -if you like -- that `Patty's Place' and I are going to be better -acquainted yet." - - - - -Chapter VII - -Home Again - - -Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest -of the term flew by on wings of wind. Before they realized it -the Redmond students found themselves in the grind of Christmas -examinations, emerging therefrom more or less triumphantly. The -honor of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne, -Gilbert and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane -scraped through respectably, and comported himself as complacently -as if he had led in everything. - -"I can't really believe that this time tomorrow I'll be in Green Gables," -said Anne on the night before departure. "But I shall be. And you, Phil, -will be in Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo." - -"I'm longing to see them," admitted Phil, between the chocolate -she was nibbling. "They really are such dear boys, you know. -There's to be no end of dances and drives and general jamborees. -I shall never forgive you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with -me for the holidays." - -"`Never' means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you to -ask me -- and I'd love to go to Bolingbroke some day. But I -can't go this year -- I MUST go home. You don't know how my -heart longs for it." - -"You won't have much of a time," said Phil scornfully. "There'll -be one or two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the old -gossips will talk you over to your face and behind your back. -You'll die of lonesomeness, child." - -"In Avonlea?" said Anne, highly amused. - -"Now, if you'd come with me you'd have a perfectly gorgeous time. -Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne -- your hair and -your style and, oh, everything! You're so DIFFERENT. You'd be -such a success -- and I would bask in reflected glory -- `not the -rose but near the rose.' Do come, after all, Anne." - -"Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but -I'll paint one to offset it. I'm going home to an old country -farmhouse, once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple -orchards. There is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond, -where I've heard harps swept by the fingers of rain and wind. -There is a pond nearby that will be gray and brooding now. There -will be two oldish ladies in the house, one tall and thin, one -short and fat; and there will be two twins, one a perfect model, -the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a `holy terror.' There will be a -little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang thick, -and a big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the -height of luxury after a boardinghouse mattress. How do you like -my picture, Phil?" - -"It seems a very dull one," said Phil, with a grimace. - -"Oh, but I've left out the transforming thing," said Anne softly. -"There'll be love there, Phil -- faithful, tender love, such as -I'll never find anywhere else in the world -- love that's waiting -for me. That makes my picture a masterpiece, doesn't it, even if -the colors are not very brilliant?" - -Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up -to Anne, and put her arms about her. - -"Anne, I wish I was like you," she said soberly. - -Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they -drove home together under silent, star-sown depths of sky. Green -Gables had a very festal appearance as they drove up the lane. -There was a light in every window, the glow breaking out through -the darkness like flame-red blossoms swung against the dark -background of the Haunted Wood. And in the yard was a brave -bonfire with two gay little figures dancing around it, one of -which gave an unearthly yell as the buggy turned in under the poplars. - -"Davy means that for an Indian war-whoop," said Diana. "Mr. -Harrison's hired boy taught it to him, and he's been practicing -it up to welcome you with. Mrs. Lynde says it has worn her -nerves to a frazzle. He creeps up behind her, you know, and then -lets go. He was determined to have a bonfire for you, too. He's -been piling up branches for a fortnight and pestering Marilla to -be let pour some kerosene oil over it before setting it on fire. -I guess she did, by the smell, though Mrs. Lynde said up to the last -that Davy would blow himself and everybody else up if he was let." - -Anne was out of the buggy by this time, and Davy was rapturously -hugging her knees, while even Dora was clinging to her hand. - -"Isn't that a bully bonfire, Anne? Just let me show you how to -poke it -- see the sparks? I did it for you, Anne, 'cause I was -so glad you were coming home." - -The kitchen door opened and Marilla's spare form darkened against -the inner light. She preferred to meet Anne in the shadows, for -she was horribly afraid that she was going to cry with joy -- -she, stern, repressed Marilla, who thought all display of deep -emotion unseemly. Mrs. Lynde was behind her, sonsy, kindly, -matronly, as of yore. The love that Anne had told Phil was -waiting for her surrounded her and enfolded her with its blessing -and its sweetness. Nothing, after all, could compare with old ties, -old friends, and old Green Gables! How starry Anne's eyes were -as they sat down to the loaded supper table, how pink her cheeks, -how silver-clear her laughter! And Diana was going to stay all -night, too. How like the dear old times it was! And the -rose-bud tea-set graced the table! With Marilla the force of -nature could no further go. - -"I suppose you and Diana will now proceed to talk all night," -said Marilla sarcastically, as the girls went upstairs. -Marilla was always sarcastic after any self-betrayal. - -"Yes," agreed Anne gaily, "but I'm going to put Davy to bed first. -He insists on that." - -"You bet," said Davy, as they went along the hall. "I want somebody -to say my prayers to again. It's no fun saying them alone." - -"You don't say them alone, Davy. God is always with you to hear you." - -"Well, I can't see Him," objected Davy. "I want to pray to somebody -I can see, but I WON'T say them to Mrs. Lynde or Marilla, there now!" - -Nevertheless, when Davy was garbed in his gray flannel nighty, he -did not seem in a hurry to begin. He stood before Anne, -shuffling one bare foot over the other, and looked undecided. - -"Come, dear, kneel down," said Anne. - -Davy came and buried his head in Anne's lap, but he did not kneel down. - -"Anne," he said in a muffled voice. "I don't feel like praying after all. -I haven't felt like it for a week now. I -- I DIDN'T pray last night nor -the night before." - -"Why not, Davy?" asked Anne gently. - -"You -- you won't be mad if I tell you?" implored Davy. - -Anne lifted the little gray-flannelled body on her knee and -cuddled his head on her arm. - -"Do I ever get `mad' when you tell me things, Davy?" - -"No-o-o, you never do. But you get sorry, and that's worse. -You'll be awful sorry when I tell you this, Anne -- and you'll -be 'shamed of me, I s'pose." - -"Have you done something naughty, Davy, and is that why you can't -say your prayers?" - -"No, I haven't done anything naughty -- yet. But I want to do it." - -"What is it, Davy?" - -"I -- I want to say a bad word, Anne," blurted out Davy, with a -desperate effort. "I heard Mr. Harrison's hired boy say it one -day last week, and ever since I've been wanting to say it ALL the -time -- even when I'm saying my prayers." - -"Say it then, Davy." - -Davy lifted his flushed face in amazement. - -"But, Anne, it's an AWFUL bad word." - -"SAY IT!" - -Davy gave her another incredulous look, then in a low voice he -said the dreadful word. The next minute his face was burrowing -against her. - -"Oh, Anne, I'll never say it again -- never. I'll never WANT to -say it again. I knew it was bad, but I didn't s'pose it was so --- so -- I didn't s'pose it was like THAT." - -"No, I don't think you'll ever want to say it again, Davy -- or -think it, either. And I wouldn't go about much with Mr. Harrison's -hired boy if I were you." - -"He can make bully war-whoops," said Davy a little regretfully. - -"But you don't want your mind filled with bad words, do you, Davy --- words that will poison it and drive out all that is good and manly?" - -"No," said Davy, owl-eyed with introspection. - -"Then don't go with those people who use them. And now do you -feel as if you could say your prayers, Davy?" - -"Oh, yes," said Davy, eagerly wriggling down on his knees, "I can -say them now all right. I ain't scared now to say `if I should -die before I wake,' like I was when I was wanting to say that word." - -Probably Anne and Diana did empty out their souls to each other -that night, but no record of their confidences has been preserved. -They both looked as fresh and bright-eyed at breakfast as only -youth can look after unlawful hours of revelry and confession. -There had been no snow up to this time, but as Diana crossed -the old log bridge on her homeward way the white flakes were -beginning to flutter down over the fields and woods, russet -and gray in their dreamless sleep. Soon the far-away slopes -and hills were dim and wraith-like through their gauzy scarfing, -as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her hair -and was waiting for her wintry bridegroom. So they had a white -Christmas after all, and a very pleasant day it was. In the -forenoon letters and gifts came from Miss Lavendar and Paul; -Anne opened them in the cheerful Green Gables kitchen, which was -filled with what Davy, sniffing in ecstasy, called "pretty smells." - -"Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving are settled in their new home now," -reported Anne. "I am sure Miss Lavendar is perfectly happy -- -I know it by the general tone of her letter -- but there's a -note from Charlotta the Fourth. She doesn't like Boston at all, -and she is fearfully homesick. Miss Lavendar wants me to go -through to Echo Lodge some day while I'm home and light a fire to -air it, and see that the cushions aren't getting moldy. I think -I'll get Diana to go over with me next week, and we can spend the -evening with Theodora Dix. I want to see Theodora. By the way, -is Ludovic Speed still going to see her?" - -"They say so," said Marilla, "and he's likely to continue it. -Folks have given up expecting that that courtship will ever -arrive anywhere." - -"I'd hurry him up a bit, if I was Theodora, that's what," said -Mrs. Lynde. And there is not the slightest doubt but that she would. - -There was also a characteristic scrawl from Philippa, full of -Alec and Alonzo, what they said and what they did, and how they -looked when they saw her. - -"But I can't make up my mind yet which to marry," wrote Phil. -"I do wish you had come with me to decide for me. Some one -will have to. When I saw Alec my heart gave a great thump and I -thought, `He might be the right one.' And then, when Alonzo came, -thump went my heart again. So that's no guide, though it should be, -according to all the novels I've ever read. Now, Anne, YOUR heart -wouldn't thump for anybody but the genuine Prince Charming, would it? -There must be something radically wrong with mine. But I'm having a -perfectly gorgeous time. How I wish you were here! It's snowing -today, and I'm rapturous. I was so afraid we'd have a green -Christmas and I loathe them. You know, when Christmas is a dirty -grayey-browney affair, looking as if it had been left over a hundred -years ago and had been in soak ever since, it is called a GREEN Christmas! -Don't ask me why. As Lord Dundreary says, `there are thome thingth no -fellow can underthtand.' - -"Anne, did you ever get on a street car and then discover that you -hadn't any money with you to pay your fare? I did, the other day. -It's quite awful. I had a nickel with me when I got on the car. -I thought it was in the left pocket of my coat. When I got -settled down comfortably I felt for it. It wasn't there. -I had a cold chill. I felt in the other pocket. Not there. -I had another chill. Then I felt in a little inside pocket. -All in vain. I had two chills at once. - -"I took off my gloves, laid them on the seat, and went over all -my pockets again. It was not there. I stood up and shook myself, -and then looked on the floor. The car was full of people, who -were going home from the opera, and they all stared at me, but -I was past caring for a little thing like that. - -"But I could not find my fare. I concluded I must have put it in -my mouth and swallowed it inadvertently. - -"I didn't know what to do. Would the conductor, I wondered, stop -the car and put me off in ignominy and shame? Was it possible -that I could convince him that I was merely the victim of my own -absentmindedness, and not an unprincipled creature trying to -obtain a ride upon false pretenses? How I wished that Alec -or Alonzo were there. But they weren't because I wanted them. -If I HADN'T wanted them they would have been there by the dozen. -And I couldn't decide what to say to the conductor when he came -around. As soon as I got one sentence of explanation mapped out -in my mind I felt nobody could believe it and I must compose -another. It seemed there was nothing to do but trust in -Providence, and for all the comfort that gave me I might as well -have been the old lady who, when told by the captain during a -storm that she must put her trust in the Almighty exclaimed, -`Oh, Captain, is it as bad as that?' - -"Just at the conventional moment, when all hope had fled, and -the conductor was holding out his box to the passenger next to me, -I suddenly remembered where I had put that wretched coin of the realm. -I hadn't swallowed it after all. I meekly fished it out of the -index finger of my glove and poked it in the box. I smiled at -everybody and felt that it was a beautiful world." - -The visit to Echo Lodge was not the least pleasant of many -pleasant holiday outings. Anne and Diana went back to it by the -old way of the beech woods, carrying a lunch basket with them. -Echo Lodge, which had been closed ever since Miss Lavendar's -wedding, was briefly thrown open to wind and sunshine once more, -and firelight glimmered again in the little rooms. The perfume -of Miss Lavendar's rose bowl still filled the air. It was hardly -possible to believe that Miss Lavendar would not come tripping in -presently, with her brown eyes a-star with welcome, and that -Charlotta the Fourth, blue of bow and wide of smile, would not -pop through the door. Paul, too, seemed hovering around, with -his fairy fancies. - -"It really makes me feel a little bit like a ghost revisiting the -old time glimpses of the moon," laughed Anne. "Let's go out and -see if the echoes are at home. Bring the old horn. It is still -behind the kitchen door." - -The echoes were at home, over the white river, as silver-clear -and multitudinous as ever; and when they had ceased to answer the -girls locked up Echo Lodge again and went away in the perfect -half hour that follows the rose and saffron of a winter sunset. - - - - -Chapter VIII - -Anne's First Proposal - - -The old year did not slip away in a green twilight, with a -pinky-yellow sunset. Instead, it went out with a wild, white -bluster and blow. It was one of the nights when the storm-wind -hurtles over the frozen meadows and black hollows, and moans -around the eaves like a lost creature, and drives the snow -sharply against the shaking panes. - -"Just the sort of night people like to cuddle down between their -blankets and count their mercies," said Anne to Jane Andrews, who -had come up to spend the afternoon and stay all night. But when -they were cuddled between their blankets, in Anne's little porch -room, it was not her mercies of which Jane was thinking. - -"Anne," she said very solemnly, "I want to tell you something. May I" - -Anne was feeling rather sleepy after the party Ruby Gillis had -given the night before. She would much rather have gone to sleep -than listen to Jane's confidences, which she was sure would bore her. -She had no prophetic inkling of what was coming. Probably Jane was -engaged, too; rumor averred that Ruby Gillis was engaged to the -Spencervale schoolteacher, about whom all the girls were said -to be quite wild. - -"I'll soon be the only fancy-free maiden of our old quartet," -thought Anne, drowsily. Aloud she said, "Of course." - -"Anne," said Jane, still more solemnly, "what do you think of my -brother Billy?" - -Anne gasped over this unexpected question, and floundered -helplessly in her thoughts. Goodness, what DID she think of -Billy Andrews? She had never thought ANYTHING about him -- -round-faced, stupid, perpetually smiling, good-natured Billy -Andrews. Did ANYBODY ever think about Billy Andrews? - -"I -- I don't understand, Jane," she stammered. "What do you -mean -- exactly?" - -"Do you like Billy?" asked Jane bluntly. - -"Why -- why -- yes, I like him, of course," gasped Anne, -wondering if she were telling the literal truth. Certainly she -did not DISlike Billy. But could the indifferent tolerance with -which she regarded him, when he happened to be in her range of -vision, be considered positive enough for liking? WHAT was Jane -trying to elucidate? - -"Would you like him for a husband?" asked Jane calmly. - -"A husband!" Anne had been sitting up in bed, the better to -wrestle with the problem of her exact opinion of Billy Andrews. -Now she fell flatly back on her pillows, the very breath gone -out of her. "Whose husband?" - -"Yours, of course," answered Jane. "Billy wants to marry you. -He's always been crazy about you -- and now father has given him -the upper farm in his own name and there's nothing to prevent him -from getting married. But he's so shy he couldn't ask you -himself if you'd have him, so he got me to do it. I'd rather not -have, but he gave me no peace till I said I would, if I got a -good chance. What do you think about it, Anne?" - -Was it a dream? Was it one of those nightmare things in which -you find yourself engaged or married to some one you hate or -don't know, without the slightest idea how it ever came about? -No, she, Anne Shirley, was lying there, wide awake, in her own bed, -and Jane Andrews was beside her, calmly proposing for her brother Billy. -Anne did not know whether she wanted to writhe or laugh; but she could -do neither, for Jane's feelings must not be hurt. - -"I -- I couldn't marry Bill, you know, Jane," she managed to gasp. -"Why, such an idea never occurred to me -- never!" - -"I don't suppose it did," agreed Jane. "Billy has always been far -too shy to think of courting. But you might think it over, Anne. -Billy is a good fellow. I must say that, if he is my brother. -He has no bad habits and he's a great worker, and you can depend -on him. `A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' He told me to -tell you he'd be quite willing to wait till you got through college, -if you insisted, though he'd RATHER get married this spring before -the planting begins. He'd always be very good to you, I'm sure, -and you know, Anne, I'd love to have you for a sister." - -"I can't marry Billy," said Anne decidedly. She had recovered -her wits, and was even feeling a little angry. It was all so -ridiculous. "There is no use thinking of it, Jane. I don't care -anything for him in that way, and you must tell him so." - -"Well, I didn't suppose you would," said Jane with a resigned -sigh, feeling that she had done her best. "I told Billy I didn't -believe it was a bit of use to ask you, but he insisted. Well, -you've made your decision, Anne, and I hope you won't regret it." - -Jane spoke rather coldly. She had been perfectly sure that the -enamored Billy had no chance at all of inducing Anne to marry him. -Nevertheless, she felt a little resentment that Anne Shirley, -who was, after all, merely an adopted orphan, without kith or kin, -should refuse her brother -- one of the Avonlea Andrews. Well, -pride sometimes goes before a fall, Jane reflected ominously. - -Anne permitted herself to smile in the darkness over the idea -that she might ever regret not marrying Billy Andrews. - -"I hope Billy won't feel very badly over it," she said nicely. - -Jane made a movement as if she were tossing her head on her pillow. - -"Oh, he won't break his heart. Billy has too much good sense for that. -He likes Nettie Blewett pretty well, too, and mother would rather he -married her than any one. She's such a good manager and saver. -I think, when Billy is once sure you won't have him, he'll take Nettie. -Please don't mention this to any one, will you, Anne?" - -"Certainly not," said Anne, who had no desire whatever to publish -abroad the fact that Billy Andrews wanted to marry her, preferring her, -when all was said and done, to Nettie Blewett. Nettie Blewett! - -"And now I suppose we'd better go to sleep," suggested Jane. - -To sleep went Jane easily and speedily; but, though very unlike -MacBeth in most respects, she had certainly contrived to murder -sleep for Anne. That proposed-to damsel lay on a wakeful pillow -until the wee sma's, but her meditations were far from being romantic. -It was not, however, until the next morning that she had an opportunity -to indulge in a good laugh over the whole affair. When Jane had gone home --- still with a hint of frost in voice and manner because Anne had declined -so ungratefully and decidedly the honor of an alliance with the House of -Andrews -- Anne retreated to the porch room, shut the door, and had her -laugh out at last. - -"If I could only share the joke with some one!" she thought. -"But I can't. Diana is the only one I'd want to tell, and, even -if I hadn't sworn secrecy to Jane, I can't tell Diana things now. -She tells everything to Fred -- I know she does. Well, I've had -my first proposal. I supposed it would come some day -- but I -certainly never thought it would be by proxy. It's awfully funny --- and yet there's a sting in it, too, somehow." - -Anne knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she -did not put it into words. She had had her secret dreams of -the first time some one should ask her the great question. -And it had, in those dreams, always been very romantic and beautiful: -and the "some one" was to be very handsome and dark-eyed and -distinguished-looking and eloquent, whether he were Prince Charming -to be enraptured with "yes," or one to whom a regretful, beautifully -worded, but hopeless refusal must be given. If the latter, the -refusal was to be expressed so delicately that it would be next best -thing to acceptance, and he would go away, after kissing her hand, -assuring her of his unalterable, life-long devotion. And it would -always be a beautiful memory, to be proud of and a little sad about, also. - -And now, this thrilling experience had turned out to be merely grotesque. -Billy Andrews had got his sister to propose for him because his father had -given him the upper farm; and if Anne wouldn't "have him" Nettie Blewett would. -There was romance for you, with a vengeance! Anne laughed -- and then sighed. -The bloom had been brushed from one little maiden dream. Would the painful -process go on until everything became prosaic and hum-drum? - - - - -Chapter IX - - -An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend - - -The second term at Redmond sped as quickly as had the first -- -"actually whizzed away," Philippa said. Anne enjoyed it -thoroughly in all its phases -- the stimulating class rivalry, -the making and deepening of new and helpful friendships, the gay -little social stunts, the doings of the various societies of -which she was a member, the widening of horizons and interests. -She studied hard, for she had made up her mind to win the Thorburn -Scholarship in English. This being won, meant that she could -come back to Redmond the next year without trenching on Marilla's -small savings -- something Anne was determined she would not do. - -Gilbert, too, was in full chase after a scholarship, but found -plenty of time for frequent calls at Thirty-eight, St. John's. -He was Anne's escort at nearly all the college affairs, and she -knew that their names were coupled in Redmond gossip. Anne raged -over this but was helpless; she could not cast an old friend like -Gilbert aside, especially when he had grown suddenly wise and -wary, as behooved him in the dangerous proximity of more than one -Redmond youth who would gladly have taken his place by the side -of the slender, red-haired coed, whose gray eyes were as alluring -as stars of evening. Anne was never attended by the crowd of -willing victims who hovered around Philippa's conquering march -through her Freshman year; but there was a lanky, brainy Freshie, -a jolly, little, round Sophomore, and a tall, learned Junior who -all liked to call at Thirty-eight, St. John's, and talk over -'ologies and 'isms, as well as lighter subjects, with Anne, in -the becushioned parlor of that domicile. Gilbert did not love -any of them, and he was exceedingly careful to give none of them -the advantage over him by any untimely display of his real -feelings Anne-ward. To her he had become again the boy-comrade -of Avonlea days, and as such could hold his own against any -smitten swain who had so far entered the lists against him. -As a companion, Anne honestly acknowledged nobody could be so -satisfactory as Gilbert; she was very glad, so she told herself, -that he had evidently dropped all nonsensical ideas -- though she -spent considerable time secretly wondering why. - -Only one disagreeable incident marred that winter. Charlie Sloane, -sitting bolt upright on Miss Ada's most dearly beloved cushion, -asked Anne one night if she would promise "to become Mrs. Charlie -Sloane some day." Coming after Billy Andrews' proxy effort, -this was not quite the shock to Anne's romantic sensibilities -that it would otherwise have been; but it was certainly another -heart-rending disillusion. She was angry, too, for she felt that -she had never given Charlie the slightest encouragement to suppose -such a thing possible. But what could you expect of a Sloane, -as Mrs. Rachel Lynde would ask scornfully? Charlie's whole attitude, -tone, air, words, fairly reeked with Sloanishness. "He was conferring -a great honor -- no doubt whatever about that. And when Anne, utterly -insensible to the honor, refused him, as delicately and considerately -as she could -- for even a Sloane had feelings which ought not to be -unduly lacerated -- Sloanishness still further betrayed itself. -Charlie certainly did not take his dismissal as Anne's imaginary -rejected suitors did. Instead, he became angry, and showed it; -he said two or three quite nasty things; Anne's temper flashed up -mutinously and she retorted with a cutting little speech whose -keenness pierced even Charlie's protective Sloanishness and -reached the quick; he caught up his hat and flung himself out of -the house with a very red face; Anne rushed upstairs, falling twice -over Miss Ada's cushions on the way, and threw herself on her bed, -in tears of humiliation and rage. Had she actually stooped to -quarrel with a Sloane? Was it possible anything Charlie Sloane -could say had power to make her angry? Oh, this was degradation, -indeed -- worse even than being the rival of Nettie Blewett! - -"I wish I need never see the horrible creature again," she sobbed -vindictively into her pillows. - -She could not avoid seeing him again, but the outraged Charlie -took care that it should not be at very close quarters. Miss -Ada's cushions were henceforth safe from his depredations, -and when he met Anne on the street, or in Redmond's halls, -his bow was icy in the extreme. Relations between these two -old schoolmates continued to be thus strained for nearly a year! -Then Charlie transferred his blighted affections to a round, -rosy, snub-nosed, blue-eyed, little Sophomore who appreciated -them as they deserved, whereupon he forgave Anne and condescended -to be civil to her again; in a patronizing manner intended to -show her just what she had lost. - -One day Anne scurried excitedly into Priscilla's room. - -"Read that," she cried, tossing Priscilla a letter. "It's from -Stella -- and she's coming to Redmond next year -- and what do -you think of her idea? I think it's a perfectly splendid one, -if we can only carry it out. Do you suppose we can, Pris?" - -"I'll be better able to tell you when I find out what it is," -said Priscilla, casting aside a Greek lexicon and taking up -Stella's letter. Stella Maynard had been one of their chums at -Queen's Academy and had been teaching school ever since. - -"But I'm going to give it up, Anne dear," she wrote, "and go to -college next year. As I took the third year at Queen's I can -enter the Sophomore year. I'm tired of teaching in a back -country school. Some day I'm going to write a treatise on -`The Trials of a Country Schoolmarm.' It will be a harrowing bit -of realism. It seems to be the prevailing impression that we live -in clover, and have nothing to do but draw our quarter's salary. -My treatise shall tell the truth about us. Why, if a week should -pass without some one telling me that I am doing easy work for -big pay I would conclude that I might as well order my ascension -robe `immediately and to onct.' `Well, you get your money easy,' -some rate-payer will tell me, condescendingly. `All you have to -do is to sit there and hear lessons.' I used to argue the matter -at first, but I'm wiser now. Facts are stubborn things, but -as some one has wisely said, not half so stubborn as fallacies. -So I only smile loftily now in eloquent silence. Why, I have nine -grades in my school and I have to teach a little of everything, -from investigating the interiors of earthworms to the study of -the solar system. My youngest pupil is four -- his mother sends -him to school to `get him out of the way' -- and my oldest twenty --- it `suddenly struck him' that it would be easier to go to -school and get an education than follow the plough any longer. -In the wild effort to cram all sorts of research into six hours a -day I don't wonder if the children feel like the little boy who -was taken to see the biograph. `I have to look for what's coming -next before I know what went last,' he complained. I feel like -that myself. - -"And the letters I get, Anne! Tommy's mother writes me that -Tommy is not coming on in arithmetic as fast as she would like. -He is only in simple reduction yet, and Johnny Johnson is in -fractions, and Johnny isn't half as smart as her Tommy, and she -can't understand it. And Susy's father wants to know why Susy -can't write a letter without misspelling half the words, and -Dick's aunt wants me to change his seat, because that bad Brown -boy he is sitting with is teaching him to say naughty words. - -"As to the financial part -- but I'll not begin on that. Those -whom the gods wish to destroy they first make country schoolmarms! - -"There, I feel better, after that growl. After all, I've enjoyed -these past two years. But I'm coming to Redmond. - -"And now, Anne, I've a little plan. You know how I loathe boarding. -I've boarded for four years and I'm so tired of it. I don't feel like -enduring three years more of it. - -Now, why can't you and Priscilla and I club together, rent -a little house somewhere in Kingsport, and board ourselves? -It would be cheaper than any other way. Of course, we would -have to have a housekeeper and I have one ready on the spot. -You've heard me speak of Aunt Jamesina? She's the sweetest -aunt that ever lived, in spite of her name. She can't help that! -She was called Jamesina because her father, whose name was James, -was drowned at sea a month before she was born. I always call her -Aunt Jimsie. Well, her only daughter has recently married and -gone to the foreign mission field. Aunt Jamesina is left alone -in a great big house, and she is horribly lonesome. She will -come to Kingsport and keep house for us if we want her, and I -know you'll both love her. The more I think of the plan the more -I like it. We could have such good, independent times. - -"Now, if you and Priscilla agree to it, wouldn't it be a good -idea for you, who are on the spot, to look around and see if you -can find a suitable house this spring? That would be better than -leaving it till the fall. If you could get a furnished one so -much the better, but if not, we can scare up a few sticks of -finiture between us and old family friends with attics. Anyhow, -decide as soon as you can and write me, so that Aunt Jamesina -will know what plans to make for next year." - -"I think it's a good idea," said Priscilla. - -"So do I," agreed Anne delightedly. "Of course, we have a nice -boardinghouse here, but, when all's said and done, a boardinghouse -isn't home. So let's go house-hunting at once, before exams come on." - -"I'm afraid it will be hard enough to get a really suitable house," -warned Priscilla. "Don't expect too much, Anne. Nice houses in -nice localities will probably be away beyond our means. We'll likely -have to content ourselves with a shabby little place on some street -whereon live people whom to know is to be unknown, and make life -inside compensate for the outside." - -Accordingly they went house-hunting, but to find just what -they wanted proved even harder than Priscilla had feared. -Houses there were galore, furnished and unfurnished; but one -was too big, another too small; this one too expensive, that -one too far from Redmond. Exams were on and over; the last -week of the term came and still their "house o'dreams," as -Anne called it, remained a castle in the air. - -"We shall have to give up and wait till the fall, I suppose," said -Priscilla wearily, as they rambled through the park on one of April's -darling days of breeze and blue, when the harbor was creaming and -shimmering beneath the pearl-hued mists floating over it. "We may -find some shack to shelter us then; and if not, boardinghouses we -shall have always with us." - -"I'm not going to worry about it just now, anyway, and spoil this -lovely afternoon," said Anne, gazing around her with delight. -The fresh chill air was faintly charged with the aroma of pine -balsam, and the sky above was crystal clear and blue -- a great -inverted cup of blessing. "Spring is singing in my blood today, -and the lure of April is abroad on the air. I'm seeing visions -and dreaming dreams, Pris. That's because the wind is from the -west. I do love the west wind. It sings of hope and gladness, -doesn't it? When the east wind blows I always think of sorrowful -rain on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore. When I get old -I shall have rheumatism when the wind is east." - -"And isn't it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments -for the first time and sally forth, like this, in spring attire?" -laughed Priscilla. "Don't you feel as if you had been made over new?" - -"Everything is new in the spring," said Anne. "Springs themselves -are always so new, too. No spring is ever just like any other spring. -It always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness. -See how green the grass is around that little pond, and how the willow -buds are bursting." - -"And exams are over and gone -- the time of Convocation will come -soon -- next Wednesday. This day next week we'll be home." - -"I'm glad," said Anne dreamily. "There are so many things I want -to do. I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze -blowing down over Mr. Harrison's fields. I want to hunt ferns -in the Haunted Wood and gather violets in Violet Vale. Do you -remember the day of our golden picnic, Priscilla? I want to hear -the frogs singing and the poplars whispering. But I've learned -to love Kingsport, too, and I'm glad I'm coming back next fall. -If I hadn't won the Thorburn I don't believe I could have. I -COULDN'T take any of Marilla's little hoard." - -"If we could only find a house!" sighed Priscilla. "Look over -there at Kingsport, Anne -- houses, houses everywhere, and not -one for us." - -"Stop it, Pris. `The best is yet to be.' Like the old Roman, -we'll find a house or build one. On a day like this there's -no such word as fail in my bright lexicon." - -They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing -miracle and glory and wonder of the springtide; and they went -home as usual, by way of Spofford Avenue, that they might have -the delight of looking at Patty's Place. - -"I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right -away -- `by the pricking of my thumbs,' " said Anne, as they went -up the slope. "It's a nice story-bookish feeling. Why -- why -- -why! Priscilla Grant, look over there and tell me if it's true, -or am I seein' things?" - -Priscilla looked. Anne's thumbs and eyes had not deceived her. -Over the arched gateway of Patty's Place dangled a little, modest -sign. It said "To Let, Furnished. Inquire Within." - -"Priscilla," said Anne, in a whisper, "do you suppose it's -possible that we could rent Patty's Place?" - -"No, I don't," averred Priscilla. "It would be too good to be -true. Fairy tales don't happen nowadays. I won't hope, Anne. -The disappointment would be too awful to bear. They're sure to -want more for it than we can afford. Remember, it's on Spofford -Avenue." - -"We must find out anyhow," said Anne resolutely. "It's too late -to call this evening, but we'll come tomorrow. Oh, Pris, if we -can get this darling spot! I've always felt that my fortunes -were linked with Patty's Place, ever since I saw it first." - - - - -Chapter X - -Patty's Place - - -The next evening found them treading resolutely the herring-bone -walk through the tiny garden. The April wind was filling the -pine trees with its roundelay, and the grove was alive with robins --- great, plump, saucy fellows, strutting along the paths. -The girls rang rather timidly, and were admitted by a grim and -ancient handmaiden. The door opened directly into a large -living-room, where by a cheery little fire sat two other ladies, -both of whom were also grim and ancient. Except that one looked -to be about seventy and the other fifty, there seemed little -difference between them. Each had amazingly big, light-blue eyes -behind steel-rimmed spectacles; each wore a cap and a gray shawl; -each was knitting without haste and without rest; each rocked -placidly and looked at the girls without speaking; and just -behind each sat a large white china dog, with round green spots -all over it, a green nose and green ears. Those dogs captured -Anne's fancy on the spot; they seemed like the twin guardian -deities of Patty's Place. - -For a few minutes nobody spoke. The girls were too nervous to -find words, and neither the ancient ladies nor the china dogs -seemed conversationally inclined. Anne glanced about the room. -What a dear place it was! Another door opened out of it directly -into the pine grove and the robins came boldly up on the very step. -The floor was spotted with round, braided mats, such as Marilla -made at Green Gables, but which were considered out of date -everywhere else, even in Avonlea. And yet here they were on -Spofford Avenue! A big, polished grandfather's clock ticked -loudly and solemnly in a corner. There were delightful little -cupboards over the mantelpiece, behind whose glass doors gleamed -quaint bits of china. The walls were hung with old prints and -silhouettes. In one corner the stairs went up, and at the first -low turn was a long window with an inviting seat. It was all -just as Anne had known it must be. - -By this time the silence had grown too dreadful, and Priscilla -nudged Anne to intimate that she must speak. - -"We -- we -- saw by your sign that this house is to let," said Anne -faintly, addressing the older lady, who was evidently Miss Patty Spofford. - -"Oh, yes," said Miss Patty. "I intended to take that sign down today." - -"Then -- then we are too late," said Anne sorrowfully. "You've let it -to some one else?" - -"No, but we have decided not to let it at all." - -"Oh, I'm so sorry," exclaimed Anne impulsively. "I love this place so. -I did hope we could have got it." - -Then did Miss Patty lay down her knitting, take off her specs, -rub them, put them on again, and for the first time look at Anne -as at a human being. The other lady followed her example so -perfectly that she might as well have been a reflection in a mirror. - -"You LOVE it," said Miss Patty with emphasis. "Does that mean -that you really LOVE it? Or that you merely like the looks of it? -The girls nowadays indulge in such exaggerated statements that one -never can tell what they DO mean. It wasn't so in my young days. -THEN a girl did not say she LOVED turnips, in just the same tone -as she might have said she loved her mother or her Savior." - -Anne's conscience bore her up. - -"I really do love it," she said gently. "I've loved it ever since -I saw it last fall. My two college chums and I want to keep house -next year instead of boarding, so we are looking for a little place -to rent; and when I saw that this house was to let I was so happy." - -"If you love it, you can have it," said Miss Patty. "Maria and I -decided today that we would not let it after all, because we did -not like any of the people who have wanted it. We don't HAVE to -let it. We can afford to go to Europe even if we don't let it. -It would help us out, but not for gold will I let my home pass -into the possession of such people as have come here and looked -at it. YOU are different. I believe you do love it and will be -good to it. You can have it." - -"If -- if we can afford to pay what you ask for it," hesitated Anne. - -Miss Patty named the amount required. Anne and Priscilla looked -at each other. Priscilla shook her head. - -"I'm afraid we can't afford quite so much," said Anne, choking -back her disappointment. "You see, we are only college girls -and we are poor." - -"What were you thinking you could afford?" demanded Miss Patty, -ceasing not to knit. - -Anne named her amount. Miss Patty nodded gravely. - -"That will do. As I told you, it is not strictly necessary that -we should let it at all. We are not rich, but we have enough to -go to Europe on. I have never been in Europe in my life, and never -expected or wanted to go. But my niece there, Maria Spofford, has -taken a fancy to go. Now, you know a young person like Maria can't -go globetrotting alone." - -"No -- I -- I suppose not," murmured Anne, seeing that Miss Patty -was quite solemnly in earnest. - -"Of course not. So I have to go along to look after her. I expect to -enjoy it, too; I'm seventy years old, but I'm not tired of living yet. -I daresay I'd have gone to Europe before if the idea had occurred to me. -We shall be away for two years, perhaps three. We sail in June and we -shall send you the key, and leave all in order for you to take -possession when you choose. We shall pack away a few things we -prize especially, but all the rest will be left." - -"Will you leave the china dogs?" asked Anne timidly. - -"Would you like me to?" - -"Oh, indeed, yes. They are delightful." - -A pleased expression came into Miss Patty's face. - -"I think a great deal of those dogs," she said proudly. "They are -over a hundred years old, and they have sat on either side of this -fireplace ever since my brother Aaron brought them from London -fifty years ago. Spofford Avenue was called after my brother Aaron." - -"A fine man he was," said Miss Maria, speaking for the first time. -"Ah, you don't see the like of him nowadays." - -"He was a good uncle to you, Maria," said Miss Patty, with evident emotion. -"You do well to remember him." - -"I shall always remember him," said Miss Maria solemnly. "I can see him, -this minute, standing there before that fire, with his hands under his -coat-tails, beaming on us." - -Miss Maria took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but Miss Patty -came resolutely back from the regions of sentiment to those of business. - -"I shall leave the dogs where they are, if you will promise to be -very careful of them," she said. "Their names are Gog and Magog. -Gog looks to the right and Magog to the left. And there's just -one thing more. You don't object, I hope, to this house being -called Patty's Place?" - -"No, indeed. We think that is one of the nicest things about it." - -"You have sense, I see," said Miss Patty in a tone of great satisfaction. -"Would you believe it? All the people who came here to rent the house -wanted to know if they couldn't take the name off the gate during their -occupation of it. I told them roundly that the name went with the house. -This has been Patty's Place ever since my brother Aaron left it to me in -his will, and Patty's Place it shall remain until I die and Maria dies. -After that happens the next possessor can call it any fool name he likes," -concluded Miss Patty, much as she might have said, "After that -- the deluge." -"And now, wouldn't you like to go over the house and see it all before we -consider the bargain made?" - -Further exploration still further delighted the girls. Besides the -big living-room, there was a kitchen and a small bedroom downstairs. -Upstairs were three rooms, one large and two small. Anne took an -especial fancy to one of the small ones, looking out into the big pines, -and hoped it would be hers. It was papered in pale blue and had a -little, old-timey toilet table with sconces for candles. There was -a diamond-paned window with a seat under the blue muslin frills that -would be a satisfying spot for studying or dreaming. - -"It's all so delicious that I know we are going to wake up and find -it a fleeting vision of the night," said Priscilla as they went away. - -"Miss Patty and Miss Maria are hardly such stuff as dreams are -made of," laughed Anne. "Can you fancy them `globe-trotting' -- -especially in those shawls and caps?" - -"I suppose they'll take them off when they really begin to trot," -said Priscilla, "but I know they'll take their knitting with -them everywhere. They simply couldn't be parted from it. -They will walk about Westminster Abbey and knit, I feel sure. -Meanwhile, Anne, we shall be living in Patty's Place -- and on -Spofford Avenue. I feel like a millionairess even now." - -"I feel like one of the morning stars that sang for joy," said Anne. - -Phil Gordon crept into Thirty-eight, St. John's, that night and -flung herself on Anne's bed. - -"Girls, dear, I'm tired to death. I feel like the man without a country -- -or was it without a shadow? I forget which. Anyway, I've been packing up." - -"And I suppose you are worn out because you couldn't decide which -things to pack first, or where to put them," laughed Priscilla. - -"E-zackly. And when I had got everything jammed in somehow, and -my landlady and her maid had both sat on it while I locked it, I -discovered I had packed a whole lot of things I wanted for -Convocation at the very bottom. I had to unlock the old thing -and poke and dive into it for an hour before I fished out what I -wanted. I would get hold of something that felt like what I was -looking for, and I'd yank it up, and it would be something else. -No, Anne, I did NOT swear." - -"I didn't say you did." - -"Well, you looked it. But I admit my thoughts verged on the profane. -And I have such a cold in the head -- I can do nothing but sniffle, -sigh and sneeze. Isn't that alliterative agony for you? Queen Anne, -do say something to cheer me up." - -"Remember that next Thursday night, you'll be back in the land of -Alec and Alonzo," suggested Anne. - -Phil shook her head dolefully. - -"More alliteration. No, I don't want Alec and Alonzo when I have -a cold in the head. But what has happened you two? Now that I look -at you closely you seem all lighted up with an internal iridescence. -Why, you're actually SHINING! What's up?" - -"We are going to live in Patty's Place next winter," said Anne triumphantly. -"Live, mark you, not board! We've rented it, and Stella Maynard is coming, -and her aunt is going to keep house for us." - -Phil bounced up, wiped her nose, and fell on her knees before Anne. - -"Girls -- girls -- let me come, too. Oh, I'll be so good. If -there's no room for me I'll sleep in the little doghouse in the -orchard -- I've seen it. Only let me come." - -"Get up, you goose." - -"I won't stir off my marrow bones till you tell me I can live -with you next winter." - -Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. Then Anne said slowly, -"Phil dear, we'd love to have you. But we may as well speak plainly. -I'm poor -- Pris is poor -- Stella Maynard is poor -- our housekeeping -will have to be very simple and our table plain. You'd have to live as -we would. Now, you are rich and your boardinghouse fare attests the fact." - -"Oh, what do I care for that?" demanded Phil tragically. -"Better a dinner of herbs where your chums are than a stalled ox -in a lonely boardinghouse. Don't think I'm ALL stomach, girls. -I'll be willing to live on bread and water -- with just a LEETLE -jam -- if you'll let me come." - -"And then," continued Anne, "there will be a good deal of work to be done. -Stella's aunt can't do it all. We all expect to have our chores to do. -Now, you -- " - -"Toil not, neither do I spin," finished Philippa. "But I'll learn -to do things. You'll only have to show me once. I CAN make my -own bed to begin with. And remember that, though I can't cook, -I CAN keep my temper. That's something. And I NEVER growl about -the weather. That's more. Oh, please, please! I never wanted -anything so much in my life -- and this floor is awfully hard." - -"There's just one more thing," said Priscilla resolutely. -"You, Phil, as all Redmond knows, entertain callers almost every -evening. Now, at Patty's Place we can't do that. We have decided -that we shall be at home to our friends on Friday evenings only. -If you come with us you'll have to abide by that rule." - -"Well, you don't think I'll mind that, do you? Why, I'm glad of it. -I knew I should have had some such rule myself, but I hadn't -enough decision to make it or stick to it. When I can shuffle -off the responsibility on you it will be a real relief. If you -won't let me cast in my lot with you I'll die of the disappointment -and then I'll come back and haunt you. I'll camp on the very doorstep -of Patty's Place and you won't be able to go out or come in without -falling over my spook." - -Again Anne and Priscilla exchanged eloquent looks. - -"Well," said Anne, "of course we can't promise to take you until -we've consulted with Stella; but I don't think she'll object, -and, as far as we are concerned, you may come and glad welcome." - -"If you get tired of our simple life you can leave us, and no -questions asked," added Priscilla. - -Phil sprang up, hugged them both jubilantly, and went on her way -rejoicing. - -"I hope things will go right," said Priscilla soberly. - -"We must MAKE them go right," avowed Anne. "I think Phil will -fit into our 'appy little 'ome very well." - -"Oh, Phil's a dear to rattle round with and be chums. And, of course, -the more there are of us the easier it will be on our slim purses. -But how will she be to live with? You have to summer and winter with -any one before you know if she's LIVABLE or not." - -"Oh, well, we'll all be put to the test, as far as that goes. -And we must quit us like sensible folk, living and let live. -Phil isn't selfish, though she's a little thoughtless, and I -believe we will all get on beautifully in Patty's Place." - - - - -Chapter XI - -The Round of Life - - -Anne was back in Avonlea with the luster of the Thorburn Scholarship -on her brow. People told her she hadn't changed much, in a tone -which hinted they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn't. -Avonlea had not changed, either. At least, so it seemed at first. -But as Anne sat in the Green Gables pew, on the first Sunday after -her return, and looked over the congregation, she saw several little -changes which, all coming home to her at once, made her realize that -time did not quite stand still, even in Avonlea. A new minister was in -the pulpit. In the pews more than one familiar face was missing forever. -Old "Uncle Abe," his prophesying over and done with, Mrs. Peter Sloane, -who had sighed, it was to be hoped, for the last time, Timothy Cotton, -who, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde said "had actually managed to die at last -after practicing at it for twenty years," and old Josiah Sloane, whom -nobody knew in his coffin because he had his whiskers neatly trimmed, -were all sleeping in the little graveyard behind the church. And Billy -Andrews was married to Nettie Blewett! They "appeared out" that Sunday. -When Billy, beaming with pride and happiness, showed his be-plumed and -be-silked bride into the Harmon Andrews' pew, Anne dropped her lids to -hide her dancing eyes. She recalled the stormy winter night of the -Christmas holidays when Jane had proposed for Billy. He certainly -had not broken his heart over his rejection. Anne wondered if Jane -had also proposed to Nettie for him, or if he had mustered enough -spunk to ask the fateful question himself. All the Andrews family -seemed to share in his pride and pleasure, from Mrs. Harmon in the -pew to Jane in the choir. Jane had resigned from the Avonlea school -and intended to go West in the fall. - -"Can't get a beau in Avonlea, that's what," said Mrs. Rachel Lynde -scornfully. "SAYS she thinks she'll have better health out West. -I never heard her health was poor before." - -"Jane is a nice girl," Anne had said loyally. "She never tried -to attract attention, as some did." - -"Oh, she never chased the boys, if that's what you mean," said -Mrs. Rachel. "But she'd like to be married, just as much as -anybody, that's what. What else would take her out West to some -forsaken place whose only recommendation is that men are plenty -and women scarce? Don't you tell me!" - -But it was not at Jane, Anne gazed that day in dismay and surprise. -It was at Ruby Gillis, who sat beside her in the choir. What had -happened to Ruby? She was even handsomer than ever; but her blue -eyes were too bright and lustrous, and the color of her cheeks was -hectically brilliant; besides, she was very thin; the hands that -held her hymn-book were almost transparent in their delicacy. - -"Is Ruby Gillis ill?" Anne asked of Mrs. Lynde, as they went -home from church. - -"Ruby Gillis is dying of galloping consumption," said Mrs. Lynde -bluntly. "Everybody knows it except herself and her FAMILY. -They won't give in. If you ask THEM, she's perfectly well. -She hasn't been able to teach since she had that attack of -congestion in the winter, but she says she's going to teach -again in the fall, and she's after the White Sands school. -She'll be in her grave, poor girl, when White Sands school opens, -that's what." - -Anne listened in shocked silence. Ruby Gillis, her old school-chum, -dying? Could it be possible? Of late years they had grown apart; -but the old tie of school-girl intimacy was there, and made itself -felt sharply in the tug the news gave at Anne's heartstrings. -Ruby, the brilliant, the merry, the coquettish! It was impossible -to associate the thought of her with anything like death. She had -greeted Anne with gay cordiality after church, and urged her to -come up the next evening. - -"I'll be away Tuesday and Wednesday evenings," she had whispered -triumphantly. "There's a concert at Carmody and a party at White -Sands. Herb Spencer's going to take me. He's my LATEST. Be sure -to come up tomorrow. I'm dying for a good talk with you. I want -to hear all about your doings at Redmond." - -Anne knew that Ruby meant that she wanted to tell Anne all about -her own recent flirtations, but she promised to go, and Diana -offered to go with her. - -"I've been wanting to go to see Ruby for a long while," she told Anne, -when they left Green Gables the next evening, "but I really couldn't -go alone. It's so awful to hear Ruby rattling on as she does, and -pretending there is nothing the matter with her, even when she can -hardly speak for coughing. She's fighting so hard for her life, -and yet she hasn't any chance at all, they say." - -The girls walked silently down the red, twilit road. The robins -were singing vespers in the high treetops, filling the golden air -with their jubilant voices. The silver fluting of the frogs came -from marshes and ponds, over fields where seeds were beginning to -stir with life and thrill to the sunshine and rain that had -drifted over them. The air was fragrant with the wild, sweet, -wholesome smell of young raspberry copses. White mists were -hovering in the silent hollows and violet stars were shining -bluely on the brooklands. - -"What a beautiful sunset," said Diana. "Look, Anne, it's just like -a land in itself, isn't it? That long, low back of purple cloud -is the shore, and the clear sky further on is like a golden sea." - -"If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul wrote of in -his old composition -- you remember? -- how nice it would be," -said Anne, rousing from her reverie. "Do you think we could find -all our yesterdays there, Diana -- all our old springs and -blossoms? The beds of flowers that Paul saw there are the roses -that have bloomed for us in the past?" - -"Don't!" said Diana. "You make me feel as if we were old women -with everything in life behind us." - -"I think I've almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor Ruby," -said Anne. "If it is true that she is dying any other sad thing might -be true, too." - -"You don't mind calling in at Elisha Wright's for a moment, do you?" -asked Diana. "Mother asked me to leave this little dish of jelly -for Aunt Atossa." - -"Who is Aunt Atossa?" - -"Oh, haven't you heard? She's Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencervale --- Mrs. Elisha Wright's aunt. She's father's aunt, too. Her -husband died last winter and she was left very poor and lonely, -so the Wrights took her to live with them. Mother thought we -ought to take her, but father put his foot down. Live with Aunt -Atossa he would not." - -"Is she so terrible?" asked Anne absently. - -"You'll probably see what she's like before we can get away," -said Diana significantly. "Father says she has a face like a -hatchet -- it cuts the air. But her tongue is sharper still." - -Late as it was Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright -kitchen. She wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was -decidedly untidy. Aunt Atossa did not like being "caught in a -kilter," so she went out of her way to be disagreeable. - -"Oh, so you're Anne Shirley?" she said, when Diana introduced Anne. -"I've heard of you." Her tone implied that she had heard nothing good. -"Mrs. Andrews was telling me you were home. She said you had improved -a good deal." - -There was no doubt Aunt Atossa thought there was plenty of room for -further improvement. She ceased not from cutting sets with much energy. - -"Is it any use to ask you to sit down?" she inquired sarcastically. -"Of course, there's nothing very entertaining here for you. The rest -are all away." - -"Mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb jelly," said Diana -pleasantly. "She made it today and thought you might like some." - -"Oh, thanks," said Aunt Atossa sourly. "I never fancy your -mother's jelly -- she always makes it too sweet. However, I'll -try to worry some down. My appetite's been dreadful poor this -spring. I'm far from well," continued Aunt Atossa solemnly, "but -still I keep a-doing. People who can't work aren't wanted here. -If it isn't too much trouble will you be condescending enough -to set the jelly in the pantry? I'm in a hurry to get these spuds -done tonight. I suppose you two LADIES never do anything like this. -You'd be afraid of spoiling your hands." - -"I used to cut potato sets before we rented the farm," smiled Anne. - -"I do it yet," laughed Diana. "I cut sets three days last week. -Of course," she added teasingly, "I did my hands up in lemon -juice and kid gloves every night after it." - -Aunt Atossa sniffed. - -"I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly -magazines you read so many of. I wonder your mother allows you. -But she always spoiled you. We all thought when George married -her she wouldn't be a suitable wife for him." - -Aunt Atossa sighed heavily, as if all forebodings upon the -occasion of George Barry's marriage had been amply and darkly -fulfilled. - -"Going, are you?" she inquired, as the girls rose. "Well, I -suppose you can't find much amusement talking to an old woman -like me. It's such a pity the boys ain't home." - -"We want to run in and see Ruby Gillis a little while," explained Diana. - -"Oh, anything does for an excuse, of course," said Aunt Atossa, amiably. -"Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do decently. -It's college airs, I s'pose. You'd be wiser to keep away from Ruby Gillis. -The doctors say consumption's catching. I always knew Ruby'd get something, -gadding off to Boston last fall for a visit. People who ain't content to -stay home always catch something." - -"People who don't go visiting catch things, too. Sometimes they even die," -said Diana solemnly. - -"Then they don't have themselves to blame for it," retorted Aunt Atossa -triumphantly. "I hear you are to be married in June, Diana." - -"There is no truth in that report," said Diana, blushing. - -"Well, don't put it off too long," said Aunt Atossa significantly. -"You'll fade soon -- you're all complexion and hair. And the Wrights -are terrible fickle. You ought to wear a hat, MISS SHIRLEY. Your nose -is freckling scandalous. My, but you ARE redheaded! Well, I s'pose -we're all as the Lord made us! Give Marilla Cuthbert my respects. -She's never been to see me since I come to Avonlea, but I s'pose I -oughtn't to complain. The Cuthberts always did think themselves -a cut higher than any one else round here." - -"Oh, isn't she dreadful?" gasped Diana, as they escaped down the lane. - -"She's worse than Miss Eliza Andrews," said Anne. "But then think -of living all your life with a name like Atossa! Wouldn't it sour -almost any one? She should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. -It might have helped her a great deal. It certainly helped me in the -days when I didn't like ANNE." - -"Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up," said Diana. -"Josie's mother and Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, -I'm glad that's over. She's so malicious -- she seems to put a -bad flavor in everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. -One time they had a minister in Spencervale who was a very good, -spiritual man but very deaf. He couldn't hear any ordinary -conversation at all. Well, they used to have a prayer meeting on -Sunday evenings, and all the church members present would get up -and pray in turn, or say a few words on some Bible verse. But -one evening Aunt Atossa bounced up. She didn't either pray or -preach. Instead, she lit into everybody else in the church and -gave them a fearful raking down, calling them right out by name -and telling them how they all had behaved, and casting up all the -quarrels and scandals of the past ten years. Finally she wound -up by saying that she was disgusted with Spencervale church and -she never meant to darken its door again, and she hoped a fearful -judgment would come upon it. Then she sat down out of breath, -and the minister, who hadn't heard a word she said, immediately -remarked, in a very devout voice, `amen! The Lord grant our dear -sister's prayer!' You ought to hear father tell the story." - -"Speaking of stories, Diana," remarked Anne, in a significant, -confidential tone, "do you know that lately I have been wondering -if I could write a short story -- a story that would be good -enough to be published?" - -"Why, of course you could," said Diana, after she had grasped the -amazing suggestion. "You used to write perfectly thrilling stories -years ago in our old Story Club." - -"Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories," smiled Anne. -"I've been thinking about it a little of late, but I'm almost -afraid to try, for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating." - -"I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan's first stories -were rejected. But I'm sure yours wouldn't be, Anne, for it's -likely editors have more sense nowadays." - -"Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a -story last winter and it was published in the Canadian Woman. -I really do think I could write one at least as good." - -"And will you have it published in the Canadian Woman?" - -"I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends -on what kind of a story I write." - -"What is it to be about?" - -"I don't know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe -this is very necessary from an editor's point of view. The only -thing I've settled on is the heroine's name. It is to be AVERIL -LESTER. Rather pretty, don't you think? Don't mention this to -any one, Diana. I haven't told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. -HE wasn't very encouraging -- he said there was far too much -trash written nowadays as it was, and he'd expected something -better of me, after a year at college." - -"What does Mr. Harrison know about it?" demanded Diana scornfully. - -They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard -Kimball, of Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring -at each other across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. -Ruby was dressed in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. -She laughed and chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had -gone she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer dresses. - -"I've a blue silk to make up yet, but it's a little heavy for -summer wear. I think I'll leave it until the fall. I'm going -to teach in White Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? -That one you had on in church yesterday was real dinky. -But I like something brighter for myself. Did you notice -those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They've both come -determined to sit each other out. I don't care a single bit -about either of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. -Sometimes I really do think he's MR. RIGHT. At Christmas I -thought the Spencervale schoolmaster was that. But I found -out something about him that turned me against him. He nearly -went insane when I turned him down. I wish those two boys hadn't -come tonight. I wanted to have a nice good talk with you, Anne, -and tell you such heaps of things. You and I were always good -chums, weren't we?" - -Ruby slipped her arm about Anne's waist with a shallow little laugh. -But just for a moment their eyes met, and, behind all the luster -of Ruby's, Anne saw something that made her heart ache. - -"Come up often, won't you, Anne?" whispered Ruby. "Come alone -- -I want you." - -"Are you feeling quite well, Ruby?" - -"Me! Why, I'm perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. -Of course, that congestion last winter pulled me down a little. -But just see my color. I don't look much like an invalid, I'm sure." - -Ruby's voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne, -as if in resentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than -ever, apparently so much absorbed in bantering her two swains that -Diana and Anne felt rather out of it and soon went away. - - - - -Chapter XII - -"Averil's Atonement" - - -"What are you dreaming of, Anne?" - -The two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the -brook. Ferns nodded in it, and little grasses were green, and -wild pears hung finely-scented, white curtains around it. - -Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh. - -"I was thinking out my story, Diana." - -"Oh, have you really begun it?" cried Diana, all alight with -eager interest in a moment. - -"Yes, I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty -well thought out. I've had such a time to get a suitable plot. -None of the plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named -AVERIL." - -"Couldn't you have changed her name?" - -"No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn't do it, -any more than I could change yours. AVERIL was so real to me -that no matter what other name I tried to give her I just thought -of her as AVERIL behind it all. But finally I got a plot that -matched her. Then came the excitement of choosing names for -all my characters. You have no idea how fascinating that is. -I've lain awake for hours thinking over those names. The hero's -name is PERCEVAL DALRYMPLE." - -"Have you named ALL the characters?" asked Diana wistfully. "If -you hadn't I was going to ask you to let me name one -- just some -unimportant person. I'd feel as if I had a share in the story then." - -"You may name the little hired boy who lived with the LESTERS," -conceded Anne. "He is not very important, but he is the only one -left unnamed." - -"Call him RAYMOND FITZOSBORNE," suggested Diana, who had a store -of such names laid away in her memory, relics of the old "Story -Club," which she and Anne and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis had -had in their schooldays. - -Anne shook her head doubtfully. - -"I'm afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, -Diana. I couldn't imagine a Fitzosborne feeding pigs and picking -up chips, could you?" - -Diana didn't see why, if you had an imagination at all, you -couldn't stretch it to that extent; but probably Anne knew best, -and the chore boy was finally christened ROBERT RAY, to be called -BOBBY should occasion require. - -"How much do you suppose you'll get for it?" asked Diana. - -But Anne had not thought about this at all. She was in pursuit -of fame, not filthy lucre, and her literary dreams were as yet -untainted by mercenary considerations. - -"You'll let me read it, won't you?" pleaded Diana. - -"When it is finished I'll read it to you and Mr. Harrison, and I -shall want you to criticize it SEVERELY. No one else shall see -it until it is published." - -"How are you going to end it -- happily or unhappily?" - -"I'm not sure. I'd like it to end unhappily, because that would -be so much more romantic. But I understand editors have a prejudice -against sad endings. I heard Professor Hamilton say once that nobody -but a genius should try to write an unhappy ending. - -And," concluded Anne modestly, "I'm anything but a genius." - -"Oh I like happy endings best. You'd better let him marry her," -said Diana, who, especially since her engagement to Fred, thought -this was how every story should end. - -"But you like to cry over stories?" - -"Oh, yes, in the middle of them. But I like everything to come -right at last." - -"I must have one pathetic scene in it," said Anne thoughtfully. -"I might let ROBERT RAY be injured in an accident and have a -death scene." - -"No, you mustn't kill BOBBY off," declared Diana, laughing. -"He belongs to me and I want him to live and flourish. Kill -somebody else if you have to." - -For the next fortnight Anne writhed or reveled, according to -mood, in her literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a -brilliant idea, now despairing because some contrary character -would NOT behave properly. Diana could not understand this. - -"MAKE them do as you want them to," she said. - -"I can't," mourned Anne. "Averil is such an unmanageable heroine. -She WILL do and say things I never meant her to. Then that spoils -everything that went before and I have to write it all over again." - -Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to -Diana in the seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her -"pathetic scene" without sacrificing ROBERT RAY, and she kept a -watchful eye on Diana as she read it. Diana rose to the occasion -and cried properly; but, when the end came, she looked a little -disappointed. - -"Why did you kill MAURICE LENNOX?" she asked reproachfully. - -"He was the villain," protested Anne. "He had to be punished." - -"I like him best of them all," said unreasonable Diana. - -"Well, he's dead, and he'll have to stay dead," said Anne, -rather resentfully. "If I had let him live he'd have gone -on persecuting AVERIL and PERCEVAL." - -"Yes -- unless you had reformed him." - -"That wouldn't have been romantic, and, besides, it would have -made the story too long." - -"Well, anyway, it's a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will -make you famous, of that I'm sure. Have you got a title for it?" - -"Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I call it AVERIL'S -ATONEMENT. Doesn't that sound nice and alliterative? Now, -Diana, tell me candidly, do you see any faults in my story?" - -"Well," hesitated Diana, "that part where AVERIL makes the cake -doesn't seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. It's -just what anybody might do. Heroines shouldn't do cooking, _I_ think." - -"Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it's one of the best -parts of the whole story," said Anne. And it may be stated that -in this she was quite right. - -Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but -Mr. Harrison was much harder to please. First he told her -there was entirely too much description in the story. - -"Cut out all those flowery passages," he said unfeelingly. - -Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, -and she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, -though it took three re-writings before the story could be pruned -down to please the fastidious Mr. Harrison. - -"I've left out ALL the descriptions but the sunset," she said at last. -"I simply COULDN'T let it go. It was the best of them all." - -"It hasn't anything to do with the story," said Mr. Harrison, -"and you shouldn't have laid the scene among rich city people. -What do you know of them? Why didn't you lay it right here in -Avonlea -- changing the name, of course, or else Mrs. Rachel -Lynde would probably think she was the heroine." - -"Oh, that would never have done," protested Anne. "Avonlea is -the dearest place in the world, but it isn't quite romantic -enough for the scene of a story." - -"I daresay there's been many a romance in Avonlea -- and many a -tragedy, too," said Mr. Harrison drily. "But your folks ain't -like real folks anywhere. They talk too much and use too -high-flown language. There's one place where that DALRYMPLE chap -talks even on for two pages, and never lets the girl get a word in -edgewise. If he'd done that in real life she'd have pitched him." - -"I don't believe it," said Anne flatly. In her secret soul she -thought that the beautiful, poetical things said to AVERIL would -win any girl's heart completely. Besides, it was gruesome to hear -of AVERIL, the stately, queen-like AVERIL, "pitching" any one. -AVERIL "declined her suitors." - -"Anyhow," resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, "I don't see why -MAURICE LENNOX didn't get her. He was twice the man the other is. -He did bad things, but he did them. Perceval hadn't time for -anything but mooning." - -"Mooning." That was even worse than "pitching!" - -"MAURICE LENNOX was the villain," said Anne indignantly. -"I don't see why every one likes him better than PERCEVAL." - -"Perceval is too good. He's aggravating. Next time you write -about a hero put a little spice of human nature in him." - -"AVERIL couldn't have married MAURICE. He was bad." - -"She'd have reformed him. You can reform a man; you can't reform -a jelly-fish, of course. Your story isn't bad -- it's kind of -interesting, I'll admit. But you're too young to write a story -that would be worth while. Wait ten years." - -Anne made up her mind that the next time she wrote a story she -wouldn't ask anybody to criticize it. It was too discouraging. -She would not read the story to Gilbert, although she told him -about it. - -"If it is a success you'll see it when it is published, Gilbert, -but if it is a failure nobody shall ever see it." - -Marilla knew nothing about the venture. In imagination Anne saw -herself reading a story out of a magazine to Marilla, entrapping -her into praise of it -- for in imagination all things are -possible -- and then triumphantly announcing herself the author. - -One day Anne took to the Post Office a long, bulky envelope, -addressed, with the delightful confidence of youth and -inexperience, to the very biggest of the "big" magazines. -Diana was as excited over it as Anne herself. - -"How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it?" -she asked. - -"It shouldn't be longer than a fortnight. Oh, how happy and -proud I shall be if it is accepted!" - -"Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to -send them more. You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan some day, -Anne, and then how proud I'll be of knowing you," said Diana, who -possessed, at least, the striking merit of an unselfish -admiration of the gifts and graces of her friends. - -A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter awakening. -One evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable, with suspicious-looking -eyes. On the table lay a long envelope and a crumpled manuscript. - -"Anne, your story hasn't come back?" cried Diana incredulously. - -"Yes, it has," said Anne shortly. - -"Well, that editor must be crazy. What reason did he give?" - -"No reason at all. There is just a printed slip saying that it -wasn't found acceptable." - -"I never thought much of that magazine, anyway," said Diana hotly. -"The stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the -Canadian Woman, although it costs so much more. I suppose -the editor is prejudiced against any one who isn't a Yankee. -Don't be discouraged, Anne. Remember how Mrs. Morgan's stories -came back. Send yours to the Canadian Woman." - -"I believe I will," said Anne, plucking up heart. "And if it is -published I'll send that American editor a marked copy. But I'll -cut the sunset out. I believe Mr. Harrison was right." - -Out came the sunset; but in spite of this heroic mutilation the -editor of the Canadian Woman sent Averil's Atonement back so -promptly that the indignant Diana declared that it couldn't have -been read at all, and vowed she was going to stop her subscription -immediately. Anne took this second rejection with the calmness of -despair. She locked the story away in the garret trunk where the -old Story Club tales reposed; but first she yielded to Diana's -entreaties and gave her a copy. - -"This is the end of my literary ambitions," she said bitterly. - -She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening -he asked her bluntly if her story had been accepted. - -"No, the editor wouldn't take it," she answered briefly. - -Mr. Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile. - -"Well, I suppose you'll keep on writing them," he said encouragingly. - -"No, I shall never try to write a story again," declared Anne, with -the hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face. - -"I wouldn't give up altogether," said Mr. Harrison reflectively. "I'd -write a story once in a while, but I wouldn't pester editors with it. -I'd write of people and places like I knew, and I'd make my characters -talk everyday English; and I'd let the sun rise and set in the usual -quiet way without much fuss over the fact. If I had to have villains -at all, I'd give them a chance, Anne -- I'd give them a chance. -There are some terrible bad men in the world, I suppose, but you'd -have to go a long piece to find them -- though Mrs. Lynde believes we're -all bad. But most of us have got a little decency somewhere in us. -Keep on writing, Anne." - -"No. It was very foolish of me to attempt it. When I'm through -Redmond I'll stick to teaching. I can teach. I can't write stories." - -"It'll be time for you to be getting a husband when you're -through Redmond," said Mr. Harrison. "I don't believe in -putting marrying off too long -- like I did." - -Anne got up and marched home. There were times when Mr. Harrison -was really intolerable. "Pitching," "mooning," and "getting a -husband." Ow!! - - - - -Chapter XIII - -The Way of Transgressors - - -Davy and Dora were ready for Sunday School. They were going alone, -which did not often happen, for Mrs. Lynde always attended Sunday School. -But Mrs. Lynde had twisted her ankle and was lame, so she was staying -home this morning. The twins were also to represent the family at church, -for Anne had gone away the evening before to spend Sunday with friends -in Carmody, and Marilla had one of her headaches. - -Davy came downstairs slowly. Dora was waiting in the hall for him, having -been made ready by Mrs. Lynde. Davy had attended to his own preparations. -He had a cent in his pocket for the Sunday School collection, and a five-cent -piece for the church collection; he carried his Bible in one hand and his -Sunday School quarterly in the other; he knew his lesson and his Golden Text -and his catechism question perfectly. Had he not studied them -- perforce --- in Mrs. Lynde's kitchen, all last Sunday afternoon? Davy, therefore, -should have been in a placid frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite -text and catechism, he was inwardly as a ravening wolf. - -Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora. - -"Are you clean?" she demanded severely. - -"Yes -- all of me that shows," Davy answered with a defiant scowl. - -Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davy's neck -and ears. But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal -examination Davy would likely take to his heels and she could not -pursue him today. - -"Well, be sure you behave yourselves," she warned them. "Don't walk -in the dust. Don't stop in the porch to talk to the other children. -Don't squirm or wriggle in your places. Don't forget the Golden Text. -Don't lose your collection or forget to put it in. Don't whisper at -prayer time, and don't forget to pay attention to the sermon." - -Davy deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, -followed by the meek Dora. But his soul seethed within. -Davy had suffered, or thought he had suffered, many things at the -hands and tongue of Mrs. Rachel Lynde since she had come to Green -Gables, for Mrs. Lynde could not live with anybody, whether they -were nine or ninety, without trying to bring them up properly. -And it was only the preceding afternoon that she had interfered -to influence Marilla against allowing Davy to go fishing with the -Timothy Cottons. Davy was still boiling over this. - -As soon as he was out of the lane Davy stopped and twisted his -countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora, -although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest -he should never in the world be able to get it straightened out again. - -"Darn her," exploded Davy. - -"Oh, Davy, don't swear," gasped Dora in dismay. - -"`Darn' isn't swearing -- not real swearing. And I don't care -if it is," retorted Davy recklessly. - -"Well, if you MUST say dreadful words don't say them on Sunday," pleaded Dora. - -Davy was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt that, -perhaps, he had gone a little too far. - -"I'm going to invent a swear word of my own," he declared. - -"God will punish you if you do," said Dora solemnly. - -"Then I think God is a mean old scamp," retorted Davy. "Doesn't -He know a fellow must have some way of 'spressing his feelings?" - -"Davy!!!" said Dora. She expected that Davy would be struck down -dead on the spot. But nothing happened. - -"Anyway, I ain't going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynde's bossing," -spluttered Davy. "Anne and Marilla may have the right to boss me, -but SHE hasn't. I'm going to do every single thing she told me not to do. -You watch me." - -In grim, deliberate silence, while Dora watched him with the -fascination of horror, Davy stepped off the green grass of the -roadside, ankle deep into the fine dust which four weeks of -rainless weather had made on the road, and marched along in it, -shuffling his feet viciously until he was enveloped in a hazy cloud. - -"That's the beginning," he announced triumphantly." And I'm -going to stop in the porch and talk as long as there's anybody -there to talk to. I'm going to squirm and wriggle and whisper, -and I'm going to say I don't know the Golden Text. And I'm going -to throw away both of my collections RIGHT NOW." - -And Davy hurled cent and nickel over Mr. Barry's fence with -fierce delight. - -"Satan made you do that," said Dora reproachfully. - -"He didn't," cried Davy indignantly. "I just thought it out for myself. -And I've thought of something else. I'm not going to Sunday School or -church at all. I'm going up to play with the Cottons. They told me -yesterday they weren't going to Sunday School today, 'cause their mother -was away and there was nobody to make them. Come along, Dora, we'll have -a great time." - -"I don't want to go," protested Dora. - -"You've got to," said Davy. "If you don't come I'll tell Marilla -that Frank Bell kissed you in school last Monday." - -"I couldn't help it. I didn't know he was going to," cried Dora, -blushing scarlet. - -"Well, you didn't slap him or seem a bit cross," retorted Davy. -"I'll tell her THAT, too, if you don't come. We'll take the -short cut up this field." - -"I'm afraid of those cows," protested poor Dora, seeing a -prospect of escape. - -"The very idea of your being scared of those cows," scoffed Davy. -"Why, they're both younger than you." - -"They're bigger," said Dora. - -"They won't hurt you. Come along, now. This is great. When I -grow up I ain't going to bother going to church at all. I -believe I can get to heaven by myself." - -"You'll go to the other place if you break the Sabbath day," -said unhappy Dora, following him sorely against her will. - -But Davy was not scared -- yet. Hell was very far off, and the -delights of a fishing expedition with the Cottons were very near. -He wished Dora had more spunk. She kept looking back as if she -were going to cry every minute, and that spoiled a fellow's fun. -Hang girls, anyway. Davy did not say "darn" this time, even in thought. -He was not sorry -- yet -- that he had said it once, but it might be -as well not to tempt the Unknown Powers too far on one day. - -The small Cottons were playing in their back yard, and hailed -Davy's appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, -and Mirabel Cotton were all alone. Their mother and older -sisters were away. Dora was thankful Mirabel was there, at least. -She had been afraid she would be alone in a crowd of boys. Mirabel -was almost as bad as a boy -- she was so noisy and sunburned and reckless. -But at least she wore dresses. - -"We've come to go fishing," announced Davy. - -"Whoop," yelled the Cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once, -Mirabel leading the van with a tin can. Dora could have sat down -and cried. Oh, if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her! -Then she could have defied Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School. - -They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they -would be seen by people going to church. They had to resort to -the brook in the woods behind the Cotton house. But it was full -of trout, and they had a glorious time that morning -- at least -the Cottons certainly had, and Davy seemed to have it. Not being -entirely bereft of prudence, he had discarded boots and stockings -and borrowed Tommy Cotton's overalls. Thus accoutered, bog and -marsh and undergrowth had no terrors for him. Dora was frankly -and manifestly miserable. She followed the others in their -peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her Bible and -quarterly tightly and thinking with bitterness of soul of her -beloved class where she should be sitting that very moment, -before a teacher she adored. Instead, here she was roaming the -woods with those half-wild Cottons, trying to keep her boots clean -and her pretty white dress free from rents and stains. Mirabel -had offered the loan of an apron but Dora had scornfully refused. - -The trout bit as they always do on Sundays. In an hour the -transgressors had all the fish they wanted, so they returned to -the house, much to Dora's relief. She sat primly on a hencoop in -the yard while the others played an uproarious game of tag; and -then they all climbed to the top of the pig-house roof and cut -their initials on the saddleboard. The flat-roofed henhouse and -a pile of straw beneath gave Davy another inspiration. They -spent a splendid half hour climbing on the roof and diving off -into the straw with whoops and yells. - -But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. When the rumble -of wheels over the pond bridge told that people were going home -from church Davy knew they must go. He discarded Tommy's overalls, -resumed his own rightful attire, and turned away from his string -of trout with a sigh. No use to think of taking them home. - -"Well, hadn't we a splendid time?" he demanded defiantly, as they -went down the hill field. - -"I hadn't," said Dora flatly. "And I don't believe you had -- -really -- either," she added, with a flash of insight that was -not to be expected of her. - -"I had so," cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too much. -"No wonder you hadn't -- just sitting there like a -- like a mule." - -"I ain't going to, 'sociate with the Cottons," said Dora loftily. - -"The Cottons are all right," retorted Davy. "And they have far better -times than we have. They do just as they please and say just what they -like before everybody. _I_'m going to do that, too, after this." - -"There are lots of things you wouldn't dare say before everybody," -averred Dora. - -"No, there isn't." - -"There is, too. Would you," demanded Dora gravely, "would you -say `tomcat' before the minister?" - -This was a staggerer. Davy was not prepared for such a concrete -example of the freedom of speech. But one did not have to be -consistent with Dora. - -"Of course not," he admitted sulkily. - -"`Tomcat' isn't a holy word. I wouldn't mention such an animal -before a minister at all." - -"But if you had to?" persisted Dora. - -"I'd call it a Thomas pussy," said Davy. - -"_I_ think `gentleman cat' would be more polite," reflected Dora. - -"YOU thinking!" retorted Davy with withering scorn. - -Davy was not feeling comfortable, though he would have died -before he admitted it to Dora. Now that the exhilaration of -truant delights had died away, his conscience was beginning to -give him salutary twinges. After all, perhaps it would have been -better to have gone to Sunday School and church. Mrs. Lynde -might be bossy; but there was always a box of cookies in her -kitchen cupboard and she was not stingy. At this inconvenient -moment Davy remembered that when he had torn his new school pants -the week before, Mrs. Lynde had mended them beautifully and -never said a word to Marilla about them. - -But Davy's cup of iniquity was not yet full. He was to discover -that one sin demands another to cover it. They had dinner with -Mrs. Lynde that day, and the first thing she asked Davy was, - -"Were all your class in Sunday School today?" - -"Yes'm," said Davy with a gulp. "All were there -- 'cept one." - -"Did you say your Golden Text and catechism?" - -"Yes'm." - -"Did you put your collection in?" - -"Yes'm." - -"Was Mrs. Malcolm MacPherson in church?" - -"I don't know." This, at least, was the truth, thought wretched Davy. - -"Was the Ladies' Aid announced for next week?" - -"Yes'm" -- quakingly. - -"Was prayer-meeting?" - -"I -- I don't know." - -"YOU should know. You should listen more attentively to the announcements. -What was Mr. Harvey's text?" - -Davy took a frantic gulp of water and swallowed it and the last -protest of conscience together. He glibly recited an old Golden -Text learned several weeks ago. Fortunately Mrs. Lynde now -stopped questioning him; but Davy did not enjoy his dinner. - -He could only eat one helping of pudding. - -"What's the matter with you?" demanded justly astonished Mrs. Lynde. -"Are you sick?" - -"No," muttered Davy. - -"You look pale. You'd better keep out of the sun this afternoon," -admonished Mrs. Lynde. - -"Do you know how many lies you told Mrs. Lynde?" asked Dora -reproachfully, as soon as they were alone after dinner. - -Davy, goaded to desperation, turned fiercely. - -"I don't know and I don't care," he said. "You just shut up, -Dora Keith." - -Then poor Davy betook himself to a secluded retreat behind the -woodpile to think over the way of transgressors. - -Green Gables was wrapped in darkness and silence when Anne -reached home. She lost no time going to bed, for she was very -tired and sleepy. There had been several Avonlea jollifications -the preceding week, involving rather late hours. Anne's head was -hardly on her pillow before she was half asleep; but just then -her door was softly opened and a pleading voice said, "Anne." - -Anne sat up drowsily. - -"Davy, is that you? What is the matter?" - -A white-clad figure flung itself across the floor and on to the bed. - -"Anne," sobbed Davy, getting his arms about her neck. "I'm awful -glad you're home. I couldn't go to sleep till I'd told somebody." - -"Told somebody what?" - -"How mis'rubul I am." - -"Why are you miserable, dear?" - -"'Cause I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful bad -- -badder'n I've ever been yet." - -"What did you do?" - -"Oh, I'm afraid to tell you. You'll never like me again, Anne. -I couldn't say my prayers tonight. I couldn't tell God what -I'd done. I was 'shamed to have Him know." - -"But He knew anyway, Davy." - -"That's what Dora said. But I thought p'raps He mightn't have -noticed just at the time. Anyway, I'd rather tell you first." - -"WHAT is it you did?" - -Out it all came in a rush. - -"I run away from Sunday School -- and went fishing with the -Cottons -- and I told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde -- oh! -'most half a dozen -- and -- and -- I -- I said a swear word, -Anne -- a pretty near swear word, anyhow -- and I called God names." - -There was silence. Davy didn't know what to make of it. Was -Anne so shocked that she never would speak to him again? - -"Anne, what are you going to do to me?" he whispered. - -"Nothing, dear. You've been punished already, I think." - -"No, I haven't. Nothing's been done to me." - -"You've been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven't you?" - -"You bet!" said Davy emphatically. - -"That was your conscience punishing you, Davy." - -"What's my conscience? I want to know." - -"It's something in you, Davy, that always tells you when you are -doing wrong and makes you unhappy if you persist in doing it. -Haven't you noticed that?" - -"Yes, but I didn't know what it was. I wish I didn't have it. -I'd have lots more fun. Where is my conscience, Anne? I want to know. -Is it in my stomach?" - -"No, it's in your soul," answered Anne, thankful for the -darkness, since gravity must be preserved in serious matters. - -"I s'pose I can't get clear of it then," said Davy with a sigh. -"Are you going to tell Marilla and Mrs. Lynde on me, Anne?" - -"No, dear, I'm not going to tell any one. You are sorry you were -naughty, aren't you?" - -"You bet!" - -"And you'll never be bad like that again." - -"No, but -- " added Davy cautiously, "I might be bad some other way." - -"You won't say naughty words, or run away on Sundays, or tell falsehoods -to cover up your sins?" - -"No. It doesn't pay," said Davy. - -"Well, Davy, just tell God you are sorry and ask Him to forgive you." - -"Have YOU forgiven me, Anne?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"Then," said Davy joyously, "I don't care much whether God does or not." - -"Davy!" - -"Oh -- I'll ask Him -- I'll ask Him," said Davy quickly, -scrambling off the bed, convinced by Anne's tone that he must -have said something dreadful. "I don't mind asking Him, Anne. --- Please, God, I'm awful sorry I behaved bad today and -I'll try to be good on Sundays always and please forgive me. --- There now, Anne." - -"Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy." - -"All right. Say, I don't feel mis'rubul any more. I feel fine. -Good night." - -"Good night." - -Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh -- -how sleepy -- she was! In another second -- - -"Anne!" Davy was back again by her bed. Anne dragged her eyes open. - -"What is it now, dear?" she asked, trying to keep a note of -impatience out of her voice. - -"Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you -s'pose, if I practice hard, I can learn to spit just like him?" - -Anne sat up. - -"Davy Keith," she said, "go straight to your bed and don't let me -catch you out of it again tonight! Go, now!" - -Davy went, and stood not upon the order of his going. - - - - -Chapter XIV - -The Summons - - -Anne was sitting with Ruby Gillis in the Gillis' garden after the day -had crept lingeringly through it and was gone. It had been a warm, -smoky summer afternoon. The world was in a splendor of out-flowering. -The idle valleys were full of hazes. The woodways were pranked with -shadows and the fields with the purple of the asters. - -Anne had given up a moonlight drive to the White Sands beach that -she might spend the evening with Ruby. She had so spent many -evenings that summer, although she often wondered what good it did -any one, and sometimes went home deciding that she could not go again. - -Ruby grew paler as the summer waned; the White Sands school was -given up -- "her father thought it better that she shouldn't -teach till New Year's" -- and the fancy work she loved oftener -and oftener fell from hands grown too weary for it. But she was -always gay, always hopeful, always chattering and whispering of -her beaux, and their rivalries and despairs. It was this that -made Anne's visits hard for her. What had once been silly or -amusing was gruesome, now; it was death peering through a wilful -mask of life. Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her, and never let her -go until she had promised to come again soon. Mrs. Lynde -grumbled about Anne's frequent visits, and declared she would -catch consumption; even Marilla was dubious. - -"Every time you go to see Ruby you come home looking tired out," -she said. - -"It's so very sad and dreadful," said Anne in a low tone. "Ruby -doesn't seem to realize her condition in the least. And yet I -somehow feel she needs help -- craves it -- and I want to give it -to her and can't. All the time I'm with her I feel as if I were -watching her struggle with an invisible foe -- trying to push it -back with such feeble resistance as she has. That is why I come -home tired." - -But tonight Anne did not feel this so keenly. Ruby was strangely -quiet. She said not a word about parties and drives and dresses -and "fellows." She lay in the hammock, with her untouched work -beside her, and a white shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. -Her long yellow braids of hair -- how Anne had envied those -beautiful braids in old schooldays! -- lay on either side of her. -She had taken the pins out -- they made her head ache, she said. -The hectic flush was gone for the time, leaving her pale and childlike. - -The moon rose in the silvery sky, empearling the clouds -around her. Below, the pond shimmered in its hazy radiance. -Just beyond the Gillis homestead was the church, with the old -graveyard beside it. The moonlight shone on the white stones, -bringing them out in clear-cut relief against the dark trees behind. - -"How strange the graveyard looks by moonlight!" said Ruby suddenly. -"How ghostly!" she shuddered. "Anne, it won't be long now before -I'll be lying over there. You and Diana and all the rest will be -going about, full of life -- and I'll be there -- in the old graveyard --- dead!" - -The surprise of it bewildered Anne. For a few moments she could not speak. - -"You know it's so, don't you?" said Ruby insistently. - -"Yes, I know," answered Anne in a low tone. "Dear Ruby, I know." - -"Everybody knows it," said Ruby bitterly. "I know it -- I've -known it all summer, though I wouldn't give in. And, oh, Anne" --- she reached out and caught Anne's hand pleadingly, impulsively --- "I don't want to die. I'm AFRAID to die." - -"Why should you be afraid, Ruby?" asked Anne quietly. - -"Because -- because -- oh, I'm not afraid but that I'll go to -heaven, Anne. I'm a church member. But -- it'll be all so -different. I think -- and think -- and I get so frightened -- -and -- and -- homesick. Heaven must be very beautiful, of course, -the Bible says so -- but, Anne, IT WON'T BE WHAT I'VE BEEN USED TO." - -Through Anne's mind drifted an intrusive recollection of a funny -story she had heard Philippa Gordon tell -- the story of some old -man who had said very much the same thing about the world to come. -It had sounded funny then -- she remembered how she and -Priscilla had laughed over it. But it did not seem in the -least humorous now, coming from Ruby's pale, trembling lips. -It was sad, tragic -- and true! Heaven could not be what Ruby had -been used to. There had been nothing in her gay, frivolous life, -her shallow ideals and aspirations, to fit her for that great change, -or make the life to come seem to her anything but alien and -unreal and undesirable. Anne wondered helplessly what she could -say that would help her. Could she say anything? "I think, Ruby," -she began hesitatingly -- for it was difficult for Anne to speak -to any one of the deepest thoughts of her heart, or the new -ideas that had vaguely begun to shape themselves in her mind, -concerning the great mysteries of life here and hereafter, -superseding her old childish conceptions, and it was hardest of -all to speak of them to such as Ruby Gillis -- "I think, perhaps, -we have very mistaken ideas about heaven -- what it is and what -it holds for us. I don't think it can be so very different from -life here as most people seem to think. I believe we'll just go -on living, a good deal as we live here -- and be OURSELVES just -the same -- only it will be easier to be good and to -- follow -the highest. All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken -away, and we shall see clearly. Don't be afraid, Ruby." - -"I can't help it," said Ruby pitifully. "Even if what you say -about heaven is true -- and you can't be sure -- it may be only -that imagination of yours -- it won't be JUST the same. It CAN'T be. -I want to go on living HERE. I'm so young, Anne. I haven't had -my life. I've fought so hard to live -- and it isn't any use --- I have to die -- and leave EVERYTHING I care for." Anne sat -in a pain that was almost intolerable. She could not tell -comforting falsehoods; and all that Ruby said was so horribly -true. She WAS leaving everything she cared for. She had laid up -her treasures on earth only; she had lived solely for the little -things of life -- the things that pass -- forgetting the great -things that go onward into eternity, bridging the gulf between -the two lives and making of death a mere passing from one -dwelling to the other -- from twilight to unclouded day. God -would take care of her there -- Anne believed -- she would learn --- but now it was no wonder her soul clung, in blind helplessness, -to the only things she knew and loved. - -Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted up her bright, beautiful -blue eyes to the moonlit skies. - -"I want to live," she said, in a trembling voice. "I want to -live like other girls. I -- I want to be married, Anne -- and -- -and -- have little children. You know I always loved babies, Anne. -I couldn't say this to any one but you. I know you understand. -And then poor Herb -- he -- he loves me and I love him, Anne. -The others meant nothing to me, but HE does -- and if I could -live I would be his wife and be so happy. Oh, Anne, it's hard." - -Ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbed convulsively. Anne -pressed her hand in an agony of sympathy -- silent sympathy, -which perhaps helped Ruby more than broken, imperfect words could -have done; for presently she grew calmer and her sobs ceased. - -"I'm glad I've told you this, Anne," she whispered. "It has -helped me just to say it all out. I've wanted to all summer -- -every time you came. I wanted to talk it over with you -- but -I COULDN'T. It seemed as if it would make death so SURE if I -SAID I was going to die, or if any one else said it or hinted it. -I wouldn't say it, or even think it. In the daytime, when people -were around me and everything was cheerful, it wasn't so hard to -keep from thinking of it. But in the night, when I couldn't sleep --- it was so dreadful, Anne. I couldn't get away from it then. -Death just came and stared me in the face, until I got so frightened -I could have screamed. - -"But you won't be frightened any more, Ruby, will you? You'll be brave, -and believe that all is going to be well with you." - -"I'll try. I'll think over what you have said, and try to believe it. -And you'll come up as often as you can, won't you, Anne?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"It -- it won't be very long now, Anne. I feel sure of that. -And I'd rather have you than any one else. I always liked you -best of all the girls I went to school with. You were never -jealous, or mean, like some of them were. Poor Em White was up -to see me yesterday. You remember Em and I were such chums for -three years when we went to school? And then we quarrelled the -time of the school concert. We've never spoken to each other -since. Wasn't it silly? Anything like that seems silly NOW. -But Em and I made up the old quarrel yesterday. She said she'd -have spoken years ago, only she thought I wouldn't. And I never -spoke to her because I was sure she wouldn't speak to me. Isn't -it strange how people misunderstand each other, Anne?" - -"Most of the trouble in life comes from misunderstanding, I think," -said Anne. "I must go now, Ruby. It's getting late -- and you -shouldn't be out in the damp." - -"You'll come up soon again." - -"Yes, very soon. And if there's anything I can do to help you -I'll be so glad." - -"I know. You HAVE helped me already. Nothing seems quite so -dreadful now. Good night, Anne." - -"Good night, dear." - -Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had -changed something for her. Life held a different meaning, a -deeper purpose. On the surface it would go on just the same; but -the deeps had been stirred. It must not be with her as with poor -butterfly Ruby. When she came to the end of one life it must not -be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something wholly -different -- something for which accustomed thought and ideal and -aspiration had unfitted her. The little things of life, sweet -and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; -the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must -be begun here on earth. - -That good night in the garden was for all time. Anne never saw -Ruby in life again. The next night the A.V.I.S. gave a farewell -party to Jane Andrews before her departure for the West. And, -while light feet danced and bright eyes laughed and merry tongues -chattered, there came a summons to a soul in Avonlea that might -not be disregarded or evaded. The next morning the word went -from house to house that Ruby Gillis was dead. She had died in -her sleep, painlessly and calmly, and on her face was a smile -- -as if, after all, death had come as a kindly friend to lead her -over the threshold, instead of the grisly phantom she had dreaded. - -Mrs. Rachel Lynde said emphatically after the funeral that Ruby -Gillis was the handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. Her -loveliness, as she lay, white-clad, among the delicate flowers -that Anne had placed about her, was remembered and talked of for -years in Avonlea. Ruby had always been beautiful; but her beauty -had been of the earth, earthy; it had had a certain insolent -quality in it, as if it flaunted itself in the beholder's eye; -spirit had never shone through it, intellect had never refined it. -But death had touched it and consecrated it, bringing out delicate -modelings and purity of outline never seen before -- doing what life -and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have done -for Ruby. Anne, looking down through a mist of tears, at her old -playfellow, thought she saw the face God had meant Ruby to have, -and remembered it so always. - -Mrs. Gillis called Anne aside into a vacant room before the -funeral procession left the house, and gave her a small packet. - -"I want you to have this," she sobbed. "Ruby would have liked you -to have it. It's the embroidered centerpiece she was working at. -It isn't quite finished -- the needle is sticking in it just where -her poor little fingers put it the last time she laid it down, the -afternoon before she died." - -"There's always a piece of unfinished work left," said Mrs. Lynde, -with tears in her eyes. "But I suppose there's always some one -to finish it." - -"How difficult it is to realize that one we have always known -can really be dead," said Anne, as she and Diana walked home. -"Ruby is the first of our schoolmates to go. One by one, sooner -or later, all the rest of us must follow." - -"Yes, I suppose so," said Diana uncomfortably. She did not -want to talk of that. She would have preferred to have discussed -the details of the funeral -- the splendid white velvet casket -Mr. Gillis had insisted on having for Ruby -- "the Gillises must -always make a splurge, even at funerals," quoth Mrs. Rachel Lynde --- Herb Spencer's sad face, the uncontrolled, hysteric grief of -one of Ruby's sisters -- but Anne would not talk of these things. -She seemed wrapped in a reverie in which Diana felt lonesomely -that she had neither lot nor part. - -"Ruby Gillis was a great girl to laugh," said Davy suddenly. -"Will she laugh as much in heaven as she did in Avonlea, Anne? -I want to know." - -"Yes, I think she will," said Anne. - -"Oh, Anne," protested Diana, with a rather shocked smile. - -"Well, why not, Diana?" asked Anne seriously. "Do you think -we'll never laugh in heaven?" - -"Oh -- I -- I don't know" floundered Diana. "It doesn't seem -just right, somehow. You know it's rather dreadful to laugh in -church." - -"But heaven won't be like church -- all the time," said Anne. - -"I hope it ain't," said Davy emphatically. "If it is I don't -want to go. Church is awful dull. Anyway, I don't mean to go -for ever so long. I mean to live to be a hundred years old, like -Mr. Thomas Blewett of White Sands. He says he's lived so long -'cause he always smoked tobacco and it killed all the germs. -Can I smoke tobacco pretty soon, Anne?" - -"No, Davy, I hope you'll never use tobacco," said Anne absently. - -"What'll you feel like if the germs kill me then?" demanded Davy. - - - - -Chapter XV - -A Dream Turned Upside Down - - -"Just one more week and we go back to Redmond," said Anne. -She was happy at the thought of returning to work, classes -and Redmond friends. Pleasing visions were also being woven -around Patty's Place. There was a warm pleasant sense of home -in the thought of it, even though she had never lived there. - -But the summer had been a very happy one, too -- a time of glad living -with summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome things; -a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which -she had learned to live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play -more heartily. - -"All life lessons are not learned at college," she thought. -"Life teaches them everywhere." - -But alas, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for Anne, -by one of those impish happenings which are like a dream turned upside down. - -"Been writing any more stories lately?" inquired Mr. Harrison genially -one evening when Anne was taking tea with him and Mrs. Harrison. - -"No," answered Anne, rather crisply. - -"Well, no offense meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloane told me the other -day that a big envelope addressed to the Rollings Reliable Baking -Powder Company of Montreal had been dropped into the post office -box a month ago, and she suspicioned that somebody was trying for -the prize they'd offered for the best story that introduced the -name of their baking powder. She said it wasn't addressed in -your writing, but I thought maybe it was you." - -"Indeed, no! I saw the prize offer, but I'd never dream of -competing for it. I think it would be perfectly disgraceful to -write a story to advertise a baking powder. It would be almost -as bad as Judson Parker's patent medicine fence." - -So spake Anne loftily, little dreaming of the valley of -humiliation awaiting her. That very evening Diana popped into -the porch gable, bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, carrying a letter. - -"Oh, Anne, here's a letter for you. I was at the office, so I -thought I'd bring it along. Do open it quick. If it is what I -believe it is I shall just be wild with delight." Anne, puzzled, -opened the letter and glanced over the typewritten contents. - - - Miss Anne Shirley, - Green Gables, - Avonlea, P.E. Island. - -"DEAR MADAM: We have much pleasure in informing you that -your charming story `Averil's Atonement' has won the prize -of twenty-five dollars offered in our recent competition. -We enclose the check herewith. We are arranging for the -publication of the story in several prominent Canadian -newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed in -pamphlet form for distribution among our patrons. -Thanking you for the interest you have shown in -our enterprise, we remain, - - Yours very truly, - THE ROLLINGS RELIABLE - BAKING POWDER Co." - - -"I don't understand," said Anne, blankly. - -Diana clapped her hands. - -"Oh, I KNEW it would win the prize -- I was sure of it. -_I_ sent your story into the competition, Anne." - -"Diana -- Barry!" - -"Yes, I did," said Diana gleefully, perching herself on the bed. -"When I saw the offer I thought of your story in a minute, and at -first I thought I'd ask you to send it in. But then I was afraid -you wouldn't -- you had so little faith left in it. So I just -decided I'd send the copy you gave me, and say nothing about it. -Then, if it didn't win the prize, you'd never know and you wouldn't -feel badly over it, because the stories that failed were not to be -returned, and if it did you'd have such a delightful surprise." - -Diana was not the most discerning of mortals, but just at this -moment it struck her that Anne was not looking exactly overjoyed. -The surprise was there, beyond doubt -- but where was the delight? - -"Why, Anne, you don't seem a bit pleased!" she exclaimed. - -Anne instantly manufactured a smile and put it on. - -"Of course I couldn't be anything but pleased over your unselfish -wish to give me pleasure," she said slowly. "But you know -- I'm -so amazed -- I can't realize it -- and I don't understand. There -wasn't a word in my story about -- about -- " Anne choked a little -over the word -- "baking powder." - -"Oh, _I_ put that in," said Diana, reassured. "It was as easy as -wink -- and of course my experience in our old Story Club helped me. -You know the scene where Averil makes the cake? Well, I just stated -that she used the Rollings Reliable in it, and that was why it turned -out so well; and then, in the last paragraph, where PERCEVAL clasps -AVERIL in his arms and says, `Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years -will bring us the fulfilment of our home of dreams,' I added, `in which -we will never use any baking powder except Rollings Reliable.'" - -"Oh," gasped poor Anne, as if some one had dashed cold water on her. - -"And you've won the twenty-five dollars," continued Diana jubilantly. -"Why, I heard Priscilla say once that the Canadian Woman only pays -five dollars for a story!" - -Anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers. - -"I can't take it -- it's yours by right, Diana. You sent the -story in and made the alterations. I -- I would certainly never -have sent it. So you must take the check." - -"I'd like to see myself," said Diana scornfully. "Why, what I -did wasn't any trouble. The honor of being a friend of the -prizewinner is enough for me. Well, I must go. I should have -gone straight home from the post office for we have company. -But I simply had to come and hear the news. I'm so glad for -your sake, Anne." - -Anne suddenly bent forward, put her arms about Diana, and kissed -her cheek. - -"I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, -Diana," she said, with a little tremble in her voice, "and I -assure you I appreciate the motive of what you've done." - -Diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herself away, and poor Anne, -after flinging the innocent check into her bureau drawer as if it -were blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame -and outraged sensibility. Oh, she could never live this down -- never! - -Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, -for he had called at Orchard Slope and heard the news. But his -congratulations died on his lips at sight of Anne's face. - -"Why, Anne, what is the matter? I expected to find you radiant -over winning Rollings Reliable prize. Good for you!" - -"Oh, Gilbert, not you," implored Anne, in an ET-TU BRUTE tone. -"I thought YOU would understand. Can't you see how awful it is?" - -"I must confess I can't. WHAT is wrong?" - -"Everything," moaned Anne. "I feel as if I were disgraced forever. -What do you think a mother would feel like if she found her -child tattooed over with a baking powder advertisement? -I feel just the same. I loved my poor little story, and I -wrote it out of the best that was in me. And it is SACRILEGE to -have it degraded to the level of a baking powder advertisement. -Don't you remember what Professor Hamilton used to tell us in the -literature class at Queen's? He said we were never to write a -word for a low or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the -very highest ideals. What will he think when he hears I've -written a story to advertise Rollings Reliable? And, oh, when it -gets out at Redmond! Think how I'll be teased and laughed at!" - -"That you won't," said Gilbert, wondering uneasily if it were -that confounded Junior's opinion in particular over which Anne -was worried. "The Reds will think just as I thought -- that you, -being like nine out of ten of us, not overburdened with worldly -wealth, had taken this way of earning an honest penny to help -yourself through the year. I don't see that there's anything low -or unworthy about that, or anything ridiculous either. One would -rather write masterpieces of literature no doubt -- but meanwhile -board and tuition fees have to be paid." - -This commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case cheered Anne a -little. At least it removed her dread of being laughed at, -though the deeper hurt of an outraged ideal remained. - - - - -Chapter XVI - -Adjusted Relationships - - -"It's the homiest spot I ever saw -- it's homier than home," -avowed Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. -They were all assembled at twilight in the big living-room at -Patty's Place -- Anne and Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, -Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog. The firelight -shadows were dancing over the walls; the cats were purring; -and a huge bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one -of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like creamy moons. - -It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, -and already all believed the experiment would be a success. The -first fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting -one; they had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing -their little establishment, and adjusting different opinions. - -Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to -return to college. The last few days of her vacation had not -been pleasant. Her prize story had been published in the Island -papers; and Mr. William Blair had, upon the counter of his -store, a huge pile of pink, green and yellow pamphlets, -containing it, one of which he gave to every customer. He sent a -complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly dropped them all in -the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was the consequence of her -own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite splendid -that she should have won the prize. Her many friends regarded -her with honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy. -Josie Pye said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; -she was sure she remembered reading it in a paper years before. -The Sloanes, who had found out or guessed that Charlie had been -"turned down," said they didn't think it was much to be proud of; -almost any one could have done it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa -told Anne she was very sorry to hear she had taken to writing -novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do it; that was -what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where, with -goodness knew what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was -darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she -was almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check. - -"It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, -that's what," she said, half-proudly, half-severely. - -All things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. -And it was very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced -Soph with hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. -Pris and Stella and Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloane, looking -more important than ever a Sophomore looked before, Phil, with -the Alec-and-Alonzo question still unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon -MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been teaching school ever since -leaving Queen's, but his mother had concluded it was high time -he gave it up and turned his attention to learning how to be a -minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell on hard luck at the very -beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless Sophs, -who were among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one -night and shaved half of his head. In this guise the luckless -Moody Spurgeon had to go about until his hair grew again. He -told Anne bitterly that there were times when he had his doubts -as to whether he was really called to be a minister. - -Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty's Place -ready for her. Miss Patty had sent the key to Anne, with a -letter in which she said Gog and Magog were packed in a box under -the spare-room bed, but might be taken out when wanted; in a -postscript she added that she hoped the girls would be careful -about putting up pictures. The living room had been newly -papered five years before and she and Miss Maria did not want any -more holes made in that new paper than was absolutely necessary. -For the rest she trusted everything to Anne. - -How those girls enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, -it was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of -homemaking without the bother of a husband. All brought something -with them to adorn or make comfortable the little house. Pris and -Phil and Stella had knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter -they proceeded to hang according to taste, in reckless disregard -of Miss Patty's new paper. - -"We'll putty the holes up when we leave, dear -- she'll never know," -they said to protesting Anne. - -Diana had given Anne a pine needle cushion and Miss Ada had given -both her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. -Marilla had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a -hamper for Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt -and loaned her five more. - -"You take them," she said authoritatively. "They might as well be -in use as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw." - -No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they -reeked of mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in -the orchard of Patty's Place a full fortnight before they could -be endured indoors. Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had -rarely beheld such a display. The gruff old millionaire who -lived "next door" came over and wanted to buy the gorgeous red -and yellow "tulip-pattern" one which Mrs. Rachel had given Anne. -He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by Jove, he -wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much to -his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. -That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just -like it to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, -and insisted on having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of -his fashionable wife. - -Mrs. Lynde's quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. -Patty's Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. -It was really a rather cold house; and when the frosty nights -came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde's -quilts, and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted unto -her for righteousness. Anne had the blue room she had coveted -at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one. Phil was -blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and -Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room. -Rusty at first slept on the doorstep. - -Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, -became aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a -covert, indulgent smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the -matter with her. Was her hat crooked? Was her belt loose? -Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, -saw Rusty. - -Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the -most forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. -The animal was well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable -looking. Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye was -temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen. -As for color, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly -singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif's -thin, draggled, unsightly fur. - -Anne "shooed," but the cat would not "shoo." As long as she -stood he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully -out of his one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. -Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate -of Patty's Place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly -supposing she had seen the last of him. But when, fifteen -minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown -cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon -Anne's lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant "miaow." - -"Anne," said Stella severely, "do you own that animal?" - -"No, I do NOT," protested disgusted Anne. "The creature followed -me home from somewhere. I couldn't get rid of him. Ugh, get down. -I like decent cats reasonably well; but I don't like beasties of -your complexion." - -Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in -Anne's lap and began to purr. - -"He has evidently adopted you," laughed Priscilla. - -"I won't BE adopted," said Anne stubbornly. - -"The poor creature is starving," said Phil pityingly. "Why, his -bones are almost coming through his skin." - -"Well, I'll give him a square meal and then he must return to -whence he came," said Anne resolutely. - -The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still -on the doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting -in whenever the door was opened. No coolness of welcome had -the least effect on him; of nobody save Anne did he take the -least notice. Out of compassion the girls fed him; but when -a week had passed they decided that something must be done. -The cat's appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had -resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; -and he had been seen washing his face. - -"But for all that we can't keep him," said Stella. "Aunt Jimsie -is coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her. - -We can't keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would -fight all the time with the Sarah-cat. He's a fighter by nature. -He had a pitched battle last evening with the tobacco-king's cat -and routed him, horse, foot and artillery." - -"We must get rid of him," agreed Anne, looking darkly at the -subject of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug -with an air of lamb-like meekness. "But the question is -- how? -How can four unprotected females get rid of a cat who won't be -got rid of?" - -We must chloroform him," said Phil briskly. "That is the most -humane way." - -"Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?" demanded -Anne gloomily. - -"I do, honey. It's one of my few -- sadly few -- useful accomplishments. -I've disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and -give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag -- there's -one in the back porch -- put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box. -Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under -the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it -till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he -were asleep. No pain -- no struggle." - -"It sounds easy," said Anne dubiously. - -"It IS easy. Just leave it to me. I'll see to it," said Phil reassuringly. - -Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was -lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed -into Anne's lap. Anne's heart misgave her. This poor creature loved her --- trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction? - -"Here, take him," she said hastily to Phil. "I feel like a murderess." - -"He won't suffer, you know," comforted Phil, but Anne had fled. - -The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it -that day. But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried. - -"Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard," declared Phil, -"and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That's the part -I always hate." - -The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch. -Phil gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, -faint but distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box. - -"He -- he isn't dead," gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the -kitchen doorstep. - -"He must be," said Phil incredulously. - -Another tiny mew proved that he wasn't. The two girls stared at -each other." - -What will we do?" questioned Anne. - -"Why in the world don't you come?" demanded Stella, appearing in -the doorway. "We've got the grave ready. `What silent still and -silent all?'" she quoted teasingly. - -"`Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent's fall,'" -promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box. - -A burst of laughter broke the tension. - -"We must leave him here till morning," said Phil, replacing the stone. -"He hasn't mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his -dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of -our guilty consciences." - -But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay -leap to Anne's shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately. -Never was there a cat more decidedly alive. - -"Here's a knot hole in the box," groaned Phil. "I never saw it. -That's why he didn't die. Now, we've got to do it all over again." - -"No, we haven't," declared Anne suddenly. "Rusty isn't going to be -killed again. He's my cat -- and you've just got to make the best of it." - -"Oh, well, if you'll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat," -said Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair. - -From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o'nights on the -scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land. -By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably -respectable. But, like Kipling's cat, he "walked by himself." -His paw was against every cat, and every cat's paw against him. -One by one he vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. -As for human beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even -dared stroke him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like -very improper language greeted any one who did. - -"The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable," declared Stella. - -"Him was a nice old pussens, him was," vowed Anne, cuddling her pet defiantly. - -"Well, I don't know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out -to live together," said Stella pesimistically. "Cat-fights in -the orchard o'nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the -livingroom are unthinkable." In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. -Anne and Priscilla and Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; -but when Aunt Jamesina was enthroned in the rocking chair before the -open fire they figuratively bowed down and worshipped her. - -Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular face, -and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable youth, and -as full of hopes as a girl's. She had pink cheeks and snow-white hair -which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears. - -"It's a very old-fashioned way," she said, knitting industriously -at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. "But _I_ am old-fashioned. -My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, too. I don't say -they're any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I daresay they're a good -deal the worse. But they've worn nice and easy. New shoes are smarter than -old ones, but the old ones are more comfortable. I'm old enough to indulge -myself in the matter of shoes and opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. -I know you expect me to look after you and keep you proper, but I'm not going -to do it. - -You're old enough to know how to behave if you're ever going to be. -So, as far as I am concerned," concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle -in her young eyes, "you can all go to destruction in your own way." - -"Oh, will somebody separate those cats?" pleaded Stella, shudderingly. - -Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph. -Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had -gone to live in Vancouver. - -"She couldn't take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. -I really couldn't refuse. He's a beautiful cat -- that is, his -disposition is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat -is of many colors." - -It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked -like a walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground -color was. His legs were white with black spots on them. -His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow on one side and a -black patch on the other. His tail was yellow with a gray tip. -One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch over one eye gave -him a fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek and inoffensive, -of a sociable disposition. In one respect, if in no other, Joseph -was like a lily of the field. He toiled not neither did he spin -or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer -cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things. - -Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. -After they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion -and corner which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat -herself down before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She -was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity -which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her plebian -origin. She had been given to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman. - -"Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the -Sarah-cat," explained Aunt Jamesina. "She is eight years old, -and a remarkable mouser. Don't worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat -NEVER fights and Joseph rarely." - -"They'll have to fight here in self-defense," said Stella. - -At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded -joyously half way across the room before he saw the intruders. -Then he stopped short; his tail expanded until it was as big as -three tails. The fur on his back rose up in a defiant arch; -Rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and -defiance, and launched himself at the Sarah-cat. - -The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking -at him curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous -sweep of her capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on -the rug; he picked himself up dazedly. What sort of a cat was -this who had boxed his ears? He looked dubiously at the Sarah-cat. -Would he or would he not? The Sarah-cat deliberately turned her -back on him and resumed her toilet operations. Rusty decided that -he would not. He never did. From that time on the Sarah-cat ruled -the roost. Rusty never again interfered with her. - -But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge -his disgrace, swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, -could fight upon occasion and fight well. The result was a -series of drawn battles. Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at -sight. Anne took Rusty's part and detested Joseph. Stella was -in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed. - -Let them fight it out," she said tolerantly. "They'll make friends -after a bit. Joseph needs some exercise -- he was getting too fat. -And Rusty has to learn he isn't the only cat in the world." - -Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn -enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with -their paws about each other, and gravely washed each other's faces. - -"We've all got used to each other," said Phil. "And I've learned -how to wash dishes and sweep a floor." - -"But you needn't try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat," -laughed Anne. - -"It was all the fault of the knothole," protested Phil. - -"It was a good thing the knothole was there," said Aunt Jamesina -rather severely. "Kittens HAVE to be drowned, I admit, or the -world would be overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be -done to death -- unless he sucks eggs." - -"You wouldn't have thought Rusty very decent if you'd seen him when -he came here," said Stella. "He positively looked like the Old Nick." - -"I don't believe Old Nick can be so very, ugly" said Aunt Jamesina -reflectively. "He wouldn't do so much harm if he was. _I_ always -think of him as a rather handsome gentleman." - - - - -Chapter XVII - -A Letter from Davy - - -"It's beginning to snow, girls," said Phil, coming in one -November evening, "and there are the loveliest little stars and -crosses all over the garden walk. I never noticed before what -exquisite things snowflakes really are. One has time to notice -things like that in the simple life. Bless you all for permitting -me to live it. It's really delightful to feel worried because -butter has gone up five cents a pound." - -"Has it?" demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts. - -"It has -- and here's your butter. I'm getting quite expert at marketing. -It's better fun than flirting," concluded Phil gravely. - -"Everything is going up scandalously," sighed Stella. - -"Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free," -said Aunt Jamesina. - -"And so is laughter," added Anne. "There's no tax on it yet -and that is well, because you're all going to laugh presently. -I'm going to read you Davy's letter. His spelling has improved -immensely this past year, though he is not strong on apostrophes, -and he certainly possesses the gift of writing an interesting letter. -Listen and laugh, before we settle down to the evening's study-grind." - -"Dear Anne," ran Davy's letter, "I take my pen to tell you that -we are all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. -It's snowing some today and Marilla says the old woman in the sky -is shaking her feather beds. Is the old woman in the sky God's -wife, Anne? I want to know. - -"Mrs. Lynde has been real sick but she is better now. She fell -down the cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold -of the shelf with all the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it -gave way and went down with her and made a splendid crash. -Marilla thought it was an earthquake at first. - -One of the stewpans was all dinged up and Mrs. Lynde straned her ribs. -The doctor came and gave her medicine to rub on her ribs but -she didn't under stand him and took it all inside instead. -The doctor said it was a wonder it dident kill her but it dident -and it cured her ribs and Mrs. Lynde says doctors dont know much -anyhow. But we couldent fix up the stewpan. Marilla had to -throw it out. Thanksgiving was last week. There was no school -and we had a great dinner. I et mince pie and rost turkey and -frut cake and donuts and cheese and jam and choklut cake. -Marilla said I'd die but I dident. Dora had earake after it, -only it wasent in her ears it was in her stummick. I dident -have earake anywhere. - -"Our new teacher is a man. He does things for jokes. Last week -he made all us third-class boys write a composishun on what kind -of a wife we'd like to have and the girls on what kind of a -husband. He laughed fit to kill when he read them. This was -mine. I thought youd like to see it. - -"`The kind of a wife I'd like to Have. - -"`She must have good manners and get my meals on time and do -what I tell her and always be very polite to me. She must be -fifteen yers old. She must be good to the poor and keep her -house tidy and be good tempered and go to church regularly. -She must be very handsome and have curly hair. If I get a wife -that is just what I like Ill be an awful good husband to her. -I think a woman ought to be awful good to her husband. Some poor -women havent any husbands. - - `THE END.'" - - -"I was at Mrs. Isaac Wrights funeral at White Sands last week. -The husband of the corpse felt real sorry. Mrs. Lynde says -Mrs. Wrights grandfather stole a sheep but Marilla says we mustent -speak ill of the dead. Why mustent we, Anne? I want to know. -It's pretty safe, ain't it? - -"Mrs. Lynde was awful mad the other day because I asked her if -she was alive in Noah's time. I dident mean to hurt her feelings. -I just wanted to know. Was she, Anne? - -"Mr. Harrison wanted to get rid of his dog. So he hunged him -once but he come to life and scooted for the barn while Mr. -Harrison was digging the grave, so he hunged him again and he -stayed dead that time. Mr. Harrison has a new man working for him. -He's awful okward. Mr. Harrison says he is left handed in both -his feet. Mr. Barry's hired man is lazy. Mrs. Barry says that -but Mr. Barry says he aint lazy exactly only he thinks it easier -to pray for things than to work for them. - -"Mrs. Harmon Andrews prize pig that she talked so much of died -in a fit. Mrs. Lynde says it was a judgment on her for pride. -But I think it was hard on the pig. Milty Boulter has been sick. -The doctor gave him medicine and it tasted horrid. I offered to -take it for him for a quarter but the Boulters are so mean. -Milty says he'd rather take it himself and save his money. -I asked Mrs. Boulter how a person would go about catching a man and -she got awful mad and said she dident know, shed never chased men. - -"The A.V.I.S. is going to paint the hall again. They're tired -of having it blue. - -"The new minister was here to tea last night. He took three -pieces of pie. - -If I did that Mrs. Lynde would call me piggy. And he et fast and -took big bites and Marilla is always telling me not to do that. -Why can ministers do what boys can't? I want to know. - -"I haven't any more news. Here are six kisses. xxxxxx. Dora -sends one. Heres hers. x. - - "Your loving friend - DAVID KEITH" - - -"P.S. Anne, who was the devils father? I want to know." - - - - -Chapter XVIII - -Miss Josepine Remembers the Anne-girl - - -When Christmas holidays came the girls of Patty's Place scattered to -their respective homes, but Aunt Jamesina elected to stay where she was. - -"I couldn't go to any of the places I've been invited and take -those three cats," she said. "And I'm not going to leave the -poor creatures here alone for nearly three weeks. If we had any -decent neighbors who would feed them I might, but there's nothing -except millionaires on this street. So I'll stay here and keep -Patty's Place warm for you." - -Anne went home with the usual joyous anticipations -- which were -not wholly fulfilled. She found Avonlea in the grip of such an -early, cold, and stormy winter as even the "oldest inhabitant" -could not recall. Green Gables was literally hemmed in by huge -drifts. Almost every day of that ill-starred vacation it stormed -fiercely; and even on fine days it drifted unceasingly. No -sooner were the roads broken than they filled in again. It was -almost impossible to stir out. The A.V.I.S. tried, on three -evenings, to have a party in honor of the college students, and -on each evening the storm was so wild that nobody could go, so -they gave up the attempt in despair. Anne, despite her love of -and loyalty to Green Gables, could not help thinking longingly of -Patty's Place, its cosy open fire, Aunt Jamesina's mirthful eyes, -the three cats, the merry chatter of the girls, the pleasantness -of Friday evenings when college friends dropped in to talk of -grave and gay. - -Anne was lonely; Diana, during the whole of the holidays, was -imprisoned at home with a bad attack of bronchitis. She could -not come to Green Gables and it was rarely Anne could get to -Orchard Slope, for the old way through the Haunted Wood was -impassable with drifts, and the long way over the frozen Lake of -Shining Waters was almost as bad. Ruby Gillis was sleeping in -the white-heaped graveyard; Jane Andrews was teaching a school on -western prairies. Gilbert, to be sure, was still faithful, and -waded up to Green Gables every possible evening. But Gilbert's -visits were not what they once were. Anne almost dreaded them. -It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden -silence and find Gilbert's hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite -unmistakable expression in their grave depths; and it was still -more disconcerting to find herself blushing hotly and -uncomfortably under his gaze, just as if -- just as if -- well, -it was very embarrassing. Anne wished herself back at Patty's -Place, where there was always somebody else about to take the -edge off a delicate situation. At Green Gables Marilla went -promptly to Mrs. Lynde's domain when Gilbert came and insisted -on taking the twins with her. The significance of this was -unmistakable and Anne was in a helpless fury over it. - -Davy, however, was perfectly happy. He reveled in getting out in -the morning and shoveling out the paths to the well and henhouse. -He gloried in the Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and -Mrs. Lynde vied with each other in preparing for Anne, and he -was reading an enthralling tale, in a school library book, of a -wonderful hero who seemed blessed with a miraculous faculty for -getting into scrapes from which he was usually delivered by an -earthquake or a volcanic explosion, which blew him high and dry -out of his troubles, landed him in a fortune, and closed the -story with proper ECLAT. - -"I tell you it's a bully story, Anne," he said ecstatically. -"I'd ever so much rather read it than the Bible." - -"Would you?" smiled Anne. - -Davy peered curiously at her. - -"You don't seem a bit shocked, Anne. Mrs. Lynde was awful -shocked when I said it to her." - -"No, I'm not shocked, Davy. I think it's quite natural that a -nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the -Bible. But when you are older I hope and think that you will -realize what a wonderful book the Bible is." - -"Oh, I think some parts of it are fine," conceded Davy. "That -story about Joseph now -- it's bully. But if I'd been Joseph _I_ -wouldn't have forgive the brothers. No, siree, Anne. I'd have -cut all their heads off. Mrs. Lynde was awful mad when I said that -and shut the Bible up and said she'd never read me any more of it if -I talked like that. So I don't talk now when she reads it Sunday -afternoons; I just think things and say them to Milty Boulter next -day in school. I told Milty the story about Elisha and the bears -and it scared him so he's never made fun of Mr. Harrison's bald -head once. Are there any bears on P.E. Island, Anne? I want to know." - -"Not nowadays," said Anne, absently, as the wind blew a scud of -snow against the window. "Oh, dear, will it ever stop storming." - -"God knows," said Davy airily, preparing to resume his reading. - -Anne WAS shocked this time. - -"Davy!" she exclaimed reproachfully. - -"Mrs. Lynde says that," protested Davy. "One night last week -Marilla said `Will Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix EVER get -married" and Mrs. Lynde said, `God knows' -- just like that." - -"Well, it wasn't right for her to say it," said Anne, promptly -deciding upon which horn of this dilemma to empale herself. -"It isn't right for anybody to take that name in vain or -speak it lightly, Davy. Don't ever do it again." - -"Not if I say it slow and solemn, like the minister?" queried -Davy gravely. - -"No, not even then." - -"Well, I won't. Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix live in Middle -Grafton and Mrs. Rachel says he has been courting her for a -hundred years. Won't they soon be too old to get married, Anne? -I hope Gilbert won't court YOU that long. When are you going to -be married, Anne? Mrs. Lynde says it's a sure thing." - -"Mrs. Lynde is a --" began Anne hotly; then stopped. "Awful old -gossip," completed Davy calmly. "That's what every one calls her. -But is it a sure thing, Anne? I want to know." - -"You're a very silly little boy, Davy," said Anne, stalking -haughtily out of the room. The kitchen was deserted and she sat -down by the window in the fast falling wintry twilight. The sun -had set and the wind had died down. A pale chilly moon looked -out behind a bank of purple clouds in the west. The sky faded -out, but the strip of yellow along the western horizon grew -brighter and fiercer, as if all the stray gleams of light were -concentrating in one spot; the distant hills, rimmed with -priest-like firs, stood out in dark distinctness against it. -Anne looked across the still, white fields, cold and lifeless -in the harsh light of that grim sunset, and sighed. She was -very lonely; and she was sad at heart; for she was wondering -if she would be able to return to Redmond next year. It did not -seem likely. The only scholarship possible in the Sophomore year -was a very small affair. She would not take Marilla's money; -and there seemed little prospect of being able to earn enough -in the summer vacation. - -"I suppose I'll just have to drop out next year," she thought -drearily, "and teach a district school again until I earn enough -to finish my course. And by that time all my old class will have -graduated and Patty's Place will be out of the question. But there! -I'm not going to be a coward. I'm thankful I can earn my way through -if necessary." - -"Here's Mr. Harrison wading up the lane," announced Davy, running out. -"I hope he's brought the mail. It's three days since we got it. -I want to see what them pesky Grits are doing. I'm a Conservative, Anne. -And I tell you, you have to keep your eye on them Grits." - -Mr. Harrison had brought the mail, and merry letters from Stella -and Priscilla and Phil soon dissipated Anne's blues. Aunt Jamesina, -too, had written, saying that she was keeping the hearth-fire alight, -and that the cats were all well, and the house plants doing fine. - -"The weather has been real cold," she wrote, "so I let the cats sleep -in the house -- Rusty and Joseph on the sofa in the living-room, and -the Sarah-cat on the foot of my bed. It's real company to hear her -purring when I wake up in the night and think of my poor daughter in -the foreign field. If it was anywhere but in India I wouldn't worry, -but they say the snakes out there are terrible. It takes all the -Sarah-cats's purring to drive away the thought of those snakes. -I have enough faith for everything but the snakes. I can't think -why Providence ever made them. Sometimes I don't think He did. -I'm inclined to believe the Old Harry had a hand in making THEM." - -Anne had left a thin, typewritten communication till the last, -thinking it unimportant. When she had read it she sat very -still, with tears in her eyes. - -"What is the matter, Anne?" asked Marilla. - -"Miss Josephine Barry is dead," said Anne, in a low tone. - -"So she has gone at last," said Marilla. "Well, she has been -sick for over a year, and the Barrys have been expecting to hear -of her death any time. It is well she is at rest for she has -suffered dreadfully, Anne. She was always kind to you." - -"She has been kind to the last, Marilla. This letter is from her lawyer. -She has left me a thousand dollars in her will." - -"Gracious, ain't that an awful lot of money," exclaimed Davy. -"She's the woman you and Diana lit on when you jumped into -the spare room bed, ain't she? Diana told me that story. -Is that why she left you so much?" - -"Hush, Davy," said Anne gently. She slipped away to the porch -gable with a full heart, leaving Marilla and Mrs. Lynde to talk -over the news to their hearts' content. - -"Do you s'pose Anne will ever get married now?" speculated Davy -anxiously. "When Dorcas Sloane got married last summer she said -if she'd had enough money to live on she'd never have been -bothered with a man, but even a widower with eight children was -better'n living with a sister-in-law." - -"Davy Keith, do hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel severely. -"The way you talk is scandalous for a small boy, that's what." - - - - -Chapter XIX - -An Interlude - - -"To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I've left -my teens behind me forever," said Anne, who was curled up on the -hearth-rug with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesina who was reading -in her pet chair. They were alone in the living room. Stella and -Priscilla had gone to a committee meeting and Phil was upstairs -adorning herself for a party. - -"I suppose you feel kind of, sorry" said Aunt Jamesina. "The teens are -such a nice part of life. I'm glad I've never gone out of them myself." - -Anne laughed. - -"You never will, Aunty. You'll be eighteen when you should be a -hundred. Yes, I'm sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. -Miss Stacy told me long ago that by the time I was twenty my -character would be formed, for good or evil. I don't feel that -it's what it should be. It's full of flaws." - -"So's everybody's," said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. "Mine's cracked -in a hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you are -twenty your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction -or 'tother, and would go on developing in that line. Don't worry over it, -Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and yourself, and have a good -time. That's my philosophy and it's always worked pretty well. Where's -Phil off to tonight?" - -"She's going to a dance, and she's got the sweetest dress for it --- creamy yellow silk and cobwebby lace. It just suits those -brown tints of hers." - -"There's magic in the words `silk' and `lace,' isn't there?" said -Aunt Jamesina. "The very sound of them makes me feel like -skipping off to a dance. And YELLOW silk. It makes one think of -a dress of sunshine. I always wanted a yellow silk dress, but -first my mother and then my husband wouldn't hear of it. The -very first thing I'm going to do when I get to heaven is to get a -yellow silk dress." - -Amid Anne's peal of laughter Phil came downstairs, trailing clouds -of glory, and surveyed herself in the long oval mirror on the wall. - -"A flattering looking glass is a promoter of amiability," she -said. "The one in my room does certainly make me green. Do I -look pretty nice, Anne?" - -"Do you really know how pretty you are, Phil?" asked Anne, -in honest admiration. - -"Of course I do. What are looking glasses and men for? That wasn't -what I meant. Are all my ends tucked in? Is my skirt straight? -And would this rose look better lower down? I'm afraid it's too high --- it will make me look lop-sided. But I hate things tickling my ears." - -"Everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is lovely." - -"Anne, there's one thing in particular I like about you -- you're -so ungrudging. There isn't a particle of envy in you." - -"Why should she be envious?" demanded Aunt Jamesina. "She's not quite -as goodlooking as you, maybe, but she's got a far handsomer nose." - -"I know it," conceded Phil. - -"My nose always has been a great comfort to me," confessed Anne. - -"And I love the way your hair grows on your forehead, Anne. And -that one wee curl, always looking as if it were going to drop, -but never dropping, is delicious. But as for noses, mine is a -dreadful worry to me. I know by the time I'm forty it will be -Byrney. What do you think I'll look like when I'm forty, Anne?" - -"Like an old, matronly, married woman," teased Anne. - -"I won't," said Phil, sitting down comfortably to wait for her escort. -"Joseph, you calico beastie, don't you dare jump on my lap. I won't go -to a dance all over cat hairs. No, Anne, I WON'T look matronly. But no -doubt I'll be married." - -"To Alec or Alonzo?" asked Anne. - -"To one of them, I suppose," sighed Phil, "if I can ever decide which." - -"It shouldn't be hard to decide," scolded Aunt Jamesina. - -"I was born a see-saw Aunty, and nothing can ever prevent me from teetering." - -"You ought to be more levelheaded, Philippa." - -"It's best to be levelheaded, of course," agreed Philippa, "but you miss -lots of fun. As for Alec and Alonzo, if you knew them you'd understand -why it's difficult to choose between them. They're equally nice." - -"Then take somebody who is nicer" suggested Aunt Jamesina. -"There's that Senior who is so devoted to you -- Will Leslie. -He has such nice, large, mild eyes." - -"They're a little bit too large and too mild -- like a cow's," -said Phil cruelly. - -"What do you say about George Parker?" - -"There's nothing to say about him except that he always looks as -if he had just been starched and ironed." - -"Marr Holworthy then. You can't find a fault with him." - -"No, he would do if he wasn't poor. I must marry a rich man, -Aunt Jamesina. That -- and good looks -- is an indispensable -qualification. I'd marry Gilbert Blythe if he were rich." - -"Oh, would you?" said Anne, rather viciously. - -"We don't like that idea a little bit, although we don't want -Gilbert ourselves, oh, no," mocked Phil. "But don't let's talk -of disagreeable subjects. I'll have to marry sometime, I suppose, -but I shall put off the evil day as long as I can." - -"You mustn't marry anybody you don't love, Phil, when all's said -and done," said Aunt Jamesina. - - "`Oh, hearts that loved in the good old way - Have been out o' the fashion this many a day.'" - -trilled Phil mockingly. "There's the carriage. I fly -- Bi-bi, -you two old-fashioned darlings." - -When Phil had gone Aunt Jamesina looked solemnly at Anne. - -"That girl is pretty and sweet and goodhearted, but do you think -she is quite right in her mind, by spells, Anne?" - -"Oh, I don't think there's anything the matter with Phil's mind," -said Anne, hiding a smile. "It's just her way of talking." - -Aunt Jamesina shook her head. - -"Well, I hope so, Anne. I do hope so, because I love her. But _I_ -can't understand her -- she beats me. She isn't like any of the -girls I ever knew, or any of the girls I was myself." - -"How many girls were you, Aunt Jimsie?" - -"About half a dozen, my dear." - - - - -Chapter XX - -Gilbert Speaks - - -"This has been a dull, prosy day," yawned Phil, stretching -herself idly on the sofa, having previously dispossessed two -exceedingly indignant cats. - -Anne looked up from Pickwick Papers. Now that spring -examinations were over she was treating herself to Dickens. - -"It has been a prosy day for us," she said thoughtfully, "but to -some people it has been a wonderful day. Some one has been -rapturously happy in it. Perhaps a great deed has been done -somewhere today -- or a great poem written -- or a great man born. -And some heart has been broken, Phil." - -"Why did you spoil your pretty thought by tagging that last -sentence on, honey?" grumbled Phil. "I don't like to think of -broken hearts -- or anything unpleasant." - -"Do you think you'll be able to shirk unpleasant things all your -life, Phil?" - -"Dear me, no. Am I not up against them now? You don't call Alec and -Alonzo pleasant things, do you, when they simply plague my life out?" - -"You never take anything seriously, Phil." - -"Why should I? There are enough folks who do. The world needs -people like me, Anne, just to amuse it. It would be a terrible -place if EVERYBODY were intellectual and serious and in deep, -deadly earnest. MY mission is, as Josiah Allen says, `to charm -and allure.' Confess now. Hasn't life at Patty's Place been -really much brighter and pleasanter this past winter because -I've been here to leaven you?" - -"Yes, it has," owned Anne. - -"And you all love me -- even Aunt Jamesina, who thinks I'm stark mad. -So why should I try to be different? Oh, dear, I'm so sleepy. I was -awake until one last night, reading a harrowing ghost story. I read -it in bed, and after I had finished it do you suppose I could get out -of bed to put the light out? No! And if Stella had not fortunately -come in late that lamp would have burned good and bright till morning. -When I heard Stella I called her in, explained my predicament, and got -her to put out the light. If I had got out myself to do it I knew -something would grab me by the feet when I was getting in again. -By the way, Anne, has Aunt Jamesina decided what to do this summer?" - -"Yes, she's going to stay here. I know she's doing it for the -sake of those blessed cats, although she says it's too much -trouble to open her own house, and she hates visiting." - -"What are you reading?" - -"Pickwick." - -"That's a book that always makes me hungry," said Phil. "There's so -much good eating in it. The characters seem always to be reveling -on ham and eggs and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard rummage -after reading Pickwick. The mere thought reminds me that I'm starving. -Is there any tidbit in the pantry, Queen Anne?" - -"I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it." - -Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the -orchard in company with Rusty. It was a moist, pleasantly- -odorous night in early spring. The snow was not quite all gone -from the park; a little dingy bank of it yet lay under the pines -of the harbor road, screened from the influence of April suns. -It kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the evening air. -But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and Gilbert -had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. -He came up from the park, his hands full of it. - -Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking -at the poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red -sunset with the very perfection of grace. She was building a -castle in air -- a wondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and -stately halls were steeped in Araby's perfume, and where she -reigned queen and chatelaine. She frowned as she saw Gilbert -coming through the orchard. Of late she had managed not to be -left alone with Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly now; and -even Rusty had deserted her. - -Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers. - -"Don't these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?" - -Anne took them and buried her face in them. - -"I'm in Mr. Silas Sloane's barrens this very minute," she said rapturously. - -"I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?" - -"No, not for a fortnight. I'm going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke -before I go home. You'll be in Avonlea before I will." - -"No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I've been -offered a job in the Daily News office and I'm going to take it." - -"Oh," said Anne vaguely. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer -would be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect. -"Well," she concluded flatly, "it is a good thing for you, of course." - -"Yes, I've been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next year." - -"You mustn't work too HARD," said Anne, without any very clear -idea of what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil -would come out. "You've studied very constantly this winter. -Isn't this a delightful evening? Do you know, I found a cluster -of white violets under that old twisted tree over there today? -I felt as if I had discovered a gold mine." - -"You are always discovering gold mines," said Gilbert -- also absently. - -"Let us go and see if we can find some more," suggested Anne eagerly. -"I'll call Phil and -- " - -"Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne," said Gilbert quietly, -taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. "There is -something I want to say to you." - -"Oh, don't say it," cried Anne, pleadingly. "Don't -- PLEASE, Gilbert." - -"I must. Things can't go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. -You know I do. I -- I can't tell you how much. Will you promise me -that some day you'll be my wife?" - -"I -- I can't," said Anne miserably. "Oh, Gilbert -- you -- -you've spoiled everything." - -"Don't you care for me at all?" Gilbert asked after a very -dreadful pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up. - -"Not -- not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. -But I don't love you, Gilbert." - -"But can't you give me some hope that you will -- yet?" - -"No, I can't," exclaimed Anne desperately. "I never, never can -love you -- in that way -- Gilbert. You must never speak of this -to me again." - -There was another pause -- so long and so dreadful that Anne was -driven at last to look up. Gilbert's face was white to the lips. -And his eyes -- but Anne shuddered and looked away. There was -nothing romantic about this. Must proposals be either grotesque -or -- horrible? Could she ever forget Gilbert's face? - -"Is there anybody else?" he asked at last in a low voice. - -"No -- no," said Anne eagerly. "I don't care for any one like -THAT -- and I LIKE you better than anybody else in the world, -Gilbert. And we must -- we must go on being friends, Gilbert." - -Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh. - -"Friends! Your friendship can't satisfy me, Anne. I want your love --- and you tell me I can never have that." - -"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert," was all Anne could say. -Where, oh, where were all the gracious and graceful speeches -wherewith, in imagination, she had been wont to dismiss -rejected suitors? - -Gilbert released her hand gently. - -"There isn't anything to forgive. There have been times when I thought -you did care. I've deceived myself, that's all. Goodbye, Anne." - -Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind -the pines, and cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably -precious had gone out of her life. It was Gilbert's friendship, -of course. Oh, why must she lose it after this fashion? - -"What is the matter, honey?" asked Phil, coming in through -the moonlit gloom. - -Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a -thousand miles away. - -"I suppose you've gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an idiot, -Anne Shirley!" - -"Do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don't love?" -said Anne coldly, goaded to reply. - -"You don't know love when you see it. You've tricked something -out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the -real thing to look like that. There, that's the first sensible -thing I've ever said in my life. I wonder how I managed it?" - -"Phil," pleaded Anne, "please go away and leave me alone for -a little while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to -reconstruct it." - -"Without any Gilbert in it?" said Phil, going. - -A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. -Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all -Gilbert's fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. -She must just learn to live without it. - - - - -Chapter XXI - -Roses of Yesterday - - -The fortnight Anne spent in Bolingbroke was a very pleasant one, -with a little under current of vague pain and dissatisfaction -running through it whenever she thought about Gilbert. There was -not, however, much time to think about him. "Mount Holly," the -beautiful old Gordon homestead, was a very gay place, overrun by -Phil's friends of both sexes. There was quite a bewildering -succession of drives, dances, picnics and boating parties, all -expressively lumped together by Phil under the head of "jamborees"; -Alec and Alonzo were so constantly on hand that Anne wondered if -they ever did anything but dance attendance on that will-o'-the-wisp -of a Phil. They were both nice, manly fellows, but Anne would not -be drawn into any opinion as to which was the nicer. - -"And I depended so on you to help me make up my mind which of them I -should promise to marry," mourned Phil. - -"You must do that for yourself. You are quite expert at making -up your mind as to whom other people should marry," retorted Anne, -rather caustically. - -"Oh, that's a very different thing," said Phil, truly. - -But the sweetest incident of Anne's sojourn in Bolingbroke was the -visit to her birthplace -- the little shabby yellow house in an -out-of-the-way street she had so often dreamed about. She looked -at it with delighted eyes, as she and Phil turned in at the gate. - -"It's almost exactly as I've pictured it," she said. "There is -no honeysuckle over the windows, but there is a lilac tree by the -gate, and -- yes, there are the muslin curtains in the windows. -How glad I am it is still painted yellow." - -A very tall, very thin woman opened the door. - -"Yes, the Shirleys lived here twenty years ago," she said, in -answer to Anne's question. "They had it rented. I remember 'em. -They both died of fever at onct. It was turrible sad. They left -a baby. I guess it's dead long ago. It was a sickly thing. Old -Thomas and his wife took it -- as if they hadn't enough of their own." - -"It didn't die," said Anne, smiling. "I was that baby." - -"You don't say so! Why, you have grown," exclaimed the woman, -as if she were much surprised that Anne was not still a baby. -"Come to look at you, I see the resemblance. You're complected -like your pa. He had red hair. But you favor your ma in your -eyes and mouth. She was a nice little thing. My darter went to -school to her and was nigh crazy about her. They was buried in -the one grave and the School Board put up a tombstone to them as -a reward for faithful service. Will you come in?" - -"Will you let me go all over the house?" asked Anne eagerly. - -"Laws, yes, you can if you like. 'Twon't take you long -- there -ain't much of it. I keep at my man to build a new kitchen, but -he ain't one of your hustlers. The parlor's in there and there's -two rooms upstairs. Just prowl about yourselves. I've got to -see to the baby. The east room was the one you were born in. -I remember your ma saying she loved to see the sunrise; and I -mind hearing that you was born just as the sun was rising and -its light on your face was the first thing your ma saw." - -Anne went up the narrow stairs and into that little east room -with a full heart. It was as a shrine to her. Here her mother -had dreamed the exquisite, happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; -here that red sunrise light had fallen over them both in the sacred -hour of birth; here her mother had died. Anne looked about her -reverently, her eyes with tears. It was for her one of the jeweled -hours of life that gleam out radiantly forever in memory. - -"Just to think of it -- mother was younger than I am now when I was born," -she whispered. - -When Anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall. -She held out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon. - -"Here's a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs -when I came here," she said. "I dunno what they are -- I never -bothered to look in 'em, but the address on the top one is -`Miss Bertha Willis,' and that was your ma's maiden name. -You can take 'em if you'd keer to have 'em." - -"Oh, thank you -- thank you," cried Anne, clasping the packet rapturously. - -"That was all that was in the house," said her hostess. "The furniture -was all sold to pay the doctor bills, and Mrs. Thomas got your ma's -clothes and little things. I reckon they didn't last long among that -drove of Thomas youngsters. They was destructive young animals, -as I mind 'em." - -"I haven't one thing that belonged to my mother," said Anne, -chokily. "I -- I can never thank you enough for these letters." - -"You're quite welcome. Laws, but your eyes is like your ma's. -She could just about talk with hers. Your father was sorter -homely but awful nice. I mind hearing folks say when they was -married that there never was two people more in love with each -other -- Pore creatures, they didn't live much longer; but they -was awful happy while they was alive, and I s'pose that counts -for a good deal." - -Anne longed to get home to read her precious letters; but she -made one little pilgrimage first. She went alone to the green -corner of the "old" Bolingbroke cemetery where her father and -mother were buried, and left on their grave the white flowers -she carried. Then she hastened back to Mount Holly, shut herself -up in her room, and read the letters. Some were written by her -father, some by her mother. There were not many -- only a dozen -in all -- for Walter and Bertha Shirley had not been often -separated during their courtship. The letters were yellow -and faded and dim, blurred with the touch of passing years. -No profound words of wisdom were traced on the stained and -wrinkled pages, but only lines of love and trust. The sweetness -of forgotten things clung to them -- the far-off, fond imaginings -of those long-dead lovers. Bertha Shirley had possessed the gift -of writing letters which embodied the charming personality of -the writer in words and thoughts that retained their beauty and -fragrance after the lapse of time. The letters were tender, -intimate, sacred. To Anne, the sweetest of all was the one -written after her birth to the father on a brief absence. -It was full of a proud young mother's accounts of "baby" -- -her cleverness, her brightness, her thousand sweetnesses. - -"I love her best when she is asleep and better still when she is awake," -Bertha Shirley had written in the postscript. Probably it was the last -sentence she had ever penned. The end was very near for her. - -"This has been the most beautiful day of my life," Anne said to Phil -that night. "I've FOUND my father and mother. Those letters have -made them REAL to me. I'm not an orphan any longer. I feel as if -I had opened a book and found roses of yesterday, sweet and beloved, -between its leaves." - - - - -Chapter XXII - -Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables - - -The firelight shadows were dancing over the kitchen walls at -Green Gables, for the spring evening was chilly; through the open -east window drifted in the subtly sweet voices of the night. -Marilla was sitting by the fire -- at least, in body. In spirit -she was roaming olden ways, with feet grown young. Of late -Marilla had thus spent many an hour, when she thought she should -have been knitting for the twins. - -"I suppose I'm growing old," she said. - -Yet Marilla had changed but little in the past nine years, save -to grow something thinner, and even more angular; there was a -little more gray in the hair that was still twisted up in the -same hard knot, with two hairpins -- WERE they the same hairpins? --- still stuck through it. But her expression was very different; -the something about the mouth which had hinted at a sense of humor -had developed wonderfully; her eyes were gentler and milder, her -smile more frequent and tender. - -Marilla was thinking of her whole past life, her cramped but not -unhappy childhood, the jealously hidden dreams and the blighted -hopes of her girlhood, the long, gray, narrow, monotonous years -of dull middle life that followed. And the coming of Anne -- -the vivid, imaginative, impetuous child with her heart of love, -and her world of fancy, bringing with her color and warmth and -radiance, until the wilderness of existence had blossomed like -the rose. Marilla felt that out of her sixty years she had -lived only the nine that had followed the advent of Anne. -And Anne would be home tomorrow night. - -The kitchen door opened. Marilla looked up expecting to see Mrs. -Lynde. Anne stood before her, tall and starry-eyed, with her -hands full of Mayflowers and violets. - -"Anne Shirley!" exclaimed Marilla. For once in her life she was -surprised out of her reserve; she caught her girl in her arms and -crushed her and her flowers against her heart, kissing the bright -hair and sweet face warmly. "I never looked for you till -tomorrow night. How did you get from Carmody?" - -"Walked, dearest of Marillas. Haven't I done it a score of times -in the Queen's days? The mailman is to bring my trunk tomorrow; -I just got homesick all at once, and came a day earlier. And oh! -I've had such a lovely walk in the May twilight; I stopped by the -barrens and picked these Mayflowers; I came through Violet-Vale; -it's just a big bowlful of violets now -- the dear, sky-tinted -things. Smell them, Marilla -- drink them in." - -Marilla sniffed obligingly, but she was more interested in Anne -than in drinking violets. - -"Sit down, child. You must be real tired. I'm going to get you -some supper." - -"There's a darling moonrise behind the hills tonight, Marilla, -and oh, how the frogs sang me home from Carmody! I do love the -music of the frogs. It seems bound up with all my happiest -recollections of old spring evenings. And it always reminds me -of the night I came here first. Do you remember it, Marilla?" - -"Well, yes," said Marilla with emphasis. "I'm not likely to -forget it ever." - -"They used to sing so madly in the marsh and brook that year. -I would listen to them at my window in the dusk, and wonder how -they could seem so glad and so sad at the same time. Oh, but -it's good to be home again! Redmond was splendid and Bolingbroke -delightful -- but Green Gables is HOME." - -"Gilbert isn't coming home this summer, I hear," said Marilla. - -"No." Something in Anne's tone made Marilla glance at her -sharply, but Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her -violets in a bowl. "See, aren't they sweet?" she went on -hurriedly. "The year is a book, isn't it, Marilla? Spring's -pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, summer's in roses, -autumn's in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen." - -"Did Gilbert do well in his examinations?" persisted Marilla. - -"Excellently well. He led his class. But where are the twins -and Mrs. Lynde?" - -"Rachel and Dora are over at Mr. Harrison's. Davy is down at -Boulters'. I think I hear him coming now." - -Davy burst in, saw Anne, stopped, and then hurled himself upon -her with a joyful yell. - -"Oh, Anne, ain't I glad to see you! Say, Anne, I've grown two inches -since last fall. Mrs. Lynde measured me with her tape today, and say, -Anne, see my front tooth. It's gone. Mrs. Lynde tied one end of a -string to it and the other end to the door, and then shut the door. -I sold it to Milty for two cents. Milty's collecting teeth." - -"What in the world does he want teeth for?" asked Marilla. - -"To make a necklace for playing Indian Chief," explained Davy, -climbing upon Anne's lap. "He's got fifteen already, and -everybody's else's promised, so there's no use in the rest of us -starting to collect, too. I tell you the Boulters are great -business people." - -"Were you a good boy at Mrs. Boulter's?" asked Marilla severely. - -"Yes; but say, Marilla, I'm tired of being good." - -"You'd get tired of being bad much sooner, Davy-boy," said Anne. - -"Well, it'd be fun while it lasted, wouldn't it?" persisted Davy. -"I could be sorry for it afterwards, couldn't I?" - -"Being sorry wouldn't do away with the consequences of being bad, -Davy. Don't you remember the Sunday last summer when you ran -away from Sunday School? You told me then that being bad wasn't -worth while. What were you and Milty doing today?" - -"Oh, we fished and chased the cat, and hunted for eggs, and -yelled at the echo. There's a great echo in the bush behind the -Boulter barn. Say, what is echo, Anne; I want to know." - -"Echo is a beautiful nymph, Davy, living far away in the woods, -and laughing at the world from among the hills." - -"What does she look like?" - -"Her hair and eyes are dark, but her neck and arms are white as snow. -No mortal can ever see how fair she is. She is fleeter than a deer, -and that mocking voice of hers is all we can know of her. You can -hear her calling at night; you can hear her laughing under the stars. -But you can never see her. She flies afar if you follow her, and -laughs at you always just over the next hill." - -"Is that true, Anne? Or is it a whopper?" demanded Davy staring. - -"Davy," said Anne despairingly, "haven't you sense enough to -distinguish between a fairytale and a falsehood?" - -"Then what is it that sasses back from the Boulter bush? I want -to know," insisted Davy. - -"When you are a little older, Davy, I'll explain it all to you." - -The mention of age evidently gave a new turn to Davy's thoughts -for after a few moments of reflection, he whispered solemnly: - -"Anne, I'm going to be married." - -"When?" asked Anne with equal solemnity. - -"Oh, not until I'm grown-up, of course." - -"Well, that's a relief, Davy. Who is the lady?" - -"Stella Fletcher; she's in my class at school. And say, Anne, -she's the prettiest girl you ever saw. If I die before I grow up -you'll keep an eye on her, won't you?" - -"Davy Keith, do stop talking such nonsense," said Marilla severely. - -" 'Tisn't nonsense," protested Davy in an injured tone. "She's -my promised wife, and if I was to die she'd be my promised widow, -wouldn't she? And she hasn't got a soul to look after her except -her old grandmother." - -"Come and have your supper, Anne," said Marilla, "and don't -encourage that child in his absurd talk." - - - - -Chapter XXIII - -Paul Cannot Find the Rock People - - -Life was very pleasant in Avonlea that summer, although Anne, -amid all her vacation joys, was haunted by a sense of "something -gone which should be there." She would not admit, even in her -inmost reflections, that this was caused by Gilbert's absence. -But when she had to walk home alone from prayer meetings and -A.V.I.S. pow-wows, while Diana and Fred, and many other gay couples, -loitered along the dusky, starlit country roads, there was a queer, -lonely ache in her heart which she could not explain away. Gilbert -did not even write to her, as she thought he might have done. -She knew he wrote to Diana occasionally, but she would not inquire -about him; and Diana, supposing that Anne heard from him, volunteered -no information. Gilbert's mother, who was a gay, frank, light-hearted -lady, but not overburdened with tact, had a very embarrassing habit of -asking Anne, always in a painfully distinct voice and always in the -presence of a crowd, if she had heard from Gilbert lately. Poor Anne -could only blush horribly and murmur, "not very lately," which was -taken by all, Mrs. Blythe included, to be merely a maidenly evasion. - -Apart from this, Anne enjoyed her summer. Priscilla came for a -merry visit in June; and, when she had gone, Mr. and Mrs. Irving, -Paul and Charlotta the Fourth came "home" for July and August. - -Echo Lodge was the scene of gaieties once more, and the echoes -over the river were kept busy mimicking the laughter that rang in -the old garden behind the spruces. - -"Miss Lavendar" had not changed, except to grow even sweeter and -prettier. Paul adored her, and the companionship between them -was beautiful to see. - -"But I don't call her `mother' just by itself," he explained to -Anne. "You see, THAT name belongs just to my own little mother, -and I can't give it to any one else. You know, teacher. But I -call her `Mother Lavendar' and I love her next best to father. -I -- I even love her a LITTLE better than you, teacher." - -"Which is just as it ought to be," answered Anne. - -Paul was thirteen now and very tall for his years. His face and -eyes were as beautiful as ever, and his fancy was still like a prism, -separating everything that fell upon it into rainbows. He and Anne -had delightful rambles to wood and field and shore. Never were there -two more thoroughly "kindred spirits." - -Charlotta the Fourth had blossomed out into young ladyhood. She -wore her hair now in an enormous pompador and had discarded the -blue ribbon bows of auld lang syne, but her face was as freckled, -her nose as snubbed, and her mouth and smiles as wide as ever. - -"You don't think I talk with a Yankee accent, do you, Miss -Shirley, ma'am?" she demanded anxiously. - -"I don't notice it, Charlotta." - -"I'm real glad of that. They said I did at home, but I thought -likely they just wanted to aggravate me. I don't want no Yankee -accent. Not that I've a word to say against the Yankees, Miss -Shirley, ma'am. They're real civilized. But give me old P.E. -Island every time." - -Paul spent his first fortnight with his grandmother Irving in -Avonlea. Anne was there to meet him when he came, and found him -wild with eagerness to get to the shore -- Nora and the Golden -Lady and the Twin Sailors would be there. He could hardly wait -to eat his supper. Could he not see Nora's elfin face peering -around the point, watching for him wistfully? But it was a very -sober Paul who came back from the shore in the twilight. - -"Didn't you find your Rock People?" asked Anne. - -Paul shook his chestnut curls sorrowfully. - -"The Twin Sailors and the Golden Lady never came at all," he said. -"Nora was there -- but Nora is not the same, teacher. She is changed." - -"Oh, Paul, it is you who are changed," said Anne. "You have -grown too old for the Rock People. They like only children for -playfellows. I am afraid the Twin Sailors will never again come -to you in the pearly, enchanted boat with the sail of moonshine; -and the Golden Lady will play no more for you on her golden harp. -Even Nora will not meet you much longer. You must pay the penalty -of growing-up, Paul. You must leave fairyland behind you." - -"You two talk as much foolishness as ever you did," said old -Mrs. Irving, half-indulgently, half-reprovingly. - -"Oh, no, we don't," said Anne, shaking her head gravely. "We are -getting very, very wise, and it is such a pity. We are never -half so interesting when we have learned that language is given -us to enable us to conceal our thoughts." - -"But it isn't -- it is given us to exchange our thoughts," said -Mrs. Irving seriously. She had never heard of Tallyrand and did -not understand epigrams. - -Anne spent a fortnight of halcyon days at Echo Lodge in the -golden prime of August. While there she incidentally contrived -to hurry Ludovic Speed in his leisurely courting of Theodora Dix, -as related duly in another chronicle of her history.[1] Arnold -Sherman, an elderly friend of the Irvings, was there at the same -time, and added not a little to the general pleasantness of life. - -([1] Chronicles of Avonlea.) - -"What a nice play-time this has been," said Anne. "I feel like a -giant refreshed. And it's only a fortnight more till I go back -to Kingsport, and Redmond and Patty's Place. Patty's Place -is the dearest spot, Miss Lavendar. I feel as if I had two homes --- one at Green Gables and one at Patty's Place. But where has the -summer gone? It doesn't seem a day since I came home that spring -evening with the Mayflowers. When I was little I couldn't see from -one end of the summer to the other. It stretched before me like -an unending season. Now, `'tis a handbreadth, 'tis a tale.'" - -"Anne, are you and Gilbert Blythe as good friends as you used to be?" -asked Miss Lavendar quietly. - -"I am just as much Gilbert's friend as ever I was, Miss Lavendar." - -Miss Lavendar shook her head. - -"I see something's gone wrong, Anne. I'm going to be impertinent -and ask what. Have you quarrelled?" - -"No; it's only that Gilbert wants more than friendship and I can't -give him more." - -"Are you sure of that, Anne?" - -"Perfectly sure." - -"I'm very, very sorry." - -"I wonder why everybody seems to think I ought to marry Gilbert Blythe," -said Anne petulantly. - -"Because you were made and meant for each other, Anne -- that is why. -You needn't toss that young head of yours. It's a fact." - - - - -Chapter XXIV - -Enter Jonas - - - "PROSPECT POINT, - "August 20th. - -"Dear Anne -- spelled -- with -- an -- E," wrote Phil, "I must -prop my eyelids open long enough to write you. I've neglected -you shamefully this summer, honey, but all my other correspondents -have been neglected, too. I have a huge pile of letters to answer, -so I must gird up the loins of my mind and hoe in. Excuse my -mixed metaphors. I'm fearfully sleepy. Last night Cousin Emily -and I were calling at a neighbor's. There were several other -callers there, and as soon as those unfortunate creatures left, -our hostess and her three daughters picked them all to pieces. -I knew they would begin on Cousin Emily and me as soon as the door -shut behind us. When we came home Mrs. Lilly informed us that the -aforesaid neighbor's hired boy was supposed to be down with scarlet -fever. You can always trust Mrs. Lilly to tell you cheerful things -like that. I have a horror of scarlet fever. I couldn't sleep when -I went to bed for thinking of it. I tossed and tumbled about, -dreaming fearful dreams when I did snooze for a minute; and at -three I wakened up with a high fever, a sore throat, and a -raging headache. I knew I had scarlet fever; I got up in a -panic and hunted up Cousin Emily's 'doctor book' to read up -the symptoms. Anne, I had them all. So I went back to bed, -and knowing the worst, slept like a top the rest of the night. -Though why a top should sleep sounder than anything else I -never could understand. But this morning I was quite well, -so it couldn't have been the fever. I suppose if I did catch -it last night it couldn't have developed so soon. I can remember -that in daytime, but at three o'clock at night I never can be logical. - -"I suppose you wonder what I'm doing at Prospect Point. Well, I -always like to spend a month of summer at the shore, and father -insists that I come to his second-cousin Emily's `select -boardinghouse' at Prospect Point. So a fortnight ago I came as -usual. And as usual old `Uncle Mark Miller' brought me from the -station with his ancient buggy and what he calls his `generous -purpose' horse. He is a nice old man and gave me a handful of -pink peppermints. Peppermints always seem to me such a religious -sort of candy -- I suppose because when I was a little girl -Grandmother Gordon always gave them to me in church. Once I -asked, referring to the smell of peppermints, `Is that the odor -of sanctity?' I didn't like to eat Uncle Mark's peppermints -because he just fished them loose out of his pocket, and had to -pick some rusty nails and other things from among them before he -gave them to me. But I wouldn't hurt his dear old feelings for -anything, so I carefully sowed them along the road at intervals. -When the last one was gone, Uncle Mark said, a little rebukingly, -`Ye shouldn't a'et all them candies to onct, Miss Phil. You'll -likely have the stummick-ache.' - -"Cousin Emily has only five boarders besides myself -- four old -ladies and one young man. My right-hand neighbor is Mrs. Lilly. -She is one of those people who seem to take a gruesome pleasure -in detailing all their many aches and pains and sicknesses. -You cannot mention any ailment but she says, shaking her head, `Ah, -I know too well what that is' -- and then you get all the details. -Jonas declares he once spoke of locomotor ataxia in hearing and -she said she knew too well what that was. She suffered from it -for ten years and was finally cured by a traveling doctor. - -"Who is Jonas? Just wait, Anne Shirley. You'll hear all about -Jonas in the proper time and place. He is not to be mixed up -with estimable old ladies. - -"My left-hand neighbor at the table is Mrs. Phinney. She always -speaks with a wailing, dolorous voice -- you are nervously expecting -her to burst into tears every moment. She gives you the impression -that life to her is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never -to speak of a laugh, is a frivolity truly reprehensible. She has a -worse opinion of me than Aunt Jamesina, and she doesn't love me hard -to atone for it, as Aunty J. does, either. - -"Miss Maria Grimsby sits cati-corner from me. The first day I -came I remarked to Miss Maria that it looked a little like rain --- and Miss Maria laughed. I said the road from the station was -very pretty -- and Miss Maria laughed. I said there seemed to be -a few mosquitoes left yet -- and Miss Maria laughed. I said that -Prospect Point was as beautiful as ever -- and Miss Maria laughed. -If I were to say to Miss Maria, `My father has hanged himself, -my mother has taken poison, my brother is in the penitentiary, -and I am in the last stages of consumption,' Miss Maria would laugh. -She can't help it -- she was born so; but is very sad and awful. - -"The fifth old lady is Mrs. Grant. She is a sweet old thing; -but she never says anything but good of anybody and so she is a -very uninteresting conversationalist. - -"And now for Jonas, Anne. - -"That first day I came I saw a young man sitting opposite me at -the table, smiling at me as if he had known me from my cradle. -I knew, for Uncle Mark had told me, that his name was Jonas Blake, -that he was a Theological Student from St. Columbia, and that he had -taken charge of the Point Prospect Mission Church for the summer. - -"He is a very ugly young man -- really, the ugliest young man -I've ever seen. He has a big, loose-jointed figure with absurdly -long legs. His hair is tow-color and lank, his eyes are green, -and his mouth is big, and his ears -- but I never think about his -ears if I can help it. - -"He has a lovely voice -- if you shut your eyes he is adorable -- -and he certainly has a beautiful soul and disposition. - -"We were good chums right way. Of course he is a graduate of -Redmond, and that is a link between us. We fished and boated -together; and we walked on the sands by moonlight. He didn't -look so homely by moonlight and oh, he was nice. Niceness fairly -exhaled from him. The old ladies -- except Mrs. Grant -- don't -approve of Jonas, because he laughs and jokes -- and because he -evidently likes the society of frivolous me better than theirs. - -"Somehow, Anne, I don't want him to think me frivolous. This is -ridiculous. Why should I care what a tow-haired person called -Jonas, whom I never saw before thinks of me? - -"Last Sunday Jonas preached in the village church. I went, -of course, but I couldn't realize that Jonas was going to preach. -The fact that he was a minister -- or going to be one -- persisted -in seeming a huge joke to me. - -"Well, Jonas preached. And, by the time he had preached ten -minutes, I felt so small and insignificant that I thought I must -be invisible to the naked eye. Jonas never said a word about -women and he never looked at me. But I realized then and there -what a pitiful, frivilous, small-souled little butterfly I was, -and how horribly different I must be from Jonas' ideal woman. -SHE would be grand and strong and noble. He was so earnest -and tender and true. He was everything a minister ought to be. -I wondered how I could ever have thought him ugly -- but he -really is! -- with those inspired eyes and that intellectual -brow which the roughly-falling hair hid on week days. - -"It was a splendid sermon and I could have listened to it forever, -and it made me feel utterly wretched. Oh, I wish I was like YOU, Anne. - -"He caught up with me on the road home, and grinned as cheerfully -as usual. But his grin could never deceive me again. I had seen -the REAL Jonas. I wondered if he could ever see the REAL PHIL -- -whom NOBODY, not even you, Anne, has ever seen yet. - -"`Jonas,' I said -- I forgot to call him Mr. Blake. Wasn't it dreadful? -But there are times when things like that don't matter -- `Jonas, you -were born to be a minister. You COULDN'T be anything else.' - -"`No, I couldn't,' he said soberly. `I tried to be something -else for a long time -- I didn't want to be a minister. But I -came to see at last that it was the work given me to do -- and -God helping me, I shall try to do it.' - -"His voice was low and reverent. I thought that he would do his -work and do it well and nobly; and happy the woman fitted by -nature and training to help him do it. SHE would be no feather, -blown about by every fickle wind of fancy. SHE would always know -what hat to put on. Probably she would have only one. Ministers -never have much money. But she wouldn't mind having one hat or -none at all, because she would have Jonas. - -"Anne Shirley, don't you dare to say or hint or think that I've -fallen in love with Mr. Blake. Could I care for a lank, poor, -ugly theologue -- named Jonas? As Uncle Mark says, `It's impossible, -and what's more it's improbable.' - - Good night, - PHIL." - -"P.S. It is impossible -- but I am horribly afraid it's true. -I'm happy and wretched and scared. HE can NEVER care for me, -I know. Do you think I could ever develop into a passable -minister's wife, Anne? And WOULD they expect me to lead -in prayer? P G." - - - - -Chapter XXV - -Enter Prince Charming - - -"I'm contrasting the claims of indoors and out," said Anne, looking -from the window of Patty's Place to the distant pines of the park. - -"I've an afternoon to spend in sweet doing nothing, Aunt Jimsie. -Shall I spend it here where there is a cosy fire, a plateful of -delicious russets, three purring and harmonious cats, and two -impeccable china dogs with green noses? Or shall I go to the park, -where there is the lure of gray woods and of gray water lapping -on the harbor rocks?" - -"If I was as young as you, I'd decide in favor of the park," said -Aunt Jamesina, tickling Joseph's yellow ear with a knitting needle. - -"I thought that you claimed to be as young as any of us, Aunty," -teased Anne. - -"Yes, in my soul. But I'll admit my legs aren't as young as yours. -You go and get some fresh air, Anne. You look pale lately." - -"I think I'll go to the park," said Anne restlessly. "I don't -feel like tame domestic joys today. I want to feel alone and -free and wild. The park will be empty, for every one will be at -the football match." - -"Why didn't you go to it?" - -"`Nobody axed me, sir, she said' -- at least, nobody but that -horrid little Dan Ranger. I wouldn't go anywhere with him; -but rather than hurt his poor little tender feelings I said I -wasn't going to the game at all. I don't mind. I'm not in -the mood for football today somehow." - -"You go and get some fresh air," repeated Aunt Jamesina, "but take -your umbrella, for I believe it's going to rain. I've rheumatism -in my leg." - -"Only old people should have rheumatism, Aunty." - -"Anybody is liable to rheumatism in her legs, Anne. It's only -old people who should have rheumatism in their souls, though. -Thank goodness, I never have. When you get rheumatism in your -soul you might as well go and pick out your coffin." - -It was November -- the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, -deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. -Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she -said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul. -Anne was not wont to be troubled with soul fog. But, somehow, since -her return to Redmond for this third year, life had not mirrored -her spirit back to her with its old, perfect, sparkling clearness. - -Outwardly, existence at Patty's Place was the same pleasant -round of work and study and recreation that it had always been. -On Friday evenings the big, fire-lighted livingroom was crowded by -callers and echoed to endless jest and laughter, while Aunt Jamesina -smiled beamingly on them all. The "Jonas" of Phil's letter came often, -running up from St. Columbia on the early train and departing on the late. -He was a general favorite at Patty's Place, though Aunt Jamesina shook her -head and opined that divinity students were not what they used to be. - -"He's VERY nice, my dear," she told Phil, "but ministers ought to be -graver and more dignified." - -"Can't a man laugh and laugh and be a Christian still?" demanded Phil. - -"Oh, MEN -- yes. But I was speaking of MINISTERS, my dear," -said Aunt Jamesina rebukingly." And you shouldn't flirt so with -Mr. Blake -- you really shouldn't." - -"I'm not flirting with him," protested Phil. - -Nobody believed her, except Anne. The others thought she was amusing -herself as usual, and told her roundly that she was behaving very badly. - -"Mr. Blake isn't of the Alec-and-Alonzo type, Phil," said Stella severely. -"He takes things seriously. You may break his heart." - -"Do you really think I could?" asked Phil. "I'd love to think so." - -"Philippa Gordon! I never thought you were utterly unfeeling. -The idea of you saying you'd love to break a man's heart!" - -"I didn't say so, honey. Quote me correctly. I said I'd like to think -I COULD break it. I would like to know I had the POWER to do it." - -"I don't understand you, Phil. You are leading that man on deliberately --- and you know you don't mean anything by it." - -"I mean to make him ask me to marry him if I can," said Phil calmly. - -"I give you up," said Stella hopelessly. - -Gilbert came occasionally on Friday evenings. He seemed -always in good spirits, and held his own in the jests and -repartee that flew about. He neither sought nor avoided Anne. -When circumstances brought them in contact he talked to her -pleasantly and courteously, as to any newly-made acquaintance. -The old camaraderie was gone entirely. Anne felt it keenly; -but she told herself she was very glad and thankful that Gilbert -had got so completely over his disappointment in regard to her. -She had really been afraid, that April evening in the orchard, -that she had hurt him terribly and that the wound would be -long in healing. Now she saw that she need not have worried. -Men have died and the worms have eaten them but not for love. -Gilbert evidently was in no danger of immediate dissolution. -He was enjoying life, and he was full of ambition and zest. -For him there was to be no wasting in despair because a woman -was fair and cold. Anne, as she listened to the ceaseless badinage -that went on between him and Phil, wondered if she had only imagined -that look in his eyes when she had told him she could never care for him. - -There were not lacking those who would gladly have stepped into -Gilbert's vacant place. But Anne snubbed them without fear and -without reproach. If the real Prince Charming was never to come -she would have none of a substitute. So she sternly told herself -that gray day in the windy park. - -Suddenly the rain of Aunt Jamesina's prophecy came with a swish -and rush. Anne put up her umbrella and hurried down the slope. -As she turned out on the harbor road a savage gust of wind tore -along it. Instantly her umbrella turned wrong side out. Anne -clutched at it in despair. And then -- there came a voice -close to her. - -"Pardon me -- may I offer you the shelter of my umbrella?" - -Anne looked up. Tall and handsome and distinguished-looking --- dark, melancholy, inscrutable eyes -- melting, musical, -sympathetic voice -- yes, the very hero of her dreams stood -before her in the flesh. He could not have more closely -resembled her ideal if he had been made to order. - -"Thank you," she said confusedly. - -"We'd better hurry over to that little pavillion on the point," -suggested the unknown. "We can wait there until this shower -is over. It is not likely to rain so heavily very long." - -The words were very commonplace, but oh, the tone! And the smile -which accompanied them! Anne felt her heart beating strangely. - -Together they scurried to the pavilion and sat breathlessly down -under its friendly roof. Anne laughingly held up her false umbrella. - -"It is when my umbrella turns inside out that I am convinced of -the total depravity of inanimate things," she said gaily. - -The raindrops sparkled on her shining hair; its loosened rings -curled around her neck and forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, -her eyes big and starry. Her companion looked down at her -admiringly. She felt herself blushing under his gaze. -Who could he be? Why, there was a bit of the Redmond white and -scarlet pinned to his coat lapel. Yet she had thought she knew, -by sight at least, all the Redmond students except the Freshmen. -And this courtly youth surely was no Freshman. - -"We are schoolmates, I see," he said, smiling at Anne's colors. -"That ought to be sufficient introduction. My name is Royal Gardner. -And you are the Miss Shirley who read the Tennyson paper at the -Philomathic the other evening, aren't you?" - -"Yes; but I cannot place you at all," said Anne, frankly. -"Please, where DO you belong?" - -"I feel as if I didn't belong anywhere yet. I put in my Freshman -and Sophomore years at Redmond two years ago. I've been in -Europe ever since. Now I've come back to finish my Arts course." - -"This is my Junior year, too," said Anne. - -"So we are classmates as well as collegemates. I am reconciled -to the loss of the years that the locust has eaten," said her -companion, with a world of meaning in those wonderful eyes of his. - -The rain came steadily down for the best part of an hour. But -the time seemed really very short. When the clouds parted and a -burst of pale November sunshine fell athwart the harbor and the -pines Anne and her companion walked home together. By the time -they had reached the gate of Patty's Place he had asked -permission to call, and had received it. Anne went in with -cheeks of flame and her heart beating to her fingertips. Rusty, -who climbed into her lap and tried to kiss her, found a very -absent welcome. Anne, with her soul full of romantic thrills, -had no attention to spare just then for a crop-eared pussy cat. - -That evening a parcel was left at Patty's Place for Miss Shirley. -It was a box containing a dozen magnificent roses. Phil pounced -impertinently on the card that fell from it, read the name and -the poetical quotation written on the back. - -"Royal Gardner!" she exclaimed. "Why, Anne, I didn't know you -were acquainted with Roy Gardner!" - -"I met him in the park this afternoon in the rain," explained Anne -hurriedly. "My umbrella turned inside out and he came to my rescue -with his." - -"Oh!" Phil peered curiously at Anne." And is that exceedingly -commonplace incident any reason why he should send us longstemmed -roses by the dozen, with a very sentimental rhyme? Or why we -should blush divinest rosy-red when we look at his card? Anne, -thy face betrayeth thee." - -"Don't talk nonsense, Phil. Do you know Mr. Gardner?" - -"I've met his two sisters, and I know of him. So does everybody -worthwhile in Kingsport. The Gardners are among the richest, -bluest, of Bluenoses. Roy is adorably handsome and clever. -Two years ago his mother's health failed and he had to leave -college and go abroad with her -- his father is dead. He must -have been greatly disappointed to have to give up his class, but -they say he was perfectly sweet about it. Fee -- fi -- fo -- fum, -Anne. I smell romance. Almost do I envy you, but not quite. -After all, Roy Gardner isn't Jonas." - -"You goose!" said Anne loftily. But she lay long awake that night, -nor did she wish for sleep. Her waking fancies were more alluring -than any vision of dreamland. Had the real Prince come at last? -Recalling those glorious dark eyes which had gazed so deeply into -her own, Anne was very strongly inclined to think he had. - - - - -Chapter XXVI - -Enter Christine - - -The girls at Patty's Place were dressing for the reception which -the Juniors were giving for the Seniors in February. Anne surveyed -herself in the mirror of the blue room with girlish satisfaction. -She had a particularly pretty gown on. Originally it had been -only a simple little slip of cream silk with a chiffon overdress. -But Phil had insisted on taking it home with her in the Christmas -holidays and embroidering tiny rosebuds all over the chiffon. -Phil's fingers were deft, and the result was a dress which was -the envy of every Redmond girl. Even Allie Boone, whose frocks -came from Paris, was wont to look with longing eyes on that rosebud -concoction as Anne trailed up the main staircase at Redmond in it. - -Anne was trying the effect of a white orchid in her hair. -Roy Gardner had sent her white orchids for the reception, -and she knew no other Redmond girl would have them that night --- when Phil came in with admiring gaze. - -"Anne, this is certainly your night for looking handsome. -Nine nights out of ten I can easily outshine you. The tenth -you blossom out suddenly into something that eclipses me altogether. -How do you manage it?" - -"It's the dress, dear. Fine feathers." - -"`Tisn't. The last evening you flamed out into beauty you -wore your old blue flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you. -If Roy hadn't already lost head and heart about you he certainly -would tonight. But I don't like orchids on you, Anne. No; it -isn't jealousy. Orchids don't seem to BELONG to you. They're -too exotic -- too tropical -- too insolent. Don't put them in -your hair, anyway." - -"Well, I won't. I admit I'm not fond of orchids myself. I don't -think they're related to me. Roy doesn't often send them -- he -knows I like flowers I can live with. Orchids are only things -you can visit with." - -"Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the evening -- but -- -he isn't coming himself. He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting -in the slums! I don't believe he wanted to come. Anne, I'm -horribly afraid Jonas doesn't really care anything about me. And -I'm trying to decide whether I'll pine away and die, or go on and -get my B.A. and be sensible and useful." - -"You couldn't possibly be sensible and useful, Phil, so you'd -better pine away and die," said Anne cruelly. - -"Heartless Anne!" - -"Silly Phil! You know quite well that Jonas loves you." - -"But -- he won't TELL me so. And I can't MAKE him. He LOOKS it, -I'll admit. But speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes isn't a really -reliable reason for embroidering doilies and hemstitching -tablecloths. I don't want to begin such work until I'm really -engaged. It would be tempting Fate." - -"Mr. Blake is afraid to ask you to marry him, Phil. He is poor -and can't offer you a home such as you've always had. You know -that is the only reason he hasn't spoken long ago." - -"I suppose so," agreed Phil dolefully. "Well" -- brightening up --- "if he WON'T ask me to marry him I'll ask him, that's all. -So it's bound to come right. I won't worry. By the way, -Gilbert Blythe is going about constantly with Christine Stuart. -Did you know?" - -Anne was trying to fasten a little gold chain about her throat. -She suddenly found the clasp difficult to manage. WHAT was the -matter with it -- or with her fingers? - -"No," she said carelessly." Who is Christine Stuart?" - -"Ronald Stuart's sister. She's in Kingsport this winter studying -music. I haven't seen her, but they say she's very pretty and -that Gilbert is quite crazy over her. How angry I was when you -refused Gilbert, Anne. But Roy Gardner was foreordained for you. -I can see that now. You were right, after all." - -Anne did not blush, as she usually did when the girls assumed -that her eventual marriage to Roy Gardner was a settled thing. -All at once she felt rather dull. Phil's chatter seemed trivial -and the reception a bore. She boxed poor Rusty's ears. - -"Get off that cushion instantly, you cat, you! Why don't you -stay down where you belong?" - -Anne picked up her orchids and went downstairs, where Aunt Jamesina -was presiding over a row of coats hung before the fire to warm. -Roy Gardner was waiting for Anne and teasing the Sarah-cat while -he waited. The Sarah-cat did not approve of him. She always -turned her back on him. But everybody else at Patty's Place liked -him very much. Aunt Jamesina, carried away by his unfailing and -deferential courtesy, and the pleading tones of his delightful voice, -declared he was the nicest young man she ever knew, and that Anne -was a very fortunate girl. Such remarks made Anne restive. Roy's -wooing had certainly been as romantic as girlish heart could desire, -but -- she wished Aunt Jamesina and the girls would not take things -so for granted. When Roy murmured a poetical compliment as he helped -her on with her coat, she did not blush and thrill as usual; and he -found her rather silent in their brief walk to Redmond. He thought -she looked a little pale when she came out of the coeds' dressing room; -but as they entered the reception room her color and sparkle suddenly -returned to her. She turned to Roy with her gayest expression. -He smiled back at her with what Phil called "his deep, black, -velvety smile." Yet she really did not see Roy at all. She was -acutely conscious that Gilbert was standing under the palms just -across the room talking to a girl who must be Christine Stuart. - -She was very handsome, in the stately style destined to become -rather massive in middle life. A tall girl, with large dark-blue -eyes, ivory outlines, and a gloss of darkness on her smooth hair. - -"She looks just as I've always wanted to look," thought Anne -miserably. "Rose-leaf complexion -- starry violet eyes -- raven -hair -- yes, she has them all. It's a wonder her name isn't -Cordelia Fitzgerald into the bargain! But I don't believe her -figure is as good as mine, and her nose certainly isn't." - -Anne felt a little comforted by this conclusion. - - - - -Chapter XXVII - -Mutual Confidences - - -March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, -bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each -followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in -an elfland of moonshine. - -Over the girls at Patty's Place was falling the shadow of April -examinations. They were studying hard; even Phil had settled down -to text and notebooks with a doggedness not to be expected of her. - -"I'm going to take the Johnson Scholarship in Mathematics," she -announced calmly. "I could take the one in Greek easily, but I'd -rather take the mathematical one because I want to prove to Jonas -that I'm really enormously clever." - -"Jonas likes you better for your big brown eyes and your crooked -smile than for all the brains you carry under your curls," said Anne. - -"When I was a girl it wasn't considered lady-like to know anything -about Mathematics," said Aunt Jamesina. "But times have changed. -I don't know that it's all for the better. Can you cook, Phil?" - -"No, I never cooked anything in my life except a gingerbread and -it was a failure -- flat in the middle and hilly round the edges. -You know the kind. But, Aunty, when I begin in good earnest to -learn to cook don't you think the brains that enable me to win a -mathematical scholarship will also enable me to learn cooking -just as well?" - -"Maybe," said Aunt Jamesina cautiously. "I am not decrying the -higher education of women. My daughter is an M.A. She can cook, -too. But I taught her to cook BEFORE I let a college professor -teach her Mathematics." - -In mid-March came a letter from Miss Patty Spofford, saying that -she and Miss Maria had decided to remain abroad for another year. - -"So you may have Patty's Place next winter, too," she wrote. -"Maria and I are going to run over Egypt. I want to see the -Sphinx once before I die." - -"Fancy those two dames `running over Egypt'! I wonder if they'll -look up at the Sphinx and knit," laughed Priscilla. - -"I'm so glad we can keep Patty's Place for another year," said -Stella. "I was afraid they'd come back. And then our jolly -little nest here would be broken up -- and we poor callow -nestlings thrown out on the cruel world of boardinghouses again." - -"I'm off for a tramp in the park," announced Phil, tossing her -book aside. "I think when I am eighty I'll be glad I went for a -walk in the park tonight." - -"What do you mean?" asked Anne. - -"Come with me and I'll tell you, honey." - -They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a -March evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, -white, brooding silence -- a silence which was yet threaded -through with many little silvery sounds which you could hear if -you hearkened as much with your soul as your ears. The girls -wandered down a long pineland aisle that seemed to lead right out -into the heart of a deep-red, overflowing winter sunset. - -"I'd go home and write a poem this blessed minute if I only knew how," -declared Phil, pausing in an open space where a rosy light was staining -the green tips of the pines. "It's all so wonderful here -- this great, -white stillness, and those dark trees that always seem to be thinking." - -"`The woods were God's first temples,'" quoted Anne softly. -"One can't help feeling reverent and adoring in such a place. -I always feel so near Him when I walk among the pines." - -"Anne, I'm the happiest girl in the world," confessed Phil suddenly. - -"So Mr. Blake has asked you to marry him at last?" said Anne calmly. - -"Yes. And I sneezed three times while he was asking me. -Wasn't that horrid? But I said `yes' almost before he finished --- I was so afraid he might change his mind and stop. I'm besottedly -happy. I couldn't really believe before that Jonas would ever care -for frivolous me." - -"Phil, you're not really frivolous," said Anne gravely. "'Way -down underneath that frivolous exterior of yours you've got a -dear, loyal, womanly little soul. Why do you hide it so?" - -"I can't help it, Queen Anne. You are right -- I'm not frivolous -at heart. But there's a sort of frivolous skin over my soul and -I can't take it off. As Mrs. Poyser says, I'd have to be hatched -over again and hatched different before I could change it. But -Jonas knows the real me and loves me, frivolity and all. And I -love him. I never was so surprised in my life as I was when I -found out I loved him. I'd never thought it possible to fall in -love with an ugly man. Fancy me coming down to one solitary -beau. And one named Jonas! But I mean to call him Jo. That's -such a nice, crisp little name. I couldn't nickname Alonzo." - -"What about Alec and Alonzo?" - -"Oh, I told them at Christmas that I never could marry either of -them. It seems so funny now to remember that I ever thought it -possible that I might. They felt so badly I just cried over both -of them -- howled. But I knew there was only one man in the -world I could ever marry. I had made up my own mind for once and -it was real easy, too. It's very delightful to feel so sure, and -know it's your own sureness and not somebody else's." - -"Do you suppose you'll be able to keep it up?" - -"Making up my mind, you mean? I don't know, but Jo has given me -a splendid rule. He says, when I'm perplexed, just to do what I -would wish I had done when I shall be eighty. Anyhow, Jo can -make up his mind quickly enough, and it would be uncomfortable -to have too much mind in the same house." - -"What will your father and mother say?" - -"Father won't say much. He thinks everything I do right. -But mother WILL talk. Oh, her tongue will be as Byrney as -her nose. But in the end it will be all right." - -"You'll have to give up a good many things you've always had, -when you marry Mr. Blake, Phil." - -"But I'll have HIM. I won't miss the other things. We're to be -married a year from next June. Jo graduates from St. Columbia -this spring, you know. Then he's going to take a little mission -church down on Patterson Street in the slums. Fancy me in the -slums! But I'd go there or to Greenland's icy mountains with him." - -"And this is the girl who would NEVER marry a man who wasn't rich," -commented Anne to a young pine tree. - -"Oh, don't cast up the follies of my youth to me. I shall be -poor as gaily as I've been rich. You'll see. I'm going to learn -how to cook and make over dresses. I've learned how to market -since I've lived at Patty's Place; and once I taught a Sunday -School class for a whole summer. Aunt Jamesina says I'll ruin -Jo's career if I marry him. But I won't. I know I haven't much -sense or sobriety, but I've got what is ever so much better -- -the knack of making people like me. There is a man in -Bolingbroke who lisps and always testifies in prayer-meeting. -He says, 'If you can't thine like an electric thtar thine like -a candlethtick.' I'll be Jo's little candlestick." - -"Phil, you're incorrigible. Well, I love you so much that -I can't make nice, light, congratulatory little speeches. -But I'm heart-glad of your happiness." - -"I know. Those big gray eyes of yours are brimming over with -real friendship, Anne. Some day I'll look the same way at you. -You're going to marry Roy, aren't you, Anne?" - -"My dear Philippa, did you ever hear of the famous Betty Baxter, -who `refused a man before he'd axed her'? I am not going to -emulate that celebrated lady by either refusing or accepting any -one before he `axes' me." - -"All Redmond knows that Roy is crazy about you," said Phil candidly." -And you DO love him, don't you, Anne?" - -"I -- I suppose so," said Anne reluctantly. She felt that she ought -to be blushing while making such a confession; but she was not; -on the other hand, she always blushed hotly when any one said -anything about Gilbert Blythe or Christine Stuart in her hearing. -Gilbert Blythe and Christine Stuart were nothing to her -- -absolutely nothing. But Anne had given up trying to analyze -the reason of her blushes. As for Roy, of course she was in -love with him -- madly so. How could she help it? Was he not -her ideal? Who could resist those glorious dark eyes, and that -pleading voice? Were not half the Redmond girls wildly envious? -And what a charming sonnet he had sent her, with a box of violets, -on her birthday! Anne knew every word of it by heart. It was very -good stuff of its kind, too. Not exactly up to the level of Keats or -Shakespeare -- even Anne was not so deeply in love as to think that. -But it was very tolerable magazine verse. And it was addressed to HER -- -not to Laura or Beatrice or the Maid of Athens, but to her, Anne Shirley. -To be told in rhythmical cadences that her eyes were stars of the morning --- that her cheek had the flush it stole from the sunrise -- that her -lips were redder than the roses of Paradise, was thrillingly romantic. -Gilbert would never have dreamed of writing a sonnet to her eyebrows. -But then, Gilbert could see a joke. She had once told Roy a funny story --- and he had not seen the point of it. She recalled the chummy laugh -she and Gilbert had had together over it, and wondered uneasily if life -with a man who had no sense of humor might not be somewhat uninteresting -in the long run. But who could expect a melancholy, inscrutable hero to -see the humorous side of things? It would be flatly unreasonable. - - - - -Chapter XXVIII - -A June Evening - - -"I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was -always June," said Anne, as she came through the spice and bloom -of the twilit orchard to the front door steps, where Marilla and -Mrs. Rachel were sitting, talking over Mrs. Samson Coates' funeral, -which they had attended that day. Dora sat between them, diligently -studying her lessons; but Davy was sitting tailor-fashion on the grass, -looking as gloomy and depressed as his single dimple would let him. - -"You'd get tired of it," said Marilla, with a sigh. - -"I daresay; but just now I feel that it would take me a long -time to get tired of it, if it were all as charming as today. -Everything loves June. Davy-boy, why this melancholy November -face in blossom-time?" - -"I'm just sick and tired of living," said the youthful pessimist. - -"At ten years? Dear me, how sad!" - -"I'm not making fun," said Davy with dignity. "I'm dis -- dis -- -discouraged" -- bringing out the big word with a valiant effort. - -"Why and wherefore?" asked Anne, sitting down beside him. - -"'Cause the new teacher that come when Mr. Holmes got sick give -me ten sums to do for Monday. It'll take me all day tomorrow to -do them. It isn't fair to have to work Saturdays. Milty Boulter -said he wouldn't do them, but Marilla says I've got to. I don't -like Miss Carson a bit." - -"Don't talk like that about your teacher, Davy Keith," said -Mrs. Rachel severely. "Miss Carson is a very fine girl. -There is no nonsense about her." - -"That doesn't sound very attractive," laughed Anne. "I like -people to have a little nonsense about them. But I'm inclined -to have a better opinion of Miss Carson than you have. I saw her -in prayer-meeting last night, and she has a pair of eyes that -can't always look sensible. Now, Davy-boy, take heart of grace. -`Tomorrow will bring another day' and I'll help you with the sums -as far as in me lies. Don't waste this lovely hour `twixt light -and dark worrying over arithmetic." - -"Well, I won't," said Davy, brightening up. "If you help me -with the sums I'll have 'em done in time to go fishing with Milty. -I wish old Aunt Atossa's funeral was tomorrow instead of today. -I wanted to go to it 'cause Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa -would be sure to rise up in her coffin and say sarcastic things to -the folks that come to see her buried. But Marilla said she didn't." - -"Poor Atossa laid in her coffin peaceful enough," said Mrs. Lynde -solemnly. "I never saw her look so pleasant before, that's what. -Well, there weren't many tears shed over her, poor old soul. -The Elisha Wrights are thankful to be rid of her, and I can't -say I blame them a mite." - -"It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and not -leave one person behind you who is sorry you are gone," said Anne, shuddering. - -"Nobody except her parents ever loved poor Atossa, that's certain, not even -her husband," averred Mrs. Lynde. "She was his fourth wife. He'd sort of got -into the habit of marrying. He only lived a few years after he married her. -The doctor said he died of dyspepsia, but I shall always maintain that he died -of Atossa's tongue, that's what. Poor soul, she always knew everything about -her neighbors, but she never was very well acquainted with herself. Well, -she's gone anyhow; and I suppose the next excitement will be Diana's wedding." - -"It seems funny and horrible to think of Diana's being married," -sighed Anne, hugging her knees and looking through the gap in the -Haunted Wood to the light that was shining in Diana's room. - -"I don't see what's horrible about it, when she's doing so well," -said Mrs. Lynde emphatically. "Fred Wright has a fine farm and -he is a model young man." - -"He certainly isn't the wild, dashing, wicked, young man Diana -once wanted to marry," smiled Anne. "Fred is extremely good." - -"That's just what he ought to be. Would you want Diana to marry -a wicked man? Or marry one yourself?" - -"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to marry anybody who was wicked, -but I think I'd like it if he COULD be wicked and WOULDN'T. -Now, Fred is HOPELESSLY good." - -"You'll have more sense some day, I hope," said Marilla. - -Marilla spoke rather bitterly. She was grievously disappointed. -She knew Anne had refused Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea gossip buzzed -over the fact, which had leaked out, nobody knew how. Perhaps -Charlie Sloane had guessed and told his guesses for truth. -Perhaps Diana had betrayed it to Fred and Fred had been indiscreet. -At all events it was known; Mrs. Blythe no longer asked Anne, -in public or private, if she had heard lately from Gilbert, but -passed her by with a frosty bow. Anne, who had always liked Gilbert's -merry, young-hearted mother, was grieved in secret over this. -Marilla said nothing; but Mrs. Lynde gave Anne many exasperated -digs about it, until fresh gossip reached that worthy lady, -through the medium of Moody Spurgeon MacPherson's mother, -that Anne had another "beau" at college, who was rich and -handsome and good all in one. After that Mrs. Rachel held -her tongue, though she still wished in her inmost heart that -Anne had accepted Gilbert. Riches were all very well; -but even Mrs. Rachel, practical soul though she was, did not -consider them the one essential. If Anne "liked" the Handsome -Unknown better than Gilbert there was nothing more to be said; -but Mrs. Rachel was dreadfully afraid that Anne was going to -make the mistake of marrying for money. Marilla knew Anne too -well to fear this; but she felt that something in the universal -scheme of things had gone sadly awry. - -"What is to be, will be," said Mrs. Rachel gloomily, "and what isn't -to be happens sometimes. I can't help believing it's going to happen -in Anne's case, if Providence doesn't interfere, that's what." -Mrs. Rachel sighed. She was afraid Providence wouldn't interfere; -and she didn't dare to. - -Anne had wandered down to the Dryad's Bubble and was curled up -among the ferns at the root of the big white birch where she and -Gilbert had so often sat in summers gone by. He had gone into -the newspaper office again when college closed, and Avonlea -seemed very dull without him. He never wrote to her, and Anne -missed the letters that never came. To be sure, Roy wrote twice -a week; his letters were exquisite compositions which would have -read beautifully in a memoir or biography. Anne felt herself -more deeply in love with him than ever when she read them; but -her heart never gave the queer, quick, painful bound at sight of -his letters which it had given one day when Mrs. Hiram Sloane -had handed her out an envelope addressed in Gilbert's black, -upright handwriting. Anne had hurried home to the east gable and -opened it eagerly -- to find a typewritten copy of some college -society report -- "only that and nothing more." Anne flung the -harmless screed across her room and sat down to write an -especially nice epistle to Roy. - -Diana was to be married in five more days. The gray house at -Orchard Slope was in a turmoil of baking and brewing and boiling -and stewing, for there was to be a big, old-timey wedding. Anne, -of course, was to be bridesmaid, as had been arranged when they -were twelve years old, and Gilbert was coming from Kingsport to -be best man. Anne was enjoying the excitement of the various -preparations, but under it all she carried a little heartache. -She was, in a sense, losing her dear old chum; Diana's new home -would be two miles from Green Gables, and the old constant -companionship could never be theirs again. Anne looked up at -Diana's light and thought how it had beaconed to her for many years; -but soon it would shine through the summer twilights no more. -Two big, painful tears welled up in her gray eyes. - -"Oh," she thought, "how horrible it is that people have to grow -up -- and marry -- and CHANGE!" - - - - -Chapter XXIX - -Diana's Wedding - - -"After all, the only real roses are the pink ones," said Anne, as -she tied white ribbon around Diana's bouquet in the westwardlooking -gable at Orchard Slope. "They are the flowers of love and faith." - -Diana was standing nervously in the middle of the room, arrayed -in her bridal white, her black curls frosted over with the film -of her wedding veil. Anne had draped that veil, in accordance -with the sentimental compact of years before. - -"It's all pretty much as I used to imagine it long ago, when I -wept over your inevitable marriage and our consequent parting," -she laughed. "You are the bride of my dreams, Diana, with -the `lovely misty veil'; and I am YOUR bridesmaid. But, alas! -I haven't the puffed sleeves -- though these short lace ones are -even prettier. Neither is my heart wholly breaking nor do I -exactly hate Fred." - -"We are not really parting, Anne," protested Diana. "I'm not -going far away. We'll love each other just as much as ever. -We've always kept that `oath' of friendship we swore long ago, -haven't we?" - -"Yes. We've kept it faithfully. We've had a beautiful -friendship, Diana. We've never marred it by one quarrel or -coolness or unkind word; and I hope it will always be so. -But things can't be quite the same after this. You'll have -other interests. I'll just be on the outside. But `such is -life' as Mrs. Rachel says. Mrs. Rachel has given you one of -her beloved knitted quilts of the `tobacco stripe' pattern, -and she says when I am married she'll give me one, too." - -"The mean thing about your getting married is that I won't be -able to be your bridesmaid," lamented Diana. - -"I'm to be Phil's bridesmaid next June, when she marries -Mr. Blake, and then I must stop, for you know the proverb -`three times a bridesmaid, never a bride,' " said Anne, -peeping through the window over the pink and snow of the -blossoming orchard beneath. "Here comes the minister, Diana." - -"Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, suddenly turning very pale and -beginning to tremble. "Oh, Anne -- I'm so nervous -- I can't -go through with it -- Anne, I know I'm going to faint." - -"If you do I'll drag you down to the rainwater hogshed and drop -you in," said Anne unsympathetically. "Cheer up, dearest. -Getting married can't be so very terrible when so many -people survive the ceremony. See how cool and composed -I am, and take courage." - -"Wait till your turn comes, Miss Anne. Oh, Anne, I hear father -coming upstairs. Give me my bouquet. Is my veil right? Am I -very pale?" - -"You look just lovely. Di, darling, kiss me good-bye for the -last time. Diana Barry will never kiss me again." - -"Diana Wright will, though. There, mother's calling. Come." - -Following the simple, old-fashioned way in vogue then, Anne went -down to the parlor on Gilbert's arm. They met at the top of the -stairs for the first time since they had left Kingsport, for -Gilbert had arrived only that day. Gilbert shook hands courteously. -He was looking very well, though, as Anne instantly noted, rather thin. -He was not pale; there was a flush on his cheek that had burned into it -as Anne came along the hall towards him, in her soft, white dress with -lilies-of-the-valley in the shining masses of her hair. As they entered -the crowded parlor together a little murmur of admiration ran around the -room. "What a fine-looking pair they are," whispered the impressible -Mrs. Rachel to Marilla. - -Fred ambled in alone, with a very red face, and then Diana swept -in on her father's arm. She did not faint, and nothing untoward -occurred to interrupt the ceremony. Feasting and merry-making -followed; then, as the evening waned, Fred and Diana drove away -through the moonlight to their new home, and Gilbert walked with -Anne to Green Gables. - -Something of their old comradeship had returned during the -informal mirth of the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking -over that well-known road with Gilbert again! - -The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear -the whisper of roses in blossom -- the laughter of daisies -- the -piping of grasses -- many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. -The beauty of moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world. - -"Can't we take a ramble up Lovers' Lane before you go in?" asked -Gilbert as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters, -in which the moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold. - -Anne assented readily. Lovers' Lane was a veritable path in a -fairyland that night -- a shimmering, mysterious place, full of -wizardry in the white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had -been a time when such a walk with Gilbert through Lovers' Lane -would have been far too dangerous. But Roy and Christine had -made it very safe now. Anne found herself thinking a good deal -about Christine as she chatted lightly to Gilbert. She had met -her several times before leaving Kingsport, and had been charmingly -sweet to her. Christine had also been charmingly sweet. Indeed, -they were a most cordial pair. But for all that, their acquaintance -had not ripened into friendship. Evidently Christine was not a -kindred spirit. - -"Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?" asked Gilbert. - -"No. I'm going down east to Valley Road next week. Esther -Haythorne wants me to teach for her through July and August. -They have a summer term in that school, and Esther isn't feeling well. -So I'm going to substitute for her. In one way I don't mind. -Do you know, I'm beginning to feel a little bit like a stranger -in Avonlea now? It makes me sorry -- but it's true. It's quite -appalling to see the number of children who have shot up into big -boys and girls -- really young men and women -- these past two years. -Half of my pupils are grown up. It makes me feel awfully old to see -them in the places you and I and our mates used to fill." - -Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise --- which showed how young she was. She told herself that she -longed greatly to go back to those dear merry days when life was -seen through a rosy mist of hope and illusion, and possessed an -indefinable something that had passed away forever. Where was it -now -- the glory and the dream? - -"`So wags the world away,' " quoted Gilbert practically, and a -trifle absently. Anne wondered if he were thinking of Christine. -Oh, Avonlea was going to be so lonely now -- with Diana gone! - - - - -Chapter XXX - -Mrs. Skinner's Romance - - -Anne stepped off the train at Valley Road station and looked -about to see if any one had come to meet her. She was to board -with a certain Miss Janet Sweet, but she saw no one who answered -in the least to her preconception of that lady, as formed from -Esther's letter. The only person in sight was an elderly woman, -sitting in a wagon with mail bags piled around her. Two hundred -would have been a charitable guess at her weight; her face was -as round and red as a harvest-moon and almost as featureless. -She wore a tight, black, cashmere dress, made in the fashion of -ten years ago, a little dusty black straw hat trimmed with bows -of yellow ribbon, and faded black lace mits. - -"Here, you," she called, waving her whip at Anne. "Are you the -new Valley Road schoolma'am?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, I thought so. Valley Road is noted for its good-looking -schoolma'ams, just as Millersville is noted for its humly ones. -Janet Sweet asked me this morning if I could bring you out. I -said, `Sartin I kin, if she don't mind being scrunched up some. -This rig of mine's kinder small for the mail bags and I'm some -heftier than Thomas!' Just wait, miss, till I shift these bags a -bit and I'll tuck you in somehow. It's only two miles to Janet's. -Her next-door neighbor's hired boy is coming for your trunk tonight. -My name is Skinner -- Amelia Skinner." - -Anne was eventually tucked in, exchanging amused smiles with herself -during the process. - -"Jog along, black mare," commanded Mrs. Skinner, gathering up the -reins in her pudgy hands. "This is my first trip on the mail rowte. -Thomas wanted to hoe his turnips today so he asked me to come. -So I jest sot down and took a standing-up snack and started. -I sorter like it. O' course it's rather tejus. Part of the -time I sits and thinks and the rest I jest sits. Jog along, -black mare. I want to git home airly. Thomas is terrible -lonesome when I'm away. You see, we haven't been married very long." - -"Oh!" said Anne politely. - -"Just a month. Thomas courted me for quite a spell, though. It -was real romantic." Anne tried to picture Mrs. Skinner on -speaking terms with romance and failed. - -"Oh?" she said again. - -"Yes. Y'see, there was another man after me. Jog along, black mare. -I'd been a widder so long folks had given up expecting me to marry again. -But when my darter -- she's a schoolma'am like you -- went out West to -teach I felt real lonesome and wasn't nowise sot against the idea. -Bime-by Thomas began to come up and so did the other feller -- -William Obadiah Seaman, his name was. For a long time I couldn't -make up my mind which of them to take, and they kep' coming and coming, -and I kep' worrying. Y'see, W.O. was rich -- he had a fine place and -carried considerable style. He was by far the best match. Jog along, -black mare." - -"Why didn't you marry him?" asked Anne. - -"Well, y'see, he didn't love me," answered Mrs. Skinner, solemnly. - -Anne opened her eyes widely and looked at Mrs. Skinner. But there was -not a glint of humor on that lady's face. Evidently Mrs. Skinner saw -nothing amusing in her own case. - -"He'd been a widder-man for three yers, and his sister kept house for him. -Then she got married and he just wanted some one to look after his house. -It was worth looking after, too, mind you that. It's a handsome house. -Jog along, black mare. As for Thomas, he was poor, and if his house -didn't leak in dry weather it was about all that could be said for it, -though it looks kind of pictureaskew. But, y'see, I loved Thomas, and -I didn't care one red cent for W.O. So I argued it out with myself. -`Sarah Crowe,' say I -- my first was a Crowe -- `you can marry -your rich man if you like but you won't be happy. Folks can't -get along together in this world without a little bit of love. -You'd just better tie up to Thomas, for he loves you and you love -him and nothing else ain't going to do you.' Jog along, black mare. -So I told Thomas I'd take him. All the time I was getting ready -I never dared drive past W.O.'s place for fear the sight of that -fine house of his would put me in the swithers again. But now I -never think of it at all, and I'm just that comfortable and happy -with Thomas. Jog along, black mare." - -"How did William Obadiah take it?" queried Anne. - -"Oh, he rumpussed a bit. But he's going to see a skinny old maid -in Millersville now, and I guess she'll take him fast enough. -She'll make him a better wife than his first did. W.O. never -wanted to marry her. He just asked her to marry him 'cause his -father wanted him to, never dreaming but that she'd say `no.' -But mind you, she said 'yes.' There was a predicament for you. -Jog along, black mare. She was a great housekeeper, but most -awful mean. She wore the same bonnet for eighteen years. Then she -got a new one and W.O. met her on the road and didn't know her. -Jog along, black mare. I feel that I'd a narrer escape. I might -have married him and been most awful miserable, like my poor -cousin, Jane Ann. Jane Ann married a rich man she didn't care -anything about, and she hasn't the life of a dog. She come to -see me last week and says, says she, `Sarah Skinner, I envy you. -I'd rather live in a little hut on the side of the road with a -man I was fond of than in my big house with the one I've got.' -Jane Ann's man ain't such a bad sort, nuther, though he's so -contrary that he wears his fur coat when the thermometer's -at ninety. The only way to git him to do anything is to coax -him to do the opposite. But there ain't any love to smooth -things down and it's a poor way of living. Jog along, black mare. -There's Janet's place in the hollow -- `Wayside,' she calls it. -Quite pictureaskew, ain't it? I guess you'll be glad to git -out of this, with all them mail bags jamming round you." - -"Yes, but I have enjoyed my drive with you very much," said -Anne sincerely. - -"Git away now!" said Mrs. Skinner, highly flattered. "Wait till -I tell Thomas that. He always feels dretful tickled when I git -a compliment. Jog along, black mare. Well, here we are. I hope -you'll git on well in the school, miss. There's a short cut to -it through the ma'sh back of Janet's. If you take that way be -awful keerful. If you once got stuck in that black mud you'd be -sucked right down and never seen or heard tell of again till the -day of judgment, like Adam Palmer's cow. Jog along, black mare." - - - -Chapter XXXI - -Anne to Philippa - - -"Anne Shirley to Philippa Gordon, greeting. - -"Well-beloved, it's high time I was writing you. Here am I, -installed once more as a country `schoolma'am' at Valley Road, -boarding at `Wayside,' the home of Miss Janet Sweet. Janet is a -dear soul and very nicelooking; tall, but not over-tall; stoutish, -yet with a certain restraint of outline suggestive of a thrifty -soul who is not going to be overlavish even in the matter of -avoirdupois. She has a knot of soft, crimpy, brown hair with -a thread of gray in it, a sunny face with rosy cheeks, and big, -kind eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Moreover, she is one of those -delightful, old-fashioned cooks who don't care a bit if they ruin -your digestion as long as they can give you feasts of fat things. - -"I like her; and she likes me -- principally, it seems, because -she had a sister named Anne who died young. - -"`I'm real glad to see you,' she said briskly, when I landed in her yard. -`My, you don't look a mite like I expected. I was sure you'd be dark -- -my sister Anne was dark. And here you're redheaded!' - -"For a few minutes I thought I wasn't going to like Janet as much -as I had expected at first sight. Then I reminded myself that I -really must be more sensible than to be prejudiced against any -one simply because she called my hair red. Probably the word -`auburn' was not in Janet's vocabulary at all. - -"`Wayside' is a dear sort of little spot. The house is small -and white, set down in a delightful little hollow that drops -away from the road. Between road and house is an orchard and -flower-garden all mixed up together. The front door walk is -bordered with quahog clam-shells -- `cow-hawks,' Janet calls them; -there is Virginia Creeper over the porch and moss on the roof. -My room is a neat little spot `off the parlor' -- just big -enough for the bed and me. Over the head of my bed there is a -picture of Robby Burns standing at Highland Mary's grave, -shadowed by an enormous weeping willow tree. Robby's face is -so lugubrious that it is no wonder I have bad dreams. Why, the -first night I was here I dreamed I COULDN'T LAUGH. - -"The parlor is tiny and neat. Its one window is so shaded by a -huge willow that the room has a grotto-like effect of emerald gloom. -There are wonderful tidies on the chairs, and gay mats on the floor, -and books and cards carefully arranged on a round table, and vases -of dried grass on the mantel-piece. Between the vases is a cheerful -decoration of preserved coffin plates -- five in all, pertaining -respectively to Janet's father and mother, a brother, her sister Anne, -and a hired man who died here once! If I go suddenly insane some of -these days `know all men by these presents' that those coffin-plates -have caused it. - -"But it's all delightful and I said so. Janet loved me for it, -just as she detested poor Esther because Esther had said so much -shade was unhygienic and had objected to sleeping on a feather bed. -Now, I glory in feather-beds, and the more unhygienic and feathery -they are the more I glory. Janet says it is such a comfort to see -me eat; she had been so afraid I would be like Miss Haythorne, who -wouldn't eat anything but fruit and hot water for breakfast and tried -to make Janet give up frying things. Esther is really a dear girl, -but she is rather given to fads. The trouble is that she hasn't -enough imagination and HAS a tendency to indigestion. - -"Janet told me I could have the use of the parlor when any young -men called! I don't think there are many to call. I haven't -seen a young man in Valley Road yet, except the next-door -hired boy -- Sam Toliver, a very tall, lank, tow-haired youth. -He came over one evening recently and sat for an hour on the -garden fence, near the front porch where Janet and I were doing -fancy-work. The only remarks he volunteered in all that time -were, `Hev a peppermint, miss! Dew now-fine thing for carARRH, -peppermints,' and, `Powerful lot o' jump-grasses round here -ternight. Yep.' - -"But there is a love affair going on here. It seems to be my -fortune to be mixed up, more or less actively, with elderly love -affairs. Mr. and Mrs. Irving always say that I brought about -their marriage. Mrs. Stephen Clark of Carmody persists in being -most grateful to me for a suggestion which somebody else would -probably have made if I hadn't. I do really think, though, that -Ludovic Speed would never have got any further along than placid -courtship if I had not helped him and Theodora Dix out. - -"In the present affair I am only a passive spectator. I've tried -once to help things along and made an awful mess of it. So I -shall not meddle again. I'll tell you all about it when we meet." - - - - -Chapter XXXII - -Tea with Mrs. Douglas - - -On the first Thursday night of Anne's sojourn in Valley Road -Janet asked her to go to prayer-meeting. Janet blossomed out -like a rose to attend that prayer-meeting. She wore a pale-blue, -pansy-sprinkled muslin dress with more ruffles than one would ever -have supposed economical Janet could be guilty of, and a white -leghorn hat with pink roses and three ostrich feathers on it. -Anne felt quite amazed. Later on, she found out Janet's motive -in so arraying herself -- a motive as old as Eden. - -Valley Road prayer-meetings seemed to be essentially feminine. -There were thirty-two women present, two half-grown boys, and one -solitary man, beside the minister. Anne found herself studying -this man. He was not handsome or young or graceful; he had -remarkably long legs -- so long that he had to keep them coiled -up under his chair to dispose of them -- and he was stoopshouldered. -His hands were big, his hair wanted barbering, and his moustache -was unkempt. But Anne thought she liked his face; it was kind and -honest and tender; there was something else in it, too -- just what, -Anne found it hard to define. She finally concluded that this man had -suffered and been strong, and it had been made manifest in his face. -There was a sort of patient, humorous endurance in his expression -which indicated that he would go to the stake if need be, but would -keep on looking pleasant until he really had to begin squirming. - -When prayer-meeting was over this man came up to Janet and said, - -"May I see you home, Janet?" - -Janet took his arm -- "as primly and shyly as if she were no more -than sixteen, having her first escort home," Anne told the girls -at Patty's Place later on. - -"Miss Shirley, permit me to introduce Mr. Douglas," she said stiffly. - -Mr. Douglas nodded and said, "I was looking at you in prayer-meeting, -miss, and thinking what a nice little girl you were." - -Such a speech from ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have -annoyed Anne bitterly; but the way in which Mr. Douglas said it made -her feel that she had received a very real and pleasing compliment. -She smiled appreciatively at him and dropped obligingly behind on -the moonlit road. - -So Janet had a beau! Anne was delighted. Janet would make a paragon -of a wife -- cheery, economical, tolerant, and a very queen of cooks. -It would be a flagrant waste on Nature's part to keep her a permanent -old maid. - -"John Douglas asked me to take you up to see his mother," said -Janet the next day. "She's bed-rid a lot of the time and never -goes out of the house. But she's powerful fond of company and -always wants to see my boarders. Can you go up this evening?" - -Anne assented; but later in the day Mr. Douglas called on his -mother's behalf to invite them up to tea on Saturday evening. - -"Oh, why didn't you put on your pretty pansy dress?" asked Anne, -when they left home. It was a hot day, and poor Janet, between -her excitement and her heavy black cashmere dress, looked as if -she were being broiled alive. - -"Old Mrs. Douglas would think it terrible frivolous and unsuitable, -I'm afraid. John likes that dress, though," she added wistfully. - -The old Douglas homestead was half a mile from "Wayside" cresting -a windy hill. The house itself was large and comfortable, old -enough to be dignified, and girdled with maple groves and orchards. -There were big, trim barns behind it, and everything bespoke prosperity. -Whatever the patient endurance in Mr. Douglas' face had meant it hadn't, -so Anne reflected, meant debts and duns. - -John Douglas met them at the door and took them into the -sitting-room, where his mother was enthroned in an armchair. - -Anne had expected old Mrs. Douglas to be tall and thin, because -Mr. Douglas was. Instead, she was a tiny scrap of a woman, with -soft pink cheeks, mild blue eyes, and a mouth like a baby's. -Dressed in a beautiful, fashionably-made black silk dress, -with a fluffy white shawl over her shoulders, and her snowy -hair surmounted by a dainty lace cap, she might have posed -as a grandmother doll. - -"How do you do, Janet dear?" she said sweetly. "I am so glad to -see you again, dear." She put up her pretty old face to be kissed. -"And this is our new teacher. I'm delighted to meet you. My son -has been singing your praises until I'm half jealous, and I'm sure -Janet ought to be wholly so." - -Poor Janet blushed, Anne said something polite and conventional, -and then everybody sat down and made talk. It was hard work, -even for Anne, for nobody seemed at ease except old Mrs. Douglas, -who certainly did not find any difficulty in talking. She made -Janet sit by her and stroked her hand occasionally. Janet sat -and smiled, looking horribly uncomfortable in her hideous dress, -and John Douglas sat without smiling. - -At the tea table Mrs. Douglas gracefully asked Janet to pour -the tea. Janet turned redder than ever but did it. Anne wrote -a description of that meal to Stella. - -"We had cold tongue and chicken and strawberry preserves, lemon -pie and tarts and chocolate cake and raisin cookies and pound cake -and fruit cake -- and a few other things, including more pie --- caramel pie, I think it was. After I had eaten twice as much -as was good for me, Mrs. Douglas sighed and said she feared she -had nothing to tempt my appetite. - -"`I'm afraid dear Janet's cooking has spoiled you for any other,' -she said sweetly. `Of course nobody in Valley Road aspires to -rival HER. WON'T you have another piece of pie, Miss Shirley? -You haven't eaten ANYTHING.' - -"Stella, I had eaten a helping of tongue and one of chicken, -three biscuits, a generous allowance of preserves, a piece of -pie, a tart, and a square of chocolate cake!" - -After tea Mrs. Douglas smiled benevolently and told John to -take "dear Janet" out into the garden and get her some roses. -"Miss Shirley will keep me company while you are out -- -won't you?" she said plaintively. She settled down in her -armchair with a sigh. - -"I am a very frail old woman, Miss Shirley. For over twenty -years I've been a great sufferer. For twenty long, weary years -I've been dying by inches." - -"How painful!" said Anne, trying to be sympathetic and succeeding -only in feeling idiotic. - -"There have been scores of nights when they've thought I could -never live to see the dawn," went on Mrs. Douglas solemnly. -"Nobody knows what I've gone through -- nobody can know but -myself. Well, it can't last very much longer now. My weary -pilgrimage will soon be over, Miss Shirley. It is a great -comfort to me that John will have such a good wife to look after -him when his mother is gone -- a great comfort, Miss Shirley." - -"Janet is a lovely woman," said Anne warmly. - -"Lovely! A beautiful character," assented Mrs. Douglas. "And a -perfect housekeeper -- something I never was. My health would -not permit it, Miss Shirley. I am indeed thankful that John has -made such a wise choice. I hope and believe that he will be happy. -He is my only son, Miss Shirley, and his happiness lies very near -my heart." - -"Of course," said Anne stupidly. For the first time in her life -she was stupid. Yet she could not imagine why. She seemed to -have absolutely nothing to say to this sweet, smiling, angelic -old lady who was patting her hand so kindly. - -"Come and see me soon again, dear Janet," said Mrs. Douglas -lovingly, when they left. "You don't come half often enough. -But then I suppose John will be bringing you here to stay all the -time one of these days." Anne, happening to glance at John -Douglas, as his mother spoke, gave a positive start of dismay. -He looked as a tortured man might look when his tormentors gave -the rack the last turn of possible endurance. She felt sure he -must be ill and hurried poor blushing Janet away. - -"Isn't old Mrs. Douglas a sweet woman?" asked Janet, as they -went down the road. - -"M -- m," answered Anne absently. She was wondering why John -Douglas had looked so. - -"She's been a terrible sufferer," said Janet feelingly. -"She takes terrible spells. It keeps John all worried up. -He's scared to leave home for fear his mother will take a -spell and nobody there but the hired girl." - - - - -Chapter XXXIII - -"He Just Kept Coming and Coming" - - -Three days later Anne came home from school and found Janet crying. -Tears and Janet seemed so incongruous that Anne was honestly alarmed. - -"Oh, what is the matter?" she cried anxiously. - -"I'm -- I'm forty today," sobbed Janet. - -"Well, you were nearly that yesterday and it didn't hurt," -comforted Anne, trying not to smile. - -"But -- but," went on Janet with a big gulp, "John Douglas won't -ask me to marry him." - -"Oh, but he will," said Anne lamely. "You must give him time, Janet - -"Time!" said Janet with indescribable scorn. "He has had twenty years. -How much time does he want?" - -"Do you mean that John Douglas has been coming to see you for -twenty years?" - -"He has. And he has never so much as mentioned marriage to me. -And I don't believe he ever will now. I've never said a word to -a mortal about it, but it seems to me I've just got to talk it -out with some one at last or go crazy. John Douglas begun to go -with me twenty years ago, before mother died. Well, he kept -coming and coming, and after a spell I begun making quilts and -things; but he never said anything about getting married, only -just kept coming and coming. There wasn't anything I could do. -Mother died when we'd been going together for eight years. -I thought he maybe would speak out then, seeing as I was left -alone in the world. He was real kind and feeling, and did -everything he could for me, but he never said marry. And that's -the way it has been going on ever since. People blame ME for it. -They say I won't marry him because his mother is so sickly and I -don't want the bother of waiting on her. Why, I'd LOVE to wait on -John's mother! But I let them think so. I'd rather they'd blame -me than pity me! It's so dreadful humiliating that John won't -ask me. And WHY won't he? Seems to me if I only knew his reason -I wouldn't mind it so much." - -"Perhaps his mother doesn't want him to marry anybody," suggested Anne. - -"Oh, she does. She's told me time and again that she'd love to see -John settled before her time comes. She's always giving him hints -- -you heard her yourself the other day. I thought I'd ha' gone through -the floor." - -"It's beyond me," said Anne helplessly. She thought of Ludovic Speed. -But the cases were not parallel. John Douglas was not a man of -Ludovic's type. - -"You should show more spirit, Janet," she went on resolutely. -"Why didn't you send him about his business long ago?" - -"I couldn't," said poor Janet pathetically. "You see, Anne, I've -always been awful fond of John. He might just as well keep coming -as not, for there was never anybody else I'd want, so it didn't matter." - -"But it might have made him speak out like a man," urged Anne. - -Janet shook her head. - -"No, I guess not. I was afraid to try, anyway, for fear he'd -think I meant it and just go. I suppose I'm a poor-spirited -creature, but that is how I feel. And I can't help it." - -"Oh, you COULD help it, Janet. It isn't too late yet. Take a -firm stand. Let that man know you are not going to endure his -shillyshallying any longer. I'LL back you up." - -"I dunno," said Janet hopelessly. "I dunno if I could ever get up -enough spunk. Things have drifted so long. But I'll think it over." - -Anne felt that she was disappointed in John Douglas. She had -liked him so well, and she had not thought him the sort of man who -would play fast and loose with a woman's feelings for twenty years. -He certainly should be taught a lesson, and Anne felt vindictively -that she would enjoy seeing the process. Therefore she was delighted -when Janet told her, as they were going to prayer-meeting the next night, -that she meant to show some "sperrit." - -"I'll let John Douglas see I'm not going to be trodden on any longer." - -"You are perfectly right," said Anne emphatically. - -When prayer-meeting was over John Douglas came up with his usual request. -Janet looked frightened but resolute. - -"No, thank you," she said icily. "I know the road home pretty well alone. -I ought to, seeing I've been traveling it for forty years. So you needn't -trouble yourself, MR. Douglas." - -Anne was looking at John Douglas; and, in that brilliant moonlight, -she saw the last twist of the rack again. Without a word he turned -and strode down the road. - -"Stop! Stop!" Anne called wildly after him, not caring in the least -for the other dumbfounded onlookers. "Mr. Douglas, stop! Come back." - -John Douglas stopped but he did not come back. Anne flew down -the road, caught his arm and fairly dragged him back to Janet. - -"You must come back," she said imploringly. "It's all a mistake, -Mr. Douglas -- all my fault. I made Janet do it. She didn't -want to -- but it's all right now, isn't it, Janet?" - -Without a word Janet took his arm and walked away. Anne followed -them meekly home and slipped in by the back door. - -"Well, you are a nice person to back me up," said Janet sarcastically. - -"I couldn't help it, Janet," said Anne repentantly. "I just felt -as if I had stood by and seen murder done. I HAD to run after him." - -"Oh, I'm just as glad you did. When I saw John Douglas making -off down that road I just felt as if every little bit of joy and -happiness that was left in my life was going with him. It was an -awful feeling." - -"Did he ask you why you did it?" asked Anne. - -"No, he never said a word about it," replied Janet dully. - - - - -Chapter XXXIV - -John Douglas Speaks at Last - - -Anne was not without a feeble hope that something might come of -it after all. But nothing did. John Douglas came and took Janet -driving, and walked home from prayer-meeting with her, as he had -been doing for twenty years, and as he seemed likely to do for -twenty years more. The summer waned. Anne taught her school and -wrote letters and studied a little. Her walks to and from school -were pleasant. She always went by way of the swamp; it was a -lovely place -- a boggy soil, green with the greenest of mossy -hillocks; a silvery brook meandered through it and spruces stood -erectly, their boughs a-trail with gray-green mosses, their roots -overgrown with all sorts of woodland lovelinesses. - -Nevertheless, Anne found life in Valley Road a little monotonous. -To be sure, there was one diverting incident. - -She had not seen the lank, tow-headed Samuel of the peppermints -since the evening of his call, save for chance meetings on the road. -But one warm August night he appeared, and solemnly seated himself -on the rustic bench by the porch. He wore his usual working -habiliments, consisting of varipatched trousers, a blue jean shirt, -out at the elbows, and a ragged straw hat. He was chewing a straw -and he kept on chewing it while he looked solemnly at Anne. Anne -laid her book aside with a sigh and took up her doily. Conversation -with Sam was really out of the question. - -After a long silence Sam suddenly spoke. - -"I'm leaving over there," he said abruptly, waving his straw in -the direction of the neighboring house. - -"Oh, are you?" said Anne politely. - -"Yep." - -"And where are you going now?" - -"Wall, I've been thinking some of gitting a place of my own. -There's one that'd suit me over at Millersville. But ef I rents -it I'll want a woman." - -"I suppose so," said Anne vaguely. - -"Yep." - -There was another long silence. Finally Sam removed his straw -again and said, - -"Will yeh hev me?" - -"Wh -- a -- t!" gasped Anne. - -"Will yeh hev me?" - -"Do you mean -- MARRY you?" queried poor Anne feebly. - -"Yep." - -"Why, I'm hardly acquainted with you," cried Anne indignantly. - -"But yeh'd git acquainted with me after we was married," said Sam. - -Anne gathered up her poor dignity. - -"Certainly I won't marry you," she said haughtily. - -"Wall, yeh might do worse," expostulated Sam. "I'm a good worker -and I've got some money in the bank." - -"Don't speak of this to me again. Whatever put such an idea into -your head?" said Anne, her sense of humor getting the better of -her wrath. It was such an absurd situation. - -"Yeh're a likely-looking girl and hev a right-smart way o' stepping," -said Sam. "I don't want no lazy woman. Think it over. I won't change -my mind yit awhile. Wall, I must be gitting. Gotter milk the cows." - -Anne's illusions concerning proposals had suffered so much of -late years that there were few of them left. So she could laugh -wholeheartedly over this one, not feeling any secret sting. She -mimicked poor Sam to Janet that night, and both of them laughed -immoderately over his plunge into sentiment. - -One afternoon, when Anne's sojourn in Valley Road was drawing to a -close, Alec Ward came driving down to "Wayside" in hot haste for Janet. - -"They want you at the Douglas place quick," he said. "I really -believe old Mrs. Douglas is going to die at last, after pretending -to do it for twenty years." - -Janet ran to get her hat. Anne asked if Mrs. Douglas was worse than usual. - -"She's not half as bad," said Alec solemnly, "and that's what -makes me think it's serious. Other times she'd be screaming and -throwing herself all over the place. This time she's lying still -and mum. When Mrs. Douglas is mum she is pretty sick, you bet." - -"You don't like old Mrs. Douglas?" said Anne curiously. - -"I like cats as IS cats. I don't like cats as is women," was Alec's -cryptic reply. - -Janet came home in the twilight. - -"Mrs. Douglas is dead," she said wearily. "She died soon after -I got there. She just spoke to me once -- `I suppose you'll -marry John now?' she said. It cut me to the heart, Anne. -To think John's own mother thought I wouldn't marry him -because of her! I couldn't say a word either -- there were -other women there. I was thankful John had gone out." - -Janet began to cry drearily. But Anne brewed her a hot drink of -ginger tea to her comforting. To be sure, Anne discovered later -on that she had used white pepper instead of ginger; but Janet -never knew the difference. - -The evening after the funeral Janet and Anne were sitting on the -front porch steps at sunset. The wind had fallen asleep in the -pinelands and lurid sheets of heat-lightning flickered across the -northern skies. Janet wore her ugly black dress and looked her -very worst, her eyes and nose red from crying. They talked -little, for Janet seemed faintly to resent Anne's efforts to -cheer her up. She plainly preferred to be miserable. - -Suddenly the gate-latch clicked and John Douglas strode into the -garden. He walked towards them straight over the geranium bed. -Janet stood up. So did Anne. Anne was a tall girl and wore a -white dress; but John Douglas did not see her. - -"Janet," he said, "will you marry me?" - -The words burst out as if they had been wanting to be said -for twenty years and MUST be uttered now, before anything else. - -Janet's face was so red from crying that it couldn't turn any redder, -so it turned a most unbecoming purple. - -"Why didn't you ask me before?" she said slowly. - -"I couldn't. She made me promise not to -- mother made me -promise not to. Nineteen years ago she took a terrible spell. -We thought she couldn't live through it. She implored me to -promise not to ask you to marry me while she was alive. I didn't -want to promise such a thing, even though we all thought she -couldn't live very long -- the doctor only gave her six months. -But she begged it on her knees, sick and suffering. I had to promise." - -"What had your mother against me?" cried Janet. - -"Nothing -- nothing. She just didn't want another woman --- ANY woman -- there while she was living. She said if I -didn't promise she'd die right there and I'd have killed her. -So I promised. And she's held me to that promise ever since, -though I've gone on my knees to her in my turn to beg her -to let me ff." - -"Why didn't you tell me this?" asked Janet chokingly. -"If I'd only KNOWN! Why didn't you just tell me?" - -"She made me promise I wouldn't tell a soul," said John hoarsely. -"She swore me to it on the Bible; Janet, I'd never have done it -if I'd dreamed it was to be for so long. Janet, you'll never -know what I've suffered these nineteen years. I know I've made -you suffer, too, but you'll marry me for all, won't you, Janet? -Oh, Janet, won't you? I've come as soon as I could to ask you." - -At this moment the stupefied Anne came to her senses and realized -that she had no business to be there. She slipped away and did not -see Janet until the next morning, when the latter told her the rest -of the story. - -"That cruel, relentless, deceitful old woman!" cried Anne. - -"Hush -- she's dead," said Janet solemnly. "If she wasn't -- but she IS. -So we mustn't speak evil of her. But I'm happy at last, Anne. And I -wouldn't have minded waiting so long a bit if I'd only known why." - -"When are you to be married?" - -"Next month. Of course it will be very quiet. I suppose people -will talk terrible. They'll say I made enough haste to snap John -up as soon as his poor mother was out of the way. John wanted to -let them know the truth but I said, `No, John; after all she was -your mother, and we'll keep the secret between us, and not cast -any shadow on her memory. I don't mind what people say, now that -I know the truth myself. It don't matter a mite. Let it all be -buried with the dead' says I to him. So I coaxed him round to -agree with me." - -"You're much more forgiving than I could ever be," Anne said, -rather crossly. - -"You'll feel differently about a good many things when you get to -be my age," said Janet tolerantly. "That's one of the things we -learn as we grow older -- how to forgive. It comes easier at -forty than it did at twenty." - - - - -Chapter XXXV - -The Last Redmond Year Opens - - -"Here we are, all back again, nicely sunburned and rejoicing as a -strong man to run a race," said Phil, sitting down on a suitcase -with a sigh of pleasure. "Isn't it jolly to see this dear old -Patty's Place again -- and Aunty -- and the cats? Rusty has lost -another piece of ear, hasn't he?" - -"Rusty would be the nicest cat in the world if he had no ears at all," -declared Anne loyally from her trunk, while Rusty writhed about her lap -in a frenzy of welcome. - -"Aren't you glad to see us back, Aunty?" demanded Phil. - -"Yes. But I wish you'd tidy things up," said Aunt Jamesina plaintively, -looking at the wilderness of trunks and suitcases by which the four -laughing, chattering girls were surrounded. "You can talk just as well -later on. Work first and then play used to be my motto when I was a girl." - -"Oh, we've just reversed that in this generation, Aunty. -OUR motto is play your play and then dig in. You can do your -work so much better if you've had a good bout of play first." - -"If you are going to marry a minister," said Aunt Jamesina, -picking up Joseph and her knitting and resigning herself to the -inevitable with the charming grace that made her the queen of -housemothers, "you will have to give up such expressions as `dig in.'" - -"Why?" moaned Phil. "Oh, why must a minister's wife be supposed -to utter only prunes and prisms? I shan't. Everybody on -Patterson Street uses slang -- that is to say, metaphorical -language -- and if I didn't they would think me insufferably -proud and stuck up." - -"Have you broken the news to your family?" asked Priscilla, -feeding the Sarah-cat bits from her lunchbasket. - -Phil nodded. - -"How did they take it?" - -"Oh, mother rampaged. But I stood rockfirm -- even I, Philippa Gordon, -who never before could hold fast to anything. Father was calmer. -Father's own daddy was a minister, so you see he has a soft spot -in his heart for the cloth. I had Jo up to Mount Holly, after mother -grew calm, and they both loved him. But mother gave him some frightful -hints in every conversation regarding what she had hoped for me. Oh, -my vacation pathway hasn't been exactly strewn with roses, girls dear. -But -- I've won out and I've got Jo. Nothing else matters." - -"To you," said Aunt Jamesina darkly. - -"Nor to Jo, either," retorted Phil. "You keep on pitying him. -Why, pray? I think he's to be envied. He's getting brains, -beauty, and a heart of gold in ME." - -"It's well we know how to take your speeches," said Aunt Jamesina -patiently. "I hope you don't talk like that before strangers. -What would they think?" - -"Oh, I don't want to know what they think. I don't want to -see myself as others see me. I'm sure it would be horribly -uncomfortable most of the time. I don't believe Burns was -really sincere in that prayer, either." - -"Oh, I daresay we all pray for some things that we really don't -want, if we were only honest enough to look into our hearts," -owned Aunt Jamesina candidly. "I've a notion that such prayers -don't rise very far. _I_ used to pray that I might be enabled to -forgive a certain person, but I know now I really didn't want to -forgive her. When I finally got that I DID want to I forgave her -without having to pray about it." - -"I can't picture you as being unforgiving for long," said Stella. - -"Oh, I used to be. But holding spite doesn't seem worth while -when you get along in years." - -"That reminds me," said Anne, and told the tale of John and Janet. - -"And now tell us about that romantic scene you hinted so darkly -at in one of your letters," demanded Phil. - -Anne acted out Samuel's proposal with great spirit. The girls -shrieked with laughter and Aunt Jamesina smiled. - -"It isn't in good taste to make fun of your beaux," she said -severely; "but," she added calmly, "I always did it myself." - -"Tell us about your beaux, Aunty, "en treated Phil. "You must -have had any number of them." - -"They're not in the past tense," retorted Aunt Jamesina. -"I've got them yet. There are three old widowers at home -who have been casting sheep's eyes at me for some time. -You children needn't think you own all the romance in the world." - -"Widowers and sheep's eyes don't sound very romantic, Aunty." - -"Well, no; but young folks aren't always romantic either. -Some of my beaux certainly weren't. I used to laugh at them -scandalous, poor boys. There was Jim Elwood -- he was always in -a sort of day-dream -- never seemed to sense what was going on. -He didn't wake up to the fact that I'd said `no' till a year -after I'd said it. When he did get married his wife fell out of -the sleigh one night when they were driving home from church and -he never missed her. Then there was Dan Winston. He knew too much. -He knew everything in this world and most of what is in the next. -He could give you an answer to any question, even if you asked him -when the Judgment Day was to be. Milton Edwards was real nice and -I liked him but I didn't marry him. For one thing, he took a week -to get a joke through his head, and for another he never asked me. -Horatio Reeve was the most interesting beau I ever had. But when he -told a story he dressed it up so that you couldn't see it for frills. -I never could decide whether he was lying or just letting his -imagination run loose." - -"And what about the others, Aunty?" - -"Go away and unpack," said Aunt Jamesina, waving Joseph at them by -mistake for a needle. "The others were too nice to make fun of. -I shall respect their memory. There's a box of flowers in -your room, Anne. They came about an hour ago." - -After the first week the girls of Patty's Place settled down to a -steady grind of study; for this was their last year at Redmond -and graduation honors must be fought for persistently. Anne -devoted herself to English, Priscilla pored over classics, and -Philippa pounded away at Mathematics. Sometimes they grew tired, -sometimes they felt discouraged, sometimes nothing seemed worth -the struggle for it. In one such mood Stella wandered up to the -blue room one rainy November evening. Anne sat on the floor in a -little circle of light cast by the lamp beside her, amid a -surrounding snow of crumpled manuscript. - -"What in the world are you doing?" - -"Just looking over some old Story Club yarns. I wanted something -to cheer AND inebriate. I'd studied until the world seemed azure. -So I came up here and dug these out of my trunk. They are so drenched -in tears and tragedy that they are excruciatingly funny." - -"I'm blue and discouraged myself," said Stella, throwing herself -on the couch. "Nothing seems worthwhile. My very thoughts are -old. I've thought them all before. What is the use of living -after all, Anne?" - -"Honey, it's just brain fag that makes us feel that way, and the weather. -A pouring rainy night like this, coming after a hard day's grind, would -squelch any one but a Mark Tapley. You know it IS worthwhile to live." - -"Oh, I suppose so. But I can't prove it to myself just now." - -"Just think of all the great and noble souls who have lived and -worked in the world," said Anne dreamily. "Isn't it worthwhile -to come after them and inherit what they won and taught? Isn't -it worthwhile to think we can share their inspiration? And then, -all the great souls that will come in the future? Isn't it -worthwhile to work a little and prepare the way for them -- -make just one step in their path easier?" - -"Oh, my mind agrees with you, Anne. But my soul remains doleful -and uninspired. I'm always grubby and dingy on rainy nights." - -"Some nights I like the rain -- I like to lie in bed and hear it -pattering on the roof and drifting through the pines." - -"I like it when it stays on the roof," said Stella. "It doesn't -always. I spent a gruesome night in an old country farmhouse -last summer. The roof leaked and the rain came pattering down on -my bed. There was no poetry in THAT. I had to get up in the -`mirk midnight' and chivy round to pull the bedstead out of the -drip -- and it was one of those solid, old-fashioned beds that -weigh a ton -- more or less. And then that drip-drop, drip-drop -kept up all night until my nerves just went to pieces. You've no -idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling with a -mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like -ghostly footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you -laughing over, Anne?" - -"These stories. As Phil would say they are killing -- in more senses -than one, for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines -we had -- and how we dressed them! Silks -- satins -- velvets -- jewels --- laces -- they never wore anything else. Here is one of Jane Andrews' -stories depicting her heroine as sleeping in a beautiful white satin -nightdress trimmed with seed pearls." - -"Go on," said Stella. "I begin to feel that life is worth living -as long as there's a laugh in it." - -"Here's one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball -`glittering from head to foot with large diamonds of the first -water.' But what booted beauty or rich attire? `The paths of -glory lead but to the grave.' They must either be murdered or die -of a broken heart. There was no escape for them." - -"Let me read some of your stories." - -"Well, here's my masterpiece. Note its cheerful title -- `My Graves.' -I shed quarts of tears while writing it, and the other girls shed gallons -while I read it. Jane Andrews' mother scolded her frightfully because -she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that week. It's a harrowing -tale of the wanderings of a Methodist minister's wife. I made her a -Methodist because it was necessary that she should wander. She buried -a child every place she lived in. There were nine of them and their -graves were severed far apart, ranging from Newfoundland to Vancouver. -I described the children, pictured their several death beds, and -detailed their tombstones and epitaphs. I had intended to bury the -whole nine but when I had disposed of eight my invention of horrors -gave out and I permitted the ninth to live as a hopeless cripple." - -While Stella read My Graves, punctuating its tragic paragraphs -with chuckles, and Rusty slept the sleep of a just cat who has -been out all night curled up on a Jane Andrews tale of a beautiful -maiden of fifteen who went to nurse in a leper colony -- of course -dying of the loathsome disease finally -- Anne glanced over the other -manuscripts and recalled the old days at Avonlea school when the members -of the Story Club, sitting under the spruce trees or down among the -ferns by the brook, had written them. What fun they had had! -How the sunshine and mirth of those olden summers returned as she read. -Not all the glory that was Greece or the grandeur that was Rome could -weave such wizardry as those funny, tearful tales of the Story Club. -Among the manuscripts Anne found one written on sheets of wrapping paper. -A wave of laughter filled her gray eyes as she recalled the time and -place of its genesis. It was the sketch she had written the day she -fell through the roof of the Cobb duckhouse on the Tory Road. - -Anne glanced over it, then fell to reading it intently. It was a -little dialogue between asters and sweet-peas, wild canaries in the -lilac bush, and the guardian spirit of the garden. After she had -read it, she sat, staring into space; and when Stella had gone she -smoothed out the crumpled manuscript. - -"I believe I will," she said resolutely. - - - - -Chapter XXXVI - -The Gardners'Call - - -"Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Aunt Jimsie," -said Phil. "Here are three for Stella, and two for Pris, and a -glorious fat one for me from Jo. There's nothing for you, Anne, -except a circular." - -Nobody noticed Anne's flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed -her carelessly. But a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a -transfigured Anne. - -"Honey, what good thing has happened?" - -"The Youth's Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a -fortnight ago," said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were -accustomed to having sketches accepted every mail, but not -quite succeeding. - -"Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be -published? Did they pay you for it?" - -"Yes; they've sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes -that he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. -It was an old sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent -it in -- but I never really thought it could be accepted because -it had no plot," said Anne, recalling the bitter experience of -Averil's Atonement. - -"What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let's all -go up town and get drunk," suggested Phil. - -"I AM going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some sort," -declared Anne gaily. "At all events it isn't tainted money -- -like the check I got for that horrible Reliable Baking Powder story. -I spent IT usefully for clothes and hated them every time I put them on." - -"Think of having a real live author at Patty's Place," said Priscilla. - -"It's a great responsibility," said Aunt Jamesina solemnly. - -"Indeed it is," agreed Pris with equal solemnity. "Authors are -kittle cattle. You never know when or how they will break out. -Anne may make copy of us." - -"I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great -responsibility," said Aunt Jamesina severely. "and I hope Anne -realizes, it. My daughter used to write stories before she went -to the foreign field, but now she has turned her attention to -higher things. She used to say her motto was `Never write a line -you would be ashamed to read at your own funeral.' You'd better -take that for yours, Anne, if you are going to embark in literature. -Though, to be sure," added Aunt Jamesina perplexedly, "Elizabeth -always used to laugh when she said it. She always laughed so much -that I don't know how she ever came to decide on being a missionary. -I'm thankful she did -- I prayed that she might -- but -- I wish -she hadn't." - -Then Aunt Jamesina wondered why those giddy girls all laughed. - -Anne's eyes shone all that day; literary ambitions sprouted and -budded in her brain; their exhilaration accompanied her to Jennie -Cooper's walking party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and -Christine, walking just ahead of her and Roy, could quite subdue -the sparkle of her starry hopes. Nevertheless, she was not so -rapt from things of earth as to be unable to notice that -Christine's walk was decidedly ungraceful. - -"But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face. So like a man," -thought Anne scornfully. - -"Shall you be home Saturday afternoon?" asked Roy. - -"Yes." - -"My mother and sisters are coming to call on you," said Roy quietly. - -Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but -it was hardly a pleasant one. She had never met any of Roy's family; -she realized the significance of his statement; and it had, somehow, -an irrevocableness about it that chilled her. - -"I shall be glad to see them," she said flatly; and then wondered -if she really would be glad. She ought to be, of course. But -would it not be something of an ordeal? Gossip had filtered to -Anne regarding the light in which the Gardners viewed the -"infatuation" of son and brother. Roy must have brought pressure -to bear in the matter of this call. Anne knew she would be -weighed in the balance. From the fact that they had consented to -call she understood that, willingly or unwillingly, they regarded -her as a possible member of their clan. - -"I shall just be myself. I shall not TRY to make a good impression," -thought Anne loftily. But she was wondering what dress she would -better wear Saturday afternoon, and if the new style of high -hair-dressing would suit her better than the old; and the walking -party was rather spoiled for her. By night she had decided that she -would wear her brown chiffon on Saturday, but would do her hair low. - -Friday afternoon none of the girls had classes at Redmond. -Stella took the opportunity to write a paper for the Philomathic -Society, and was sitting at the table in the corner of the -living-room with an untidy litter of notes and manuscript on the -floor around her. Stella always vowed she never could write -anything unless she threw each sheet down as she completed it. -Anne, in her flannel blouse and serge skirt, with her hair rather -blown from her windy walk home, was sitting squarely in the -middle of the floor, teasing the Sarah-cat with a wishbone. -Joseph and Rusty were both curled up in her lap. A warm plummy -odor filled the whole house, for Priscilla was cooking in the -kitchen. Presently she came in, enshrouded in a huge work-apron, -with a smudge of flour on her nose, to show Aunt Jamesina the -chocolate cake she had just iced. - -At this auspicious moment the knocker sounded. Nobody paid any -attention to it save Phil, who sprang up and opened it, expecting -a boy with the hat she had bought that morning. On the doorstep -stood Mrs. Gardner and her daughters. - -Anne scrambled to her feet somehow, emptying two indignant cats -out of her lap as she did so, and mechanically shifting her -wishbone from her right hand to her left. Priscilla, who would -have had to cross the room to reach the kitchen door, lost her -head, wildly plunged the chocolate cake under a cushion on the -inglenook sofa, and dashed upstairs. Stella began feverishly -gathering up her manuscript. Only Aunt Jamesina and Phil -remained normal. Thanks to them, everybody was soon sitting at -ease, even Anne. Priscilla came down, apronless and smudgeless, -Stella reduced her corner to decency, and Phil saved the -situation by a stream of ready small talk. - -Mrs. Gardner was tall and thin and handsome, exquisitely -gowned, cordial with a cordiality that seemed a trifle forced. -Aline Gardner was a younger edition of her mother, lacking the -cordiality. She endeavored to be nice, but succeeded only in -being haughty and patronizing. Dorothy Gardner was slim and -jolly and rather tomboyish. Anne knew she was Roy's favorite -sister and warmed to her. She would have looked very much like -Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes instead of roguish hazel -ones. Thanks to her and Phil, the call really went off very -well, except for a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere -and two rather untoward incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to -themselves, began a game of chase, and sprang madly into -Mrs. Gardner's silken lap and out of it in their wild career. -Mrs. Gardner lifted her lorgnette and gazed after their flying -forms as if she had never seen cats before, and Anne, choking -back slightly nervous laughter, apologized as best she could. - -"You are fond of cats?" said Mrs. Gardner, with a slight -intonation of tolerant wonder. - -Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of -cats, but Mrs. Gardner's tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she -remembered that Mrs. John Blythe was so fond of cats that she -kept as many as her husband would allow. - -"They ARE adorable animals, aren't they?" she said wickedly. - -"I have never liked cats," said Mrs. Gardner remotely. - -"I love them," said Dorothy. "They are so nice and selfish. -Dogs are TOO good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. -But cats are gloriously human." - -"You have two delightful old china dogs there. May I look at -them closely?" said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace -and thereby becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. -Picking up Magog, she sat down on the cushion under which was -secreted Priscilla's chocolate cake. Priscilla and Anne exchanged -agonized glances but could do nothing. The stately Aline continued to -sit on the cushion and discuss china dogs until the time of departure. - -Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne's hand and -whisper impulsively. - -"I KNOW you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all -about you. I'm the only one of the family he tells things to, -poor boy -- nobody COULD confide in mamma and Aline, you know. -What glorious times you girls must have here! Won't you let me -come often and have a share in them?" - -"Come as often as you like," Anne responded heartily, thankful -that one of Roy's sisters was likable. She would never like -Aline, so much was certain; and Aline would never like her, -though Mrs. Gardner might be won. Altogether, Anne sighed with -relief when the ordeal was over. - - "`Of all sad words of tongue or pen - The saddest are it might have been,'" - -quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. "This cake is -now what you might call a flat failure. And the cushion is -likewise ruined. Never tell me that Friday isn't unlucky." - -"People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn't come -on Friday," said Aunt Jamesina. - -"I fancy it was Roy's mistake," said Phil. "That boy isn't really -responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where IS Anne?" - -Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying. But she -made herself laugh instead. Rusty and Joseph had been TOO awful! -And Dorothy WAS a dear. - - - - -Chapter XXXVII - -Full-fledged B.A.'s - - -"I wish I were dead, or that it were tomorrow night," groaned Phil. - -"If you live long enough both wishes will come true," said Anne calmly. - -"It's easy for you to be serene. You're at home in Philosophy. -I'm not -- and when I think of that horrible paper tomorrow I quail. -If I should fail in it what would Jo say?" - -"You won't fail. How did you get on in Greek today?" - -"I don't know. Perhaps it was a good paper and perhaps it was -bad enough to make Homer turn over in his grave. I've studied -and mulled over notebooks until I'm incapable of forming an -opinion of anything. How thankful little Phil will be when all -this examinating is over." - -"Examinating? I never heard such a word." - -"Well, haven't I as good a right to make a word as any one else?" -demanded Phil. - -"Words aren't made -- they grow," said Anne. - -"Never mind -- I begin faintly to discern clear water ahead where -no examination breakers loom. Girls, do you -- can you realize -that our Redmond Life is almost over?" - -"I can't," said Anne, sorrowfully. "It seems just yesterday -that Pris and I were alone in that crowd of Freshmen at Redmond. -And now we are Seniors in our final examinations." - -"`Potent, wise, and reverend Seniors,'" quoted Phil. "Do you -suppose we really are any wiser than when we came to Redmond?" - -"You don't act as if you were by times," said Aunt Jamesina severely. - -"Oh, Aunt Jimsie, haven't we been pretty good girls, take us by -and large, these three winters you've mothered us?" pleaded Phil. - -"You've been four of the dearest, sweetest, goodest girls that -ever went together through college," averred Aunt Jamesina, who -never spoiled a compliment by misplaced economy. - -"But I mistrust you haven't any too much sense yet. It's not to -be expected, of course. Experience teaches sense. You can't -learn it in a college course. You've been to college four years -and I never was, but I know heaps more than you do, young ladies." - - "`There are lots of things that never go by rule, - There's a powerful pile o' knowledge - That you never get at college, - There are heaps of things you never learn at school,'" - -quoted Stella. - -"Have you learned anything at Redmond except dead languages and -geometry and such trash?" queried Aunt Jamesina. - -"Oh, yes. I think we have, Aunty," protested Anne. - -"We've learned the truth of what Professor Woodleigh told us -last Philomathic," said Phil. "He said, `Humor is the spiciest -condiment in the feast of existence. Laugh at your mistakes -but learn from them, joke over your troubles but gather strength -from them, make a jest of your difficulties but overcome them.' -Isn't that worth learning, Aunt Jimsie?" - -"Yes, it is, dearie. When you've learned to laugh at the things -that should be laughed at, and not to laugh at those that shouldn't, -you've got wisdom and understanding." - -"What have you got out of your Redmond course, Anne?" murmured -Priscilla aside. - -"I think," said Anne slowly, "that I really have learned to look -upon each little hindrance as a jest and each great one as the -foreshadowing of victory. Summing up, I think that is what -Redmond has given me." - -"I shall have to fall back on another Professor Woodleigh -quotation to express what it has done for me," said Priscilla. -"You remember that he said in his address, `There is so much -in the world for us all if we only have the eyes to see it, and -the heart to love it, and the hand to gather it to ourselves -- -so much in men and women, so much in art and literature, so much -everywhere in which to delight, and for which to be thankful.' -I think Redmond has taught me that in some measure, Anne." - -"Judging from what you all, say" remarked Aunt Jamesina, -"the sum and substance is that you can learn -- if you've got -natural gumption enough -- in four years at college what it -would take about twenty years of living to teach you. Well, -that justifies higher education in my opinion. It's a matter -I was always dubious about before." - -"But what about people who haven't natural gumption, Aunt Jimsie?" - -"People who haven't natural gumption never learn," retorted -Aunt Jamesina, "neither in college nor life. If they live to -be a hundred they really don't know anything more than when they -were born. It's their misfortune not their fault, poor souls. -But those of us who have some gumption should duly thank the -Lord for it." - -"Will you please define what gumption is, Aunt Jimsie?" asked Phil. - -"No, I won't, young woman. Any one who has gumption knows what -it is, and any one who hasn't can never know what it is. So there -is no need of defining it." - -The busy days flew by and examinations were over. Anne took -High Honors in English. Priscilla took Honors in Classics, and -Phil in Mathematics. Stella obtained a good all-round showing. -Then came Convocation. - -"This is what I would once have called an epoch in my life," -said Anne, as she took Roy's violets out of their box and gazed -at them thoughtfully. She meant to carry them, of course, but -her eyes wandered to another box on her table. It was filled -with lilies-of-the-valley, as fresh and fragrant as those which -bloomed in the Green Gables yard when June came to Avonlea. -Gilbert Blythe's card lay beside it. - -Anne wondered why Gilbert should have sent her flowers for Convocation. -She had seen very little of him during the past winter. He had come to -Patty's Place only one Friday evening since the Christmas holidays, -and they rarely met elsewhere. She knew he was studying very hard, -aiming at High Honors and the Cooper Prize, and he took little part -in the social doings of Redmond. Anne's own winter had been quite -gay socially. She had seen a good deal of the Gardners; she and -Dorothy were very intimate; college circles expected the announcement -of her engagement to Roy any day. Anne expected it herself. Yet -just before she left Patty's Place for Convocation she flung Roy's -violets aside and put Gilbert's lilies-of-the-valley in their place. -She could not have told why she did it. Somehow, old Avonlea days -and dreams and friendships seemed very close to her in this attainment -of her long-cherished ambitions. She and Gilbert had once picturedout -merrily the day on which they should be capped and gowned graduates in -Arts. The wonderful day had come and Roy's violets had no place in it. -Only her old friend's flowers seemed to belong to this fruition of -old-blossoming hopes which he had once shared. - -For years this day had beckoned and allured to her; but when it -came the one single, keen, abiding memory it left with her was -not that of the breathless moment when the stately president of -Redmond gave her cap and diploma and hailed her B.A.; it was not -of the flash in Gilbert's eyes when he saw her lilies, nor the -puzzled pained glance Roy gave her as he passed her on the platform. -It was not of Aline Gardner's condescending congratulations, or -Dorothy's ardent, impulsive good wishes. It was of one strange, -unaccountable pang that spoiled this long-expected day for her -and left in it a certain faint but enduring flavor of bitterness. - -The Arts graduates gave a graduation dance that night. When Anne -dressed for it she tossed aside the pearl beads she usually wore -and took from her trunk the small box that had come to Green Gables -on Christmas day. In it was a thread-like gold chain with a tiny -pink enamel heart as a pendant. On the accompanying card was written, -"With all good wishes from your old chum, Gilbert." Anne, laughing -over the memory the enamel heart conjured up the fatal day when -Gilbert had called her "Carrots" and vainly tried to make his peace -with a pink candy heart, had written him a nice little note of thanks. -But she had never worn the trinket. Tonight she fastened it about her -white throat with a dreamy smile. - -She and Phil walked to Redmond together. Anne walked in silence; -Phil chattered of many things. Suddenly she said, - -"I heard today that Gilbert Blythe's engagement to Christine -Stuart was to be announced as soon as Convocation was over. -Did you hear anything of it?" - -"No," said Anne. - -"I think it's true," said Phil lightly. - -Anne did not speak. In the darkness she felt her face burning. -She slipped her hand inside her collar and caught at the gold -chain. One energetic twist and it gave way. Anne thrust the -broken trinket into her pocket. Her hands were trembling and -her eyes were smarting. - -But she was the gayest of all the gay revellers that night, and -told Gilbert unregretfully that her card was full when he came to -ask her for a dance. Afterwards, when she sat with the girls -before the dying embers at Patty's Place, removing the spring -chilliness from their satin skins, none chatted more blithely -than she of the day's events. - -"Moody Spurgeon MacPherson called here tonight after you left," -said Aunt Jamesina, who had sat up to keep the fire on. "He didn't -know about the graduation dance. That boy ought to sleep with a -rubber band around his head to train his ears not to stick out. -I had a beau once who did that and it improved him immensely. -It was I who suggested it to him and he took my advice, but he -never forgave me for it." - -"Moody Spurgeon is a very serious young man," yawned Priscilla. -"He is concerned with graver matters than his ears. He is going -to be a minister, you know." - -"Well, I suppose the Lord doesn't regard the ears of a man," -said Aunt Jamesina gravely, dropping all further criticism of -Moody Spurgeon. Aunt Jamesina had a proper respect for the -cloth even in the case of an unfledged parson. - - - - -Chapter XXXVIII - -False Dawn - - -"Just imagine -- this night week I'll be in Avonlea -- delightful thought!" -said Anne, bending over the box in which she was packing Mrs. Rachel Lynde's -quilts. "But just imagine -- this night week I'll be gone forever from -Patty's Place -- horrible thought!" - -"I wonder if the ghost of all our laughter will echo through the maiden -dreams of Miss Patty and Miss Maria," speculated Phil. - -Miss Patty and Miss Maria were coming home, after having trotted over -most of the habitable globe. - -"We'll be back the second week in May" wrote Miss Patty. "I expect -Patty's Place will seem rather small after the Hall of the Kings at -Karnak, but I never did like big places to live in. And I'll be glad -enough to be home again. When you start traveling late in life you're -apt to do too much of it because you know you haven't much time left, -and it's a thing that grows on you. I'm afraid Maria will never be -contented again." - -"I shall leave here my fancies and dreams to bless the next comer," -said Anne, looking around the blue room wistfully -- her pretty blue -room where she had spent three such happy years. She had knelt at -its window to pray and had bent from it to watch the sunset behind -the pines. She had heard the autumn raindrops beating against it -and had welcomed the spring robins at its sill. She wondered if -old dreams could haunt rooms -- if, when one left forever the room -where she had joyed and suffered and laughed and wept, something -of her, intangible and invisible, yet nonetheless real, did not -remain behind like a voiceful memory. - -"I think," said Phil, "that a room where one dreams and grieves -and rejoices and lives becomes inseparably connected with those -processes and acquires a personality of its own. I am sure if I -came into this room fifty years from now it would say 'Anne, Anne' -to me. What nice times we've had here, honey! What chats and -jokes and good chummy jamborees! Oh, dear me! I'm to marry Jo -in June and I know I will be rapturously happy. But just now -I feel as if I wanted this lovely Redmond life to go on forever." - -"I'm unreasonable enough just now to wish that, too," admitted Anne. -"No matter what deeper joys may come to us later on we'll never again -have just the same delightful, irresponsible existence we've had here. -It's over forever, Phil." - -"What are you going to do with Rusty?" asked Phil, as that -privileged pussy padded into the room. - -"I am going to take him home with me and Joseph and the Sarah-cat," -announced Aunt Jamesina, following Rusty. "It would be a shame -to separate those cats now that they have learned to live together. -It's a hard lesson for cats and humans to learn." - -"I'm sorry to part with Rusty," said Anne regretfully, "but it -would be no use to take him to Green Gables. Marilla detests -cats, and Davy would tease his life out. Besides, I don't -suppose I'll be home very long. I've been offered the -principalship of the Summerside High School." - -"Are you going to accept it?" asked Phil. - -"I -- I haven't decided yet," answered Anne, with a confused flush. - -Phil nodded understandingly. Naturally Anne's plans could not be -settled until Roy had spoken. He would soon -- there was no doubt -of that. And there was no doubt that Anne would say "yes" when he -said "Will you please?" Anne herself regarded the state of affairs -with a seldom-ruffled complacency. She was deeply in love with Roy. -True, it was not just what she had imagined love to be. But was -anything in life, Anne asked herself wearily, like one's imagination -of it? It was the old diamond disillusion of childhood repeated -- -the same disappointment she had felt when she had first seen the -chill sparkle instead of the purple splendor she had anticipated. -"That's not my idea of a diamond," she had said. But Roy was a -dear fellow and they would be very happy together, even if some -indefinable zest was missing out of life. When Roy came down that -evening and asked Anne to walk in the park every one at Patty's -Place knew what he had come to say; and every one knew, or thought -they knew, what Anne's answer would be. - -"Anne is a very fortunate girl," said Aunt Jamesina. - -"I suppose so," said Stella, shrugging her shoulders. "Roy is a -nice fellow and all that. But there's really nothing in him." - -"That sounds very like a jealous remark, Stella Maynard," said -Aunt Jamesina rebukingly. - -"It does -- but I am not jealous," said Stella calmly. "I love -Anne and I like Roy. Everybody says she is making a brilliant -match, and even Mrs. Gardner thinks her charming now. It all -sounds as if it were made in heaven, but I have my doubts. -Make the most of that, Aunt Jamesina." - -Roy asked Anne to marry him in the little pavilion on the harbor -shore where they had talked on the rainy day of their first meeting. -Anne thought it very romantic that he should have chosen that spot. -And his proposal was as beautifully worded as if he had copied it, -as one of Ruby Gillis' lovers had done, out of a Deportment of -Courtship and Marriage. The whole effect was quite flawless. -And it was also sincere. There was no doubt that Roy meant -what he said. There was no false note to jar the symphony. -Anne felt that she ought to be thrilling from head to foot. -But she wasn't; she was horribly cool. When Roy paused -for his answer she opened her lips to say her fateful yes. -And then -- she found herself trembling as if she were reeling -back from a precipice. To her came one of those moments when we -realize, as by a blinding flash of illumination, more than all -our previous years have taught us. She pulled her hand from Roy's. - -"Oh, I can't marry you -- I can't -- I can't," she cried, wildly. - -Roy turned pale -- and also looked rather foolish. He had -- -small blame to him -- felt very sure. - -"What do you mean?" he stammered. - -"I mean that I can't marry you," repeated Anne desperately. -"I thought I could -- but I can't." - -"Why can't you?" Roy asked more calmly. - -"Because -- I don't care enough for you." - -A crimson streak came into Roy's face. - -"So you've just been amusing yourself these two years?" he said slowly. - -"No, no, I haven't," gasped poor Anne. Oh, how could she explain? -She COULDN'T explain. There are some things that cannot be explained. -"I did think I cared -- truly I did -- but I know now I don't." - -"You have ruined my life," said Roy bitterly. - -"Forgive me," pleaded Anne miserably, with hot cheeks and -stinging eyes. - -Roy turned away and stood for a few minutes looking out seaward. -When he came back to Anne, he was very pale again. - -"You can give me no hope?" he said. - -Anne shook her head mutely. - -"Then -- good-bye," said Roy. "I can't understand it -- I -can't believe you are not the woman I've believed you to be. -But reproaches are idle between us. You are the only woman -I can ever love. I thank you for your friendship, at least. -Good-bye, Anne." - -"Good-bye," faltered Anne. When Roy had gone she sat for a long -time in the pavilion, watching a white mist creeping subtly and -remorselessly landward up the harbor. It was her hour of humiliation -and self-contempt and shame. Their waves went over her. And yet, -underneath it all, was a queer sense of recovered freedom. - -She slipped into Patty's Place in the dusk and escaped to her room. -But Phil was there on the window seat. - -"Wait," said Anne, flushing to anticipate the scene. "Wait til -you hear what I have to say. Phil, Roy asked me to marry him-and -I refused." - -"You -- you REFUSED him?" said Phil blankly. - -"Yes." - -"Anne Shirley, are you in your senses?" - -"I think so," said Anne wearily. "Oh, Phil, don't scold me. -You don't understand." - -"I certainly don't understand. You've encouraged Roy Gardner in -every way for two years -- and now you tell me you've refused him. -Then you've just been flirting scandalously with him. Anne, I -couldn't have believed it of YOU." - -"I WASN'T flirting with him -- I honestly thought I cared up to the -last minute -- and then -- well, I just knew I NEVER could marry him." - -"I suppose," said Phil cruelly, "that you intended to marry him -for his money, and then your better self rose up and prevented you." - -"I DIDN'T. I never thought about his money. Oh, I can't explain -it to you any more than I could to him." - -"Well, I certainly think you have treated Roy shamefully," said Phil -in exasperation. "He's handsome and clever and rich and good. -What more do you want?" - -"I want some one who BELONGS in my life. He doesn't. I was -swept off my feet at first by his good looks and knack of paying -romantic compliments; and later on I thought I MUST be in love -because he was my dark-eyed ideal." - -"I am bad enough for not knowing my own mind, but you are worse," -said Phil. - -"_I_ DO know my own mind," protested Anne. "The trouble is, my mind -changes and then I have to get acquainted with it all over again." - -"Well, I suppose there is no use in saying anything to you." - -"There is no need, Phil. I'm in the dust. This has spoiled -everything backwards. I can never think of Redmond days without -recalling the humiliation of this evening. Roy despises me -- -and you despise me -- and I despise myself." - -"You poor darling," said Phil, melting. "Just come here and let -me comfort you. I've no right to scold you. I'd have married -Alec or Alonzo if I hadn't met Jo. Oh, Anne, things are so -mixed-up in real life. They aren't clear-cut and trimmed off, -as they are in novels." - -"I hope that NO one will ever again ask me to marry him as long as -I live," sobbed poor Anne, devoutly believing that she meant it. - - - - -Chapter XXXIX - -Deals with Weddings - - -Anne felt that life partook of the nature of an anticlimax during -the first few weeks after her return to Green Gables. She missed -the merry comradeship of Patty's Place. She had dreamed some -brilliant dreams during the past winter and now they lay in the -dust around her. In her present mood of self-disgust, she could -not immediately begin dreaming again. And she discovered that, -while solitude with dreams is glorious, solitude without them -has few charms. - -She had not seen Roy again after their painful parting in the -park pavilion; but Dorothy came to see her before she left Kingsport. - -"I'm awfully sorry you won't marry Roy," she said. "I did want you -for a sister. But you are quite right. He would bore you to death. -I love him, and he is a dear sweet boy, but really he isn't a bit -interesting. He looks as if he ought to be, but he isn't." - -"This won't spoil OUR friendship, will it, Dorothy?" Anne had -asked wistfully. - -"No, indeed. You're too good to lose. If I can't have you for a -sister I mean to keep you as a chum anyway. And don't fret over -Roy. He is feeling terribly just now -- I have to listen to his -outpourings every day -- but he'll get over it. He always does." - -"Oh -- ALWAYS?" said Anne with a slight change of voice. -"So he has `got over it' before?" - -"Dear me, yes," said Dorothy frankly. "Twice before. And he -raved to me just the same both times. Not that the others -actually refused him -- they simply announced their engagements -to some one else. Of course, when he met you he vowed to me that -he had never really loved before -- that the previous affairs had -been merely boyish fancies. But I don't think you need worry." - -Anne decided not to worry. Her feelings were a mixture of relief -and resentment. Roy had certainly told her she was the only one -he had ever loved. No doubt he believed it. But it was a comfort -to feel that she had not, in all likelihood, ruined his life. -There were other goddesses, and Roy, according to Dorothy, must -needs be worshipping at some shrine. Nevertheless, life was -stripped of several more illusions, and Anne began to think -drearily that it seemed rather bare. - -She came down from the porch gable on the evening of her return -with a sorrowful face. - -"What has happened to the old Snow Queen, Marilla?" - -"Oh, I knew you'd feel bad over that," said Marilla. "I felt bad myself. -That tree was there ever since I was a young girl. It blew down in the -big gale we had in March. It was rotten at the core." - -"I'll miss it so," grieved Anne. "The porch gable doesn't seem -the same room without it. I'll never look from its window again -without a sense of loss. And oh, I never came home to Green Gables -before that Diana wasn't here to welcome me." - -"Diana has something else to think of just now," said Mrs. Lynde -significantly. - -"Well, tell me all the Avonlea news," said Anne, sitting down on -the porch steps, where the evening sunshine fell over her hair -in a fine golden rain. - -"There isn't much news except what we've wrote you," said Mrs. Lynde. -"I suppose you haven't heard that Simon Fletcher broke his leg last week. -It's a great thing for his family. They're getting a hundred things done -that they've always wanted to do but couldn't as long as he was about, -the old crank." - -"He came of an aggravating family," remarked Marilla. - -"Aggravating? Well, rather! His mother used to get up in -prayer-meeting and tell all her children's shortcomings and ask -prayers for them. `Course it made them mad, and worse than ever." - -"You haven't told Anne the news about Jane," suggested Marilla. - -"Oh, Jane," sniffed Mrs. Lynde. "Well," she conceded grudgingly, -"Jane Andrews is home from the West -- came last week -- and she's -going to be married to a Winnipeg millionaire. You may be sure -Mrs. Harmon lost no time in telling it far and wide." - -"Dear old Jane -- I'm so glad," said Anne heartily. "She deserves -the good things of life." - -"Oh, I ain't saying anything against Jane. She's a nice enough girl. -But she isn't in the millionaire class, and you'll find there's not -much to recommend that man but his money, that's what. Mrs. Harmon -says he's an Englishman who has made money in mines but _I_ believe -he'll turn out to be a Yankee. He certainly must have money, for -he has just showered Jane with jewelry. Her engagement ring is a -diamond cluster so big that it looks like a plaster on Jane's fat paw." - -Mrs. Lynde could not keep some bitterness out of her tone. -Here was Jane Andrews, that plain little plodder, engaged -to a millionaire, while Anne, it seemed, was not yet bespoken -by any one, rich or poor. And Mrs. Harmon Andrews did brag -insufferably. - -"What has Gilbert Blythe been doing to at college?" asked Marilla. -"I saw him when he came home last week, and he is so pale and thin -I hardly knew him." - -"He studied very hard last winter," said Anne. "You know he -took High Honors in Classics and the Cooper Prize. It hasn't -been taken for five years! So I think he's rather run down. -We're all a little tired." - -"Anyhow, you're a B.A. and Jane Andrews isn't and never will be," -said Mrs. Lynde, with gloomy satisfaction. - -A few evenings later Anne went down to see Jane, but the latter -was away in Charlottetown -- "getting sewing done," Mrs. Harmon -informed Anne proudly. "Of course an Avonlea dressmaker wouldn't -do for Jane under the circumstances." - -"I've heard something very nice about Jane," said Anne. - -"Yes, Jane has done pretty well, even if she isn't a B.A.," said -Mrs. Harmon, with a slight toss of her head. "Mr. Inglis is worth -millions, and they're going to Europe on their wedding tour. -When they come back they'll live in a perfect mansion of marble -in Winnipeg. Jane has only one trouble -- she can cook so well -and her husband won't let her cook. He is so rich he hires -his cooking done. They're going to keep a cook and two other -maids and a coachman and a man-of-all-work. But what about YOU, -Anne? I don't hear anything of your being married, after all -your college-going." - -"Oh," laughed Anne, "I am going to be an old maid. I really -can't find any one to suit me." It was rather wicked of her. -She deliberately meant to remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became -an old maid it was not because she had not had at least one -chance of marriage. But Mrs. Harmon took swift revenge. - -"Well, the over-particular girls generally get left, I notice. -And what's this I hear about Gilbert Blythe being engaged to a -Miss Stuart? Charlie Sloane tells me she is perfectly beautiful. -Is it true?" - -"I don't know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss Stuart," -replied Anne, with Spartan composure, "but it is certainly true -that she is very lovely." - -"I once thought you and Gilbert would have made a match of it," -said Mrs. Harmon. "If you don't take care, Anne, all of your -beaux will slip through your fingers." - -Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. -You could not fence with an antagonist who met rapier thrust -with blow of battle axe. - -"Since Jane is away," she said, rising haughtily, "I don't think -I can stay longer this morning. I'll come down when she comes home." - -"Do," said Mrs. Harmon effusively. "Jane isn't a bit proud. -She just means to associate with her old friends the same as ever. -She'll be real glad to see you." - -Jane's millionaire arrived the last of May and carried her off in -a blaze of splendor. Mrs. Lynde was spitefully gratified to -find that Mr. Inglis was every day of forty, and short and thin -and grayish. Mrs. Lynde did not spare him in her enumeration of -his shortcomings, you may be sure. - -"It will take all his gold to gild a pill like him, that's what," -said Mrs. Rachel solemnly. - -"He looks kind and good-hearted," said Anne loyally, "and I'm -sure he thinks the world of Jane." - -"Humph!" said Mrs. Rachel. - -Phil Gordon was married the next week and Anne went over to -Bolingbroke to be her bridesmaid. Phil made a dainty fairy of -a bride, and the Rev. Jo was so radiant in his happiness that -nobody thought him plain. - -"We're going for a lovers' saunter through the land of Evangeline," -said Phil, "and then we'll settle down on Patterson Street. -Mother thinks it is terrible -- she thinks Jo might at least -take a church in a decent place. But the wilderness of the -Patterson slums will blossom like the rose for me if Jo is there. -Oh, Anne, I'm so happy my heart aches with it." - -Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends; but it -is sometimes a little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by a -happiness that is not your own. And it was just the same when -she went back to Avonlea. This time it was Diana who was bathed -in the wonderful glory that comes to a woman when her first-born -is laid beside her. Anne looked at the white young mother with a -certain awe that had never entered into her feelings for Diana -before. Could this pale woman with the rapture in her eyes be -the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked Diana she had played with -in vanished schooldays? It gave her a queer desolate feeling -that she herself somehow belonged only in those past years and -had no business in the present at all. - -"Isn't he perfectly beautiful?" said Diana proudly. - -The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred -- just as round, -just as red. Anne really could not say conscientiously that she -thought him beautiful, but she vowed sincerely that he was sweet -and kissable and altogether delightful. - -"Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE," -said Diana. "But now that little Fred is here I wouldn't exchange -him for a million girls. He just COULDN'T have been anything but -his own precious self." - -"`Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,' " quoted -Mrs. Allan gaily. "If little Anne HAD come you'd have felt -just the same about her." - -Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since -leaving it. She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. -Her old girl friends had welcomed her back rapturously. -The reigning minister's wife was an estimable lady, but she -was not exactly a kindred spirit. - -"I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk," sighed Diana. -"I just long to hear him say `mother.' And oh, I'm determined that -his first memory of me shall be a nice one. The first memory I -have of my mother is of her slapping me for something I had done. -I am sure I deserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I -love her dearly. But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer." - -"I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of -all my memories," said Mrs. Allan. "I was five years old, and I -had been allowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters. -When school came out my sisters went home in different groups, each -supposing I was with the other. Instead I had run off with a little -girl I had played with at recess. We went to her home, which was -near the school, and began making mud pies. We were having a -glorious time when my older sister arrived, breathless and angry. - -"`You naughty girl" she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and -dragging me along with her. `Come home this minute. Oh, you're -going to catch it! Mother is awful cross. She is going to give -you a good whipping.' - -"I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor -little heart. I have never been so miserable in my life as I was -on that walk home. I had not meant to be naughty. Phemy Cameron -had asked me to go home with her and I had not known it was wrong -to go. And now I was to be whipped for it. When we got home my -sister dragged me into the kitchen where mother was sitting by -the fire in the twilight. My poor wee legs were trembling so -that I could hardly stand. And mother -- mother just took me up -in her arms, without one word of rebuke or harshness, kissed me -and held me close to her heart. `I was so frightened you were -lost, darling,' she said tenderly. I could see the love shining -in her eyes as she looked down on me. She never scolded or -reproached me for what I had done -- only told me I must never go -away again without asking permission. She died very soon -afterwards. That is the only memory I have of her. Isn't it a -beautiful one?" - -Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of -the Birch Path and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for -many moons. It was a darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was -heavy with blossom fragrance -- almost too heavy. The cloyed -senses recoiled from it as from an overfull cup. The birches of -the path had grown from the fairy saplings of old to big trees. -Everything had changed. Anne felt that she would be glad when -the summer was over and she was away at work again. Perhaps life -would not seem so empty then. - - "`I've tried the world -- it wears no more - The coloring of romance it wore,'" - -sighed Anne -- and was straightway much comforted by the romance -in the idea of the world being denuded of romance! - - - - -Chapter XL - -A Book of Revelation - - -The Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent -a happy three weeks there in July. Miss Lavendar had not changed; -Charlotta the Fourth was a very grown-up young lady now, but still -adored Anne sincerely. - -"When all's said and done, Miss Shirley, ma'am, I haven't seen -any one in Boston that's equal to you," she said frankly. - -Paul was almost grown up, too. He was sixteen, his chestnut -curls had given place to close-cropped brown locks, and he was -more interested in football than fairies. But the bond between -him and his old teacher still held. Kindred spirits alone do not -change with changing years. - -It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to -Green Gables. One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes -sweep over the gulf was ravaging the sea. As Anne came in the -first raindrops dashed against the panes. - -"Was that Paul who brought you home?" asked Marilla. "Why didn't -you make him stay all night. It's going to be a wild evening." - -"He'll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think. -Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight. Well, I've had a splendid -visit, but I'm glad to see you dear folks again. `East, west, -hame's best.' Davy, have you been growing again lately?" - -"I've growed a whole inch since you left," said Davy proudly. -"I'm as tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain't I glad. He'll have to -stop crowing about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that -Gilbert Blythe is dying?" Anne stood quite silent and motionless, -looking at Davy. Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought -she was going to faint. - -"Davy, hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel angrily. "Anne, -don't look like that -- DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT! We didn't mean -to tell you so suddenly." - -"Is -- it -- true?" asked Anne in a voice that was not hers. - -"Gilbert is very ill," said Mrs. Lynde gravely. "He took down -with typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you -never hear of it?" - -"No," said that unknown voice. - -"It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he'd -been terribly run down. They've a trained nurse and everything's -been done. DON'T look like that, Anne. While there's life -there's hope." - -"Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of him," -reiterated Davy. - -Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly -out of the kitchen. - -"Oh, DON'T look so, dear," said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old arms -about the pallid girl. "I haven't given up hope, indeed I haven't. -He's got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that's what." - -Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde's arms away from her, walked blindly -across the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. -At its window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. -The rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods -was full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the -air throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. -And Gilbert was dying! - -There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the Bible. -Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil through -the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert -- had always loved him! -She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him out of her life -without agony than she could have cut off her right hand and cast it from her. -And the knowledge had come too late -- too late even for the bitter solace -of being with him at the last. If she had not been so blind -- so foolish --- she would have had the right to go to him now. But he would never know -that she loved him -- he would go away from this life thinking that she -did not care. Oh, the black years of emptiness stretching before her! -She could not live through them -- she could not! She cowered down by -her window and wished, for the first time in her gay young life, that -she could die, too. If Gilbert went away from her, without one word or -sign or message, she could not live. Nothing was of any value without him. -She belonged to him and he to her. In her hour of supreme agony she had -no doubt of that. He did not love Christine Stuart -- never had loved -Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool she had been not to realize what the -bond was that had held her to Gilbert -- to think that the flattered -fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And now she must pay -for her folly as for a crime. - -Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, -shook their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, -and went away. The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came -it was spent. Anne saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of -darkness. Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. -The clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses -on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and silvery. A hush fell -over the world. - -Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of -the rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into -the yard, and cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking -whistle was lilting up the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote -came in sight. - -Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not -clutched at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique -was George Fletcher's hired man, and George Fletcher lived -next door to the Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt. -Pacifique would know if -- if -- Pacifique would know what there -was to be known. - -Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He -did not see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. -He was almost past before she succeeded in making her quivering -lips call, "Pacifique!" - -Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning. - -"Pacifique," said Anne faintly, "did you come from George -Fletcher's this morning?" - -"Sure," said Pacifique amiably. "I got de word las' night dat my -fader, he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn't go den, so I -start vair early dis mornin'. I'm goin' troo de woods for short cut." - -"Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?" Anne's -desperation drove her to the question. Even the worst would be -more endurable than this hideous suspense. - -"He's better," said Pacifique. "He got de turn las' night. -De doctor say he'll be all right now dis soon while. Had close -shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus' keel himself at college. -Well, I mus' hurry. De old man, he'll be in hurry to see me." - -Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him -with eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. -He was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight -he was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains. -Never, as long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique's brown, round, -black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had -given to her the oil of joy for mourning. - -Long after Pacifique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of -music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's -Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness -of life when some great dread has been removed from it. The -morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner -near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. -The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree -above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence -from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips, - -"Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning." - - - - -XLI - -Love Takes Up the Glass of Time - - -"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles -through September woods and `over hills where spices grow,' this -afternoon," said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. -"Suppose we visit Hester Gray's garden." - -Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, -filmy, green stuff, looked up rather blankly. - -"Oh, I wish I could," she said slowly, "but I really can't, -Gilbert. I'm going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening, -you know. I've got to do something to this dress, and by -the time it's finished I'll have to get ready. I'm so sorry. -I'd love to go." - -"Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?" asked Gilbert, -apparently not much disappointed. - -"Yes, I think so." - -"In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I -should otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is -to be married tonight. Three weddings for you in one summer, -Anne -- Phil's, Alice's, and Jane's. I'll never forgive Jane -for not inviting me to her wedding." - -"You really can't blame her when you think of the tremendous -Andrews connection who had to be invited. The house could hardly -hold them all. I was only bidden by grace of being Jane's old -chum -- at least on Jane's part. I think Mrs. Harmon's motive -for inviting me was to let me see Jane's surpassing gorgeousness." - -"Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn't tell -where the diamonds left off and Jane began?" - -Anne laughed. - -"She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and -white satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, -prim little Jane was almost lost to sight. But she was VERY -happy, and so was Mr. Inglis -- and so was Mrs. Harmon." - -"Is that the dress you're going to wear tonight?" asked Gilbert, -looking down at the fluffs and frills. - -"Yes. Isn't it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. -The Haunted Wood is full of them this summer." - -Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown, -with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, -and white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. -The vision made him catch his breath. But he turned lightly away. - -"Well, I'll be up tomorrow. Hope you'll have a nice time tonight." - -Anne looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was -friendly -- very friendly -- far too friendly. He had come quite -often to Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their -old comradeship had returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. -The rose of love made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless -by contrast. And Anne had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt -anything for her but friendship. In the common light of common -day her radiant certainty of that rapt morning had faded. She was -haunted by a miserable fear that her mistake could never be rectified. -It was quite likely that it was Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. -Perhaps he was even engaged to her. Anne tried to put all unsettling -hopes out of her heart, and reconcile herself to a future where work -and ambition must take the place of love. She could do good, if not -noble, work as a teacher; and the success her little sketches were -beginning to meet with in certain editorial sanctums augured well -for her budding literary dreams. But -- but -- Anne picked up her -green dress and sighed again. - -When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him, -fresh as the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the -preceding night. She wore a green dress -- not the one she had -worn to the wedding, but an old one which Gilbert had told her -at a Redmond reception he liked especially. It was just the shade -of green that brought out the rich tints of her hair, and the starry -gray of her eyes and the iris-like delicacy of her skin. Gilbert, -glancing at her sideways as they walked along a shadowy woodpath, -thought she had never looked so lovely. Anne, glancing sideways -at Gilbert, now and then, thought how much older he looked since -his illness. It was as if he had put boyhood behind him forever. - -The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost -sorry when they reached Hester Gray's garden, and sat down on the -old bench. But it was beautiful there, too -- as beautiful as it -had been on the faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and -Jane and Priscilla and she had found it. Then it had been lovely -with narcissus and violets; now golden rod had kindled its fairy -torches in the corners and asters dotted it bluely. The call of -the brook came up through the woods from the valley of birches -with all its old allurement; the mellow air was full of the purr -of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences bleached silvery -gray in the suns of many summers, and long hills scarfed with the -shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the west wind old -dreams returned. - -"I think," said Anne softly, "that `the land where dreams come true' -is in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley." - -"Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?" asked Gilbert. - -Something in his tone -- something she had not heard since that -miserable evening in the orchard at Patty's Place -- made Anne's -heart beat wildly. But she made answer lightly. - -"Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn't do for us to have all -our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had -nothing left to dream about. What a delicious aroma that -low-descending sun is extracting from the asters and ferns. -I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I'm sure -they would be very beautiful." - -Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked. - -"I have a dream," he said slowly. "I persist in dreaming it, -although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. -I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the -footsteps of friends -- and YOU!" - -Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was -breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her. - -"I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it -again today will you give me a different answer?" - -Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining -with all the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked -into his for a moment. He wanted no other answer. - -They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in -Eden must have been, crept over it. There was so much to talk -over and recall -- things said and done and heard and thought and -felt and misunderstood. - -"I thought you loved Christine Stuart," Anne told him, as -reproachfully as if she had not given him every reason to -suppose that she loved Roy Gardner. - -Gilbert laughed boyishly. - -"Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it -and she knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me -his sister was coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, -and asked me if I would look after her a bit, as she knew no one -and would be very lonely. So I did. And then I liked Christine -for her own sake. She is one of the nicest girls I've ever -known. I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with -each other. I didn't care. Nothing mattered much to me for a -time there, after you told me you could never love me, Anne. -There was nobody else -- there never could be anybody else for me -but you. I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate -over my head in school." - -"I don't see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a -little fool," said Anne. - -"Well, I tried to stop," said Gilbert frankly, "not because I -thought you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there -was no chance for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I -couldn't -- and I can't tell you, either, what it's meant to me -these two years to believe you were going to marry him, and be -told every week by some busybody that your engagement was on the -point of being announced. I believed it until one blessed day -when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from Phil -Gordon -- Phil Blake, rather -- in which she told me there was -really nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to `try again.' -Well, the doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that." - -Anne laughed -- then shivered. - -"I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. -Oh, I knew -- I KNEW then -- and I thought it was too late." - -"But it wasn't, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for -everything, doesn't it? Let's resolve to keep this day sacred to -perfect beauty all our lives for the gift it has given us." - -"It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly. -"I've always loved this old garden of Hester Gray's, -and now it will be dearer than ever." - -"But I'll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne," -said Gilbert sadly. "It will be three years before -I'll finish my medical course. And even then there -will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls." - -Anne laughed. - -"I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. -You see I'm quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and -marble halls may be all very well, but there is more `scope for -imagination' without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn't -matter. We'll just be happy, waiting and working for each other --- and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now." - -Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked -home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal -realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest -flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds -of hope and memory blew. - - - End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Anne of the Island. - - diff --git a/old/iland10.zip b/old/iland10.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index a51c0b8..0000000 --- a/old/iland10.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old-2024-08-27/51-0.txt b/old/old-2024-08-27/51-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cfd8250..0000000 --- a/old/old-2024-08-27/51-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9357 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Anne Of The Island, by Lucy Maud Montgomery - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Anne Of The Island - -Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery - -Release Date: January 1993 [eBook #51] -[Most recently updated: June 27, 2022] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Charles Keller and David Widger - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF THE ISLAND *** - - - - -Anne of the Island - -by Lucy Maud Montgomery - - - - -All precious things discovered late -To those that seek them issue forth, -For Love in sequel works with Fate, -And draws the veil from hidden worth. - —TENNYSON - - - - -to -all the girls -all over the world -who have “wanted more” -about ANNE - - - - -CONTENTS - - Chapter I. The Shadow of Change - Chapter II. Garlands of Autumn - Chapter III. Greeting and Farewell - Chapter IV. April’s Lady - Chapter V. Letters from Home - Chapter VI. In the Park - Chapter VII. Home Again - Chapter VIII. Anne’s First Proposal - Chapter IX. An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend - Chapter X. Patty’s Place - Chapter XI. The Round of Life - Chapter XII. “Averil’s Atonement” - Chapter XIII. The Way of Transgressors - Chapter XIV. The Summons - Chapter XV. A Dream Turned Upside Down - Chapter XVI. Adjusted Relationships - Chapter XVII. A Letter from Davy - Chapter XVIII. Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl - Chapter XIX. An Interlude - Chapter XX. Gilbert Speaks - Chapter XXI. Roses of Yesterday - Chapter XXII. Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables - Chapter XXIII. Paul Cannot Find the Rock People - Chapter XXIV. Enter Jonas - Chapter XXV. Enter Prince Charming - Chapter XXVI. Enter Christine - Chapter XXVII. Mutual Confidences - Chapter XXVIII. A June Evening - Chapter XXIX. Diana’s Wedding - Chapter XXX. Mrs. Skinner’s Romance - Chapter XXXI. Anne to Philippa - Chapter XXXII. Tea with Mrs. Douglas - Chapter XXXIII. “He Just Kept Coming and Coming” - Chapter XXXIV. John Douglas Speaks at Last - Chapter XXXV. The Last Redmond Year Opens - Chapter XXXVI. The Gardners’Call - Chapter XXXVII. Full-fledged B.A.’s - Chapter XXXVIII. False Dawn - Chapter XXXIX. Deals with Weddings - Chapter XL. A Book of Revelation - Chapter XLI. Love Takes Up the Glass of Time - - - - -Anne of the Island - - - - -Chapter I -The Shadow of Change - - -“Harvest is ended and summer is gone,” quoted Anne Shirley, gazing -across the shorn fields dreamily. She and Diana Barry had been picking -apples in the Green Gables orchard, but were now resting from their -labors in a sunny corner, where airy fleets of thistledown drifted by -on the wings of a wind that was still summer-sweet with the incense of -ferns in the Haunted Wood. - -But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn. The sea -was roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare and sere, -scarfed with golden rod, the brook valley below Green Gables overflowed -with asters of ethereal purple, and the Lake of Shining Waters was -blue—blue—blue; not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure of -summer, but a clear, steadfast, serene blue, as if the water were past -all moods and tenses of emotion and had settled down to a tranquility -unbroken by fickle dreams. - -“It has been a nice summer,” said Diana, twisting the new ring on her -left hand with a smile. “And Miss Lavendar’s wedding seemed to come as -a sort of crown to it. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving are on the Pacific -coast now.” - -“It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the -world,” sighed Anne. - -“I can’t believe it is only a week since they were married. Everything -has changed. Miss Lavendar and Mr. and Mrs. Allan gone—how lonely the -manse looks with the shutters all closed! I went past it last night, -and it made me feel as if everybody in it had died.” - -“We’ll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allan,” said Diana, -with gloomy conviction. “I suppose we’ll have all kinds of supplies -this winter, and half the Sundays no preaching at all. And you and -Gilbert gone—it will be awfully dull.” - -“Fred will be here,” insinuated Anne slyly. - -“When is Mrs. Lynde going to move up?” asked Diana, as if she had not -heard Anne’s remark. - -“Tomorrow. I’m glad she’s coming—but it will be another change. Marilla -and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday. Do you know, -I hated to do it? Of course, it was silly—but it did seem as if we were -committing sacrilege. That old spare room has always seemed like a -shrine to me. When I was a child I thought it the most wonderful -apartment in the world. You remember what a consuming desire I had to -sleep in a spare room bed—but not the Green Gables spare room. Oh, no, -never there! It would have been too terrible—I couldn’t have slept a -wink from awe. I never _walked_ through that room when Marilla sent me -in on an errand—no, indeed, I tiptoed through it and held my breath, as -if I were in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it. The -pictures of George Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington hung there, -one on each side of the mirror, and frowned so sternly at me all the -time I was in, especially if I dared peep in the mirror, which was the -only one in the house that didn’t twist my face a little. I always -wondered how Marilla dared houseclean that room. And now it’s not only -cleaned but stripped bare. George Whitefield and the Duke have been -relegated to the upstairs hall. ‘So passes the glory of this world,’” -concluded Anne, with a laugh in which there was a little note of -regret. It is never pleasant to have our old shrines desecrated, even -when we have outgrown them. - -“I’ll be so lonesome when you go,” moaned Diana for the hundredth time. -“And to think you go next week!” - -“But we’re together still,” said Anne cheerily. “We mustn’t let next -week rob us of this week’s joy. I hate the thought of going myself—home -and I are such good friends. Talk of being lonesome! It’s I who should -groan. _You’ll_ be here with any number of your old friends—_and_ Fred! -While I shall be alone among strangers, not knowing a soul!” - -“_Except_ Gilbert—_and_ Charlie Sloane,” said Diana, imitating Anne’s -italics and slyness. - -“Charlie Sloane will be a great comfort, of course,” agreed Anne -sarcastically; whereupon both those irresponsible damsels laughed. -Diana knew exactly what Anne thought of Charlie Sloane; but, despite -sundry confidential talks, she did not know just what Anne thought of -Gilbert Blythe. To be sure, Anne herself did not know that. - -“The boys may be boarding at the other end of Kingsport, for all I -know,” Anne went on. “I am glad I’m going to Redmond, and I am sure I -shall like it after a while. But for the first few weeks I know I -won’t. I shan’t even have the comfort of looking forward to the weekend -visit home, as I had when I went to Queen’s. Christmas will seem like a -thousand years away.” - -“Everything is changing—or going to change,” said Diana sadly. “I have -a feeling that things will never be the same again, Anne.” - -“We have come to a parting of the ways, I suppose,” said Anne -thoughtfully. “We had to come to it. Do you think, Diana, that being -grown-up is really as nice as we used to imagine it would be when we -were children?” - -“I don’t know—there are _some_ nice things about it,” answered Diana, -again caressing her ring with that little smile which always had the -effect of making Anne feel suddenly left out and inexperienced. “But -there are so many puzzling things, too. Sometimes I feel as if being -grown-up just frightened me—and then I would give anything to be a -little girl again.” - -“I suppose we’ll get used to being grownup in time,” said Anne -cheerfully. “There won’t be so many unexpected things about it by and -by—though, after all, I fancy it’s the unexpected things that give -spice to life. We’re eighteen, Diana. In two more years we’ll be -twenty. When I was ten I thought twenty was a green old age. In no time -you’ll be a staid, middle-aged matron, and I shall be nice, old maid -Aunt Anne, coming to visit you on vacations. You’ll always keep a -corner for me, won’t you, Di darling? Not the spare room, of course—old -maids can’t aspire to spare rooms, and I shall be as ’umble as _Uriah -Heep_, and quite content with a little over-the-porch or off-the-parlor -cubby hole.” - -“What nonsense you do talk, Anne,” laughed Diana. “You’ll marry -somebody splendid and handsome and rich—and no spare room in Avonlea -will be half gorgeous enough for you—and you’ll turn up your nose at -all the friends of your youth.” - -“That would be a pity; my nose is quite nice, but I fear turning it up -would spoil it,” said Anne, patting that shapely organ. “I haven’t so -many good features that I could afford to spoil those I have; so, even -if I should marry the King of the Cannibal Islands, I promise you I -won’t turn up my nose at you, Diana.” - -With another gay laugh the girls separated, Diana to return to Orchard -Slope, Anne to walk to the Post Office. She found a letter awaiting her -there, and when Gilbert Blythe overtook her on the bridge over the Lake -of Shining Waters she was sparkling with the excitement of it. - -“Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too,” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that -splendid? I hoped she would, but she didn’t think her father would -consent. He has, however, and we’re to board together. I feel that I -can face an army with banners—or all the professors of Redmond in one -fell phalanx—with a chum like Priscilla by my side.” - -“I think we’ll like Kingsport,” said Gilbert. “It’s a nice old burg, -they tell me, and has the finest natural park in the world. I’ve heard -that the scenery in it is magnificent.” - -“I wonder if it will be—can be—any more beautiful than this,” murmured -Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes of those to -whom “home” must always be the loveliest spot in the world, no matter -what fairer lands may lie under alien stars. - -They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of the -enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed from -her sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot. The fine, -empurpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies, but the moon -was rising and the water lay like a great, silver dream in her light. -Remembrance wove a sweet and subtle spell over the two young creatures. - -“You are very quiet, Anne,” said Gilbert at last. - -“I’m afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty will -vanish just like a broken silence,” breathed Anne. - -Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying on the -rail of the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still -boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled -his soul. But Anne snatched her hand away and turned quickly. The spell -of the dusk was broken for her. - -“I must go home,” she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness. -“Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I’m sure the twins will be -in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really shouldn’t have stayed -away so long.” - -She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached the -Green Gables lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get a word in -edgewise. Anne felt rather relieved when they parted. There had been a -new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert, -ever since that fleeting moment of revelation in the garden of Echo -Lodge. Something alien had intruded into the old, perfect, school-day -comradeship—something that threatened to mar it. - -“I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before,” she thought, -half-resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane. -“Our friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense. It -mustn’t be spoiled—I won’t let it. Oh, _why_ can’t boys be just -sensible!” - -Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly “sensible” that she -should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert’s, as -distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had rested -there; and still less sensible that the sensation was far from being an -unpleasant one—very different from that which had attended a similar -demonstration on Charlie Sloane’s part, when she had been sitting out a -dance with him at a White Sands party three nights before. Anne -shivered over the disagreeable recollection. But all problems connected -with infatuated swains vanished from her mind when she entered the -homely, unsentimental atmosphere of the Green Gables kitchen where an -eight-year-old boy was crying grievously on the sofa. - -“What is the matter, Davy?” asked Anne, taking him up in her arms. -“Where are Marilla and Dora?” - -“Marilla’s putting Dora to bed,” sobbed Davy, “and I’m crying ’cause -Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heels over head, and scraped -all the skin off her nose, and—” - -“Oh, well, don’t cry about it, dear. Of course, you are sorry for her, -but crying won’t help her any. She’ll be all right tomorrow. Crying -never helps any one, Davy-boy, and—” - -“I ain’t crying ’cause Dora fell down cellar,” said Davy, cutting short -Anne’s wellmeant preachment with increasing bitterness. “I’m crying, -cause I wasn’t there to see her fall. I’m always missing some fun or -other, seems to me.” - -“Oh, Davy!” Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter. “Would you -call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the steps and get hurt?” - -“She wasn’t _much_ hurt,” said Davy, defiantly. “’Course, if she’d been -killed I’d have been real sorry, Anne. But the Keiths ain’t so easy -killed. They’re like the Blewetts, I guess. Herb Blewett fell off the -hayloft last Wednesday, and rolled right down through the turnip chute -into the box stall, where they had a fearful wild, cross horse, and -rolled right under his heels. And still he got out alive, with only -three bones broke. Mrs. Lynde says there are some folks you can’t kill -with a meat-axe. Is Mrs. Lynde coming here tomorrow, Anne?” - -“Yes, Davy, and I hope you’ll be always very nice and good to her.” - -“I’ll be nice and good. But will she ever put me to bed at nights, -Anne?” - -“Perhaps. Why?” - -“’Cause,” said Davy very decidedly, “if she does I won’t say my prayers -before her like I do before you, Anne.” - -“Why not?” - -“’Cause I don’t think it would be nice to talk to God before strangers, -Anne. Dora can say hers to Mrs. Lynde if she likes, but _I_ won’t. I’ll -wait till she’s gone and then say ’em. Won’t that be all right, Anne?” - -“Yes, if you are sure you won’t forget to say them, Davy-boy.” - -“Oh, I won’t forget, you bet. I think saying my prayers is great fun. -But it won’t be as good fun saying them alone as saying them to you. I -wish you’d stay home, Anne. I don’t see what you want to go away and -leave us for.” - -“I don’t exactly _want_ to, Davy, but I feel I ought to go.” - -“If you don’t want to go you needn’t. You’re grown up. When _I_’m grown -up I’m not going to do one single thing I don’t want to do, Anne.” - -“All your life, Davy, you’ll find yourself doing things you don’t want -to do.” - -“I won’t,” said Davy flatly. “Catch me! I have to do things I don’t -want to now ’cause you and Marilla’ll send me to bed if I don’t. But -when I grow up you can’t do that, and there’ll be nobody to tell me not -to do things. Won’t I have the time! Say, Anne, Milty Boulter says his -mother says you’re going to college to see if you can catch a man. Are -you, Anne? I want to know.” - -For a second Anne burned with resentment. Then she laughed, reminding -herself that Mrs. Boulter’s crude vulgarity of thought and speech could -not harm her. - -“No, Davy, I’m not. I’m going to study and grow and learn about many -things.” - -“What things?” - -“‘Shoes and ships and sealing wax -And cabbages and kings,’” - - -quoted Anne. - -“But if you _did_ want to catch a man how would you go about it? I want -to know,” persisted Davy, for whom the subject evidently possessed a -certain fascination. - -“You’d better ask Mrs. Boulter,” said Anne thoughtlessly. “I think it’s -likely she knows more about the process than I do.” - -“I will, the next time I see her,” said Davy gravely. - -“Davy! If you do!” cried Anne, realizing her mistake. - -“But you just told me to,” protested Davy aggrieved. - -“It’s time you went to bed,” decreed Anne, by way of getting out of the -scrape. - -After Davy had gone to bed Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and -sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the -water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind. Anne had always -loved that brook. Many a dream had she spun over its sparkling water in -days gone by. She forgot lovelorn youths, and the cayenne speeches of -malicious neighbors, and all the problems of her girlish existence. In -imagination she sailed over storied seas that wash the distant shining -shores of “faery lands forlorn,” where lost Atlantis and Elysium lie, -with the evening star for pilot, to the land of Heart’s Desire. And she -was richer in those dreams than in realities; for things seen pass -away, but the things that are unseen are eternal. - - - - -Chapter II -Garlands of Autumn - - -The following week sped swiftly, crowded with innumerable “last -things,” as Anne called them. Good-bye calls had to be made and -received, being pleasant or otherwise, according to whether callers and -called-upon were heartily in sympathy with Anne’s hopes, or thought she -was too much puffed-up over going to college and that it was their duty -to “take her down a peg or two.” - -The A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party in honor of Anne and Gilbert one -evening at the home of Josie Pye, choosing that place, partly because -Mr. Pye’s house was large and convenient, partly because it was -strongly suspected that the Pye girls would have nothing to do with the -affair if their offer of the house for the party was not accepted. It -was a very pleasant little time, for the Pye girls were gracious, and -said and did nothing to mar the harmony of the occasion—which was not -according to their wont. Josie was unusually amiable—so much so that -she even remarked condescendingly to Anne, - -“Your new dress is rather becoming to you, Anne. Really, you look -_almost pretty_ in it.” - -“How kind of you to say so,” responded Anne, with dancing eyes. Her -sense of humor was developing, and the speeches that would have hurt -her at fourteen were becoming merely food for amusement now. Josie -suspected that Anne was laughing at her behind those wicked eyes; but -she contented herself with whispering to Gertie, as they went -downstairs, that Anne Shirley would put on more airs than ever now that -she was going to college—you’d see! - -All the “old crowd” was there, full of mirth and zest and youthful -lightheartedness. Diana Barry, rosy and dimpled, shadowed by the -faithful Fred; Jane Andrews, neat and sensible and plain; Ruby Gillis, -looking her handsomest and brightest in a cream silk blouse, with red -geraniums in her golden hair; Gilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane, both -trying to keep as near the elusive Anne as possible; Carrie Sloane, -looking pale and melancholy because, so it was reported, her father -would not allow Oliver Kimball to come near the place; Moody Spurgeon -MacPherson, whose round face and objectionable ears were as round and -objectionable as ever; and Billy Andrews, who sat in a corner all the -evening, chuckled when any one spoke to him, and watched Anne Shirley -with a grin of pleasure on his broad, freckled countenance. - -Anne had known beforehand of the party, but she had not known that she -and Gilbert were, as the founders of the Society, to be presented with -a very complimentary “address” and “tokens of respect”—in her case a -volume of Shakespeare’s plays, in Gilbert’s a fountain pen. She was so -taken by surprise and pleased by the nice things said in the address, -read in Moody Spurgeon’s most solemn and ministerial tones, that the -tears quite drowned the sparkle of her big gray eyes. She had worked -hard and faithfully for the A.V.I.S., and it warmed the cockles of her -heart that the members appreciated her efforts so sincerely. And they -were all so nice and friendly and jolly—even the Pye girls had their -merits; at that moment Anne loved all the world. - -She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather spoiled -all. Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something sentimental to -her as they ate their supper on the moonlit verandah; and Anne, to -punish him, was gracious to Charlie Sloane and allowed the latter to -walk home with her. She found, however, that revenge hurts nobody quite -so much as the one who tries to inflict it. Gilbert walked airily off -with Ruby Gillis, and Anne could hear them laughing and talking gaily -as they loitered along in the still, crisp autumn air. They were -evidently having the best of good times, while she was horribly bored -by Charlie Sloane, who talked unbrokenly on, and never, even by -accident, said one thing that was worth listening to. Anne gave an -occasional absent “yes” or “no,” and thought how beautiful Ruby had -looked that night, how very goggly Charlie’s eyes were in the -moonlight—worse even than by daylight—and that the world, somehow, -wasn’t quite such a nice place as she had believed it to be earlier in -the evening. - -“I’m just tired out—that is what is the matter with me,” she said, when -she thankfully found herself alone in her own room. And she honestly -believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy, as from some secret, -unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart the next evening, when she saw -Gilbert striding down through the Haunted Wood and crossing the old log -bridge with that firm, quick step of his. So Gilbert was not going to -spend this last evening with Ruby Gillis after all! - -“You look tired, Anne,” he said. - -“I am tired, and, worse than that, I’m disgruntled. I’m tired because -I’ve been packing my trunk and sewing all day. But I’m disgruntled -because six women have been here to say good-bye to me, and every one -of the six managed to say something that seemed to take the color right -out of life and leave it as gray and dismal and cheerless as a November -morning.” - -“Spiteful old cats!” was Gilbert’s elegant comment. - -“Oh, no, they weren’t,” said Anne seriously. “That is just the trouble. -If they had been spiteful cats I wouldn’t have minded them. But they -are all nice, kind, motherly souls, who like me and whom I like, and -that is why what they said, or hinted, had such undue weight with me. -They let me see they thought I was crazy going to Redmond and trying to -take a B.A., and ever since I’ve been wondering if I am. Mrs. Peter -Sloane sighed and said she hoped my strength would hold out till I got -through; and at once I saw myself a hopeless victim of nervous -prostration at the end of my third year; Mrs. Eben Wright said it must -cost an awful lot to put in four years at Redmond; and I felt all over -me that it was unpardonable of me to squander Marilla’s money and my -own on such a folly. Mrs. Jasper Bell said she hoped I wouldn’t let -college spoil me, as it did some people; and I felt in my bones that -the end of my four Redmond years would see me a most insufferable -creature, thinking I knew it all, and looking down on everything and -everybody in Avonlea; Mrs. Elisha Wright said she understood that -Redmond girls, especially those who belonged to Kingsport, were -‘dreadful dressy and stuck-up,’ and she guessed I wouldn’t feel much at -home among them; and I saw myself, a snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country -girl, shuffling through Redmond’s classic halls in coppertoned boots.” - -Anne ended with a laugh and a sigh commingled. With her sensitive -nature all disapproval had weight, even the disapproval of those for -whose opinions she had scant respect. For the time being life was -savorless, and ambition had gone out like a snuffed candle. - -“You surely don’t care for what they said,” protested Gilbert. “You -know exactly how narrow their outlook on life is, excellent creatures -though they are. To do anything _they_ have never done is anathema -maranatha. You are the first Avonlea girl who has ever gone to college; -and you know that all pioneers are considered to be afflicted with -moonstruck madness.” - -“Oh, I know. But _feeling_ is so different from _knowing_. My common -sense tells me all you can say, but there are times when common sense -has no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of my soul. -Really, after Mrs. Elisha went away I hardly had the heart to finish -packing.” - -“You’re just tired, Anne. Come, forget it all and take a walk with me—a -ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh. There should be -something there I want to show you.” - -“Should be! Don’t you know if it is there?” - -“No. I only know it should be, from something I saw there in spring. -Come on. We’ll pretend we are two children again and we’ll go the way -of the wind.” - -They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of the -preceding evening, was very nice to Gilbert; and Gilbert, who was -learning wisdom, took care to be nothing save the schoolboy comrade -again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla watched them from the kitchen window. - -“That’ll be a match some day,” Mrs. Lynde said approvingly. - -Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it went -against her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde’s gossipy -matter-of-fact way. - -“They’re only children yet,” she said shortly. - -Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly. - -“Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old folks, -Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never grow up, that’s -what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert’s a man, and he worships the -ground she walks on, as any one can see. He’s a fine fellow, and Anne -can’t do better. I hope she won’t get any romantic nonsense into her -head at Redmond. I don’t approve of them coeducational places and never -did, that’s what. I don’t believe,” concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, -“that the students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt.” - -“They must study a little,” said Marilla, with a smile. - -“Precious little,” sniffed Mrs. Rachel. “However, I think Anne will. -She never was flirtatious. But she doesn’t appreciate Gilbert at his -full value, that’s what. Oh, I know girls! Charlie Sloane is wild about -her, too, but I’d never advise her to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes are -good, honest, respectable people, of course. But when all’s said and -done, they’re _Sloanes_.” - -Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were Sloanes -might not be very illuminating, but she understood. Every village has -such a family; good, honest, respectable people they may be, but -_Sloanes_ they are and must ever remain, though they speak with the -tongues of men and angels. - -Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being -settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the -Haunted Wood. Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset -radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The distant spruce -groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows barred the upland -meadows. But around them a little wind sang among the fir tassels, and -in it there was the note of autumn. - -“This wood really is haunted now—by old memories,” said Anne, stooping -to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness by frost. “It -seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used to be play here -still, and sit by the Dryad’s Bubble in the twilights, trysting with -the ghosts. Do you know, I can never go up this path in the dusk -without feeling a bit of the old fright and shiver? There was one -especially horrifying phantom which we created—the ghost of the -murdered child that crept up behind you and laid cold fingers on yours. -I confess that, to this day, I cannot help fancying its little, furtive -footsteps behind me when I come here after nightfall. I’m not afraid of -the White Lady or the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had -never imagined that baby’s ghost into existence. How angry Marilla and -Mrs. Barry were over that affair,” concluded Anne, with reminiscent -laughter. - -The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas, -threaded with gossamers. Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces and -a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley they found the “something” Gilbert was -looking for. - -“Ah, here it is,” he said with satisfaction. - -“An apple tree—and away back here!” exclaimed Anne delightedly. - -“Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple tree, too, here in the very midst -of pines and beeches, a mile away from any orchard. I was here one day -last spring and found it, all white with blossom. So I resolved I’d -come again in the fall and see if it had been apples. See, it’s loaded. -They look good, too—tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most -wild seedlings are green and uninviting.” - -“I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed,” said Anne -dreamily. “And how it has grown and flourished and held its own here -all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!” - -“Here’s a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, Anne—it will -serve for a woodland throne. I’ll climb for some apples. They all grow -high—the tree had to reach up to the sunlight.” - -The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a white, -white flesh, faintly veined with red; and, besides their own proper -apple taste, they had a certain wild, delightful tang no orchard-grown -apple ever possessed. - -“The fatal apple of Eden couldn’t have had a rarer flavor,” commented -Anne. “But it’s time we were going home. See, it was twilight three -minutes ago and now it’s moonlight. What a pity we couldn’t have caught -the moment of transformation. But such moments never are caught, I -suppose.” - -“Let’s go back around the marsh and home by way of Lover’s Lane. Do you -feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne?” - -“Not I. Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul. I feel that I -shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there.” - -“And after those four years—what?” - -“Oh, there’s another bend in the road at their end,” answered Anne -lightly. “I’ve no idea what may be around it—I don’t want to have. It’s -nicer not to know.” - -Lover’s Lane was a dear place that night, still and mysteriously dim in -the pale radiance of the moonlight. They loitered through it in a -pleasant chummy silence, neither caring to talk. - -“If Gilbert were always as he has been this evening how nice and simple -everything would be,” reflected Anne. - -Gilbert was looking at Anne, as she walked along. In her light dress, -with her slender delicacy, she made him think of a white iris. - -“I wonder if I can ever make her care for me,” he thought, with a pang -of self-distrust. - - - - -Chapter III -Greeting and Farewell - - -Charlie Sloane, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the -following Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana was to -drive her to the station and they wanted this, their last drive -together for some time, to be a pleasant one. But when Anne went to bed -Sunday night the east wind was moaning around Green Gables with an -ominous prophecy which was fulfilled in the morning. Anne awoke to find -raindrops pattering against her window and shadowing the pond’s gray -surface with widening rings; hills and sea were hidden in mist, and the -whole world seemed dim and dreary. Anne dressed in the cheerless gray -dawn, for an early start was necessary to catch the boat train; she -struggled against the tears that _would_ well up in her eyes in spite -of herself. She was leaving the home that was so dear to her, and -something told her that she was leaving it forever, save as a holiday -refuge. Things would never be the same again; coming back for vacations -would not be living there. And oh, how dear and beloved everything -was—that little white porch room, sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the -old Snow Queen at the window, the brook in the hollow, the Dryad’s -Bubble, the Haunted Woods, and Lover’s Lane—all the thousand and one -dear spots where memories of the old years bided. Could she ever be -really happy anywhere else? - -Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal. Davy, -for the first time in his life probably, could not eat, but blubbered -shamelessly over his porridge. Nobody else seemed to have much -appetite, save Dora, who tucked away her rations comfortably. Dora, -like the immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who “went on cutting -bread and butter” when her frenzied lover’s body had been carried past -on a shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures who are seldom -disturbed by anything. Even at eight it took a great deal to ruffle -Dora’s placidity. She was sorry Anne was going away, of course, but was -that any reason why she should fail to appreciate a poached egg on -toast? Not at all. And, seeing that Davy could not eat his, Dora ate it -for him. - -Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy face -glowing above her raincoat. The good-byes had to be said then somehow. -Mrs. Lynde came in from her quarters to give Anne a hearty embrace and -warn her to be careful of her health, whatever she did. Marilla, -brusque and tearless, pecked Anne’s cheek and said she supposed they’d -hear from her when she got settled. A casual observer might have -concluded that Anne’s going mattered very little to her—unless said -observer had happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne -primly and squeezed out two decorous little tears; but Davy, who had -been crying on the back porch step ever since they rose from the table, -refused to say good-bye at all. When he saw Anne coming towards him he -sprang to his feet, bolted up the back stairs, and hid in a clothes -closet, out of which he would not come. His muffled howls were the last -sounds Anne heard as she left Green Gables. - -It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, to which station they -had to go, since the branch line train from Carmody did not connect -with the boat train. Charlie and Gilbert were on the station platform -when they reached it, and the train was whistling. Anne had just time -to get her ticket and trunk check, say a hurried farewell to Diana, and -hasten on board. She wished she were going back with Diana to Avonlea; -she knew she was going to die of homesickness. And oh, if only that -dismal rain would stop pouring down as if the whole world were weeping -over summer vanished and joys departed! Even Gilbert’s presence brought -her no comfort, for Charlie Sloane was there, too, and Sloanishness -could be tolerated only in fine weather. It was absolutely insufferable -in rain. - -But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbor things took a -turn for the better. The rain ceased and the sun began to burst out -goldenly now and again between the rents in the clouds, burnishing the -gray seas with copper-hued radiance, and lighting up the mists that -curtained the Island’s red shores with gleams of gold foretokening a -fine day after all. Besides, Charlie Sloane promptly became so seasick -that he had to go below, and Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck. - -“I am very glad that all the Sloanes get seasick as soon as they go on -water,” thought Anne mercilessly. “I am sure I couldn’t take my -farewell look at the ‘ould sod’ with Charlie standing there pretending -to look sentimentally at it, too.” - -“Well, we’re off,” remarked Gilbert unsentimentally. - -“Yes, I feel like Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’—only it isn’t really my -‘native shore’ that I’m watching,” said Anne, winking her gray eyes -vigorously. “Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one’s native shore is -the land one loves the best, and that’s good old P.E.I. for me. I can’t -believe I didn’t always live here. Those eleven years before I came -seem like a bad dream. It’s seven years since I crossed on this -boat—the evening Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see -myself, in that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, -exploring decks and cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine -evening; and how those red Island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now -I’m crossing the strait again. Oh, Gilbert, I do hope I’ll like Redmond -and Kingsport, but I’m sure I won’t!” - -“Where’s all your philosophy gone, Anne?” - -“It’s all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness and -homesickness. I’ve longed for three years to go to Redmond—and now I’m -going—and I wish I weren’t! Never mind! I shall be cheerful and -philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I _must_ have that, -‘as a went’—and I’ll have to wait until I get into my boardinghouse bed -tonight, wherever it may be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be -herself again. I wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet.” - -It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they -found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne -felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by -Priscilla Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday. - -“Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you’re as tired as I was when I -got here Saturday night.” - -“Tired! Priscilla, don’t talk of it. I’m tired, and green, and -provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity’s sake take your -poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think.” - -“I’ll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I’ve a cab ready -outside.” - -“It’s such a blessing you’re here, Prissy. If you weren’t I think I -should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and weep bitter -tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness of -strangers!” - -“Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up this past -year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. And of course -that’s Charlie Sloane. _He_ hasn’t changed—couldn’t! He looked just -like that when he was born, and he’ll look like that when he’s eighty. -This way, dear. We’ll be home in twenty minutes.” - -“Home!” groaned Anne. “You mean we’ll be in some horrible -boardinghouse, in a still more horrible hall bedroom, looking out on a -dingy back yard.” - -“It isn’t a horrible boardinghouse, Anne-girl. Here’s our cab. Hop -in—the driver will get your trunk. Oh, yes, the boardinghouse—it’s -really a very nice place of its kind, as you’ll admit tomorrow morning -when a good night’s sleep has turned your blues rosy pink. It’s a big, -old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. John Street, just a nice little -constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the ‘residence’ of great -folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street and its houses only -dream now of better days. They’re so big that people living in them -have to take boarders just to fill up. At least, that is the reason our -landladies are very anxious to impress on us. They’re delicious, -Anne—our landladies, I mean.” - -“How many are there?” - -“Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins -about fifty years ago.” - -“I can’t get away from twins, it seems,” smiled Anne. “Wherever I go -they confront me.” - -“Oh, they’re not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of thirty -they never were twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old, not too -gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less gracefully still. I -don’t know whether Miss Hannah can smile or not; I’ve never caught her -at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all the time and that’s worse. -However, they’re nice, kind souls, and they take two boarders every -year because Miss Hannah’s economical soul cannot bear to ‘waste room -space’—not because they need to or have to, as Miss Ada has told me -seven times since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are -hall bedrooms, and mine does look out on the back yard. Your room is a -front one and looks out on Old St. John’s graveyard, which is just -across the street.” - -“That sounds gruesome,” shivered Anne. “I think I’d rather have the -back yard view.” - -“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. Wait and see. Old St. John’s is a darling place. -It’s been a graveyard so long that it’s ceased to be one and has become -one of the sights of Kingsport. I was all through it yesterday for a -pleasure exertion. There’s a big stone wall and a row of enormous trees -all around it, and rows of trees all through it, and the queerest old -tombstones, with the queerest and quaintest inscriptions. You’ll go -there to study, Anne, see if you don’t. Of course, nobody is ever -buried there now. But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument -to the memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. It -is just opposite the entrance gates and there’s ‘scope for imagination’ -in it, as you used to say. Here’s your trunk at last—and the boys -coming to say good night. Must I really shake hands with Charlie -Sloane, Anne? His hands are always so cold and fishy-feeling. We must -ask them to call occasionally. Miss Hannah gravely told me we could -have ‘young gentlemen callers’ two evenings in the week, if they went -away at a reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be -sure they didn’t sit on her beautiful cushions. I promised to see to -it; but goodness knows where else they _can_ sit, unless they sit on -the floor, for there are cushions on _everything_. Miss Ada even has an -elaborate Battenburg one on top of the piano.” - -Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla’s gay chatter had the -intended effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the time -being, and did not even return in full force when she finally found -herself alone in her little bedroom. She went to her window and looked -out. The street below was dim and quiet. Across it the moon was shining -above the trees in Old St. John’s, just behind the great dark head of -the lion on the monument. Anne wondered if it could have been only that -morning that she had left Green Gables. She had the sense of a long -passage of time which one day of change and travel gives. - -“I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now,” she -mused. “But I won’t think about it—that way homesickness lies. I’m not -even going to have my good cry. I’ll put that off to a more convenient -season, and just now I’ll go calmly and sensibly to bed and to sleep.” - - - - -Chapter IV -April’s Lady - - -Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial days, -and wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame in -garments fashioned like those of her youth. Here and there it sprouts -out into modernity, but at heart it is still unspoiled; it is full of -curious relics, and haloed by the romance of many legends of the past. -Once it was a mere frontier station on the fringe of the wilderness, -and those were the days when Indians kept life from being monotonous to -the settlers. Then it grew to be a bone of contention between the -British and the French, being occupied now by the one and now by the -other, emerging from each occupation with some fresh scar of battling -nations branded on it. - -It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over by tourists, -a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond the town, and several -antiquated cannon in its public squares. It has other historic spots -also, which may be hunted out by the curious, and none is more quaint -and delightful than Old St. John’s Cemetery at the very core of the -town, with streets of quiet, old-time houses on two sides, and busy, -bustling, modern thoroughfares on the others. Every citizen of -Kingsport feels a thrill of possessive pride in Old St. John’s, for, if -he be of any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with -a queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively over -the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are recorded. For -the most part no great art or skill was lavished on those old -tombstones. The larger number are of roughly chiselled brown or gray -native stone, and only in a few cases is there any attempt at -ornamentation. Some are adorned with skull and cross-bones, and this -grizzly decoration is frequently coupled with a cherub’s head. Many are -prostrate and in ruins. Into almost all Time’s tooth has been gnawing, -until some inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can -only be deciphered with difficulty. The graveyard is very full and very -bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and -willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly, -forever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite -undisturbed by the clamor of traffic just beyond. - -Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John’s the next -afternoon. She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and -registered as students, after which there was nothing more to do that -day. The girls gladly made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to -be surrounded by crowds of strangers, most of whom had a rather alien -appearance, as if not quite sure where they belonged. - -The “freshettes” stood about in detached groups of two or three, -looking askance at each other; the “freshies,” wiser in their day and -generation, had banded themselves together on the big staircase of the -entrance hall, where they were shouting out glees with all the vigor of -youthful lungs, as a species of defiance to their traditional enemies, -the Sophomores, a few of whom were prowling loftily about, looking -properly disdainful of the “unlicked cubs” on the stairs. Gilbert and -Charlie were nowhere to be seen. - -“Little did I think the day would ever come when I’d be glad of the -sight of a Sloane,” said Priscilla, as they crossed the campus, “but -I’d welcome Charlie’s goggle eyes almost ecstatically. At least, they’d -be familiar eyes.” - -“Oh,” sighed Anne. “I can’t describe how I felt when I was standing -there, waiting my turn to be registered—as insignificant as the -teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket. It’s bad enough to feel -insignificant, but it’s unbearable to have it grained into your soul -that you will never, can never, be anything but insignificant, and that -is how I did feel—as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of -those Sophs might step on me. I knew I would go down to my grave -unwept, unhonored and unsung.” - -“Wait till next year,” comforted Priscilla. “Then we’ll be able to look -as bored and sophisticated as any Sophomore of them all. No doubt it is -rather dreadful to feel insignificant; but I think it’s better than to -feel as big and awkward as I did—as if I were sprawled all over -Redmond. That’s how I felt—I suppose because I was a good two inches -taller than any one else in the crowd. I wasn’t afraid a Soph might -walk over me; I was afraid they’d take me for an elephant, or an -overgrown sample of a potato-fed Islander.” - -“I suppose the trouble is we can’t forgive big Redmond for not being -little Queen’s,” said Anne, gathering about her the shreds of her old -cheerful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit. “When we left -Queen’s we knew everybody and had a place of our own. I suppose we have -been unconsciously expecting to take life up at Redmond just where we -left off at Queen’s, and now we feel as if the ground had slipped from -under our feet. I’m thankful that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha -Wright know, or ever will know, my state of mind at present. They would -exult in saying ‘I told you so,’ and be convinced it was the beginning -of the end. Whereas it is just the end of the beginning.” - -“Exactly. That sounds more Anneish. In a little while we’ll be -acclimated and acquainted, and all will be well. Anne, did you notice -the girl who stood alone just outside the door of the coeds’ dressing -room all the morning—the pretty one with the brown eyes and crooked -mouth?” - -“Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the only -creature there who _looked_ as lonely and friendless as I _felt_. I had -_you_, but she had no one.” - -“I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too. Several times I saw -her make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never did it—too -shy, I suppose. I wished she would come. If I hadn’t felt so much like -the aforesaid elephant I’d have gone to her. But I couldn’t lumber -across that big hall with all those boys howling on the stairs. She was -the prettiest freshette I saw today, but probably favor is deceitful -and even beauty is vain on your first day at Redmond,” concluded -Priscilla with a laugh. - -“I’m going across to Old St. John’s after lunch,” said Anne. “I don’t -know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get cheered up, but -it seems the only get-at-able place where there are trees, and trees I -must have. I’ll sit on one of those old slabs and shut my eyes and -imagine I’m in the Avonlea woods.” - -Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest in Old -St. John’s to keep her eyes wide open. They went in by the entrance -gates, past the simple, massive, stone arch surmounted by the great -lion of England. - -“‘And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, -And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,’” - - -quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill. They found themselves in a -dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring. Up and down -the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the quaint, voluminous -epitaphs, carved in an age that had more leisure than our own. - -“‘Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,’” read Anne from a -worn, gray slab, “‘for many years Keeper of His Majesty’s Ordnance at -Kingsport. He served in the army till the peace of 1763, when he -retired from bad health. He was a brave officer, the best of husbands, -the best of fathers, the best of friends. He died October 29th, 1792, -aged 84 years.’ There’s an epitaph for you, Prissy. There is certainly -some ‘scope for imagination’ in it. How full such a life must have been -of adventure! And as for his personal qualities, I’m sure human eulogy -couldn’t go further. I wonder if they told him he was all those best -things while he was alive.” - -“Here’s another,” said Priscilla. “Listen— - -‘To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, -1840, aged 43 years. This is raised as a tribute of affection by one -whom he served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a -friend, deserving the fullest confidence and attachment.’” - -“A very good epitaph,” commented Anne thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t wish a -better. We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact that we are -faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones nothing more -need be added. Here’s a sorrowful little gray stone, Prissy—‘to the -memory of a favorite child.’ And here is another ‘erected to the memory -of one who is buried elsewhere.’ I wonder where that unknown grave is. -Really, Pris, the graveyards of today will never be as interesting as -this. You were right—I shall come here often. I love it already. I see -we’re not alone here—there’s a girl down at the end of this avenue.” - -“Yes, and I believe it’s the very girl we saw at Redmond this morning. -I’ve been watching her for five minutes. She has started to come up the -avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times has she -turned and gone back. Either she’s dreadfully shy or she has got -something on her conscience. Let’s go and meet her. It’s easier to get -acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe.” - -They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger, who was -sitting on a gray slab under an enormous willow. She was certainly very -pretty, with a vivid, irregular, bewitching type of prettiness. There -was a gloss as of brown nuts on her satin-smooth hair and a soft, ripe -glow on her round cheeks. Her eyes were big and brown and velvety, -under oddly-pointed black brows, and her crooked mouth was rose-red. -She wore a smart brown suit, with two very modish little shoes peeping -from beneath it; and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed with -golden-brown poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable air which -pertains to the “creation” of an artist in millinery. Priscilla had a -sudden stinging consciousness that her own hat had been trimmed by her -village store milliner, and Anne wondered uncomfortably if the blouse -she had made herself, and which Mrs. Lynde had fitted, looked _very_ -countrified and home-made besides the stranger’s smart attire. For a -moment both girls felt like turning back. - -But they had already stopped and turned towards the gray slab. It was -too late to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently concluded -that they were coming to speak to her. Instantly she sprang up and came -forward with outstretched hand and a gay, friendly smile in which there -seemed not a shadow of either shyness or burdened conscience. - -“Oh, I want to know who you two girls are,” she exclaimed eagerly. -“I’ve been _dying_ to know. I saw you at Redmond this morning. Say, -wasn’t it _awful_ there? For the time I wished I had stayed home and -got married.” - -Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this -unexpected conclusion. The brown-eyed girl laughed, too. - -“I really did. I _could_ have, you know. Come, let’s all sit down on -this gravestone and get acquainted. It won’t be hard. I know we’re -going to adore each other—I knew it as soon as I saw you at Redmond -this morning. I wanted so much to go right over and hug you both.” - -“Why didn’t you?” asked Priscilla. - -“Because I simply couldn’t make up my mind to do it. I never can make -up my mind about anything myself—I’m always afflicted with indecision. -Just as soon as I decide to do something I feel in my bones that -another course would be the correct one. It’s a dreadful misfortune, -but I was born that way, and there is no use in blaming me for it, as -some people do. So I couldn’t make up my mind to go and speak to you, -much as I wanted to.” - -“We thought you were too shy,” said Anne. - -“No, no, dear. Shyness isn’t among the many failings—or virtues—of -Philippa Gordon—Phil for short. Do call me Phil right off. Now, what -are your handles?” - -“She’s Priscilla Grant,” said Anne, pointing. - -“And _she’s_ Anne Shirley,” said Priscilla, pointing in turn. - -“And we’re from the Island,” said both together. - -“I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia,” said Philippa. - -“Bolingbroke!” exclaimed Anne. “Why, that is where I was born.” - -“Do you really mean it? Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all.” - -“No, it doesn’t,” retorted Anne. “Wasn’t it Dan O’Connell who said that -if a man was born in a stable it didn’t make him a horse? I’m Island to -the core.” - -“Well, I’m glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway. It makes us kind -of neighbors, doesn’t it? And I like that, because when I tell you -secrets it won’t be as if I were telling them to a stranger. I have to -tell them. I can’t keep secrets—it’s no use to try. That’s my worst -failing—that, and indecision, as aforesaid. Would you believe it?—it -took me half an hour to decide which hat to wear when I was coming -here—_here_, to a graveyard! At first I inclined to my brown one with -the feather; but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with -the floppy brim would be more becoming. When I got _it_ pinned in place -I liked the brown one better. At last I put them close together on the -bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin. The pin speared the pink -one, so I put it on. It is becoming, isn’t it? Tell me, what do you -think of my looks?” - -At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla -laughed again. But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa’s hand, - -“We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw at -Redmond.” - -Philippa’s crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile over -very white little teeth. - -“I thought that myself,” was her next astounding statement, “but I -wanted some one else’s opinion to bolster mine up. I can’t decide even -on my own appearance. Just as soon as I’ve decided that I’m pretty I -begin to feel miserably that I’m not. Besides, have a horrible old -great-aunt who is always saying to me, with a mournful sigh, ‘You were -such a pretty baby. It’s strange how children change when they grow -up.’ I adore aunts, but I detest great-aunts. Please tell me quite -often that I am pretty, if you don’t mind. I feel so much more -comfortable when I can believe I’m pretty. And I’ll be just as obliging -to you if you want me to—I _can_ be, with a clear conscience.” - -“Thanks,” laughed Anne, “but Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced of -our own good looks that we don’t need any assurance about them, so you -needn’t trouble.” - -“Oh, you’re laughing at me. I know you think I’m abominably vain, but -I’m not. There really isn’t one spark of vanity in me. And I’m never a -bit grudging about paying compliments to other girls when they deserve -them. I’m so glad I know you folks. I came up on Saturday and I’ve -nearly died of homesickness ever since. It’s a horrible feeling, isn’t -it? In Bolingbroke I’m an important personage, and in Kingsport I’m -just nobody! There were times when I could feel my soul turning a -delicate blue. Where do you hang out?” - -“Thirty-eight St. John’s Street.” - -“Better and better. Why, I’m just around the corner on Wallace Street. -I don’t like my boardinghouse, though. It’s bleak and lonesome, and my -room looks out on such an unholy back yard. It’s the ugliest place in -the world. As for cats—well, surely _all_ the Kingsport cats can’t -congregate there at night, but half of them must. I adore cats on -hearth rugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires, but cats in back -yards at midnight are totally different animals. The first night I was -here I cried all night, and so did the cats. You should have seen my -nose in the morning. How I wished I had never left home!” - -“I don’t know how you managed to make up your mind to come to Redmond -at all, if you are really such an undecided person,” said amused -Priscilla. - -“Bless your heart, honey, I didn’t. It was father who wanted me to come -here. His heart was set on it—why, I don’t know. It seems perfectly -ridiculous to think of me studying for a B.A. degree, doesn’t it? Not -but what I can do it, all right. I have heaps of brains.” - -“Oh!” said Priscilla vaguely. - -“Yes. But it’s such hard work to use them. And B.A.’s are such learned, -dignified, wise, solemn creatures—they must be. No, _I_ didn’t want to -come to Redmond. I did it just to oblige father. He _is_ such a duck. -Besides, I knew if I stayed home I’d have to get married. Mother wanted -that—wanted it decidedly. Mother has plenty of decision. But I really -hated the thought of being married for a few years yet. I want to have -heaps of fun before I settle down. And, ridiculous as the idea of my -being a B.A. is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still -more absurd, isn’t it? I’m only eighteen. No, I concluded I would -rather come to Redmond than be married. Besides, how could I ever have -made up my mind which man to marry?” - -“Were there so many?” laughed Anne. - -“Heaps. The boys like me awfully—they really do. But there were only -two that mattered. The rest were all too young and too poor. I must -marry a rich man, you know.” - -“Why must you?” - -“Honey, you couldn’t imagine _me_ being a poor man’s wife, could you? I -can’t do a single useful thing, and I am _very_ extravagant. Oh, no, my -husband must have heaps of money. So that narrowed them down to two. -But I couldn’t decide between two any easier than between two hundred. -I knew perfectly well that whichever one I chose I’d regret all my life -that I hadn’t married the other.” - -“Didn’t you—love—either of them?” asked Anne, a little hesitatingly. It -was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the great mystery and -transformation of life. - -“Goodness, no. _I_ couldn’t love anybody. It isn’t in me. Besides I -wouldn’t want to. Being in love makes you a perfect slave, _I_ think. -And it would give a man such power to hurt you. I’d be afraid. No, no, -Alec and Alonzo are two dear boys, and I like them both so much that I -really don’t know which I like the better. That is the trouble. Alec is -the best looking, of course, and I simply couldn’t marry a man who -wasn’t handsome. He is good-tempered too, and has lovely, curly, black -hair. He’s rather too perfect—I don’t believe I’d like a perfect -husband—somebody I could never find fault with.” - -“Then why not marry Alonzo?” asked Priscilla gravely. - -“Think of marrying a name like Alonzo!” said Phil dolefully. “I don’t -believe I could endure it. But he has a classic nose, and it _would_ be -a comfort to have a nose in the family that could be depended on. I -can’t depend on mine. So far, it takes after the Gordon pattern, but -I’m so afraid it will develop Byrne tendencies as I grow older. I -examine it every day anxiously to make sure it’s still Gordon. Mother -was a Byrne and has the Byrne nose in the Byrnest degree. Wait till you -see it. I adore nice noses. Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley. -Alonzo’s nose nearly turned the balance in his favor. But _Alonzo!_ No, -I couldn’t decide. If I could have done as I did with the hats—stood -them both up together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hatpin—it would -have been quite easy.” - -“What did Alec and Alonzo feel like when you came away?” queried -Priscilla. - -“Oh, they still have hope. I told them they’d have to wait till I could -make up my mind. They’re quite willing to wait. They both worship me, -you know. Meanwhile, I intend to have a good time. I expect I shall -have heaps of beaux at Redmond. I can’t be happy unless I have, you -know. But don’t you think the freshmen are fearfully homely? I saw only -one really handsome fellow among them. He went away before you came. I -heard his chum call him Gilbert. His chum had eyes that stuck out _that -far_. But you’re not going yet, girls? Don’t go yet.” - -“I think we must,” said Anne, rather coldly. “It’s getting late, and -I’ve some work to do.” - -“But you’ll both come to see me, won’t you?” asked Philippa, getting up -and putting an arm around each. “And let me come to see you. I want to -be chummy with you. I’ve taken such a fancy to you both. And I haven’t -quite disgusted you with my frivolity, have I?” - -“Not quite,” laughed Anne, responding to Phil’s squeeze, with a return -of cordiality. - -“Because I’m not half so silly as I seem on the surface, you know. You -just accept Philippa Gordon, as the Lord made her, with all her faults, -and I believe you’ll come to like her. Isn’t this graveyard a sweet -place? I’d love to be buried here. Here’s a grave I didn’t see -before—this one in the iron railing—oh, girls, look, see—the stone says -it’s the grave of a middy who was killed in the fight between the -Shannon and the Chesapeake. Just fancy!” - -Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses -thrilling with sudden excitement. The old graveyard, with its -over-arching trees and long aisles of shadows, faded from her sight. -Instead, she saw the Kingsport Harbor of nearly a century agone. Out of -the mist came slowly a great frigate, brilliant with “the meteor flag -of England.” Behind her was another, with a still, heroic form, wrapped -in his own starry flag, lying on the quarter deck—the gallant Lawrence. -Time’s finger had turned back his pages, and that was the Shannon -sailing triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize. - -“Come back, Anne Shirley—come back,” laughed Philippa, pulling her arm. -“You’re a hundred years away from us. Come back.” - -Anne came back with a sigh; her eyes were shining softly. - -“I’ve always loved that old story,” she said, “and although the English -won that victory, I think it was because of the brave, defeated -commander I love it. This grave seems to bring it so near and make it -so real. This poor little middy was only eighteen. He ‘died of -desperate wounds received in gallant action’—so reads his epitaph. It -is such as a soldier might wish for.” - -Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of purple -pansies she wore and dropped it softly on the grave of the boy who had -perished in the great sea-duel. - -“Well, what do you think of our new friend?” asked Priscilla, when Phil -had left them. - -“I like her. There is something very lovable about her, in spite of all -her nonsense. I believe, as she says herself, that she isn’t half as -silly as she sounds. She’s a dear, kissable baby—and I don’t know that -she’ll ever really grow up.” - -“I like her, too,” said Priscilla, decidedly. “She talks as much about -boys as Ruby Gillis does. But it always enrages or sickens me to hear -Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at Phil. Now, what -is the why of that?” - -“There is a difference,” said Anne meditatively. “I think it’s because -Ruby is really so _conscious_ of boys. She plays at love and -love-making. Besides, you feel, when she is boasting of her beaux that -she is doing it to rub it well into you that you haven’t half so many. -Now, when Phil talks of her beaux it sounds as if she was just speaking -of chums. She really looks upon boys as good comrades, and she is -pleased when she has dozens of them tagging round, simply because she -likes to be popular and to be thought popular. Even Alex and -Alonzo—I’ll never be able to think of those two names separately after -this—are to her just two playfellows who want her to play with them all -their lives. I’m glad we met her, and I’m glad we went to Old St. -John’s. I believe I’ve put forth a tiny soul-root into Kingsport soil -this afternoon. I hope so. I hate to feel transplanted.” - - - - -Chapter V -Letters from Home - - -For the next three weeks Anne and Priscilla continued to feel as -strangers in a strange land. Then, suddenly, everything seemed to fall -into focus—Redmond, professors, classes, students, studies, social -doings. Life became homogeneous again, instead of being made up of -detached fragments. The Freshmen, instead of being a collection of -unrelated individuals, found themselves a class, with a class spirit, a -class yell, class interests, class antipathies and class ambitions. -They won the day in the annual “Arts Rush” against the Sophomores, and -thereby gained the respect of all the classes, and an enormous, -confidence-giving opinion of themselves. For three years the Sophomores -had won in the “rush”; that the victory of this year perched upon the -Freshmen’s banner was attributed to the strategic generalship of -Gilbert Blythe, who marshalled the campaign and originated certain new -tactics, which demoralized the Sophs and swept the Freshmen to triumph. -As a reward of merit he was elected president of the Freshman Class, a -position of honor and responsibility—from a Fresh point of view, at -least—coveted by many. He was also invited to join the -“Lambs”—Redmondese for Lamba Theta—a compliment rarely paid to a -Freshman. As a preparatory initiation ordeal he had to parade the -principal business streets of Kingsport for a whole day wearing a -sunbonnet and a voluminous kitchen apron of gaudily flowered calico. -This he did cheerfully, doffing his sunbonnet with courtly grace when -he met ladies of his acquaintance. Charlie Sloane, who had not been -asked to join the Lambs, told Anne he did not see how Blythe could do -it, and _he_, for his part, could never humiliate himself so. - -“Fancy Charlie Sloane in a ‘caliker’ apron and a ‘sunbunnit,’” giggled -Priscilla. “He’d look exactly like his old Grandmother Sloane. Gilbert, -now, looked as much like a man in them as in his own proper -habiliments.” - -Anne and Priscilla found themselves in the thick of the social life of -Redmond. That this came about so speedily was due in great measure to -Philippa Gordon. Philippa was the daughter of a rich and well-known -man, and belonged to an old and exclusive “Bluenose” family. This, -combined with her beauty and charm—a charm acknowledged by all who met -her—promptly opened the gates of all cliques, clubs and classes in -Redmond to her; and where she went Anne and Priscilla went, too. Phil -“adored” Anne and Priscilla, especially Anne. She was a loyal little -soul, crystal-free from any form of snobbishness. “Love me, love my -friends” seemed to be her unconscious motto. Without effort, she took -them with her into her ever widening circle of acquaintanceship, and -the two Avonlea girls found their social pathway at Redmond made very -easy and pleasant for them, to the envy and wonderment of the other -freshettes, who, lacking Philippa’s sponsorship, were doomed to remain -rather on the fringe of things during their first college year. - -To Anne and Priscilla, with their more serious views of life, Phil -remained the amusing, lovable baby she had seemed on their first -meeting. Yet, as she said herself, she had “heaps” of brains. When or -where she found time to study was a mystery, for she seemed always in -demand for some kind of “fun,” and her home evenings were crowded with -callers. She had all the “beaux” that heart could desire, for -nine-tenths of the Freshmen and a big fraction of all the other classes -were rivals for her smiles. She was naively delighted over this, and -gleefully recounted each new conquest to Anne and Priscilla, with -comments that might have made the unlucky lover’s ears burn fiercely. - -“Alec and Alonzo don’t seem to have any serious rival yet,” remarked -Anne, teasingly. - -“Not one,” agreed Philippa. “I write them both every week and tell them -all about my young men here. I’m sure it must amuse them. But, of -course, the one I like best I can’t get. Gilbert Blythe won’t take any -notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a nice little kitten -he’d like to pat. Too well I know the reason. I owe you a grudge, Queen -Anne. I really ought to hate you and instead I love you madly, and I’m -miserable if I don’t see you every day. You’re different from any girl -I ever knew before. When you look at me in a certain way I feel what an -insignificant, frivolous little beast I am, and I long to be better and -wiser and stronger. And then I make good resolutions; but the first -nice-looking mannie who comes my way knocks them all out of my head. -Isn’t college life magnificent? It’s so funny to think I hated it that -first day. But if I hadn’t I might never got really acquainted with -you. Anne, please tell me over again that you like me a little bit. I -yearn to hear it.” - -“I like you a big bit—and I think you’re a dear, sweet, adorable, -velvety, clawless, little—kitten,” laughed Anne, “but I don’t see when -you ever get time to learn your lessons.” - -Phil must have found time for she held her own in every class of her -year. Even the grumpy old professor of Mathematics, who detested coeds, -and had bitterly opposed their admission to Redmond, couldn’t floor -her. She led the freshettes everywhere, except in English, where Anne -Shirley left her far behind. Anne herself found the studies of her -Freshman year very easy, thanks in great part to the steady work she -and Gilbert had put in during those two past years in Avonlea. This -left her more time for a social life which she thoroughly enjoyed. But -never for a moment did she forget Avonlea and the friends there. To -her, the happiest moments in each week were those in which letters came -from home. It was not until she had got her first letters that she -began to think she could ever like Kingsport or feel at home there. -Before they came, Avonlea had seemed thousands of miles away; those -letters brought it near and linked the old life to the new so closely -that they began to seem one and the same, instead of two hopelessly -segregated existences. The first batch contained six letters, from Jane -Andrews, Ruby Gillis, Diana Barry, Marilla, Mrs. Lynde and Davy. Jane’s -was a copperplate production, with every “t” nicely crossed and every -“i” precisely dotted, and not an interesting sentence in it. She never -mentioned the school, concerning which Anne was avid to hear; she never -answered one of the questions Anne had asked in her letter. But she -told Anne how many yards of lace she had recently crocheted, and the -kind of weather they were having in Avonlea, and how she intended to -have her new dress made, and the way she felt when her head ached. Ruby -Gillis wrote a gushing epistle deploring Anne’s absence, assuring her -she was horribly missed in everything, asking what the Redmond -“fellows” were like, and filling the rest with accounts of her own -harrowing experiences with her numerous admirers. It was a silly, -harmless letter, and Anne would have laughed over it had it not been -for the postscript. “Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from -his letters,” wrote Ruby. “I don’t think Charlie is so stuck on it.” - -So Gilbert was writing to Ruby! Very well. He had a perfect right to, -of course. Only—!! Anne did not know that Ruby had written the first -letter and that Gilbert had answered it from mere courtesy. She tossed -Ruby’s letter aside contemptuously. But it took all Diana’s breezy, -newsy, delightful epistle to banish the sting of Ruby’s postscript. -Diana’s letter contained a little too much Fred, but was otherwise -crowded and crossed with items of interest, and Anne almost felt -herself back in Avonlea while reading it. Marilla’s was a rather prim -and colorless epistle, severely innocent of gossip or emotion. Yet -somehow it conveyed to Anne a whiff of the wholesome, simple life at -Green Gables, with its savor of ancient peace, and the steadfast -abiding love that was there for her. Mrs. Lynde’s letter was full of -church news. Having broken up housekeeping, Mrs. Lynde had more time -than ever to devote to church affairs and had flung herself into them -heart and soul. She was at present much worked up over the poor -“supplies” they were having in the vacant Avonlea pulpit. - -“I don’t believe any but fools enter the ministry nowadays,” she wrote -bitterly. “Such candidates as they have sent us, and such stuff as they -preach! Half of it ain’t true, and, what’s worse, it ain’t sound -doctrine. The one we have now is the worst of the lot. He mostly takes -a text and preaches about something else. And he says he doesn’t -believe all the heathen will be eternally lost. The idea! If they won’t -all the money we’ve been giving to Foreign Missions will be clean -wasted, that’s what! Last Sunday night he announced that next Sunday -he’d preach on the axe-head that swam. I think he’d better confine -himself to the Bible and leave sensational subjects alone. Things have -come to a pretty pass if a minister can’t find enough in Holy Writ to -preach about, that’s what. What church do you attend, Anne? I hope you -go regularly. People are apt to get so careless about church-going away -from home, and I understand college students are great sinners in this -respect. I’m told many of them actually study their lessons on Sunday. -I hope you’ll never sink that low, Anne. Remember how you were brought -up. And be very careful what friends you make. You never know what sort -of creatures are in them colleges. Outwardly they may be as whited -sepulchers and inwardly as ravening wolves, that’s what. You’d better -not have anything to say to any young man who isn’t from the Island. - -“I forgot to tell you what happened the day the minister called here. -It was the funniest thing I ever saw. I said to Marilla, ‘If Anne had -been here wouldn’t she have had a laugh?’ Even Marilla laughed. You -know he’s a very short, fat little man with bow legs. Well, that old -pig of Mr. Harrison’s—the big, tall one—had wandered over here that day -again and broke into the yard, and it got into the back porch, -unbeknowns to us, and it was there when the minister appeared in the -doorway. It made one wild bolt to get out, but there was nowhere to -bolt to except between them bow legs. So there it went, and, being as -it was so big and the minister so little, it took him clean off his -feet and carried him away. His hat went one way and his cane another, -just as Marilla and I got to the door. I’ll never forget the look of -him. And that poor pig was near scared to death. I’ll never be able to -read that account in the Bible of the swine that rushed madly down the -steep place into the sea without seeing Mr. Harrison’s pig careering -down the hill with that minister. I guess the pig thought he had the -Old Boy on his back instead of inside of him. I was thankful the twins -weren’t about. It wouldn’t have been the right thing for them to have -seen a minister in such an undignified predicament. Just before they -got to the brook the minister jumped off or fell off. The pig rushed -through the brook like mad and up through the woods. Marilla and I run -down and helped the minister get up and brush his coat. He wasn’t hurt, -but he was mad. He seemed to hold Marilla and me responsible for it -all, though we told him the pig didn’t belong to us, and had been -pestering us all summer. Besides, what did he come to the back door -for? You’d never have caught Mr. Allan doing that. It’ll be a long time -before we get a man like Mr. Allan. But it’s an ill wind that blows no -good. We’ve never seen hoof or hair of that pig since, and it’s my -belief we never will. - -“Things is pretty quiet in Avonlea. I don’t find Green Gables as -lonesome as I expected. I think I’ll start another cotton warp quilt -this winter. Mrs. Silas Sloane has a handsome new apple-leaf pattern. - -“When I feel that I must have some excitement I read the murder trials -in that Boston paper my niece sends me. I never used to do it, but -they’re real interesting. The States must be an awful place. I hope -you’ll never go there, Anne. But the way girls roam over the earth now -is something terrible. It always makes me think of Satan in the Book of -Job, going to and fro and walking up and down. I don’t believe the Lord -ever intended it, that’s what. - -“Davy has been pretty good since you went away. One day he was bad and -Marilla punished him by making him wear Dora’s apron all day, and then -he went and cut all Dora’s aprons up. I spanked him for that and then -he went and chased my rooster to death. - -“The MacPhersons have moved down to my place. She’s a great housekeeper -and very particular. She’s rooted all my June lilies up because she -says they make a garden look so untidy. Thomas set them lilies out when -we were married. Her husband seems a nice sort of a man, but she can’t -get over being an old maid, that’s what. - -“Don’t study too hard, and be sure and put your winter underclothes on -as soon as the weather gets cool. Marilla worries a lot about you, but -I tell her you’ve got a lot more sense than I ever thought you would -have at one time, and that you’ll be all right.” - -Davy’s letter plunged into a grievance at the start. - -“Dear anne, please write and tell marilla not to tie me to the rale of -the bridge when I go fishing the boys make fun of me when she does. Its -awful lonesome here without you but grate fun in school. Jane andrews -is crosser than you. I scared mrs. lynde with a jacky lantern last -nite. She was offel mad and she was mad cause I chased her old rooster -round the yard till he fell down ded. I didn’t mean to make him fall -down ded. What made him die, anne, I want to know. mrs. lynde threw him -into the pig pen she mite of sold him to mr. blair. mr. blair is giving -50 sense apeace for good ded roosters now. I herd mrs. lynde asking the -minister to pray for her. What did she do that was so bad, anne, I want -to know. I’ve got a kite with a magnificent tail, anne. Milty bolter -told me a grate story in school yesterday. it is troo. old Joe Mosey -and Leon were playing cards one nite last week in the woods. The cards -were on a stump and a big black man bigger than the trees come along -and grabbed the cards and the stump and disapered with a noys like -thunder. Ill bet they were skared. Milty says the black man was the old -harry. was he, anne, I want to know. Mr. kimball over at spenservale is -very sick and will have to go to the hospitable. please excuse me while -I ask marilla if thats spelled rite. Marilla says its the silem he has -to go to not the other place. He thinks he has a snake inside of him. -whats it like to have a snake inside of you, anne. I want to know. mrs. -lawrence bell is sick to. mrs. lynde says that all that is the matter -with her is that she thinks too much about her insides.” - -“I wonder,” said Anne, as she folded up her letters, “what Mrs. Lynde -would think of Philippa.” - - - - -Chapter VI -In the Park - - -“What are you going to do with yourselves today, girls?” asked -Philippa, popping into Anne’s room one Saturday afternoon. - -“We are going for a walk in the park,” answered Anne. “I ought to stay -in and finish my blouse. But I couldn’t sew on a day like this. There’s -something in the air that gets into my blood and makes a sort of glory -in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I’d sew a crooked seam. So it’s -ho for the park and the pines.” - -“Does ‘we’ include any one but yourself and Priscilla?” - -“Yes, it includes Gilbert and Charlie, and we’ll be very glad if it -will include you, also.” - -“But,” said Philippa dolefully, “if I go I’ll have to be gooseberry, -and that will be a new experience for Philippa Gordon.” - -“Well, new experiences are broadening. Come along, and you’ll be able -to sympathize with all poor souls who have to play gooseberry often. -But where are all the victims?” - -“Oh, I was tired of them all and simply couldn’t be bothered with any -of them today. Besides, I’ve been feeling a little blue—just a pale, -elusive azure. It isn’t serious enough for anything darker. I wrote -Alec and Alonzo last week. I put the letters into envelopes and -addressed them, but I didn’t seal them up. That evening something funny -happened. That is, Alec would think it funny, but Alonzo wouldn’t be -likely to. I was in a hurry, so I snatched Alec’s letter—as I -thought—out of the envelope and scribbled down a postscript. Then I -mailed both letters. I got Alonzo’s reply this morning. Girls, I had -put that postscript to his letter and he was furious. Of course he’ll -get over it—and I don’t care if he doesn’t—but it spoiled my day. So I -thought I’d come to you darlings to get cheered up. After the football -season opens I won’t have any spare Saturday afternoons. I adore -football. I’ve got the most gorgeous cap and sweater striped in Redmond -colors to wear to the games. To be sure, a little way off I’ll look -like a walking barber’s pole. Do you know that that Gilbert of yours -has been elected Captain of the Freshman football team?” - -“Yes, he told us so last evening,” said Priscilla, seeing that outraged -Anne would not answer. “He and Charlie were down. We knew they were -coming, so we painstakingly put out of sight or out of reach all Miss -Ada’s cushions. That very elaborate one with the raised embroidery I -dropped on the floor in the corner behind the chair it was on. I -thought it would be safe there. But would you believe it? Charlie -Sloane made for that chair, noticed the cushion behind it, solemnly -fished it up, and sat on it the whole evening. Such a wreck of a -cushion as it was! Poor Miss Ada asked me today, still smiling, but oh, -so reproachfully, why I had allowed it to be sat upon. I told her I -hadn’t—that it was a matter of predestination coupled with inveterate -Sloanishness and I wasn’t a match for both combined.” - -“Miss Ada’s cushions are really getting on my nerves,” said Anne. “She -finished two new ones last week, stuffed and embroidered within an inch -of their lives. There being absolutely no other cushionless place to -put them she stood them up against the wall on the stair landing. They -topple over half the time and if we come up or down the stairs in the -dark we fall over them. Last Sunday, when Dr. Davis prayed for all -those exposed to the perils of the sea, I added in thought ‘and for all -those who live in houses where cushions are loved not wisely but too -well!’ There! we’re ready, and I see the boys coming through Old St. -John’s. Do you cast in your lot with us, Phil?” - -“I’ll go, if I can walk with Priscilla and Charlie. That will be a -bearable degree of gooseberry. That Gilbert of yours is a darling, -Anne, but why does he go around so much with Goggle-eyes?” - -Anne stiffened. She had no great liking for Charlie Sloane; but he was -of Avonlea, so no outsider had any business to laugh at him. - -“Charlie and Gilbert have always been friends,” she said coldly. -“Charlie is a nice boy. He’s not to blame for his eyes.” - -“Don’t tell me that! He is! He must have done something dreadful in a -previous existence to be punished with such eyes. Pris and I are going -to have such sport with him this afternoon. We’ll make fun of him to -his face and he’ll never know it.” - -Doubtless, “the abandoned P’s,” as Anne called them, did carry out -their amiable intentions. But Sloane was blissfully ignorant; he -thought he was quite a fine fellow to be walking with two such coeds, -especially Philippa Gordon, the class beauty and belle. It must surely -impress Anne. She would see that some people appreciated him at his -real value. - -Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying the -calm, still beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of the park, -on the road that climbed and twisted round the harbor shore. - -“The silence here is like a prayer, isn’t it?” said Anne, her face -upturned to the shining sky. “How I love the pines! They seem to strike -their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. It is so comforting -to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. I always feel so -happy out here.” - -“‘And so in mountain solitudes o’ertaken - As by some spell divine, -Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken - From out the gusty pine,’” - - -quoted Gilbert. - -“They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don’t they, Anne?” - -“I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the -pines for comfort,” said Anne dreamily. - -“I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne,” said Gilbert, who -could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous creature -beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the highest heights -can also plunge to the deepest depths, and that the natures which enjoy -most keenly are those which also suffer most sharply. - -“But there must—sometime,” mused Anne. “Life seems like a cup of glory -held to my lips just now. But there must be some bitterness in it—there -is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day. Well, I hope I shall be -strong and brave to meet it. And I hope it won’t be through my own -fault that it will come. Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last -Sunday evening—that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and -strength with them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through -folly or wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn’t -talk of sorrow on an afternoon like this. It’s meant for the sheer joy -of living, isn’t it?” - -“If I had my way I’d shut everything out of your life but happiness and -pleasure, Anne,” said Gilbert in the tone that meant “danger ahead.” - -“Then you would be very unwise,” rejoined Anne hastily. “I’m sure no -life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and -sorrow—though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that -we admit it. Come—the others have got to the pavilion and are beckoning -to us.” - -They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn sunset of -deep red fire and pallid gold. To their left lay Kingsport, its roofs -and spires dim in their shroud of violet smoke. To their right lay the -harbor, taking on tints of rose and copper as it stretched out into the -sunset. Before them the water shimmered, satin smooth and silver gray, -and beyond, clean shaven William’s Island loomed out of the mist, -guarding the town like a sturdy bulldog. Its lighthouse beacon flared -through the mist like a baleful star, and was answered by another in -the far horizon. - -“Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?” asked Philippa. “I -don’t want William’s Island especially, but I’m sure I couldn’t get it -if I did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort, right beside -the flag. Doesn’t he look as if he had stepped out of a romance?” - -“Speaking of romance,” said Priscilla, “we’ve been looking for -heather—but, of course, we couldn’t find any. It’s too late in the -season, I suppose.” - -“Heather!” exclaimed Anne. “Heather doesn’t grow in America, does it?” - -“There are just two patches of it in the whole continent,” said Phil, -“one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, I -forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch, camped -here one year, and, when the men shook out the straw of their beds in -the spring, some seeds of heather took root.” - -“Oh, how delightful!” said enchanted Anne. - -“Let’s go home around by Spofford Avenue,” suggested Gilbert. “We can -see all ‘the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.’ Spofford -Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport. Nobody can build -on it unless he’s a millionaire.” - -“Oh, do,” said Phil. “There’s a perfectly killing little place I want -to show you, Anne. _it_ wasn’t built by a millionaire. It’s the first -place after you leave the park, and must have grown while Spofford -Avenue was still a country road. It _did_ grow—it wasn’t built! I don’t -care for the houses on the Avenue. They’re too brand new and -plateglassy. But this little spot is a dream—and its name—but wait till -you see it.” - -They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park. Just -on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a plain road, was -a little white frame house with groups of pines on either side of it, -stretching their arms protectingly over its low roof. It was covered -with red and gold vines, through which its green-shuttered windows -peeped. Before it was a tiny garden, surrounded by a low stone wall. -October though it was, the garden was still very sweet with dear, -old-fashioned, unworldly flowers and shrubs—sweet may, southern-wood, -lemon verbena, alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. A tiny -brick wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from the gate to the front -porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some remote -country village; yet there was something about it that made its nearest -neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a tobacco king, look -exceedingly crude and showy and ill-bred by contrast. As Phil said, it -was the difference between being born and being made. - -“It’s the dearest place I ever saw,” said Anne delightedly. “It gives -me one of my old, delightful funny aches. It’s dearer and quainter than -even Miss Lavendar’s stone house.” - -“It’s the name I want you to notice especially,” said Phil. “Look—in -white letters, around the archway over the gate. ‘Patty’s Place.’ Isn’t -that killing? Especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and -Cedarcrofts? ‘Patty’s Place,’ if you please! I adore it.” - -“Have you any idea who Patty is?” asked Priscilla. - -“Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I’ve -discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they’ve lived there for -hundreds of years, more or less—maybe a little less, Anne. Exaggeration -is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand that wealthy folk have -tried to buy the lot time and again—it’s really worth a small fortune -now, you know—but ‘Patty’ won’t sell upon any consideration. And -there’s an apple orchard behind the house in place of a back -yard—you’ll see it when we get a little past—a real apple orchard on -Spofford Avenue!” - -“I’m going to dream about ‘Patty’s Place’ tonight,” said Anne. “Why, I -feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by any chance, we’ll ever see -the inside of it.” - -“It isn’t likely,” said Priscilla. - -Anne smiled mysteriously. - -“No, it isn’t likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a queer, -creepy, crawly feeling—you can call it a presentiment, if you like—that -‘Patty’s Place’ and I are going to be better acquainted yet.” - - - - -Chapter VII -Home Again - - -Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest of the -term flew by on wings of wind. Before they realized it the Redmond -students found themselves in the grind of Christmas examinations, -emerging therefrom more or less triumphantly. The honor of leading in -the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne, Gilbert and Philippa; -Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane scraped through respectably, -and comported himself as complacently as if he had led in everything. - -“I can’t really believe that this time tomorrow I’ll be in Green -Gables,” said Anne on the night before departure. “But I shall be. And -you, Phil, will be in Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo.” - -“I’m longing to see them,” admitted Phil, between the chocolate she was -nibbling. “They really are such dear boys, you know. There’s to be no -end of dances and drives and general jamborees. I shall never forgive -you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with me for the holidays.” - -“‘Never’ means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you to ask -me—and I’d love to go to Bolingbroke some day. But I can’t go this -year—I _must_ go home. You don’t know how my heart longs for it.” - -“You won’t have much of a time,” said Phil scornfully. “There’ll be one -or two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the old gossips will talk -you over to your face and behind your back. You’ll die of lonesomeness, -child.” - -“In Avonlea?” said Anne, highly amused. - -“Now, if you’d come with me you’d have a perfectly gorgeous time. -Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne—your hair and your style -and, oh, everything! You’re so _different_. You’d be such a success—and -I would bask in reflected glory—‘not the rose but near the rose.’ Do -come, after all, Anne.” - -“Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but I’ll -paint one to offset it. I’m going home to an old country farmhouse, -once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple orchards. There -is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond, where I’ve heard harps -swept by the fingers of rain and wind. There is a pond nearby that will -be gray and brooding now. There will be two oldish ladies in the house, -one tall and thin, one short and fat; and there will be two twins, one -a perfect model, the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a ‘holy terror.’ There -will be a little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang -thick, and a big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the -height of luxury after a boardinghouse mattress. How do you like my -picture, Phil?” - -“It seems a very dull one,” said Phil, with a grimace. - -“Oh, but I’ve left out the transforming thing,” said Anne softly. -“There’ll be love there, Phil—faithful, tender love, such as I’ll never -find anywhere else in the world—love that’s waiting for me. That makes -my picture a masterpiece, doesn’t it, even if the colors are not very -brilliant?” - -Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up to -Anne, and put her arms about her. - -“Anne, I wish I was like you,” she said soberly. - -Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they drove -home together under silent, star-sown depths of sky. Green Gables had a -very festal appearance as they drove up the lane. There was a light in -every window, the glow breaking out through the darkness like flame-red -blossoms swung against the dark background of the Haunted Wood. And in -the yard was a brave bonfire with two gay little figures dancing around -it, one of which gave an unearthly yell as the buggy turned in under -the poplars. - -“Davy means that for an Indian war-whoop,” said Diana. “Mr. Harrison’s -hired boy taught it to him, and he’s been practicing it up to welcome -you with. Mrs. Lynde says it has worn her nerves to a frazzle. He -creeps up behind her, you know, and then lets go. He was determined to -have a bonfire for you, too. He’s been piling up branches for a -fortnight and pestering Marilla to be let pour some kerosene oil over -it before setting it on fire. I guess she did, by the smell, though -Mrs. Lynde said up to the last that Davy would blow himself and -everybody else up if he was let.” - -Anne was out of the buggy by this time, and Davy was rapturously -hugging her knees, while even Dora was clinging to her hand. - -“Isn’t that a bully bonfire, Anne? Just let me show you how to poke -it—see the sparks? I did it for you, Anne, ’cause I was so glad you -were coming home.” - -The kitchen door opened and Marilla’s spare form darkened against the -inner light. She preferred to meet Anne in the shadows, for she was -horribly afraid that she was going to cry with joy—she, stern, -repressed Marilla, who thought all display of deep emotion unseemly. -Mrs. Lynde was behind her, sonsy, kindly, matronly, as of yore. The -love that Anne had told Phil was waiting for her surrounded her and -enfolded her with its blessing and its sweetness. Nothing, after all, -could compare with old ties, old friends, and old Green Gables! How -starry Anne’s eyes were as they sat down to the loaded supper table, -how pink her cheeks, how silver-clear her laughter! And Diana was going -to stay all night, too. How like the dear old times it was! And the -rose-bud tea-set graced the table! With Marilla the force of nature -could no further go. - -“I suppose you and Diana will now proceed to talk all night,” said -Marilla sarcastically, as the girls went upstairs. Marilla was always -sarcastic after any self-betrayal. - -“Yes,” agreed Anne gaily, “but I’m going to put Davy to bed first. He -insists on that.” - -“You bet,” said Davy, as they went along the hall. “I want somebody to -say my prayers to again. It’s no fun saying them alone.” - -“You don’t say them alone, Davy. God is always with you to hear you.” - -“Well, I can’t see Him,” objected Davy. “I want to pray to somebody I -can see, but I _won’t_ say them to Mrs. Lynde or Marilla, there now!” - -Nevertheless, when Davy was garbed in his gray flannel nighty, he did -not seem in a hurry to begin. He stood before Anne, shuffling one bare -foot over the other, and looked undecided. - -“Come, dear, kneel down,” said Anne. - -Davy came and buried his head in Anne’s lap, but he did not kneel down. - -“Anne,” he said in a muffled voice. “I don’t feel like praying after -all. I haven’t felt like it for a week now. I—I _didnt’t_ pray last -night nor the night before.” - -“Why not, Davy?” asked Anne gently. - -“You—you won’t be mad if I tell you?” implored Davy. - -Anne lifted the little gray-flannelled body on her knee and cuddled his -head on her arm. - -“Do I ever get ‘mad’ when you tell me things, Davy?” - -“No-o-o, you never do. But you get sorry, and that’s worse. You’ll be -awful sorry when I tell you this, Anne—and you’ll be ’shamed of me, I -s’pose.” - -“Have you done something naughty, Davy, and is that why you can’t say -your prayers?” - -“No, I haven’t done anything naughty—yet. But I want to do it.” - -“What is it, Davy?” - -“I—I want to say a bad word, Anne,” blurted out Davy, with a desperate -effort. “I heard Mr. Harrison’s hired boy say it one day last week, and -ever since I’ve been wanting to say it _all_ the time—even when I’m -saying my prayers.” - -“Say it then, Davy.” - -Davy lifted his flushed face in amazement. - -“But, Anne, it’s an _awful_ bad word.” - -“_Say it!_” - -Davy gave her another incredulous look, then in a low voice he said the -dreadful word. The next minute his face was burrowing against her. - -“Oh, Anne, I’ll never say it again—never. I’ll never _want_ to say it -again. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t s’pose it was so—so—I didn’t -s’pose it was like _that_.” - -“No, I don’t think you’ll ever want to say it again, Davy—or think it, -either. And I wouldn’t go about much with Mr. Harrison’s hired boy if I -were you.” - -“He can make bully war-whoops,” said Davy a little regretfully. - -“But you don’t want your mind filled with bad words, do you, Davy—words -that will poison it and drive out all that is good and manly?” - -“No,” said Davy, owl-eyed with introspection. - -“Then don’t go with those people who use them. And now do you feel as -if you could say your prayers, Davy?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Davy, eagerly wriggling down on his knees, “I can say -them now all right. I ain’t scared now to say ‘if I should die before I -wake,’ like I was when I was wanting to say that word.” - -Probably Anne and Diana did empty out their souls to each other that -night, but no record of their confidences has been preserved. They both -looked as fresh and bright-eyed at breakfast as only youth can look -after unlawful hours of revelry and confession. There had been no snow -up to this time, but as Diana crossed the old log bridge on her -homeward way the white flakes were beginning to flutter down over the -fields and woods, russet and gray in their dreamless sleep. Soon the -far-away slopes and hills were dim and wraith-like through their gauzy -scarfing, as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her hair -and was waiting for her wintry bridegroom. So they had a white -Christmas after all, and a very pleasant day it was. In the forenoon -letters and gifts came from Miss Lavendar and Paul; Anne opened them in -the cheerful Green Gables kitchen, which was filled with what Davy, -sniffing in ecstasy, called “pretty smells.” - -“Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving are settled in their new home now,” -reported Anne. “I am sure Miss Lavendar is perfectly happy—I know it by -the general tone of her letter—but there’s a note from Charlotta the -Fourth. She doesn’t like Boston at all, and she is fearfully homesick. -Miss Lavendar wants me to go through to Echo Lodge some day while I’m -home and light a fire to air it, and see that the cushions aren’t -getting moldy. I think I’ll get Diana to go over with me next week, and -we can spend the evening with Theodora Dix. I want to see Theodora. By -the way, is Ludovic Speed still going to see her?” - -“They say so,” said Marilla, “and he’s likely to continue it. Folks -have given up expecting that that courtship will ever arrive anywhere.” - -“I’d hurry him up a bit, if I was Theodora, that’s what,” said Mrs. -Lynde. And there is not the slightest doubt but that she would. - -There was also a characteristic scrawl from Philippa, full of Alec and -Alonzo, what they said and what they did, and how they looked when they -saw her. - -“But I can’t make up my mind yet which to marry,” wrote Phil. “I do -wish you had come with me to decide for me. Some one will have to. When -I saw Alec my heart gave a great thump and I thought, ‘He might be the -right one.’ And then, when Alonzo came, thump went my heart again. So -that’s no guide, though it should be, according to all the novels I’ve -ever read. Now, Anne, _your_ heart wouldn’t thump for anybody but the -genuine Prince Charming, would it? There must be something radically -wrong with mine. But I’m having a perfectly gorgeous time. How I wish -you were here! It’s snowing today, and I’m rapturous. I was so afraid -we’d have a green Christmas and I loathe them. You know, when Christmas -is a dirty grayey-browney affair, looking as if it had been left over a -hundred years ago and had been in soak ever since, it is called a -_green_ Christmas! Don’t ask me why. As Lord Dundreary says, ‘there are -thome thingth no fellow can underthtand.’ - -“Anne, did you ever get on a street car and then discover that you -hadn’t any money with you to pay your fare? I did, the other day. It’s -quite awful. I had a nickel with me when I got on the car. I thought it -was in the left pocket of my coat. When I got settled down comfortably -I felt for it. It wasn’t there. I had a cold chill. I felt in the other -pocket. Not there. I had another chill. Then I felt in a little inside -pocket. All in vain. I had two chills at once. - -“I took off my gloves, laid them on the seat, and went over all my -pockets again. It was not there. I stood up and shook myself, and then -looked on the floor. The car was full of people, who were going home -from the opera, and they all stared at me, but I was past caring for a -little thing like that. - -“But I could not find my fare. I concluded I must have put it in my -mouth and swallowed it inadvertently. - -“I didn’t know what to do. Would the conductor, I wondered, stop the -car and put me off in ignominy and shame? Was it possible that I could -convince him that I was merely the victim of my own absentmindedness, -and not an unprincipled creature trying to obtain a ride upon false -pretenses? How I wished that Alec or Alonzo were there. But they -weren’t because I wanted them. If I _hadn’t_ wanted them they would -have been there by the dozen. And I couldn’t decide what to say to the -conductor when he came around. As soon as I got one sentence of -explanation mapped out in my mind I felt nobody could believe it and I -must compose another. It seemed there was nothing to do but trust in -Providence, and for all the comfort that gave me I might as well have -been the old lady who, when told by the captain during a storm that she -must put her trust in the Almighty exclaimed, ‘Oh, Captain, is it as -bad as that?’ - -“Just at the conventional moment, when all hope had fled, and the -conductor was holding out his box to the passenger next to me, I -suddenly remembered where I had put that wretched coin of the realm. I -hadn’t swallowed it after all. I meekly fished it out of the index -finger of my glove and poked it in the box. I smiled at everybody and -felt that it was a beautiful world.” - -The visit to Echo Lodge was not the least pleasant of many pleasant -holiday outings. Anne and Diana went back to it by the old way of the -beech woods, carrying a lunch basket with them. Echo Lodge, which had -been closed ever since Miss Lavendar’s wedding, was briefly thrown open -to wind and sunshine once more, and firelight glimmered again in the -little rooms. The perfume of Miss Lavendar’s rose bowl still filled the -air. It was hardly possible to believe that Miss Lavendar would not -come tripping in presently, with her brown eyes a-star with welcome, -and that Charlotta the Fourth, blue of bow and wide of smile, would not -pop through the door. Paul, too, seemed hovering around, with his fairy -fancies. - -“It really makes me feel a little bit like a ghost revisiting the old -time glimpses of the moon,” laughed Anne. “Let’s go out and see if the -echoes are at home. Bring the old horn. It is still behind the kitchen -door.” - -The echoes were at home, over the white river, as silver-clear and -multitudinous as ever; and when they had ceased to answer the girls -locked up Echo Lodge again and went away in the perfect half hour that -follows the rose and saffron of a winter sunset. - - - - -Chapter VIII -Anne’s First Proposal - - -The old year did not slip away in a green twilight, with a pinky-yellow -sunset. Instead, it went out with a wild, white bluster and blow. It -was one of the nights when the storm-wind hurtles over the frozen -meadows and black hollows, and moans around the eaves like a lost -creature, and drives the snow sharply against the shaking panes. - -“Just the sort of night people like to cuddle down between their -blankets and count their mercies,” said Anne to Jane Andrews, who had -come up to spend the afternoon and stay all night. But when they were -cuddled between their blankets, in Anne’s little porch room, it was not -her mercies of which Jane was thinking. - -“Anne,” she said very solemnly, “I want to tell you something. May I” - -Anne was feeling rather sleepy after the party Ruby Gillis had given -the night before. She would much rather have gone to sleep than listen -to Jane’s confidences, which she was sure would bore her. She had no -prophetic inkling of what was coming. Probably Jane was engaged, too; -rumor averred that Ruby Gillis was engaged to the Spencervale -schoolteacher, about whom all the girls were said to be quite wild. - -“I’ll soon be the only fancy-free maiden of our old quartet,” thought -Anne, drowsily. Aloud she said, “Of course.” - -“Anne,” said Jane, still more solemnly, “what do you think of my -brother Billy?” - -Anne gasped over this unexpected question, and floundered helplessly in -her thoughts. Goodness, what _did_ she think of Billy Andrews? She had -never thought _anything_ about him—round-faced, stupid, perpetually -smiling, good-natured Billy Andrews. Did _anybody_ ever think about -Billy Andrews? - -“I—I don’t understand, Jane,” she stammered. “What do you -mean—exactly?” - -“Do you like Billy?” asked Jane bluntly. - -“Why—why—yes, I like him, of course,” gasped Anne, wondering if she -were telling the literal truth. Certainly she did not _dis_like Billy. -But could the indifferent tolerance with which she regarded him, when -he happened to be in her range of vision, be considered positive enough -for liking? _What_ was Jane trying to elucidate? - -“Would you like him for a husband?” asked Jane calmly. - -“A husband!” Anne had been sitting up in bed, the better to wrestle -with the problem of her exact opinion of Billy Andrews. Now she fell -flatly back on her pillows, the very breath gone out of her. “Whose -husband?” - -“Yours, of course,” answered Jane. “Billy wants to marry you. He’s -always been crazy about you—and now father has given him the upper farm -in his own name and there’s nothing to prevent him from getting -married. But he’s so shy he couldn’t ask you himself if you’d have him, -so he got me to do it. I’d rather not have, but he gave me no peace -till I said I would, if I got a good chance. What do you think about -it, Anne?” - -Was it a dream? Was it one of those nightmare things in which you find -yourself engaged or married to some one you hate or don’t know, without -the slightest idea how it ever came about? No, she, Anne Shirley, was -lying there, wide awake, in her own bed, and Jane Andrews was beside -her, calmly proposing for her brother Billy. Anne did not know whether -she wanted to writhe or laugh; but she could do neither, for Jane’s -feelings must not be hurt. - -“I—I couldn’t marry Bill, you know, Jane,” she managed to gasp. “Why, -such an idea never occurred to me—never!” - -“I don’t suppose it did,” agreed Jane. “Billy has always been far too -shy to think of courting. But you might think it over, Anne. Billy is a -good fellow. I must say that, if he is my brother. He has no bad habits -and he’s a great worker, and you can depend on him. ‘A bird in the hand -is worth two in the bush.’ He told me to tell you he’d be quite willing -to wait till you got through college, if you insisted, though he’d -_rather_ get married this spring before the planting begins. He’d -always be very good to you, I’m sure, and you know, Anne, I’d love to -have you for a sister.” - -“I can’t marry Billy,” said Anne decidedly. She had recovered her wits, -and was even feeling a little angry. It was all so ridiculous. “There -is no use thinking of it, Jane. I don’t care anything for him in that -way, and you must tell him so.” - -“Well, I didn’t suppose you would,” said Jane with a resigned sigh, -feeling that she had done her best. “I told Billy I didn’t believe it -was a bit of use to ask you, but he insisted. Well, you’ve made your -decision, Anne, and I hope you won’t regret it.” - -Jane spoke rather coldly. She had been perfectly sure that the enamored -Billy had no chance at all of inducing Anne to marry him. Nevertheless, -she felt a little resentment that Anne Shirley, who was, after all, -merely an adopted orphan, without kith or kin, should refuse her -brother—one of the Avonlea Andrews. Well, pride sometimes goes before a -fall, Jane reflected ominously. - -Anne permitted herself to smile in the darkness over the idea that she -might ever regret not marrying Billy Andrews. - -“I hope Billy won’t feel very badly over it,” she said nicely. - -Jane made a movement as if she were tossing her head on her pillow. - -“Oh, he won’t break his heart. Billy has too much good sense for that. -He likes Nettie Blewett pretty well, too, and mother would rather he -married her than any one. She’s such a good manager and saver. I think, -when Billy is once sure you won’t have him, he’ll take Nettie. Please -don’t mention this to any one, will you, Anne?” - -“Certainly not,” said Anne, who had no desire whatever to publish -abroad the fact that Billy Andrews wanted to marry her, preferring her, -when all was said and done, to Nettie Blewett. Nettie Blewett! - -“And now I suppose we’d better go to sleep,” suggested Jane. - -To sleep went Jane easily and speedily; but, though very unlike MacBeth -in most respects, she had certainly contrived to murder sleep for Anne. -That proposed-to damsel lay on a wakeful pillow until the wee sma’s, -but her meditations were far from being romantic. It was not, however, -until the next morning that she had an opportunity to indulge in a good -laugh over the whole affair. When Jane had gone home—still with a hint -of frost in voice and manner because Anne had declined so ungratefully -and decidedly the honor of an alliance with the House of Andrews—Anne -retreated to the porch room, shut the door, and had her laugh out at -last. - -“If I could only share the joke with some one!” she thought. “But I -can’t. Diana is the only one I’d want to tell, and, even if I hadn’t -sworn secrecy to Jane, I can’t tell Diana things now. She tells -everything to Fred—I know she does. Well, I’ve had my first proposal. I -supposed it would come some day—but I certainly never thought it would -be by proxy. It’s awfully funny—and yet there’s a sting in it, too, -somehow.” - -Anne knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she did not -put it into words. She had had her secret dreams of the first time some -one should ask her the great question. And it had, in those dreams, -always been very romantic and beautiful: and the “some one” was to be -very handsome and dark-eyed and distinguished-looking and eloquent, -whether he were Prince Charming to be enraptured with “yes,” or one to -whom a regretful, beautifully worded, but hopeless refusal must be -given. If the latter, the refusal was to be expressed so delicately -that it would be next best thing to acceptance, and he would go away, -after kissing her hand, assuring her of his unalterable, life-long -devotion. And it would always be a beautiful memory, to be proud of and -a little sad about, also. - -And now, this thrilling experience had turned out to be merely -grotesque. Billy Andrews had got his sister to propose for him because -his father had given him the upper farm; and if Anne wouldn’t “have -him” Nettie Blewett would. There was romance for you, with a vengeance! -Anne laughed—and then sighed. The bloom had been brushed from one -little maiden dream. Would the painful process go on until everything -became prosaic and hum-drum? - - - - -Chapter IX -An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend - - -The second term at Redmond sped as quickly as had the first—“actually -whizzed away,” Philippa said. Anne enjoyed it thoroughly in all its -phases—the stimulating class rivalry, the making and deepening of new -and helpful friendships, the gay little social stunts, the doings of -the various societies of which she was a member, the widening of -horizons and interests. She studied hard, for she had made up her mind -to win the Thorburn Scholarship in English. This being won, meant that -she could come back to Redmond the next year without trenching on -Marilla’s small savings—something Anne was determined she would not do. - -Gilbert, too, was in full chase after a scholarship, but found plenty -of time for frequent calls at Thirty-eight, St. John’s. He was Anne’s -escort at nearly all the college affairs, and she knew that their names -were coupled in Redmond gossip. Anne raged over this but was helpless; -she could not cast an old friend like Gilbert aside, especially when he -had grown suddenly wise and wary, as behooved him in the dangerous -proximity of more than one Redmond youth who would gladly have taken -his place by the side of the slender, red-haired coed, whose gray eyes -were as alluring as stars of evening. Anne was never attended by the -crowd of willing victims who hovered around Philippa’s conquering march -through her Freshman year; but there was a lanky, brainy Freshie, a -jolly, little, round Sophomore, and a tall, learned Junior who all -liked to call at Thirty-eight, St. John’s, and talk over ’ologies and -’isms, as well as lighter subjects, with Anne, in the becushioned -parlor of that domicile. Gilbert did not love any of them, and he was -exceedingly careful to give none of them the advantage over him by any -untimely display of his real feelings Anne-ward. To her he had become -again the boy-comrade of Avonlea days, and as such could hold his own -against any smitten swain who had so far entered the lists against him. -As a companion, Anne honestly acknowledged nobody could be so -satisfactory as Gilbert; she was very glad, so she told herself, that -he had evidently dropped all nonsensical ideas—though she spent -considerable time secretly wondering why. - -Only one disagreeable incident marred that winter. Charlie Sloane, -sitting bolt upright on Miss Ada’s most dearly beloved cushion, asked -Anne one night if she would promise “to become Mrs. Charlie Sloane some -day.” Coming after Billy Andrews’ proxy effort, this was not quite the -shock to Anne’s romantic sensibilities that it would otherwise have -been; but it was certainly another heart-rending disillusion. She was -angry, too, for she felt that she had never given Charlie the slightest -encouragement to suppose such a thing possible. But what could you -expect of a Sloane, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde would ask scornfully? -Charlie’s whole attitude, tone, air, words, fairly reeked with -Sloanishness. “He was conferring a great honor—no doubt whatever about -that. And when Anne, utterly insensible to the honor, refused him, as -delicately and considerately as she could—for even a Sloane had -feelings which ought not to be unduly lacerated—Sloanishness still -further betrayed itself. Charlie certainly did not take his dismissal -as Anne’s imaginary rejected suitors did. Instead, he became angry, and -showed it; he said two or three quite nasty things; Anne’s temper -flashed up mutinously and she retorted with a cutting little speech -whose keenness pierced even Charlie’s protective Sloanishness and -reached the quick; he caught up his hat and flung himself out of the -house with a very red face; Anne rushed upstairs, falling twice over -Miss Ada’s cushions on the way, and threw herself on her bed, in tears -of humiliation and rage. Had she actually stooped to quarrel with a -Sloane? Was it possible anything Charlie Sloane could say had power to -make her angry? Oh, this was degradation, indeed—worse even than being -the rival of Nettie Blewett! - -“I wish I need never see the horrible creature again,” she sobbed -vindictively into her pillows. - -She could not avoid seeing him again, but the outraged Charlie took -care that it should not be at very close quarters. Miss Ada’s cushions -were henceforth safe from his depredations, and when he met Anne on the -street, or in Redmond’s halls, his bow was icy in the extreme. -Relations between these two old schoolmates continued to be thus -strained for nearly a year! Then Charlie transferred his blighted -affections to a round, rosy, snub-nosed, blue-eyed, little Sophomore -who appreciated them as they deserved, whereupon he forgave Anne and -condescended to be civil to her again; in a patronizing manner intended -to show her just what she had lost. - -One day Anne scurried excitedly into Priscilla’s room. - -“Read that,” she cried, tossing Priscilla a letter. “It’s from -Stella—and she’s coming to Redmond next year—and what do you think of -her idea? I think it’s a perfectly splendid one, if we can only carry -it out. Do you suppose we can, Pris?” - -“I’ll be better able to tell you when I find out what it is,” said -Priscilla, casting aside a Greek lexicon and taking up Stella’s letter. -Stella Maynard had been one of their chums at Queen’s Academy and had -been teaching school ever since. - -“But I’m going to give it up, Anne dear,” she wrote, “and go to college -next year. As I took the third year at Queen’s I can enter the -Sophomore year. I’m tired of teaching in a back country school. Some -day I’m going to write a treatise on ‘The Trials of a Country -Schoolmarm.’ It will be a harrowing bit of realism. It seems to be the -prevailing impression that we live in clover, and have nothing to do -but draw our quarter’s salary. My treatise shall tell the truth about -us. Why, if a week should pass without some one telling me that I am -doing easy work for big pay I would conclude that I might as well order -my ascension robe ‘immediately and to onct.’ ‘Well, you get your money -easy,’ some rate-payer will tell me, condescendingly. ‘All you have to -do is to sit there and hear lessons.’ I used to argue the matter at -first, but I’m wiser now. Facts are stubborn things, but as some one -has wisely said, not half so stubborn as fallacies. So I only smile -loftily now in eloquent silence. Why, I have nine grades in my school -and I have to teach a little of everything, from investigating the -interiors of earthworms to the study of the solar system. My youngest -pupil is four—his mother sends him to school to ‘get him out of the -way’—and my oldest twenty—it ‘suddenly struck him’ that it would be -easier to go to school and get an education than follow the plough any -longer. In the wild effort to cram all sorts of research into six hours -a day I don’t wonder if the children feel like the little boy who was -taken to see the biograph. ‘I have to look for what’s coming next -before I know what went last,’ he complained. I feel like that myself. - -“And the letters I get, Anne! Tommy’s mother writes me that Tommy is -not coming on in arithmetic as fast as she would like. He is only in -simple reduction yet, and Johnny Johnson is in fractions, and Johnny -isn’t half as smart as her Tommy, and she can’t understand it. And -Susy’s father wants to know why Susy can’t write a letter without -misspelling half the words, and Dick’s aunt wants me to change his -seat, because that bad Brown boy he is sitting with is teaching him to -say naughty words. - -“As to the financial part—but I’ll not begin on that. Those whom the -gods wish to destroy they first make country schoolmarms! - -“There, I feel better, after that growl. After all, I’ve enjoyed these -past two years. But I’m coming to Redmond. - -“And now, Anne, I’ve a little plan. You know how I loathe boarding. -I’ve boarded for four years and I’m so tired of it. I don’t feel like -enduring three years more of it. - -“Now, why can’t you and Priscilla and I club together, rent a little -house somewhere in Kingsport, and board ourselves? It would be cheaper -than any other way. Of course, we would have to have a housekeeper and -I have one ready on the spot. You’ve heard me speak of Aunt Jamesina? -She’s the sweetest aunt that ever lived, in spite of her name. She -can’t help that! She was called Jamesina because her father, whose name -was James, was drowned at sea a month before she was born. I always -call her Aunt Jimsie. Well, her only daughter has recently married and -gone to the foreign mission field. Aunt Jamesina is left alone in a -great big house, and she is horribly lonesome. She will come to -Kingsport and keep house for us if we want her, and I know you’ll both -love her. The more I think of the plan the more I like it. We could -have such good, independent times. - -“Now, if you and Priscilla agree to it, wouldn’t it be a good idea for -you, who are on the spot, to look around and see if you can find a -suitable house this spring? That would be better than leaving it till -the fall. If you could get a furnished one so much the better, but if -not, we can scare up a few sticks of finiture between us and old family -friends with attics. Anyhow, decide as soon as you can and write me, so -that Aunt Jamesina will know what plans to make for next year.” - -“I think it’s a good idea,” said Priscilla. - -“So do I,” agreed Anne delightedly. “Of course, we have a nice -boardinghouse here, but, when all’s said and done, a boardinghouse -isn’t home. So let’s go house-hunting at once, before exams come on.” - -“I’m afraid it will be hard enough to get a really suitable house,” -warned Priscilla. “Don’t expect too much, Anne. Nice houses in nice -localities will probably be away beyond our means. We’ll likely have to -content ourselves with a shabby little place on some street whereon -live people whom to know is to be unknown, and make life inside -compensate for the outside.” - -Accordingly they went house-hunting, but to find just what they wanted -proved even harder than Priscilla had feared. Houses there were galore, -furnished and unfurnished; but one was too big, another too small; this -one too expensive, that one too far from Redmond. Exams were on and -over; the last week of the term came and still their “house o’dreams,” -as Anne called it, remained a castle in the air. - -“We shall have to give up and wait till the fall, I suppose,” said -Priscilla wearily, as they rambled through the park on one of April’s -darling days of breeze and blue, when the harbor was creaming and -shimmering beneath the pearl-hued mists floating over it. “We may find -some shack to shelter us then; and if not, boardinghouses we shall have -always with us.” - -“I’m not going to worry about it just now, anyway, and spoil this -lovely afternoon,” said Anne, gazing around her with delight. The fresh -chill air was faintly charged with the aroma of pine balsam, and the -sky above was crystal clear and blue—a great inverted cup of blessing. -“Spring is singing in my blood today, and the lure of April is abroad -on the air. I’m seeing visions and dreaming dreams, Pris. That’s -because the wind is from the west. I do love the west wind. It sings of -hope and gladness, doesn’t it? When the east wind blows I always think -of sorrowful rain on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore. When I -get old I shall have rheumatism when the wind is east.” - -“And isn’t it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments for the -first time and sally forth, like this, in spring attire?” laughed -Priscilla. “Don’t you feel as if you had been made over new?” - -“Everything is new in the spring,” said Anne. “Springs themselves are -always so new, too. No spring is ever just like any other spring. It -always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness. See -how green the grass is around that little pond, and how the willow buds -are bursting.” - -“And exams are over and gone—the time of Convocation will come -soon—next Wednesday. This day next week we’ll be home.” - -“I’m glad,” said Anne dreamily. “There are so many things I want to do. -I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze blowing down -over Mr. Harrison’s fields. I want to hunt ferns in the Haunted Wood -and gather violets in Violet Vale. Do you remember the day of our -golden picnic, Priscilla? I want to hear the frogs singing and the -poplars whispering. But I’ve learned to love Kingsport, too, and I’m -glad I’m coming back next fall. If I hadn’t won the Thorburn I don’t -believe I could have. I _couldn’t_ take any of Marilla’s little hoard.” - -“If we could only find a house!” sighed Priscilla. “Look over there at -Kingsport, Anne—houses, houses everywhere, and not one for us.” - -“Stop it, Pris. ‘The best is yet to be.’ Like the old Roman, we’ll find -a house or build one. On a day like this there’s no such word as fail -in my bright lexicon.” - -They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing miracle -and glory and wonder of the springtide; and they went home as usual, by -way of Spofford Avenue, that they might have the delight of looking at -Patty’s Place. - -“I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right away—‘by -the pricking of my thumbs,’” said Anne, as they went up the slope. -“It’s a nice story-bookish feeling. Why—why—why! Priscilla Grant, look -over there and tell me if it’s true, or am I seein’ things?” - -Priscilla looked. Anne’s thumbs and eyes had not deceived her. Over the -arched gateway of Patty’s Place dangled a little, modest sign. It said -“To Let, Furnished. Inquire Within.” - -“Priscilla,” said Anne, in a whisper, “do you suppose it’s possible -that we could rent Patty’s Place?” - -“No, I don’t,” averred Priscilla. “It would be too good to be true. -Fairy tales don’t happen nowadays. I won’t hope, Anne. The -disappointment would be too awful to bear. They’re sure to want more -for it than we can afford. Remember, it’s on Spofford Avenue.” - -“We must find out anyhow,” said Anne resolutely. “It’s too late to call -this evening, but we’ll come tomorrow. Oh, Pris, if we can get this -darling spot! I’ve always felt that my fortunes were linked with -Patty’s Place, ever since I saw it first.” - - - - -Chapter X -Patty’s Place - - -The next evening found them treading resolutely the herring-bone walk -through the tiny garden. The April wind was filling the pine trees with -its roundelay, and the grove was alive with robins—great, plump, saucy -fellows, strutting along the paths. The girls rang rather timidly, and -were admitted by a grim and ancient handmaiden. The door opened -directly into a large living-room, where by a cheery little fire sat -two other ladies, both of whom were also grim and ancient. Except that -one looked to be about seventy and the other fifty, there seemed little -difference between them. Each had amazingly big, light-blue eyes behind -steel-rimmed spectacles; each wore a cap and a gray shawl; each was -knitting without haste and without rest; each rocked placidly and -looked at the girls without speaking; and just behind each sat a large -white china dog, with round green spots all over it, a green nose and -green ears. Those dogs captured Anne’s fancy on the spot; they seemed -like the twin guardian deities of Patty’s Place. - -For a few minutes nobody spoke. The girls were too nervous to find -words, and neither the ancient ladies nor the china dogs seemed -conversationally inclined. Anne glanced about the room. What a dear -place it was! Another door opened out of it directly into the pine -grove and the robins came boldly up on the very step. The floor was -spotted with round, braided mats, such as Marilla made at Green Gables, -but which were considered out of date everywhere else, even in Avonlea. -And yet here they were on Spofford Avenue! A big, polished -grandfather’s clock ticked loudly and solemnly in a corner. There were -delightful little cupboards over the mantelpiece, behind whose glass -doors gleamed quaint bits of china. The walls were hung with old prints -and silhouettes. In one corner the stairs went up, and at the first low -turn was a long window with an inviting seat. It was all just as Anne -had known it must be. - -By this time the silence had grown too dreadful, and Priscilla nudged -Anne to intimate that she must speak. - -“We—we—saw by your sign that this house is to let,” said Anne faintly, -addressing the older lady, who was evidently Miss Patty Spofford. - -“Oh, yes,” said Miss Patty. “I intended to take that sign down today.” - -“Then—then we are too late,” said Anne sorrowfully. “You’ve let it to -some one else?” - -“No, but we have decided not to let it at all.” - -“Oh, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Anne impulsively. “I love this place so. -I did hope we could have got it.” - -Then did Miss Patty lay down her knitting, take off her specs, rub -them, put them on again, and for the first time look at Anne as at a -human being. The other lady followed her example so perfectly that she -might as well have been a reflection in a mirror. - -“You _love_ it,” said Miss Patty with emphasis. “Does that mean that -you really _love_ it? Or that you merely like the looks of it? The -girls nowadays indulge in such exaggerated statements that one never -can tell what they _do_ mean. It wasn’t so in my young days. _Then_ a -girl did not say she _loved_ turnips, in just the same tone as she -might have said she loved her mother or her Savior.” - -Anne’s conscience bore her up. - -“I really do love it,” she said gently. “I’ve loved it ever since I saw -it last fall. My two college chums and I want to keep house next year -instead of boarding, so we are looking for a little place to rent; and -when I saw that this house was to let I was so happy.” - -“If you love it, you can have it,” said Miss Patty. “Maria and I -decided today that we would not let it after all, because we did not -like any of the people who have wanted it. We don’t _have_ to let it. -We can afford to go to Europe even if we don’t let it. It would help us -out, but not for gold will I let my home pass into the possession of -such people as have come here and looked at it. _You_ are different. I -believe you do love it and will be good to it. You can have it.” - -“If—if we can afford to pay what you ask for it,” hesitated Anne. - -Miss Patty named the amount required. Anne and Priscilla looked at each -other. Priscilla shook her head. - -“I’m afraid we can’t afford quite so much,” said Anne, choking back her -disappointment. “You see, we are only college girls and we are poor.” - -“What were you thinking you could afford?” demanded Miss Patty, ceasing -not to knit. - -Anne named her amount. Miss Patty nodded gravely. - -“That will do. As I told you, it is not strictly necessary that we -should let it at all. We are not rich, but we have enough to go to -Europe on. I have never been in Europe in my life, and never expected -or wanted to go. But my niece there, Maria Spofford, has taken a fancy -to go. Now, you know a young person like Maria can’t go globetrotting -alone.” - -“No—I—I suppose not,” murmured Anne, seeing that Miss Patty was quite -solemnly in earnest. - -“Of course not. So I have to go along to look after her. I expect to -enjoy it, too; I’m seventy years old, but I’m not tired of living yet. -I daresay I’d have gone to Europe before if the idea had occurred to -me. We shall be away for two years, perhaps three. We sail in June and -we shall send you the key, and leave all in order for you to take -possession when you choose. We shall pack away a few things we prize -especially, but all the rest will be left.” - -“Will you leave the china dogs?” asked Anne timidly. - -“Would you like me to?” - -“Oh, indeed, yes. They are delightful.” - -A pleased expression came into Miss Patty’s face. - -“I think a great deal of those dogs,” she said proudly. “They are over -a hundred years old, and they have sat on either side of this fireplace -ever since my brother Aaron brought them from London fifty years ago. -Spofford Avenue was called after my brother Aaron.” - -“A fine man he was,” said Miss Maria, speaking for the first time. “Ah, -you don’t see the like of him nowadays.” - -“He was a good uncle to you, Maria,” said Miss Patty, with evident -emotion. “You do well to remember him.” - -“I shall always remember him,” said Miss Maria solemnly. “I can see -him, this minute, standing there before that fire, with his hands under -his coat-tails, beaming on us.” - -Miss Maria took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but Miss Patty -came resolutely back from the regions of sentiment to those of -business. - -“I shall leave the dogs where they are, if you will promise to be very -careful of them,” she said. “Their names are Gog and Magog. Gog looks -to the right and Magog to the left. And there’s just one thing more. -You don’t object, I hope, to this house being called Patty’s Place?” - -“No, indeed. We think that is one of the nicest things about it.” - -“You have sense, I see,” said Miss Patty in a tone of great -satisfaction. “Would you believe it? All the people who came here to -rent the house wanted to know if they couldn’t take the name off the -gate during their occupation of it. I told them roundly that the name -went with the house. This has been Patty’s Place ever since my brother -Aaron left it to me in his will, and Patty’s Place it shall remain -until I die and Maria dies. After that happens the next possessor can -call it any fool name he likes,” concluded Miss Patty, much as she -might have said, “After that—the deluge.” “And now, wouldn’t you like -to go over the house and see it all before we consider the bargain -made?” - -Further exploration still further delighted the girls. Besides the big -living-room, there was a kitchen and a small bedroom downstairs. -Upstairs were three rooms, one large and two small. Anne took an -especial fancy to one of the small ones, looking out into the big -pines, and hoped it would be hers. It was papered in pale blue and had -a little, old-timey toilet table with sconces for candles. There was a -diamond-paned window with a seat under the blue muslin frills that -would be a satisfying spot for studying or dreaming. - -“It’s all so delicious that I know we are going to wake up and find it -a fleeting vision of the night,” said Priscilla as they went away. - -“Miss Patty and Miss Maria are hardly such stuff as dreams are made -of,” laughed Anne. “Can you fancy them ‘globe-trotting’—especially in -those shawls and caps?” - -“I suppose they’ll take them off when they really begin to trot,” said -Priscilla, “but I know they’ll take their knitting with them -everywhere. They simply couldn’t be parted from it. They will walk -about Westminster Abbey and knit, I feel sure. Meanwhile, Anne, we -shall be living in Patty’s Place—and on Spofford Avenue. I feel like a -millionairess even now.” - -“I feel like one of the morning stars that sang for joy,” said Anne. - -Phil Gordon crept into Thirty-eight, St. John’s, that night and flung -herself on Anne’s bed. - -“Girls, dear, I’m tired to death. I feel like the man without a -country—or was it without a shadow? I forget which. Anyway, I’ve been -packing up.” - -“And I suppose you are worn out because you couldn’t decide which -things to pack first, or where to put them,” laughed Priscilla. - -“E-zackly. And when I had got everything jammed in somehow, and my -landlady and her maid had both sat on it while I locked it, I -discovered I had packed a whole lot of things I wanted for Convocation -at the very bottom. I had to unlock the old thing and poke and dive -into it for an hour before I fished out what I wanted. I would get hold -of something that felt like what I was looking for, and I’d yank it up, -and it would be something else. No, Anne, I did _not_ swear.” - -“I didn’t say you did.” - -“Well, you looked it. But I admit my thoughts verged on the profane. -And I have such a cold in the head—I can do nothing but sniffle, sigh -and sneeze. Isn’t that alliterative agony for you? Queen Anne, do say -something to cheer me up.” - -“Remember that next Thursday night, you’ll be back in the land of Alec -and Alonzo,” suggested Anne. - -Phil shook her head dolefully. - -“More alliteration. No, I don’t want Alec and Alonzo when I have a cold -in the head. But what has happened you two? Now that I look at you -closely you seem all lighted up with an internal iridescence. Why, -you’re actually _shining!_ What’s up?” - -“We are going to live in Patty’s Place next winter,” said Anne -triumphantly. “Live, mark you, not board! We’ve rented it, and Stella -Maynard is coming, and her aunt is going to keep house for us.” - -Phil bounced up, wiped her nose, and fell on her knees before Anne. - -“Girls—girls—let me come, too. Oh, I’ll be so good. If there’s no room -for me I’ll sleep in the little doghouse in the orchard—I’ve seen it. -Only let me come.” - -“Get up, you goose.” - -“I won’t stir off my marrow bones till you tell me I can live with you -next winter.” - -Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. Then Anne said slowly, “Phil -dear, we’d love to have you. But we may as well speak plainly. I’m -poor—Pris is poor—Stella Maynard is poor—our housekeeping will have to -be very simple and our table plain. You’d have to live as we would. -Now, you are rich and your boardinghouse fare attests the fact.” - -“Oh, what do I care for that?” demanded Phil tragically. “Better a -dinner of herbs where your chums are than a stalled ox in a lonely -boardinghouse. Don’t think I’m _all_ stomach, girls. I’ll be willing to -live on bread and water—with just a _leetle_ jam—if you’ll let me -come.” - -“And then,” continued Anne, “there will be a good deal of work to be -done. Stella’s aunt can’t do it all. We all expect to have our chores -to do. Now, you—” - -“Toil not, neither do I spin,” finished Philippa. “But I’ll learn to do -things. You’ll only have to show me once. I _can_ make my own bed to -begin with. And remember that, though I can’t cook, I _can_ keep my -temper. That’s something. And I _never_ growl about the weather. That’s -more. Oh, please, please! I never wanted anything so much in my -life—and this floor is awfully hard.” - -“There’s just one more thing,” said Priscilla resolutely. “You, Phil, -as all Redmond knows, entertain callers almost every evening. Now, at -Patty’s Place we can’t do that. We have decided that we shall be at -home to our friends on Friday evenings only. If you come with us you’ll -have to abide by that rule.” - -“Well, you don’t think I’ll mind that, do you? Why, I’m glad of it. I -knew I should have had some such rule myself, but I hadn’t enough -decision to make it or stick to it. When I can shuffle off the -responsibility on you it will be a real relief. If you won’t let me -cast in my lot with you I’ll die of the disappointment and then I’ll -come back and haunt you. I’ll camp on the very doorstep of Patty’s -Place and you won’t be able to go out or come in without falling over -my spook.” - -Again Anne and Priscilla exchanged eloquent looks. - -“Well,” said Anne, “of course we can’t promise to take you until we’ve -consulted with Stella; but I don’t think she’ll object, and, as far as -we are concerned, you may come and glad welcome.” - -“If you get tired of our simple life you can leave us, and no questions -asked,” added Priscilla. - -Phil sprang up, hugged them both jubilantly, and went on her way -rejoicing. - -“I hope things will go right,” said Priscilla soberly. - -“We must _make_ them go right,” avowed Anne. “I think Phil will fit -into our ’appy little ’ome very well.” - -“Oh, Phil’s a dear to rattle round with and be chums. And, of course, -the more there are of us the easier it will be on our slim purses. But -how will she be to live with? You have to summer and winter with any -one before you know if she’s _livable_ or not.” - -“Oh, well, we’ll all be put to the test, as far as that goes. And we -must quit us like sensible folk, living and let live. Phil isn’t -selfish, though she’s a little thoughtless, and I believe we will all -get on beautifully in Patty’s Place.” - - - - -Chapter XI -The Round of Life - - -Anne was back in Avonlea with the luster of the Thorburn Scholarship on -her brow. People told her she hadn’t changed much, in a tone which -hinted they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn’t. -Avonlea had not changed, either. At least, so it seemed at first. But -as Anne sat in the Green Gables pew, on the first Sunday after her -return, and looked over the congregation, she saw several little -changes which, all coming home to her at once, made her realize that -time did not quite stand still, even in Avonlea. A new minister was in -the pulpit. In the pews more than one familiar face was missing -forever. Old “Uncle Abe,” his prophesying over and done with, Mrs. -Peter Sloane, who had sighed, it was to be hoped, for the last time, -Timothy Cotton, who, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde said “had actually managed to -die at last after practicing at it for twenty years,” and old Josiah -Sloane, whom nobody knew in his coffin because he had his whiskers -neatly trimmed, were all sleeping in the little graveyard behind the -church. And Billy Andrews was married to Nettie Blewett! They “appeared -out” that Sunday. When Billy, beaming with pride and happiness, showed -his be-plumed and be-silked bride into the Harmon Andrews’ pew, Anne -dropped her lids to hide her dancing eyes. She recalled the stormy -winter night of the Christmas holidays when Jane had proposed for -Billy. He certainly had not broken his heart over his rejection. Anne -wondered if Jane had also proposed to Nettie for him, or if he had -mustered enough spunk to ask the fateful question himself. All the -Andrews family seemed to share in his pride and pleasure, from Mrs. -Harmon in the pew to Jane in the choir. Jane had resigned from the -Avonlea school and intended to go West in the fall. - -“Can’t get a beau in Avonlea, that’s what,” said Mrs. Rachel Lynde -scornfully. “_Says_ she thinks she’ll have better health out West. I -never heard her health was poor before.” - -“Jane is a nice girl,” Anne had said loyally. “She never tried to -attract attention, as some did.” - -“Oh, she never chased the boys, if that’s what you mean,” said Mrs. -Rachel. “But she’d like to be married, just as much as anybody, that’s -what. What else would take her out West to some forsaken place whose -only recommendation is that men are plenty and women scarce? Don’t you -tell me!” - -But it was not at Jane, Anne gazed that day in dismay and surprise. It -was at Ruby Gillis, who sat beside her in the choir. What had happened -to Ruby? She was even handsomer than ever; but her blue eyes were too -bright and lustrous, and the color of her cheeks was hectically -brilliant; besides, she was very thin; the hands that held her -hymn-book were almost transparent in their delicacy. - -“Is Ruby Gillis ill?” Anne asked of Mrs. Lynde, as they went home from -church. - -“Ruby Gillis is dying of galloping consumption,” said Mrs. Lynde -bluntly. “Everybody knows it except herself and her _family_. They -won’t give in. If you ask _them_, she’s perfectly well. She hasn’t been -able to teach since she had that attack of congestion in the winter, -but she says she’s going to teach again in the fall, and she’s after -the White Sands school. She’ll be in her grave, poor girl, when White -Sands school opens, that’s what.” - -Anne listened in shocked silence. Ruby Gillis, her old school-chum, -dying? Could it be possible? Of late years they had grown apart; but -the old tie of school-girl intimacy was there, and made itself felt -sharply in the tug the news gave at Anne’s heartstrings. Ruby, the -brilliant, the merry, the coquettish! It was impossible to associate -the thought of her with anything like death. She had greeted Anne with -gay cordiality after church, and urged her to come up the next evening. - -“I’ll be away Tuesday and Wednesday evenings,” she had whispered -triumphantly. “There’s a concert at Carmody and a party at White Sands. -Herb Spencer’s going to take me. He’s my _latest_. Be sure to come up -tomorrow. I’m dying for a good talk with you. I want to hear all about -your doings at Redmond.” - -Anne knew that Ruby meant that she wanted to tell Anne all about her -own recent flirtations, but she promised to go, and Diana offered to go -with her. - -“I’ve been wanting to go to see Ruby for a long while,” she told Anne, -when they left Green Gables the next evening, “but I really couldn’t go -alone. It’s so awful to hear Ruby rattling on as she does, and -pretending there is nothing the matter with her, even when she can -hardly speak for coughing. She’s fighting so hard for her life, and yet -she hasn’t any chance at all, they say.” - -The girls walked silently down the red, twilit road. The robins were -singing vespers in the high treetops, filling the golden air with their -jubilant voices. The silver fluting of the frogs came from marshes and -ponds, over fields where seeds were beginning to stir with life and -thrill to the sunshine and rain that had drifted over them. The air was -fragrant with the wild, sweet, wholesome smell of young raspberry -copses. White mists were hovering in the silent hollows and violet -stars were shining bluely on the brooklands. - -“What a beautiful sunset,” said Diana. “Look, Anne, it’s just like a -land in itself, isn’t it? That long, low back of purple cloud is the -shore, and the clear sky further on is like a golden sea.” - -“If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul wrote of in his old -composition—you remember?—how nice it would be,” said Anne, rousing -from her reverie. “Do you think we could find all our yesterdays there, -Diana—all our old springs and blossoms? The beds of flowers that Paul -saw there are the roses that have bloomed for us in the past?” - -“Don’t!” said Diana. “You make me feel as if we were old women with -everything in life behind us.” - -“I think I’ve almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor Ruby,” -said Anne. “If it is true that she is dying any other sad thing might -be true, too.” - -“You don’t mind calling in at Elisha Wright’s for a moment, do you?” -asked Diana. “Mother asked me to leave this little dish of jelly for -Aunt Atossa.” - -“Who is Aunt Atossa?” - -“Oh, haven’t you heard? She’s Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencervale—Mrs. -Elisha Wright’s aunt. She’s father’s aunt, too. Her husband died last -winter and she was left very poor and lonely, so the Wrights took her -to live with them. Mother thought we ought to take her, but father put -his foot down. Live with Aunt Atossa he would not.” - -“Is she so terrible?” asked Anne absently. - -“You’ll probably see what she’s like before we can get away,” said -Diana significantly. “Father says she has a face like a hatchet—it cuts -the air. But her tongue is sharper still.” - -Late as it was Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright -kitchen. She wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was decidedly -untidy. Aunt Atossa did not like being “caught in a kilter,” so she -went out of her way to be disagreeable. - -“Oh, so you’re Anne Shirley?” she said, when Diana introduced Anne. -“I’ve heard of you.” Her tone implied that she had heard nothing good. -“Mrs. Andrews was telling me you were home. She said you had improved a -good deal.” - -There was no doubt Aunt Atossa thought there was plenty of room for -further improvement. She ceased not from cutting sets with much energy. - -“Is it any use to ask you to sit down?” she inquired sarcastically. “Of -course, there’s nothing very entertaining here for you. The rest are -all away.” - -“Mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb jelly,” said Diana -pleasantly. “She made it today and thought you might like some.” - -“Oh, thanks,” said Aunt Atossa sourly. “I never fancy your mother’s -jelly—she always makes it too sweet. However, I’ll try to worry some -down. My appetite’s been dreadful poor this spring. I’m far from well,” -continued Aunt Atossa solemnly, “but still I keep a-doing. People who -can’t work aren’t wanted here. If it isn’t too much trouble will you be -condescending enough to set the jelly in the pantry? I’m in a hurry to -get these spuds done tonight. I suppose you two _ladies_ never do -anything like this. You’d be afraid of spoiling your hands.” - -“I used to cut potato sets before we rented the farm,” smiled Anne. - -“I do it yet,” laughed Diana. “I cut sets three days last week. Of -course,” she added teasingly, “I did my hands up in lemon juice and kid -gloves every night after it.” - -Aunt Atossa sniffed. - -“I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly magazines you -read so many of. I wonder your mother allows you. But she always -spoiled you. We all thought when George married her she wouldn’t be a -suitable wife for him.” - -Aunt Atossa sighed heavily, as if all forebodings upon the occasion of -George Barry’s marriage had been amply and darkly fulfilled. - -“Going, are you?” she inquired, as the girls rose. “Well, I suppose you -can’t find much amusement talking to an old woman like me. It’s such a -pity the boys ain’t home.” - -“We want to run in and see Ruby Gillis a little while,” explained -Diana. - -“Oh, anything does for an excuse, of course,” said Aunt Atossa, -amiably. “Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do -decently. It’s college airs, I s’pose. You’d be wiser to keep away from -Ruby Gillis. The doctors say consumption’s catching. I always knew -Ruby’d get something, gadding off to Boston last fall for a visit. -People who ain’t content to stay home always catch something.” - -“People who don’t go visiting catch things, too. Sometimes they even -die,” said Diana solemnly. - -“Then they don’t have themselves to blame for it,” retorted Aunt Atossa -triumphantly. “I hear you are to be married in June, Diana.” - -“There is no truth in that report,” said Diana, blushing. - -“Well, don’t put it off too long,” said Aunt Atossa significantly. -“You’ll fade soon—you’re all complexion and hair. And the Wrights are -terrible fickle. You ought to wear a hat, _Miss Shirley_. Your nose is -freckling scandalous. My, but you _are_ redheaded! Well, I s’pose we’re -all as the Lord made us! Give Marilla Cuthbert my respects. She’s never -been to see me since I come to Avonlea, but I s’pose I oughtn’t to -complain. The Cuthberts always did think themselves a cut higher than -any one else round here.” - -“Oh, isn’t she dreadful?” gasped Diana, as they escaped down the lane. - -“She’s worse than Miss Eliza Andrews,” said Anne. “But then think of -living all your life with a name like Atossa! Wouldn’t it sour almost -any one? She should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. It -might have helped her a great deal. It certainly helped me in the days -when I didn’t like _Anne_.” - -“Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up,” said Diana. -“Josie’s mother and Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, I’m -glad that’s over. She’s so malicious—she seems to put a bad flavor in -everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. One time they -had a minister in Spencervale who was a very good, spiritual man but -very deaf. He couldn’t hear any ordinary conversation at all. Well, -they used to have a prayer meeting on Sunday evenings, and all the -church members present would get up and pray in turn, or say a few -words on some Bible verse. But one evening Aunt Atossa bounced up. She -didn’t either pray or preach. Instead, she lit into everybody else in -the church and gave them a fearful raking down, calling them right out -by name and telling them how they all had behaved, and casting up all -the quarrels and scandals of the past ten years. Finally she wound up -by saying that she was disgusted with Spencervale church and she never -meant to darken its door again, and she hoped a fearful judgment would -come upon it. Then she sat down out of breath, and the minister, who -hadn’t heard a word she said, immediately remarked, in a very devout -voice, ‘amen! The Lord grant our dear sister’s prayer!’ You ought to -hear father tell the story.” - -“Speaking of stories, Diana,” remarked Anne, in a significant, -confidential tone, “do you know that lately I have been wondering if I -could write a short story—a story that would be good enough to be -published?” - -“Why, of course you could,” said Diana, after she had grasped the -amazing suggestion. “You used to write perfectly thrilling stories -years ago in our old Story Club.” - -“Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories,” smiled Anne. “I’ve -been thinking about it a little of late, but I’m almost afraid to try, -for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating.” - -“I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan’s first stories were -rejected. But I’m sure yours wouldn’t be, Anne, for it’s likely editors -have more sense nowadays.” - -“Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story -last winter and it was published in the _Canadian Woman_. I really do -think I could write one at least as good.” - -“And will you have it published in the _Canadian Woman?_” - -“I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what -kind of a story I write.” - -“What is it to be about?” - -“I don’t know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe this is -very necessary from an editor’s point of view. The only thing I’ve -settled on is the heroine’s name. It is to be _Averil Lester_. Rather -pretty, don’t you think? Don’t mention this to any one, Diana. I -haven’t told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. _He_ wasn’t very -encouraging—he said there was far too much trash written nowadays as it -was, and he’d expected something better of me, after a year at -college.” - -“What does Mr. Harrison know about it?” demanded Diana scornfully. - -They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard -Kimball, of Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring at -each other across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Ruby -was dressed in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She -laughed and chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had gone -she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer dresses. - -“I’ve a blue silk to make up yet, but it’s a little heavy for summer -wear. I think I’ll leave it until the fall. I’m going to teach in White -Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in church -yesterday was real dinky. But I like something brighter for myself. Did -you notice those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They’ve both come -determined to sit each other out. I don’t care a single bit about -either of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. Sometimes I -really do think he’s _Mr. Right_. At Christmas I thought the -Spencervale schoolmaster was that. But I found out something about him -that turned me against him. He nearly went insane when I turned him -down. I wish those two boys hadn’t come tonight. I wanted to have a -nice good talk with you, Anne, and tell you such heaps of things. You -and I were always good chums, weren’t we?” - -Ruby slipped her arm about Anne’s waist with a shallow little laugh. -But just for a moment their eyes met, and, behind all the luster of -Ruby’s, Anne saw something that made her heart ache. - -“Come up often, won’t you, Anne?” whispered Ruby. “Come alone—I want -you.” - -“Are you feeling quite well, Ruby?” - -“Me! Why, I’m perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. Of -course, that congestion last winter pulled me down a little. But just -see my color. I don’t look much like an invalid, I’m sure.” - -Ruby’s voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne, as if -in resentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever, -apparently so much absorbed in bantering her two swains that Diana and -Anne felt rather out of it and soon went away. - - - - -Chapter XII -“Averil’s Atonement” - - -“What are you dreaming of, Anne?” - -The two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the -brook. Ferns nodded in it, and little grasses were green, and wild -pears hung finely-scented, white curtains around it. - -Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh. - -“I was thinking out my story, Diana.” - -“Oh, have you really begun it?” cried Diana, all alight with eager -interest in a moment. - -“Yes, I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty well -thought out. I’ve had such a time to get a suitable plot. None of the -plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named _Averil_.” - -“Couldn’t you have changed her name?” - -“No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn’t do it, any -more than I could change yours. _Averil_ was so real to me that no -matter what other name I tried to give her I just thought of her as -_Averil_ behind it all. But finally I got a plot that matched her. Then -came the excitement of choosing names for all my characters. You have -no idea how fascinating that is. I’ve lain awake for hours thinking -over those names. The hero’s name is _Perceval Dalrymple_.” - -“Have you named _all_ the characters?” asked Diana wistfully. “If you -hadn’t I was going to ask you to let me name one—just some unimportant -person. I’d feel as if I had a share in the story then.” - -“You may name the little hired boy who lived with the _Lesters_,” -conceded Anne. “He is not very important, but he is the only one left -unnamed.” - -“Call him _Raymond Fitzosborne_,” suggested Diana, who had a store of -such names laid away in her memory, relics of the old “Story Club,” -which she and Anne and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis had had in their -schooldays. - -Anne shook her head doubtfully. - -“I’m afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, Diana. I -couldn’t imagine a Fitzosborne feeding pigs and picking up chips, could -you?” - -Diana didn’t see why, if you had an imagination at all, you couldn’t -stretch it to that extent; but probably Anne knew best, and the chore -boy was finally christened _Robert Ray_, to be called _Bobby_ should -occasion require. - -“How much do you suppose you’ll get for it?” asked Diana. - -But Anne had not thought about this at all. She was in pursuit of fame, -not filthy lucre, and her literary dreams were as yet untainted by -mercenary considerations. - -“You’ll let me read it, won’t you?” pleaded Diana. - -“When it is finished I’ll read it to you and Mr. Harrison, and I shall -want you to criticize it _severely_. No one else shall see it until it -is published.” - -“How are you going to end it—happily or unhappily?” - -“I’m not sure. I’d like it to end unhappily, because that would be so -much more romantic. But I understand editors have a prejudice against -sad endings. I heard Professor Hamilton say once that nobody but a -genius should try to write an unhappy ending. And,” concluded Anne -modestly, “I’m anything but a genius.” - -“Oh I like happy endings best. You’d better let him marry her,” said -Diana, who, especially since her engagement to Fred, thought this was -how every story should end. - -“But you like to cry over stories?” - -“Oh, yes, in the middle of them. But I like everything to come right at -last.” - -“I must have one pathetic scene in it,” said Anne thoughtfully. “I -might let _Robert Ray_ be injured in an accident and have a death -scene.” - -“No, you mustn’t kill _Bobby_ off,” declared Diana, laughing. “He -belongs to me and I want him to live and flourish. Kill somebody else -if you have to.” - -For the next fortnight Anne writhed or reveled, according to mood, in -her literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a brilliant idea, -now despairing because some contrary character would _not_ behave -properly. Diana could not understand this. - -“_Make_ them do as you want them to,” she said. - -“I can’t,” mourned Anne. “Averil is such an unmanageable heroine. She -_will_ do and say things I never meant her to. Then that spoils -everything that went before and I have to write it all over again.” - -Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in -the seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her “pathetic scene” -without sacrificing _Robert Ray_, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana -as she read it. Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly; but, -when the end came, she looked a little disappointed. - -“Why did you kill _Maurice Lennox?_” she asked reproachfully. - -“He was the villain,” protested Anne. “He had to be punished.” - -“I like him best of them all,” said unreasonable Diana. - -“Well, he’s dead, and he’ll have to stay dead,” said Anne, rather -resentfully. “If I had let him live he’d have gone on persecuting -_Averil_ and _Perceval_.” - -“Yes—unless you had reformed him.” - -“That wouldn’t have been romantic, and, besides, it would have made the -story too long.” - -“Well, anyway, it’s a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make you -famous, of that I’m sure. Have you got a title for it?” - -“Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I call it _Averil’s atonement_. -Doesn’t that sound nice and alliterative? Now, Diana, tell me candidly, -do you see any faults in my story?” - -“Well,” hesitated Diana, “that part where _Averil_ makes the cake -doesn’t seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. It’s just -what anybody might do. Heroines shouldn’t do cooking, _I_ think.” - -“Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it’s one of the best parts -of the whole story,” said Anne. And it may be stated that in this she -was quite right. - -Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison -was much harder to please. First he told her there was entirely too -much description in the story. - -“Cut out all those flowery passages,” he said unfeelingly. - -Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and -she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though -it took three re-writings before the story could be pruned down to -please the fastidious Mr. Harrison. - -“I’ve left out _all_ the descriptions but the sunset,” she said at -last. “I simply _couldn’t_ let it go. It was the best of them all.” - -“It hasn’t anything to do with the story,” said Mr. Harrison, “and you -shouldn’t have laid the scene among rich city people. What do you know -of them? Why didn’t you lay it right here in Avonlea—changing the name, -of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lynde would probably think she was the -heroine.” - -“Oh, that would never have done,” protested Anne. “Avonlea is the -dearest place in the world, but it isn’t quite romantic enough for the -scene of a story.” - -“I daresay there’s been many a romance in Avonlea—and many a tragedy, -too,” said Mr. Harrison drily. “But your folks ain’t like real folks -anywhere. They talk too much and use too high-flown language. There’s -one place where that _Dalrymple_ chap talks even on for two pages, and -never lets the girl get a word in edgewise. If he’d done that in real -life she’d have pitched him.” - -“I don’t believe it,” said Anne flatly. In her secret soul she thought -that the beautiful, poetical things said to _Averil_ would win any -girl’s heart completely. Besides, it was gruesome to hear of _Averil_, -the stately, queen-like _Averil_, “pitching” any one. _Averil_ -“declined her suitors.” - -“Anyhow,” resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, “I don’t see why _Maurice -Lennox_ didn’t get her. He was twice the man the other is. He did bad -things, but he did them. Perceval hadn’t time for anything but -mooning.” - -“Mooning.” That was even worse than “pitching!” - -“_Maurice Lennox_ was the villain,” said Anne indignantly. “I don’t see -why every one likes him better than _Perceval_.” - -“Perceval is too good. He’s aggravating. Next time you write about a -hero put a little spice of human nature in him.” - -“_Averil_ couldn’t have married _Maurice_. He was bad.” - -“She’d have reformed him. You can reform a man; you can’t reform a -jelly-fish, of course. Your story isn’t bad—it’s kind of interesting, -I’ll admit. But you’re too young to write a story that would be worth -while. Wait ten years.” - -Anne made up her mind that the next time she wrote a story she wouldn’t -ask anybody to criticize it. It was too discouraging. She would not -read the story to Gilbert, although she told him about it. - -“If it is a success you’ll see it when it is published, Gilbert, but if -it is a failure nobody shall ever see it.” - -Marilla knew nothing about the venture. In imagination Anne saw herself -reading a story out of a magazine to Marilla, entrapping her into -praise of it—for in imagination all things are possible—and then -triumphantly announcing herself the author. - -One day Anne took to the Post Office a long, bulky envelope, addressed, -with the delightful confidence of youth and inexperience, to the very -biggest of the “big” magazines. Diana was as excited over it as Anne -herself. - -“How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it?” she -asked. - -“It shouldn’t be longer than a fortnight. Oh, how happy and proud I -shall be if it is accepted!” - -“Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to send -them more. You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan some day, Anne, and then -how proud I’ll be of knowing you,” said Diana, who possessed, at least, -the striking merit of an unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces -of her friends. - -A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter -awakening. One evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable, with -suspicious-looking eyes. On the table lay a long envelope and a -crumpled manuscript. - -“Anne, your story hasn’t come back?” cried Diana incredulously. - -“Yes, it has,” said Anne shortly. - -“Well, that editor must be crazy. What reason did he give?” - -“No reason at all. There is just a printed slip saying that it wasn’t -found acceptable.” - -“I never thought much of that magazine, anyway,” said Diana hotly. “The -stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the _Canadian -Woman_, although it costs so much more. I suppose the editor is -prejudiced against any one who isn’t a Yankee. Don’t be discouraged, -Anne. Remember how Mrs. Morgan’s stories came back. Send yours to the -_Canadian Woman_.” - -“I believe I will,” said Anne, plucking up heart. “And if it is -published I’ll send that American editor a marked copy. But I’ll cut -the sunset out. I believe Mr. Harrison was right.” - -Out came the sunset; but in spite of this heroic mutilation the editor -of the _Canadian Woman_ sent Averil’s Atonement back so promptly that -the indignant Diana declared that it couldn’t have been read at all, -and vowed she was going to stop her subscription immediately. Anne took -this second rejection with the calmness of despair. She locked the -story away in the garret trunk where the old Story Club tales reposed; -but first she yielded to Diana’s entreaties and gave her a copy. - -“This is the end of my literary ambitions,” she said bitterly. - -She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening he -asked her bluntly if her story had been accepted. - -“No, the editor wouldn’t take it,” she answered briefly. - -Mr. Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile. - -“Well, I suppose you’ll keep on writing them,” he said encouragingly. - -“No, I shall never try to write a story again,” declared Anne, with the -hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face. - -“I wouldn’t give up altogether,” said Mr. Harrison reflectively. “I’d -write a story once in a while, but I wouldn’t pester editors with it. -I’d write of people and places like I knew, and I’d make my characters -talk everyday English; and I’d let the sun rise and set in the usual -quiet way without much fuss over the fact. If I had to have villains at -all, I’d give them a chance, Anne—I’d give them a chance. There are -some terrible bad men in the world, I suppose, but you’d have to go a -long piece to find them—though Mrs. Lynde believes we’re all bad. But -most of us have got a little decency somewhere in us. Keep on writing, -Anne.” - -“No. It was very foolish of me to attempt it. When I’m through Redmond -I’ll stick to teaching. I can teach. I can’t write stories.” - -“It’ll be time for you to be getting a husband when you’re through -Redmond,” said Mr. Harrison. “I don’t believe in putting marrying off -too long—like I did.” - -Anne got up and marched home. There were times when Mr. Harrison was -really intolerable. “Pitching,” “mooning,” and “getting a husband.” -Ow!! - - - - -Chapter XIII -The Way of Transgressors - - -Davy and Dora were ready for Sunday School. They were going alone, -which did not often happen, for Mrs. Lynde always attended Sunday -School. But Mrs. Lynde had twisted her ankle and was lame, so she was -staying home this morning. The twins were also to represent the family -at church, for Anne had gone away the evening before to spend Sunday -with friends in Carmody, and Marilla had one of her headaches. - -Davy came downstairs slowly. Dora was waiting in the hall for him, -having been made ready by Mrs. Lynde. Davy had attended to his own -preparations. He had a cent in his pocket for the Sunday School -collection, and a five-cent piece for the church collection; he carried -his Bible in one hand and his Sunday School quarterly in the other; he -knew his lesson and his Golden Text and his catechism question -perfectly. Had he not studied them—perforce—in Mrs. Lynde’s kitchen, -all last Sunday afternoon? Davy, therefore, should have been in a -placid frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism, -he was inwardly as a ravening wolf. - -Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora. - -“Are you clean?” she demanded severely. - -“Yes—all of me that shows,” Davy answered with a defiant scowl. - -Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davy’s neck and ears. -But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davy -would likely take to his heels and she could not pursue him today. - -“Well, be sure you behave yourselves,” she warned them. “Don’t walk in -the dust. Don’t stop in the porch to talk to the other children. Don’t -squirm or wriggle in your places. Don’t forget the Golden Text. Don’t -lose your collection or forget to put it in. Don’t whisper at prayer -time, and don’t forget to pay attention to the sermon.” - -Davy deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, followed by -the meek Dora. But his soul seethed within. Davy had suffered, or -thought he had suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs. -Rachel Lynde since she had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lynde could -not live with anybody, whether they were nine or ninety, without trying -to bring them up properly. And it was only the preceding afternoon that -she had interfered to influence Marilla against allowing Davy to go -fishing with the Timothy Cottons. Davy was still boiling over this. - -As soon as he was out of the lane Davy stopped and twisted his -countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora, -although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest -he should never in the world be able to get it straightened out again. - -“Darn her,” exploded Davy. - -“Oh, Davy, don’t swear,” gasped Dora in dismay. - -“‘Darn’ isn’t swearing—not real swearing. And I don’t care if it is,” -retorted Davy recklessly. - -“Well, if you _must_ say dreadful words don’t say them on Sunday,” -pleaded Dora. - -Davy was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt -that, perhaps, he had gone a little too far. - -“I’m going to invent a swear word of my own,” he declared. - -“God will punish you if you do,” said Dora solemnly. - -“Then I think God is a mean old scamp,” retorted Davy. “Doesn’t He know -a fellow must have some way of ’spressing his feelings?” - -“Davy!!!” said Dora. She expected that Davy would be struck down dead -on the spot. But nothing happened. - -“Anyway, I ain’t going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynde’s bossing,” -spluttered Davy. “Anne and Marilla may have the right to boss me, but -_she_ hasn’t. I’m going to do every single thing she told me not to do. -You watch me.” - -In grim, deliberate silence, while Dora watched him with the -fascination of horror, Davy stepped off the green grass of the -roadside, ankle deep into the fine dust which four weeks of rainless -weather had made on the road, and marched along in it, shuffling his -feet viciously until he was enveloped in a hazy cloud. - -“That’s the beginning,” he announced triumphantly. “And I’m going to -stop in the porch and talk as long as there’s anybody there to talk to. -I’m going to squirm and wriggle and whisper, and I’m going to say I -don’t know the Golden Text. And I’m going to throw away both of my -collections _right now_.” - -And Davy hurled cent and nickel over Mr. Barry’s fence with fierce -delight. - -“Satan made you do that,” said Dora reproachfully. - -“He didn’t,” cried Davy indignantly. “I just thought it out for myself. -And I’ve thought of something else. I’m not going to Sunday School or -church at all. I’m going up to play with the Cottons. They told me -yesterday they weren’t going to Sunday School today, ’cause their -mother was away and there was nobody to make them. Come along, Dora, -we’ll have a great time.” - -“I don’t want to go,” protested Dora. - -“You’ve got to,” said Davy. “If you don’t come I’ll tell Marilla that -Frank Bell kissed you in school last Monday.” - -“I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know he was going to,” cried Dora, -blushing scarlet. - -“Well, you didn’t slap him or seem a bit cross,” retorted Davy. “I’ll -tell her _that_, too, if you don’t come. We’ll take the short cut up -this field.” - -“I’m afraid of those cows,” protested poor Dora, seeing a prospect of -escape. - -“The very idea of your being scared of those cows,” scoffed Davy. “Why, -they’re both younger than you.” - -“They’re bigger,” said Dora. - -“They won’t hurt you. Come along, now. This is great. When I grow up I -ain’t going to bother going to church at all. I believe I can get to -heaven by myself.” - -“You’ll go to the other place if you break the Sabbath day,” said -unhappy Dora, following him sorely against her will. - -But Davy was not scared—yet. Hell was very far off, and the delights of -a fishing expedition with the Cottons were very near. He wished Dora -had more spunk. She kept looking back as if she were going to cry every -minute, and that spoiled a fellow’s fun. Hang girls, anyway. Davy did -not say “darn” this time, even in thought. He was not sorry—yet—that he -had said it once, but it might be as well not to tempt the Unknown -Powers too far on one day. - -The small Cottons were playing in their back yard, and hailed Davy’s -appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabel -Cotton were all alone. Their mother and older sisters were away. Dora -was thankful Mirabel was there, at least. She had been afraid she would -be alone in a crowd of boys. Mirabel was almost as bad as a boy—she was -so noisy and sunburned and reckless. But at least she wore dresses. - -“We’ve come to go fishing,” announced Davy. - -“Whoop,” yelled the Cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once, -Mirabel leading the van with a tin can. Dora could have sat down and -cried. Oh, if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her! Then -she could have defied Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School. - -They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be -seen by people going to church. They had to resort to the brook in the -woods behind the Cotton house. But it was full of trout, and they had a -glorious time that morning—at least the Cottons certainly had, and Davy -seemed to have it. Not being entirely bereft of prudence, he had -discarded boots and stockings and borrowed Tommy Cotton’s overalls. -Thus accoutered, bog and marsh and undergrowth had no terrors for him. -Dora was frankly and manifestly miserable. She followed the others in -their peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her Bible and -quarterly tightly and thinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved -class where she should be sitting that very moment, before a teacher -she adored. Instead, here she was roaming the woods with those -half-wild Cottons, trying to keep her boots clean and her pretty white -dress free from rents and stains. Mirabel had offered the loan of an -apron but Dora had scornfully refused. - -The trout bit as they always do on Sundays. In an hour the -transgressors had all the fish they wanted, so they returned to the -house, much to Dora’s relief. She sat primly on a hencoop in the yard -while the others played an uproarious game of tag; and then they all -climbed to the top of the pig-house roof and cut their initials on the -saddleboard. The flat-roofed henhouse and a pile of straw beneath gave -Davy another inspiration. They spent a splendid half hour climbing on -the roof and diving off into the straw with whoops and yells. - -But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. When the rumble of -wheels over the pond bridge told that people were going home from -church Davy knew they must go. He discarded Tommy’s overalls, resumed -his own rightful attire, and turned away from his string of trout with -a sigh. No use to think of taking them home. - -“Well, hadn’t we a splendid time?” he demanded defiantly, as they went -down the hill field. - -“I hadn’t,” said Dora flatly. “And I don’t believe you -had—really—either,” she added, with a flash of insight that was not to -be expected of her. - -“I had so,” cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too -much. “No wonder you hadn’t—just sitting there like a—like a mule.” - -“I ain’t going to, ’sociate with the Cottons,” said Dora loftily. - -“The Cottons are all right,” retorted Davy. “And they have far better -times than we have. They do just as they please and say just what they -like before everybody. _I_’m going to do that, too, after this.” - -“There are lots of things you wouldn’t dare say before everybody,” -averred Dora. - -“No, there isn’t.” - -“There is, too. Would you,” demanded Dora gravely, “would you say -‘tomcat’ before the minister?” - -This was a staggerer. Davy was not prepared for such a concrete example -of the freedom of speech. But one did not have to be consistent with -Dora. - -“Of course not,” he admitted sulkily. - -“‘Tomcat’ isn’t a holy word. I wouldn’t mention such an animal before a -minister at all.” - -“But if you had to?” persisted Dora. - -“I’d call it a Thomas pussy,” said Davy. - -“_I_ think ‘gentleman cat’ would be more polite,” reflected Dora. - -“_You_ thinking!” retorted Davy with withering scorn. - -Davy was not feeling comfortable, though he would have died before he -admitted it to Dora. Now that the exhilaration of truant delights had -died away, his conscience was beginning to give him salutary twinges. -After all, perhaps it would have been better to have gone to Sunday -School and church. Mrs. Lynde might be bossy; but there was always a -box of cookies in her kitchen cupboard and she was not stingy. At this -inconvenient moment Davy remembered that when he had torn his new -school pants the week before, Mrs. Lynde had mended them beautifully -and never said a word to Marilla about them. - -But Davy’s cup of iniquity was not yet full. He was to discover that -one sin demands another to cover it. They had dinner with Mrs. Lynde -that day, and the first thing she asked Davy was, - -“Were all your class in Sunday School today?” - -“Yes’m,” said Davy with a gulp. “All were there—’cept one.” - -“Did you say your Golden Text and catechism?” - -“Yes’m.” - -“Did you put your collection in?” - -“Yes’m.” - -“Was Mrs. Malcolm MacPherson in church?” - -“I don’t know.” This, at least, was the truth, thought wretched Davy. - -“Was the Ladies’ Aid announced for next week?” - -“Yes’m”—quakingly. - -“Was prayer-meeting?” - -“I—I don’t know.” - -“_You_ should know. You should listen more attentively to the -announcements. What was Mr. Harvey’s text?” - -Davy took a frantic gulp of water and swallowed it and the last protest -of conscience together. He glibly recited an old Golden Text learned -several weeks ago. Fortunately Mrs. Lynde now stopped questioning him; -but Davy did not enjoy his dinner. - -He could only eat one helping of pudding. - -“What’s the matter with you?” demanded justly astonished Mrs. Lynde. -“Are you sick?” - -“No,” muttered Davy. - -“You look pale. You’d better keep out of the sun this afternoon,” -admonished Mrs. Lynde. - -“Do you know how many lies you told Mrs. Lynde?” asked Dora -reproachfully, as soon as they were alone after dinner. - -Davy, goaded to desperation, turned fiercely. - -“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he said. “You just shut up, Dora -Keith.” - -Then poor Davy betook himself to a secluded retreat behind the woodpile -to think over the way of transgressors. - -Green Gables was wrapped in darkness and silence when Anne reached -home. She lost no time going to bed, for she was very tired and sleepy. -There had been several Avonlea jollifications the preceding week, -involving rather late hours. Anne’s head was hardly on her pillow -before she was half asleep; but just then her door was softly opened -and a pleading voice said, “Anne.” - -Anne sat up drowsily. - -“Davy, is that you? What is the matter?” - -A white-clad figure flung itself across the floor and on to the bed. - -“Anne,” sobbed Davy, getting his arms about her neck. “I’m awful glad -you’re home. I couldn’t go to sleep till I’d told somebody.” - -“Told somebody what?” - -“How mis’rubul I am.” - -“Why are you miserable, dear?” - -“’Cause I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful bad—badder’n I’ve -ever been yet.” - -“What did you do?” - -“Oh, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll never like me again, Anne. I -couldn’t say my prayers tonight. I couldn’t tell God what I’d done. I -was ’shamed to have Him know.” - -“But He knew anyway, Davy.” - -“That’s what Dora said. But I thought p’raps He mightn’t have noticed -just at the time. Anyway, I’d rather tell you first.” - -“_What_ is it you did?” - -Out it all came in a rush. - -“I run away from Sunday School—and went fishing with the Cottons—and I -told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde—oh! ’most half a -dozen—and—and—I—I said a swear word, Anne—a pretty near swear word, -anyhow—and I called God names.” - -There was silence. Davy didn’t know what to make of it. Was Anne so -shocked that she never would speak to him again? - -“Anne, what are you going to do to me?” he whispered. - -“Nothing, dear. You’ve been punished already, I think.” - -“No, I haven’t. Nothing’s been done to me.” - -“You’ve been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven’t you?” - -“You bet!” said Davy emphatically. - -“That was your conscience punishing you, Davy.” - -“What’s my conscience? I want to know.” - -“It’s something in you, Davy, that always tells you when you are doing -wrong and makes you unhappy if you persist in doing it. Haven’t you -noticed that?” - -“Yes, but I didn’t know what it was. I wish I didn’t have it. I’d have -lots more fun. Where is my conscience, Anne? I want to know. Is it in -my stomach?” - -“No, it’s in your soul,” answered Anne, thankful for the darkness, -since gravity must be preserved in serious matters. - -“I s’pose I can’t get clear of it then,” said Davy with a sigh. “Are -you going to tell Marilla and Mrs. Lynde on me, Anne?” - -“No, dear, I’m not going to tell any one. You are sorry you were -naughty, aren’t you?” - -“You bet!” - -“And you’ll never be bad like that again.” - -“No, but—” added Davy cautiously, “I might be bad some other way.” - -“You won’t say naughty words, or run away on Sundays, or tell -falsehoods to cover up your sins?” - -“No. It doesn’t pay,” said Davy. - -“Well, Davy, just tell God you are sorry and ask Him to forgive you.” - -“Have _you_ forgiven me, Anne?” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“Then,” said Davy joyously, “I don’t care much whether God does or -not.” - -“Davy!” - -“Oh—I’ll ask Him—I’ll ask Him,” said Davy quickly, scrambling off the -bed, convinced by Anne’s tone that he must have said something -dreadful. “I don’t mind asking Him, Anne.—Please, God, I’m awful sorry -I behaved bad today and I’ll try to be good on Sundays always and -please forgive me.—There now, Anne.” - -“Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy.” - -“All right. Say, I don’t feel mis’rubul any more. I feel fine. Good -night.” - -“Good night.” - -Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh—how -sleepy—she was! In another second— - -“Anne!” Davy was back again by her bed. Anne dragged her eyes open. - -“What is it now, dear?” she asked, trying to keep a note of impatience -out of her voice. - -“Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you s’pose, if -I practice hard, I can learn to spit just like him?” - -Anne sat up. - -“Davy Keith,” she said, “go straight to your bed and don’t let me catch -you out of it again tonight! Go, now!” - -Davy went, and stood not upon the order of his going. - - - - -Chapter XIV -The Summons - - -Anne was sitting with Ruby Gillis in the Gillis’ garden after the day -had crept lingeringly through it and was gone. It had been a warm, -smoky summer afternoon. The world was in a splendor of out-flowering. -The idle valleys were full of hazes. The woodways were pranked with -shadows and the fields with the purple of the asters. - -Anne had given up a moonlight drive to the White Sands beach that she -might spend the evening with Ruby. She had so spent many evenings that -summer, although she often wondered what good it did any one, and -sometimes went home deciding that she could not go again. - -Ruby grew paler as the summer waned; the White Sands school was given -up—“her father thought it better that she shouldn’t teach till New -Year’s”—and the fancy work she loved oftener and oftener fell from -hands grown too weary for it. But she was always gay, always hopeful, -always chattering and whispering of her beaux, and their rivalries and -despairs. It was this that made Anne’s visits hard for her. What had -once been silly or amusing was gruesome, now; it was death peering -through a wilful mask of life. Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her, and -never let her go until she had promised to come again soon. Mrs. Lynde -grumbled about Anne’s frequent visits, and declared she would catch -consumption; even Marilla was dubious. - -“Every time you go to see Ruby you come home looking tired out,” she -said. - -“It’s so very sad and dreadful,” said Anne in a low tone. “Ruby doesn’t -seem to realize her condition in the least. And yet I somehow feel she -needs help—craves it—and I want to give it to her and can’t. All the -time I’m with her I feel as if I were watching her struggle with an -invisible foe—trying to push it back with such feeble resistance as she -has. That is why I come home tired.” - -But tonight Anne did not feel this so keenly. Ruby was strangely quiet. -She said not a word about parties and drives and dresses and “fellows.” -She lay in the hammock, with her untouched work beside her, and a white -shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. Her long yellow braids of -hair—how Anne had envied those beautiful braids in old schooldays!—lay -on either side of her. She had taken the pins out—they made her head -ache, she said. The hectic flush was gone for the time, leaving her -pale and childlike. - -The moon rose in the silvery sky, empearling the clouds around her. -Below, the pond shimmered in its hazy radiance. Just beyond the Gillis -homestead was the church, with the old graveyard beside it. The -moonlight shone on the white stones, bringing them out in clear-cut -relief against the dark trees behind. - -“How strange the graveyard looks by moonlight!” said Ruby suddenly. -“How ghostly!” she shuddered. “Anne, it won’t be long now before I’ll -be lying over there. You and Diana and all the rest will be going -about, full of life—and I’ll be there—in the old graveyard—dead!” - -The surprise of it bewildered Anne. For a few moments she could not -speak. - -“You know it’s so, don’t you?” said Ruby insistently. - -“Yes, I know,” answered Anne in a low tone. “Dear Ruby, I know.” - -“Everybody knows it,” said Ruby bitterly. “I know it—I’ve known it all -summer, though I wouldn’t give in. And, oh, Anne”—she reached out and -caught Anne’s hand pleadingly, impulsively—“I don’t want to die. I’m -_afraid_ to die.” - -“Why should you be afraid, Ruby?” asked Anne quietly. - -“Because—because—oh, I’m not afraid but that I’ll go to heaven, Anne. -I’m a church member. But—it’ll be all so different. I think—and -think—and I get so frightened—and—and—homesick. Heaven must be very -beautiful, of course, the Bible says so—but, Anne, _it won’t be what -’ve been used to_.” - -Through Anne’s mind drifted an intrusive recollection of a funny story -she had heard Philippa Gordon tell—the story of some old man who had -said very much the same thing about the world to come. It had sounded -funny then—she remembered how she and Priscilla had laughed over it. -But it did not seem in the least humorous now, coming from Ruby’s pale, -trembling lips. It was sad, tragic—and true! Heaven could not be what -Ruby had been used to. There had been nothing in her gay, frivolous -life, her shallow ideals and aspirations, to fit her for that great -change, or make the life to come seem to her anything but alien and -unreal and undesirable. Anne wondered helplessly what she could say -that would help her. Could she say anything? “I think, Ruby,” she began -hesitatingly—for it was difficult for Anne to speak to any one of the -deepest thoughts of her heart, or the new ideas that had vaguely begun -to shape themselves in her mind, concerning the great mysteries of life -here and hereafter, superseding her old childish conceptions, and it -was hardest of all to speak of them to such as Ruby Gillis—“I think, -perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about heaven—what it is and what -it holds for us. I don’t think it can be so very different from life -here as most people seem to think. I believe we’ll just go on living, a -good deal as we live here—and be _ourselves_ just the same—only it will -be easier to be good and to—follow the highest. All the hindrances and -perplexities will be taken away, and we shall see clearly. Don’t be -afraid, Ruby.” - -“I can’t help it,” said Ruby pitifully. “Even if what you say about -heaven is true—and you can’t be sure—it may be only that imagination of -yours—it won’t be _just_ the same. It _can’t_ be. I want to go on -living _here_. I’m so young, Anne. I haven’t had my life. I’ve fought -so hard to live—and it isn’t any use—I have to die—and leave -_everything_ I care for.” Anne sat in a pain that was almost -intolerable. She could not tell comforting falsehoods; and all that -Ruby said was so horribly true. She _was_ leaving everything she cared -for. She had laid up her treasures on earth only; she had lived solely -for the little things of life—the things that pass—forgetting the great -things that go onward into eternity, bridging the gulf between the two -lives and making of death a mere passing from one dwelling to the -other—from twilight to unclouded day. God would take care of her -there—Anne believed—she would learn—but now it was no wonder her soul -clung, in blind helplessness, to the only things she knew and loved. - -Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted up her bright, beautiful blue -eyes to the moonlit skies. - -“I want to live,” she said, in a trembling voice. “I want to live like -other girls. I—I want to be married, Anne—and—and—have little children. -You know I always loved babies, Anne. I couldn’t say this to any one -but you. I know you understand. And then poor Herb—he—he loves me and I -love him, Anne. The others meant nothing to me, but _he_ does—and if I -could live I would be his wife and be so happy. Oh, Anne, it’s hard.” - -Ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbed convulsively. Anne pressed her -hand in an agony of sympathy—silent sympathy, which perhaps helped Ruby -more than broken, imperfect words could have done; for presently she -grew calmer and her sobs ceased. - -“I’m glad I’ve told you this, Anne,” she whispered. “It has helped me -just to say it all out. I’ve wanted to all summer—every time you came. -I wanted to talk it over with you—but I _couldn’t_. It seemed as if it -would make death so _sure_ if I _said_ I was going to die, or if any -one else said it or hinted it. I wouldn’t say it, or even think it. In -the daytime, when people were around me and everything was cheerful, it -wasn’t so hard to keep from thinking of it. But in the night, when I -couldn’t sleep—it was so dreadful, Anne. I couldn’t get away from it -then. Death just came and stared me in the face, until I got so -frightened I could have screamed. - -“But you won’t be frightened any more, Ruby, will you? You’ll be brave, -and believe that all is going to be well with you.” - -“I’ll try. I’ll think over what you have said, and try to believe it. -And you’ll come up as often as you can, won’t you, Anne?” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“It—it won’t be very long now, Anne. I feel sure of that. And I’d -rather have you than any one else. I always liked you best of all the -girls I went to school with. You were never jealous, or mean, like some -of them were. Poor Em White was up to see me yesterday. You remember Em -and I were such chums for three years when we went to school? And then -we quarrelled the time of the school concert. We’ve never spoken to -each other since. Wasn’t it silly? Anything like that seems silly -_now_. But Em and I made up the old quarrel yesterday. She said she’d -have spoken years ago, only she thought I wouldn’t. And I never spoke -to her because I was sure she wouldn’t speak to me. Isn’t it strange -how people misunderstand each other, Anne?” - -“Most of the trouble in life comes from misunderstanding, I think,” -said Anne. “I must go now, Ruby. It’s getting late—and you shouldn’t be -out in the damp.” - -“You’ll come up soon again.” - -“Yes, very soon. And if there’s anything I can do to help you I’ll be -so glad.” - -“I know. You _have_ helped me already. Nothing seems quite so dreadful -now. Good night, Anne.” - -“Good night, dear.” - -Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had changed -something for her. Life held a different meaning, a deeper purpose. On -the surface it would go on just the same; but the deeps had been -stirred. It must not be with her as with poor butterfly Ruby. When she -came to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the -shrinking terror of something wholly different—something for which -accustomed thought and ideal and aspiration had unfitted her. The -little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be -the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life -of heaven must be begun here on earth. - -That good night in the garden was for all time. Anne never saw Ruby in -life again. The next night the A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party to Jane -Andrews before her departure for the West. And, while light feet danced -and bright eyes laughed and merry tongues chattered, there came a -summons to a soul in Avonlea that might not be disregarded or evaded. -The next morning the word went from house to house that Ruby Gillis was -dead. She had died in her sleep, painlessly and calmly, and on her face -was a smile—as if, after all, death had come as a kindly friend to lead -her over the threshold, instead of the grisly phantom she had dreaded. - -Mrs. Rachel Lynde said emphatically after the funeral that Ruby Gillis -was the handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. Her loveliness, as she -lay, white-clad, among the delicate flowers that Anne had placed about -her, was remembered and talked of for years in Avonlea. Ruby had always -been beautiful; but her beauty had been of the earth, earthy; it had -had a certain insolent quality in it, as if it flaunted itself in the -beholder’s eye; spirit had never shone through it, intellect had never -refined it. But death had touched it and consecrated it, bringing out -delicate modelings and purity of outline never seen before—doing what -life and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have done -for Ruby. Anne, looking down through a mist of tears, at her old -playfellow, thought she saw the face God had meant Ruby to have, and -remembered it so always. - -Mrs. Gillis called Anne aside into a vacant room before the funeral -procession left the house, and gave her a small packet. - -“I want you to have this,” she sobbed. “Ruby would have liked you to -have it. It’s the embroidered centerpiece she was working at. It isn’t -quite finished—the needle is sticking in it just where her poor little -fingers put it the last time she laid it down, the afternoon before she -died.” - -“There’s always a piece of unfinished work left,” said Mrs. Lynde, with -tears in her eyes. “But I suppose there’s always some one to finish -it.” - -“How difficult it is to realize that one we have always known can -really be dead,” said Anne, as she and Diana walked home. “Ruby is the -first of our schoolmates to go. One by one, sooner or later, all the -rest of us must follow.” - -“Yes, I suppose so,” said Diana uncomfortably. She did not want to talk -of that. She would have preferred to have discussed the details of the -funeral—the splendid white velvet casket Mr. Gillis had insisted on -having for Ruby—“the Gillises must always make a splurge, even at -funerals,” quoth Mrs. Rachel Lynde—Herb Spencer’s sad face, the -uncontrolled, hysteric grief of one of Ruby’s sisters—but Anne would -not talk of these things. She seemed wrapped in a reverie in which -Diana felt lonesomely that she had neither lot nor part. - -“Ruby Gillis was a great girl to laugh,” said Davy suddenly. “Will she -laugh as much in heaven as she did in Avonlea, Anne? I want to know.” - -“Yes, I think she will,” said Anne. - -“Oh, Anne,” protested Diana, with a rather shocked smile. - -“Well, why not, Diana?” asked Anne seriously. “Do you think we’ll never -laugh in heaven?” - -“Oh—I—I don’t know” floundered Diana. “It doesn’t seem just right, -somehow. You know it’s rather dreadful to laugh in church.” - -“But heaven won’t be like church—all the time,” said Anne. - -“I hope it ain’t,” said Davy emphatically. “If it is I don’t want to -go. Church is awful dull. Anyway, I don’t mean to go for ever so long. -I mean to live to be a hundred years old, like Mr. Thomas Blewett of -White Sands. He says he’s lived so long ’cause he always smoked tobacco -and it killed all the germs. Can I smoke tobacco pretty soon, Anne?” - -“No, Davy, I hope you’ll never use tobacco,” said Anne absently. - -“What’ll you feel like if the germs kill me then?” demanded Davy. - - - - -Chapter XV -A Dream Turned Upside Down - - -“Just one more week and we go back to Redmond,” said Anne. She was -happy at the thought of returning to work, classes and Redmond friends. -Pleasing visions were also being woven around Patty’s Place. There was -a warm pleasant sense of home in the thought of it, even though she had -never lived there. - -But the summer had been a very happy one, too—a time of glad living -with summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome things; -a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which -she had learned to live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play -more heartily. - -“All life lessons are not learned at college,” she thought. “Life -teaches them everywhere.” - -But alas, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for -Anne, by one of those impish happenings which are like a dream turned -upside down. - -“Been writing any more stories lately?” inquired Mr. Harrison genially -one evening when Anne was taking tea with him and Mrs. Harrison. - -“No,” answered Anne, rather crisply. - -“Well, no offense meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloane told me the other day that a -big envelope addressed to the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company -of Montreal had been dropped into the post office box a month ago, and -she suspicioned that somebody was trying for the prize they’d offered -for the best story that introduced the name of their baking powder. She -said it wasn’t addressed in your writing, but I thought maybe it was -you.” - -“Indeed, no! I saw the prize offer, but I’d never dream of competing -for it. I think it would be perfectly disgraceful to write a story to -advertise a baking powder. It would be almost as bad as Judson Parker’s -patent medicine fence.” - -So spake Anne loftily, little dreaming of the valley of humiliation -awaiting her. That very evening Diana popped into the porch gable, -bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, carrying a letter. - -“Oh, Anne, here’s a letter for you. I was at the office, so I thought -I’d bring it along. Do open it quick. If it is what I believe it is I -shall just be wild with delight.” Anne, puzzled, opened the letter and -glanced over the typewritten contents. - -Miss Anne Shirley, -Green Gables, -Avonlea, P.E. Island. - - -“DEAR MADAM: We have much pleasure in informing you that your charming -story ‘Averil’s Atonement’ has won the prize of twenty-five dollars -offered in our recent competition. We enclose the check herewith. We -are arranging for the publication of the story in several prominent -Canadian newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed in pamphlet -form for distribution among our patrons. Thanking you for the interest -you have shown in our enterprise, - -“We remain, -“Yours very truly, -“THE ROLLINGS RELIABLE BAKING POWDER CO.” - - -“I don’t understand,” said Anne, blankly. - -Diana clapped her hands. - -“Oh, I _knew_ it would win the prize—I was sure of it. _I_ sent your -story into the competition, Anne.” - -“Diana—Barry!” - -“Yes, I did,” said Diana gleefully, perching herself on the bed. “When -I saw the offer I thought of your story in a minute, and at first I -thought I’d ask you to send it in. But then I was afraid you -wouldn’t—you had so little faith left in it. So I just decided I’d send -the copy you gave me, and say nothing about it. Then, if it didn’t win -the prize, you’d never know and you wouldn’t feel badly over it, -because the stories that failed were not to be returned, and if it did -you’d have such a delightful surprise.” - -Diana was not the most discerning of mortals, but just at this moment -it struck her that Anne was not looking exactly overjoyed. The surprise -was there, beyond doubt—but where was the delight? - -“Why, Anne, you don’t seem a bit pleased!” she exclaimed. - -Anne instantly manufactured a smile and put it on. - -“Of course I couldn’t be anything but pleased over your unselfish wish -to give me pleasure,” she said slowly. “But you know—I’m so amazed—I -can’t realize it—and I don’t understand. There wasn’t a word in my -story about—about—” Anne choked a little over the word—“baking powder.” - -“Oh, _I_ put that in,” said Diana, reassured. “It was as easy as -wink—and of course my experience in our old Story Club helped me. You -know the scene where Averil makes the cake? Well, I just stated that -she used the Rollings Reliable in it, and that was why it turned out so -well; and then, in the last paragraph, where _Perceval_ clasps _Averil_ -in his arms and says, ‘Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will -bring us the fulfilment of our home of dreams,’ I added, ‘in which we -will never use any baking powder except Rollings Reliable.’” - -“Oh,” gasped poor Anne, as if some one had dashed cold water on her. - -“And you’ve won the twenty-five dollars,” continued Diana jubilantly. -“Why, I heard Priscilla say once that the _Canadian Woman_ only pays -five dollars for a story!” - -Anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers. - -“I can’t take it—it’s yours by right, Diana. You sent the story in and -made the alterations. I—I would certainly never have sent it. So you -must take the check.” - -“I’d like to see myself,” said Diana scornfully. “Why, what I did -wasn’t any trouble. The honor of being a friend of the prizewinner is -enough for me. Well, I must go. I should have gone straight home from -the post office for we have company. But I simply had to come and hear -the news. I’m so glad for your sake, Anne.” - -Anne suddenly bent forward, put her arms about Diana, and kissed her -cheek. - -“I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, Diana,” -she said, with a little tremble in her voice, “and I assure you I -appreciate the motive of what you’ve done.” - -Diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herself away, and poor Anne, after -flinging the innocent check into her bureau drawer as if it were -blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and -outraged sensibility. Oh, she could never live this down—never! - -Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, for he had -called at Orchard Slope and heard the news. But his congratulations -died on his lips at sight of Anne’s face. - -“Why, Anne, what is the matter? I expected to find you radiant over -winning Rollings Reliable prize. Good for you!” - -“Oh, Gilbert, not you,” implored Anne, in an _et-tu Brute_ tone. “I -thought _you_ would understand. Can’t you see how awful it is?” - -“I must confess I can’t. _What_ is wrong?” - -“Everything,” moaned Anne. “I feel as if I were disgraced forever. What -do you think a mother would feel like if she found her child tattooed -over with a baking powder advertisement? I feel just the same. I loved -my poor little story, and I wrote it out of the best that was in me. -And it is _sacrilege_ to have it degraded to the level of a baking -powder advertisement. Don’t you remember what Professor Hamilton used -to tell us in the literature class at Queen’s? He said we were never to -write a word for a low or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the -very highest ideals. What will he think when he hears I’ve written a -story to advertise Rollings Reliable? And, oh, when it gets out at -Redmond! Think how I’ll be teased and laughed at!” - -“That you won’t,” said Gilbert, wondering uneasily if it were that -confounded Junior’s opinion in particular over which Anne was worried. -“The Reds will think just as I thought—that you, being like nine out of -ten of us, not overburdened with worldly wealth, had taken this way of -earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year. I don’t see -that there’s anything low or unworthy about that, or anything -ridiculous either. One would rather write masterpieces of literature no -doubt—but meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid.” - -This commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case cheered Anne a -little. At least it removed her dread of being laughed at, though the -deeper hurt of an outraged ideal remained. - - - - -Chapter XVI -Adjusted Relationships - - -“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—it’s homier than home,” avowed -Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. They were all -assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty’s Place—Anne and -Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the -Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing over -the walls; the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse -chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the -golden gloom like creamy moons. - -It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and -already all believed the experiment would be a success. The first -fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they -had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing their little -establishment, and adjusting different opinions. - -Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return -to college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant. -Her prize story had been published in the Island papers; and Mr. -William Blair had, upon the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, -green and yellow pamphlets, containing it, one of which he gave to -every customer. He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly -dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was the -consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite -splendid that she should have won the prize. Her many friends regarded -her with honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pye -said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure -she remembered reading it in a paper years before. The Sloanes, who had -found out or guessed that Charlie had been “turned down,” said they -didn’t think it was much to be proud of; almost any one could have done -it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she -had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do -it; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where, -with goodness knew what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was -darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she was -almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check. - -“It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, that’s -what,” she said, half-proudly, half-severely. - -All things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. And -it was very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced Soph with -hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. Pris and Stella and -Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloane, looking more important than ever a -Sophomore looked before, Phil, with the Alec-and-Alonzo question still -unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been -teaching school ever since leaving Queen’s, but his mother had -concluded it was high time he gave it up and turned his attention to -learning how to be a minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell on hard luck at -the very beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless Sophs, -who were among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and -shaved half of his head. In this guise the luckless Moody Spurgeon had -to go about until his hair grew again. He told Anne bitterly that there -were times when he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to -be a minister. - -Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty’s Place ready for -her. Miss Patty had sent the key to Anne, with a letter in which she -said Gog and Magog were packed in a box under the spare-room bed, but -might be taken out when wanted; in a postscript she added that she -hoped the girls would be careful about putting up pictures. The living -room had been newly papered five years before and she and Miss Maria -did not want any more holes made in that new paper than was absolutely -necessary. For the rest she trusted everything to Anne. - -How those girls enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, it -was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of homemaking -without the bother of a husband. All brought something with them to -adorn or make comfortable the little house. Pris and Phil and Stella -had knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to -hang according to taste, in reckless disregard of Miss Patty’s new -paper. - -“We’ll putty the holes up when we leave, dear—she’ll never know,” they -said to protesting Anne. - -Diana had given Anne a pine needle cushion and Miss Ada had given both -her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla -had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for -Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her -five more. - -“You take them,” she said authoritatively. “They might as well be in -use as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw.” - -No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of -mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of -Patty’s Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors. -Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display. -The gruff old millionaire who lived “next door” came over and wanted to -buy the gorgeous red and yellow “tulip-pattern” one which Mrs. Rachel -had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and -by Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, -much to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. -That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it -to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on -having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife. - -Mrs. Lynde’s quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. Patty’s -Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a -rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very -glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde’s quilts, and hoped that the loan -of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness. Anne had the -blue room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large -one. Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; -and Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room. -Rusty at first slept on the doorstep. - -Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became -aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, -indulgent smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. -Was her hat crooked? Was her belt loose? Craning her head to -investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw Rusty. - -Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most -forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was -well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both -ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl -ludicrously swollen. As for color, if a once black cat had been well -and thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this -waif’s thin, draggled, unsightly fur. - -Anne “shooed,” but the cat would not “shoo.” As long as she stood he -sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one -good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself -to his company until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she -coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. -But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the -rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang -upon Anne’s lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant “miaow.” - -“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?” - -“No, I do _not_,” protested disgusted Anne. “The creature followed me -home from somewhere. I couldn’t get rid of him. Ugh, get down. I like -decent cats reasonably well; but I don’t like beasties of your -complexion.” - -Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne’s lap -and began to purr. - -“He has evidently adopted you,” laughed Priscilla. - -“I won’t BE adopted,” said Anne stubbornly. - -“The poor creature is starving,” said Phil pityingly. “Why, his bones -are almost coming through his skin.” - -“Well, I’ll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he -came,” said Anne resolutely. - -The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the -doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the -door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; of -nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out of compassion the -girls fed him; but when a week had passed they decided that something -must be done. The cat’s appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had -resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had -been seen washing his face. - -“But for all that we can’t keep him,” said Stella. “Aunt Jimsie is -coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her. We can’t -keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight all the time -with the Sarah-cat. He’s a fighter by nature. He had a pitched battle -last evening with the tobacco-king’s cat and routed him, horse, foot -and artillery.” - -“We must get rid of him,” agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject of -their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of -lamb-like meekness. “But the question is—how? How can four unprotected -females get rid of a cat who won’t be got rid of?” - -“We must chloroform him,” said Phil briskly. “That is the most humane -way.” - -“Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?” demanded Anne -gloomily. - -“I do, honey. It’s one of my few—sadly few—useful accomplishments. I’ve -disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and give -him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag—there’s one in -the back porch—put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box. Then -take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under the -edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it till -evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were -asleep. No pain—no struggle.” - -“It sounds easy,” said Anne dubiously. - -“It _is_ easy. Just leave it to me. I’ll see to it,” said Phil -reassuringly. - -Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was -lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed -into Anne’s lap. Anne’s heart misgave her. This poor creature loved -her—trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction? - -“Here, take him,” she said hastily to Phil. “I feel like a murderess.” - -“He won’t suffer, you know,” comforted Phil, but Anne had fled. - -The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that -day. But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried. - -“Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard,” declared Phil, -“and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That’s the part I -always hate.” - -The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil -gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but -distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box. - -“He—he isn’t dead,” gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the kitchen -doorstep. - -“He must be,” said Phil incredulously. - -Another tiny mew proved that he wasn’t. The two girls stared at each -other. - -“What will we do?” questioned Anne. - -“Why in the world don’t you come?” demanded Stella, appearing in the -doorway. “We’ve got the grave ready. ‘What silent still and silent -all?’” she quoted teasingly. - -“‘Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent’s -fall,’” promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box. - -A burst of laughter broke the tension. - -“We must leave him here till morning,” said Phil, replacing the stone. -“He hasn’t mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his -dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of -our guilty consciences.” - -But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay -leap to Anne’s shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately. -Never was there a cat more decidedly alive. - -“Here’s a knot hole in the box,” groaned Phil. “I never saw it. That’s -why he didn’t die. Now, we’ve got to do it all over again.” - -“No, we haven’t,” declared Anne suddenly. “Rusty isn’t going to be -killed again. He’s my cat—and you’ve just got to make the best of it.” - -“Oh, well, if you’ll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat,” said -Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair. - -From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o’nights on the -scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land. -By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably -respectable. But, like Kipling’s cat, he “walked by himself.” His paw -was against every cat, and every cat’s paw against him. One by one he -vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human -beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke -him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like very improper -language greeted any one who did. - -“The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable,” declared Stella. - -“Him was a nice old pussens, him was,” vowed Anne, cuddling her pet -defiantly. - -“Well, I don’t know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to live -together,” said Stella pesimistically. “Cat-fights in the orchard -o’nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom are -unthinkable.” In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and -Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina -was enthroned in the rocking chair before the open fire they -figuratively bowed down and worshipped her. - -Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular -face, and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable -youth, and as full of hopes as a girl’s. She had pink cheeks and -snow-white hair which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears. - -“It’s a very old-fashioned way,” she said, knitting industriously at -something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. “But _I_ am -old-fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, -too. I don’t say they’re any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I -daresay they’re a good deal the worse. But they’ve worn nice and easy. -New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more -comfortable. I’m old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes -and opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to -look after you and keep you proper, but I’m not going to do it. You’re -old enough to know how to behave if you’re ever going to be. So, as far -as I am concerned,” concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her -young eyes, “you can all go to destruction in your own way.” - -“Oh, will somebody separate those cats?” pleaded Stella, shudderingly. - -Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph. -Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had -gone to live in Vancouver. - -“She couldn’t take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I -really couldn’t refuse. He’s a beautiful cat—that is, his disposition -is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many -colors.” - -It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a -walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. -His legs were white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a -huge patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other. His -tail was yellow with a gray tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A -black patch over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look. In reality -he was meek and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition. In one respect, -if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not -neither did he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept -not on softer cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things. - -Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After -they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner -which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down -before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She was a large, sleek, -gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity which was not at all -impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin. She had been given -to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman. - -“Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat,” -explained Aunt Jamesina. “She is eight years old, and a remarkable -mouser. Don’t worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat _never_ fights and Joseph -rarely.” - -“They’ll have to fight here in self-defense,” said Stella. - -At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half -way across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short; -his tail expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his -back rose up in a defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a -fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the -Sarah-cat. - -The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him -curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her -capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked -himself up dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears? -He looked dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The -Sarah-cat deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet -operations. Rusty decided that he would not. He never did. From that -time on the Sarah-cat ruled the roost. Rusty never again interfered -with her. - -But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his -disgrace, swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight -upon occasion and fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles. -Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at sight. Anne took Rusty’s part and -detested Joseph. Stella was in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed. - -“Let them fight it out,” she said tolerantly. “They’ll make friends -after a bit. Joseph needs some exercise—he was getting too fat. And -Rusty has to learn he isn’t the only cat in the world.” - -Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn -enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their -paws about each other, and gravely washed each other’s faces. - -“We’ve all got used to each other,” said Phil. “And I’ve learned how to -wash dishes and sweep a floor.” - -“But you needn’t try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat,” -laughed Anne. - -“It was all the fault of the knothole,” protested Phil. - -“It was a good thing the knothole was there,” said Aunt Jamesina rather -severely. “Kittens _have_ to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be -overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be done to death—unless he -sucks eggs.” - -“You wouldn’t have thought Rusty very decent if you’d seen him when he -came here,” said Stella. “He positively looked like the Old Nick.” - -“I don’t believe Old Nick can be so very, ugly” said Aunt Jamesina -reflectively. “He wouldn’t do so much harm if he was. _I_ always think -of him as a rather handsome gentleman.” - - - - -Chapter XVII -A Letter from Davy - - -“It’s beginning to snow, girls,” said Phil, coming in one November -evening, “and there are the loveliest little stars and crosses all over -the garden walk. I never noticed before what exquisite things -snowflakes really are. One has time to notice things like that in the -simple life. Bless you all for permitting me to live it. It’s really -delightful to feel worried because butter has gone up five cents a -pound.” - -“Has it?” demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts. - -“It has—and here’s your butter. I’m getting quite expert at marketing. -It’s better fun than flirting,” concluded Phil gravely. - -“Everything is going up scandalously,” sighed Stella. - -“Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free,” said -Aunt Jamesina. - -“And so is laughter,” added Anne. “There’s no tax on it yet and that is -well, because you’re all going to laugh presently. I’m going to read -you Davy’s letter. His spelling has improved immensely this past year, -though he is not strong on apostrophes, and he certainly possesses the -gift of writing an interesting letter. Listen and laugh, before we -settle down to the evening’s study-grind.” - -“Dear Anne,” ran Davy’s letter, “I take my pen to tell you that we are -all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. It’s snowing some -today and Marilla says the old woman in the sky is shaking her feather -beds. Is the old woman in the sky God’s wife, Anne? I want to know. - -“Mrs. Lynde has been real sick but she is better now. She fell down the -cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold of the shelf -with all the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it gave way and went -down with her and made a splendid crash. Marilla thought it was an -earthquake at first. - -“One of the stewpans was all dinged up and Mrs. Lynde straned her ribs. -The doctor came and gave her medicine to rub on her ribs but she didn’t -under stand him and took it all inside instead. The doctor said it was -a wonder it dident kill her but it dident and it cured her ribs and -Mrs. Lynde says doctors dont know much anyhow. But we couldent fix up -the stewpan. Marilla had to throw it out. Thanksgiving was last week. -There was no school and we had a great dinner. I et mince pie and rost -turkey and frut cake and donuts and cheese and jam and choklut cake. -Marilla said I’d die but I dident. Dora had earake after it, only it -wasent in her ears it was in her stummick. I dident have earake -anywhere. - -“Our new teacher is a man. He does things for jokes. Last week he made -all us third-class boys write a composishun on what kind of a wife we’d -like to have and the girls on what kind of a husband. He laughed fit to -kill when he read them. This was mine. I thought youd like to see it. - - -“‘The kind of a wife I’d like to Have. - -“‘She must have good manners and get my meals on time and do what I -tell her and always be very polite to me. She must be fifteen yers old. -She must be good to the poor and keep her house tidy and be good -tempered and go to church regularly. She must be very handsome and have -curly hair. If I get a wife that is just what I like Ill be an awful -good husband to her. I think a woman ought to be awful good to her -husband. Some poor women haven’t any husbands. - - -“‘THE END.’” - - -“I was at Mrs. Isaac Wrights funeral at White Sands last week. The -husband of the corpse felt real sorry. Mrs. Lynde says Mrs. Wrights -grandfather stole a sheep but Marilla says we mustent speak ill of the -dead. Why mustent we, Anne? I want to know. It’s pretty safe, ain’t it? - -“Mrs. Lynde was awful mad the other day because I asked her if she was -alive in Noah’s time. I dident mean to hurt her feelings. I just wanted -to know. Was she, Anne? - -“Mr. Harrison wanted to get rid of his dog. So he hunged him once but -he come to life and scooted for the barn while Mr. Harrison was digging -the grave, so he hunged him again and he stayed dead that time. Mr. -Harrison has a new man working for him. He’s awful okward. Mr. Harrison -says he is left handed in both his feet. Mr. Barry’s hired man is lazy. -Mrs. Barry says that but Mr. Barry says he aint lazy exactly only he -thinks it easier to pray for things than to work for them. - -“Mrs. Harmon Andrews prize pig that she talked so much of died in a -fit. Mrs. Lynde says it was a judgment on her for pride. But I think it -was hard on the pig. Milty Boulter has been sick. The doctor gave him -medicine and it tasted horrid. I offered to take it for him for a -quarter but the Boulters are so mean. Milty says he’d rather take it -himself and save his money. I asked Mrs. Boulter how a person would go -about catching a man and she got awful mad and said she dident know, -shed never chased men. - -“The A.V.I.S. is going to paint the hall again. They’re tired of having -it blue. - -“The new minister was here to tea last night. He took three pieces of -pie. If I did that Mrs. Lynde would call me piggy. And he et fast and -took big bites and Marilla is always telling me not to do that. Why can -ministers do what boys can’t? I want to know. - -“I haven’t any more news. Here are six kisses. xxxxxx. Dora sends one. -Heres hers. x. - -“Your loving friend -DAVID KEITH” - - -“P.S. Anne, who was the devils father? I want to know.” - - - - -Chapter XVIII -Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl - - -When Christmas holidays came the girls of Patty’s Place scattered to -their respective homes, but Aunt Jamesina elected to stay where she -was. - -“I couldn’t go to any of the places I’ve been invited and take those -three cats,” she said. “And I’m not going to leave the poor creatures -here alone for nearly three weeks. If we had any decent neighbors who -would feed them I might, but there’s nothing except millionaires on -this street. So I’ll stay here and keep Patty’s Place warm for you.” - -Anne went home with the usual joyous anticipations—which were not -wholly fulfilled. She found Avonlea in the grip of such an early, cold, -and stormy winter as even the “oldest inhabitant” could not recall. -Green Gables was literally hemmed in by huge drifts. Almost every day -of that ill-starred vacation it stormed fiercely; and even on fine days -it drifted unceasingly. No sooner were the roads broken than they -filled in again. It was almost impossible to stir out. The A.V.I.S. -tried, on three evenings, to have a party in honor of the college -students, and on each evening the storm was so wild that nobody could -go, so they gave up the attempt in despair. Anne, despite her love of -and loyalty to Green Gables, could not help thinking longingly of -Patty’s Place, its cosy open fire, Aunt Jamesina’s mirthful eyes, the -three cats, the merry chatter of the girls, the pleasantness of Friday -evenings when college friends dropped in to talk of grave and gay. - -Anne was lonely; Diana, during the whole of the holidays, was -imprisoned at home with a bad attack of bronchitis. She could not come -to Green Gables and it was rarely Anne could get to Orchard Slope, for -the old way through the Haunted Wood was impassable with drifts, and -the long way over the frozen Lake of Shining Waters was almost as bad. -Ruby Gillis was sleeping in the white-heaped graveyard; Jane Andrews -was teaching a school on western prairies. Gilbert, to be sure, was -still faithful, and waded up to Green Gables every possible evening. -But Gilbert’s visits were not what they once were. Anne almost dreaded -them. It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden -silence and find Gilbert’s hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite -unmistakable expression in their grave depths; and it was still more -disconcerting to find herself blushing hotly and uncomfortably under -his gaze, just as if—just as if—well, it was very embarrassing. Anne -wished herself back at Patty’s Place, where there was always somebody -else about to take the edge off a delicate situation. At Green Gables -Marilla went promptly to Mrs. Lynde’s domain when Gilbert came and -insisted on taking the twins with her. The significance of this was -unmistakable and Anne was in a helpless fury over it. - -Davy, however, was perfectly happy. He reveled in getting out in the -morning and shoveling out the paths to the well and henhouse. He -gloried in the Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and Mrs. Lynde -vied with each other in preparing for Anne, and he was reading an -enthralling tale, in a school library book, of a wonderful hero who -seemed blessed with a miraculous faculty for getting into scrapes from -which he was usually delivered by an earthquake or a volcanic -explosion, which blew him high and dry out of his troubles, landed him -in a fortune, and closed the story with proper _éclat_. - -“I tell you it’s a bully story, Anne,” he said ecstatically. “I’d ever -so much rather read it than the Bible.” - -“Would you?” smiled Anne. - -Davy peered curiously at her. - -“You don’t seem a bit shocked, Anne. Mrs. Lynde was awful shocked when -I said it to her.” - -“No, I’m not shocked, Davy. I think it’s quite natural that a -nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the Bible. -But when you are older I hope and think that you will realize what a -wonderful book the Bible is.” - -“Oh, I think some parts of it are fine,” conceded Davy. “That story -about Joseph now—it’s bully. But if I’d been Joseph _I_ wouldn’t have -forgive the brothers. No, siree, Anne. I’d have cut all their heads -off. Mrs. Lynde was awful mad when I said that and shut the Bible up -and said she’d never read me any more of it if I talked like that. So I -don’t talk now when she reads it Sunday afternoons; I just think things -and say them to Milty Boulter next day in school. I told Milty the -story about Elisha and the bears and it scared him so he’s never made -fun of Mr. Harrison’s bald head once. Are there any bears on P.E. -Island, Anne? I want to know.” - -“Not nowadays,” said Anne, absently, as the wind blew a scud of snow -against the window. “Oh, dear, will it ever stop storming.” - -“God knows,” said Davy airily, preparing to resume his reading. - -Anne _was_ shocked this time. - -“Davy!” she exclaimed reproachfully. - -“Mrs. Lynde says that,” protested Davy. “One night last week Marilla -said ‘Will Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix _ever_ get married?” and Mrs. -Lynde said, “‘God knows’—just like that.” - -“Well, it wasn’t right for her to say it,” said Anne, promptly deciding -upon which horn of this dilemma to empale herself. “It isn’t right for -anybody to take that name in vain or speak it lightly, Davy. Don’t ever -do it again.” - -“Not if I say it slow and solemn, like the minister?” queried Davy -gravely. - -“No, not even then.” - -“Well, I won’t. Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix live in Middle Grafton -and Mrs. Rachel says he has been courting her for a hundred years. -Won’t they soon be too old to get married, Anne? I hope Gilbert won’t -court _you_ that long. When are you going to be married, Anne? Mrs. -Lynde says it’s a sure thing.” - -“Mrs. Lynde is a—” began Anne hotly; then stopped. “Awful old gossip,” -completed Davy calmly. “That’s what every one calls her. But is it a -sure thing, Anne? I want to know.” - -“You’re a very silly little boy, Davy,” said Anne, stalking haughtily -out of the room. The kitchen was deserted and she sat down by the -window in the fast falling wintry twilight. The sun had set and the -wind had died down. A pale chilly moon looked out behind a bank of -purple clouds in the west. The sky faded out, but the strip of yellow -along the western horizon grew brighter and fiercer, as if all the -stray gleams of light were concentrating in one spot; the distant -hills, rimmed with priest-like firs, stood out in dark distinctness -against it. Anne looked across the still, white fields, cold and -lifeless in the harsh light of that grim sunset, and sighed. She was -very lonely; and she was sad at heart; for she was wondering if she -would be able to return to Redmond next year. It did not seem likely. -The only scholarship possible in the Sophomore year was a very small -affair. She would not take Marilla’s money; and there seemed little -prospect of being able to earn enough in the summer vacation. - -“I suppose I’ll just have to drop out next year,” she thought drearily, -“and teach a district school again until I earn enough to finish my -course. And by that time all my old class will have graduated and -Patty’s Place will be out of the question. But there! I’m not going to -be a coward. I’m thankful I can earn my way through if necessary.” - -“Here’s Mr. Harrison wading up the lane,” announced Davy, running out. -“I hope he’s brought the mail. It’s three days since we got it. I want -to see what them pesky Grits are doing. I’m a Conservative, Anne. And I -tell you, you have to keep your eye on them Grits.” - -Mr. Harrison had brought the mail, and merry letters from Stella and -Priscilla and Phil soon dissipated Anne’s blues. Aunt Jamesina, too, -had written, saying that she was keeping the hearth-fire alight, and -that the cats were all well, and the house plants doing fine. - -“The weather has been real cold,” she wrote, “so I let the cats sleep -in the house—Rusty and Joseph on the sofa in the living-room, and the -Sarah-cat on the foot of my bed. It’s real company to hear her purring -when I wake up in the night and think of my poor daughter in the -foreign field. If it was anywhere but in India I wouldn’t worry, but -they say the snakes out there are terrible. It takes all the -Sarah-cats’s purring to drive away the thought of those snakes. I have -enough faith for everything but the snakes. I can’t think why -Providence ever made them. Sometimes I don’t think He did. I’m inclined -to believe the Old Harry had a hand in making _them_.” - -Anne had left a thin, typewritten communication till the last, thinking -it unimportant. When she had read it she sat very still, with tears in -her eyes. - -“What is the matter, Anne?” asked Marilla. - -“Miss Josephine Barry is dead,” said Anne, in a low tone. - -“So she has gone at last,” said Marilla. “Well, she has been sick for -over a year, and the Barrys have been expecting to hear of her death -any time. It is well she is at rest for she has suffered dreadfully, -Anne. She was always kind to you.” - -“She has been kind to the last, Marilla. This letter is from her -lawyer. She has left me a thousand dollars in her will.” - -“Gracious, ain’t that an awful lot of money,” exclaimed Davy. “She’s -the woman you and Diana lit on when you jumped into the spare room bed, -ain’t she? Diana told me that story. Is that why she left you so much?” - -“Hush, Davy,” said Anne gently. She slipped away to the porch gable -with a full heart, leaving Marilla and Mrs. Lynde to talk over the news -to their hearts’ content. - -“Do you s’pose Anne will ever get married now?” speculated Davy -anxiously. “When Dorcas Sloane got married last summer she said if -she’d had enough money to live on she’d never have been bothered with a -man, but even a widower with eight children was better’n living with a -sister-in-law.” - -“Davy Keith, do hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Rachel severely. “The way -you talk is scandalous for a small boy, that’s what.” - - - - -Chapter XIX -An Interlude - - -“To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I’ve left my -teens behind me forever,” said Anne, who was curled up on the -hearth-rug with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesina who was reading in -her pet chair. They were alone in the living room. Stella and Priscilla -had gone to a committee meeting and Phil was upstairs adorning herself -for a party. - -“I suppose you feel kind of, sorry” said Aunt Jamesina. “The teens are -such a nice part of life. I’m glad I’ve never gone out of them myself.” - -Anne laughed. - -“You never will, Aunty. You’ll be eighteen when you should be a -hundred. Yes, I’m sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy -told me long ago that by the time I was twenty my character would be -formed, for good or evil. I don’t feel that it’s what it should be. -It’s full of flaws.” - -“So’s everybody’s,” said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. “Mine’s cracked in a -hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you are twenty -your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or -’tother, and would go on developing in that line. Don’t worry over it, -Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and yourself, and have a -good time. That’s my philosophy and it’s always worked pretty well. -Where’s Phil off to tonight?” - -“She’s going to a dance, and she’s got the sweetest dress for it—creamy -yellow silk and cobwebby lace. It just suits those brown tints of -hers.” - -“There’s magic in the words ‘silk’ and ‘lace,’ isn’t there?” said Aunt -Jamesina. “The very sound of them makes me feel like skipping off to a -dance. And _yellow_ silk. It makes one think of a dress of sunshine. I -always wanted a yellow silk dress, but first my mother and then my -husband wouldn’t hear of it. The very first thing I’m going to do when -I get to heaven is to get a yellow silk dress.” - -Amid Anne’s peal of laughter Phil came downstairs, trailing clouds of -glory, and surveyed herself in the long oval mirror on the wall. - -“A flattering looking glass is a promoter of amiability,” she said. -“The one in my room does certainly make me green. Do I look pretty -nice, Anne?” - -“Do you really know how pretty you are, Phil?” asked Anne, in honest -admiration. - -“Of course I do. What are looking glasses and men for? That wasn’t what -I meant. Are all my ends tucked in? Is my skirt straight? And would -this rose look better lower down? I’m afraid it’s too high—it will make -me look lop-sided. But I hate things tickling my ears.” - -“Everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is -lovely.” - -“Anne, there’s one thing in particular I like about you—you’re so -ungrudging. There isn’t a particle of envy in you.” - -“Why should she be envious?” demanded Aunt Jamesina. “She’s not quite -as goodlooking as you, maybe, but she’s got a far handsomer nose.” - -“I know it,” conceded Phil. - -“My nose always has been a great comfort to me,” confessed Anne. - -“And I love the way your hair grows on your forehead, Anne. And that -one wee curl, always looking as if it were going to drop, but never -dropping, is delicious. But as for noses, mine is a dreadful worry to -me. I know by the time I’m forty it will be Byrney. What do you think -I’ll look like when I’m forty, Anne?” - -“Like an old, matronly, married woman,” teased Anne. - -“I won’t,” said Phil, sitting down comfortably to wait for her escort. -“Joseph, you calico beastie, don’t you dare jump on my lap. I won’t go -to a dance all over cat hairs. No, Anne, I _won’t_ look matronly. But -no doubt I’ll be married.” - -“To Alec or Alonzo?” asked Anne. - -“To one of them, I suppose,” sighed Phil, “if I can ever decide which.” - -“It shouldn’t be hard to decide,” scolded Aunt Jamesina. - -“I was born a see-saw Aunty, and nothing can ever prevent me from -teetering.” - -“You ought to be more levelheaded, Philippa.” - -“It’s best to be levelheaded, of course,” agreed Philippa, “but you -miss lots of fun. As for Alec and Alonzo, if you knew them you’d -understand why it’s difficult to choose between them. They’re equally -nice.” - -“Then take somebody who is nicer” suggested Aunt Jamesina. “There’s -that Senior who is so devoted to you—Will Leslie. He has such nice, -large, mild eyes.” - -“They’re a little bit too large and too mild—like a cow’s,” said Phil -cruelly. - -“What do you say about George Parker?” - -“There’s nothing to say about him except that he always looks as if he -had just been starched and ironed.” - -“Marr Holworthy then. You can’t find a fault with him.” - -“No, he would do if he wasn’t poor. I must marry a rich man, Aunt -Jamesina. That—and good looks—is an indispensable qualification. I’d -marry Gilbert Blythe if he were rich.” - -“Oh, would you?” said Anne, rather viciously. - -“We don’t like that idea a little bit, although we don’t want Gilbert -ourselves, oh, no,” mocked Phil. “But don’t let’s talk of disagreeable -subjects. I’ll have to marry sometime, I suppose, but I shall put off -the evil day as long as I can.” - -“You mustn’t marry anybody you don’t love, Phil, when all’s said and -done,” said Aunt Jamesina. - -“‘Oh, hearts that loved in the good old way -Have been out o’ the fashion this many a day.’” - - -trilled Phil mockingly. “There’s the carriage. I fly—Bi-bi, you two -old-fashioned darlings.” - -When Phil had gone Aunt Jamesina looked solemnly at Anne. - -“That girl is pretty and sweet and goodhearted, but do you think she is -quite right in her mind, by spells, Anne?” - -“Oh, I don’t think there’s anything the matter with Phil’s mind,” said -Anne, hiding a smile. “It’s just her way of talking.” - -Aunt Jamesina shook her head. - -“Well, I hope so, Anne. I do hope so, because I love her. But _I_ can’t -understand her—she beats me. She isn’t like any of the girls I ever -knew, or any of the girls I was myself.” - -“How many girls were you, Aunt Jimsie?” - -“About half a dozen, my dear.” - - - - -Chapter XX -Gilbert Speaks - - -“This has been a dull, prosy day,” yawned Phil, stretching herself idly -on the sofa, having previously dispossessed two exceedingly indignant -cats. - -Anne looked up from _Pickwick Papers_. Now that spring examinations -were over she was treating herself to Dickens. - -“It has been a prosy day for us,” she said thoughtfully, “but to some -people it has been a wonderful day. Some one has been rapturously happy -in it. Perhaps a great deed has been done somewhere today—or a great -poem written—or a great man born. And some heart has been broken, -Phil.” - -“Why did you spoil your pretty thought by tagging that last sentence -on, honey?” grumbled Phil. “I don’t like to think of broken hearts—or -anything unpleasant.” - -“Do you think you’ll be able to shirk unpleasant things all your life, -Phil?” - -“Dear me, no. Am I not up against them now? You don’t call Alec and -Alonzo pleasant things, do you, when they simply plague my life out?” - -“You never take anything seriously, Phil.” - -“Why should I? There are enough folks who do. The world needs people -like me, Anne, just to amuse it. It would be a terrible place if -_everybody_ were intellectual and serious and in deep, deadly earnest. -MY mission is, as _Josiah Allen_ says, ‘to charm and allure.’ Confess -now. Hasn’t life at Patty’s Place been really much brighter and -pleasanter this past winter because I’ve been here to leaven you?” - -“Yes, it has,” owned Anne. - -“And you all love me—even Aunt Jamesina, who thinks I’m stark mad. So -why should I try to be different? Oh, dear, I’m so sleepy. I was awake -until one last night, reading a harrowing ghost story. I read it in -bed, and after I had finished it do you suppose I could get out of bed -to put the light out? No! And if Stella had not fortunately come in -late that lamp would have burned good and bright till morning. When I -heard Stella I called her in, explained my predicament, and got her to -put out the light. If I had got out myself to do it I knew something -would grab me by the feet when I was getting in again. By the way, -Anne, has Aunt Jamesina decided what to do this summer?” - -“Yes, she’s going to stay here. I know she’s doing it for the sake of -those blessed cats, although she says it’s too much trouble to open her -own house, and she hates visiting.” - -“What are you reading?” - -“_Pickwick_.” - -“That’s a book that always makes me hungry,” said Phil. “There’s so -much good eating in it. The characters seem always to be reveling on -ham and eggs and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard rummage after -reading _Pickwick_. The mere thought reminds me that I’m starving. Is -there any tidbit in the pantry, Queen Anne?” - -“I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it.” - -Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the orchard in -company with Rusty. It was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night in early -spring. The snow was not quite all gone from the park; a little dingy -bank of it yet lay under the pines of the harbor road, screened from -the influence of April suns. It kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled -the evening air. But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and -Gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. He came -up from the park, his hands full of it. - -Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the -poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset with -the very perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air—a -wondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in -Araby’s perfume, and where she reigned queen and chatelaine. She -frowned as she saw Gilbert coming through the orchard. Of late she had -managed not to be left alone with Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly -now; and even Rusty had deserted her. - -Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers. - -“Don’t these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?” - -Anne took them and buried her face in them. - -“I’m in Mr. Silas Sloane’s barrens this very minute,” she said -rapturously. - -“I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?” - -“No, not for a fortnight. I’m going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke -before I go home. You’ll be in Avonlea before I will.” - -“No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I’ve been -offered a job in the Daily News office and I’m going to take it.” - -“Oh,” said Anne vaguely. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer would -be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect. “Well,” -she concluded flatly, “it is a good thing for you, of course.” - -“Yes, I’ve been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next year.” - -“You mustn’t work _too_ hard,” said Anne, without any very clear idea -of what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil would come -out. “You’ve studied very constantly this winter. Isn’t this a -delightful evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets -under that old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had -discovered a gold mine.” - -“You are always discovering gold mines,” said Gilbert—also absently. - -“Let us go and see if we can find some more,” suggested Anne eagerly. -“I’ll call Phil and—” - -“Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne,” said Gilbert quietly, -taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. “There is -something I want to say to you.” - -“Oh, don’t say it,” cried Anne, pleadingly. “Don’t—_please_, Gilbert.” - -“I must. Things can’t go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. You -know I do. I—I can’t tell you how much. Will you promise me that some -day you’ll be my wife?” - -“I—I can’t,” said Anne miserably. “Oh, Gilbert—you—you’ve spoiled -everything.” - -“Don’t you care for me at all?” Gilbert asked after a very dreadful -pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up. - -“Not—not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I -don’t love you, Gilbert.” - -“But can’t you give me some hope that you will—yet?” - -“No, I can’t,” exclaimed Anne desperately. “I never, never can love -you—in that way—Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again.” - -There was another pause—so long and so dreadful that Anne was driven at -last to look up. Gilbert’s face was white to the lips. And his eyes—but -Anne shuddered and looked away. There was nothing romantic about this. -Must proposals be either grotesque or—horrible? Could she ever forget -Gilbert’s face? - -“Is there anybody else?” he asked at last in a low voice. - -“No—no,” said Anne eagerly. “I don’t care for any one like _that_—and I -_like_ you better than anybody else in the world, Gilbert. And we -must—we must go on being friends, Gilbert.” - -Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh. - -“Friends! Your friendship can’t satisfy me, Anne. I want your love—and -you tell me I can never have that.” - -“I’m sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert,” was all Anne could say. Where, oh, -where were all the gracious and graceful speeches wherewith, in -imagination, she had been wont to dismiss rejected suitors? - -Gilbert released her hand gently. - -“There isn’t anything to forgive. There have been times when I thought -you did care. I’ve deceived myself, that’s all. Goodbye, Anne.” - -Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind the -pines, and cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably -precious had gone out of her life. It was Gilbert’s friendship, of -course. Oh, why must she lose it after this fashion? - -“What is the matter, honey?” asked Phil, coming in through the moonlit -gloom. - -Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a thousand -miles away. - -“I suppose you’ve gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an idiot, -Anne Shirley!” - -“Do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don’t love?” said -Anne coldly, goaded to reply. - -“You don’t know love when you see it. You’ve tricked something out with -your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to -look like that. There, that’s the first sensible thing I’ve ever said -in my life. I wonder how I managed it?” - -“Phil,” pleaded Anne, “please go away and leave me alone for a little -while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct it.” - -“Without any Gilbert in it?” said Phil, going. - -A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. -Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all -Gilbert’s fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must -just learn to live without it. - - - - -Chapter XXI -Roses of Yesterday - - -The fortnight Anne spent in Bolingbroke was a very pleasant one, with a -little under current of vague pain and dissatisfaction running through -it whenever she thought about Gilbert. There was not, however, much -time to think about him. “Mount Holly,” the beautiful old Gordon -homestead, was a very gay place, overrun by Phil’s friends of both -sexes. There was quite a bewildering succession of drives, dances, -picnics and boating parties, all expressively lumped together by Phil -under the head of “jamborees”; Alec and Alonzo were so constantly on -hand that Anne wondered if they ever did anything but dance attendance -on that will-o’-the-wisp of a Phil. They were both nice, manly fellows, -but Anne would not be drawn into any opinion as to which was the nicer. - -“And I depended so on you to help me make up my mind which of them I -should promise to marry,” mourned Phil. - -“You must do that for yourself. You are quite expert at making up your -mind as to whom other people should marry,” retorted Anne, rather -caustically. - -“Oh, that’s a very different thing,” said Phil, truly. - -But the sweetest incident of Anne’s sojourn in Bolingbroke was the -visit to her birthplace—the little shabby yellow house in an -out-of-the-way street she had so often dreamed about. She looked at it -with delighted eyes, as she and Phil turned in at the gate. - -“It’s almost exactly as I’ve pictured it,” she said. “There is no -honeysuckle over the windows, but there is a lilac tree by the gate, -and—yes, there are the muslin curtains in the windows. How glad I am it -is still painted yellow.” - -A very tall, very thin woman opened the door. - -“Yes, the Shirleys lived here twenty years ago,” she said, in answer to -Anne’s question. “They had it rented. I remember ’em. They both died of -fever at onct. It was turrible sad. They left a baby. I guess it’s dead -long ago. It was a sickly thing. Old Thomas and his wife took it—as if -they hadn’t enough of their own.” - -“It didn’t die,” said Anne, smiling. “I was that baby.” - -“You don’t say so! Why, you have grown,” exclaimed the woman, as if she -were much surprised that Anne was not still a baby. “Come to look at -you, I see the resemblance. You’re complected like your pa. He had red -hair. But you favor your ma in your eyes and mouth. She was a nice -little thing. My darter went to school to her and was nigh crazy about -her. They was buried in the one grave and the School Board put up a -tombstone to them as a reward for faithful service. Will you come in?” - -“Will you let me go all over the house?” asked Anne eagerly. - -“Laws, yes, you can if you like. ’Twon’t take you long—there ain’t much -of it. I keep at my man to build a new kitchen, but he ain’t one of -your hustlers. The parlor’s in there and there’s two rooms upstairs. -Just prowl about yourselves. I’ve got to see to the baby. The east room -was the one you were born in. I remember your ma saying she loved to -see the sunrise; and I mind hearing that you was born just as the sun -was rising and its light on your face was the first thing your ma saw.” - -Anne went up the narrow stairs and into that little east room with a -full heart. It was as a shrine to her. Here her mother had dreamed the -exquisite, happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; here that red -sunrise light had fallen over them both in the sacred hour of birth; -here her mother had died. Anne looked about her reverently, her eyes -with tears. It was for her one of the jeweled hours of life that gleam -out radiantly forever in memory. - -“Just to think of it—mother was younger than I am now when I was born,” -she whispered. - -When Anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall. -She held out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon. - -“Here’s a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs when I -came here,” she said. “I dunno what they are—I never bothered to look -in ’em, but the address on the top one is ‘Miss Bertha Willis,’ and -that was your ma’s maiden name. You can take ’em if you’d keer to have -’em.” - -“Oh, thank you—thank you,” cried Anne, clasping the packet rapturously. - -“That was all that was in the house,” said her hostess. “The furniture -was all sold to pay the doctor bills, and Mrs. Thomas got your ma’s -clothes and little things. I reckon they didn’t last long among that -drove of Thomas youngsters. They was destructive young animals, as I -mind ’em.” - -“I haven’t one thing that belonged to my mother,” said Anne, chokily. -“I—I can never thank you enough for these letters.” - -“You’re quite welcome. Laws, but your eyes is like your ma’s. She could -just about talk with hers. Your father was sorter homely but awful -nice. I mind hearing folks say when they was married that there never -was two people more in love with each other—Pore creatures, they didn’t -live much longer; but they was awful happy while they was alive, and I -s’pose that counts for a good deal.” - -Anne longed to get home to read her precious letters; but she made one -little pilgrimage first. She went alone to the green corner of the -“old” Bolingbroke cemetery where her father and mother were buried, and -left on their grave the white flowers she carried. Then she hastened -back to Mount Holly, shut herself up in her room, and read the letters. -Some were written by her father, some by her mother. There were not -many—only a dozen in all—for Walter and Bertha Shirley had not been -often separated during their courtship. The letters were yellow and -faded and dim, blurred with the touch of passing years. No profound -words of wisdom were traced on the stained and wrinkled pages, but only -lines of love and trust. The sweetness of forgotten things clung to -them—the far-off, fond imaginings of those long-dead lovers. Bertha -Shirley had possessed the gift of writing letters which embodied the -charming personality of the writer in words and thoughts that retained -their beauty and fragrance after the lapse of time. The letters were -tender, intimate, sacred. To Anne, the sweetest of all was the one -written after her birth to the father on a brief absence. It was full -of a proud young mother’s accounts of “baby”—her cleverness, her -brightness, her thousand sweetnesses. - -“I love her best when she is asleep and better still when she is -awake,” Bertha Shirley had written in the postscript. Probably it was -the last sentence she had ever penned. The end was very near for her. - -“This has been the most beautiful day of my life,” Anne said to Phil -that night. “I’ve FOUND my father and mother. Those letters have made -them REAL to me. I’m not an orphan any longer. I feel as if I had -opened a book and found roses of yesterday, sweet and beloved, between -its leaves.” - - - - -Chapter XXII -Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables - - -The firelight shadows were dancing over the kitchen walls at Green -Gables, for the spring evening was chilly; through the open east window -drifted in the subtly sweet voices of the night. Marilla was sitting by -the fire—at least, in body. In spirit she was roaming olden ways, with -feet grown young. Of late Marilla had thus spent many an hour, when she -thought she should have been knitting for the twins. - -“I suppose I’m growing old,” she said. - -Yet Marilla had changed but little in the past nine years, save to grow -something thinner, and even more angular; there was a little more gray -in the hair that was still twisted up in the same hard knot, with two -hairpins—_were_ they the same hairpins?—still stuck through it. But her -expression was very different; the something about the mouth which had -hinted at a sense of humor had developed wonderfully; her eyes were -gentler and milder, her smile more frequent and tender. - -Marilla was thinking of her whole past life, her cramped but not -unhappy childhood, the jealously hidden dreams and the blighted hopes -of her girlhood, the long, gray, narrow, monotonous years of dull -middle life that followed. And the coming of Anne—the vivid, -imaginative, impetuous child with her heart of love, and her world of -fancy, bringing with her color and warmth and radiance, until the -wilderness of existence had blossomed like the rose. Marilla felt that -out of her sixty years she had lived only the nine that had followed -the advent of Anne. And Anne would be home tomorrow night. - -The kitchen door opened. Marilla looked up expecting to see Mrs. Lynde. -Anne stood before her, tall and starry-eyed, with her hands full of -Mayflowers and violets. - -“Anne Shirley!” exclaimed Marilla. For once in her life she was -surprised out of her reserve; she caught her girl in her arms and -crushed her and her flowers against her heart, kissing the bright hair -and sweet face warmly. “I never looked for you till tomorrow night. How -did you get from Carmody?” - -“Walked, dearest of Marillas. Haven’t I done it a score of times in the -Queen’s days? The mailman is to bring my trunk tomorrow; I just got -homesick all at once, and came a day earlier. And oh! I’ve had such a -lovely walk in the May twilight; I stopped by the barrens and picked -these Mayflowers; I came through Violet-Vale; it’s just a big bowlful -of violets now—the dear, sky-tinted things. Smell them, Marilla—drink -them in.” - -Marilla sniffed obligingly, but she was more interested in Anne than in -drinking violets. - -“Sit down, child. You must be real tired. I’m going to get you some -supper.” - -“There’s a darling moonrise behind the hills tonight, Marilla, and oh, -how the frogs sang me home from Carmody! I do love the music of the -frogs. It seems bound up with all my happiest recollections of old -spring evenings. And it always reminds me of the night I came here -first. Do you remember it, Marilla?” - -“Well, yes,” said Marilla with emphasis. “I’m not likely to forget it -ever.” - -“They used to sing so madly in the marsh and brook that year. I would -listen to them at my window in the dusk, and wonder how they could seem -so glad and so sad at the same time. Oh, but it’s good to be home -again! Redmond was splendid and Bolingbroke delightful—but Green Gables -is _home_.” - -“Gilbert isn’t coming home this summer, I hear,” said Marilla. - -“No.” Something in Anne’s tone made Marilla glance at her sharply, but -Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her violets in a bowl. “See, -aren’t they sweet?” she went on hurriedly. “The year is a book, isn’t -it, Marilla? Spring’s pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, -summer’s in roses, autumn’s in red maple leaves, and winter in holly -and evergreen.” - -“Did Gilbert do well in his examinations?” persisted Marilla. - -“Excellently well. He led his class. But where are the twins and Mrs. -Lynde?” - -“Rachel and Dora are over at Mr. Harrison’s. Davy is down at Boulters’. -I think I hear him coming now.” - -Davy burst in, saw Anne, stopped, and then hurled himself upon her with -a joyful yell. - -“Oh, Anne, ain’t I glad to see you! Say, Anne, I’ve grown two inches -since last fall. Mrs. Lynde measured me with her tape today, and say, -Anne, see my front tooth. It’s gone. Mrs. Lynde tied one end of a -string to it and the other end to the door, and then shut the door. I -sold it to Milty for two cents. Milty’s collecting teeth.” - -“What in the world does he want teeth for?” asked Marilla. - -“To make a necklace for playing Indian Chief,” explained Davy, climbing -upon Anne’s lap. “He’s got fifteen already, and everybody’s else’s -promised, so there’s no use in the rest of us starting to collect, too. -I tell you the Boulters are great business people.” - -“Were you a good boy at Mrs. Boulter’s?” asked Marilla severely. - -“Yes; but say, Marilla, I’m tired of being good.” - -“You’d get tired of being bad much sooner, Davy-boy,” said Anne. - -“Well, it’d be fun while it lasted, wouldn’t it?” persisted Davy. “I -could be sorry for it afterwards, couldn’t I?” - -“Being sorry wouldn’t do away with the consequences of being bad, Davy. -Don’t you remember the Sunday last summer when you ran away from Sunday -School? You told me then that being bad wasn’t worth while. What were -you and Milty doing today?” - -“Oh, we fished and chased the cat, and hunted for eggs, and yelled at -the echo. There’s a great echo in the bush behind the Boulter barn. -Say, what is echo, Anne; I want to know.” - -“Echo is a beautiful nymph, Davy, living far away in the woods, and -laughing at the world from among the hills.” - -“What does she look like?” - -“Her hair and eyes are dark, but her neck and arms are white as snow. -No mortal can ever see how fair she is. She is fleeter than a deer, and -that mocking voice of hers is all we can know of her. You can hear her -calling at night; you can hear her laughing under the stars. But you -can never see her. She flies afar if you follow her, and laughs at you -always just over the next hill.” - -“Is that true, Anne? Or is it a whopper?” demanded Davy staring. - -“Davy,” said Anne despairingly, “haven’t you sense enough to -distinguish between a fairytale and a falsehood?” - -“Then what is it that sasses back from the Boulter bush? I want to -know,” insisted Davy. - -“When you are a little older, Davy, I’ll explain it all to you.” - -The mention of age evidently gave a new turn to Davy’s thoughts for -after a few moments of reflection, he whispered solemnly: - -“Anne, I’m going to be married.” - -“When?” asked Anne with equal solemnity. - -“Oh, not until I’m grown-up, of course.” - -“Well, that’s a relief, Davy. Who is the lady?” - -“Stella Fletcher; she’s in my class at school. And say, Anne, she’s the -prettiest girl you ever saw. If I die before I grow up you’ll keep an -eye on her, won’t you?” - -“Davy Keith, do stop talking such nonsense,” said Marilla severely. - -“’Tisn’t nonsense,” protested Davy in an injured tone. “She’s my -promised wife, and if I was to die she’d be my promised widow, wouldn’t -she? And she hasn’t got a soul to look after her except her old -grandmother.” - -“Come and have your supper, Anne,” said Marilla, “and don’t encourage -that child in his absurd talk.” - - - - -Chapter XXIII -Paul Cannot Find the Rock People - - -Life was very pleasant in Avonlea that summer, although Anne, amid all -her vacation joys, was haunted by a sense of “something gone which -should be there.” She would not admit, even in her inmost reflections, -that this was caused by Gilbert’s absence. But when she had to walk -home alone from prayer meetings and A.V.I.S. pow-wows, while Diana and -Fred, and many other gay couples, loitered along the dusky, starlit -country roads, there was a queer, lonely ache in her heart which she -could not explain away. Gilbert did not even write to her, as she -thought he might have done. She knew he wrote to Diana occasionally, -but she would not inquire about him; and Diana, supposing that Anne -heard from him, volunteered no information. Gilbert’s mother, who was a -gay, frank, light-hearted lady, but not overburdened with tact, had a -very embarrassing habit of asking Anne, always in a painfully distinct -voice and always in the presence of a crowd, if she had heard from -Gilbert lately. Poor Anne could only blush horribly and murmur, “not -very lately,” which was taken by all, Mrs. Blythe included, to be -merely a maidenly evasion. - -Apart from this, Anne enjoyed her summer. Priscilla came for a merry -visit in June; and, when she had gone, Mr. and Mrs. Irving, Paul and -Charlotta the Fourth came “home” for July and August. - -Echo Lodge was the scene of gaieties once more, and the echoes over the -river were kept busy mimicking the laughter that rang in the old garden -behind the spruces. - -“Miss Lavendar” had not changed, except to grow even sweeter and -prettier. Paul adored her, and the companionship between them was -beautiful to see. - -“But I don’t call her ‘mother’ just by itself,” he explained to Anne. -“You see, _that_ name belongs just to my own little mother, and I can’t -give it to any one else. You know, teacher. But I call her ‘Mother -Lavendar’ and I love her next best to father. I—I even love her a -_little_ better than you, teacher.” - -“Which is just as it ought to be,” answered Anne. - -Paul was thirteen now and very tall for his years. His face and eyes -were as beautiful as ever, and his fancy was still like a prism, -separating everything that fell upon it into rainbows. He and Anne had -delightful rambles to wood and field and shore. Never were there two -more thoroughly “kindred spirits.” - -Charlotta the Fourth had blossomed out into young ladyhood. She wore -her hair now in an enormous pompador and had discarded the blue ribbon -bows of auld lang syne, but her face was as freckled, her nose as -snubbed, and her mouth and smiles as wide as ever. - -“You don’t think I talk with a Yankee accent, do you, Miss Shirley, -ma’am?” she demanded anxiously. - -“I don’t notice it, Charlotta.” - -“I’m real glad of that. They said I did at home, but I thought likely -they just wanted to aggravate me. I don’t want no Yankee accent. Not -that I’ve a word to say against the Yankees, Miss Shirley, ma’am. -They’re real civilized. But give me old P.E. Island every time.” - -Paul spent his first fortnight with his grandmother Irving in Avonlea. -Anne was there to meet him when he came, and found him wild with -eagerness to get to the shore—Nora and the Golden Lady and the Twin -Sailors would be there. He could hardly wait to eat his supper. Could -he not see Nora’s elfin face peering around the point, watching for him -wistfully? But it was a very sober Paul who came back from the shore in -the twilight. - -“Didn’t you find your Rock People?” asked Anne. - -Paul shook his chestnut curls sorrowfully. - -“The Twin Sailors and the Golden Lady never came at all,” he said. -“Nora was there—but Nora is not the same, teacher. She is changed.” - -“Oh, Paul, it is you who are changed,” said Anne. “You have grown too -old for the Rock People. They like only children for playfellows. I am -afraid the Twin Sailors will never again come to you in the pearly, -enchanted boat with the sail of moonshine; and the Golden Lady will -play no more for you on her golden harp. Even Nora will not meet you -much longer. You must pay the penalty of growing-up, Paul. You must -leave fairyland behind you.” - -“You two talk as much foolishness as ever you did,” said old Mrs. -Irving, half-indulgently, half-reprovingly. - -“Oh, no, we don’t,” said Anne, shaking her head gravely. “We are -getting very, very wise, and it is such a pity. We are never half so -interesting when we have learned that language is given us to enable us -to conceal our thoughts.” - -“But it isn’t—it is given us to exchange our thoughts,” said Mrs. -Irving seriously. She had never heard of Tallyrand and did not -understand epigrams. - -Anne spent a fortnight of halcyon days at Echo Lodge in the golden -prime of August. While there she incidentally contrived to hurry -Ludovic Speed in his leisurely courting of Theodora Dix, as related -duly in another chronicle of her history.(1) Arnold Sherman, an elderly -friend of the Irvings, was there at the same time, and added not a -little to the general pleasantness of life. - -(1 Chronicles of Avonlea.) - - -“What a nice play-time this has been,” said Anne. “I feel like a giant -refreshed. And it’s only a fortnight more till I go back to Kingsport, -and Redmond and Patty’s Place. Patty’s Place is the dearest spot, Miss -Lavendar. I feel as if I had two homes—one at Green Gables and one at -Patty’s Place. But where has the summer gone? It doesn’t seem a day -since I came home that spring evening with the Mayflowers. When I was -little I couldn’t see from one end of the summer to the other. It -stretched before me like an unending season. Now, ‘’tis a handbreadth, -’tis a tale.’” - -“Anne, are you and Gilbert Blythe as good friends as you used to be?” -asked Miss Lavendar quietly. - -“I am just as much Gilbert’s friend as ever I was, Miss Lavendar.” - -Miss Lavendar shook her head. - -“I see something’s gone wrong, Anne. I’m going to be impertinent and -ask what. Have you quarrelled?” - -“No; it’s only that Gilbert wants more than friendship and I can’t give -him more.” - -“Are you sure of that, Anne?” - -“Perfectly sure.” - -“I’m very, very sorry.” - -“I wonder why everybody seems to think I ought to marry Gilbert -Blythe,” said Anne petulantly. - -“Because you were made and meant for each other, Anne—that is why. You -needn’t toss that young head of yours. It’s a fact.” - - - - -Chapter XXIV -Enter Jonas - - -“PROSPECT POINT, -“August 20th. - - -“Dear Anne—spelled—with—an—E,” wrote Phil, “I must prop my eyelids open -long enough to write you. I’ve neglected you shamefully this summer, -honey, but all my other correspondents have been neglected, too. I have -a huge pile of letters to answer, so I must gird up the loins of my -mind and hoe in. Excuse my mixed metaphors. I’m fearfully sleepy. Last -night Cousin Emily and I were calling at a neighbor’s. There were -several other callers there, and as soon as those unfortunate creatures -left, our hostess and her three daughters picked them all to pieces. I -knew they would begin on Cousin Emily and me as soon as the door shut -behind us. When we came home Mrs. Lilly informed us that the aforesaid -neighbor’s hired boy was supposed to be down with scarlet fever. You -can always trust Mrs. Lilly to tell you cheerful things like that. I -have a horror of scarlet fever. I couldn’t sleep when I went to bed for -thinking of it. I tossed and tumbled about, dreaming fearful dreams -when I did snooze for a minute; and at three I wakened up with a high -fever, a sore throat, and a raging headache. I knew I had scarlet -fever; I got up in a panic and hunted up Cousin Emily’s ‘doctor book’ -to read up the symptoms. Anne, I had them all. So I went back to bed, -and knowing the worst, slept like a top the rest of the night. Though -why a top should sleep sounder than anything else I never could -understand. But this morning I was quite well, so it couldn’t have been -the fever. I suppose if I did catch it last night it couldn’t have -developed so soon. I can remember that in daytime, but at three o’clock -at night I never can be logical. - -“I suppose you wonder what I’m doing at Prospect Point. Well, I always -like to spend a month of summer at the shore, and father insists that I -come to his second-cousin Emily’s ‘select boardinghouse’ at Prospect -Point. So a fortnight ago I came as usual. And as usual old ‘Uncle Mark -Miller’ brought me from the station with his ancient buggy and what he -calls his ‘generous purpose’ horse. He is a nice old man and gave me a -handful of pink peppermints. Peppermints always seem to me such a -religious sort of candy—I suppose because when I was a little girl -Grandmother Gordon always gave them to me in church. Once I asked, -referring to the smell of peppermints, ‘Is that the odor of sanctity?’ -I didn’t like to eat Uncle Mark’s peppermints because he just fished -them loose out of his pocket, and had to pick some rusty nails and -other things from among them before he gave them to me. But I wouldn’t -hurt his dear old feelings for anything, so I carefully sowed them -along the road at intervals. When the last one was gone, Uncle Mark -said, a little rebukingly, ‘Ye shouldn’t a’et all them candies to onct, -Miss Phil. You’ll likely have the stummick-ache.’ - -“Cousin Emily has only five boarders besides myself—four old ladies and -one young man. My right-hand neighbor is Mrs. Lilly. She is one of -those people who seem to take a gruesome pleasure in detailing all -their many aches and pains and sicknesses. You cannot mention any -ailment but she says, shaking her head, ‘Ah, I know too well what that -is’—and then you get all the details. Jonas declares he once spoke of -locomotor ataxia in hearing and she said she knew too well what that -was. She suffered from it for ten years and was finally cured by a -traveling doctor. - -“Who is Jonas? Just wait, Anne Shirley. You’ll hear all about Jonas in -the proper time and place. He is not to be mixed up with estimable old -ladies. - -“My left-hand neighbor at the table is Mrs. Phinney. She always speaks -with a wailing, dolorous voice—you are nervously expecting her to burst -into tears every moment. She gives you the impression that life to her -is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak of a laugh, -is a frivolity truly reprehensible. She has a worse opinion of me than -Aunt Jamesina, and she doesn’t love me hard to atone for it, as Aunty -J. does, either. - -“Miss Maria Grimsby sits cati-corner from me. The first day I came I -remarked to Miss Maria that it looked a little like rain—and Miss Maria -laughed. I said the road from the station was very pretty—and Miss -Maria laughed. I said there seemed to be a few mosquitoes left yet—and -Miss Maria laughed. I said that Prospect Point was as beautiful as -ever—and Miss Maria laughed. If I were to say to Miss Maria, ‘My father -has hanged himself, my mother has taken poison, my brother is in the -penitentiary, and I am in the last stages of consumption,’ Miss Maria -would laugh. She can’t help it—she was born so; but is very sad and -awful. - -“The fifth old lady is Mrs. Grant. She is a sweet old thing; but she -never says anything but good of anybody and so she is a very -uninteresting conversationalist. - -“And now for Jonas, Anne. - -“That first day I came I saw a young man sitting opposite me at the -table, smiling at me as if he had known me from my cradle. I knew, for -Uncle Mark had told me, that his name was Jonas Blake, that he was a -Theological Student from St. Columbia, and that he had taken charge of -the Point Prospect Mission Church for the summer. - -“He is a very ugly young man—really, the ugliest young man I’ve ever -seen. He has a big, loose-jointed figure with absurdly long legs. His -hair is tow-color and lank, his eyes are green, and his mouth is big, -and his ears—but I never think about his ears if I can help it. - -“He has a lovely voice—if you shut your eyes he is adorable—and he -certainly has a beautiful soul and disposition. - -“We were good chums right way. Of course he is a graduate of Redmond, -and that is a link between us. We fished and boated together; and we -walked on the sands by moonlight. He didn’t look so homely by moonlight -and oh, he was nice. Niceness fairly exhaled from him. The old -ladies—except Mrs. Grant—don’t approve of Jonas, because he laughs and -jokes—and because he evidently likes the society of frivolous me better -than theirs. - -“Somehow, Anne, I don’t want him to think me frivolous. This is -ridiculous. Why should I care what a tow-haired person called Jonas, -whom I never saw before thinks of me? - -“Last Sunday Jonas preached in the village church. I went, of course, -but I couldn’t realize that Jonas was going to preach. The fact that he -was a minister—or going to be one—persisted in seeming a huge joke to -me. - -“Well, Jonas preached. And, by the time he had preached ten minutes, I -felt so small and insignificant that I thought I must be invisible to -the naked eye. Jonas never said a word about women and he never looked -at me. But I realized then and there what a pitiful, frivolous, -small-souled little butterfly I was, and how horribly different I must -be from Jonas’ ideal woman. _She_ would be grand and strong and noble. -He was so earnest and tender and true. He was everything a minister -ought to be. I wondered how I could ever have thought him ugly—but he -really is!—with those inspired eyes and that intellectual brow which -the roughly-falling hair hid on week days. - -“It was a splendid sermon and I could have listened to it forever, and -it made me feel utterly wretched. Oh, I wish I was like _you_, Anne. - -“He caught up with me on the road home, and grinned as cheerfully as -usual. But his grin could never deceive me again. I had seen the _real_ -Jonas. I wondered if he could ever see the _real Phil_—whom _nobody_, -not even you, Anne, has ever seen yet. - -“‘Jonas,’ I said—I forgot to call him Mr. Blake. Wasn’t it dreadful? -But there are times when things like that don’t matter—‘Jonas, you were -born to be a minister. You _couldn’t_ be anything else.’ - -“‘No, I couldn’t,’ he said soberly. ‘I tried to be something else for a -long time—I didn’t want to be a minister. But I came to see at last -that it was the work given me to do—and God helping me, I shall try to -do it.’ - -“His voice was low and reverent. I thought that he would do his work -and do it well and nobly; and happy the woman fitted by nature and -training to help him do it. _She_ would be no feather, blown about by -every fickle wind of fancy. _She_ would always know what hat to put on. -Probably she would have only one. Ministers never have much money. But -she wouldn’t mind having one hat or none at all, because she would have -Jonas. - -“Anne Shirley, don’t you dare to say or hint or think that I’ve fallen -in love with Mr. Blake. Could _I_ care for a lank, poor, ugly -theologue—named Jonas? As Uncle Mark says, ‘It’s impossible, and what’s -more it’s improbable.’ - -“Good night, -PHIL.” - - -“P.S. It is impossible—but I am horribly afraid it’s true. I’m happy -and wretched and scared. _He_ can _never_ care for me, I know. Do you -think I could ever develop into a passable minister’s wife, Anne? And -_would_ they expect me to lead in prayer? P G.” - - - - -Chapter XXV -Enter Prince Charming - - -“I’m contrasting the claims of indoors and out,” said Anne, looking -from the window of Patty’s Place to the distant pines of the park. - -“I’ve an afternoon to spend in sweet doing nothing, Aunt Jimsie. Shall -I spend it here where there is a cosy fire, a plateful of delicious -russets, three purring and harmonious cats, and two impeccable china -dogs with green noses? Or shall I go to the park, where there is the -lure of gray woods and of gray water lapping on the harbor rocks?” - -“If I was as young as you, I’d decide in favor of the park,” said Aunt -Jamesina, tickling Joseph’s yellow ear with a knitting needle. - -“I thought that you claimed to be as young as any of us, Aunty,” teased -Anne. - -“Yes, in my soul. But I’ll admit my legs aren’t as young as yours. You -go and get some fresh air, Anne. You look pale lately.” - -“I think I’ll go to the park,” said Anne restlessly. “I don’t feel like -tame domestic joys today. I want to feel alone and free and wild. The -park will be empty, for every one will be at the football match.” - -“Why didn’t you go to it?” - -“‘Nobody axed me, sir, she said’—at least, nobody but that horrid -little Dan Ranger. I wouldn’t go anywhere with him; but rather than -hurt his poor little tender feelings I said I wasn’t going to the game -at all. I don’t mind. I’m not in the mood for football today somehow.” - -“You go and get some fresh air,” repeated Aunt Jamesina, “but take your -umbrella, for I believe it’s going to rain. I’ve rheumatism in my leg.” - -“Only old people should have rheumatism, Aunty.” - -“Anybody is liable to rheumatism in her legs, Anne. It’s only old -people who should have rheumatism in their souls, though. Thank -goodness, I never have. When you get rheumatism in your soul you might -as well go and pick out your coffin.” - -It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad -hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed -through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that -great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul. Anne was not wont to -be troubled with soul fog. But, somehow, since her return to Redmond -for this third year, life had not mirrored her spirit back to her with -its old, perfect, sparkling clearness. - -Outwardly, existence at Patty’s Place was the same pleasant round of -work and study and recreation that it had always been. On Friday -evenings the big, fire-lighted livingroom was crowded by callers and -echoed to endless jest and laughter, while Aunt Jamesina smiled -beamingly on them all. The “Jonas” of Phil’s letter came often, running -up from St. Columbia on the early train and departing on the late. He -was a general favorite at Patty’s Place, though Aunt Jamesina shook her -head and opined that divinity students were not what they used to be. - -“He’s _very_ nice, my dear,” she told Phil, “but ministers ought to be -graver and more dignified.” - -“Can’t a man laugh and laugh and be a Christian still?” demanded Phil. - -“Oh, _men_—yes. But I was speaking of _ministers_, my dear,” said Aunt -Jamesina rebukingly. “And you shouldn’t flirt so with Mr. Blake—you -really shouldn’t.” - -“I’m not flirting with him,” protested Phil. - -Nobody believed her, except Anne. The others thought she was amusing -herself as usual, and told her roundly that she was behaving very -badly. - -“Mr. Blake isn’t of the Alec-and-Alonzo type, Phil,” said Stella -severely. “He takes things seriously. You may break his heart.” - -“Do you really think I could?” asked Phil. “I’d love to think so.” - -“Philippa Gordon! I never thought you were utterly unfeeling. The idea -of you saying you’d love to break a man’s heart!” - -“I didn’t say so, honey. Quote me correctly. I said I’d like to think I -_could_ break it. I would like to know I had the _power_ to do it.” - -“I don’t understand you, Phil. You are leading that man on -deliberately—and you know you don’t mean anything by it.” - -“I mean to make him ask me to marry him if I can,” said Phil calmly. - -“I give you up,” said Stella hopelessly. - -Gilbert came occasionally on Friday evenings. He seemed always in good -spirits, and held his own in the jests and repartee that flew about. He -neither sought nor avoided Anne. When circumstances brought them in -contact he talked to her pleasantly and courteously, as to any -newly-made acquaintance. The old camaraderie was gone entirely. Anne -felt it keenly; but she told herself she was very glad and thankful -that Gilbert had got so completely over his disappointment in regard to -her. She had really been afraid, that April evening in the orchard, -that she had hurt him terribly and that the wound would be long in -healing. Now she saw that she need not have worried. Men have died and -the worms have eaten them but not for love. Gilbert evidently was in no -danger of immediate dissolution. He was enjoying life, and he was full -of ambition and zest. For him there was to be no wasting in despair -because a woman was fair and cold. Anne, as she listened to the -ceaseless badinage that went on between him and Phil, wondered if she -had only imagined that look in his eyes when she had told him she could -never care for him. - -There were not lacking those who would gladly have stepped into -Gilbert’s vacant place. But Anne snubbed them without fear and without -reproach. If the real Prince Charming was never to come she would have -none of a substitute. So she sternly told herself that gray day in the -windy park. - -Suddenly the rain of Aunt Jamesina’s prophecy came with a swish and -rush. Anne put up her umbrella and hurried down the slope. As she -turned out on the harbor road a savage gust of wind tore along it. -Instantly her umbrella turned wrong side out. Anne clutched at it in -despair. And then—there came a voice close to her. - -“Pardon me—may I offer you the shelter of my umbrella?” - -Anne looked up. Tall and handsome and distinguished-looking—dark, -melancholy, inscrutable eyes—melting, musical, sympathetic voice—yes, -the very hero of her dreams stood before her in the flesh. He could not -have more closely resembled her ideal if he had been made to order. - -“Thank you,” she said confusedly. - -“We’d better hurry over to that little pavillion on the point,” -suggested the unknown. “We can wait there until this shower is over. It -is not likely to rain so heavily very long.” - -The words were very commonplace, but oh, the tone! And the smile which -accompanied them! Anne felt her heart beating strangely. - -Together they scurried to the pavilion and sat breathlessly down under -its friendly roof. Anne laughingly held up her false umbrella. - -“It is when my umbrella turns inside out that I am convinced of the -total depravity of inanimate things,” she said gaily. - -The raindrops sparkled on her shining hair; its loosened rings curled -around her neck and forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes big and -starry. Her companion looked down at her admiringly. She felt herself -blushing under his gaze. Who could he be? Why, there was a bit of the -Redmond white and scarlet pinned to his coat lapel. Yet she had thought -she knew, by sight at least, all the Redmond students except the -Freshmen. And this courtly youth surely was no Freshman. - -“We are schoolmates, I see,” he said, smiling at Anne’s colors. “That -ought to be sufficient introduction. My name is Royal Gardner. And you -are the Miss Shirley who read the Tennyson paper at the Philomathic the -other evening, aren’t you?” - -“Yes; but I cannot place you at all,” said Anne, frankly. “Please, -where _do_ you belong?” - -“I feel as if I didn’t belong anywhere yet. I put in my Freshman and -Sophomore years at Redmond two years ago. I’ve been in Europe ever -since. Now I’ve come back to finish my Arts course.” - -“This is my Junior year, too,” said Anne. - -“So we are classmates as well as collegemates. I am reconciled to the -loss of the years that the locust has eaten,” said her companion, with -a world of meaning in those wonderful eyes of his. - -The rain came steadily down for the best part of an hour. But the time -seemed really very short. When the clouds parted and a burst of pale -November sunshine fell athwart the harbor and the pines Anne and her -companion walked home together. By the time they had reached the gate -of Patty’s Place he had asked permission to call, and had received it. -Anne went in with cheeks of flame and her heart beating to her -fingertips. Rusty, who climbed into her lap and tried to kiss her, -found a very absent welcome. Anne, with her soul full of romantic -thrills, had no attention to spare just then for a crop-eared pussy -cat. - -That evening a parcel was left at Patty’s Place for Miss Shirley. It -was a box containing a dozen magnificent roses. Phil pounced -impertinently on the card that fell from it, read the name and the -poetical quotation written on the back. - -“Royal Gardner!” she exclaimed. “Why, Anne, I didn’t know you were -acquainted with Roy Gardner!” - -“I met him in the park this afternoon in the rain,” explained Anne -hurriedly. “My umbrella turned inside out and he came to my rescue with -his.” - -“Oh!” Phil peered curiously at Anne. “And is that exceedingly -commonplace incident any reason why he should send us longstemmed roses -by the dozen, with a very sentimental rhyme? Or why we should blush -divinest rosy-red when we look at his card? Anne, thy face betrayeth -thee.” - -“Don’t talk nonsense, Phil. Do you know Mr. Gardner?” - -“I’ve met his two sisters, and I know of him. So does everybody -worthwhile in Kingsport. The Gardners are among the richest, bluest, of -Bluenoses. Roy is adorably handsome and clever. Two years ago his -mother’s health failed and he had to leave college and go abroad with -her—his father is dead. He must have been greatly disappointed to have -to give up his class, but they say he was perfectly sweet about it. -Fee—fi—fo—fum, Anne. I smell romance. Almost do I envy you, but not -quite. After all, Roy Gardner isn’t Jonas.” - -“You goose!” said Anne loftily. But she lay long awake that night, nor -did she wish for sleep. Her waking fancies were more alluring than any -vision of dreamland. Had the real Prince come at last? Recalling those -glorious dark eyes which had gazed so deeply into her own, Anne was -very strongly inclined to think he had. - - - - -Chapter XXVI -Enter Christine - - -The girls at Patty’s Place were dressing for the reception which the -Juniors were giving for the Seniors in February. Anne surveyed herself -in the mirror of the blue room with girlish satisfaction. She had a -particularly pretty gown on. Originally it had been only a simple -little slip of cream silk with a chiffon overdress. But Phil had -insisted on taking it home with her in the Christmas holidays and -embroidering tiny rosebuds all over the chiffon. Phil’s fingers were -deft, and the result was a dress which was the envy of every Redmond -girl. Even Allie Boone, whose frocks came from Paris, was wont to look -with longing eyes on that rosebud concoction as Anne trailed up the -main staircase at Redmond in it. - -Anne was trying the effect of a white orchid in her hair. Roy Gardner -had sent her white orchids for the reception, and she knew no other -Redmond girl would have them that night—when Phil came in with admiring -gaze. - -“Anne, this is certainly your night for looking handsome. Nine nights -out of ten I can easily outshine you. The tenth you blossom out -suddenly into something that eclipses me altogether. How do you manage -it?” - -“It’s the dress, dear. Fine feathers.” - -“’Tisn’t. The last evening you flamed out into beauty you wore your old -blue flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you. If Roy hadn’t already -lost head and heart about you he certainly would tonight. But I don’t -like orchids on you, Anne. No; it isn’t jealousy. Orchids don’t seem to -_belong_ to you. They’re too exotic—too tropical—too insolent. Don’t -put them in your hair, anyway.” - -“Well, I won’t. I admit I’m not fond of orchids myself. I don’t think -they’re related to me. Roy doesn’t often send them—he knows I like -flowers I can live with. Orchids are only things you can visit with.” - -“Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the evening—but—he isn’t -coming himself. He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting in the slums! I -don’t believe he wanted to come. Anne, I’m horribly afraid Jonas -doesn’t really care anything about me. And I’m trying to decide whether -I’ll pine away and die, or go on and get my B.A. and be sensible and -useful.” - -“You couldn’t possibly be sensible and useful, Phil, so you’d better -pine away and die,” said Anne cruelly. - -“Heartless Anne!” - -“Silly Phil! You know quite well that Jonas loves you.” - -“But—he won’t _tell_ me so. And I can’t _make_ him. He _looks_ it, I’ll -admit. But speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes isn’t a really reliable -reason for embroidering doilies and hemstitching tablecloths. I don’t -want to begin such work until I’m really engaged. It would be tempting -Fate.” - -“Mr. Blake is afraid to ask you to marry him, Phil. He is poor and -can’t offer you a home such as you’ve always had. You know that is the -only reason he hasn’t spoken long ago.” - -“I suppose so,” agreed Phil dolefully. “Well”—brightening up—“if he -_won’t_ ask me to marry him I’ll ask him, that’s all. So it’s bound to -come right. I won’t worry. By the way, Gilbert Blythe is going about -constantly with Christine Stuart. Did you know?” - -Anne was trying to fasten a little gold chain about her throat. She -suddenly found the clasp difficult to manage. _What_ was the matter -with it—or with her fingers? - -“No,” she said carelessly. “Who is Christine Stuart?” - -“Ronald Stuart’s sister. She’s in Kingsport this winter studying music. -I haven’t seen her, but they say she’s very pretty and that Gilbert is -quite crazy over her. How angry I was when you refused Gilbert, Anne. -But Roy Gardner was foreordained for you. I can see that now. You were -right, after all.” - -Anne did not blush, as she usually did when the girls assumed that her -eventual marriage to Roy Gardner was a settled thing. All at once she -felt rather dull. Phil’s chatter seemed trivial and the reception a -bore. She boxed poor Rusty’s ears. - -“Get off that cushion instantly, you cat, you! Why don’t you stay down -where you belong?” - -Anne picked up her orchids and went downstairs, where Aunt Jamesina was -presiding over a row of coats hung before the fire to warm. Roy Gardner -was waiting for Anne and teasing the Sarah-cat while he waited. The -Sarah-cat did not approve of him. She always turned her back on him. -But everybody else at Patty’s Place liked him very much. Aunt Jamesina, -carried away by his unfailing and deferential courtesy, and the -pleading tones of his delightful voice, declared he was the nicest -young man she ever knew, and that Anne was a very fortunate girl. Such -remarks made Anne restive. Roy’s wooing had certainly been as romantic -as girlish heart could desire, but—she wished Aunt Jamesina and the -girls would not take things so for granted. When Roy murmured a -poetical compliment as he helped her on with her coat, she did not -blush and thrill as usual; and he found her rather silent in their -brief walk to Redmond. He thought she looked a little pale when she -came out of the coeds’ dressing room; but as they entered the reception -room her color and sparkle suddenly returned to her. She turned to Roy -with her gayest expression. He smiled back at her with what Phil called -“his deep, black, velvety smile.” Yet she really did not see Roy at -all. She was acutely conscious that Gilbert was standing under the -palms just across the room talking to a girl who must be Christine -Stuart. - -She was very handsome, in the stately style destined to become rather -massive in middle life. A tall girl, with large dark-blue eyes, ivory -outlines, and a gloss of darkness on her smooth hair. - -“She looks just as I’ve always wanted to look,” thought Anne miserably. -“Rose-leaf complexion—starry violet eyes—raven hair—yes, she has them -all. It’s a wonder her name isn’t Cordelia Fitzgerald into the bargain! -But I don’t believe her figure is as good as mine, and her nose -certainly isn’t.” - -Anne felt a little comforted by this conclusion. - - - - -Chapter XXVII -Mutual Confidences - - -March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, -bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by -a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of -moonshine. - -Over the girls at Patty’s Place was falling the shadow of April -examinations. They were studying hard; even Phil had settled down to -text and notebooks with a doggedness not to be expected of her. - -“I’m going to take the Johnson Scholarship in Mathematics,” she -announced calmly. “I could take the one in Greek easily, but I’d rather -take the mathematical one because I want to prove to Jonas that I’m -really enormously clever.” - -“Jonas likes you better for your big brown eyes and your crooked smile -than for all the brains you carry under your curls,” said Anne. - -“When I was a girl it wasn’t considered lady-like to know anything -about Mathematics,” said Aunt Jamesina. “But times have changed. I -don’t know that it’s all for the better. Can you cook, Phil?” - -“No, I never cooked anything in my life except a gingerbread and it was -a failure—flat in the middle and hilly round the edges. You know the -kind. But, Aunty, when I begin in good earnest to learn to cook don’t -you think the brains that enable me to win a mathematical scholarship -will also enable me to learn cooking just as well?” - -“Maybe,” said Aunt Jamesina cautiously. “I am not decrying the higher -education of women. My daughter is an M.A. She can cook, too. But I -taught her to cook _before_ I let a college professor teach her -Mathematics.” - -In mid-March came a letter from Miss Patty Spofford, saying that she -and Miss Maria had decided to remain abroad for another year. - -“So you may have Patty’s Place next winter, too,” she wrote. “Maria and -I are going to run over Egypt. I want to see the Sphinx once before I -die.” - -“Fancy those two dames ‘running over Egypt’! I wonder if they’ll look -up at the Sphinx and knit,” laughed Priscilla. - -“I’m so glad we can keep Patty’s Place for another year,” said Stella. -“I was afraid they’d come back. And then our jolly little nest here -would be broken up—and we poor callow nestlings thrown out on the cruel -world of boardinghouses again.” - -“I’m off for a tramp in the park,” announced Phil, tossing her book -aside. “I think when I am eighty I’ll be glad I went for a walk in the -park tonight.” - -“What do you mean?” asked Anne. - -“Come with me and I’ll tell you, honey.” - -They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March -evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, -brooding silence—a silence which was yet threaded through with many -little silvery sounds which you could hear if you hearkened as much -with your soul as your ears. The girls wandered down a long pineland -aisle that seemed to lead right out into the heart of a deep-red, -overflowing winter sunset. - -“I’d go home and write a poem this blessed minute if I only knew how,” -declared Phil, pausing in an open space where a rosy light was staining -the green tips of the pines. “It’s all so wonderful here—this great, -white stillness, and those dark trees that always seem to be thinking.” - -“‘The woods were God’s first temples,’” quoted Anne softly. “One can’t -help feeling reverent and adoring in such a place. I always feel so -near Him when I walk among the pines.” - -“Anne, I’m the happiest girl in the world,” confessed Phil suddenly. - -“So Mr. Blake has asked you to marry him at last?” said Anne calmly. - -“Yes. And I sneezed three times while he was asking me. Wasn’t that -horrid? But I said ‘yes’ almost before he finished—I was so afraid he -might change his mind and stop. I’m besottedly happy. I couldn’t really -believe before that Jonas would ever care for frivolous me.” - -“Phil, you’re not really frivolous,” said Anne gravely. “‘Way down -underneath that frivolous exterior of yours you’ve got a dear, loyal, -womanly little soul. Why do you hide it so?” - -“I can’t help it, Queen Anne. You are right—I’m not frivolous at heart. -But there’s a sort of frivolous skin over my soul and I can’t take it -off. As Mrs. Poyser says, I’d have to be hatched over again and hatched -different before I could change it. But Jonas knows the real me and -loves me, frivolity and all. And I love him. I never was so surprised -in my life as I was when I found out I loved him. I’d never thought it -possible to fall in love with an ugly man. Fancy me coming down to one -solitary beau. And one named Jonas! But I mean to call him Jo. That’s -such a nice, crisp little name. I couldn’t nickname Alonzo.” - -“What about Alec and Alonzo?” - -“Oh, I told them at Christmas that I never could marry either of them. -It seems so funny now to remember that I ever thought it possible that -I might. They felt so badly I just cried over both of them—howled. But -I knew there was only one man in the world I could ever marry. I had -made up my own mind for once and it was real easy, too. It’s very -delightful to feel so sure, and know it’s your own sureness and not -somebody else’s.” - -“Do you suppose you’ll be able to keep it up?” - -“Making up my mind, you mean? I don’t know, but Jo has given me a -splendid rule. He says, when I’m perplexed, just to do what I would -wish I had done when I shall be eighty. Anyhow, Jo can make up his mind -quickly enough, and it would be uncomfortable to have too much mind in -the same house.” - -“What will your father and mother say?” - -“Father won’t say much. He thinks everything I do right. But mother -_will_ talk. Oh, her tongue will be as Byrney as her nose. But in the -end it will be all right.” - -“You’ll have to give up a good many things you’ve always had, when you -marry Mr. Blake, Phil.” - -“But I’ll have _him_. I won’t miss the other things. We’re to be -married a year from next June. Jo graduates from St. Columbia this -spring, you know. Then he’s going to take a little mission church down -on Patterson Street in the slums. Fancy me in the slums! But I’d go -there or to Greenland’s icy mountains with him.” - -“And this is the girl who would _never_ marry a man who wasn’t rich,” -commented Anne to a young pine tree. - -“Oh, don’t cast up the follies of my youth to me. I shall be poor as -gaily as I’ve been rich. You’ll see. I’m going to learn how to cook and -make over dresses. I’ve learned how to market since I’ve lived at -Patty’s Place; and once I taught a Sunday School class for a whole -summer. Aunt Jamesina says I’ll ruin Jo’s career if I marry him. But I -won’t. I know I haven’t much sense or sobriety, but I’ve got what is -ever so much better—the knack of making people like me. There is a man -in Bolingbroke who lisps and always testifies in prayer-meeting. He -says, ‘If you can’t thine like an electric thtar thine like a -candlethtick.’ I’ll be Jo’s little candlestick.” - -“Phil, you’re incorrigible. Well, I love you so much that I can’t make -nice, light, congratulatory little speeches. But I’m heart-glad of your -happiness.” - -“I know. Those big gray eyes of yours are brimming over with real -friendship, Anne. Some day I’ll look the same way at you. You’re going -to marry Roy, aren’t you, Anne?” - -“My dear Philippa, did you ever hear of the famous Betty Baxter, who -‘refused a man before he’d axed her’? I am not going to emulate that -celebrated lady by either refusing or accepting any one before he -‘axes’ me.” - -“All Redmond knows that Roy is crazy about you,” said Phil candidly. -“And you _do_ love him, don’t you, Anne?” - -“I—I suppose so,” said Anne reluctantly. She felt that she ought to be -blushing while making such a confession; but she was not; on the other -hand, she always blushed hotly when any one said anything about Gilbert -Blythe or Christine Stuart in her hearing. Gilbert Blythe and Christine -Stuart were nothing to her—absolutely nothing. But Anne had given up -trying to analyze the reason of her blushes. As for Roy, of course she -was in love with him—madly so. How could she help it? Was he not her -ideal? Who could resist those glorious dark eyes, and that pleading -voice? Were not half the Redmond girls wildly envious? And what a -charming sonnet he had sent her, with a box of violets, on her -birthday! Anne knew every word of it by heart. It was very good stuff -of its kind, too. Not exactly up to the level of Keats or -Shakespeare—even Anne was not so deeply in love as to think that. But -it was very tolerable magazine verse. And it was addressed to _her_—not -to Laura or Beatrice or the Maid of Athens, but to her, Anne Shirley. -To be told in rhythmical cadences that her eyes were stars of the -morning—that her cheek had the flush it stole from the sunrise—that her -lips were redder than the roses of Paradise, was thrillingly romantic. -Gilbert would never have dreamed of writing a sonnet to her eyebrows. -But then, Gilbert could see a joke. She had once told Roy a funny -story—and he had not seen the point of it. She recalled the chummy -laugh she and Gilbert had had together over it, and wondered uneasily -if life with a man who had no sense of humor might not be somewhat -uninteresting in the long run. But who could expect a melancholy, -inscrutable hero to see the humorous side of things? It would be flatly -unreasonable. - - - - -Chapter XXVIII -A June Evening - - -“I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always -June,” said Anne, as she came through the spice and bloom of the twilit -orchard to the front door steps, where Marilla and Mrs. Rachel were -sitting, talking over Mrs. Samson Coates’ funeral, which they had -attended that day. Dora sat between them, diligently studying her -lessons; but Davy was sitting tailor-fashion on the grass, looking as -gloomy and depressed as his single dimple would let him. - -“You’d get tired of it,” said Marilla, with a sigh. - -“I daresay; but just now I feel that it would take me a long time to -get tired of it, if it were all as charming as today. Everything loves -June. Davy-boy, why this melancholy November face in blossom-time?” - -“I’m just sick and tired of living,” said the youthful pessimist. - -“At ten years? Dear me, how sad!” - -“I’m not making fun,” said Davy with dignity. “I’m -dis—dis—discouraged”—bringing out the big word with a valiant effort. - -“Why and wherefore?” asked Anne, sitting down beside him. - -“’Cause the new teacher that come when Mr. Holmes got sick give me ten -sums to do for Monday. It’ll take me all day tomorrow to do them. It -isn’t fair to have to work Saturdays. Milty Boulter said he wouldn’t do -them, but Marilla says I’ve got to. I don’t like Miss Carson a bit.” - -“Don’t talk like that about your teacher, Davy Keith,” said Mrs. Rachel -severely. “Miss Carson is a very fine girl. There is no nonsense about -her.” - -“That doesn’t sound very attractive,” laughed Anne. “I like people to -have a little nonsense about them. But I’m inclined to have a better -opinion of Miss Carson than you have. I saw her in prayer-meeting last -night, and she has a pair of eyes that can’t always look sensible. Now, -Davy-boy, take heart of grace. ‘Tomorrow will bring another day’ and -I’ll help you with the sums as far as in me lies. Don’t waste this -lovely hour ’twixt light and dark worrying over arithmetic.” - -“Well, I won’t,” said Davy, brightening up. “If you help me with the -sums I’ll have ’em done in time to go fishing with Milty. I wish old -Aunt Atossa’s funeral was tomorrow instead of today. I wanted to go to -it ’cause Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa would be sure to rise -up in her coffin and say sarcastic things to the folks that come to see -her buried. But Marilla said she didn’t.” - -“Poor Atossa laid in her coffin peaceful enough,” said Mrs. Lynde -solemnly. “I never saw her look so pleasant before, that’s what. Well, -there weren’t many tears shed over her, poor old soul. The Elisha -Wrights are thankful to be rid of her, and I can’t say I blame them a -mite.” - -“It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and not -leave one person behind you who is sorry you are gone,” said Anne, -shuddering. - -“Nobody except her parents ever loved poor Atossa, that’s certain, not -even her husband,” averred Mrs. Lynde. “She was his fourth wife. He’d -sort of got into the habit of marrying. He only lived a few years after -he married her. The doctor said he died of dyspepsia, but I shall -always maintain that he died of Atossa’s tongue, that’s what. Poor -soul, she always knew everything about her neighbors, but she never was -very well acquainted with herself. Well, she’s gone anyhow; and I -suppose the next excitement will be Diana’s wedding.” - -“It seems funny and horrible to think of Diana’s being married,” sighed -Anne, hugging her knees and looking through the gap in the Haunted Wood -to the light that was shining in Diana’s room. - -“I don’t see what’s horrible about it, when she’s doing so well,” said -Mrs. Lynde emphatically. “Fred Wright has a fine farm and he is a model -young man.” - -“He certainly isn’t the wild, dashing, wicked, young man Diana once -wanted to marry,” smiled Anne. “Fred is extremely good.” - -“That’s just what he ought to be. Would you want Diana to marry a -wicked man? Or marry one yourself?” - -“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to marry anybody who was wicked, but I think -I’d like it if he _could_ be wicked and _wouldn’t_. Now, Fred is -_hopelessly_ good.” - -“You’ll have more sense some day, I hope,” said Marilla. - -Marilla spoke rather bitterly. She was grievously disappointed. She -knew Anne had refused Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea gossip buzzed over the -fact, which had leaked out, nobody knew how. Perhaps Charlie Sloane had -guessed and told his guesses for truth. Perhaps Diana had betrayed it -to Fred and Fred had been indiscreet. At all events it was known; Mrs. -Blythe no longer asked Anne, in public or private, if she had heard -lately from Gilbert, but passed her by with a frosty bow. Anne, who had -always liked Gilbert’s merry, young-hearted mother, was grieved in -secret over this. Marilla said nothing; but Mrs. Lynde gave Anne many -exasperated digs about it, until fresh gossip reached that worthy lady, -through the medium of Moody Spurgeon MacPherson’s mother, that Anne had -another “beau” at college, who was rich and handsome and good all in -one. After that Mrs. Rachel held her tongue, though she still wished in -her inmost heart that Anne had accepted Gilbert. Riches were all very -well; but even Mrs. Rachel, practical soul though she was, did not -consider them the one essential. If Anne “liked” the Handsome Unknown -better than Gilbert there was nothing more to be said; but Mrs. Rachel -was dreadfully afraid that Anne was going to make the mistake of -marrying for money. Marilla knew Anne too well to fear this; but she -felt that something in the universal scheme of things had gone sadly -awry. - -“What is to be, will be,” said Mrs. Rachel gloomily, “and what isn’t to -be happens sometimes. I can’t help believing it’s going to happen in -Anne’s case, if Providence doesn’t interfere, that’s what.” Mrs. Rachel -sighed. She was afraid Providence wouldn’t interfere; and she didn’t -dare to. - -Anne had wandered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and was curled up among -the ferns at the root of the big white birch where she and Gilbert had -so often sat in summers gone by. He had gone into the newspaper office -again when college closed, and Avonlea seemed very dull without him. He -never wrote to her, and Anne missed the letters that never came. To be -sure, Roy wrote twice a week; his letters were exquisite compositions -which would have read beautifully in a memoir or biography. Anne felt -herself more deeply in love with him than ever when she read them; but -her heart never gave the queer, quick, painful bound at sight of his -letters which it had given one day when Mrs. Hiram Sloane had handed -her out an envelope addressed in Gilbert’s black, upright handwriting. -Anne had hurried home to the east gable and opened it eagerly—to find a -typewritten copy of some college society report—“only that and nothing -more.” Anne flung the harmless screed across her room and sat down to -write an especially nice epistle to Roy. - -Diana was to be married in five more days. The gray house at Orchard -Slope was in a turmoil of baking and brewing and boiling and stewing, -for there was to be a big, old-timey wedding. Anne, of course, was to -be bridesmaid, as had been arranged when they were twelve years old, -and Gilbert was coming from Kingsport to be best man. Anne was enjoying -the excitement of the various preparations, but under it all she -carried a little heartache. She was, in a sense, losing her dear old -chum; Diana’s new home would be two miles from Green Gables, and the -old constant companionship could never be theirs again. Anne looked up -at Diana’s light and thought how it had beaconed to her for many years; -but soon it would shine through the summer twilights no more. Two big, -painful tears welled up in her gray eyes. - -“Oh,” she thought, “how horrible it is that people have to grow up—and -marry—and _change!_” - - - - -Chapter XXIX -Diana’s Wedding - - -“After all, the only real roses are the pink ones,” said Anne, as she -tied white ribbon around Diana’s bouquet in the westward-looking gable -at Orchard Slope. “They are the flowers of love and faith.” - -Diana was standing nervously in the middle of the room, arrayed in her -bridal white, her black curls frosted over with the film of her wedding -veil. Anne had draped that veil, in accordance with the sentimental -compact of years before. - -“It’s all pretty much as I used to imagine it long ago, when I wept -over your inevitable marriage and our consequent parting,” she laughed. -“You are the bride of my dreams, Diana, with the ‘lovely misty veil’; -and I am _your_ bridesmaid. But, alas! I haven’t the puffed -sleeves—though these short lace ones are even prettier. Neither is my -heart wholly breaking nor do I exactly hate Fred.” - -“We are not really parting, Anne,” protested Diana. “I’m not going far -away. We’ll love each other just as much as ever. We’ve always kept -that ‘oath’ of friendship we swore long ago, haven’t we?” - -“Yes. We’ve kept it faithfully. We’ve had a beautiful friendship, -Diana. We’ve never marred it by one quarrel or coolness or unkind word; -and I hope it will always be so. But things can’t be quite the same -after this. You’ll have other interests. I’ll just be on the outside. -But ‘such is life’ as Mrs. Rachel says. Mrs. Rachel has given you one -of her beloved knitted quilts of the ‘tobacco stripe’ pattern, and she -says when I am married she’ll give me one, too.” - -“The mean thing about your getting married is that I won’t be able to -be your bridesmaid,” lamented Diana. - -“I’m to be Phil’s bridesmaid next June, when she marries Mr. Blake, and -then I must stop, for you know the proverb ‘three times a bridesmaid, -never a bride,’” said Anne, peeping through the window over the pink -and snow of the blossoming orchard beneath. “Here comes the minister, -Diana.” - -“Oh, Anne,” gasped Diana, suddenly turning very pale and beginning to -tremble. “Oh, Anne—I’m so nervous—I can’t go through with it—Anne, I -know I’m going to faint.” - -“If you do I’ll drag you down to the rainwater hogshed and drop you -in,” said Anne unsympathetically. “Cheer up, dearest. Getting married -can’t be so very terrible when so many people survive the ceremony. See -how cool and composed I am, and take courage.” - -“Wait till your turn comes, Miss Anne. Oh, Anne, I hear father coming -upstairs. Give me my bouquet. Is my veil right? Am I very pale?” - -“You look just lovely. Di, darling, kiss me good-bye for the last time. -Diana Barry will never kiss me again.” - -“Diana Wright will, though. There, mother’s calling. Come.” - -Following the simple, old-fashioned way in vogue then, Anne went down -to the parlor on Gilbert’s arm. They met at the top of the stairs for -the first time since they had left Kingsport, for Gilbert had arrived -only that day. Gilbert shook hands courteously. He was looking very -well, though, as Anne instantly noted, rather thin. He was not pale; -there was a flush on his cheek that had burned into it as Anne came -along the hall towards him, in her soft, white dress with -lilies-of-the-valley in the shining masses of her hair. As they entered -the crowded parlor together a little murmur of admiration ran around -the room. “What a fine-looking pair they are,” whispered the -impressible Mrs. Rachel to Marilla. - -Fred ambled in alone, with a very red face, and then Diana swept in on -her father’s arm. She did not faint, and nothing untoward occurred to -interrupt the ceremony. Feasting and merry-making followed; then, as -the evening waned, Fred and Diana drove away through the moonlight to -their new home, and Gilbert walked with Anne to Green Gables. - -Something of their old comradeship had returned during the informal -mirth of the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking over that -well-known road with Gilbert again! - -The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear the -whisper of roses in blossom—the laughter of daisies—the piping of -grasses—many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. The beauty of -moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world. - -“Can’t we take a ramble up Lovers’ Lane before you go in?” asked -Gilbert as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters, in -which the moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold. - -Anne assented readily. Lovers’ Lane was a veritable path in a fairyland -that night—a shimmering, mysterious place, full of wizardry in the -white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had been a time when such a -walk with Gilbert through Lovers’ Lane would have been far too -dangerous. But Roy and Christine had made it very safe now. Anne found -herself thinking a good deal about Christine as she chatted lightly to -Gilbert. She had met her several times before leaving Kingsport, and -had been charmingly sweet to her. Christine had also been charmingly -sweet. Indeed, they were a most cordial pair. But for all that, their -acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. Evidently Christine was -not a kindred spirit. - -“Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?” asked Gilbert. - -“No. I’m going down east to Valley Road next week. Esther Haythorne -wants me to teach for her through July and August. They have a summer -term in that school, and Esther isn’t feeling well. So I’m going to -substitute for her. In one way I don’t mind. Do you know, I’m beginning -to feel a little bit like a stranger in Avonlea now? It makes me -sorry—but it’s true. It’s quite appalling to see the number of children -who have shot up into big boys and girls—really young men and -women—these past two years. Half of my pupils are grown up. It makes me -feel awfully old to see them in the places you and I and our mates used -to fill.” - -Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise—which -showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to -go back to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist -of hope and illusion, and possessed an indefinable something that had -passed away forever. Where was it now—the glory and the dream? - -“‘So wags the world away,’” quoted Gilbert practically, and a trifle -absently. Anne wondered if he were thinking of Christine. Oh, Avonlea -was going to be so lonely now—with Diana gone! - - - - -Chapter XXX -Mrs. Skinner’s Romance - - -Anne stepped off the train at Valley Road station and looked about to -see if any one had come to meet her. She was to board with a certain -Miss Janet Sweet, but she saw no one who answered in the least to her -preconception of that lady, as formed from Esther’s letter. The only -person in sight was an elderly woman, sitting in a wagon with mail bags -piled around her. Two hundred would have been a charitable guess at her -weight; her face was as round and red as a harvest-moon and almost as -featureless. She wore a tight, black, cashmere dress, made in the -fashion of ten years ago, a little dusty black straw hat trimmed with -bows of yellow ribbon, and faded black lace mits. - -“Here, you,” she called, waving her whip at Anne. “Are you the new -Valley Road schoolma’am?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, I thought so. Valley Road is noted for its good-looking -schoolma’ams, just as Millersville is noted for its humly ones. Janet -Sweet asked me this morning if I could bring you out. I said, ‘Sartin I -kin, if she don’t mind being scrunched up some. This rig of mine’s -kinder small for the mail bags and I’m some heftier than Thomas!’ Just -wait, miss, till I shift these bags a bit and I’ll tuck you in somehow. -It’s only two miles to Janet’s. Her next-door neighbor’s hired boy is -coming for your trunk tonight. My name is Skinner—Amelia Skinner.” - -Anne was eventually tucked in, exchanging amused smiles with herself -during the process. - -“Jog along, black mare,” commanded Mrs. Skinner, gathering up the reins -in her pudgy hands. “This is my first trip on the mail rowte. Thomas -wanted to hoe his turnips today so he asked me to come. So I jest sot -down and took a standing-up snack and started. I sorter like it. O’ -course it’s rather tejus. Part of the time I sits and thinks and the -rest I jest sits. Jog along, black mare. I want to git home airly. -Thomas is terrible lonesome when I’m away. You see, we haven’t been -married very long.” - -“Oh!” said Anne politely. - -“Just a month. Thomas courted me for quite a spell, though. It was real -romantic.” Anne tried to picture Mrs. Skinner on speaking terms with -romance and failed. - -“Oh?” she said again. - -“Yes. Y’see, there was another man after me. Jog along, black mare. I’d -been a widder so long folks had given up expecting me to marry again. -But when my darter—she’s a schoolma’am like you—went out West to teach -I felt real lonesome and wasn’t nowise sot against the idea. Bime-by -Thomas began to come up and so did the other feller—William Obadiah -Seaman, his name was. For a long time I couldn’t make up my mind which -of them to take, and they kep’ coming and coming, and I kep’ worrying. -Y’see, W.O. was rich—he had a fine place and carried considerable -style. He was by far the best match. Jog along, black mare.” - -“Why didn’t you marry him?” asked Anne. - -“Well, y’see, he didn’t love me,” answered Mrs. Skinner, solemnly. - -Anne opened her eyes widely and looked at Mrs. Skinner. But there was -not a glint of humor on that lady’s face. Evidently Mrs. Skinner saw -nothing amusing in her own case. - -“He’d been a widder-man for three yers, and his sister kept house for -him. Then she got married and he just wanted some one to look after his -house. It was worth looking after, too, mind you that. It’s a handsome -house. Jog along, black mare. As for Thomas, he was poor, and if his -house didn’t leak in dry weather it was about all that could be said -for it, though it looks kind of pictureaskew. But, y’see, I loved -Thomas, and I didn’t care one red cent for W.O. So I argued it out with -myself. ‘Sarah Crowe,’ say I—my first was a Crowe—‘you can marry your -rich man if you like but you won’t be happy. Folks can’t get along -together in this world without a little bit of love. You’d just better -tie up to Thomas, for he loves you and you love him and nothing else -ain’t going to do you.’ Jog along, black mare. So I told Thomas I’d -take him. All the time I was getting ready I never dared drive past -W.O.’s place for fear the sight of that fine house of his would put me -in the swithers again. But now I never think of it at all, and I’m just -that comfortable and happy with Thomas. Jog along, black mare.” - -“How did William Obadiah take it?” queried Anne. - -“Oh, he rumpussed a bit. But he’s going to see a skinny old maid in -Millersville now, and I guess she’ll take him fast enough. She’ll make -him a better wife than his first did. W.O. never wanted to marry her. -He just asked her to marry him ’cause his father wanted him to, never -dreaming but that she’d say ‘no.’ But mind you, she said ‘yes.’ There -was a predicament for you. Jog along, black mare. She was a great -housekeeper, but most awful mean. She wore the same bonnet for eighteen -years. Then she got a new one and W.O. met her on the road and didn’t -know her. Jog along, black mare. I feel that I’d a narrer escape. I -might have married him and been most awful miserable, like my poor -cousin, Jane Ann. Jane Ann married a rich man she didn’t care anything -about, and she hasn’t the life of a dog. She come to see me last week -and says, says she, ‘Sarah Skinner, I envy you. I’d rather live in a -little hut on the side of the road with a man I was fond of than in my -big house with the one I’ve got.’ Jane Ann’s man ain’t such a bad sort, -nuther, though he’s so contrary that he wears his fur coat when the -thermometer’s at ninety. The only way to git him to do anything is to -coax him to do the opposite. But there ain’t any love to smooth things -down and it’s a poor way of living. Jog along, black mare. There’s -Janet’s place in the hollow—‘Wayside,’ she calls it. Quite -pictureaskew, ain’t it? I guess you’ll be glad to git out of this, with -all them mail bags jamming round you.” - -“Yes, but I have enjoyed my drive with you very much,” said Anne -sincerely. - -“Git away now!” said Mrs. Skinner, highly flattered. “Wait till I tell -Thomas that. He always feels dretful tickled when I git a compliment. -Jog along, black mare. Well, here we are. I hope you’ll git on well in -the school, miss. There’s a short cut to it through the ma’sh back of -Janet’s. If you take that way be awful keerful. If you once got stuck -in that black mud you’d be sucked right down and never seen or heard -tell of again till the day of judgment, like Adam Palmer’s cow. Jog -along, black mare.” - - - - -Chapter XXXI -Anne to Philippa - - -“Anne Shirley to Philippa Gordon, greeting. - -“Well-beloved, it’s high time I was writing you. Here am I, installed -once more as a country ‘schoolma’am’ at Valley Road, boarding at -‘Wayside,’ the home of Miss Janet Sweet. Janet is a dear soul and very -nicelooking; tall, but not over-tall; stoutish, yet with a certain -restraint of outline suggestive of a thrifty soul who is not going to -be overlavish even in the matter of avoirdupois. She has a knot of -soft, crimpy, brown hair with a thread of gray in it, a sunny face with -rosy cheeks, and big, kind eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Moreover, -she is one of those delightful, old-fashioned cooks who don’t care a -bit if they ruin your digestion as long as they can give you feasts of -fat things. - -“I like her; and she likes me—principally, it seems, because she had a -sister named Anne who died young. - -“‘I’m real glad to see you,’ she said briskly, when I landed in her -yard. ‘My, you don’t look a mite like I expected. I was sure you’d be -dark—my sister Anne was dark. And here you’re redheaded!’ - -“For a few minutes I thought I wasn’t going to like Janet as much as I -had expected at first sight. Then I reminded myself that I really must -be more sensible than to be prejudiced against any one simply because -she called my hair red. Probably the word ‘auburn’ was not in Janet’s -vocabulary at all. - -“‘Wayside’ is a dear sort of little spot. The house is small and white, -set down in a delightful little hollow that drops away from the road. -Between road and house is an orchard and flower-garden all mixed up -together. The front door walk is bordered with quahog -clam-shells—‘cow-hawks,’ Janet calls them; there is Virginia Creeper -over the porch and moss on the roof. My room is a neat little spot ‘off -the parlor’—just big enough for the bed and me. Over the head of my bed -there is a picture of Robby Burns standing at Highland Mary’s grave, -shadowed by an enormous weeping willow tree. Robby’s face is so -lugubrious that it is no wonder I have bad dreams. Why, the first night -I was here I dreamed I _couldn’t laugh_. - -“The parlor is tiny and neat. Its one window is so shaded by a huge -willow that the room has a grotto-like effect of emerald gloom. There -are wonderful tidies on the chairs, and gay mats on the floor, and -books and cards carefully arranged on a round table, and vases of dried -grass on the mantel-piece. Between the vases is a cheerful decoration -of preserved coffin plates—five in all, pertaining respectively to -Janet’s father and mother, a brother, her sister Anne, and a hired man -who died here once! If I go suddenly insane some of these days ‘know -all men by these presents’ that those coffin-plates have caused it. - -“But it’s all delightful and I said so. Janet loved me for it, just as -she detested poor Esther because Esther had said so much shade was -unhygienic and had objected to sleeping on a feather bed. Now, I glory -in feather-beds, and the more unhygienic and feathery they are the more -I glory. Janet says it is such a comfort to see me eat; she had been so -afraid I would be like Miss Haythorne, who wouldn’t eat anything but -fruit and hot water for breakfast and tried to make Janet give up -frying things. Esther is really a dear girl, but she is rather given to -fads. The trouble is that she hasn’t enough imagination and HAS a -tendency to indigestion. - -“Janet told me I could have the use of the parlor when any young men -called! I don’t think there are many to call. I haven’t seen a young -man in Valley Road yet, except the next-door hired boy—Sam Toliver, a -very tall, lank, tow-haired youth. He came over one evening recently -and sat for an hour on the garden fence, near the front porch where -Janet and I were doing fancy-work. The only remarks he volunteered in -all that time were, ‘Hev a peppermint, miss! Dew now-fine thing for -car_arrh_, peppermints,’ and, ‘Powerful lot o’ jump-grasses round here -ternight. Yep.’ - -“But there is a love affair going on here. It seems to be my fortune to -be mixed up, more or less actively, with elderly love affairs. Mr. and -Mrs. Irving always say that I brought about their marriage. Mrs. -Stephen Clark of Carmody persists in being most grateful to me for a -suggestion which somebody else would probably have made if I hadn’t. I -do really think, though, that Ludovic Speed would never have got any -further along than placid courtship if I had not helped him and -Theodora Dix out. - -“In the present affair I am only a passive spectator. I’ve tried once -to help things along and made an awful mess of it. So I shall not -meddle again. I’ll tell you all about it when we meet.” - - - - -Chapter XXXII -Tea with Mrs. Douglas - - -On the first Thursday night of Anne’s sojourn in Valley Road Janet -asked her to go to prayer-meeting. Janet blossomed out like a rose to -attend that prayer-meeting. She wore a pale-blue, pansy-sprinkled -muslin dress with more ruffles than one would ever have supposed -economical Janet could be guilty of, and a white leghorn hat with pink -roses and three ostrich feathers on it. Anne felt quite amazed. Later -on, she found out Janet’s motive in so arraying herself—a motive as old -as Eden. - -Valley Road prayer-meetings seemed to be essentially feminine. There -were thirty-two women present, two half-grown boys, and one solitary -man, beside the minister. Anne found herself studying this man. He was -not handsome or young or graceful; he had remarkably long legs—so long -that he had to keep them coiled up under his chair to dispose of -them—and he was stoop-shouldered. His hands were big, his hair wanted -barbering, and his moustache was unkempt. But Anne thought she liked -his face; it was kind and honest and tender; there was something else -in it, too—just what, Anne found it hard to define. She finally -concluded that this man had suffered and been strong, and it had been -made manifest in his face. There was a sort of patient, humorous -endurance in his expression which indicated that he would go to the -stake if need be, but would keep on looking pleasant until he really -had to begin squirming. - -When prayer-meeting was over this man came up to Janet and said, - -“May I see you home, Janet?” - -Janet took his arm—“as primly and shyly as if she were no more than -sixteen, having her first escort home,” Anne told the girls at Patty’s -Place later on. - -“Miss Shirley, permit me to introduce Mr. Douglas,” she said stiffly. - -Mr. Douglas nodded and said, “I was looking at you in prayer-meeting, -miss, and thinking what a nice little girl you were.” - -Such a speech from ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have -annoyed Anne bitterly; but the way in which Mr. Douglas said it made -her feel that she had received a very real and pleasing compliment. She -smiled appreciatively at him and dropped obligingly behind on the -moonlit road. - -So Janet had a beau! Anne was delighted. Janet would make a paragon of -a wife—cheery, economical, tolerant, and a very queen of cooks. It -would be a flagrant waste on Nature’s part to keep her a permanent old -maid. - -“John Douglas asked me to take you up to see his mother,” said Janet -the next day. “She’s bed-rid a lot of the time and never goes out of -the house. But she’s powerful fond of company and always wants to see -my boarders. Can you go up this evening?” - -Anne assented; but later in the day Mr. Douglas called on his mother’s -behalf to invite them up to tea on Saturday evening. - -“Oh, why didn’t you put on your pretty pansy dress?” asked Anne, when -they left home. It was a hot day, and poor Janet, between her -excitement and her heavy black cashmere dress, looked as if she were -being broiled alive. - -“Old Mrs. Douglas would think it terrible frivolous and unsuitable, I’m -afraid. John likes that dress, though,” she added wistfully. - -The old Douglas homestead was half a mile from “Wayside” cresting a -windy hill. The house itself was large and comfortable, old enough to -be dignified, and girdled with maple groves and orchards. There were -big, trim barns behind it, and everything bespoke prosperity. Whatever -the patient endurance in Mr. Douglas’ face had meant it hadn’t, so Anne -reflected, meant debts and duns. - -John Douglas met them at the door and took them into the sitting-room, -where his mother was enthroned in an armchair. - -Anne had expected old Mrs. Douglas to be tall and thin, because Mr. -Douglas was. Instead, she was a tiny scrap of a woman, with soft pink -cheeks, mild blue eyes, and a mouth like a baby’s. Dressed in a -beautiful, fashionably-made black silk dress, with a fluffy white shawl -over her shoulders, and her snowy hair surmounted by a dainty lace cap, -she might have posed as a grandmother doll. - -“How do you do, Janet dear?” she said sweetly. “I am so glad to see you -again, dear.” She put up her pretty old face to be kissed. “And this is -our new teacher. I’m delighted to meet you. My son has been singing -your praises until I’m half jealous, and I’m sure Janet ought to be -wholly so.” - -Poor Janet blushed, Anne said something polite and conventional, and -then everybody sat down and made talk. It was hard work, even for Anne, -for nobody seemed at ease except old Mrs. Douglas, who certainly did -not find any difficulty in talking. She made Janet sit by her and -stroked her hand occasionally. Janet sat and smiled, looking horribly -uncomfortable in her hideous dress, and John Douglas sat without -smiling. - -At the tea table Mrs. Douglas gracefully asked Janet to pour the tea. -Janet turned redder than ever but did it. Anne wrote a description of -that meal to Stella. - -“We had cold tongue and chicken and strawberry preserves, lemon pie and -tarts and chocolate cake and raisin cookies and pound cake and fruit -cake—and a few other things, including more pie—caramel pie, I think it -was. After I had eaten twice as much as was good for me, Mrs. Douglas -sighed and said she feared she had nothing to tempt my appetite. - -“‘I’m afraid dear Janet’s cooking has spoiled you for any other,’ she -said sweetly. ‘Of course nobody in Valley Road aspires to rival _her_. -_Won’t_ you have another piece of pie, Miss Shirley? You haven’t eaten -_anything_.’ - -“Stella, I had eaten a helping of tongue and one of chicken, three -biscuits, a generous allowance of preserves, a piece of pie, a tart, -and a square of chocolate cake!” - -After tea Mrs. Douglas smiled benevolently and told John to take “dear -Janet” out into the garden and get her some roses. “Miss Shirley will -keep me company while you are out—won’t you?” she said plaintively. She -settled down in her armchair with a sigh. - -“I am a very frail old woman, Miss Shirley. For over twenty years I’ve -been a great sufferer. For twenty long, weary years I’ve been dying by -inches.” - -“How painful!” said Anne, trying to be sympathetic and succeeding only -in feeling idiotic. - -“There have been scores of nights when they’ve thought I could never -live to see the dawn,” went on Mrs. Douglas solemnly. “Nobody knows -what I’ve gone through—nobody can know but myself. Well, it can’t last -very much longer now. My weary pilgrimage will soon be over, Miss -Shirley. It is a great comfort to me that John will have such a good -wife to look after him when his mother is gone—a great comfort, Miss -Shirley.” - -“Janet is a lovely woman,” said Anne warmly. - -“Lovely! A beautiful character,” assented Mrs. Douglas. “And a perfect -housekeeper—something I never was. My health would not permit it, Miss -Shirley. I am indeed thankful that John has made such a wise choice. I -hope and believe that he will be happy. He is my only son, Miss -Shirley, and his happiness lies very near my heart.” - -“Of course,” said Anne stupidly. For the first time in her life she was -stupid. Yet she could not imagine why. She seemed to have absolutely -nothing to say to this sweet, smiling, angelic old lady who was patting -her hand so kindly. - -“Come and see me soon again, dear Janet,” said Mrs. Douglas lovingly, -when they left. “You don’t come half often enough. But then I suppose -John will be bringing you here to stay all the time one of these days.” -Anne, happening to glance at John Douglas, as his mother spoke, gave a -positive start of dismay. He looked as a tortured man might look when -his tormentors gave the rack the last turn of possible endurance. She -felt sure he must be ill and hurried poor blushing Janet away. - -“Isn’t old Mrs. Douglas a sweet woman?” asked Janet, as they went down -the road. - -“M—m,” answered Anne absently. She was wondering why John Douglas had -looked so. - -“She’s been a terrible sufferer,” said Janet feelingly. “She takes -terrible spells. It keeps John all worried up. He’s scared to leave -home for fear his mother will take a spell and nobody there but the -hired girl.” - - - - -Chapter XXXIII -“He Just Kept Coming and Coming” - - -Three days later Anne came home from school and found Janet crying. -Tears and Janet seemed so incongruous that Anne was honestly alarmed. - -“Oh, what is the matter?” she cried anxiously. - -“I’m—I’m forty today,” sobbed Janet. - -“Well, you were nearly that yesterday and it didn’t hurt,” comforted -Anne, trying not to smile. - -“But—but,” went on Janet with a big gulp, “John Douglas won’t ask me to -marry him.” - -“Oh, but he will,” said Anne lamely. “You must give him time, Janet - -“Time!” said Janet with indescribable scorn. “He has had twenty years. -How much time does he want?” - -“Do you mean that John Douglas has been coming to see you for twenty -years?” - -“He has. And he has never so much as mentioned marriage to me. And I -don’t believe he ever will now. I’ve never said a word to a mortal -about it, but it seems to me I’ve just got to talk it out with some one -at last or go crazy. John Douglas begun to go with me twenty years ago, -before mother died. Well, he kept coming and coming, and after a spell -I begun making quilts and things; but he never said anything about -getting married, only just kept coming and coming. There wasn’t -anything I could do. Mother died when we’d been going together for -eight years. I thought he maybe would speak out then, seeing as I was -left alone in the world. He was real kind and feeling, and did -everything he could for me, but he never said marry. And that’s the way -it has been going on ever since. People blame _me_ for it. They say I -won’t marry him because his mother is so sickly and I don’t want the -bother of waiting on her. Why, I’d _love_ to wait on John’s mother! But -I let them think so. I’d rather they’d blame me than pity me! It’s so -dreadful humiliating that John won’t ask me. And _why_ won’t he? Seems -to me if I only knew his reason I wouldn’t mind it so much.” - -“Perhaps his mother doesn’t want him to marry anybody,” suggested Anne. - -“Oh, she does. She’s told me time and again that she’d love to see John -settled before her time comes. She’s always giving him hints—you heard -her yourself the other day. I thought I’d ha’ gone through the floor.” - -“It’s beyond me,” said Anne helplessly. She thought of Ludovic Speed. -But the cases were not parallel. John Douglas was not a man of -Ludovic’s type. - -“You should show more spirit, Janet,” she went on resolutely. “Why -didn’t you send him about his business long ago?” - -“I couldn’t,” said poor Janet pathetically. “You see, Anne, I’ve always -been awful fond of John. He might just as well keep coming as not, for -there was never anybody else I’d want, so it didn’t matter.” - -“But it might have made him speak out like a man,” urged Anne. - -Janet shook her head. - -“No, I guess not. I was afraid to try, anyway, for fear he’d think I -meant it and just go. I suppose I’m a poor-spirited creature, but that -is how I feel. And I can’t help it.” - -“Oh, you _could_ help it, Janet. It isn’t too late yet. Take a firm -stand. Let that man know you are not going to endure his -shillyshallying any longer. _I’ll_ back you up.” - -“I dunno,” said Janet hopelessly. “I dunno if I could ever get up -enough spunk. Things have drifted so long. But I’ll think it over.” - -Anne felt that she was disappointed in John Douglas. She had liked him -so well, and she had not thought him the sort of man who would play -fast and loose with a woman’s feelings for twenty years. He certainly -should be taught a lesson, and Anne felt vindictively that she would -enjoy seeing the process. Therefore she was delighted when Janet told -her, as they were going to prayer-meeting the next night, that she -meant to show some “sperrit.” - -“I’ll let John Douglas see I’m not going to be trodden on any longer.” - -“You are perfectly right,” said Anne emphatically. - -When prayer-meeting was over John Douglas came up with his usual -request. Janet looked frightened but resolute. - -“No, thank you,” she said icily. “I know the road home pretty well -alone. I ought to, seeing I’ve been traveling it for forty years. So -you needn’t trouble yourself, _Mr_. Douglas.” - -Anne was looking at John Douglas; and, in that brilliant moonlight, she -saw the last twist of the rack again. Without a word he turned and -strode down the road. - -“Stop! Stop!” Anne called wildly after him, not caring in the least for -the other dumbfounded onlookers. “Mr. Douglas, stop! Come back.” - -John Douglas stopped but he did not come back. Anne flew down the road, -caught his arm and fairly dragged him back to Janet. - -“You must come back,” she said imploringly. “It’s all a mistake, Mr. -Douglas—all my fault. I made Janet do it. She didn’t want to—but it’s -all right now, isn’t it, Janet?” - -Without a word Janet took his arm and walked away. Anne followed them -meekly home and slipped in by the back door. - -“Well, you are a nice person to back me up,” said Janet sarcastically. - -“I couldn’t help it, Janet,” said Anne repentantly. “I just felt as if -I had stood by and seen murder done. I _had_ to run after him.” - -“Oh, I’m just as glad you did. When I saw John Douglas making off down -that road I just felt as if every little bit of joy and happiness that -was left in my life was going with him. It was an awful feeling.” - -“Did he ask you why you did it?” asked Anne. - -“No, he never said a word about it,” replied Janet dully. - - - - -Chapter XXXIV -John Douglas Speaks at Last - - -Anne was not without a feeble hope that something might come of it -after all. But nothing did. John Douglas came and took Janet driving, -and walked home from prayer-meeting with her, as he had been doing for -twenty years, and as he seemed likely to do for twenty years more. The -summer waned. Anne taught her school and wrote letters and studied a -little. Her walks to and from school were pleasant. She always went by -way of the swamp; it was a lovely place—a boggy soil, green with the -greenest of mossy hillocks; a silvery brook meandered through it and -spruces stood erectly, their boughs a-trail with gray-green mosses, -their roots overgrown with all sorts of woodland lovelinesses. - -Nevertheless, Anne found life in Valley Road a little monotonous. To be -sure, there was one diverting incident. - -She had not seen the lank, tow-headed Samuel of the peppermints since -the evening of his call, save for chance meetings on the road. But one -warm August night he appeared, and solemnly seated himself on the -rustic bench by the porch. He wore his usual working habiliments, -consisting of varipatched trousers, a blue jean shirt, out at the -elbows, and a ragged straw hat. He was chewing a straw and he kept on -chewing it while he looked solemnly at Anne. Anne laid her book aside -with a sigh and took up her doily. Conversation with Sam was really out -of the question. - -After a long silence Sam suddenly spoke. - -“I’m leaving over there,” he said abruptly, waving his straw in the -direction of the neighboring house. - -“Oh, are you?” said Anne politely. - -“Yep.” - -“And where are you going now?” - -“Wall, I’ve been thinking some of gitting a place of my own. There’s -one that’d suit me over at Millersville. But ef I rents it I’ll want a -woman.” - -“I suppose so,” said Anne vaguely. - -“Yep.” - -There was another long silence. Finally Sam removed his straw again and -said, - -“Will yeh hev me?” - -“Wh—a—t!” gasped Anne. - -“Will yeh hev me?” - -“Do you mean—MARRY you?” queried poor Anne feebly. - -“Yep.” - -“Why, I’m hardly acquainted with you,” cried Anne indignantly. - -“But yeh’d git acquainted with me after we was married,” said Sam. - -Anne gathered up her poor dignity. - -“Certainly I won’t marry you,” she said haughtily. - -“Wall, yeh might do worse,” expostulated Sam. “I’m a good worker and -I’ve got some money in the bank.” - -“Don’t speak of this to me again. Whatever put such an idea into your -head?” said Anne, her sense of humor getting the better of her wrath. -It was such an absurd situation. - -“Yeh’re a likely-looking girl and hev a right-smart way o’ stepping,” -said Sam. “I don’t want no lazy woman. Think it over. I won’t change my -mind yit awhile. Wall, I must be gitting. Gotter milk the cows.” - -Anne’s illusions concerning proposals had suffered so much of late -years that there were few of them left. So she could laugh -wholeheartedly over this one, not feeling any secret sting. She -mimicked poor Sam to Janet that night, and both of them laughed -immoderately over his plunge into sentiment. - -One afternoon, when Anne’s sojourn in Valley Road was drawing to a -close, Alec Ward came driving down to “Wayside” in hot haste for Janet. - -“They want you at the Douglas place quick,” he said. “I really believe -old Mrs. Douglas is going to die at last, after pretending to do it for -twenty years.” - -Janet ran to get her hat. Anne asked if Mrs. Douglas was worse than -usual. - -“She’s not half as bad,” said Alec solemnly, “and that’s what makes me -think it’s serious. Other times she’d be screaming and throwing herself -all over the place. This time she’s lying still and mum. When Mrs. -Douglas is mum she is pretty sick, you bet.” - -“You don’t like old Mrs. Douglas?” said Anne curiously. - -“I like cats as _is_ cats. I don’t like cats as is women,” was Alec’s -cryptic reply. - -Janet came home in the twilight. - -“Mrs. Douglas is dead,” she said wearily. “She died soon after I got -there. She just spoke to me once—‘I suppose you’ll marry John now?’ she -said. It cut me to the heart, Anne. To think John’s own mother thought -I wouldn’t marry him because of her! I couldn’t say a word either—there -were other women there. I was thankful John had gone out.” - -Janet began to cry drearily. But Anne brewed her a hot drink of ginger -tea to her comforting. To be sure, Anne discovered later on that she -had used white pepper instead of ginger; but Janet never knew the -difference. - -The evening after the funeral Janet and Anne were sitting on the front -porch steps at sunset. The wind had fallen asleep in the pinelands and -lurid sheets of heat-lightning flickered across the northern skies. -Janet wore her ugly black dress and looked her very worst, her eyes and -nose red from crying. They talked little, for Janet seemed faintly to -resent Anne’s efforts to cheer her up. She plainly preferred to be -miserable. - -Suddenly the gate-latch clicked and John Douglas strode into the -garden. He walked towards them straight over the geranium bed. Janet -stood up. So did Anne. Anne was a tall girl and wore a white dress; but -John Douglas did not see her. - -“Janet,” he said, “will you marry me?” - -The words burst out as if they had been wanting to be said for twenty -years and _must_ be uttered now, before anything else. - -Janet’s face was so red from crying that it couldn’t turn any redder, -so it turned a most unbecoming purple. - -“Why didn’t you ask me before?” she said slowly. - -“I couldn’t. She made me promise not to—mother made me promise not to. -Nineteen years ago she took a terrible spell. We thought she couldn’t -live through it. She implored me to promise not to ask you to marry me -while she was alive. I didn’t want to promise such a thing, even though -we all thought she couldn’t live very long—the doctor only gave her six -months. But she begged it on her knees, sick and suffering. I had to -promise.” - -“What had your mother against me?” cried Janet. - -“Nothing—nothing. She just didn’t want another woman—_any_ woman—there -while she was living. She said if I didn’t promise she’d die right -there and I’d have killed her. So I promised. And she’s held me to that -promise ever since, though I’ve gone on my knees to her in my turn to -beg her to let me off.” - -“Why didn’t you tell me this?” asked Janet chokingly. “If I’d only -_known!_ Why didn’t you just tell me?” - -“She made me promise I wouldn’t tell a soul,” said John hoarsely. “She -swore me to it on the Bible; Janet, I’d never have done it if I’d -dreamed it was to be for so long. Janet, you’ll never know what I’ve -suffered these nineteen years. I know I’ve made you suffer, too, but -you’ll marry me for all, won’t you, Janet? Oh, Janet, won’t you? I’ve -come as soon as I could to ask you.” - -At this moment the stupefied Anne came to her senses and realized that -she had no business to be there. She slipped away and did not see Janet -until the next morning, when the latter told her the rest of the story. - -“That cruel, relentless, deceitful old woman!” cried Anne. - -“Hush—she’s dead,” said Janet solemnly. “If she wasn’t—but she _is_. So -we mustn’t speak evil of her. But I’m happy at last, Anne. And I -wouldn’t have minded waiting so long a bit if I’d only known why.” - -“When are you to be married?” - -“Next month. Of course it will be very quiet. I suppose people will -talk terrible. They’ll say I made enough haste to snap John up as soon -as his poor mother was out of the way. John wanted to let them know the -truth but I said, ‘No, John; after all she was your mother, and we’ll -keep the secret between us, and not cast any shadow on her memory. I -don’t mind what people say, now that I know the truth myself. It don’t -matter a mite. Let it all be buried with the dead’ says I to him. So I -coaxed him round to agree with me.” - -“You’re much more forgiving than I could ever be,” Anne said, rather -crossly. - -“You’ll feel differently about a good many things when you get to be my -age,” said Janet tolerantly. “That’s one of the things we learn as we -grow older—how to forgive. It comes easier at forty than it did at -twenty.” - - - - -Chapter XXXV -The Last Redmond Year Opens - - -“Here we are, all back again, nicely sunburned and rejoicing as a -strong man to run a race,” said Phil, sitting down on a suitcase with a -sigh of pleasure. “Isn’t it jolly to see this dear old Patty’s Place -again—and Aunty—and the cats? Rusty has lost another piece of ear, -hasn’t he?” - -“Rusty would be the nicest cat in the world if he had no ears at all,” -declared Anne loyally from her trunk, while Rusty writhed about her lap -in a frenzy of welcome. - -“Aren’t you glad to see us back, Aunty?” demanded Phil. - -“Yes. But I wish you’d tidy things up,” said Aunt Jamesina plaintively, -looking at the wilderness of trunks and suitcases by which the four -laughing, chattering girls were surrounded. “You can talk just as well -later on. Work first and then play used to be my motto when I was a -girl.” - -“Oh, we’ve just reversed that in this generation, Aunty. _Our_ motto is -play your play and then dig in. You can do your work so much better if -you’ve had a good bout of play first.” - -“If you are going to marry a minister,” said Aunt Jamesina, picking up -Joseph and her knitting and resigning herself to the inevitable with -the charming grace that made her the queen of housemothers, “you will -have to give up such expressions as ‘dig in.’” - -“Why?” moaned Phil. “Oh, why must a minister’s wife be supposed to -utter only prunes and prisms? I shan’t. Everybody on Patterson Street -uses slang—that is to say, metaphorical language—and if I didn’t they -would think me insufferably proud and stuck up.” - -“Have you broken the news to your family?” asked Priscilla, feeding the -Sarah-cat bits from her lunchbasket. - -Phil nodded. - -“How did they take it?” - -“Oh, mother rampaged. But I stood rockfirm—even I, Philippa Gordon, who -never before could hold fast to anything. Father was calmer. Father’s -own daddy was a minister, so you see he has a soft spot in his heart -for the cloth. I had Jo up to Mount Holly, after mother grew calm, and -they both loved him. But mother gave him some frightful hints in every -conversation regarding what she had hoped for me. Oh, my vacation -pathway hasn’t been exactly strewn with roses, girls dear. But—I’ve won -out and I’ve got Jo. Nothing else matters.” - -“To you,” said Aunt Jamesina darkly. - -“Nor to Jo, either,” retorted Phil. “You keep on pitying him. Why, -pray? I think he’s to be envied. He’s getting brains, beauty, and a -heart of gold in _me_.” - -“It’s well we know how to take your speeches,” said Aunt Jamesina -patiently. “I hope you don’t talk like that before strangers. What -would they think?” - -“Oh, I don’t want to know what they think. I don’t want to see myself -as others see me. I’m sure it would be horribly uncomfortable most of -the time. I don’t believe Burns was really sincere in that prayer, -either.” - -“Oh, I daresay we all pray for some things that we really don’t want, -if we were only honest enough to look into our hearts,” owned Aunt -Jamesina candidly. “I’ve a notion that such prayers don’t rise very -far. _I_ used to pray that I might be enabled to forgive a certain -person, but I know now I really didn’t want to forgive her. When I -finally got that I _did_ want to I forgave her without having to pray -about it.” - -“I can’t picture you as being unforgiving for long,” said Stella. - -“Oh, I used to be. But holding spite doesn’t seem worth while when you -get along in years.” - -“That reminds me,” said Anne, and told the tale of John and Janet. - -“And now tell us about that romantic scene you hinted so darkly at in -one of your letters,” demanded Phil. - -Anne acted out Samuel’s proposal with great spirit. The girls shrieked -with laughter and Aunt Jamesina smiled. - -“It isn’t in good taste to make fun of your beaux,” she said severely; -“but,” she added calmly, “I always did it myself.” - -“Tell us about your beaux, Aunty,” entreated Phil. “You must have had -any number of them.” - -“They’re not in the past tense,” retorted Aunt Jamesina. “I’ve got them -yet. There are three old widowers at home who have been casting sheep’s -eyes at me for some time. You children needn’t think you own all the -romance in the world.” - -“Widowers and sheep’s eyes don’t sound very romantic, Aunty.” - -“Well, no; but young folks aren’t always romantic either. Some of my -beaux certainly weren’t. I used to laugh at them scandalous, poor boys. -There was Jim Elwood—he was always in a sort of day-dream—never seemed -to sense what was going on. He didn’t wake up to the fact that I’d said -‘no’ till a year after I’d said it. When he did get married his wife -fell out of the sleigh one night when they were driving home from -church and he never missed her. Then there was Dan Winston. He knew too -much. He knew everything in this world and most of what is in the next. -He could give you an answer to any question, even if you asked him when -the Judgment Day was to be. Milton Edwards was real nice and I liked -him but I didn’t marry him. For one thing, he took a week to get a joke -through his head, and for another he never asked me. Horatio Reeve was -the most interesting beau I ever had. But when he told a story he -dressed it up so that you couldn’t see it for frills. I never could -decide whether he was lying or just letting his imagination run loose.” - -“And what about the others, Aunty?” - -“Go away and unpack,” said Aunt Jamesina, waving Joseph at them by -mistake for a needle. “The others were too nice to make fun of. I shall -respect their memory. There’s a box of flowers in your room, Anne. They -came about an hour ago.” - -After the first week the girls of Patty’s Place settled down to a -steady grind of study; for this was their last year at Redmond and -graduation honors must be fought for persistently. Anne devoted herself -to English, Priscilla pored over classics, and Philippa pounded away at -Mathematics. Sometimes they grew tired, sometimes they felt -discouraged, sometimes nothing seemed worth the struggle for it. In one -such mood Stella wandered up to the blue room one rainy November -evening. Anne sat on the floor in a little circle of light cast by the -lamp beside her, amid a surrounding snow of crumpled manuscript. - -“What in the world are you doing?” - -“Just looking over some old Story Club yarns. I wanted something to -cheer _and_ inebriate. I’d studied until the world seemed azure. So I -came up here and dug these out of my trunk. They are so drenched in -tears and tragedy that they are excruciatingly funny.” - -“I’m blue and discouraged myself,” said Stella, throwing herself on the -couch. “Nothing seems worthwhile. My very thoughts are old. I’ve -thought them all before. What is the use of living after all, Anne?” - -“Honey, it’s just brain fag that makes us feel that way, and the -weather. A pouring rainy night like this, coming after a hard day’s -grind, would squelch any one but a Mark Tapley. You know it _is_ -worthwhile to live.” - -“Oh, I suppose so. But I can’t prove it to myself just now.” - -“Just think of all the great and noble souls who have lived and worked -in the world,” said Anne dreamily. “Isn’t it worthwhile to come after -them and inherit what they won and taught? Isn’t it worthwhile to think -we can share their inspiration? And then, all the great souls that will -come in the future? Isn’t it worthwhile to work a little and prepare -the way for them—make just one step in their path easier?” - -“Oh, my mind agrees with you, Anne. But my soul remains doleful and -uninspired. I’m always grubby and dingy on rainy nights.” - -“Some nights I like the rain—I like to lie in bed and hear it pattering -on the roof and drifting through the pines.” - -“I like it when it stays on the roof,” said Stella. “It doesn’t always. -I spent a gruesome night in an old country farmhouse last summer. The -roof leaked and the rain came pattering down on my bed. There was no -poetry in _that_. I had to get up in the ‘mirk midnight’ and chivy -round to pull the bedstead out of the drip—and it was one of those -solid, old-fashioned beds that weigh a ton—more or less. And then that -drip-drop, drip-drop kept up all night until my nerves just went to -pieces. You’ve no idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling -with a mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like -ghostly footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you laughing -over, Anne?” - -“These stories. As Phil would say they are killing—in more senses than -one, for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines we -had—and how we dressed them! - -“Silks—satins—velvets—jewels—laces—they never wore anything else. Here -is one of Jane Andrews’ stories depicting her heroine as sleeping in a -beautiful white satin nightdress trimmed with seed pearls.” - -“Go on,” said Stella. “I begin to feel that life is worth living as -long as there’s a laugh in it.” - -“Here’s one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball -‘glittering from head to foot with large diamonds of the first water.’ -But what booted beauty or rich attire? ‘The paths of glory lead but to -the grave.’ They must either be murdered or die of a broken heart. -There was no escape for them.” - -“Let me read some of your stories.” - -“Well, here’s my masterpiece. Note its cheerful title—‘My Graves.’ I -shed quarts of tears while writing it, and the other girls shed gallons -while I read it. Jane Andrews’ mother scolded her frightfully because -she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that week. It’s a harrowing -tale of the wanderings of a Methodist minister’s wife. I made her a -Methodist because it was necessary that she should wander. She buried a -child every place she lived in. There were nine of them and their -graves were severed far apart, ranging from Newfoundland to Vancouver. -I described the children, pictured their several death beds, and -detailed their tombstones and epitaphs. I had intended to bury the -whole nine but when I had disposed of eight my invention of horrors -gave out and I permitted the ninth to live as a hopeless cripple.” - -While Stella read My Graves, punctuating its tragic paragraphs with -chuckles, and Rusty slept the sleep of a just cat who has been out all -night curled up on a Jane Andrews tale of a beautiful maiden of fifteen -who went to nurse in a leper colony—of course dying of the loathsome -disease finally—Anne glanced over the other manuscripts and recalled -the old days at Avonlea school when the members of the Story Club, -sitting under the spruce trees or down among the ferns by the brook, -had written them. What fun they had had! How the sunshine and mirth of -those olden summers returned as she read. Not all the glory that was -Greece or the grandeur that was Rome could weave such wizardry as those -funny, tearful tales of the Story Club. Among the manuscripts Anne -found one written on sheets of wrapping paper. A wave of laughter -filled her gray eyes as she recalled the time and place of its genesis. -It was the sketch she had written the day she fell through the roof of -the Cobb duckhouse on the Tory Road. - -Anne glanced over it, then fell to reading it intently. It was a little -dialogue between asters and sweet-peas, wild canaries in the lilac -bush, and the guardian spirit of the garden. After she had read it, she -sat, staring into space; and when Stella had gone she smoothed out the -crumpled manuscript. - -“I believe I will,” she said resolutely. - - - - -Chapter XXXVI -The Gardners’Call - - -“Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Aunt Jimsie,” said -Phil. “Here are three for Stella, and two for Pris, and a glorious fat -one for me from Jo. There’s nothing for you, Anne, except a circular.” - -Nobody noticed Anne’s flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed her -carelessly. But a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a -transfigured Anne. - -“Honey, what good thing has happened?” - -“The Youth’s Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a -fortnight ago,” said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were -accustomed to having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite -succeeding. - -“Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? -Did they pay you for it?” - -“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that -he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old -sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in—but I never -really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne, -recalling the bitter experience of Averil’s Atonement. - -“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let’s all go up -town and get drunk,” suggested Phil. - -“I _am_ going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some sort,” -declared Anne gaily. “At all events it isn’t tainted money—like the -check I got for that horrible Reliable Baking Powder story. I spent -_it_ usefully for clothes and hated them every time I put them on.” - -“Think of having a real live author at Patty’s Place,” said Priscilla. - -“It’s a great responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina solemnly. - -“Indeed it is,” agreed Pris with equal solemnity. “Authors are kittle -cattle. You never know when or how they will break out. Anne may make -copy of us.” - -“I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great -responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina severely, “and I hope Anne -realizes, it. My daughter used to write stories before she went to the -foreign field, but now she has turned her attention to higher things. -She used to say her motto was ‘Never write a line you would be ashamed -to read at your own funeral.’ You’d better take that for yours, Anne, -if you are going to embark in literature. Though, to be sure,” added -Aunt Jamesina perplexedly, “Elizabeth always used to laugh when she -said it. She always laughed so much that I don’t know how she ever came -to decide on being a missionary. I’m thankful she did—I prayed that she -might—but—I wish she hadn’t.” - -Then Aunt Jamesina wondered why those giddy girls all laughed. - -Anne’s eyes shone all that day; literary ambitions sprouted and budded -in her brain; their exhilaration accompanied her to Jennie Cooper’s -walking party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and Christine, walking -just ahead of her and Roy, could quite subdue the sparkle of her starry -hopes. Nevertheless, she was not so rapt from things of earth as to be -unable to notice that Christine’s walk was decidedly ungraceful. - -“But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face. So like a man,” thought -Anne scornfully. - -“Shall you be home Saturday afternoon?” asked Roy. - -“Yes.” - -“My mother and sisters are coming to call on you,” said Roy quietly. - -Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but it -was hardly a pleasant one. She had never met any of Roy’s family; she -realized the significance of his statement; and it had, somehow, an -irrevocableness about it that chilled her. - -“I shall be glad to see them,” she said flatly; and then wondered if -she really would be glad. She ought to be, of course. But would it not -be something of an ordeal? Gossip had filtered to Anne regarding the -light in which the Gardners viewed the “infatuation” of son and -brother. Roy must have brought pressure to bear in the matter of this -call. Anne knew she would be weighed in the balance. From the fact that -they had consented to call she understood that, willingly or -unwillingly, they regarded her as a possible member of their clan. - -“I shall just be myself. I shall not _try_ to make a good impression,” -thought Anne loftily. But she was wondering what dress she would better -wear Saturday afternoon, and if the new style of high hair-dressing -would suit her better than the old; and the walking party was rather -spoiled for her. By night she had decided that she would wear her brown -chiffon on Saturday, but would do her hair low. - -Friday afternoon none of the girls had classes at Redmond. Stella took -the opportunity to write a paper for the Philomathic Society, and was -sitting at the table in the corner of the living-room with an untidy -litter of notes and manuscript on the floor around her. Stella always -vowed she never could write anything unless she threw each sheet down -as she completed it. Anne, in her flannel blouse and serge skirt, with -her hair rather blown from her windy walk home, was sitting squarely in -the middle of the floor, teasing the Sarah-cat with a wishbone. Joseph -and Rusty were both curled up in her lap. A warm plummy odor filled the -whole house, for Priscilla was cooking in the kitchen. Presently she -came in, enshrouded in a huge work-apron, with a smudge of flour on her -nose, to show Aunt Jamesina the chocolate cake she had just iced. - -At this auspicious moment the knocker sounded. Nobody paid any -attention to it save Phil, who sprang up and opened it, expecting a boy -with the hat she had bought that morning. On the doorstep stood Mrs. -Gardner and her daughters. - -Anne scrambled to her feet somehow, emptying two indignant cats out of -her lap as she did so, and mechanically shifting her wishbone from her -right hand to her left. Priscilla, who would have had to cross the room -to reach the kitchen door, lost her head, wildly plunged the chocolate -cake under a cushion on the inglenook sofa, and dashed upstairs. Stella -began feverishly gathering up her manuscript. Only Aunt Jamesina and -Phil remained normal. Thanks to them, everybody was soon sitting at -ease, even Anne. Priscilla came down, apronless and smudgeless, Stella -reduced her corner to decency, and Phil saved the situation by a stream -of ready small talk. - -Mrs. Gardner was tall and thin and handsome, exquisitely gowned, -cordial with a cordiality that seemed a trifle forced. Aline Gardner -was a younger edition of her mother, lacking the cordiality. She -endeavored to be nice, but succeeded only in being haughty and -patronizing. Dorothy Gardner was slim and jolly and rather tomboyish. -Anne knew she was Roy’s favorite sister and warmed to her. She would -have looked very much like Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes instead -of roguish hazel ones. Thanks to her and Phil, the call really went off -very well, except for a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere and -two rather untoward incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to themselves, -began a game of chase, and sprang madly into Mrs. Gardner’s silken lap -and out of it in their wild career. Mrs. Gardner lifted her lorgnette -and gazed after their flying forms as if she had never seen cats -before, and Anne, choking back slightly nervous laughter, apologized as -best she could. - -“You are fond of cats?” said Mrs. Gardner, with a slight intonation of -tolerant wonder. - -Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of cats, -but Mrs. Gardner’s tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she remembered that -Mrs. John Blythe was so fond of cats that she kept as many as her -husband would allow. - -“They _are_ adorable animals, aren’t they?” she said wickedly. - -“I have never liked cats,” said Mrs. Gardner remotely. - -“I love them,” said Dorothy. “They are so nice and selfish. Dogs are -_too_ good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But cats are -gloriously human.” - -“You have two delightful old china dogs there. May I look at them -closely?” said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace and -thereby becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. Picking -up Magog, she sat down on the cushion under which was secreted -Priscilla’s chocolate cake. Priscilla and Anne exchanged agonized -glances but could do nothing. The stately Aline continued to sit on the -cushion and discuss china dogs until the time of departure. - -Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne’s hand and whisper -impulsively. - -“I _know_ you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all -about you. I’m the only one of the family he tells things to, poor -boy—nobody _could_ confide in mamma and Aline, you know. What glorious -times you girls must have here! Won’t you let me come often and have a -share in them?” - -“Come as often as you like,” Anne responded heartily, thankful that one -of Roy’s sisters was likable. She would never like Aline, so much was -certain; and Aline would never like her, though Mrs. Gardner might be -won. Altogether, Anne sighed with relief when the ordeal was over. - -“‘Of all sad words of tongue or pen -The saddest are it might have been,’” - - -quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. “This cake is now -what you might call a flat failure. And the cushion is likewise ruined. -Never tell me that Friday isn’t unlucky.” - -“People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn’t come on -Friday,” said Aunt Jamesina. - -“I fancy it was Roy’s mistake,” said Phil. “That boy isn’t really -responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where _is_ Anne?” - -Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying. But she made -herself laugh instead. Rusty and Joseph had been _too_ awful! And -Dorothy _was_ a dear. - - - - -Chapter XXXVII -Full-fledged B.A.’s - - -“I wish I were dead, or that it were tomorrow night,” groaned Phil. - -“If you live long enough both wishes will come true,” said Anne calmly. - -“It’s easy for you to be serene. You’re at home in Philosophy. I’m -not—and when I think of that horrible paper tomorrow I quail. If I -should fail in it what would Jo say?” - -“You won’t fail. How did you get on in Greek today?” - -“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a good paper and perhaps it was bad -enough to make Homer turn over in his grave. I’ve studied and mulled -over notebooks until I’m incapable of forming an opinion of anything. -How thankful little Phil will be when all this examinating is over.” - -“Examinating? I never heard such a word.” - -“Well, haven’t I as good a right to make a word as any one else?” -demanded Phil. - -“Words aren’t made—they grow,” said Anne. - -“Never mind—I begin faintly to discern clear water ahead where no -examination breakers loom. Girls, do you—can you realize that our -Redmond Life is almost over?” - -“I can’t,” said Anne, sorrowfully. “It seems just yesterday that Pris -and I were alone in that crowd of Freshmen at Redmond. And now we are -Seniors in our final examinations.” - -“‘Potent, wise, and reverend Seniors,’” quoted Phil. “Do you suppose we -really are any wiser than when we came to Redmond?” - -“You don’t act as if you were by times,” said Aunt Jamesina severely. - -“Oh, Aunt Jimsie, haven’t we been pretty good girls, take us by and -large, these three winters you’ve mothered us?” pleaded Phil. - -“You’ve been four of the dearest, sweetest, goodest girls that ever -went together through college,” averred Aunt Jamesina, who never -spoiled a compliment by misplaced economy. - -“But I mistrust you haven’t any too much sense yet. It’s not to be -expected, of course. Experience teaches sense. You can’t learn it in a -college course. You’ve been to college four years and I never was, but -I know heaps more than you do, young ladies.” - -“‘There are lots of things that never go by rule, -There’s a powerful pile o’ knowledge -That you never get at college, -There are heaps of things you never learn at school,’” - - -quoted Stella. - -“Have you learned anything at Redmond except dead languages and -geometry and such trash?” queried Aunt Jamesina. - -“Oh, yes. I think we have, Aunty,” protested Anne. - -“We’ve learned the truth of what Professor Woodleigh told us last -Philomathic,” said Phil. “He said, ‘Humor is the spiciest condiment in -the feast of existence. Laugh at your mistakes but learn from them, -joke over your troubles but gather strength from them, make a jest of -your difficulties but overcome them.’ Isn’t that worth learning, Aunt -Jimsie?” - -“Yes, it is, dearie. When you’ve learned to laugh at the things that -should be laughed at, and not to laugh at those that shouldn’t, you’ve -got wisdom and understanding.” - -“What have you got out of your Redmond course, Anne?” murmured -Priscilla aside. - -“I think,” said Anne slowly, “that I really have learned to look upon -each little hindrance as a jest and each great one as the foreshadowing -of victory. Summing up, I think that is what Redmond has given me.” - -“I shall have to fall back on another Professor Woodleigh quotation to -express what it has done for me,” said Priscilla. “You remember that he -said in his address, ‘There is so much in the world for us all if we -only have the eyes to see it, and the heart to love it, and the hand to -gather it to ourselves—so much in men and women, so much in art and -literature, so much everywhere in which to delight, and for which to be -thankful.’ I think Redmond has taught me that in some measure, Anne.” - -“Judging from what you all, say” remarked Aunt Jamesina, “the sum and -substance is that you can learn—if you’ve got natural gumption -enough—in four years at college what it would take about twenty years -of living to teach you. Well, that justifies higher education in my -opinion. It’s a matter I was always dubious about before.” - -“But what about people who haven’t natural gumption, Aunt Jimsie?” - -“People who haven’t natural gumption never learn,” retorted Aunt -Jamesina, “neither in college nor life. If they live to be a hundred -they really don’t know anything more than when they were born. It’s -their misfortune not their fault, poor souls. But those of us who have -some gumption should duly thank the Lord for it.” - -“Will you please define what gumption is, Aunt Jimsie?” asked Phil. - -“No, I won’t, young woman. Any one who has gumption knows what it is, -and any one who hasn’t can never know what it is. So there is no need -of defining it.” - -The busy days flew by and examinations were over. Anne took High Honors -in English. Priscilla took Honors in Classics, and Phil in Mathematics. -Stella obtained a good all-round showing. Then came Convocation. - -“This is what I would once have called an epoch in my life,” said Anne, -as she took Roy’s violets out of their box and gazed at them -thoughtfully. She meant to carry them, of course, but her eyes wandered -to another box on her table. It was filled with lilies-of-the-valley, -as fresh and fragrant as those which bloomed in the Green Gables yard -when June came to Avonlea. Gilbert Blythe’s card lay beside it. - -Anne wondered why Gilbert should have sent her flowers for Convocation. -She had seen very little of him during the past winter. He had come to -Patty’s Place only one Friday evening since the Christmas holidays, and -they rarely met elsewhere. She knew he was studying very hard, aiming -at High Honors and the Cooper Prize, and he took little part in the -social doings of Redmond. Anne’s own winter had been quite gay -socially. She had seen a good deal of the Gardners; she and Dorothy -were very intimate; college circles expected the announcement of her -engagement to Roy any day. Anne expected it herself. Yet just before -she left Patty’s Place for Convocation she flung Roy’s violets aside -and put Gilbert’s lilies-of-the-valley in their place. She could not -have told why she did it. Somehow, old Avonlea days and dreams and -friendships seemed very close to her in this attainment of her -long-cherished ambitions. She and Gilbert had once picturedout merrily -the day on which they should be capped and gowned graduates in Arts. -The wonderful day had come and Roy’s violets had no place in it. Only -her old friend’s flowers seemed to belong to this fruition of -old-blossoming hopes which he had once shared. - -For years this day had beckoned and allured to her; but when it came -the one single, keen, abiding memory it left with her was not that of -the breathless moment when the stately president of Redmond gave her -cap and diploma and hailed her B.A.; it was not of the flash in -Gilbert’s eyes when he saw her lilies, nor the puzzled pained glance -Roy gave her as he passed her on the platform. It was not of Aline -Gardner’s condescending congratulations, or Dorothy’s ardent, impulsive -good wishes. It was of one strange, unaccountable pang that spoiled -this long-expected day for her and left in it a certain faint but -enduring flavor of bitterness. - -The Arts graduates gave a graduation dance that night. When Anne -dressed for it she tossed aside the pearl beads she usually wore and -took from her trunk the small box that had come to Green Gables on -Christmas day. In it was a thread-like gold chain with a tiny pink -enamel heart as a pendant. On the accompanying card was written, “With -all good wishes from your old chum, Gilbert.” Anne, laughing over the -memory the enamel heart conjured up the fatal day when Gilbert had -called her “Carrots” and vainly tried to make his peace with a pink -candy heart, had written him a nice little note of thanks. But she had -never worn the trinket. Tonight she fastened it about her white throat -with a dreamy smile. - -She and Phil walked to Redmond together. Anne walked in silence; Phil -chattered of many things. Suddenly she said, - -“I heard today that Gilbert Blythe’s engagement to Christine Stuart was -to be announced as soon as Convocation was over. Did you hear anything -of it?” - -“No,” said Anne. - -“I think it’s true,” said Phil lightly. - -Anne did not speak. In the darkness she felt her face burning. She -slipped her hand inside her collar and caught at the gold chain. One -energetic twist and it gave way. Anne thrust the broken trinket into -her pocket. Her hands were trembling and her eyes were smarting. - -But she was the gayest of all the gay revellers that night, and told -Gilbert unregretfully that her card was full when he came to ask her -for a dance. Afterwards, when she sat with the girls before the dying -embers at Patty’s Place, removing the spring chilliness from their -satin skins, none chatted more blithely than she of the day’s events. - -“Moody Spurgeon MacPherson called here tonight after you left,” said -Aunt Jamesina, who had sat up to keep the fire on. “He didn’t know -about the graduation dance. That boy ought to sleep with a rubber band -around his head to train his ears not to stick out. I had a beau once -who did that and it improved him immensely. It was I who suggested it -to him and he took my advice, but he never forgave me for it.” - -“Moody Spurgeon is a very serious young man,” yawned Priscilla. “He is -concerned with graver matters than his ears. He is going to be a -minister, you know.” - -“Well, I suppose the Lord doesn’t regard the ears of a man,” said Aunt -Jamesina gravely, dropping all further criticism of Moody Spurgeon. -Aunt Jamesina had a proper respect for the cloth even in the case of an -unfledged parson. - - - - -Chapter XXXVIII -False Dawn - - -“Just imagine—this night week I’ll be in Avonlea—delightful thought!” -said Anne, bending over the box in which she was packing Mrs. Rachel -Lynde’s quilts. “But just imagine—this night week I’ll be gone forever -from Patty’s Place—horrible thought!” - -“I wonder if the ghost of all our laughter will echo through the maiden -dreams of Miss Patty and Miss Maria,” speculated Phil. - -Miss Patty and Miss Maria were coming home, after having trotted over -most of the habitable globe. - -“We’ll be back the second week in May” wrote Miss Patty. “I expect -Patty’s Place will seem rather small after the Hall of the Kings at -Karnak, but I never did like big places to live in. And I’ll be glad -enough to be home again. When you start traveling late in life you’re -apt to do too much of it because you know you haven’t much time left, -and it’s a thing that grows on you. I’m afraid Maria will never be -contented again.” - -“I shall leave here my fancies and dreams to bless the next comer,” -said Anne, looking around the blue room wistfully—her pretty blue room -where she had spent three such happy years. She had knelt at its window -to pray and had bent from it to watch the sunset behind the pines. She -had heard the autumn raindrops beating against it and had welcomed the -spring robins at its sill. She wondered if old dreams could haunt -rooms—if, when one left forever the room where she had joyed and -suffered and laughed and wept, something of her, intangible and -invisible, yet nonetheless real, did not remain behind like a voiceful -memory. - -“I think,” said Phil, “that a room where one dreams and grieves and -rejoices and lives becomes inseparably connected with those processes -and acquires a personality of its own. I am sure if I came into this -room fifty years from now it would say ‘Anne, Anne’ to me. What nice -times we’ve had here, honey! What chats and jokes and good chummy -jamborees! Oh, dear me! I’m to marry Jo in June and I know I will be -rapturously happy. But just now I feel as if I wanted this lovely -Redmond life to go on forever.” - -“I’m unreasonable enough just now to wish that, too,” admitted Anne. -“No matter what deeper joys may come to us later on we’ll never again -have just the same delightful, irresponsible existence we’ve had here. -It’s over forever, Phil.” - -“What are you going to do with Rusty?” asked Phil, as that privileged -pussy padded into the room. - -“I am going to take him home with me and Joseph and the Sarah-cat,” -announced Aunt Jamesina, following Rusty. “It would be a shame to -separate those cats now that they have learned to live together. It’s a -hard lesson for cats and humans to learn.” - -“I’m sorry to part with Rusty,” said Anne regretfully, “but it would be -no use to take him to Green Gables. Marilla detests cats, and Davy -would tease his life out. Besides, I don’t suppose I’ll be home very -long. I’ve been offered the principalship of the Summerside High -School.” - -“Are you going to accept it?” asked Phil. - -“I—I haven’t decided yet,” answered Anne, with a confused flush. - -Phil nodded understandingly. Naturally Anne’s plans could not be -settled until Roy had spoken. He would soon—there was no doubt of that. -And there was no doubt that Anne would say “yes” when he said “Will you -please?” Anne herself regarded the state of affairs with a -seldom-ruffled complacency. She was deeply in love with Roy. True, it -was not just what she had imagined love to be. But was anything in -life, Anne asked herself wearily, like one’s imagination of it? It was -the old diamond disillusion of childhood repeated—the same -disappointment she had felt when she had first seen the chill sparkle -instead of the purple splendor she had anticipated. “That’s not my idea -of a diamond,” she had said. But Roy was a dear fellow and they would -be very happy together, even if some indefinable zest was missing out -of life. When Roy came down that evening and asked Anne to walk in the -park every one at Patty’s Place knew what he had come to say; and every -one knew, or thought they knew, what Anne’s answer would be. - -“Anne is a very fortunate girl,” said Aunt Jamesina. - -“I suppose so,” said Stella, shrugging her shoulders. “Roy is a nice -fellow and all that. But there’s really nothing in him.” - -“That sounds very like a jealous remark, Stella Maynard,” said Aunt -Jamesina rebukingly. - -“It does—but I am not jealous,” said Stella calmly. “I love Anne and I -like Roy. Everybody says she is making a brilliant match, and even Mrs. -Gardner thinks her charming now. It all sounds as if it were made in -heaven, but I have my doubts. Make the most of that, Aunt Jamesina.” - -Roy asked Anne to marry him in the little pavilion on the harbor shore -where they had talked on the rainy day of their first meeting. Anne -thought it very romantic that he should have chosen that spot. And his -proposal was as beautifully worded as if he had copied it, as one of -Ruby Gillis’ lovers had done, out of a Deportment of Courtship and -Marriage. The whole effect was quite flawless. And it was also sincere. -There was no doubt that Roy meant what he said. There was no false note -to jar the symphony. Anne felt that she ought to be thrilling from head -to foot. But she wasn’t; she was horribly cool. When Roy paused for his -answer she opened her lips to say her fateful yes. And then—she found -herself trembling as if she were reeling back from a precipice. To her -came one of those moments when we realize, as by a blinding flash of -illumination, more than all our previous years have taught us. She -pulled her hand from Roy’s. - -“Oh, I can’t marry you—I can’t—I can’t,” she cried, wildly. - -Roy turned pale—and also looked rather foolish. He had—small blame to -him—felt very sure. - -“What do you mean?” he stammered. - -“I mean that I can’t marry you,” repeated Anne desperately. “I thought -I could—but I can’t.” - -“Why can’t you?” Roy asked more calmly. - -“Because—I don’t care enough for you.” - -A crimson streak came into Roy’s face. - -“So you’ve just been amusing yourself these two years?” he said slowly. - -“No, no, I haven’t,” gasped poor Anne. Oh, how could she explain? She -_couldn’t_ explain. There are some things that cannot be explained. “I -did think I cared—truly I did—but I know now I don’t.” - -“You have ruined my life,” said Roy bitterly. - -“Forgive me,” pleaded Anne miserably, with hot cheeks and stinging -eyes. - -Roy turned away and stood for a few minutes looking out seaward. When -he came back to Anne, he was very pale again. - -“You can give me no hope?” he said. - -Anne shook her head mutely. - -“Then—good-bye,” said Roy. “I can’t understand it—I can’t believe you -are not the woman I’ve believed you to be. But reproaches are idle -between us. You are the only woman I can ever love. I thank you for -your friendship, at least. Good-bye, Anne.” - -“Good-bye,” faltered Anne. When Roy had gone she sat for a long time in -the pavilion, watching a white mist creeping subtly and remorselessly -landward up the harbor. It was her hour of humiliation and -self-contempt and shame. Their waves went over her. And yet, underneath -it all, was a queer sense of recovered freedom. - -She slipped into Patty’s Place in the dusk and escaped to her room. But -Phil was there on the window seat. - -“Wait,” said Anne, flushing to anticipate the scene. “Wait til you hear -what I have to say. Phil, Roy asked me to marry him-and I refused.” - -“You—you _refused_ him?” said Phil blankly. - -“Yes.” - -“Anne Shirley, are you in your senses?” - -“I think so,” said Anne wearily. “Oh, Phil, don’t scold me. You don’t -understand.” - -“I certainly don’t understand. You’ve encouraged Roy Gardner in every -way for two years—and now you tell me you’ve refused him. Then you’ve -just been flirting scandalously with him. Anne, I couldn’t have -believed it of _you_.” - -“I _wasn’t_ flirting with him—I honestly thought I cared up to the last -minute—and then—well, I just knew I _never_ could marry him.” - -“I suppose,” said Phil cruelly, “that you intended to marry him for his -money, and then your better self rose up and prevented you.” - -“I _didnt’t_. I never thought about his money. Oh, I can’t explain it -to you any more than I could to him.” - -“Well, I certainly think you have treated Roy shamefully,” said Phil in -exasperation. “He’s handsome and clever and rich and good. What more do -you want?” - -“I want some one who _belongs_ in my life. He doesn’t. I was swept off -my feet at first by his good looks and knack of paying romantic -compliments; and later on I thought I _must_ be in love because he was -my dark-eyed ideal.” - -“I am bad enough for not knowing my own mind, but you are worse,” said -Phil. - -“_I_ _do_ know my own mind,” protested Anne. “The trouble is, my mind -changes and then I have to get acquainted with it all over again.” - -“Well, I suppose there is no use in saying anything to you.” - -“There is no need, Phil. I’m in the dust. This has spoiled everything -backwards. I can never think of Redmond days without recalling the -humiliation of this evening. Roy despises me—and you despise me—and I -despise myself.” - -“You poor darling,” said Phil, melting. “Just come here and let me -comfort you. I’ve no right to scold you. I’d have married Alec or -Alonzo if I hadn’t met Jo. Oh, Anne, things are so mixed-up in real -life. They aren’t clear-cut and trimmed off, as they are in novels.” - -“I hope that _no_ one will ever again ask me to marry him as long as I -live,” sobbed poor Anne, devoutly believing that she meant it. - - - - -Chapter XXXIX -Deals with Weddings - - -Anne felt that life partook of the nature of an anticlimax during the -first few weeks after her return to Green Gables. She missed the merry -comradeship of Patty’s Place. She had dreamed some brilliant dreams -during the past winter and now they lay in the dust around her. In her -present mood of self-disgust, she could not immediately begin dreaming -again. And she discovered that, while solitude with dreams is glorious, -solitude without them has few charms. - -She had not seen Roy again after their painful parting in the park -pavilion; but Dorothy came to see her before she left Kingsport. - -“I’m awfully sorry you won’t marry Roy,” she said. “I did want you for -a sister. But you are quite right. He would bore you to death. I love -him, and he is a dear sweet boy, but really he isn’t a bit interesting. -He looks as if he ought to be, but he isn’t.” - -“This won’t spoil _our_ friendship, will it, Dorothy?” Anne had asked -wistfully. - -“No, indeed. You’re too good to lose. If I can’t have you for a sister -I mean to keep you as a chum anyway. And don’t fret over Roy. He is -feeling terribly just now—I have to listen to his outpourings every -day—but he’ll get over it. He always does.” - -“Oh—_always?_” said Anne with a slight change of voice. “So he has ‘got -over it’ before?” - -“Dear me, yes,” said Dorothy frankly. “Twice before. And he raved to me -just the same both times. Not that the others actually refused him—they -simply announced their engagements to some one else. Of course, when he -met you he vowed to me that he had never really loved before—that the -previous affairs had been merely boyish fancies. But I don’t think you -need worry.” - -Anne decided not to worry. Her feelings were a mixture of relief and -resentment. Roy had certainly told her she was the only one he had ever -loved. No doubt he believed it. But it was a comfort to feel that she -had not, in all likelihood, ruined his life. There were other -goddesses, and Roy, according to Dorothy, must needs be worshipping at -some shrine. Nevertheless, life was stripped of several more illusions, -and Anne began to think drearily that it seemed rather bare. - -She came down from the porch gable on the evening of her return with a -sorrowful face. - -“What has happened to the old Snow Queen, Marilla?” - -“Oh, I knew you’d feel bad over that,” said Marilla. “I felt bad -myself. That tree was there ever since I was a young girl. It blew down -in the big gale we had in March. It was rotten at the core.” - -“I’ll miss it so,” grieved Anne. “The porch gable doesn’t seem the same -room without it. I’ll never look from its window again without a sense -of loss. And oh, I never came home to Green Gables before that Diana -wasn’t here to welcome me.” - -“Diana has something else to think of just now,” said Mrs. Lynde -significantly. - -“Well, tell me all the Avonlea news,” said Anne, sitting down on the -porch steps, where the evening sunshine fell over her hair in a fine -golden rain. - -“There isn’t much news except what we’ve wrote you,” said Mrs. Lynde. -“I suppose you haven’t heard that Simon Fletcher broke his leg last -week. It’s a great thing for his family. They’re getting a hundred -things done that they’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t as long as he -was about, the old crank.” - -“He came of an aggravating family,” remarked Marilla. - -“Aggravating? Well, rather! His mother used to get up in prayer-meeting -and tell all her children’s shortcomings and ask prayers for them. -’Course it made them mad, and worse than ever.” - -“You haven’t told Anne the news about Jane,” suggested Marilla. - -“Oh, Jane,” sniffed Mrs. Lynde. “Well,” she conceded grudgingly, “Jane -Andrews is home from the West—came last week—and she’s going to be -married to a Winnipeg millionaire. You may be sure Mrs. Harmon lost no -time in telling it far and wide.” - -“Dear old Jane—I’m so glad,” said Anne heartily. “She deserves the good -things of life.” - -“Oh, I ain’t saying anything against Jane. She’s a nice enough girl. -But she isn’t in the millionaire class, and you’ll find there’s not -much to recommend that man but his money, that’s what. Mrs. Harmon says -he’s an Englishman who has made money in mines but _I_ believe he’ll -turn out to be a Yankee. He certainly must have money, for he has just -showered Jane with jewelry. Her engagement ring is a diamond cluster so -big that it looks like a plaster on Jane’s fat paw.” - -Mrs. Lynde could not keep some bitterness out of her tone. Here was -Jane Andrews, that plain little plodder, engaged to a millionaire, -while Anne, it seemed, was not yet bespoken by any one, rich or poor. -And Mrs. Harmon Andrews did brag insufferably. - -“What has Gilbert Blythe been doing to at college?” asked Marilla. “I -saw him when he came home last week, and he is so pale and thin I -hardly knew him.” - -“He studied very hard last winter,” said Anne. “You know he took High -Honors in Classics and the Cooper Prize. It hasn’t been taken for five -years! So I think he’s rather run down. We’re all a little tired.” - -“Anyhow, you’re a B.A. and Jane Andrews isn’t and never will be,” said -Mrs. Lynde, with gloomy satisfaction. - -A few evenings later Anne went down to see Jane, but the latter was -away in Charlottetown—“getting sewing done,” Mrs. Harmon informed Anne -proudly. “Of course an Avonlea dressmaker wouldn’t do for Jane under -the circumstances.” - -“I’ve heard something very nice about Jane,” said Anne. - -“Yes, Jane has done pretty well, even if she isn’t a B.A.,” said Mrs. -Harmon, with a slight toss of her head. “Mr. Inglis is worth millions, -and they’re going to Europe on their wedding tour. When they come back -they’ll live in a perfect mansion of marble in Winnipeg. Jane has only -one trouble—she can cook so well and her husband won’t let her cook. He -is so rich he hires his cooking done. They’re going to keep a cook and -two other maids and a coachman and a man-of-all-work. But what about -_you_, Anne? I don’t hear anything of your being married, after all -your college-going.” - -“Oh,” laughed Anne, “I am going to be an old maid. I really can’t find -any one to suit me.” It was rather wicked of her. She deliberately -meant to remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became an old maid it was not -because she had not had at least one chance of marriage. But Mrs. -Harmon took swift revenge. - -“Well, the over-particular girls generally get left, I notice. And -what’s this I hear about Gilbert Blythe being engaged to a Miss Stuart? -Charlie Sloane tells me she is perfectly beautiful. Is it true?” - -“I don’t know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss Stuart,” replied -Anne, with Spartan composure, “but it is certainly true that she is -very lovely.” - -“I once thought you and Gilbert would have made a match of it,” said -Mrs. Harmon. “If you don’t take care, Anne, all of your beaux will slip -through your fingers.” - -Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. You could not -fence with an antagonist who met rapier thrust with blow of battle axe. - -“Since Jane is away,” she said, rising haughtily, “I don’t think I can -stay longer this morning. I’ll come down when she comes home.” - -“Do,” said Mrs. Harmon effusively. “Jane isn’t a bit proud. She just -means to associate with her old friends the same as ever. She’ll be -real glad to see you.” - -Jane’s millionaire arrived the last of May and carried her off in a -blaze of splendor. Mrs. Lynde was spitefully gratified to find that Mr. -Inglis was every day of forty, and short and thin and grayish. Mrs. -Lynde did not spare him in her enumeration of his shortcomings, you may -be sure. - -“It will take all his gold to gild a pill like him, that’s what,” said -Mrs. Rachel solemnly. - -“He looks kind and good-hearted,” said Anne loyally, “and I’m sure he -thinks the world of Jane.” - -“Humph!” said Mrs. Rachel. - -Phil Gordon was married the next week and Anne went over to Bolingbroke -to be her bridesmaid. Phil made a dainty fairy of a bride, and the Rev. -Jo was so radiant in his happiness that nobody thought him plain. - -“We’re going for a lovers’ saunter through the land of Evangeline,” -said Phil, “and then we’ll settle down on Patterson Street. Mother -thinks it is terrible—she thinks Jo might at least take a church in a -decent place. But the wilderness of the Patterson slums will blossom -like the rose for me if Jo is there. Oh, Anne, I’m so happy my heart -aches with it.” - -Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends; but it is -sometimes a little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by a happiness -that is not your own. And it was just the same when she went back to -Avonlea. This time it was Diana who was bathed in the wonderful glory -that comes to a woman when her first-born is laid beside her. Anne -looked at the white young mother with a certain awe that had never -entered into her feelings for Diana before. Could this pale woman with -the rapture in her eyes be the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked Diana -she had played with in vanished schooldays? It gave her a queer -desolate feeling that she herself somehow belonged only in those past -years and had no business in the present at all. - -“Isn’t he perfectly beautiful?” said Diana proudly. - -The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred—just as round, just as -red. Anne really could not say conscientiously that she thought him -beautiful, but she vowed sincerely that he was sweet and kissable and -altogether delightful. - -“Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE,” said -Diana. “But now that little Fred is here I wouldn’t exchange him for a -million girls. He just _couldn’t_ have been anything but his own -precious self.” - -“‘Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,’” quoted Mrs. Allan -gaily. “If little Anne _had_ come you’d have felt just the same about -her.” - -Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving -it. She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her old girl -friends had welcomed her back rapturously. The reigning minister’s wife -was an estimable lady, but she was not exactly a kindred spirit. - -“I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk,” sighed Diana. “I -just long to hear him say ‘mother.’ And oh, I’m determined that his -first memory of me shall be a nice one. The first memory I have of my -mother is of her slapping me for something I had done. I am sure I -deserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I love her dearly. -But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer.” - -“I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of all my -memories,” said Mrs. Allan. “I was five years old, and I had been -allowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters. When school -came out my sisters went home in different groups, each supposing I was -with the other. Instead I had run off with a little girl I had played -with at recess. We went to her home, which was near the school, and -began making mud pies. We were having a glorious time when my older -sister arrived, breathless and angry. - -“‘You naughty girl” she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and dragging -me along with her. ‘Come home this minute. Oh, you’re going to catch -it! Mother is awful cross. She is going to give you a good whipping.’ - -“I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor little -heart. I have never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk -home. I had not meant to be naughty. Phemy Cameron had asked me to go -home with her and I had not known it was wrong to go. And now I was to -be whipped for it. When we got home my sister dragged me into the -kitchen where mother was sitting by the fire in the twilight. My poor -wee legs were trembling so that I could hardly stand. And mother—mother -just took me up in her arms, without one word of rebuke or harshness, -kissed me and held me close to her heart. ‘I was so frightened you were -lost, darling,’ she said tenderly. I could see the love shining in her -eyes as she looked down on me. She never scolded or reproached me for -what I had done—only told me I must never go away again without asking -permission. She died very soon afterwards. That is the only memory I -have of her. Isn’t it a beautiful one?” - -Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of the -Birch Path and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons. -It was a darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was heavy with blossom -fragrance—almost too heavy. The cloyed senses recoiled from it as from -an overfull cup. The birches of the path had grown from the fairy -saplings of old to big trees. Everything had changed. Anne felt that -she would be glad when the summer was over and she was away at work -again. Perhaps life would not seem so empty then. - -“‘I’ve tried the world—it wears no more -The coloring of romance it wore,’” - - -sighed Anne—and was straightway much comforted by the romance in the -idea of the world being denuded of romance! - - - - -Chapter XL -A Book of Revelation - - -The Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent a -happy three weeks there in July. Miss Lavendar had not changed; -Charlotta the Fourth was a very grown-up young lady now, but still -adored Anne sincerely. - -“When all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am, I haven’t seen any one -in Boston that’s equal to you,” she said frankly. - -Paul was almost grown up, too. He was sixteen, his chestnut curls had -given place to close-cropped brown locks, and he was more interested in -football than fairies. But the bond between him and his old teacher -still held. Kindred spirits alone do not change with changing years. - -It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to Green -Gables. One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes sweep over the -gulf was ravaging the sea. As Anne came in the first raindrops dashed -against the panes. - -“Was that Paul who brought you home?” asked Marilla. “Why didn’t you -make him stay all night. It’s going to be a wild evening.” - -“He’ll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think. -Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight. Well, I’ve had a splendid visit, -but I’m glad to see you dear folks again. ‘East, west, hame’s best.’ -Davy, have you been growing again lately?” - -“I’ve growed a whole inch since you left,” said Davy proudly. “I’m as -tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain’t I glad. He’ll have to stop crowing -about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is -dying?” Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at Davy. Her -face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint. - -“Davy, hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Rachel angrily. “Anne, don’t look -like that—_don’t look like that!_ We didn’t mean to tell you so -suddenly.” - -“Is—it—true?” asked Anne in a voice that was not hers. - -“Gilbert is very ill,” said Mrs. Lynde gravely. “He took down with -typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of -it?” - -“No,” said that unknown voice. - -“It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he’d been -terribly run down. They’ve a trained nurse and everything’s been done. -_don’t_ look like that, Anne. While there’s life there’s hope.” - -“Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of -him,” reiterated Davy. - -Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly -out of the kitchen. - -“Oh, _don’t_ look so, dear,” said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old -arms about the pallid girl. “I haven’t given up hope, indeed I haven’t. -He’s got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that’s what.” - -Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde’s arms away from her, walked blindly across -the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its -window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. The -rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods was -full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air -throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. And -Gilbert was dying! - -There is a book of Revelation in every one’s life, as there is in the -Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil -through the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert—had always -loved him! She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him -out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her right -hand and cast it from her. And the knowledge had come too late—too late -even for the bitter solace of being with him at the last. If she had -not been so blind—so foolish—she would have had the right to go to him -now. But he would never know that she loved him—he would go away from -this life thinking that she did not care. Oh, the black years of -emptiness stretching before her! She could not live through them—she -could not! She cowered down by her window and wished, for the first -time in her gay young life, that she could die, too. If Gilbert went -away from her, without one word or sign or message, she could not live. -Nothing was of any value without him. She belonged to him and he to -her. In her hour of supreme agony she had no doubt of that. He did not -love Christine Stuart—never had loved Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool -she had been not to realize what the bond was that had held her to -Gilbert—to think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner -had been love. And now she must pay for her folly as for a crime. - -Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook -their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away. -The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne -saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern -hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. The clouds rolled themselves away -into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and -silvery. A hush fell over the world. - -Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the -rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, -and cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was -lilting up the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote came in sight. - -Anne’s physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched -at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George -Fletcher’s hired man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the -Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert’s aunt. Pacifique would know -if—if—Pacifique would know what there was to be known. - -Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not -see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost -past before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call, -“Pacifique!” - -Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning. - -“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did you come from George Fletcher’s -this morning?” - -“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably. “I got de word las’ night dat my fader, -he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go den, so I start vair -early dis mornin’. I’m goin’ troo de woods for short cut.” - -“Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?” Anne’s desperation -drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable than -this hideous suspense. - -“He’s better,” said Pacifique. “He got de turn las’ night. De doctor -say he’ll be all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat -boy, he jus’ keel himself at college. Well, I mus’ hurry. De old man, -he’ll be in hurry to see me.” - -Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with -eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He -was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he -was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains. -Never, as long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique’s brown, round, -black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had -given to her the oil of joy for mourning. - -Long after Pacifique’s gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music -and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover’s Lane Anne -stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when -some great dread has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled -with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of -new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from -the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her -mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came -to her lips, - -“Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.” - - - - -Chapter XLI -Love Takes Up the Glass of Time - - -“I’ve come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through -September woods and ‘over hills where spices grow,’ this afternoon,” -said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. “Suppose we -visit Hester Gray’s garden.” - -Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy, -green stuff, looked up rather blankly. - -“Oh, I wish I could,” she said slowly, “but I really can’t, Gilbert. -I’m going to Alice Penhallow’s wedding this evening, you know. I’ve got -to do something to this dress, and by the time it’s finished I’ll have -to get ready. I’m so sorry. I’d love to go.” - -“Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?” asked Gilbert, apparently -not much disappointed. - -“Yes, I think so.” - -“In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should -otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is to be married -tonight. Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne—Phil’s, Alice’s, -and Jane’s. I’ll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her -wedding.” - -“You really can’t blame her when you think of the tremendous Andrews -connection who had to be invited. The house could hardly hold them all. -I was only bidden by grace of being Jane’s old chum—at least on Jane’s -part. I think Mrs. Harmon’s motive for inviting me was to let me see -Jane’s surpassing gorgeousness.” - -“Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn’t tell where -the diamonds left off and Jane began?” - -Anne laughed. - -“She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and white -satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, prim little -Jane was almost lost to sight. But she was _very_ happy, and so was Mr. -Inglis—and so was Mrs. Harmon.” - -“Is that the dress you’re going to wear tonight?” asked Gilbert, -looking down at the fluffs and frills. - -“Yes. Isn’t it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. The -Haunted Wood is full of them this summer.” - -Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown, -with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and -white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision -made him catch his breath. But he turned lightly away. - -“Well, I’ll be up tomorrow. Hope you’ll have a nice time tonight.” - -Anne looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was -friendly—very friendly—far too friendly. He had come quite often to -Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their old comradeship -had returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. The rose of love -made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast. And Anne -had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but -friendship. In the common light of common day her radiant certainty of -that rapt morning had faded. She was haunted by a miserable fear that -her mistake could never be rectified. It was quite likely that it was -Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. Perhaps he was even engaged to -her. Anne tried to put all unsettling hopes out of her heart, and -reconcile herself to a future where work and ambition must take the -place of love. She could do good, if not noble, work as a teacher; and -the success her little sketches were beginning to meet with in certain -editorial sanctums augured well for her budding literary dreams. -But—but—Anne picked up her green dress and sighed again. - -When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him, -fresh as the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the -preceding night. She wore a green dress—not the one she had worn to the -wedding, but an old one which Gilbert had told her at a Redmond -reception he liked especially. It was just the shade of green that -brought out the rich tints of her hair, and the starry gray of her eyes -and the iris-like delicacy of her skin. Gilbert, glancing at her -sideways as they walked along a shadowy woodpath, thought she had never -looked so lovely. Anne, glancing sideways at Gilbert, now and then, -thought how much older he looked since his illness. It was as if he had -put boyhood behind him forever. - -The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry -when they reached Hester Gray’s garden, and sat down on the old bench. -But it was beautiful there, too—as beautiful as it had been on the -faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and -she had found it. Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets; -now golden rod had kindled its fairy torches in the corners and asters -dotted it bluely. The call of the brook came up through the woods from -the valley of birches with all its old allurement; the mellow air was -full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences -bleached silvery gray in the suns of many summers, and long hills -scarfed with the shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the -west wind old dreams returned. - -“I think,” said Anne softly, “that ‘the land where dreams come true’ is -in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley.” - -“Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?” asked Gilbert. - -Something in his tone—something she had not heard since that miserable -evening in the orchard at Patty’s Place—made Anne’s heart beat wildly. -But she made answer lightly. - -“Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn’t do for us to have all our dreams -fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream -about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting -from the asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as -smell them. I’m sure they would be very beautiful.” - -Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked. - -“I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, although -it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a -home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of -friends—and _you!_” - -Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was -breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her. - -“I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again -today will you give me a different answer?” - -Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all -the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a -moment. He wanted no other answer. - -They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden -must have been, crept over it. There was so much to talk over and -recall—things said and done and heard and thought and felt and -misunderstood. - -“I thought you loved Christine Stuart,” Anne told him, as reproachfully -as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she loved Roy -Gardner. - -Gilbert laughed boyishly. - -“Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it and she -knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was -coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I -would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very -lonely. So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is -one of the nicest girls I’ve ever known. I knew college gossip credited -us with being in love with each other. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered -much to me for a time there, after you told me you could never love me, -Anne. There was nobody else—there never could be anybody else for me -but you. I’ve loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over -my head in school.” - -“I don’t see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a little -fool,” said Anne. - -“Well, I tried to stop,” said Gilbert frankly, “not because I thought -you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance -for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn’t—and I can’t tell -you, either, what it’s meant to me these two years to believe you were -going to marry him, and be told every week by some busybody that your -engagement was on the point of being announced. I believed it until one -blessed day when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from -Phil Gordon—Phil Blake, rather—in which she told me there was really -nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to ‘try again.’ Well, the -doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that.” - -Anne laughed—then shivered. - -“I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I -knew—I _knew_ then—and I thought it was too late.” - -“But it wasn’t, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, -doesn’t it? Let’s resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all -our lives for the gift it has given us.” - -“It’s the birthday of our happiness,” said Anne softly. “I’ve always -loved this old garden of Hester Gray’s, and now it will be dearer than -ever.” - -“But I’ll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne,” said Gilbert -sadly. “It will be three years before I’ll finish my medical course. -And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls.” - -Anne laughed. - -“I don’t want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want _you_. You see -I’m quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may -be all very well, but there is more ‘scope for imagination’ without -them. And as for the waiting, that doesn’t matter. We’ll just be happy, -waiting and working for each other—and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be -very sweet now.” - -Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home -together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of -love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever -bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF THE ISLAND *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Anne Of The Island</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 1993 [eBook #51]<br /> -[Most recently updated: June 27, 2022]</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Keller and David Widger</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF THE ISLAND ***</div> - -<h1>Anne of the Island</h1> - -<h2 class="no-break">by Lucy Maud Montgomery</h2> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="letter"> -All precious things discovered late<br/> -To those that seek them issue forth,<br/> -For Love in sequel works with Fate,<br/> -And draws the veil from hidden worth.<br/> - —TENNYSON -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center"> -to<br/> -all the girls<br/> -all over the world<br/> -who have “wanted more”<br/> -about ANNE -</p> - -<hr /> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary="" style=""> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0001">Chapter I. The Shadow of Change</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0002">Chapter II. Garlands of Autumn</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0003">Chapter III. Greeting and Farewell</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0004">Chapter IV. April’s Lady</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0005">Chapter V. Letters from Home</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0006">Chapter VI. In the Park</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0007">Chapter VII. Home Again</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0008">Chapter VIII. Anne’s First Proposal</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0009">Chapter IX. An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0010">Chapter X. Patty’s Place</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0011">Chapter XI. The Round of Life</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0012">Chapter XII. “Averil’s Atonement”</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0013">Chapter XIII. The Way of Transgressors</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0014">Chapter XIV. The Summons</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0015">Chapter XV. A Dream Turned Upside Down</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0016">Chapter XVI. Adjusted Relationships</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0017">Chapter XVII. A Letter from Davy</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0018">Chapter XVIII. Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0019">Chapter XIX. An Interlude</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0020">Chapter XX. Gilbert Speaks</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0021">Chapter XXI. Roses of Yesterday</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0022">Chapter XXII. Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0023">Chapter XXIII. Paul Cannot Find the Rock People</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0024">Chapter XXIV. Enter Jonas</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0025">Chapter XXV. Enter Prince Charming</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0026">Chapter XXVI. Enter Christine</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0027">Chapter XXVII. Mutual Confidences</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0028">Chapter XXVIII. A June Evening</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0029">Chapter XXIX. Diana’s Wedding</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0030">Chapter XXX. Mrs. Skinner’s Romance</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0031">Chapter XXXI. Anne to Philippa</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0032">Chapter XXXII. Tea with Mrs. Douglas</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0033">Chapter XXXIII. “He Just Kept Coming and Coming”</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0034">Chapter XXXIV. John Douglas Speaks at Last</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0035">Chapter XXXV. The Last Redmond Year Opens</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0036">Chapter XXXVI. The Gardners’Call</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0037">Chapter XXXVII. Full-fledged B.A.’s</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0038">Chapter XXXVIII. False Dawn</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0039">Chapter XXXIX. Deals with Weddings</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0040">Chapter XL. A Book of Revelation</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#link2HCH0041">Chapter XLI. Love Takes Up the Glass of Time</a></td> -</tr> - -</table> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Anne of the Island</h2> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a> -Chapter I<br/> -The Shadow of Change</h2> - -<p> -“Harvest is ended and summer is gone,” quoted Anne Shirley, gazing -across the shorn fields dreamily. She and Diana Barry had been picking apples -in the Green Gables orchard, but were now resting from their labors in a sunny -corner, where airy fleets of thistledown drifted by on the wings of a wind that -was still summer-sweet with the incense of ferns in the Haunted Wood. -</p> - -<p> -But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn. The sea was -roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare and sere, scarfed with -golden rod, the brook valley below Green Gables overflowed with asters of -ethereal purple, and the Lake of Shining Waters was blue—blue—blue; -not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, -steadfast, serene blue, as if the water were past all moods and tenses of -emotion and had settled down to a tranquility unbroken by fickle dreams. -</p> - -<p> -“It has been a nice summer,” said Diana, twisting the new ring on -her left hand with a smile. “And Miss Lavendar’s wedding seemed to -come as a sort of crown to it. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving are on the Pacific -coast now.” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the -world,” sighed Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t believe it is only a week since they were married. -Everything has changed. Miss Lavendar and Mr. and Mrs. Allan gone—how -lonely the manse looks with the shutters all closed! I went past it last night, -and it made me feel as if everybody in it had died.” -</p> - -<p> -“We’ll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allan,” said -Diana, with gloomy conviction. “I suppose we’ll have all kinds of -supplies this winter, and half the Sundays no preaching at all. And you and -Gilbert gone—it will be awfully dull.” -</p> - -<p> -“Fred will be here,” insinuated Anne slyly. -</p> - -<p> -“When is Mrs. Lynde going to move up?” asked Diana, as if she had -not heard Anne’s remark. -</p> - -<p> -“Tomorrow. I’m glad she’s coming—but it will be another -change. Marilla and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday. Do -you know, I hated to do it? Of course, it was silly—but it did seem as if -we were committing sacrilege. That old spare room has always seemed like a -shrine to me. When I was a child I thought it the most wonderful apartment in -the world. You remember what a consuming desire I had to sleep in a spare room -bed—but not the Green Gables spare room. Oh, no, never there! It would -have been too terrible—I couldn’t have slept a wink from awe. I -never <i>walked</i> through that room when Marilla sent me in on an -errand—no, indeed, I tiptoed through it and held my breath, as if I were -in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it. The pictures of George -Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington hung there, one on each side of the -mirror, and frowned so sternly at me all the time I was in, especially if I -dared peep in the mirror, which was the only one in the house that didn’t -twist my face a little. I always wondered how Marilla dared houseclean that -room. And now it’s not only cleaned but stripped bare. George Whitefield -and the Duke have been relegated to the upstairs hall. ‘So passes the -glory of this world,’” concluded Anne, with a laugh in which there -was a little note of regret. It is never pleasant to have our old shrines -desecrated, even when we have outgrown them. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll be so lonesome when you go,” moaned Diana for the -hundredth time. “And to think you go next week!” -</p> - -<p> -“But we’re together still,” said Anne cheerily. “We -mustn’t let next week rob us of this week’s joy. I hate the thought -of going myself—home and I are such good friends. Talk of being lonesome! -It’s I who should groan. <i>You’ll</i> be here with any number of -your old friends—<i>and</i> Fred! While I shall be alone among strangers, -not knowing a soul!” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Except</i> Gilbert—<i>and</i> Charlie Sloane,” said -Diana, imitating Anne’s italics and slyness. -</p> - -<p> -“Charlie Sloane will be a great comfort, of course,” agreed Anne -sarcastically; whereupon both those irresponsible damsels laughed. Diana knew -exactly what Anne thought of Charlie Sloane; but, despite sundry confidential -talks, she did not know just what Anne thought of Gilbert Blythe. To be sure, -Anne herself did not know that. -</p> - -<p> -“The boys may be boarding at the other end of Kingsport, for all I -know,” Anne went on. “I am glad I’m going to Redmond, and I -am sure I shall like it after a while. But for the first few weeks I know I -won’t. I shan’t even have the comfort of looking forward to the -weekend visit home, as I had when I went to Queen’s. Christmas will seem -like a thousand years away.” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything is changing—or going to change,” said Diana -sadly. “I have a feeling that things will never be the same again, -Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“We have come to a parting of the ways, I suppose,” said Anne -thoughtfully. “We had to come to it. Do you think, Diana, that being -grown-up is really as nice as we used to imagine it would be when we were -children?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know—there are <i>some</i> nice things about -it,” answered Diana, again caressing her ring with that little smile -which always had the effect of making Anne feel suddenly left out and -inexperienced. “But there are so many puzzling things, too. Sometimes I -feel as if being grown-up just frightened me—and then I would give -anything to be a little girl again.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose we’ll get used to being grownup in time,” said -Anne cheerfully. “There won’t be so many unexpected things about it -by and by—though, after all, I fancy it’s the unexpected things -that give spice to life. We’re eighteen, Diana. In two more years -we’ll be twenty. When I was ten I thought twenty was a green old age. In -no time you’ll be a staid, middle-aged matron, and I shall be nice, old -maid Aunt Anne, coming to visit you on vacations. You’ll always keep a -corner for me, won’t you, Di darling? Not the spare room, of -course—old maids can’t aspire to spare rooms, and I shall be as -’umble as <i>Uriah Heep</i>, and quite content with a little -over-the-porch or off-the-parlor cubby hole.” -</p> - -<p> -“What nonsense you do talk, Anne,” laughed Diana. -“You’ll marry somebody splendid and handsome and rich—and no -spare room in Avonlea will be half gorgeous enough for you—and -you’ll turn up your nose at all the friends of your youth.” -</p> - -<p> -“That would be a pity; my nose is quite nice, but I fear turning it up -would spoil it,” said Anne, patting that shapely organ. “I -haven’t so many good features that I could afford to spoil those I have; -so, even if I should marry the King of the Cannibal Islands, I promise you I -won’t turn up my nose at you, Diana.” -</p> - -<p> -With another gay laugh the girls separated, Diana to return to Orchard Slope, -Anne to walk to the Post Office. She found a letter awaiting her there, and -when Gilbert Blythe overtook her on the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters -she was sparkling with the excitement of it. -</p> - -<p> -“Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too,” she exclaimed. -“Isn’t that splendid? I hoped she would, but she didn’t think -her father would consent. He has, however, and we’re to board together. I -feel that I can face an army with banners—or all the professors of -Redmond in one fell phalanx—with a chum like Priscilla by my side.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think we’ll like Kingsport,” said Gilbert. -“It’s a nice old burg, they tell me, and has the finest natural -park in the world. I’ve heard that the scenery in it is -magnificent.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder if it will be—can be—any more beautiful than -this,” murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes -of those to whom “home” must always be the loveliest spot in the -world, no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars. -</p> - -<p> -They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of the -enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed from her -sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot. The fine, empurpling -dye of sunset still stained the western skies, but the moon was rising and the -water lay like a great, silver dream in her light. Remembrance wove a sweet and -subtle spell over the two young creatures. -</p> - -<p> -“You are very quiet, Anne,” said Gilbert at last. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty -will vanish just like a broken silence,” breathed Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying on the rail of -the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still boyish lips opened -to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled his soul. But Anne -snatched her hand away and turned quickly. The spell of the dusk was broken for -her. -</p> - -<p> -“I must go home,” she exclaimed, with a rather overdone -carelessness. “Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I’m sure -the twins will be in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really -shouldn’t have stayed away so long.” -</p> - -<p> -She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached the Green -Gables lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get a word in edgewise. Anne -felt rather relieved when they parted. There had been a new, secret -self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert, ever since that -fleeting moment of revelation in the garden of Echo Lodge. Something alien had -intruded into the old, perfect, school-day comradeship—something that -threatened to mar it. -</p> - -<p> -“I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before,” she thought, -half-resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane. “Our -friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense. It mustn’t -be spoiled—I won’t let it. Oh, <i>why</i> can’t boys be just -sensible!” -</p> - -<p> -Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly “sensible” that -she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert’s, as -distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had rested there; and -still less sensible that the sensation was far from being an unpleasant -one—very different from that which had attended a similar demonstration -on Charlie Sloane’s part, when she had been sitting out a dance with him -at a White Sands party three nights before. Anne shivered over the disagreeable -recollection. But all problems connected with infatuated swains vanished from -her mind when she entered the homely, unsentimental atmosphere of the Green -Gables kitchen where an eight-year-old boy was crying grievously on the sofa. -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter, Davy?” asked Anne, taking him up in her arms. -“Where are Marilla and Dora?” -</p> - -<p> -“Marilla’s putting Dora to bed,” sobbed Davy, “and -I’m crying ’cause Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heels -over head, and scraped all the skin off her nose, and—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, well, don’t cry about it, dear. Of course, you are sorry for -her, but crying won’t help her any. She’ll be all right tomorrow. -Crying never helps any one, Davy-boy, and—” -</p> - -<p> -“I ain’t crying ’cause Dora fell down cellar,” said -Davy, cutting short Anne’s wellmeant preachment with increasing -bitterness. “I’m crying, cause I wasn’t there to see her -fall. I’m always missing some fun or other, seems to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Davy!” Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter. -“Would you call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the steps and -get hurt?” -</p> - -<p> -“She wasn’t <i>much</i> hurt,” said Davy, defiantly. -“’Course, if she’d been killed I’d have been real -sorry, Anne. But the Keiths ain’t so easy killed. They’re like the -Blewetts, I guess. Herb Blewett fell off the hayloft last Wednesday, and rolled -right down through the turnip chute into the box stall, where they had a -fearful wild, cross horse, and rolled right under his heels. And still he got -out alive, with only three bones broke. Mrs. Lynde says there are some folks -you can’t kill with a meat-axe. Is Mrs. Lynde coming here tomorrow, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Davy, and I hope you’ll be always very nice and good to -her.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll be nice and good. But will she ever put me to bed at nights, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps. Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“’Cause,” said Davy very decidedly, “if she does I -won’t say my prayers before her like I do before you, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -“’Cause I don’t think it would be nice to talk to God before -strangers, Anne. Dora can say hers to Mrs. Lynde if she likes, but <i>I</i> -won’t. I’ll wait till she’s gone and then say ’em. -Won’t that be all right, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, if you are sure you won’t forget to say them, -Davy-boy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I won’t forget, you bet. I think saying my prayers is great -fun. But it won’t be as good fun saying them alone as saying them to you. -I wish you’d stay home, Anne. I don’t see what you want to go away -and leave us for.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t exactly <i>want</i> to, Davy, but I feel I ought to -go.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you don’t want to go you needn’t. You’re grown up. -When <i>I</i>’m grown up I’m not going to do one single thing I -don’t want to do, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“All your life, Davy, you’ll find yourself doing things you -don’t want to do.” -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t,” said Davy flatly. “Catch me! I have to do -things I don’t want to now ’cause you and Marilla’ll send me -to bed if I don’t. But when I grow up you can’t do that, and -there’ll be nobody to tell me not to do things. Won’t I have the -time! Say, Anne, Milty Boulter says his mother says you’re going to -college to see if you can catch a man. Are you, Anne? I want to know.” -</p> - -<p> -For a second Anne burned with resentment. Then she laughed, reminding herself -that Mrs. Boulter’s crude vulgarity of thought and speech could not harm -her. -</p> - -<p> -“No, Davy, I’m not. I’m going to study and grow and learn -about many things.” -</p> - -<p> -“What things?” -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘Shoes and ships and sealing wax<br/> -And cabbages and kings,’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -quoted Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“But if you <i>did</i> want to catch a man how would you go about it? I -want to know,” persisted Davy, for whom the subject evidently possessed a -certain fascination. -</p> - -<p> -“You’d better ask Mrs. Boulter,” said Anne thoughtlessly. -“I think it’s likely she knows more about the process than I -do.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will, the next time I see her,” said Davy gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy! If you do!” cried Anne, realizing her mistake. -</p> - -<p> -“But you just told me to,” protested Davy aggrieved. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s time you went to bed,” decreed Anne, by way of getting -out of the scrape. -</p> - -<p> -After Davy had gone to bed Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and sat there -alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the water laughed around -her in a duet of brook and wind. Anne had always loved that brook. Many a dream -had she spun over its sparkling water in days gone by. She forgot lovelorn -youths, and the cayenne speeches of malicious neighbors, and all the problems -of her girlish existence. In imagination she sailed over storied seas that wash -the distant shining shores of “faery lands forlorn,” where lost -Atlantis and Elysium lie, with the evening star for pilot, to the land of -Heart’s Desire. And she was richer in those dreams than in realities; for -things seen pass away, but the things that are unseen are eternal. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a> -Chapter II<br/> -Garlands of Autumn</h2> - -<p> -The following week sped swiftly, crowded with innumerable “last -things,” as Anne called them. Good-bye calls had to be made and received, -being pleasant or otherwise, according to whether callers and called-upon were -heartily in sympathy with Anne’s hopes, or thought she was too much -puffed-up over going to college and that it was their duty to “take her -down a peg or two.” -</p> - -<p> -The A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party in honor of Anne and Gilbert one evening at -the home of Josie Pye, choosing that place, partly because Mr. Pye’s -house was large and convenient, partly because it was strongly suspected that -the Pye girls would have nothing to do with the affair if their offer of the -house for the party was not accepted. It was a very pleasant little time, for -the Pye girls were gracious, and said and did nothing to mar the harmony of the -occasion—which was not according to their wont. Josie was unusually -amiable—so much so that she even remarked condescendingly to Anne, -</p> - -<p> -“Your new dress is rather becoming to you, Anne. Really, you look -<i>almost pretty</i> in it.” -</p> - -<p> -“How kind of you to say so,” responded Anne, with dancing eyes. Her -sense of humor was developing, and the speeches that would have hurt her at -fourteen were becoming merely food for amusement now. Josie suspected that Anne -was laughing at her behind those wicked eyes; but she contented herself with -whispering to Gertie, as they went downstairs, that Anne Shirley would put on -more airs than ever now that she was going to college—you’d see! -</p> - -<p> -All the “old crowd” was there, full of mirth and zest and youthful -lightheartedness. Diana Barry, rosy and dimpled, shadowed by the faithful Fred; -Jane Andrews, neat and sensible and plain; Ruby Gillis, looking her handsomest -and brightest in a cream silk blouse, with red geraniums in her golden hair; -Gilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane, both trying to keep as near the elusive Anne -as possible; Carrie Sloane, looking pale and melancholy because, so it was -reported, her father would not allow Oliver Kimball to come near the place; -Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, whose round face and objectionable ears were as -round and objectionable as ever; and Billy Andrews, who sat in a corner all the -evening, chuckled when any one spoke to him, and watched Anne Shirley with a -grin of pleasure on his broad, freckled countenance. -</p> - -<p> -Anne had known beforehand of the party, but she had not known that she and -Gilbert were, as the founders of the Society, to be presented with a very -complimentary “address” and “tokens of -respect”—in her case a volume of Shakespeare’s plays, in -Gilbert’s a fountain pen. She was so taken by surprise and pleased by the -nice things said in the address, read in Moody Spurgeon’s most solemn and -ministerial tones, that the tears quite drowned the sparkle of her big gray -eyes. She had worked hard and faithfully for the A.V.I.S., and it warmed the -cockles of her heart that the members appreciated her efforts so sincerely. And -they were all so nice and friendly and jolly—even the Pye girls had their -merits; at that moment Anne loved all the world. -</p> - -<p> -She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather spoiled all. -Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something sentimental to her as they -ate their supper on the moonlit verandah; and Anne, to punish him, was gracious -to Charlie Sloane and allowed the latter to walk home with her. She found, -however, that revenge hurts nobody quite so much as the one who tries to -inflict it. Gilbert walked airily off with Ruby Gillis, and Anne could hear -them laughing and talking gaily as they loitered along in the still, crisp -autumn air. They were evidently having the best of good times, while she was -horribly bored by Charlie Sloane, who talked unbrokenly on, and never, even by -accident, said one thing that was worth listening to. Anne gave an occasional -absent “yes” or “no,” and thought how beautiful Ruby -had looked that night, how very goggly Charlie’s eyes were in the -moonlight—worse even than by daylight—and that the world, somehow, -wasn’t quite such a nice place as she had believed it to be earlier in -the evening. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m just tired out—that is what is the matter with -me,” she said, when she thankfully found herself alone in her own room. -And she honestly believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy, as from -some secret, unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart the next evening, when she -saw Gilbert striding down through the Haunted Wood and crossing the old log -bridge with that firm, quick step of his. So Gilbert was not going to spend -this last evening with Ruby Gillis after all! -</p> - -<p> -“You look tired, Anne,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“I am tired, and, worse than that, I’m disgruntled. I’m tired -because I’ve been packing my trunk and sewing all day. But I’m -disgruntled because six women have been here to say good-bye to me, and every -one of the six managed to say something that seemed to take the color right out -of life and leave it as gray and dismal and cheerless as a November -morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“Spiteful old cats!” was Gilbert’s elegant comment. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, they weren’t,” said Anne seriously. “That is -just the trouble. If they had been spiteful cats I wouldn’t have minded -them. But they are all nice, kind, motherly souls, who like me and whom I like, -and that is why what they said, or hinted, had such undue weight with me. They -let me see they thought I was crazy going to Redmond and trying to take a B.A., -and ever since I’ve been wondering if I am. Mrs. Peter Sloane sighed and -said she hoped my strength would hold out till I got through; and at once I saw -myself a hopeless victim of nervous prostration at the end of my third year; -Mrs. Eben Wright said it must cost an awful lot to put in four years at -Redmond; and I felt all over me that it was unpardonable of me to squander -Marilla’s money and my own on such a folly. Mrs. Jasper Bell said she -hoped I wouldn’t let college spoil me, as it did some people; and I felt -in my bones that the end of my four Redmond years would see me a most -insufferable creature, thinking I knew it all, and looking down on everything -and everybody in Avonlea; Mrs. Elisha Wright said she understood that Redmond -girls, especially those who belonged to Kingsport, were ‘dreadful dressy -and stuck-up,’ and she guessed I wouldn’t feel much at home among -them; and I saw myself, a snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country girl, shuffling -through Redmond’s classic halls in coppertoned boots.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne ended with a laugh and a sigh commingled. With her sensitive nature all -disapproval had weight, even the disapproval of those for whose opinions she -had scant respect. For the time being life was savorless, and ambition had gone -out like a snuffed candle. -</p> - -<p> -“You surely don’t care for what they said,” protested -Gilbert. “You know exactly how narrow their outlook on life is, excellent -creatures though they are. To do anything <i>they</i> have never done is -anathema maranatha. You are the first Avonlea girl who has ever gone to -college; and you know that all pioneers are considered to be afflicted with -moonstruck madness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I know. But <i>feeling</i> is so different from <i>knowing</i>. My -common sense tells me all you can say, but there are times when common sense -has no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of my soul. Really, -after Mrs. Elisha went away I hardly had the heart to finish packing.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re just tired, Anne. Come, forget it all and take a walk with -me—a ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh. There should be -something there I want to show you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Should be! Don’t you know if it is there?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I only know it should be, from something I saw there in spring. Come -on. We’ll pretend we are two children again and we’ll go the way of -the wind.” -</p> - -<p> -They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of the preceding -evening, was very nice to Gilbert; and Gilbert, who was learning wisdom, took -care to be nothing save the schoolboy comrade again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla -watched them from the kitchen window. -</p> - -<p> -“That’ll be a match some day,” Mrs. Lynde said approvingly. -</p> - -<p> -Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it went against -her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde’s gossipy -matter-of-fact way. -</p> - -<p> -“They’re only children yet,” she said shortly. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old folks, -Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never grow up, that’s -what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert’s a man, and he worships the -ground she walks on, as any one can see. He’s a fine fellow, and Anne -can’t do better. I hope she won’t get any romantic nonsense into -her head at Redmond. I don’t approve of them coeducational places and -never did, that’s what. I don’t believe,” concluded Mrs. -Lynde solemnly, “that the students at such colleges ever do much else -than flirt.” -</p> - -<p> -“They must study a little,” said Marilla, with a smile. -</p> - -<p> -“Precious little,” sniffed Mrs. Rachel. “However, I think -Anne will. She never was flirtatious. But she doesn’t appreciate Gilbert -at his full value, that’s what. Oh, I know girls! Charlie Sloane is wild -about her, too, but I’d never advise her to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes -are good, honest, respectable people, of course. But when all’s said and -done, they’re <i>Sloanes</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were Sloanes might -not be very illuminating, but she understood. Every village has such a family; -good, honest, respectable people they may be, but <i>Sloanes</i> they are and -must ever remain, though they speak with the tongues of men and angels. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being settled -by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the Haunted Wood. -Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset radiance, under a -pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The distant spruce groves were burnished -bronze, and their long shadows barred the upland meadows. But around them a -little wind sang among the fir tassels, and in it there was the note of autumn. -</p> - -<p> -“This wood really is haunted now—by old memories,” said Anne, -stooping to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness by frost. -“It seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used to be play here -still, and sit by the Dryad’s Bubble in the twilights, trysting with the -ghosts. Do you know, I can never go up this path in the dusk without feeling a -bit of the old fright and shiver? There was one especially horrifying phantom -which we created—the ghost of the murdered child that crept up behind you -and laid cold fingers on yours. I confess that, to this day, I cannot help -fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind me when I come here after -nightfall. I’m not afraid of the White Lady or the headless man or the -skeletons, but I wish I had never imagined that baby’s ghost into -existence. How angry Marilla and Mrs. Barry were over that affair,” -concluded Anne, with reminiscent laughter. -</p> - -<p> -The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas, threaded -with gossamers. Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces and a maple-fringed, -sun-warm valley they found the “something” Gilbert was looking for. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, here it is,” he said with satisfaction. -</p> - -<p> -“An apple tree—and away back here!” exclaimed Anne -delightedly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple tree, too, here in the very midst -of pines and beeches, a mile away from any orchard. I was here one day last -spring and found it, all white with blossom. So I resolved I’d come again -in the fall and see if it had been apples. See, it’s loaded. They look -good, too—tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild -seedlings are green and uninviting.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed,” said -Anne dreamily. “And how it has grown and flourished and held its own here -all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!” -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, -Anne—it will serve for a woodland throne. I’ll climb for some -apples. They all grow high—the tree had to reach up to the -sunlight.” -</p> - -<p> -The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a white, white -flesh, faintly veined with red; and, besides their own proper apple taste, they -had a certain wild, delightful tang no orchard-grown apple ever possessed. -</p> - -<p> -“The fatal apple of Eden couldn’t have had a rarer flavor,” -commented Anne. “But it’s time we were going home. See, it was -twilight three minutes ago and now it’s moonlight. What a pity we -couldn’t have caught the moment of transformation. But such moments never -are caught, I suppose.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s go back around the marsh and home by way of Lover’s -Lane. Do you feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not I. Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul. I feel that I -shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there.” -</p> - -<p> -“And after those four years—what?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, there’s another bend in the road at their end,” answered -Anne lightly. “I’ve no idea what may be around it—I -don’t want to have. It’s nicer not to know.” -</p> - -<p> -Lover’s Lane was a dear place that night, still and mysteriously dim in -the pale radiance of the moonlight. They loitered through it in a pleasant -chummy silence, neither caring to talk. -</p> - -<p> -“If Gilbert were always as he has been this evening how nice and simple -everything would be,” reflected Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert was looking at Anne, as she walked along. In her light dress, with her -slender delicacy, she made him think of a white iris. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder if I can ever make her care for me,” he thought, with a -pang of self-distrust. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a> -Chapter III<br/> -Greeting and Farewell</h2> - -<p> -Charlie Sloane, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the following -Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana was to drive her to the -station and they wanted this, their last drive together for some time, to be a -pleasant one. But when Anne went to bed Sunday night the east wind was moaning -around Green Gables with an ominous prophecy which was fulfilled in the -morning. Anne awoke to find raindrops pattering against her window and -shadowing the pond’s gray surface with widening rings; hills and sea were -hidden in mist, and the whole world seemed dim and dreary. Anne dressed in the -cheerless gray dawn, for an early start was necessary to catch the boat train; -she struggled against the tears that <i>would</i> well up in her eyes in spite -of herself. She was leaving the home that was so dear to her, and something -told her that she was leaving it forever, save as a holiday refuge. Things -would never be the same again; coming back for vacations would not be living -there. And oh, how dear and beloved everything was—that little white -porch room, sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the old Snow Queen at the window, -the brook in the hollow, the Dryad’s Bubble, the Haunted Woods, and -Lover’s Lane—all the thousand and one dear spots where memories of -the old years bided. Could she ever be really happy anywhere else? -</p> - -<p> -Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal. Davy, for the -first time in his life probably, could not eat, but blubbered shamelessly over -his porridge. Nobody else seemed to have much appetite, save Dora, who tucked -away her rations comfortably. Dora, like the immortal and most prudent -Charlotte, who “went on cutting bread and butter” when her frenzied -lover’s body had been carried past on a shutter, was one of those -fortunate creatures who are seldom disturbed by anything. Even at eight it took -a great deal to ruffle Dora’s placidity. She was sorry Anne was going -away, of course, but was that any reason why she should fail to appreciate a -poached egg on toast? Not at all. And, seeing that Davy could not eat his, Dora -ate it for him. -</p> - -<p> -Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy face glowing -above her raincoat. The good-byes had to be said then somehow. Mrs. Lynde came -in from her quarters to give Anne a hearty embrace and warn her to be careful -of her health, whatever she did. Marilla, brusque and tearless, pecked -Anne’s cheek and said she supposed they’d hear from her when she -got settled. A casual observer might have concluded that Anne’s going -mattered very little to her—unless said observer had happened to get a -good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne primly and squeezed out two decorous -little tears; but Davy, who had been crying on the back porch step ever since -they rose from the table, refused to say good-bye at all. When he saw Anne -coming towards him he sprang to his feet, bolted up the back stairs, and hid in -a clothes closet, out of which he would not come. His muffled howls were the -last sounds Anne heard as she left Green Gables. -</p> - -<p> -It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, to which station they had to go, -since the branch line train from Carmody did not connect with the boat train. -Charlie and Gilbert were on the station platform when they reached it, and the -train was whistling. Anne had just time to get her ticket and trunk check, say -a hurried farewell to Diana, and hasten on board. She wished she were going -back with Diana to Avonlea; she knew she was going to die of homesickness. And -oh, if only that dismal rain would stop pouring down as if the whole world were -weeping over summer vanished and joys departed! Even Gilbert’s presence -brought her no comfort, for Charlie Sloane was there, too, and Sloanishness -could be tolerated only in fine weather. It was absolutely insufferable in -rain. -</p> - -<p> -But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbor things took a turn for -the better. The rain ceased and the sun began to burst out goldenly now and -again between the rents in the clouds, burnishing the gray seas with -copper-hued radiance, and lighting up the mists that curtained the -Island’s red shores with gleams of gold foretokening a fine day after -all. Besides, Charlie Sloane promptly became so seasick that he had to go -below, and Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck. -</p> - -<p> -“I am very glad that all the Sloanes get seasick as soon as they go on -water,” thought Anne mercilessly. “I am sure I couldn’t take -my farewell look at the ‘ould sod’ with Charlie standing there -pretending to look sentimentally at it, too.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, we’re off,” remarked Gilbert unsentimentally. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I feel like Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’—only it -isn’t really my ‘native shore’ that I’m -watching,” said Anne, winking her gray eyes vigorously. “Nova -Scotia is that, I suppose. But one’s native shore is the land one loves -the best, and that’s good old P.E.I. for me. I can’t believe I -didn’t always live here. Those eleven years before I came seem like a bad -dream. It’s seven years since I crossed on this boat—the evening -Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself, in that dreadful -old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, exploring decks and cabins with -enraptured curiosity. It was a fine evening; and how those red Island shores -did gleam in the sunshine. Now I’m crossing the strait again. Oh, -Gilbert, I do hope I’ll like Redmond and Kingsport, but I’m sure I -won’t!” -</p> - -<p> -“Where’s all your philosophy gone, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness and -homesickness. I’ve longed for three years to go to Redmond—and now -I’m going—and I wish I weren’t! Never mind! I shall be -cheerful and philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I <i>must</i> -have that, ‘as a went’—and I’ll have to wait until I -get into my boardinghouse bed tonight, wherever it may be, before I can have -it. Then Anne will be herself again. I wonder if Davy has come out of the -closet yet.” -</p> - -<p> -It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they found -themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne felt horribly -bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by Priscilla Grant, who had come -to Kingsport on Saturday. -</p> - -<p> -“Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you’re as tired as I was when -I got here Saturday night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tired! Priscilla, don’t talk of it. I’m tired, and green, -and provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity’s sake take your -poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I’ve a cab -ready outside.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s such a blessing you’re here, Prissy. If you -weren’t I think I should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and -weep bitter tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness -of strangers!” -</p> - -<p> -“Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up this past -year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. And of course -that’s Charlie Sloane. <i>He</i> hasn’t -changed—couldn’t! He looked just like that when he was born, and -he’ll look like that when he’s eighty. This way, dear. We’ll -be home in twenty minutes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Home!” groaned Anne. “You mean we’ll be in some -horrible boardinghouse, in a still more horrible hall bedroom, looking out on a -dingy back yard.” -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t a horrible boardinghouse, Anne-girl. Here’s our -cab. Hop in—the driver will get your trunk. Oh, yes, the -boardinghouse—it’s really a very nice place of its kind, as -you’ll admit tomorrow morning when a good night’s sleep has turned -your blues rosy pink. It’s a big, old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. -John Street, just a nice little constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the -‘residence’ of great folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street -and its houses only dream now of better days. They’re so big that people -living in them have to take boarders just to fill up. At least, that is the -reason our landladies are very anxious to impress on us. They’re -delicious, Anne—our landladies, I mean.” -</p> - -<p> -“How many are there?” -</p> - -<p> -“Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins about -fifty years ago.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t get away from twins, it seems,” smiled Anne. -“Wherever I go they confront me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, they’re not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of -thirty they never were twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old, not too -gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less gracefully still. I -don’t know whether Miss Hannah can smile or not; I’ve never caught -her at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all the time and that’s worse. -However, they’re nice, kind souls, and they take two boarders every year -because Miss Hannah’s economical soul cannot bear to ‘waste room -space’—not because they need to or have to, as Miss Ada has told me -seven times since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are hall -bedrooms, and mine does look out on the back yard. Your room is a front one and -looks out on Old St. John’s graveyard, which is just across the -street.” -</p> - -<p> -“That sounds gruesome,” shivered Anne. “I think I’d -rather have the back yard view.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. Wait and see. Old St. John’s is a -darling place. It’s been a graveyard so long that it’s ceased to be -one and has become one of the sights of Kingsport. I was all through it -yesterday for a pleasure exertion. There’s a big stone wall and a row of -enormous trees all around it, and rows of trees all through it, and the -queerest old tombstones, with the queerest and quaintest inscriptions. -You’ll go there to study, Anne, see if you don’t. Of course, nobody -is ever buried there now. But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument -to the memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. It is just -opposite the entrance gates and there’s ‘scope for -imagination’ in it, as you used to say. Here’s your trunk at -last—and the boys coming to say good night. Must I really shake hands -with Charlie Sloane, Anne? His hands are always so cold and fishy-feeling. We -must ask them to call occasionally. Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have -‘young gentlemen callers’ two evenings in the week, if they went -away at a reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be sure -they didn’t sit on her beautiful cushions. I promised to see to it; but -goodness knows where else they <i>can</i> sit, unless they sit on the floor, -for there are cushions on <i>everything</i>. Miss Ada even has an elaborate -Battenburg one on top of the piano.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla’s gay chatter had the intended -effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the time being, and did -not even return in full force when she finally found herself alone in her -little bedroom. She went to her window and looked out. The street below was dim -and quiet. Across it the moon was shining above the trees in Old St. -John’s, just behind the great dark head of the lion on the monument. Anne -wondered if it could have been only that morning that she had left Green -Gables. She had the sense of a long passage of time which one day of change and -travel gives. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now,” she -mused. “But I won’t think about it—that way homesickness -lies. I’m not even going to have my good cry. I’ll put that off to -a more convenient season, and just now I’ll go calmly and sensibly to bed -and to sleep.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a> -Chapter IV<br/> -April’s Lady</h2> - -<p> -Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial days, and -wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame in garments fashioned -like those of her youth. Here and there it sprouts out into modernity, but at -heart it is still unspoiled; it is full of curious relics, and haloed by the -romance of many legends of the past. Once it was a mere frontier station on the -fringe of the wilderness, and those were the days when Indians kept life from -being monotonous to the settlers. Then it grew to be a bone of contention -between the British and the French, being occupied now by the one and now by -the other, emerging from each occupation with some fresh scar of battling -nations branded on it. -</p> - -<p> -It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over by tourists, a -dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond the town, and several antiquated -cannon in its public squares. It has other historic spots also, which may be -hunted out by the curious, and none is more quaint and delightful than Old St. -John’s Cemetery at the very core of the town, with streets of quiet, -old-time houses on two sides, and busy, bustling, modern thoroughfares on the -others. Every citizen of Kingsport feels a thrill of possessive pride in Old -St. John’s, for, if he be of any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor -buried there, with a queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling -protectively over the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are -recorded. For the most part no great art or skill was lavished on those old -tombstones. The larger number are of roughly chiselled brown or gray native -stone, and only in a few cases is there any attempt at ornamentation. Some are -adorned with skull and cross-bones, and this grizzly decoration is frequently -coupled with a cherub’s head. Many are prostrate and in ruins. Into -almost all Time’s tooth has been gnawing, until some inscriptions have -been completely effaced, and others can only be deciphered with difficulty. The -graveyard is very full and very bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by -rows of elms and willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very -dreamlessly, forever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite -undisturbed by the clamor of traffic just beyond. -</p> - -<p> -Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John’s the next afternoon. -She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and registered as -students, after which there was nothing more to do that day. The girls gladly -made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to be surrounded by crowds of -strangers, most of whom had a rather alien appearance, as if not quite sure -where they belonged. -</p> - -<p> -The “freshettes” stood about in detached groups of two or three, -looking askance at each other; the “freshies,” wiser in their day -and generation, had banded themselves together on the big staircase of the -entrance hall, where they were shouting out glees with all the vigor of -youthful lungs, as a species of defiance to their traditional enemies, the -Sophomores, a few of whom were prowling loftily about, looking properly -disdainful of the “unlicked cubs” on the stairs. Gilbert and -Charlie were nowhere to be seen. -</p> - -<p> -“Little did I think the day would ever come when I’d be glad of the -sight of a Sloane,” said Priscilla, as they crossed the campus, -“but I’d welcome Charlie’s goggle eyes almost ecstatically. -At least, they’d be familiar eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh,” sighed Anne. “I can’t describe how I felt when I -was standing there, waiting my turn to be registered—as insignificant as -the teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket. It’s bad enough to feel -insignificant, but it’s unbearable to have it grained into your soul that -you will never, can never, be anything but insignificant, and that is how I did -feel—as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of those Sophs -might step on me. I knew I would go down to my grave unwept, unhonored and -unsung.” -</p> - -<p> -“Wait till next year,” comforted Priscilla. “Then we’ll -be able to look as bored and sophisticated as any Sophomore of them all. No -doubt it is rather dreadful to feel insignificant; but I think it’s -better than to feel as big and awkward as I did—as if I were sprawled all -over Redmond. That’s how I felt—I suppose because I was a good two -inches taller than any one else in the crowd. I wasn’t afraid a Soph -might walk over me; I was afraid they’d take me for an elephant, or an -overgrown sample of a potato-fed Islander.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose the trouble is we can’t forgive big Redmond for not -being little Queen’s,” said Anne, gathering about her the shreds of -her old cheerful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit. “When we -left Queen’s we knew everybody and had a place of our own. I suppose we -have been unconsciously expecting to take life up at Redmond just where we left -off at Queen’s, and now we feel as if the ground had slipped from under -our feet. I’m thankful that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha Wright -know, or ever will know, my state of mind at present. They would exult in -saying ‘I told you so,’ and be convinced it was the beginning of -the end. Whereas it is just the end of the beginning.” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly. That sounds more Anneish. In a little while we’ll be -acclimated and acquainted, and all will be well. Anne, did you notice the girl -who stood alone just outside the door of the coeds’ dressing room all the -morning—the pretty one with the brown eyes and crooked mouth?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the only -creature there who <i>looked</i> as lonely and friendless as I <i>felt</i>. I -had <i>you</i>, but she had no one.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too. Several times I saw her -make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never did it—too shy, I -suppose. I wished she would come. If I hadn’t felt so much like the -aforesaid elephant I’d have gone to her. But I couldn’t lumber -across that big hall with all those boys howling on the stairs. She was the -prettiest freshette I saw today, but probably favor is deceitful and even -beauty is vain on your first day at Redmond,” concluded Priscilla with a -laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m going across to Old St. John’s after lunch,” said -Anne. “I don’t know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to -get cheered up, but it seems the only get-at-able place where there are trees, -and trees I must have. I’ll sit on one of those old slabs and shut my -eyes and imagine I’m in the Avonlea woods.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest in Old St. -John’s to keep her eyes wide open. They went in by the entrance gates, -past the simple, massive, stone arch surmounted by the great lion of England. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory,<br/> -And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill. They found themselves in a dim, cool, -green place where winds were fond of purring. Up and down the long grassy -aisles they wandered, reading the quaint, voluminous epitaphs, carved in an age -that had more leisure than our own. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,’” read -Anne from a worn, gray slab, “‘for many years Keeper of His -Majesty’s Ordnance at Kingsport. He served in the army till the peace of -1763, when he retired from bad health. He was a brave officer, the best of -husbands, the best of fathers, the best of friends. He died October 29th, 1792, -aged 84 years.’ There’s an epitaph for you, Prissy. There is -certainly some ‘scope for imagination’ in it. How full such a life -must have been of adventure! And as for his personal qualities, I’m sure -human eulogy couldn’t go further. I wonder if they told him he was all -those best things while he was alive.” -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s another,” said Priscilla. “Listen— -</p> - -<p> -‘To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, -1840, aged 43 years. This is raised as a tribute of affection by one whom he -served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a friend, deserving -the fullest confidence and attachment.’” -</p> - -<p> -“A very good epitaph,” commented Anne thoughtfully. “I -wouldn’t wish a better. We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact -that we are faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones nothing more -need be added. Here’s a sorrowful little gray stone, -Prissy—‘to the memory of a favorite child.’ And here is -another ‘erected to the memory of one who is buried elsewhere.’ I -wonder where that unknown grave is. Really, Pris, the graveyards of today will -never be as interesting as this. You were right—I shall come here often. -I love it already. I see we’re not alone here—there’s a girl -down at the end of this avenue.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, and I believe it’s the very girl we saw at Redmond this -morning. I’ve been watching her for five minutes. She has started to come -up the avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times has she turned -and gone back. Either she’s dreadfully shy or she has got something on -her conscience. Let’s go and meet her. It’s easier to get -acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe.” -</p> - -<p> -They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger, who was sitting -on a gray slab under an enormous willow. She was certainly very pretty, with a -vivid, irregular, bewitching type of prettiness. There was a gloss as of brown -nuts on her satin-smooth hair and a soft, ripe glow on her round cheeks. Her -eyes were big and brown and velvety, under oddly-pointed black brows, and her -crooked mouth was rose-red. She wore a smart brown suit, with two very modish -little shoes peeping from beneath it; and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed -with golden-brown poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable air which pertains -to the “creation” of an artist in millinery. Priscilla had a sudden -stinging consciousness that her own hat had been trimmed by her village store -milliner, and Anne wondered uncomfortably if the blouse she had made herself, -and which Mrs. Lynde had fitted, looked <i>very</i> countrified and home-made -besides the stranger’s smart attire. For a moment both girls felt like -turning back. -</p> - -<p> -But they had already stopped and turned towards the gray slab. It was too late -to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently concluded that they were -coming to speak to her. Instantly she sprang up and came forward with -outstretched hand and a gay, friendly smile in which there seemed not a shadow -of either shyness or burdened conscience. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I want to know who you two girls are,” she exclaimed eagerly. -“I’ve been <i>dying</i> to know. I saw you at Redmond this morning. -Say, wasn’t it <i>awful</i> there? For the time I wished I had stayed -home and got married.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this unexpected -conclusion. The brown-eyed girl laughed, too. -</p> - -<p> -“I really did. I <i>could</i> have, you know. Come, let’s all sit -down on this gravestone and get acquainted. It won’t be hard. I know -we’re going to adore each other—I knew it as soon as I saw you at -Redmond this morning. I wanted so much to go right over and hug you -both.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you?” asked Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Because I simply couldn’t make up my mind to do it. I never can -make up my mind about anything myself—I’m always afflicted with -indecision. Just as soon as I decide to do something I feel in my bones that -another course would be the correct one. It’s a dreadful misfortune, but -I was born that way, and there is no use in blaming me for it, as some people -do. So I couldn’t make up my mind to go and speak to you, much as I -wanted to.” -</p> - -<p> -“We thought you were too shy,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, dear. Shyness isn’t among the many failings—or -virtues—of Philippa Gordon—Phil for short. Do call me Phil right -off. Now, what are your handles?” -</p> - -<p> -“She’s Priscilla Grant,” said Anne, pointing. -</p> - -<p> -“And <i>she’s</i> Anne Shirley,” said Priscilla, pointing in -turn. -</p> - -<p> -“And we’re from the Island,” said both together. -</p> - -<p> -“I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia,” said Philippa. -</p> - -<p> -“Bolingbroke!” exclaimed Anne. “Why, that is where I was -born.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really mean it? Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, it doesn’t,” retorted Anne. “Wasn’t it Dan -O’Connell who said that if a man was born in a stable it didn’t -make him a horse? I’m Island to the core.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I’m glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway. It makes us -kind of neighbors, doesn’t it? And I like that, because when I tell you -secrets it won’t be as if I were telling them to a stranger. I have to -tell them. I can’t keep secrets—it’s no use to try. -That’s my worst failing—that, and indecision, as aforesaid. Would -you believe it?—it took me half an hour to decide which hat to wear when -I was coming here—<i>here</i>, to a graveyard! At first I inclined to my -brown one with the feather; but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one -with the floppy brim would be more becoming. When I got <i>it</i> pinned in -place I liked the brown one better. At last I put them close together on the -bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin. The pin speared the pink one, so -I put it on. It is becoming, isn’t it? Tell me, what do you think of my -looks?” -</p> - -<p> -At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla laughed -again. But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa’s hand, -</p> - -<p> -“We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw at -Redmond.” -</p> - -<p> -Philippa’s crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile over -very white little teeth. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought that myself,” was her next astounding statement, -“but I wanted some one else’s opinion to bolster mine up. I -can’t decide even on my own appearance. Just as soon as I’ve -decided that I’m pretty I begin to feel miserably that I’m not. -Besides, have a horrible old great-aunt who is always saying to me, with a -mournful sigh, ‘You were such a pretty baby. It’s strange how -children change when they grow up.’ I adore aunts, but I detest -great-aunts. Please tell me quite often that I am pretty, if you don’t -mind. I feel so much more comfortable when I can believe I’m pretty. And -I’ll be just as obliging to you if you want me to—I <i>can</i> be, -with a clear conscience.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thanks,” laughed Anne, “but Priscilla and I are so firmly -convinced of our own good looks that we don’t need any assurance about -them, so you needn’t trouble.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you’re laughing at me. I know you think I’m abominably -vain, but I’m not. There really isn’t one spark of vanity in me. -And I’m never a bit grudging about paying compliments to other girls when -they deserve them. I’m so glad I know you folks. I came up on Saturday -and I’ve nearly died of homesickness ever since. It’s a horrible -feeling, isn’t it? In Bolingbroke I’m an important personage, and -in Kingsport I’m just nobody! There were times when I could feel my soul -turning a delicate blue. Where do you hang out?” -</p> - -<p> -“Thirty-eight St. John’s Street.” -</p> - -<p> -“Better and better. Why, I’m just around the corner on Wallace -Street. I don’t like my boardinghouse, though. It’s bleak and -lonesome, and my room looks out on such an unholy back yard. It’s the -ugliest place in the world. As for cats—well, surely <i>all</i> the -Kingsport cats can’t congregate there at night, but half of them must. I -adore cats on hearth rugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires, but cats in -back yards at midnight are totally different animals. The first night I was -here I cried all night, and so did the cats. You should have seen my nose in -the morning. How I wished I had never left home!” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know how you managed to make up your mind to come to -Redmond at all, if you are really such an undecided person,” said amused -Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Bless your heart, honey, I didn’t. It was father who wanted me to -come here. His heart was set on it—why, I don’t know. It seems -perfectly ridiculous to think of me studying for a B.A. degree, doesn’t -it? Not but what I can do it, all right. I have heaps of brains.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” said Priscilla vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. But it’s such hard work to use them. And B.A.’s are -such learned, dignified, wise, solemn creatures—they must be. No, -<i>I</i> didn’t want to come to Redmond. I did it just to oblige father. -He <i>is</i> such a duck. Besides, I knew if I stayed home I’d have to -get married. Mother wanted that—wanted it decidedly. Mother has plenty of -decision. But I really hated the thought of being married for a few years yet. -I want to have heaps of fun before I settle down. And, ridiculous as the idea -of my being a B.A. is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still more -absurd, isn’t it? I’m only eighteen. No, I concluded I would rather -come to Redmond than be married. Besides, how could I ever have made up my mind -which man to marry?” -</p> - -<p> -“Were there so many?” laughed Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Heaps. The boys like me awfully—they really do. But there were -only two that mattered. The rest were all too young and too poor. I must marry -a rich man, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why must you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Honey, you couldn’t imagine <i>me</i> being a poor man’s -wife, could you? I can’t do a single useful thing, and I am <i>very</i> -extravagant. Oh, no, my husband must have heaps of money. So that narrowed them -down to two. But I couldn’t decide between two any easier than between -two hundred. I knew perfectly well that whichever one I chose I’d regret -all my life that I hadn’t married the other.” -</p> - -<p> -“Didn’t you—love—either of them?” asked Anne, a -little hesitatingly. It was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the -great mystery and transformation of life. -</p> - -<p> -“Goodness, no. <i>I</i> couldn’t love anybody. It isn’t in -me. Besides I wouldn’t want to. Being in love makes you a perfect slave, -<i>I</i> think. And it would give a man such power to hurt you. I’d be -afraid. No, no, Alec and Alonzo are two dear boys, and I like them both so much -that I really don’t know which I like the better. That is the trouble. -Alec is the best looking, of course, and I simply couldn’t marry a man -who wasn’t handsome. He is good-tempered too, and has lovely, curly, -black hair. He’s rather too perfect—I don’t believe I’d -like a perfect husband—somebody I could never find fault with.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then why not marry Alonzo?” asked Priscilla gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“Think of marrying a name like Alonzo!” said Phil dolefully. -“I don’t believe I could endure it. But he has a classic nose, and -it <i>would</i> be a comfort to have a nose in the family that could be -depended on. I can’t depend on mine. So far, it takes after the Gordon -pattern, but I’m so afraid it will develop Byrne tendencies as I grow -older. I examine it every day anxiously to make sure it’s still Gordon. -Mother was a Byrne and has the Byrne nose in the Byrnest degree. Wait till you -see it. I adore nice noses. Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley. -Alonzo’s nose nearly turned the balance in his favor. But <i>Alonzo!</i> -No, I couldn’t decide. If I could have done as I did with the -hats—stood them both up together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a -hatpin—it would have been quite easy.” -</p> - -<p> -“What did Alec and Alonzo feel like when you came away?” queried -Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, they still have hope. I told them they’d have to wait till I -could make up my mind. They’re quite willing to wait. They both worship -me, you know. Meanwhile, I intend to have a good time. I expect I shall have -heaps of beaux at Redmond. I can’t be happy unless I have, you know. But -don’t you think the freshmen are fearfully homely? I saw only one really -handsome fellow among them. He went away before you came. I heard his chum call -him Gilbert. His chum had eyes that stuck out <i>that far</i>. But you’re -not going yet, girls? Don’t go yet.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think we must,” said Anne, rather coldly. “It’s -getting late, and I’ve some work to do.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you’ll both come to see me, won’t you?” asked -Philippa, getting up and putting an arm around each. “And let me come to -see you. I want to be chummy with you. I’ve taken such a fancy to you -both. And I haven’t quite disgusted you with my frivolity, have I?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not quite,” laughed Anne, responding to Phil’s squeeze, with -a return of cordiality. -</p> - -<p> -“Because I’m not half so silly as I seem on the surface, you know. -You just accept Philippa Gordon, as the Lord made her, with all her faults, and -I believe you’ll come to like her. Isn’t this graveyard a sweet -place? I’d love to be buried here. Here’s a grave I didn’t -see before—this one in the iron railing—oh, girls, look, -see—the stone says it’s the grave of a middy who was killed in the -fight between the Shannon and the Chesapeake. Just fancy!” -</p> - -<p> -Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses thrilling -with sudden excitement. The old graveyard, with its over-arching trees and long -aisles of shadows, faded from her sight. Instead, she saw the Kingsport Harbor -of nearly a century agone. Out of the mist came slowly a great frigate, -brilliant with “the meteor flag of England.” Behind her was -another, with a still, heroic form, wrapped in his own starry flag, lying on -the quarter deck—the gallant Lawrence. Time’s finger had turned -back his pages, and that was the Shannon sailing triumphant up the bay with the -Chesapeake as her prize. -</p> - -<p> -“Come back, Anne Shirley—come back,” laughed Philippa, -pulling her arm. “You’re a hundred years away from us. Come -back.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne came back with a sigh; her eyes were shining softly. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve always loved that old story,” she said, “and -although the English won that victory, I think it was because of the brave, -defeated commander I love it. This grave seems to bring it so near and make it -so real. This poor little middy was only eighteen. He ‘died of desperate -wounds received in gallant action’—so reads his epitaph. It is such -as a soldier might wish for.” -</p> - -<p> -Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of purple pansies she -wore and dropped it softly on the grave of the boy who had perished in the -great sea-duel. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, what do you think of our new friend?” asked Priscilla, when -Phil had left them. -</p> - -<p> -“I like her. There is something very lovable about her, in spite of all -her nonsense. I believe, as she says herself, that she isn’t half as -silly as she sounds. She’s a dear, kissable baby—and I don’t -know that she’ll ever really grow up.” -</p> - -<p> -“I like her, too,” said Priscilla, decidedly. “She talks as -much about boys as Ruby Gillis does. But it always enrages or sickens me to -hear Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at Phil. Now, what is -the why of that?” -</p> - -<p> -“There is a difference,” said Anne meditatively. “I think -it’s because Ruby is really so <i>conscious</i> of boys. She plays at -love and love-making. Besides, you feel, when she is boasting of her beaux that -she is doing it to rub it well into you that you haven’t half so many. -Now, when Phil talks of her beaux it sounds as if she was just speaking of -chums. She really looks upon boys as good comrades, and she is pleased when she -has dozens of them tagging round, simply because she likes to be popular and to -be thought popular. Even Alex and Alonzo—I’ll never be able to -think of those two names separately after this—are to her just two -playfellows who want her to play with them all their lives. I’m glad we -met her, and I’m glad we went to Old St. John’s. I believe -I’ve put forth a tiny soul-root into Kingsport soil this afternoon. I -hope so. I hate to feel transplanted.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a> -Chapter V<br/> -Letters from Home</h2> - -<p> -For the next three weeks Anne and Priscilla continued to feel as strangers in a -strange land. Then, suddenly, everything seemed to fall into -focus—Redmond, professors, classes, students, studies, social doings. -Life became homogeneous again, instead of being made up of detached fragments. -The Freshmen, instead of being a collection of unrelated individuals, found -themselves a class, with a class spirit, a class yell, class interests, class -antipathies and class ambitions. They won the day in the annual “Arts -Rush” against the Sophomores, and thereby gained the respect of all the -classes, and an enormous, confidence-giving opinion of themselves. For three -years the Sophomores had won in the “rush”; that the victory of -this year perched upon the Freshmen’s banner was attributed to the -strategic generalship of Gilbert Blythe, who marshalled the campaign and -originated certain new tactics, which demoralized the Sophs and swept the -Freshmen to triumph. As a reward of merit he was elected president of the -Freshman Class, a position of honor and responsibility—from a Fresh point -of view, at least—coveted by many. He was also invited to join the -“Lambs”—Redmondese for Lamba Theta—a compliment rarely -paid to a Freshman. As a preparatory initiation ordeal he had to parade the -principal business streets of Kingsport for a whole day wearing a sunbonnet and -a voluminous kitchen apron of gaudily flowered calico. This he did cheerfully, -doffing his sunbonnet with courtly grace when he met ladies of his -acquaintance. Charlie Sloane, who had not been asked to join the Lambs, told -Anne he did not see how Blythe could do it, and <i>he</i>, for his part, could -never humiliate himself so. -</p> - -<p> -“Fancy Charlie Sloane in a ‘caliker’ apron and a -‘sunbunnit,’” giggled Priscilla. “He’d look -exactly like his old Grandmother Sloane. Gilbert, now, looked as much like a -man in them as in his own proper habiliments.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne and Priscilla found themselves in the thick of the social life of Redmond. -That this came about so speedily was due in great measure to Philippa Gordon. -Philippa was the daughter of a rich and well-known man, and belonged to an old -and exclusive “Bluenose” family. This, combined with her beauty and -charm—a charm acknowledged by all who met her—promptly opened the -gates of all cliques, clubs and classes in Redmond to her; and where she went -Anne and Priscilla went, too. Phil “adored” Anne and Priscilla, -especially Anne. She was a loyal little soul, crystal-free from any form of -snobbishness. “Love me, love my friends” seemed to be her -unconscious motto. Without effort, she took them with her into her ever -widening circle of acquaintanceship, and the two Avonlea girls found their -social pathway at Redmond made very easy and pleasant for them, to the envy and -wonderment of the other freshettes, who, lacking Philippa’s sponsorship, -were doomed to remain rather on the fringe of things during their first college -year. -</p> - -<p> -To Anne and Priscilla, with their more serious views of life, Phil remained the -amusing, lovable baby she had seemed on their first meeting. Yet, as she said -herself, she had “heaps” of brains. When or where she found time to -study was a mystery, for she seemed always in demand for some kind of -“fun,” and her home evenings were crowded with callers. She had all -the “beaux” that heart could desire, for nine-tenths of the -Freshmen and a big fraction of all the other classes were rivals for her -smiles. She was naively delighted over this, and gleefully recounted each new -conquest to Anne and Priscilla, with comments that might have made the unlucky -lover’s ears burn fiercely. -</p> - -<p> -“Alec and Alonzo don’t seem to have any serious rival yet,” -remarked Anne, teasingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Not one,” agreed Philippa. “I write them both every week and -tell them all about my young men here. I’m sure it must amuse them. But, -of course, the one I like best I can’t get. Gilbert Blythe won’t -take any notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a nice little kitten -he’d like to pat. Too well I know the reason. I owe you a grudge, Queen -Anne. I really ought to hate you and instead I love you madly, and I’m -miserable if I don’t see you every day. You’re different from any -girl I ever knew before. When you look at me in a certain way I feel what an -insignificant, frivolous little beast I am, and I long to be better and wiser -and stronger. And then I make good resolutions; but the first nice-looking -mannie who comes my way knocks them all out of my head. Isn’t college -life magnificent? It’s so funny to think I hated it that first day. But -if I hadn’t I might never got really acquainted with you. Anne, please -tell me over again that you like me a little bit. I yearn to hear it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I like you a big bit—and I think you’re a dear, sweet, -adorable, velvety, clawless, little—kitten,” laughed Anne, -“but I don’t see when you ever get time to learn your -lessons.” -</p> - -<p> -Phil must have found time for she held her own in every class of her year. Even -the grumpy old professor of Mathematics, who detested coeds, and had bitterly -opposed their admission to Redmond, couldn’t floor her. She led the -freshettes everywhere, except in English, where Anne Shirley left her far -behind. Anne herself found the studies of her Freshman year very easy, thanks -in great part to the steady work she and Gilbert had put in during those two -past years in Avonlea. This left her more time for a social life which she -thoroughly enjoyed. But never for a moment did she forget Avonlea and the -friends there. To her, the happiest moments in each week were those in which -letters came from home. It was not until she had got her first letters that she -began to think she could ever like Kingsport or feel at home there. Before they -came, Avonlea had seemed thousands of miles away; those letters brought it near -and linked the old life to the new so closely that they began to seem one and -the same, instead of two hopelessly segregated existences. The first batch -contained six letters, from Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis, Diana Barry, Marilla, -Mrs. Lynde and Davy. Jane’s was a copperplate production, with every -“t” nicely crossed and every “i” precisely dotted, and -not an interesting sentence in it. She never mentioned the school, concerning -which Anne was avid to hear; she never answered one of the questions Anne had -asked in her letter. But she told Anne how many yards of lace she had recently -crocheted, and the kind of weather they were having in Avonlea, and how she -intended to have her new dress made, and the way she felt when her head ached. -Ruby Gillis wrote a gushing epistle deploring Anne’s absence, assuring -her she was horribly missed in everything, asking what the Redmond -“fellows” were like, and filling the rest with accounts of her own -harrowing experiences with her numerous admirers. It was a silly, harmless -letter, and Anne would have laughed over it had it not been for the postscript. -“Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters,” -wrote Ruby. “I don’t think Charlie is so stuck on it.” -</p> - -<p> -So Gilbert was writing to Ruby! Very well. He had a perfect right to, of -course. Only—!! Anne did not know that Ruby had written the first letter -and that Gilbert had answered it from mere courtesy. She tossed Ruby’s -letter aside contemptuously. But it took all Diana’s breezy, newsy, -delightful epistle to banish the sting of Ruby’s postscript. -Diana’s letter contained a little too much Fred, but was otherwise -crowded and crossed with items of interest, and Anne almost felt herself back -in Avonlea while reading it. Marilla’s was a rather prim and colorless -epistle, severely innocent of gossip or emotion. Yet somehow it conveyed to -Anne a whiff of the wholesome, simple life at Green Gables, with its savor of -ancient peace, and the steadfast abiding love that was there for her. Mrs. -Lynde’s letter was full of church news. Having broken up housekeeping, -Mrs. Lynde had more time than ever to devote to church affairs and had flung -herself into them heart and soul. She was at present much worked up over the -poor “supplies” they were having in the vacant Avonlea pulpit. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t believe any but fools enter the ministry nowadays,” -she wrote bitterly. “Such candidates as they have sent us, and such stuff -as they preach! Half of it ain’t true, and, what’s worse, it -ain’t sound doctrine. The one we have now is the worst of the lot. He -mostly takes a text and preaches about something else. And he says he -doesn’t believe all the heathen will be eternally lost. The idea! If they -won’t all the money we’ve been giving to Foreign Missions will be -clean wasted, that’s what! Last Sunday night he announced that next -Sunday he’d preach on the axe-head that swam. I think he’d better -confine himself to the Bible and leave sensational subjects alone. Things have -come to a pretty pass if a minister can’t find enough in Holy Writ to -preach about, that’s what. What church do you attend, Anne? I hope you go -regularly. People are apt to get so careless about church-going away from home, -and I understand college students are great sinners in this respect. I’m -told many of them actually study their lessons on Sunday. I hope you’ll -never sink that low, Anne. Remember how you were brought up. And be very -careful what friends you make. You never know what sort of creatures are in -them colleges. Outwardly they may be as whited sepulchers and inwardly as -ravening wolves, that’s what. You’d better not have anything to say -to any young man who isn’t from the Island. -</p> - -<p> -“I forgot to tell you what happened the day the minister called here. It -was the funniest thing I ever saw. I said to Marilla, ‘If Anne had been -here wouldn’t she have had a laugh?’ Even Marilla laughed. You know -he’s a very short, fat little man with bow legs. Well, that old pig of -Mr. Harrison’s—the big, tall one—had wandered over here that -day again and broke into the yard, and it got into the back porch, unbeknowns -to us, and it was there when the minister appeared in the doorway. It made one -wild bolt to get out, but there was nowhere to bolt to except between them bow -legs. So there it went, and, being as it was so big and the minister so little, -it took him clean off his feet and carried him away. His hat went one way and -his cane another, just as Marilla and I got to the door. I’ll never -forget the look of him. And that poor pig was near scared to death. I’ll -never be able to read that account in the Bible of the swine that rushed madly -down the steep place into the sea without seeing Mr. Harrison’s pig -careering down the hill with that minister. I guess the pig thought he had the -Old Boy on his back instead of inside of him. I was thankful the twins -weren’t about. It wouldn’t have been the right thing for them to -have seen a minister in such an undignified predicament. Just before they got -to the brook the minister jumped off or fell off. The pig rushed through the -brook like mad and up through the woods. Marilla and I run down and helped the -minister get up and brush his coat. He wasn’t hurt, but he was mad. He -seemed to hold Marilla and me responsible for it all, though we told him the -pig didn’t belong to us, and had been pestering us all summer. Besides, -what did he come to the back door for? You’d never have caught Mr. Allan -doing that. It’ll be a long time before we get a man like Mr. Allan. But -it’s an ill wind that blows no good. We’ve never seen hoof or hair -of that pig since, and it’s my belief we never will. -</p> - -<p> -“Things is pretty quiet in Avonlea. I don’t find Green Gables as -lonesome as I expected. I think I’ll start another cotton warp quilt this -winter. Mrs. Silas Sloane has a handsome new apple-leaf pattern. -</p> - -<p> -“When I feel that I must have some excitement I read the murder trials in -that Boston paper my niece sends me. I never used to do it, but they’re -real interesting. The States must be an awful place. I hope you’ll never -go there, Anne. But the way girls roam over the earth now is something -terrible. It always makes me think of Satan in the Book of Job, going to and -fro and walking up and down. I don’t believe the Lord ever intended it, -that’s what. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy has been pretty good since you went away. One day he was bad and -Marilla punished him by making him wear Dora’s apron all day, and then he -went and cut all Dora’s aprons up. I spanked him for that and then he -went and chased my rooster to death. -</p> - -<p> -“The MacPhersons have moved down to my place. She’s a great -housekeeper and very particular. She’s rooted all my June lilies up -because she says they make a garden look so untidy. Thomas set them lilies out -when we were married. Her husband seems a nice sort of a man, but she -can’t get over being an old maid, that’s what. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t study too hard, and be sure and put your winter underclothes -on as soon as the weather gets cool. Marilla worries a lot about you, but I -tell her you’ve got a lot more sense than I ever thought you would have -at one time, and that you’ll be all right.” -</p> - -<p> -Davy’s letter plunged into a grievance at the start. -</p> - -<p> -“Dear anne, please write and tell marilla not to tie me to the rale of -the bridge when I go fishing the boys make fun of me when she does. Its awful -lonesome here without you but grate fun in school. Jane andrews is crosser than -you. I scared mrs. lynde with a jacky lantern last nite. She was offel mad and -she was mad cause I chased her old rooster round the yard till he fell down -ded. I didn’t mean to make him fall down ded. What made him die, anne, I -want to know. mrs. lynde threw him into the pig pen she mite of sold him to mr. -blair. mr. blair is giving 50 sense apeace for good ded roosters now. I herd -mrs. lynde asking the minister to pray for her. What did she do that was so -bad, anne, I want to know. I’ve got a kite with a magnificent tail, anne. -Milty bolter told me a grate story in school yesterday. it is troo. old Joe -Mosey and Leon were playing cards one nite last week in the woods. The cards -were on a stump and a big black man bigger than the trees come along and -grabbed the cards and the stump and disapered with a noys like thunder. Ill bet -they were skared. Milty says the black man was the old harry. was he, anne, I -want to know. Mr. kimball over at spenservale is very sick and will have to go -to the hospitable. please excuse me while I ask marilla if thats spelled rite. -Marilla says its the silem he has to go to not the other place. He thinks he -has a snake inside of him. whats it like to have a snake inside of you, anne. I -want to know. mrs. lawrence bell is sick to. mrs. lynde says that all that is -the matter with her is that she thinks too much about her insides.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder,” said Anne, as she folded up her letters, “what -Mrs. Lynde would think of Philippa.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a> -Chapter VI<br/> -In the Park</h2> - -<p> -“What are you going to do with yourselves today, girls?” asked -Philippa, popping into Anne’s room one Saturday afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -“We are going for a walk in the park,” answered Anne. “I -ought to stay in and finish my blouse. But I couldn’t sew on a day like -this. There’s something in the air that gets into my blood and makes a -sort of glory in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I’d sew a crooked -seam. So it’s ho for the park and the pines.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does ‘we’ include any one but yourself and Priscilla?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it includes Gilbert and Charlie, and we’ll be very glad if it -will include you, also.” -</p> - -<p> -“But,” said Philippa dolefully, “if I go I’ll have to -be gooseberry, and that will be a new experience for Philippa Gordon.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, new experiences are broadening. Come along, and you’ll be -able to sympathize with all poor souls who have to play gooseberry often. But -where are all the victims?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I was tired of them all and simply couldn’t be bothered with -any of them today. Besides, I’ve been feeling a little blue—just a -pale, elusive azure. It isn’t serious enough for anything darker. I wrote -Alec and Alonzo last week. I put the letters into envelopes and addressed them, -but I didn’t seal them up. That evening something funny happened. That -is, Alec would think it funny, but Alonzo wouldn’t be likely to. I was in -a hurry, so I snatched Alec’s letter—as I thought—out of the -envelope and scribbled down a postscript. Then I mailed both letters. I got -Alonzo’s reply this morning. Girls, I had put that postscript to his -letter and he was furious. Of course he’ll get over it—and I -don’t care if he doesn’t—but it spoiled my day. So I thought -I’d come to you darlings to get cheered up. After the football season -opens I won’t have any spare Saturday afternoons. I adore football. -I’ve got the most gorgeous cap and sweater striped in Redmond colors to -wear to the games. To be sure, a little way off I’ll look like a walking -barber’s pole. Do you know that that Gilbert of yours has been elected -Captain of the Freshman football team?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, he told us so last evening,” said Priscilla, seeing that -outraged Anne would not answer. “He and Charlie were down. We knew they -were coming, so we painstakingly put out of sight or out of reach all Miss -Ada’s cushions. That very elaborate one with the raised embroidery I -dropped on the floor in the corner behind the chair it was on. I thought it -would be safe there. But would you believe it? Charlie Sloane made for that -chair, noticed the cushion behind it, solemnly fished it up, and sat on it the -whole evening. Such a wreck of a cushion as it was! Poor Miss Ada asked me -today, still smiling, but oh, so reproachfully, why I had allowed it to be sat -upon. I told her I hadn’t—that it was a matter of predestination -coupled with inveterate Sloanishness and I wasn’t a match for both -combined.” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Ada’s cushions are really getting on my nerves,” said -Anne. “She finished two new ones last week, stuffed and embroidered -within an inch of their lives. There being absolutely no other cushionless -place to put them she stood them up against the wall on the stair landing. They -topple over half the time and if we come up or down the stairs in the dark we -fall over them. Last Sunday, when Dr. Davis prayed for all those exposed to the -perils of the sea, I added in thought ‘and for all those who live in -houses where cushions are loved not wisely but too well!’ There! -we’re ready, and I see the boys coming through Old St. John’s. Do -you cast in your lot with us, Phil?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll go, if I can walk with Priscilla and Charlie. That will be a -bearable degree of gooseberry. That Gilbert of yours is a darling, Anne, but -why does he go around so much with Goggle-eyes?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne stiffened. She had no great liking for Charlie Sloane; but he was of -Avonlea, so no outsider had any business to laugh at him. -</p> - -<p> -“Charlie and Gilbert have always been friends,” she said coldly. -“Charlie is a nice boy. He’s not to blame for his eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t tell me that! He is! He must have done something dreadful in -a previous existence to be punished with such eyes. Pris and I are going to -have such sport with him this afternoon. We’ll make fun of him to his -face and he’ll never know it.” -</p> - -<p> -Doubtless, “the abandoned P’s,” as Anne called them, did -carry out their amiable intentions. But Sloane was blissfully ignorant; he -thought he was quite a fine fellow to be walking with two such coeds, -especially Philippa Gordon, the class beauty and belle. It must surely impress -Anne. She would see that some people appreciated him at his real value. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying the calm, still -beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of the park, on the road that -climbed and twisted round the harbor shore. -</p> - -<p> -“The silence here is like a prayer, isn’t it?” said Anne, her -face upturned to the shining sky. “How I love the pines! They seem to -strike their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. It is so comforting -to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. I always feel so happy -out here.” -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘And so in mountain solitudes o’ertaken<br/> - As by some spell divine,<br/> -Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken<br/> - From out the gusty pine,’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -quoted Gilbert. -</p> - -<p> -“They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don’t they, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines -for comfort,” said Anne dreamily. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne,” said Gilbert, -who could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous creature beside -him, unwitting that those who can soar to the highest heights can also plunge -to the deepest depths, and that the natures which enjoy most keenly are those -which also suffer most sharply. -</p> - -<p> -“But there must—sometime,” mused Anne. “Life seems like -a cup of glory held to my lips just now. But there must be some bitterness in -it—there is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day. Well, I hope I -shall be strong and brave to meet it. And I hope it won’t be through my -own fault that it will come. Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday -evening—that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with -them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or wickedness, -were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn’t talk of sorrow on an -afternoon like this. It’s meant for the sheer joy of living, isn’t -it?” -</p> - -<p> -“If I had my way I’d shut everything out of your life but happiness -and pleasure, Anne,” said Gilbert in the tone that meant “danger -ahead.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you would be very unwise,” rejoined Anne hastily. -“I’m sure no life can be properly developed and rounded out without -some trial and sorrow—though I suppose it is only when we are pretty -comfortable that we admit it. Come—the others have got to the pavilion -and are beckoning to us.” -</p> - -<p> -They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn sunset of deep red -fire and pallid gold. To their left lay Kingsport, its roofs and spires dim in -their shroud of violet smoke. To their right lay the harbor, taking on tints of -rose and copper as it stretched out into the sunset. Before them the water -shimmered, satin smooth and silver gray, and beyond, clean shaven -William’s Island loomed out of the mist, guarding the town like a sturdy -bulldog. Its lighthouse beacon flared through the mist like a baleful star, and -was answered by another in the far horizon. -</p> - -<p> -“Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?” asked Philippa. -“I don’t want William’s Island especially, but I’m sure -I couldn’t get it if I did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the -fort, right beside the flag. Doesn’t he look as if he had stepped out of -a romance?” -</p> - -<p> -“Speaking of romance,” said Priscilla, “we’ve been -looking for heather—but, of course, we couldn’t find any. -It’s too late in the season, I suppose.” -</p> - -<p> -“Heather!” exclaimed Anne. “Heather doesn’t grow in -America, does it?” -</p> - -<p> -“There are just two patches of it in the whole continent,” said -Phil, “one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, -I forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch, camped here one -year, and, when the men shook out the straw of their beds in the spring, some -seeds of heather took root.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, how delightful!” said enchanted Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s go home around by Spofford Avenue,” suggested Gilbert. -“We can see all ‘the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles -dwell.’ Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport. -Nobody can build on it unless he’s a millionaire.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, do,” said Phil. “There’s a perfectly killing -little place I want to show you, Anne. <i>it</i> wasn’t built by a -millionaire. It’s the first place after you leave the park, and must have -grown while Spofford Avenue was still a country road. It <i>did</i> -grow—it wasn’t built! I don’t care for the houses on the -Avenue. They’re too brand new and plateglassy. But this little spot is a -dream—and its name—but wait till you see it.” -</p> - -<p> -They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park. Just on the -crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a plain road, was a little white -frame house with groups of pines on either side of it, stretching their arms -protectingly over its low roof. It was covered with red and gold vines, through -which its green-shuttered windows peeped. Before it was a tiny garden, -surrounded by a low stone wall. October though it was, the garden was still -very sweet with dear, old-fashioned, unworldly flowers and shrubs—sweet -may, southern-wood, lemon verbena, alyssum, petunias, marigolds and -chrysanthemums. A tiny brick wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from the gate -to the front porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some -remote country village; yet there was something about it that made its nearest -neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a tobacco king, look exceedingly -crude and showy and ill-bred by contrast. As Phil said, it was the difference -between being born and being made. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the dearest place I ever saw,” said Anne delightedly. -“It gives me one of my old, delightful funny aches. It’s dearer and -quainter than even Miss Lavendar’s stone house.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the name I want you to notice especially,” said Phil. -“Look—in white letters, around the archway over the gate. -‘Patty’s Place.’ Isn’t that killing? Especially on this -Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts? ‘Patty’s -Place,’ if you please! I adore it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you any idea who Patty is?” asked Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I’ve -discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they’ve lived there for -hundreds of years, more or less—maybe a little less, Anne. Exaggeration -is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand that wealthy folk have tried -to buy the lot time and again—it’s really worth a small fortune -now, you know—but ‘Patty’ won’t sell upon any -consideration. And there’s an apple orchard behind the house in place of -a back yard—you’ll see it when we get a little past—a real -apple orchard on Spofford Avenue!” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m going to dream about ‘Patty’s Place’ -tonight,” said Anne. “Why, I feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder -if, by any chance, we’ll ever see the inside of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t likely,” said Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -Anne smiled mysteriously. -</p> - -<p> -“No, it isn’t likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a queer, -creepy, crawly feeling—you can call it a presentiment, if you -like—that ‘Patty’s Place’ and I are going to be better -acquainted yet.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a> -Chapter VII<br/> -Home Again</h2> - -<p> -Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest of the term -flew by on wings of wind. Before they realized it the Redmond students found -themselves in the grind of Christmas examinations, emerging therefrom more or -less triumphantly. The honor of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated -between Anne, Gilbert and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane -scraped through respectably, and comported himself as complacently as if he had -led in everything. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t really believe that this time tomorrow I’ll be in -Green Gables,” said Anne on the night before departure. “But I -shall be. And you, Phil, will be in Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m longing to see them,” admitted Phil, between the -chocolate she was nibbling. “They really are such dear boys, you know. -There’s to be no end of dances and drives and general jamborees. I shall -never forgive you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with me for the -holidays.” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Never’ means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you -to ask me—and I’d love to go to Bolingbroke some day. But I -can’t go this year—I <i>must</i> go home. You don’t know how -my heart longs for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t have much of a time,” said Phil scornfully. -“There’ll be one or two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the -old gossips will talk you over to your face and behind your back. You’ll -die of lonesomeness, child.” -</p> - -<p> -“In Avonlea?” said Anne, highly amused. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, if you’d come with me you’d have a perfectly gorgeous -time. Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne—your hair and your -style and, oh, everything! You’re so <i>different</i>. You’d be -such a success—and I would bask in reflected glory—‘not the -rose but near the rose.’ Do come, after all, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but -I’ll paint one to offset it. I’m going home to an old country -farmhouse, once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple orchards. -There is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond, where I’ve heard -harps swept by the fingers of rain and wind. There is a pond nearby that will -be gray and brooding now. There will be two oldish ladies in the house, one -tall and thin, one short and fat; and there will be two twins, one a perfect -model, the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a ‘holy terror.’ There will -be a little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang thick, and a -big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the height of luxury -after a boardinghouse mattress. How do you like my picture, Phil?” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems a very dull one,” said Phil, with a grimace. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, but I’ve left out the transforming thing,” said Anne -softly. “There’ll be love there, Phil—faithful, tender love, -such as I’ll never find anywhere else in the world—love -that’s waiting for me. That makes my picture a masterpiece, doesn’t -it, even if the colors are not very brilliant?” -</p> - -<p> -Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up to Anne, and -put her arms about her. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, I wish I was like you,” she said soberly. -</p> - -<p> -Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they drove home -together under silent, star-sown depths of sky. Green Gables had a very festal -appearance as they drove up the lane. There was a light in every window, the -glow breaking out through the darkness like flame-red blossoms swung against -the dark background of the Haunted Wood. And in the yard was a brave bonfire -with two gay little figures dancing around it, one of which gave an unearthly -yell as the buggy turned in under the poplars. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy means that for an Indian war-whoop,” said Diana. “Mr. -Harrison’s hired boy taught it to him, and he’s been practicing it -up to welcome you with. Mrs. Lynde says it has worn her nerves to a frazzle. He -creeps up behind her, you know, and then lets go. He was determined to have a -bonfire for you, too. He’s been piling up branches for a fortnight and -pestering Marilla to be let pour some kerosene oil over it before setting it on -fire. I guess she did, by the smell, though Mrs. Lynde said up to the last that -Davy would blow himself and everybody else up if he was let.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was out of the buggy by this time, and Davy was rapturously hugging her -knees, while even Dora was clinging to her hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Isn’t that a bully bonfire, Anne? Just let me show you how to poke -it—see the sparks? I did it for you, Anne, ’cause I was so glad you -were coming home.” -</p> - -<p> -The kitchen door opened and Marilla’s spare form darkened against the -inner light. She preferred to meet Anne in the shadows, for she was horribly -afraid that she was going to cry with joy—she, stern, repressed Marilla, -who thought all display of deep emotion unseemly. Mrs. Lynde was behind her, -sonsy, kindly, matronly, as of yore. The love that Anne had told Phil was -waiting for her surrounded her and enfolded her with its blessing and its -sweetness. Nothing, after all, could compare with old ties, old friends, and -old Green Gables! How starry Anne’s eyes were as they sat down to the -loaded supper table, how pink her cheeks, how silver-clear her laughter! And -Diana was going to stay all night, too. How like the dear old times it was! And -the rose-bud tea-set graced the table! With Marilla the force of nature could -no further go. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you and Diana will now proceed to talk all night,” said -Marilla sarcastically, as the girls went upstairs. Marilla was always sarcastic -after any self-betrayal. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” agreed Anne gaily, “but I’m going to put Davy to -bed first. He insists on that.” -</p> - -<p> -“You bet,” said Davy, as they went along the hall. “I want -somebody to say my prayers to again. It’s no fun saying them -alone.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t say them alone, Davy. God is always with you to hear -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I can’t see Him,” objected Davy. “I want to pray -to somebody I can see, but I <i>won’t</i> say them to Mrs. Lynde or -Marilla, there now!” -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, when Davy was garbed in his gray flannel nighty, he did not seem -in a hurry to begin. He stood before Anne, shuffling one bare foot over the -other, and looked undecided. -</p> - -<p> -“Come, dear, kneel down,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Davy came and buried his head in Anne’s lap, but he did not kneel down. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne,” he said in a muffled voice. “I don’t feel like -praying after all. I haven’t felt like it for a week now. I—I -<i>didnt’t</i> pray last night nor the night before.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not, Davy?” asked Anne gently. -</p> - -<p> -“You—you won’t be mad if I tell you?” implored Davy. -</p> - -<p> -Anne lifted the little gray-flannelled body on her knee and cuddled his head on -her arm. -</p> - -<p> -“Do I ever get ‘mad’ when you tell me things, Davy?” -</p> - -<p> -“No-o-o, you never do. But you get sorry, and that’s worse. -You’ll be awful sorry when I tell you this, Anne—and you’ll -be ’shamed of me, I s’pose.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you done something naughty, Davy, and is that why you can’t -say your prayers?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I haven’t done anything naughty—yet. But I want to do -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“What is it, Davy?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I want to say a bad word, Anne,” blurted out Davy, with a -desperate effort. “I heard Mr. Harrison’s hired boy say it one day -last week, and ever since I’ve been wanting to say it <i>all</i> the -time—even when I’m saying my prayers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Say it then, Davy.” -</p> - -<p> -Davy lifted his flushed face in amazement. -</p> - -<p> -“But, Anne, it’s an <i>awful</i> bad word.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Say it!</i>” -</p> - -<p> -Davy gave her another incredulous look, then in a low voice he said the -dreadful word. The next minute his face was burrowing against her. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Anne, I’ll never say it again—never. I’ll never -<i>want</i> to say it again. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t s’pose -it was so—so—I didn’t s’pose it was like -<i>that</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t think you’ll ever want to say it again, -Davy—or think it, either. And I wouldn’t go about much with Mr. -Harrison’s hired boy if I were you.” -</p> - -<p> -“He can make bully war-whoops,” said Davy a little regretfully. -</p> - -<p> -“But you don’t want your mind filled with bad words, do you, -Davy—words that will poison it and drive out all that is good and -manly?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Davy, owl-eyed with introspection. -</p> - -<p> -“Then don’t go with those people who use them. And now do you feel -as if you could say your prayers, Davy?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes,” said Davy, eagerly wriggling down on his knees, “I -can say them now all right. I ain’t scared now to say ‘if I should -die before I wake,’ like I was when I was wanting to say that -word.” -</p> - -<p> -Probably Anne and Diana did empty out their souls to each other that night, but -no record of their confidences has been preserved. They both looked as fresh -and bright-eyed at breakfast as only youth can look after unlawful hours of -revelry and confession. There had been no snow up to this time, but as Diana -crossed the old log bridge on her homeward way the white flakes were beginning -to flutter down over the fields and woods, russet and gray in their dreamless -sleep. Soon the far-away slopes and hills were dim and wraith-like through -their gauzy scarfing, as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her -hair and was waiting for her wintry bridegroom. So they had a white Christmas -after all, and a very pleasant day it was. In the forenoon letters and gifts -came from Miss Lavendar and Paul; Anne opened them in the cheerful Green Gables -kitchen, which was filled with what Davy, sniffing in ecstasy, called -“pretty smells.” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving are settled in their new home now,” -reported Anne. “I am sure Miss Lavendar is perfectly happy—I know -it by the general tone of her letter—but there’s a note from -Charlotta the Fourth. She doesn’t like Boston at all, and she is -fearfully homesick. Miss Lavendar wants me to go through to Echo Lodge some day -while I’m home and light a fire to air it, and see that the cushions -aren’t getting moldy. I think I’ll get Diana to go over with me -next week, and we can spend the evening with Theodora Dix. I want to see -Theodora. By the way, is Ludovic Speed still going to see her?” -</p> - -<p> -“They say so,” said Marilla, “and he’s likely to -continue it. Folks have given up expecting that that courtship will ever arrive -anywhere.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’d hurry him up a bit, if I was Theodora, that’s -what,” said Mrs. Lynde. And there is not the slightest doubt but that she -would. -</p> - -<p> -There was also a characteristic scrawl from Philippa, full of Alec and Alonzo, -what they said and what they did, and how they looked when they saw her. -</p> - -<p> -“But I can’t make up my mind yet which to marry,” wrote Phil. -“I do wish you had come with me to decide for me. Some one will have to. -When I saw Alec my heart gave a great thump and I thought, ‘He might be -the right one.’ And then, when Alonzo came, thump went my heart again. So -that’s no guide, though it should be, according to all the novels -I’ve ever read. Now, Anne, <i>your</i> heart wouldn’t thump for -anybody but the genuine Prince Charming, would it? There must be something -radically wrong with mine. But I’m having a perfectly gorgeous time. How -I wish you were here! It’s snowing today, and I’m rapturous. I was -so afraid we’d have a green Christmas and I loathe them. You know, when -Christmas is a dirty grayey-browney affair, looking as if it had been left over -a hundred years ago and had been in soak ever since, it is called a -<i>green</i> Christmas! Don’t ask me why. As Lord Dundreary says, -‘there are thome thingth no fellow can underthtand.’ -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, did you ever get on a street car and then discover that you -hadn’t any money with you to pay your fare? I did, the other day. -It’s quite awful. I had a nickel with me when I got on the car. I thought -it was in the left pocket of my coat. When I got settled down comfortably I -felt for it. It wasn’t there. I had a cold chill. I felt in the other -pocket. Not there. I had another chill. Then I felt in a little inside pocket. -All in vain. I had two chills at once. -</p> - -<p> -“I took off my gloves, laid them on the seat, and went over all my -pockets again. It was not there. I stood up and shook myself, and then looked -on the floor. The car was full of people, who were going home from the opera, -and they all stared at me, but I was past caring for a little thing like that. -</p> - -<p> -“But I could not find my fare. I concluded I must have put it in my mouth -and swallowed it inadvertently. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t know what to do. Would the conductor, I wondered, stop -the car and put me off in ignominy and shame? Was it possible that I could -convince him that I was merely the victim of my own absentmindedness, and not -an unprincipled creature trying to obtain a ride upon false pretenses? How I -wished that Alec or Alonzo were there. But they weren’t because I wanted -them. If I <i>hadn’t</i> wanted them they would have been there by the -dozen. And I couldn’t decide what to say to the conductor when he came -around. As soon as I got one sentence of explanation mapped out in my mind I -felt nobody could believe it and I must compose another. It seemed there was -nothing to do but trust in Providence, and for all the comfort that gave me I -might as well have been the old lady who, when told by the captain during a -storm that she must put her trust in the Almighty exclaimed, ‘Oh, -Captain, is it as bad as that?’ -</p> - -<p> -“Just at the conventional moment, when all hope had fled, and the -conductor was holding out his box to the passenger next to me, I suddenly -remembered where I had put that wretched coin of the realm. I hadn’t -swallowed it after all. I meekly fished it out of the index finger of my glove -and poked it in the box. I smiled at everybody and felt that it was a beautiful -world.” -</p> - -<p> -The visit to Echo Lodge was not the least pleasant of many pleasant holiday -outings. Anne and Diana went back to it by the old way of the beech woods, -carrying a lunch basket with them. Echo Lodge, which had been closed ever since -Miss Lavendar’s wedding, was briefly thrown open to wind and sunshine -once more, and firelight glimmered again in the little rooms. The perfume of -Miss Lavendar’s rose bowl still filled the air. It was hardly possible to -believe that Miss Lavendar would not come tripping in presently, with her brown -eyes a-star with welcome, and that Charlotta the Fourth, blue of bow and wide -of smile, would not pop through the door. Paul, too, seemed hovering around, -with his fairy fancies. -</p> - -<p> -“It really makes me feel a little bit like a ghost revisiting the old -time glimpses of the moon,” laughed Anne. “Let’s go out and -see if the echoes are at home. Bring the old horn. It is still behind the -kitchen door.” -</p> - -<p> -The echoes were at home, over the white river, as silver-clear and -multitudinous as ever; and when they had ceased to answer the girls locked up -Echo Lodge again and went away in the perfect half hour that follows the rose -and saffron of a winter sunset. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a> -Chapter VIII<br/> -Anne’s First Proposal</h2> - -<p> -The old year did not slip away in a green twilight, with a pinky-yellow sunset. -Instead, it went out with a wild, white bluster and blow. It was one of the -nights when the storm-wind hurtles over the frozen meadows and black hollows, -and moans around the eaves like a lost creature, and drives the snow sharply -against the shaking panes. -</p> - -<p> -“Just the sort of night people like to cuddle down between their blankets -and count their mercies,” said Anne to Jane Andrews, who had come up to -spend the afternoon and stay all night. But when they were cuddled between -their blankets, in Anne’s little porch room, it was not her mercies of -which Jane was thinking. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne,” she said very solemnly, “I want to tell you -something. May I” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was feeling rather sleepy after the party Ruby Gillis had given the night -before. She would much rather have gone to sleep than listen to Jane’s -confidences, which she was sure would bore her. She had no prophetic inkling of -what was coming. Probably Jane was engaged, too; rumor averred that Ruby Gillis -was engaged to the Spencervale schoolteacher, about whom all the girls were -said to be quite wild. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll soon be the only fancy-free maiden of our old quartet,” -thought Anne, drowsily. Aloud she said, “Of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anne,” said Jane, still more solemnly, “what do you think of -my brother Billy?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne gasped over this unexpected question, and floundered helplessly in her -thoughts. Goodness, what <i>did</i> she think of Billy Andrews? She had never -thought <i>anything</i> about him—round-faced, stupid, perpetually -smiling, good-natured Billy Andrews. Did <i>anybody</i> ever think about Billy -Andrews? -</p> - -<p> -“I—I don’t understand, Jane,” she stammered. -“What do you mean—exactly?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you like Billy?” asked Jane bluntly. -</p> - -<p> -“Why—why—yes, I like him, of course,” gasped Anne, -wondering if she were telling the literal truth. Certainly she did not -<i>dis</i>like Billy. But could the indifferent tolerance with which she -regarded him, when he happened to be in her range of vision, be considered -positive enough for liking? <i>What</i> was Jane trying to elucidate? -</p> - -<p> -“Would you like him for a husband?” asked Jane calmly. -</p> - -<p> -“A husband!” Anne had been sitting up in bed, the better to wrestle -with the problem of her exact opinion of Billy Andrews. Now she fell flatly -back on her pillows, the very breath gone out of her. “Whose -husband?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yours, of course,” answered Jane. “Billy wants to marry you. -He’s always been crazy about you—and now father has given him the -upper farm in his own name and there’s nothing to prevent him from -getting married. But he’s so shy he couldn’t ask you himself if -you’d have him, so he got me to do it. I’d rather not have, but he -gave me no peace till I said I would, if I got a good chance. What do you think -about it, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -Was it a dream? Was it one of those nightmare things in which you find yourself -engaged or married to some one you hate or don’t know, without the -slightest idea how it ever came about? No, she, Anne Shirley, was lying there, -wide awake, in her own bed, and Jane Andrews was beside her, calmly proposing -for her brother Billy. Anne did not know whether she wanted to writhe or laugh; -but she could do neither, for Jane’s feelings must not be hurt. -</p> - -<p> -“I—I couldn’t marry Bill, you know, Jane,” she managed -to gasp. “Why, such an idea never occurred to me—never!” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t suppose it did,” agreed Jane. “Billy has -always been far too shy to think of courting. But you might think it over, -Anne. Billy is a good fellow. I must say that, if he is my brother. He has no -bad habits and he’s a great worker, and you can depend on him. ‘A -bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’ He told me to tell you -he’d be quite willing to wait till you got through college, if you -insisted, though he’d <i>rather</i> get married this spring before the -planting begins. He’d always be very good to you, I’m sure, and you -know, Anne, I’d love to have you for a sister.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t marry Billy,” said Anne decidedly. She had recovered -her wits, and was even feeling a little angry. It was all so ridiculous. -“There is no use thinking of it, Jane. I don’t care anything for -him in that way, and you must tell him so.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I didn’t suppose you would,” said Jane with a resigned -sigh, feeling that she had done her best. “I told Billy I didn’t -believe it was a bit of use to ask you, but he insisted. Well, you’ve -made your decision, Anne, and I hope you won’t regret it.” -</p> - -<p> -Jane spoke rather coldly. She had been perfectly sure that the enamored Billy -had no chance at all of inducing Anne to marry him. Nevertheless, she felt a -little resentment that Anne Shirley, who was, after all, merely an adopted -orphan, without kith or kin, should refuse her brother—one of the Avonlea -Andrews. Well, pride sometimes goes before a fall, Jane reflected ominously. -</p> - -<p> -Anne permitted herself to smile in the darkness over the idea that she might -ever regret not marrying Billy Andrews. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope Billy won’t feel very badly over it,” she said -nicely. -</p> - -<p> -Jane made a movement as if she were tossing her head on her pillow. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, he won’t break his heart. Billy has too much good sense for -that. He likes Nettie Blewett pretty well, too, and mother would rather he -married her than any one. She’s such a good manager and saver. I think, -when Billy is once sure you won’t have him, he’ll take Nettie. -Please don’t mention this to any one, will you, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly not,” said Anne, who had no desire whatever to publish -abroad the fact that Billy Andrews wanted to marry her, preferring her, when -all was said and done, to Nettie Blewett. Nettie Blewett! -</p> - -<p> -“And now I suppose we’d better go to sleep,” suggested Jane. -</p> - -<p> -To sleep went Jane easily and speedily; but, though very unlike MacBeth in most -respects, she had certainly contrived to murder sleep for Anne. That -proposed-to damsel lay on a wakeful pillow until the wee sma’s, but her -meditations were far from being romantic. It was not, however, until the next -morning that she had an opportunity to indulge in a good laugh over the whole -affair. When Jane had gone home—still with a hint of frost in voice and -manner because Anne had declined so ungratefully and decidedly the honor of an -alliance with the House of Andrews—Anne retreated to the porch room, shut -the door, and had her laugh out at last. -</p> - -<p> -“If I could only share the joke with some one!” she thought. -“But I can’t. Diana is the only one I’d want to tell, and, -even if I hadn’t sworn secrecy to Jane, I can’t tell Diana things -now. She tells everything to Fred—I know she does. Well, I’ve had -my first proposal. I supposed it would come some day—but I certainly -never thought it would be by proxy. It’s awfully funny—and yet -there’s a sting in it, too, somehow.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she did not put it -into words. She had had her secret dreams of the first time some one should ask -her the great question. And it had, in those dreams, always been very romantic -and beautiful: and the “some one” was to be very handsome and -dark-eyed and distinguished-looking and eloquent, whether he were Prince -Charming to be enraptured with “yes,” or one to whom a regretful, -beautifully worded, but hopeless refusal must be given. If the latter, the -refusal was to be expressed so delicately that it would be next best thing to -acceptance, and he would go away, after kissing her hand, assuring her of his -unalterable, life-long devotion. And it would always be a beautiful memory, to -be proud of and a little sad about, also. -</p> - -<p> -And now, this thrilling experience had turned out to be merely grotesque. Billy -Andrews had got his sister to propose for him because his father had given him -the upper farm; and if Anne wouldn’t “have him” Nettie -Blewett would. There was romance for you, with a vengeance! Anne -laughed—and then sighed. The bloom had been brushed from one little -maiden dream. Would the painful process go on until everything became prosaic -and hum-drum? -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a> -Chapter IX<br/> -An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend</h2> - -<p> -The second term at Redmond sped as quickly as had the -first—“actually whizzed away,” Philippa said. Anne enjoyed it -thoroughly in all its phases—the stimulating class rivalry, the making -and deepening of new and helpful friendships, the gay little social stunts, the -doings of the various societies of which she was a member, the widening of -horizons and interests. She studied hard, for she had made up her mind to win -the Thorburn Scholarship in English. This being won, meant that she could come -back to Redmond the next year without trenching on Marilla’s small -savings—something Anne was determined she would not do. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert, too, was in full chase after a scholarship, but found plenty of time -for frequent calls at Thirty-eight, St. John’s. He was Anne’s -escort at nearly all the college affairs, and she knew that their names were -coupled in Redmond gossip. Anne raged over this but was helpless; she could not -cast an old friend like Gilbert aside, especially when he had grown suddenly -wise and wary, as behooved him in the dangerous proximity of more than one -Redmond youth who would gladly have taken his place by the side of the slender, -red-haired coed, whose gray eyes were as alluring as stars of evening. Anne was -never attended by the crowd of willing victims who hovered around -Philippa’s conquering march through her Freshman year; but there was a -lanky, brainy Freshie, a jolly, little, round Sophomore, and a tall, learned -Junior who all liked to call at Thirty-eight, St. John’s, and talk over -’ologies and ’isms, as well as lighter subjects, with Anne, in the -becushioned parlor of that domicile. Gilbert did not love any of them, and he -was exceedingly careful to give none of them the advantage over him by any -untimely display of his real feelings Anne-ward. To her he had become again the -boy-comrade of Avonlea days, and as such could hold his own against any smitten -swain who had so far entered the lists against him. As a companion, Anne -honestly acknowledged nobody could be so satisfactory as Gilbert; she was very -glad, so she told herself, that he had evidently dropped all nonsensical -ideas—though she spent considerable time secretly wondering why. -</p> - -<p> -Only one disagreeable incident marred that winter. Charlie Sloane, sitting bolt -upright on Miss Ada’s most dearly beloved cushion, asked Anne one night -if she would promise “to become Mrs. Charlie Sloane some day.” -Coming after Billy Andrews’ proxy effort, this was not quite the shock to -Anne’s romantic sensibilities that it would otherwise have been; but it -was certainly another heart-rending disillusion. She was angry, too, for she -felt that she had never given Charlie the slightest encouragement to suppose -such a thing possible. But what could you expect of a Sloane, as Mrs. Rachel -Lynde would ask scornfully? Charlie’s whole attitude, tone, air, words, -fairly reeked with Sloanishness. “He was conferring a great -honor—no doubt whatever about that. And when Anne, utterly insensible to -the honor, refused him, as delicately and considerately as she could—for -even a Sloane had feelings which ought not to be unduly -lacerated—Sloanishness still further betrayed itself. Charlie certainly -did not take his dismissal as Anne’s imaginary rejected suitors did. -Instead, he became angry, and showed it; he said two or three quite nasty -things; Anne’s temper flashed up mutinously and she retorted with a -cutting little speech whose keenness pierced even Charlie’s protective -Sloanishness and reached the quick; he caught up his hat and flung himself out -of the house with a very red face; Anne rushed upstairs, falling twice over -Miss Ada’s cushions on the way, and threw herself on her bed, in tears of -humiliation and rage. Had she actually stooped to quarrel with a Sloane? Was it -possible anything Charlie Sloane could say had power to make her angry? Oh, -this was degradation, indeed—worse even than being the rival of Nettie -Blewett! -</p> - -<p> -“I wish I need never see the horrible creature again,” she sobbed -vindictively into her pillows. -</p> - -<p> -She could not avoid seeing him again, but the outraged Charlie took care that -it should not be at very close quarters. Miss Ada’s cushions were -henceforth safe from his depredations, and when he met Anne on the street, or -in Redmond’s halls, his bow was icy in the extreme. Relations between -these two old schoolmates continued to be thus strained for nearly a year! Then -Charlie transferred his blighted affections to a round, rosy, snub-nosed, -blue-eyed, little Sophomore who appreciated them as they deserved, whereupon he -forgave Anne and condescended to be civil to her again; in a patronizing manner -intended to show her just what she had lost. -</p> - -<p> -One day Anne scurried excitedly into Priscilla’s room. -</p> - -<p> -“Read that,” she cried, tossing Priscilla a letter. -“It’s from Stella—and she’s coming to Redmond next -year—and what do you think of her idea? I think it’s a perfectly -splendid one, if we can only carry it out. Do you suppose we can, Pris?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll be better able to tell you when I find out what it is,” -said Priscilla, casting aside a Greek lexicon and taking up Stella’s -letter. Stella Maynard had been one of their chums at Queen’s Academy and -had been teaching school ever since. -</p> - -<p> -“But I’m going to give it up, Anne dear,” she wrote, -“and go to college next year. As I took the third year at Queen’s I -can enter the Sophomore year. I’m tired of teaching in a back country -school. Some day I’m going to write a treatise on ‘The Trials of a -Country Schoolmarm.’ It will be a harrowing bit of realism. It seems to -be the prevailing impression that we live in clover, and have nothing to do but -draw our quarter’s salary. My treatise shall tell the truth about us. -Why, if a week should pass without some one telling me that I am doing easy -work for big pay I would conclude that I might as well order my ascension robe -‘immediately and to onct.’ ‘Well, you get your money -easy,’ some rate-payer will tell me, condescendingly. ‘All you have -to do is to sit there and hear lessons.’ I used to argue the matter at -first, but I’m wiser now. Facts are stubborn things, but as some one has -wisely said, not half so stubborn as fallacies. So I only smile loftily now in -eloquent silence. Why, I have nine grades in my school and I have to teach a -little of everything, from investigating the interiors of earthworms to the -study of the solar system. My youngest pupil is four—his mother sends him -to school to ‘get him out of the way’—and my oldest -twenty—it ‘suddenly struck him’ that it would be easier to go -to school and get an education than follow the plough any longer. In the wild -effort to cram all sorts of research into six hours a day I don’t wonder -if the children feel like the little boy who was taken to see the biograph. -‘I have to look for what’s coming next before I know what went -last,’ he complained. I feel like that myself. -</p> - -<p> -“And the letters I get, Anne! Tommy’s mother writes me that Tommy -is not coming on in arithmetic as fast as she would like. He is only in simple -reduction yet, and Johnny Johnson is in fractions, and Johnny isn’t half -as smart as her Tommy, and she can’t understand it. And Susy’s -father wants to know why Susy can’t write a letter without misspelling -half the words, and Dick’s aunt wants me to change his seat, because that -bad Brown boy he is sitting with is teaching him to say naughty words. -</p> - -<p> -“As to the financial part—but I’ll not begin on that. Those -whom the gods wish to destroy they first make country schoolmarms! -</p> - -<p> -“There, I feel better, after that growl. After all, I’ve enjoyed -these past two years. But I’m coming to Redmond. -</p> - -<p> -“And now, Anne, I’ve a little plan. You know how I loathe boarding. -I’ve boarded for four years and I’m so tired of it. I don’t -feel like enduring three years more of it. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, why can’t you and Priscilla and I club together, rent a -little house somewhere in Kingsport, and board ourselves? It would be cheaper -than any other way. Of course, we would have to have a housekeeper and I have -one ready on the spot. You’ve heard me speak of Aunt Jamesina? -She’s the sweetest aunt that ever lived, in spite of her name. She -can’t help that! She was called Jamesina because her father, whose name -was James, was drowned at sea a month before she was born. I always call her -Aunt Jimsie. Well, her only daughter has recently married and gone to the -foreign mission field. Aunt Jamesina is left alone in a great big house, and -she is horribly lonesome. She will come to Kingsport and keep house for us if -we want her, and I know you’ll both love her. The more I think of the -plan the more I like it. We could have such good, independent times. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, if you and Priscilla agree to it, wouldn’t it be a good idea -for you, who are on the spot, to look around and see if you can find a suitable -house this spring? That would be better than leaving it till the fall. If you -could get a furnished one so much the better, but if not, we can scare up a few -sticks of finiture between us and old family friends with attics. Anyhow, -decide as soon as you can and write me, so that Aunt Jamesina will know what -plans to make for next year.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think it’s a good idea,” said Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“So do I,” agreed Anne delightedly. “Of course, we have a -nice boardinghouse here, but, when all’s said and done, a boardinghouse -isn’t home. So let’s go house-hunting at once, before exams come -on.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid it will be hard enough to get a really suitable -house,” warned Priscilla. “Don’t expect too much, Anne. Nice -houses in nice localities will probably be away beyond our means. We’ll -likely have to content ourselves with a shabby little place on some street -whereon live people whom to know is to be unknown, and make life inside -compensate for the outside.” -</p> - -<p> -Accordingly they went house-hunting, but to find just what they wanted proved -even harder than Priscilla had feared. Houses there were galore, furnished and -unfurnished; but one was too big, another too small; this one too expensive, -that one too far from Redmond. Exams were on and over; the last week of the -term came and still their “house o’dreams,” as Anne called -it, remained a castle in the air. -</p> - -<p> -“We shall have to give up and wait till the fall, I suppose,” said -Priscilla wearily, as they rambled through the park on one of April’s -darling days of breeze and blue, when the harbor was creaming and shimmering -beneath the pearl-hued mists floating over it. “We may find some shack to -shelter us then; and if not, boardinghouses we shall have always with -us.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not going to worry about it just now, anyway, and spoil this -lovely afternoon,” said Anne, gazing around her with delight. The fresh -chill air was faintly charged with the aroma of pine balsam, and the sky above -was crystal clear and blue—a great inverted cup of blessing. -“Spring is singing in my blood today, and the lure of April is abroad on -the air. I’m seeing visions and dreaming dreams, Pris. That’s -because the wind is from the west. I do love the west wind. It sings of hope -and gladness, doesn’t it? When the east wind blows I always think of -sorrowful rain on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore. When I get old I -shall have rheumatism when the wind is east.” -</p> - -<p> -“And isn’t it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments for -the first time and sally forth, like this, in spring attire?” laughed -Priscilla. “Don’t you feel as if you had been made over new?” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything is new in the spring,” said Anne. “Springs -themselves are always so new, too. No spring is ever just like any other -spring. It always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness. -See how green the grass is around that little pond, and how the willow buds are -bursting.” -</p> - -<p> -“And exams are over and gone—the time of Convocation will come -soon—next Wednesday. This day next week we’ll be home.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m glad,” said Anne dreamily. “There are so many -things I want to do. I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze -blowing down over Mr. Harrison’s fields. I want to hunt ferns in the -Haunted Wood and gather violets in Violet Vale. Do you remember the day of our -golden picnic, Priscilla? I want to hear the frogs singing and the poplars -whispering. But I’ve learned to love Kingsport, too, and I’m glad -I’m coming back next fall. If I hadn’t won the Thorburn I -don’t believe I could have. I <i>couldn’t</i> take any of -Marilla’s little hoard.” -</p> - -<p> -“If we could only find a house!” sighed Priscilla. “Look over -there at Kingsport, Anne—houses, houses everywhere, and not one for -us.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stop it, Pris. ‘The best is yet to be.’ Like the old Roman, -we’ll find a house or build one. On a day like this there’s no such -word as fail in my bright lexicon.” -</p> - -<p> -They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing miracle and glory -and wonder of the springtide; and they went home as usual, by way of Spofford -Avenue, that they might have the delight of looking at Patty’s Place. -</p> - -<p> -“I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right -away—‘by the pricking of my thumbs,’” said Anne, as -they went up the slope. “It’s a nice story-bookish feeling. -Why—why—why! Priscilla Grant, look over there and tell me if -it’s true, or am I seein’ things?” -</p> - -<p> -Priscilla looked. Anne’s thumbs and eyes had not deceived her. Over the -arched gateway of Patty’s Place dangled a little, modest sign. It said -“To Let, Furnished. Inquire Within.” -</p> - -<p> -“Priscilla,” said Anne, in a whisper, “do you suppose -it’s possible that we could rent Patty’s Place?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t,” averred Priscilla. “It would be too good -to be true. Fairy tales don’t happen nowadays. I won’t hope, Anne. -The disappointment would be too awful to bear. They’re sure to want more -for it than we can afford. Remember, it’s on Spofford Avenue.” -</p> - -<p> -“We must find out anyhow,” said Anne resolutely. “It’s -too late to call this evening, but we’ll come tomorrow. Oh, Pris, if we -can get this darling spot! I’ve always felt that my fortunes were linked -with Patty’s Place, ever since I saw it first.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a> -Chapter X<br/> -Patty’s Place</h2> - -<p> -The next evening found them treading resolutely the herring-bone walk through -the tiny garden. The April wind was filling the pine trees with its roundelay, -and the grove was alive with robins—great, plump, saucy fellows, -strutting along the paths. The girls rang rather timidly, and were admitted by -a grim and ancient handmaiden. The door opened directly into a large -living-room, where by a cheery little fire sat two other ladies, both of whom -were also grim and ancient. Except that one looked to be about seventy and the -other fifty, there seemed little difference between them. Each had amazingly -big, light-blue eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles; each wore a cap and a gray -shawl; each was knitting without haste and without rest; each rocked placidly -and looked at the girls without speaking; and just behind each sat a large -white china dog, with round green spots all over it, a green nose and green -ears. Those dogs captured Anne’s fancy on the spot; they seemed like the -twin guardian deities of Patty’s Place. -</p> - -<p> -For a few minutes nobody spoke. The girls were too nervous to find words, and -neither the ancient ladies nor the china dogs seemed conversationally inclined. -Anne glanced about the room. What a dear place it was! Another door opened out -of it directly into the pine grove and the robins came boldly up on the very -step. The floor was spotted with round, braided mats, such as Marilla made at -Green Gables, but which were considered out of date everywhere else, even in -Avonlea. And yet here they were on Spofford Avenue! A big, polished -grandfather’s clock ticked loudly and solemnly in a corner. There were -delightful little cupboards over the mantelpiece, behind whose glass doors -gleamed quaint bits of china. The walls were hung with old prints and -silhouettes. In one corner the stairs went up, and at the first low turn was a -long window with an inviting seat. It was all just as Anne had known it must -be. -</p> - -<p> -By this time the silence had grown too dreadful, and Priscilla nudged Anne to -intimate that she must speak. -</p> - -<p> -“We—we—saw by your sign that this house is to let,” -said Anne faintly, addressing the older lady, who was evidently Miss Patty -Spofford. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes,” said Miss Patty. “I intended to take that sign -down today.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then—then we are too late,” said Anne sorrowfully. -“You’ve let it to some one else?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, but we have decided not to let it at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Anne impulsively. “I love -this place so. I did hope we could have got it.” -</p> - -<p> -Then did Miss Patty lay down her knitting, take off her specs, rub them, put -them on again, and for the first time look at Anne as at a human being. The -other lady followed her example so perfectly that she might as well have been a -reflection in a mirror. -</p> - -<p> -“You <i>love</i> it,” said Miss Patty with emphasis. “Does -that mean that you really <i>love</i> it? Or that you merely like the looks of -it? The girls nowadays indulge in such exaggerated statements that one never -can tell what they <i>do</i> mean. It wasn’t so in my young days. -<i>Then</i> a girl did not say she <i>loved</i> turnips, in just the same tone -as she might have said she loved her mother or her Savior.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne’s conscience bore her up. -</p> - -<p> -“I really do love it,” she said gently. “I’ve loved it -ever since I saw it last fall. My two college chums and I want to keep house -next year instead of boarding, so we are looking for a little place to rent; -and when I saw that this house was to let I was so happy.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you love it, you can have it,” said Miss Patty. “Maria -and I decided today that we would not let it after all, because we did not like -any of the people who have wanted it. We don’t <i>have</i> to let it. We -can afford to go to Europe even if we don’t let it. It would help us out, -but not for gold will I let my home pass into the possession of such people as -have come here and looked at it. <i>You</i> are different. I believe you do -love it and will be good to it. You can have it.” -</p> - -<p> -“If—if we can afford to pay what you ask for it,” hesitated -Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Patty named the amount required. Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. -Priscilla shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid we can’t afford quite so much,” said Anne, -choking back her disappointment. “You see, we are only college girls and -we are poor.” -</p> - -<p> -“What were you thinking you could afford?” demanded Miss Patty, -ceasing not to knit. -</p> - -<p> -Anne named her amount. Miss Patty nodded gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“That will do. As I told you, it is not strictly necessary that we should -let it at all. We are not rich, but we have enough to go to Europe on. I have -never been in Europe in my life, and never expected or wanted to go. But my -niece there, Maria Spofford, has taken a fancy to go. Now, you know a young -person like Maria can’t go globetrotting alone.” -</p> - -<p> -“No—I—I suppose not,” murmured Anne, seeing that Miss -Patty was quite solemnly in earnest. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not. So I have to go along to look after her. I expect to -enjoy it, too; I’m seventy years old, but I’m not tired of living -yet. I daresay I’d have gone to Europe before if the idea had occurred to -me. We shall be away for two years, perhaps three. We sail in June and we shall -send you the key, and leave all in order for you to take possession when you -choose. We shall pack away a few things we prize especially, but all the rest -will be left.” -</p> - -<p> -“Will you leave the china dogs?” asked Anne timidly. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you like me to?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed, yes. They are delightful.” -</p> - -<p> -A pleased expression came into Miss Patty’s face. -</p> - -<p> -“I think a great deal of those dogs,” she said proudly. “They -are over a hundred years old, and they have sat on either side of this -fireplace ever since my brother Aaron brought them from London fifty years ago. -Spofford Avenue was called after my brother Aaron.” -</p> - -<p> -“A fine man he was,” said Miss Maria, speaking for the first time. -“Ah, you don’t see the like of him nowadays.” -</p> - -<p> -“He was a good uncle to you, Maria,” said Miss Patty, with evident -emotion. “You do well to remember him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall always remember him,” said Miss Maria solemnly. “I -can see him, this minute, standing there before that fire, with his hands under -his coat-tails, beaming on us.” -</p> - -<p> -Miss Maria took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but Miss Patty came -resolutely back from the regions of sentiment to those of business. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall leave the dogs where they are, if you will promise to be very -careful of them,” she said. “Their names are Gog and Magog. Gog -looks to the right and Magog to the left. And there’s just one thing -more. You don’t object, I hope, to this house being called Patty’s -Place?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, indeed. We think that is one of the nicest things about it.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have sense, I see,” said Miss Patty in a tone of great -satisfaction. “Would you believe it? All the people who came here to rent -the house wanted to know if they couldn’t take the name off the gate -during their occupation of it. I told them roundly that the name went with the -house. This has been Patty’s Place ever since my brother Aaron left it to -me in his will, and Patty’s Place it shall remain until I die and Maria -dies. After that happens the next possessor can call it any fool name he -likes,” concluded Miss Patty, much as she might have said, “After -that—the deluge.” “And now, wouldn’t you like to go -over the house and see it all before we consider the bargain made?” -</p> - -<p> -Further exploration still further delighted the girls. Besides the big -living-room, there was a kitchen and a small bedroom downstairs. Upstairs were -three rooms, one large and two small. Anne took an especial fancy to one of the -small ones, looking out into the big pines, and hoped it would be hers. It was -papered in pale blue and had a little, old-timey toilet table with sconces for -candles. There was a diamond-paned window with a seat under the blue muslin -frills that would be a satisfying spot for studying or dreaming. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all so delicious that I know we are going to wake up and find -it a fleeting vision of the night,” said Priscilla as they went away. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Patty and Miss Maria are hardly such stuff as dreams are made -of,” laughed Anne. “Can you fancy them -‘globe-trotting’—especially in those shawls and caps?” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose they’ll take them off when they really begin to -trot,” said Priscilla, “but I know they’ll take their -knitting with them everywhere. They simply couldn’t be parted from it. -They will walk about Westminster Abbey and knit, I feel sure. Meanwhile, Anne, -we shall be living in Patty’s Place—and on Spofford Avenue. I feel -like a millionairess even now.” -</p> - -<p> -“I feel like one of the morning stars that sang for joy,” said -Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Phil Gordon crept into Thirty-eight, St. John’s, that night and flung -herself on Anne’s bed. -</p> - -<p> -“Girls, dear, I’m tired to death. I feel like the man without a -country—or was it without a shadow? I forget which. Anyway, I’ve -been packing up.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I suppose you are worn out because you couldn’t decide which -things to pack first, or where to put them,” laughed Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“E-zackly. And when I had got everything jammed in somehow, and my -landlady and her maid had both sat on it while I locked it, I discovered I had -packed a whole lot of things I wanted for Convocation at the very bottom. I had -to unlock the old thing and poke and dive into it for an hour before I fished -out what I wanted. I would get hold of something that felt like what I was -looking for, and I’d yank it up, and it would be something else. No, -Anne, I did <i>not</i> swear.” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t say you did.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you looked it. But I admit my thoughts verged on the profane. And -I have such a cold in the head—I can do nothing but sniffle, sigh and -sneeze. Isn’t that alliterative agony for you? Queen Anne, do say -something to cheer me up.” -</p> - -<p> -“Remember that next Thursday night, you’ll be back in the land of -Alec and Alonzo,” suggested Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Phil shook her head dolefully. -</p> - -<p> -“More alliteration. No, I don’t want Alec and Alonzo when I have a -cold in the head. But what has happened you two? Now that I look at you closely -you seem all lighted up with an internal iridescence. Why, you’re -actually <i>shining!</i> What’s up?” -</p> - -<p> -“We are going to live in Patty’s Place next winter,” said -Anne triumphantly. “Live, mark you, not board! We’ve rented it, and -Stella Maynard is coming, and her aunt is going to keep house for us.” -</p> - -<p> -Phil bounced up, wiped her nose, and fell on her knees before Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Girls—girls—let me come, too. Oh, I’ll be so good. If -there’s no room for me I’ll sleep in the little doghouse in the -orchard—I’ve seen it. Only let me come.” -</p> - -<p> -“Get up, you goose.” -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t stir off my marrow bones till you tell me I can live with -you next winter.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. Then Anne said slowly, “Phil -dear, we’d love to have you. But we may as well speak plainly. I’m -poor—Pris is poor—Stella Maynard is poor—our housekeeping -will have to be very simple and our table plain. You’d have to live as we -would. Now, you are rich and your boardinghouse fare attests the fact.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, what do I care for that?” demanded Phil tragically. -“Better a dinner of herbs where your chums are than a stalled ox in a -lonely boardinghouse. Don’t think I’m <i>all</i> stomach, girls. -I’ll be willing to live on bread and water—with just a -<i>leetle</i> jam—if you’ll let me come.” -</p> - -<p> -“And then,” continued Anne, “there will be a good deal of -work to be done. Stella’s aunt can’t do it all. We all expect to -have our chores to do. Now, you—” -</p> - -<p> -“Toil not, neither do I spin,” finished Philippa. “But -I’ll learn to do things. You’ll only have to show me once. I -<i>can</i> make my own bed to begin with. And remember that, though I -can’t cook, I <i>can</i> keep my temper. That’s something. And I -<i>never</i> growl about the weather. That’s more. Oh, please, please! I -never wanted anything so much in my life—and this floor is awfully -hard.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s just one more thing,” said Priscilla resolutely. -“You, Phil, as all Redmond knows, entertain callers almost every evening. -Now, at Patty’s Place we can’t do that. We have decided that we -shall be at home to our friends on Friday evenings only. If you come with us -you’ll have to abide by that rule.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you don’t think I’ll mind that, do you? Why, I’m -glad of it. I knew I should have had some such rule myself, but I hadn’t -enough decision to make it or stick to it. When I can shuffle off the -responsibility on you it will be a real relief. If you won’t let me cast -in my lot with you I’ll die of the disappointment and then I’ll -come back and haunt you. I’ll camp on the very doorstep of Patty’s -Place and you won’t be able to go out or come in without falling over my -spook.” -</p> - -<p> -Again Anne and Priscilla exchanged eloquent looks. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Anne, “of course we can’t promise to take -you until we’ve consulted with Stella; but I don’t think -she’ll object, and, as far as we are concerned, you may come and glad -welcome.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you get tired of our simple life you can leave us, and no questions -asked,” added Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -Phil sprang up, hugged them both jubilantly, and went on her way rejoicing. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope things will go right,” said Priscilla soberly. -</p> - -<p> -“We must <i>make</i> them go right,” avowed Anne. “I think -Phil will fit into our ’appy little ’ome very well.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Phil’s a dear to rattle round with and be chums. And, of -course, the more there are of us the easier it will be on our slim purses. But -how will she be to live with? You have to summer and winter with any one before -you know if she’s <i>livable</i> or not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, well, we’ll all be put to the test, as far as that goes. And -we must quit us like sensible folk, living and let live. Phil isn’t -selfish, though she’s a little thoughtless, and I believe we will all get -on beautifully in Patty’s Place.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a> -Chapter XI<br/> -The Round of Life</h2> - -<p> -Anne was back in Avonlea with the luster of the Thorburn Scholarship on her -brow. People told her she hadn’t changed much, in a tone which hinted -they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn’t. Avonlea had not -changed, either. At least, so it seemed at first. But as Anne sat in the Green -Gables pew, on the first Sunday after her return, and looked over the -congregation, she saw several little changes which, all coming home to her at -once, made her realize that time did not quite stand still, even in Avonlea. A -new minister was in the pulpit. In the pews more than one familiar face was -missing forever. Old “Uncle Abe,” his prophesying over and done -with, Mrs. Peter Sloane, who had sighed, it was to be hoped, for the last time, -Timothy Cotton, who, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde said “had actually managed to -die at last after practicing at it for twenty years,” and old Josiah -Sloane, whom nobody knew in his coffin because he had his whiskers neatly -trimmed, were all sleeping in the little graveyard behind the church. And Billy -Andrews was married to Nettie Blewett! They “appeared out” that -Sunday. When Billy, beaming with pride and happiness, showed his be-plumed and -be-silked bride into the Harmon Andrews’ pew, Anne dropped her lids to -hide her dancing eyes. She recalled the stormy winter night of the Christmas -holidays when Jane had proposed for Billy. He certainly had not broken his -heart over his rejection. Anne wondered if Jane had also proposed to Nettie for -him, or if he had mustered enough spunk to ask the fateful question himself. -All the Andrews family seemed to share in his pride and pleasure, from Mrs. -Harmon in the pew to Jane in the choir. Jane had resigned from the Avonlea -school and intended to go West in the fall. -</p> - -<p> -“Can’t get a beau in Avonlea, that’s what,” said Mrs. -Rachel Lynde scornfully. “<i>Says</i> she thinks she’ll have better -health out West. I never heard her health was poor before.” -</p> - -<p> -“Jane is a nice girl,” Anne had said loyally. “She never -tried to attract attention, as some did.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, she never chased the boys, if that’s what you mean,” -said Mrs. Rachel. “But she’d like to be married, just as much as -anybody, that’s what. What else would take her out West to some forsaken -place whose only recommendation is that men are plenty and women scarce? -Don’t you tell me!” -</p> - -<p> -But it was not at Jane, Anne gazed that day in dismay and surprise. It was at -Ruby Gillis, who sat beside her in the choir. What had happened to Ruby? She -was even handsomer than ever; but her blue eyes were too bright and lustrous, -and the color of her cheeks was hectically brilliant; besides, she was very -thin; the hands that held her hymn-book were almost transparent in their -delicacy. -</p> - -<p> -“Is Ruby Gillis ill?” Anne asked of Mrs. Lynde, as they went home -from church. -</p> - -<p> -“Ruby Gillis is dying of galloping consumption,” said Mrs. Lynde -bluntly. “Everybody knows it except herself and her <i>family</i>. They -won’t give in. If you ask <i>them</i>, she’s perfectly well. She -hasn’t been able to teach since she had that attack of congestion in the -winter, but she says she’s going to teach again in the fall, and -she’s after the White Sands school. She’ll be in her grave, poor -girl, when White Sands school opens, that’s what.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne listened in shocked silence. Ruby Gillis, her old school-chum, dying? -Could it be possible? Of late years they had grown apart; but the old tie of -school-girl intimacy was there, and made itself felt sharply in the tug the -news gave at Anne’s heartstrings. Ruby, the brilliant, the merry, the -coquettish! It was impossible to associate the thought of her with anything -like death. She had greeted Anne with gay cordiality after church, and urged -her to come up the next evening. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll be away Tuesday and Wednesday evenings,” she had -whispered triumphantly. “There’s a concert at Carmody and a party -at White Sands. Herb Spencer’s going to take me. He’s my -<i>latest</i>. Be sure to come up tomorrow. I’m dying for a good talk -with you. I want to hear all about your doings at Redmond.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne knew that Ruby meant that she wanted to tell Anne all about her own recent -flirtations, but she promised to go, and Diana offered to go with her. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been wanting to go to see Ruby for a long while,” she -told Anne, when they left Green Gables the next evening, “but I really -couldn’t go alone. It’s so awful to hear Ruby rattling on as she -does, and pretending there is nothing the matter with her, even when she can -hardly speak for coughing. She’s fighting so hard for her life, and yet -she hasn’t any chance at all, they say.” -</p> - -<p> -The girls walked silently down the red, twilit road. The robins were singing -vespers in the high treetops, filling the golden air with their jubilant -voices. The silver fluting of the frogs came from marshes and ponds, over -fields where seeds were beginning to stir with life and thrill to the sunshine -and rain that had drifted over them. The air was fragrant with the wild, sweet, -wholesome smell of young raspberry copses. White mists were hovering in the -silent hollows and violet stars were shining bluely on the brooklands. -</p> - -<p> -“What a beautiful sunset,” said Diana. “Look, Anne, -it’s just like a land in itself, isn’t it? That long, low back of -purple cloud is the shore, and the clear sky further on is like a golden -sea.” -</p> - -<p> -“If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul wrote of in his old -composition—you remember?—how nice it would be,” said Anne, -rousing from her reverie. “Do you think we could find all our yesterdays -there, Diana—all our old springs and blossoms? The beds of flowers that -Paul saw there are the roses that have bloomed for us in the past?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t!” said Diana. “You make me feel as if we were -old women with everything in life behind us.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think I’ve almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor -Ruby,” said Anne. “If it is true that she is dying any other sad -thing might be true, too.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t mind calling in at Elisha Wright’s for a moment, -do you?” asked Diana. “Mother asked me to leave this little dish of -jelly for Aunt Atossa.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who is Aunt Atossa?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, haven’t you heard? She’s Mrs. Samson Coates of -Spencervale—Mrs. Elisha Wright’s aunt. She’s father’s -aunt, too. Her husband died last winter and she was left very poor and lonely, -so the Wrights took her to live with them. Mother thought we ought to take her, -but father put his foot down. Live with Aunt Atossa he would not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is she so terrible?” asked Anne absently. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll probably see what she’s like before we can get -away,” said Diana significantly. “Father says she has a face like a -hatchet—it cuts the air. But her tongue is sharper still.” -</p> - -<p> -Late as it was Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright kitchen. She -wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was decidedly untidy. Aunt Atossa -did not like being “caught in a kilter,” so she went out of her way -to be disagreeable. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, so you’re Anne Shirley?” she said, when Diana introduced -Anne. “I’ve heard of you.” Her tone implied that she had -heard nothing good. “Mrs. Andrews was telling me you were home. She said -you had improved a good deal.” -</p> - -<p> -There was no doubt Aunt Atossa thought there was plenty of room for further -improvement. She ceased not from cutting sets with much energy. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it any use to ask you to sit down?” she inquired sarcastically. -“Of course, there’s nothing very entertaining here for you. The -rest are all away.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb jelly,” said Diana -pleasantly. “She made it today and thought you might like some.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, thanks,” said Aunt Atossa sourly. “I never fancy your -mother’s jelly—she always makes it too sweet. However, I’ll -try to worry some down. My appetite’s been dreadful poor this spring. -I’m far from well,” continued Aunt Atossa solemnly, “but -still I keep a-doing. People who can’t work aren’t wanted here. If -it isn’t too much trouble will you be condescending enough to set the -jelly in the pantry? I’m in a hurry to get these spuds done tonight. I -suppose you two <i>ladies</i> never do anything like this. You’d be -afraid of spoiling your hands.” -</p> - -<p> -“I used to cut potato sets before we rented the farm,” smiled Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“I do it yet,” laughed Diana. “I cut sets three days last -week. Of course,” she added teasingly, “I did my hands up in lemon -juice and kid gloves every night after it.” -</p> - -<p> -Aunt Atossa sniffed. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly magazines you -read so many of. I wonder your mother allows you. But she always spoiled you. -We all thought when George married her she wouldn’t be a suitable wife -for him.” -</p> - -<p> -Aunt Atossa sighed heavily, as if all forebodings upon the occasion of George -Barry’s marriage had been amply and darkly fulfilled. -</p> - -<p> -“Going, are you?” she inquired, as the girls rose. “Well, I -suppose you can’t find much amusement talking to an old woman like me. -It’s such a pity the boys ain’t home.” -</p> - -<p> -“We want to run in and see Ruby Gillis a little while,” explained -Diana. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, anything does for an excuse, of course,” said Aunt Atossa, -amiably. “Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do -decently. It’s college airs, I s’pose. You’d be wiser to keep -away from Ruby Gillis. The doctors say consumption’s catching. I always -knew Ruby’d get something, gadding off to Boston last fall for a visit. -People who ain’t content to stay home always catch something.” -</p> - -<p> -“People who don’t go visiting catch things, too. Sometimes they -even die,” said Diana solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -“Then they don’t have themselves to blame for it,” retorted -Aunt Atossa triumphantly. “I hear you are to be married in June, -Diana.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is no truth in that report,” said Diana, blushing. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, don’t put it off too long,” said Aunt Atossa -significantly. “You’ll fade soon—you’re all complexion -and hair. And the Wrights are terrible fickle. You ought to wear a hat, <i>Miss -Shirley</i>. Your nose is freckling scandalous. My, but you <i>are</i> -redheaded! Well, I s’pose we’re all as the Lord made us! Give -Marilla Cuthbert my respects. She’s never been to see me since I come to -Avonlea, but I s’pose I oughtn’t to complain. The Cuthberts always -did think themselves a cut higher than any one else round here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, isn’t she dreadful?” gasped Diana, as they escaped down -the lane. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s worse than Miss Eliza Andrews,” said Anne. “But -then think of living all your life with a name like Atossa! Wouldn’t it -sour almost any one? She should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. It -might have helped her a great deal. It certainly helped me in the days when I -didn’t like <i>Anne</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up,” said Diana. -“Josie’s mother and Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, -I’m glad that’s over. She’s so malicious—she seems to -put a bad flavor in everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. One -time they had a minister in Spencervale who was a very good, spiritual man but -very deaf. He couldn’t hear any ordinary conversation at all. Well, they -used to have a prayer meeting on Sunday evenings, and all the church members -present would get up and pray in turn, or say a few words on some Bible verse. -But one evening Aunt Atossa bounced up. She didn’t either pray or preach. -Instead, she lit into everybody else in the church and gave them a fearful -raking down, calling them right out by name and telling them how they all had -behaved, and casting up all the quarrels and scandals of the past ten years. -Finally she wound up by saying that she was disgusted with Spencervale church -and she never meant to darken its door again, and she hoped a fearful judgment -would come upon it. Then she sat down out of breath, and the minister, who -hadn’t heard a word she said, immediately remarked, in a very devout -voice, ‘amen! The Lord grant our dear sister’s prayer!’ You -ought to hear father tell the story.” -</p> - -<p> -“Speaking of stories, Diana,” remarked Anne, in a significant, -confidential tone, “do you know that lately I have been wondering if I -could write a short story—a story that would be good enough to be -published?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, of course you could,” said Diana, after she had grasped the -amazing suggestion. “You used to write perfectly thrilling stories years -ago in our old Story Club.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories,” smiled Anne. -“I’ve been thinking about it a little of late, but I’m almost -afraid to try, for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating.” -</p> - -<p> -“I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan’s first stories -were rejected. But I’m sure yours wouldn’t be, Anne, for it’s -likely editors have more sense nowadays.” -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story last -winter and it was published in the <i>Canadian Woman</i>. I really do think I -could write one at least as good.” -</p> - -<p> -“And will you have it published in the <i>Canadian Woman?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what -kind of a story I write.” -</p> - -<p> -“What is it to be about?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe -this is very necessary from an editor’s point of view. The only thing -I’ve settled on is the heroine’s name. It is to be <i>Averil -Lester</i>. Rather pretty, don’t you think? Don’t mention this to -any one, Diana. I haven’t told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. -<i>He</i> wasn’t very encouraging—he said there was far too much -trash written nowadays as it was, and he’d expected something better of -me, after a year at college.” -</p> - -<p> -“What does Mr. Harrison know about it?” demanded Diana scornfully. -</p> - -<p> -They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard Kimball, of -Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring at each other across the -parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Ruby was dressed in white and her -eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She laughed and chattered incessantly, and -after the other girls had gone she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer -dresses. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve a blue silk to make up yet, but it’s a little heavy for -summer wear. I think I’ll leave it until the fall. I’m going to -teach in White Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in -church yesterday was real dinky. But I like something brighter for myself. Did -you notice those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They’ve both come -determined to sit each other out. I don’t care a single bit about either -of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. Sometimes I really do think -he’s <i>Mr. Right</i>. At Christmas I thought the Spencervale -schoolmaster was that. But I found out something about him that turned me -against him. He nearly went insane when I turned him down. I wish those two -boys hadn’t come tonight. I wanted to have a nice good talk with you, -Anne, and tell you such heaps of things. You and I were always good chums, -weren’t we?” -</p> - -<p> -Ruby slipped her arm about Anne’s waist with a shallow little laugh. But -just for a moment their eyes met, and, behind all the luster of Ruby’s, -Anne saw something that made her heart ache. -</p> - -<p> -“Come up often, won’t you, Anne?” whispered Ruby. “Come -alone—I want you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you feeling quite well, Ruby?” -</p> - -<p> -“Me! Why, I’m perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. Of -course, that congestion last winter pulled me down a little. But just see my -color. I don’t look much like an invalid, I’m sure.” -</p> - -<p> -Ruby’s voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne, as if -in resentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever, apparently so -much absorbed in bantering her two swains that Diana and Anne felt rather out -of it and soon went away. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a> -Chapter XII<br/> -“Averil’s Atonement” </h2> - -<p> -“What are you dreaming of, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -The two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the brook. Ferns -nodded in it, and little grasses were green, and wild pears hung -finely-scented, white curtains around it. -</p> - -<p> -Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“I was thinking out my story, Diana.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, have you really begun it?” cried Diana, all alight with eager -interest in a moment. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty well -thought out. I’ve had such a time to get a suitable plot. None of the -plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named <i>Averil</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Couldn’t you have changed her name?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn’t do it, -any more than I could change yours. <i>Averil</i> was so real to me that no -matter what other name I tried to give her I just thought of her as -<i>Averil</i> behind it all. But finally I got a plot that matched her. Then -came the excitement of choosing names for all my characters. You have no idea -how fascinating that is. I’ve lain awake for hours thinking over those -names. The hero’s name is <i>Perceval Dalrymple</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you named <i>all</i> the characters?” asked Diana wistfully. -“If you hadn’t I was going to ask you to let me name one—just -some unimportant person. I’d feel as if I had a share in the story -then.” -</p> - -<p> -“You may name the little hired boy who lived with the -<i>Lesters</i>,” conceded Anne. “He is not very important, but he -is the only one left unnamed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Call him <i>Raymond Fitzosborne</i>,” suggested Diana, who had a -store of such names laid away in her memory, relics of the old “Story -Club,” which she and Anne and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis had had in -their schooldays. -</p> - -<p> -Anne shook her head doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, Diana. -I couldn’t imagine a Fitzosborne feeding pigs and picking up chips, could -you?” -</p> - -<p> -Diana didn’t see why, if you had an imagination at all, you -couldn’t stretch it to that extent; but probably Anne knew best, and the -chore boy was finally christened <i>Robert Ray</i>, to be called <i>Bobby</i> -should occasion require. -</p> - -<p> -“How much do you suppose you’ll get for it?” asked Diana. -</p> - -<p> -But Anne had not thought about this at all. She was in pursuit of fame, not -filthy lucre, and her literary dreams were as yet untainted by mercenary -considerations. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll let me read it, won’t you?” pleaded Diana. -</p> - -<p> -“When it is finished I’ll read it to you and Mr. Harrison, and I -shall want you to criticize it <i>severely</i>. No one else shall see it until -it is published.” -</p> - -<p> -“How are you going to end it—happily or unhappily?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not sure. I’d like it to end unhappily, because that -would be so much more romantic. But I understand editors have a prejudice -against sad endings. I heard Professor Hamilton say once that nobody but a -genius should try to write an unhappy ending. And,” concluded Anne -modestly, “I’m anything but a genius.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh I like happy endings best. You’d better let him marry -her,” said Diana, who, especially since her engagement to Fred, thought -this was how every story should end. -</p> - -<p> -“But you like to cry over stories?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes, in the middle of them. But I like everything to come right at -last.” -</p> - -<p> -“I must have one pathetic scene in it,” said Anne thoughtfully. -“I might let <i>Robert Ray</i> be injured in an accident and have a death -scene.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, you mustn’t kill <i>Bobby</i> off,” declared Diana, -laughing. “He belongs to me and I want him to live and flourish. Kill -somebody else if you have to.” -</p> - -<p> -For the next fortnight Anne writhed or reveled, according to mood, in her -literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a brilliant idea, now -despairing because some contrary character would <i>not</i> behave properly. -Diana could not understand this. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Make</i> them do as you want them to,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t,” mourned Anne. “Averil is such an -unmanageable heroine. She <i>will</i> do and say things I never meant her to. -Then that spoils everything that went before and I have to write it all over -again.” -</p> - -<p> -Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in the -seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her “pathetic scene” -without sacrificing <i>Robert Ray</i>, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana as -she read it. Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly; but, when the end -came, she looked a little disappointed. -</p> - -<p> -“Why did you kill <i>Maurice Lennox?</i>” she asked reproachfully. -</p> - -<p> -“He was the villain,” protested Anne. “He had to be -punished.” -</p> - -<p> -“I like him best of them all,” said unreasonable Diana. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, he’s dead, and he’ll have to stay dead,” said -Anne, rather resentfully. “If I had let him live he’d have gone on -persecuting <i>Averil</i> and <i>Perceval</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes—unless you had reformed him.” -</p> - -<p> -“That wouldn’t have been romantic, and, besides, it would have made -the story too long.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, anyway, it’s a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make -you famous, of that I’m sure. Have you got a title for it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I call it <i>Averil’s -atonement</i>. Doesn’t that sound nice and alliterative? Now, Diana, tell -me candidly, do you see any faults in my story?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” hesitated Diana, “that part where <i>Averil</i> makes -the cake doesn’t seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. -It’s just what anybody might do. Heroines shouldn’t do cooking, -<i>I</i> think.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it’s one of the best -parts of the whole story,” said Anne. And it may be stated that in this -she was quite right. -</p> - -<p> -Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison was much -harder to please. First he told her there was entirely too much description in -the story. -</p> - -<p> -“Cut out all those flowery passages,” he said unfeelingly. -</p> - -<p> -Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and she -forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though it took -three re-writings before the story could be pruned down to please the -fastidious Mr. Harrison. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve left out <i>all</i> the descriptions but the sunset,” -she said at last. “I simply <i>couldn’t</i> let it go. It was the -best of them all.” -</p> - -<p> -“It hasn’t anything to do with the story,” said Mr. Harrison, -“and you shouldn’t have laid the scene among rich city people. What -do you know of them? Why didn’t you lay it right here in -Avonlea—changing the name, of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lynde would -probably think she was the heroine.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, that would never have done,” protested Anne. “Avonlea is -the dearest place in the world, but it isn’t quite romantic enough for -the scene of a story.” -</p> - -<p> -“I daresay there’s been many a romance in Avonlea—and many a -tragedy, too,” said Mr. Harrison drily. “But your folks ain’t -like real folks anywhere. They talk too much and use too high-flown language. -There’s one place where that <i>Dalrymple</i> chap talks even on for two -pages, and never lets the girl get a word in edgewise. If he’d done that -in real life she’d have pitched him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t believe it,” said Anne flatly. In her secret soul -she thought that the beautiful, poetical things said to <i>Averil</i> would win -any girl’s heart completely. Besides, it was gruesome to hear of -<i>Averil</i>, the stately, queen-like <i>Averil</i>, “pitching” -any one. <i>Averil</i> “declined her suitors.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anyhow,” resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, “I don’t -see why <i>Maurice Lennox</i> didn’t get her. He was twice the man the -other is. He did bad things, but he did them. Perceval hadn’t time for -anything but mooning.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mooning.” That was even worse than “pitching!” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Maurice Lennox</i> was the villain,” said Anne indignantly. -“I don’t see why every one likes him better than -<i>Perceval</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perceval is too good. He’s aggravating. Next time you write about -a hero put a little spice of human nature in him.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Averil</i> couldn’t have married <i>Maurice</i>. He was -bad.” -</p> - -<p> -“She’d have reformed him. You can reform a man; you can’t -reform a jelly-fish, of course. Your story isn’t bad—it’s -kind of interesting, I’ll admit. But you’re too young to write a -story that would be worth while. Wait ten years.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne made up her mind that the next time she wrote a story she wouldn’t -ask anybody to criticize it. It was too discouraging. She would not read the -story to Gilbert, although she told him about it. -</p> - -<p> -“If it is a success you’ll see it when it is published, Gilbert, -but if it is a failure nobody shall ever see it.” -</p> - -<p> -Marilla knew nothing about the venture. In imagination Anne saw herself reading -a story out of a magazine to Marilla, entrapping her into praise of -it—for in imagination all things are possible—and then triumphantly -announcing herself the author. -</p> - -<p> -One day Anne took to the Post Office a long, bulky envelope, addressed, with -the delightful confidence of youth and inexperience, to the very biggest of the -“big” magazines. Diana was as excited over it as Anne herself. -</p> - -<p> -“How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it?” she -asked. -</p> - -<p> -“It shouldn’t be longer than a fortnight. Oh, how happy and proud I -shall be if it is accepted!” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to send them -more. You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan some day, Anne, and then how proud -I’ll be of knowing you,” said Diana, who possessed, at least, the -striking merit of an unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces of her -friends. -</p> - -<p> -A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter awakening. One -evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable, with suspicious-looking eyes. On -the table lay a long envelope and a crumpled manuscript. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, your story hasn’t come back?” cried Diana -incredulously. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it has,” said Anne shortly. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, that editor must be crazy. What reason did he give?” -</p> - -<p> -“No reason at all. There is just a printed slip saying that it -wasn’t found acceptable.” -</p> - -<p> -“I never thought much of that magazine, anyway,” said Diana hotly. -“The stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the -<i>Canadian Woman</i>, although it costs so much more. I suppose the editor is -prejudiced against any one who isn’t a Yankee. Don’t be -discouraged, Anne. Remember how Mrs. Morgan’s stories came back. Send -yours to the <i>Canadian Woman</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“I believe I will,” said Anne, plucking up heart. “And if it -is published I’ll send that American editor a marked copy. But I’ll -cut the sunset out. I believe Mr. Harrison was right.” -</p> - -<p> -Out came the sunset; but in spite of this heroic mutilation the editor of the -<i>Canadian Woman</i> sent Averil’s Atonement back so promptly that the -indignant Diana declared that it couldn’t have been read at all, and -vowed she was going to stop her subscription immediately. Anne took this second -rejection with the calmness of despair. She locked the story away in the garret -trunk where the old Story Club tales reposed; but first she yielded to -Diana’s entreaties and gave her a copy. -</p> - -<p> -“This is the end of my literary ambitions,” she said bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening he asked her -bluntly if her story had been accepted. -</p> - -<p> -“No, the editor wouldn’t take it,” she answered briefly. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I suppose you’ll keep on writing them,” he said -encouragingly. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I shall never try to write a story again,” declared Anne, with -the hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face. -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t give up altogether,” said Mr. Harrison -reflectively. “I’d write a story once in a while, but I -wouldn’t pester editors with it. I’d write of people and places -like I knew, and I’d make my characters talk everyday English; and -I’d let the sun rise and set in the usual quiet way without much fuss -over the fact. If I had to have villains at all, I’d give them a chance, -Anne—I’d give them a chance. There are some terrible bad men in the -world, I suppose, but you’d have to go a long piece to find -them—though Mrs. Lynde believes we’re all bad. But most of us have -got a little decency somewhere in us. Keep on writing, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“No. It was very foolish of me to attempt it. When I’m through -Redmond I’ll stick to teaching. I can teach. I can’t write -stories.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’ll be time for you to be getting a husband when you’re -through Redmond,” said Mr. Harrison. “I don’t believe in -putting marrying off too long—like I did.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne got up and marched home. There were times when Mr. Harrison was really -intolerable. “Pitching,” “mooning,” and “getting -a husband.” Ow!! -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a> -Chapter XIII<br/> -The Way of Transgressors</h2> - -<p> -Davy and Dora were ready for Sunday School. They were going alone, which did -not often happen, for Mrs. Lynde always attended Sunday School. But Mrs. Lynde -had twisted her ankle and was lame, so she was staying home this morning. The -twins were also to represent the family at church, for Anne had gone away the -evening before to spend Sunday with friends in Carmody, and Marilla had one of -her headaches. -</p> - -<p> -Davy came downstairs slowly. Dora was waiting in the hall for him, having been -made ready by Mrs. Lynde. Davy had attended to his own preparations. He had a -cent in his pocket for the Sunday School collection, and a five-cent piece for -the church collection; he carried his Bible in one hand and his Sunday School -quarterly in the other; he knew his lesson and his Golden Text and his -catechism question perfectly. Had he not studied them—perforce—in -Mrs. Lynde’s kitchen, all last Sunday afternoon? Davy, therefore, should -have been in a placid frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and -catechism, he was inwardly as a ravening wolf. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you clean?” she demanded severely. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes—all of me that shows,” Davy answered with a defiant -scowl. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davy’s neck and ears. -But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davy would -likely take to his heels and she could not pursue him today. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, be sure you behave yourselves,” she warned them. -“Don’t walk in the dust. Don’t stop in the porch to talk to -the other children. Don’t squirm or wriggle in your places. Don’t -forget the Golden Text. Don’t lose your collection or forget to put it -in. Don’t whisper at prayer time, and don’t forget to pay attention -to the sermon.” -</p> - -<p> -Davy deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, followed by the meek -Dora. But his soul seethed within. Davy had suffered, or thought he had -suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs. Rachel Lynde since she -had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lynde could not live with anybody, whether -they were nine or ninety, without trying to bring them up properly. And it was -only the preceding afternoon that she had interfered to influence Marilla -against allowing Davy to go fishing with the Timothy Cottons. Davy was still -boiling over this. -</p> - -<p> -As soon as he was out of the lane Davy stopped and twisted his countenance into -such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora, although she knew his -gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest he should never in the world -be able to get it straightened out again. -</p> - -<p> -“Darn her,” exploded Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Davy, don’t swear,” gasped Dora in dismay. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Darn’ isn’t swearing—not real swearing. And I -don’t care if it is,” retorted Davy recklessly. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, if you <i>must</i> say dreadful words don’t say them on -Sunday,” pleaded Dora. -</p> - -<p> -Davy was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt that, -perhaps, he had gone a little too far. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m going to invent a swear word of my own,” he declared. -</p> - -<p> -“God will punish you if you do,” said Dora solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -“Then I think God is a mean old scamp,” retorted Davy. -“Doesn’t He know a fellow must have some way of ’spressing -his feelings?” -</p> - -<p> -“Davy!!!” said Dora. She expected that Davy would be struck down -dead on the spot. But nothing happened. -</p> - -<p> -“Anyway, I ain’t going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynde’s -bossing,” spluttered Davy. “Anne and Marilla may have the right to -boss me, but <i>she</i> hasn’t. I’m going to do every single thing -she told me not to do. You watch me.” -</p> - -<p> -In grim, deliberate silence, while Dora watched him with the fascination of -horror, Davy stepped off the green grass of the roadside, ankle deep into the -fine dust which four weeks of rainless weather had made on the road, and -marched along in it, shuffling his feet viciously until he was enveloped in a -hazy cloud. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s the beginning,” he announced triumphantly. “And -I’m going to stop in the porch and talk as long as there’s anybody -there to talk to. I’m going to squirm and wriggle and whisper, and -I’m going to say I don’t know the Golden Text. And I’m going -to throw away both of my collections <i>right now</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -And Davy hurled cent and nickel over Mr. Barry’s fence with fierce -delight. -</p> - -<p> -“Satan made you do that,” said Dora reproachfully. -</p> - -<p> -“He didn’t,” cried Davy indignantly. “I just thought it -out for myself. And I’ve thought of something else. I’m not going -to Sunday School or church at all. I’m going up to play with the Cottons. -They told me yesterday they weren’t going to Sunday School today, -’cause their mother was away and there was nobody to make them. Come -along, Dora, we’ll have a great time.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t want to go,” protested Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve got to,” said Davy. “If you don’t come -I’ll tell Marilla that Frank Bell kissed you in school last -Monday.” -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know he was going to,” -cried Dora, blushing scarlet. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you didn’t slap him or seem a bit cross,” retorted -Davy. “I’ll tell her <i>that</i>, too, if you don’t come. -We’ll take the short cut up this field.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid of those cows,” protested poor Dora, seeing a -prospect of escape. -</p> - -<p> -“The very idea of your being scared of those cows,” scoffed Davy. -“Why, they’re both younger than you.” -</p> - -<p> -“They’re bigger,” said Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“They won’t hurt you. Come along, now. This is great. When I grow -up I ain’t going to bother going to church at all. I believe I can get to -heaven by myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll go to the other place if you break the Sabbath day,” -said unhappy Dora, following him sorely against her will. -</p> - -<p> -But Davy was not scared—yet. Hell was very far off, and the delights of a -fishing expedition with the Cottons were very near. He wished Dora had more -spunk. She kept looking back as if she were going to cry every minute, and that -spoiled a fellow’s fun. Hang girls, anyway. Davy did not say -“darn” this time, even in thought. He was not -sorry—yet—that he had said it once, but it might be as well not to -tempt the Unknown Powers too far on one day. -</p> - -<p> -The small Cottons were playing in their back yard, and hailed Davy’s -appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabel Cotton -were all alone. Their mother and older sisters were away. Dora was thankful -Mirabel was there, at least. She had been afraid she would be alone in a crowd -of boys. Mirabel was almost as bad as a boy—she was so noisy and -sunburned and reckless. But at least she wore dresses. -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve come to go fishing,” announced Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“Whoop,” yelled the Cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once, -Mirabel leading the van with a tin can. Dora could have sat down and cried. Oh, -if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her! Then she could have -defied Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School. -</p> - -<p> -They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be seen by -people going to church. They had to resort to the brook in the woods behind the -Cotton house. But it was full of trout, and they had a glorious time that -morning—at least the Cottons certainly had, and Davy seemed to have it. -Not being entirely bereft of prudence, he had discarded boots and stockings and -borrowed Tommy Cotton’s overalls. Thus accoutered, bog and marsh and -undergrowth had no terrors for him. Dora was frankly and manifestly miserable. -She followed the others in their peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her -Bible and quarterly tightly and thinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved -class where she should be sitting that very moment, before a teacher she -adored. Instead, here she was roaming the woods with those half-wild Cottons, -trying to keep her boots clean and her pretty white dress free from rents and -stains. Mirabel had offered the loan of an apron but Dora had scornfully -refused. -</p> - -<p> -The trout bit as they always do on Sundays. In an hour the transgressors had -all the fish they wanted, so they returned to the house, much to Dora’s -relief. She sat primly on a hencoop in the yard while the others played an -uproarious game of tag; and then they all climbed to the top of the pig-house -roof and cut their initials on the saddleboard. The flat-roofed henhouse and a -pile of straw beneath gave Davy another inspiration. They spent a splendid half -hour climbing on the roof and diving off into the straw with whoops and yells. -</p> - -<p> -But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. When the rumble of wheels over -the pond bridge told that people were going home from church Davy knew they -must go. He discarded Tommy’s overalls, resumed his own rightful attire, -and turned away from his string of trout with a sigh. No use to think of taking -them home. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, hadn’t we a splendid time?” he demanded defiantly, as -they went down the hill field. -</p> - -<p> -“I hadn’t,” said Dora flatly. “And I don’t -believe you had—really—either,” she added, with a flash of -insight that was not to be expected of her. -</p> - -<p> -“I had so,” cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest -too much. “No wonder you hadn’t—just sitting there like -a—like a mule.” -</p> - -<p> -“I ain’t going to, ’sociate with the Cottons,” said -Dora loftily. -</p> - -<p> -“The Cottons are all right,” retorted Davy. “And they have -far better times than we have. They do just as they please and say just what -they like before everybody. <i>I</i>’m going to do that, too, after -this.” -</p> - -<p> -“There are lots of things you wouldn’t dare say before -everybody,” averred Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“No, there isn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is, too. Would you,” demanded Dora gravely, “would you -say ‘tomcat’ before the minister?” -</p> - -<p> -This was a staggerer. Davy was not prepared for such a concrete example of the -freedom of speech. But one did not have to be consistent with Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not,” he admitted sulkily. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Tomcat’ isn’t a holy word. I wouldn’t mention -such an animal before a minister at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“But if you had to?” persisted Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“I’d call it a Thomas pussy,” said Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>I</i> think ‘gentleman cat’ would be more polite,” -reflected Dora. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>You</i> thinking!” retorted Davy with withering scorn. -</p> - -<p> -Davy was not feeling comfortable, though he would have died before he admitted -it to Dora. Now that the exhilaration of truant delights had died away, his -conscience was beginning to give him salutary twinges. After all, perhaps it -would have been better to have gone to Sunday School and church. Mrs. Lynde -might be bossy; but there was always a box of cookies in her kitchen cupboard -and she was not stingy. At this inconvenient moment Davy remembered that when -he had torn his new school pants the week before, Mrs. Lynde had mended them -beautifully and never said a word to Marilla about them. -</p> - -<p> -But Davy’s cup of iniquity was not yet full. He was to discover that one -sin demands another to cover it. They had dinner with Mrs. Lynde that day, and -the first thing she asked Davy was, -</p> - -<p> -“Were all your class in Sunday School today?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes’m,” said Davy with a gulp. “All were -there—’cept one.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you say your Golden Text and catechism?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes’m.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you put your collection in?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes’m.” -</p> - -<p> -“Was Mrs. Malcolm MacPherson in church?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know.” This, at least, was the truth, thought -wretched Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“Was the Ladies’ Aid announced for next week?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes’m”—quakingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Was prayer-meeting?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>You</i> should know. You should listen more attentively to the -announcements. What was Mr. Harvey’s text?” -</p> - -<p> -Davy took a frantic gulp of water and swallowed it and the last protest of -conscience together. He glibly recited an old Golden Text learned several weeks -ago. Fortunately Mrs. Lynde now stopped questioning him; but Davy did not enjoy -his dinner. -</p> - -<p> -He could only eat one helping of pudding. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the matter with you?” demanded justly astonished Mrs. -Lynde. “Are you sick?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” muttered Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“You look pale. You’d better keep out of the sun this -afternoon,” admonished Mrs. Lynde. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you know how many lies you told Mrs. Lynde?” asked Dora -reproachfully, as soon as they were alone after dinner. -</p> - -<p> -Davy, goaded to desperation, turned fiercely. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he said. “You -just shut up, Dora Keith.” -</p> - -<p> -Then poor Davy betook himself to a secluded retreat behind the woodpile to -think over the way of transgressors. -</p> - -<p> -Green Gables was wrapped in darkness and silence when Anne reached home. She -lost no time going to bed, for she was very tired and sleepy. There had been -several Avonlea jollifications the preceding week, involving rather late hours. -Anne’s head was hardly on her pillow before she was half asleep; but just -then her door was softly opened and a pleading voice said, “Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne sat up drowsily. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy, is that you? What is the matter?” -</p> - -<p> -A white-clad figure flung itself across the floor and on to the bed. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne,” sobbed Davy, getting his arms about her neck. -“I’m awful glad you’re home. I couldn’t go to sleep -till I’d told somebody.” -</p> - -<p> -“Told somebody what?” -</p> - -<p> -“How mis’rubul I am.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why are you miserable, dear?” -</p> - -<p> -“’Cause I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful -bad—badder’n I’ve ever been yet.” -</p> - -<p> -“What did you do?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll never like me again, -Anne. I couldn’t say my prayers tonight. I couldn’t tell God what -I’d done. I was ’shamed to have Him know.” -</p> - -<p> -“But He knew anyway, Davy.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s what Dora said. But I thought p’raps He -mightn’t have noticed just at the time. Anyway, I’d rather tell you -first.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>What</i> is it you did?” -</p> - -<p> -Out it all came in a rush. -</p> - -<p> -“I run away from Sunday School—and went fishing with the -Cottons—and I told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde—oh! -’most half a dozen—and—and—I—I said a swear word, -Anne—a pretty near swear word, anyhow—and I called God -names.” -</p> - -<p> -There was silence. Davy didn’t know what to make of it. Was Anne so -shocked that she never would speak to him again? -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, what are you going to do to me?” he whispered. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing, dear. You’ve been punished already, I think.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I haven’t. Nothing’s been done to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven’t -you?” -</p> - -<p> -“You bet!” said Davy emphatically. -</p> - -<p> -“That was your conscience punishing you, Davy.” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s my conscience? I want to know.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s something in you, Davy, that always tells you when you are -doing wrong and makes you unhappy if you persist in doing it. Haven’t you -noticed that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but I didn’t know what it was. I wish I didn’t have it. -I’d have lots more fun. Where is my conscience, Anne? I want to know. Is -it in my stomach?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, it’s in your soul,” answered Anne, thankful for the -darkness, since gravity must be preserved in serious matters. -</p> - -<p> -“I s’pose I can’t get clear of it then,” said Davy with -a sigh. “Are you going to tell Marilla and Mrs. Lynde on me, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, dear, I’m not going to tell any one. You are sorry you were -naughty, aren’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“You bet!” -</p> - -<p> -“And you’ll never be bad like that again.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, but—” added Davy cautiously, “I might be bad some -other way.” -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t say naughty words, or run away on Sundays, or tell -falsehoods to cover up your sins?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. It doesn’t pay,” said Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Davy, just tell God you are sorry and ask Him to forgive -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have <i>you</i> forgiven me, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, dear.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then,” said Davy joyously, “I don’t care much whether -God does or not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Davy!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh—I’ll ask Him—I’ll ask Him,” said Davy -quickly, scrambling off the bed, convinced by Anne’s tone that he must -have said something dreadful. “I don’t mind asking Him, -Anne.—Please, God, I’m awful sorry I behaved bad today and -I’ll try to be good on Sundays always and please forgive me.—There -now, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right. Say, I don’t feel mis’rubul any more. I feel -fine. Good night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good night.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh—how -sleepy—she was! In another second— -</p> - -<p> -“Anne!” Davy was back again by her bed. Anne dragged her eyes open. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it now, dear?” she asked, trying to keep a note of -impatience out of her voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you s’pose, -if I practice hard, I can learn to spit just like him?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne sat up. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy Keith,” she said, “go straight to your bed and -don’t let me catch you out of it again tonight! Go, now!” -</p> - -<p> -Davy went, and stood not upon the order of his going. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a> -Chapter XIV<br/> -The Summons</h2> - -<p> -Anne was sitting with Ruby Gillis in the Gillis’ garden after the day had -crept lingeringly through it and was gone. It had been a warm, smoky summer -afternoon. The world was in a splendor of out-flowering. The idle valleys were -full of hazes. The woodways were pranked with shadows and the fields with the -purple of the asters. -</p> - -<p> -Anne had given up a moonlight drive to the White Sands beach that she might -spend the evening with Ruby. She had so spent many evenings that summer, -although she often wondered what good it did any one, and sometimes went home -deciding that she could not go again. -</p> - -<p> -Ruby grew paler as the summer waned; the White Sands school was given -up—“her father thought it better that she shouldn’t teach -till New Year’s”—and the fancy work she loved oftener and -oftener fell from hands grown too weary for it. But she was always gay, always -hopeful, always chattering and whispering of her beaux, and their rivalries and -despairs. It was this that made Anne’s visits hard for her. What had once -been silly or amusing was gruesome, now; it was death peering through a wilful -mask of life. Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her, and never let her go until she -had promised to come again soon. Mrs. Lynde grumbled about Anne’s -frequent visits, and declared she would catch consumption; even Marilla was -dubious. -</p> - -<p> -“Every time you go to see Ruby you come home looking tired out,” -she said. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s so very sad and dreadful,” said Anne in a low tone. -“Ruby doesn’t seem to realize her condition in the least. And yet I -somehow feel she needs help—craves it—and I want to give it to her -and can’t. All the time I’m with her I feel as if I were watching -her struggle with an invisible foe—trying to push it back with such -feeble resistance as she has. That is why I come home tired.” -</p> - -<p> -But tonight Anne did not feel this so keenly. Ruby was strangely quiet. She -said not a word about parties and drives and dresses and “fellows.” -She lay in the hammock, with her untouched work beside her, and a white shawl -wrapped about her thin shoulders. Her long yellow braids of hair—how Anne -had envied those beautiful braids in old schooldays!—lay on either side -of her. She had taken the pins out—they made her head ache, she said. The -hectic flush was gone for the time, leaving her pale and childlike. -</p> - -<p> -The moon rose in the silvery sky, empearling the clouds around her. Below, the -pond shimmered in its hazy radiance. Just beyond the Gillis homestead was the -church, with the old graveyard beside it. The moonlight shone on the white -stones, bringing them out in clear-cut relief against the dark trees behind. -</p> - -<p> -“How strange the graveyard looks by moonlight!” said Ruby suddenly. -“How ghostly!” she shuddered. “Anne, it won’t be long -now before I’ll be lying over there. You and Diana and all the rest will -be going about, full of life—and I’ll be there—in the old -graveyard—dead!” -</p> - -<p> -The surprise of it bewildered Anne. For a few moments she could not speak. -</p> - -<p> -“You know it’s so, don’t you?” said Ruby insistently. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I know,” answered Anne in a low tone. “Dear Ruby, I -know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Everybody knows it,” said Ruby bitterly. “I know -it—I’ve known it all summer, though I wouldn’t give in. And, -oh, Anne”—she reached out and caught Anne’s hand pleadingly, -impulsively—“I don’t want to die. I’m <i>afraid</i> to -die.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should you be afraid, Ruby?” asked Anne quietly. -</p> - -<p> -“Because—because—oh, I’m not afraid but that I’ll -go to heaven, Anne. I’m a church member. But—it’ll be all so -different. I think—and think—and I get so -frightened—and—and—homesick. Heaven must be very beautiful, -of course, the Bible says so—but, Anne, <i>it won’t be what -’ve been used to</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Through Anne’s mind drifted an intrusive recollection of a funny story -she had heard Philippa Gordon tell—the story of some old man who had said -very much the same thing about the world to come. It had sounded funny -then—she remembered how she and Priscilla had laughed over it. But it did -not seem in the least humorous now, coming from Ruby’s pale, trembling -lips. It was sad, tragic—and true! Heaven could not be what Ruby had been -used to. There had been nothing in her gay, frivolous life, her shallow ideals -and aspirations, to fit her for that great change, or make the life to come -seem to her anything but alien and unreal and undesirable. Anne wondered -helplessly what she could say that would help her. Could she say anything? -“I think, Ruby,” she began hesitatingly—for it was difficult -for Anne to speak to any one of the deepest thoughts of her heart, or the new -ideas that had vaguely begun to shape themselves in her mind, concerning the -great mysteries of life here and hereafter, superseding her old childish -conceptions, and it was hardest of all to speak of them to such as Ruby -Gillis—“I think, perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about -heaven—what it is and what it holds for us. I don’t think it can be -so very different from life here as most people seem to think. I believe -we’ll just go on living, a good deal as we live here—and be -<i>ourselves</i> just the same—only it will be easier to be good and -to—follow the highest. All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken -away, and we shall see clearly. Don’t be afraid, Ruby.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t help it,” said Ruby pitifully. “Even if what -you say about heaven is true—and you can’t be sure—it may be -only that imagination of yours—it won’t be <i>just</i> the same. It -<i>can’t</i> be. I want to go on living <i>here</i>. I’m so young, -Anne. I haven’t had my life. I’ve fought so hard to live—and -it isn’t any use—I have to die—and leave <i>everything</i> I -care for.” Anne sat in a pain that was almost intolerable. She could not -tell comforting falsehoods; and all that Ruby said was so horribly true. She -<i>was</i> leaving everything she cared for. She had laid up her treasures on -earth only; she had lived solely for the little things of life—the things -that pass—forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity, -bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a mere passing from -one dwelling to the other—from twilight to unclouded day. God would take -care of her there—Anne believed—she would learn—but now it -was no wonder her soul clung, in blind helplessness, to the only things she -knew and loved. -</p> - -<p> -Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted up her bright, beautiful blue eyes to -the moonlit skies. -</p> - -<p> -“I want to live,” she said, in a trembling voice. “I want to -live like other girls. I—I want to be married, -Anne—and—and—have little children. You know I always loved -babies, Anne. I couldn’t say this to any one but you. I know you -understand. And then poor Herb—he—he loves me and I love him, Anne. -The others meant nothing to me, but <i>he</i> does—and if I could live I -would be his wife and be so happy. Oh, Anne, it’s hard.” -</p> - -<p> -Ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbed convulsively. Anne pressed her hand in -an agony of sympathy—silent sympathy, which perhaps helped Ruby more than -broken, imperfect words could have done; for presently she grew calmer and her -sobs ceased. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m glad I’ve told you this, Anne,” she whispered. -“It has helped me just to say it all out. I’ve wanted to all -summer—every time you came. I wanted to talk it over with you—but I -<i>couldn’t</i>. It seemed as if it would make death so <i>sure</i> if I -<i>said</i> I was going to die, or if any one else said it or hinted it. I -wouldn’t say it, or even think it. In the daytime, when people were -around me and everything was cheerful, it wasn’t so hard to keep from -thinking of it. But in the night, when I couldn’t sleep—it was so -dreadful, Anne. I couldn’t get away from it then. Death just came and -stared me in the face, until I got so frightened I could have screamed. -</p> - -<p> -“But you won’t be frightened any more, Ruby, will you? You’ll -be brave, and believe that all is going to be well with you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll try. I’ll think over what you have said, and try to -believe it. And you’ll come up as often as you can, won’t you, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, dear.” -</p> - -<p> -“It—it won’t be very long now, Anne. I feel sure of that. And -I’d rather have you than any one else. I always liked you best of all the -girls I went to school with. You were never jealous, or mean, like some of them -were. Poor Em White was up to see me yesterday. You remember Em and I were such -chums for three years when we went to school? And then we quarrelled the time -of the school concert. We’ve never spoken to each other since. -Wasn’t it silly? Anything like that seems silly <i>now</i>. But Em and I -made up the old quarrel yesterday. She said she’d have spoken years ago, -only she thought I wouldn’t. And I never spoke to her because I was sure -she wouldn’t speak to me. Isn’t it strange how people misunderstand -each other, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Most of the trouble in life comes from misunderstanding, I think,” -said Anne. “I must go now, Ruby. It’s getting late—and you -shouldn’t be out in the damp.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll come up soon again.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, very soon. And if there’s anything I can do to help you -I’ll be so glad.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know. You <i>have</i> helped me already. Nothing seems quite so -dreadful now. Good night, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good night, dear.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had changed -something for her. Life held a different meaning, a deeper purpose. On the -surface it would go on just the same; but the deeps had been stirred. It must -not be with her as with poor butterfly Ruby. When she came to the end of one -life it must not be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something -wholly different—something for which accustomed thought and ideal and -aspiration had unfitted her. The little things of life, sweet and excellent in -their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and -followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth. -</p> - -<p> -That good night in the garden was for all time. Anne never saw Ruby in life -again. The next night the A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party to Jane Andrews before -her departure for the West. And, while light feet danced and bright eyes -laughed and merry tongues chattered, there came a summons to a soul in Avonlea -that might not be disregarded or evaded. The next morning the word went from -house to house that Ruby Gillis was dead. She had died in her sleep, painlessly -and calmly, and on her face was a smile—as if, after all, death had come -as a kindly friend to lead her over the threshold, instead of the grisly -phantom she had dreaded. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Rachel Lynde said emphatically after the funeral that Ruby Gillis was the -handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. Her loveliness, as she lay, -white-clad, among the delicate flowers that Anne had placed about her, was -remembered and talked of for years in Avonlea. Ruby had always been beautiful; -but her beauty had been of the earth, earthy; it had had a certain insolent -quality in it, as if it flaunted itself in the beholder’s eye; spirit had -never shone through it, intellect had never refined it. But death had touched -it and consecrated it, bringing out delicate modelings and purity of outline -never seen before—doing what life and love and great sorrow and deep -womanhood joys might have done for Ruby. Anne, looking down through a mist of -tears, at her old playfellow, thought she saw the face God had meant Ruby to -have, and remembered it so always. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillis called Anne aside into a vacant room before the funeral procession -left the house, and gave her a small packet. -</p> - -<p> -“I want you to have this,” she sobbed. “Ruby would have liked -you to have it. It’s the embroidered centerpiece she was working at. It -isn’t quite finished—the needle is sticking in it just where her -poor little fingers put it the last time she laid it down, the afternoon before -she died.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s always a piece of unfinished work left,” said Mrs. -Lynde, with tears in her eyes. “But I suppose there’s always some -one to finish it.” -</p> - -<p> -“How difficult it is to realize that one we have always known can really -be dead,” said Anne, as she and Diana walked home. “Ruby is the -first of our schoolmates to go. One by one, sooner or later, all the rest of us -must follow.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I suppose so,” said Diana uncomfortably. She did not want to -talk of that. She would have preferred to have discussed the details of the -funeral—the splendid white velvet casket Mr. Gillis had insisted on -having for Ruby—“the Gillises must always make a splurge, even at -funerals,” quoth Mrs. Rachel Lynde—Herb Spencer’s sad face, -the uncontrolled, hysteric grief of one of Ruby’s sisters—but Anne -would not talk of these things. She seemed wrapped in a reverie in which Diana -felt lonesomely that she had neither lot nor part. -</p> - -<p> -“Ruby Gillis was a great girl to laugh,” said Davy suddenly. -“Will she laugh as much in heaven as she did in Avonlea, Anne? I want to -know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I think she will,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Anne,” protested Diana, with a rather shocked smile. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, why not, Diana?” asked Anne seriously. “Do you think -we’ll never laugh in heaven?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh—I—I don’t know” floundered Diana. “It -doesn’t seem just right, somehow. You know it’s rather dreadful to -laugh in church.” -</p> - -<p> -“But heaven won’t be like church—all the time,” said -Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope it ain’t,” said Davy emphatically. “If it is I -don’t want to go. Church is awful dull. Anyway, I don’t mean to go -for ever so long. I mean to live to be a hundred years old, like Mr. Thomas -Blewett of White Sands. He says he’s lived so long ’cause he always -smoked tobacco and it killed all the germs. Can I smoke tobacco pretty soon, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Davy, I hope you’ll never use tobacco,” said Anne -absently. -</p> - -<p> -“What’ll you feel like if the germs kill me then?” demanded -Davy. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a> -Chapter XV<br/> -A Dream Turned Upside Down</h2> - -<p> -“Just one more week and we go back to Redmond,” said Anne. She was -happy at the thought of returning to work, classes and Redmond friends. -Pleasing visions were also being woven around Patty’s Place. There was a -warm pleasant sense of home in the thought of it, even though she had never -lived there. -</p> - -<p> -But the summer had been a very happy one, too—a time of glad living with -summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome things; a time of -renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which she had learned to -live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play more heartily. -</p> - -<p> -“All life lessons are not learned at college,” she thought. -“Life teaches them everywhere.” -</p> - -<p> -But alas, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for Anne, by one -of those impish happenings which are like a dream turned upside down. -</p> - -<p> -“Been writing any more stories lately?” inquired Mr. Harrison -genially one evening when Anne was taking tea with him and Mrs. Harrison. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” answered Anne, rather crisply. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, no offense meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloane told me the other day that a -big envelope addressed to the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company of -Montreal had been dropped into the post office box a month ago, and she -suspicioned that somebody was trying for the prize they’d offered for the -best story that introduced the name of their baking powder. She said it -wasn’t addressed in your writing, but I thought maybe it was you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, no! I saw the prize offer, but I’d never dream of -competing for it. I think it would be perfectly disgraceful to write a story to -advertise a baking powder. It would be almost as bad as Judson Parker’s -patent medicine fence.” -</p> - -<p> -So spake Anne loftily, little dreaming of the valley of humiliation awaiting -her. That very evening Diana popped into the porch gable, bright-eyed and rosy -cheeked, carrying a letter. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Anne, here’s a letter for you. I was at the office, so I -thought I’d bring it along. Do open it quick. If it is what I believe it -is I shall just be wild with delight.” Anne, puzzled, opened the letter -and glanced over the typewritten contents. -</p> - -<p class="letter"> -Miss Anne Shirley,<br/> -Green Gables,<br/> -Avonlea, P.E. Island. -</p> - -<p> -“D<small>EAR</small> M<small>ADAM</small>: We have much pleasure in -informing you that your charming story ‘Averil’s Atonement’ -has won the prize of twenty-five dollars offered in our recent competition. We -enclose the check herewith. We are arranging for the publication of the story -in several prominent Canadian newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed -in pamphlet form for distribution among our patrons. Thanking you for the -interest you have shown in our enterprise, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“We remain,<br/> -“Yours very truly,<br/> -“T<small>HE</small> R<small>OLLINGS</small> R<small>ELIABLE</small> -B<small>AKING</small> P<small>OWDER</small> C<small>O</small>.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t understand,” said Anne, blankly. -</p> - -<p> -Diana clapped her hands. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I <i>knew</i> it would win the prize—I was sure of it. -<i>I</i> sent your story into the competition, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Diana—Barry!” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I did,” said Diana gleefully, perching herself on the bed. -“When I saw the offer I thought of your story in a minute, and at first I -thought I’d ask you to send it in. But then I was afraid you -wouldn’t—you had so little faith left in it. So I just decided -I’d send the copy you gave me, and say nothing about it. Then, if it -didn’t win the prize, you’d never know and you wouldn’t feel -badly over it, because the stories that failed were not to be returned, and if -it did you’d have such a delightful surprise.” -</p> - -<p> -Diana was not the most discerning of mortals, but just at this moment it struck -her that Anne was not looking exactly overjoyed. The surprise was there, beyond -doubt—but where was the delight? -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Anne, you don’t seem a bit pleased!” she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -Anne instantly manufactured a smile and put it on. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I couldn’t be anything but pleased over your unselfish -wish to give me pleasure,” she said slowly. “But you -know—I’m so amazed—I can’t realize it—and I -don’t understand. There wasn’t a word in my story -about—about—” Anne choked a little over the -word—“baking powder.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>I</i> put that in,” said Diana, reassured. “It was as -easy as wink—and of course my experience in our old Story Club helped me. -You know the scene where Averil makes the cake? Well, I just stated that she -used the Rollings Reliable in it, and that was why it turned out so well; and -then, in the last paragraph, where <i>Perceval</i> clasps <i>Averil</i> in his -arms and says, ‘Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will bring us the -fulfilment of our home of dreams,’ I added, ‘in which we will never -use any baking powder except Rollings Reliable.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh,” gasped poor Anne, as if some one had dashed cold water on -her. -</p> - -<p> -“And you’ve won the twenty-five dollars,” continued Diana -jubilantly. “Why, I heard Priscilla say once that the <i>Canadian -Woman</i> only pays five dollars for a story!” -</p> - -<p> -Anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t take it—it’s yours by right, Diana. You sent -the story in and made the alterations. I—I would certainly never have -sent it. So you must take the check.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’d like to see myself,” said Diana scornfully. “Why, -what I did wasn’t any trouble. The honor of being a friend of the -prizewinner is enough for me. Well, I must go. I should have gone straight home -from the post office for we have company. But I simply had to come and hear the -news. I’m so glad for your sake, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne suddenly bent forward, put her arms about Diana, and kissed her cheek. -</p> - -<p> -“I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, -Diana,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice, “and I assure -you I appreciate the motive of what you’ve done.” -</p> - -<p> -Diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herself away, and poor Anne, after flinging -the innocent check into her bureau drawer as if it were blood-money, cast -herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and outraged sensibility. Oh, she -could never live this down—never! -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, for he had called -at Orchard Slope and heard the news. But his congratulations died on his lips -at sight of Anne’s face. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Anne, what is the matter? I expected to find you radiant over -winning Rollings Reliable prize. Good for you!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Gilbert, not you,” implored Anne, in an <i>et-tu Brute</i> -tone. “I thought <i>you</i> would understand. Can’t you see how -awful it is?” -</p> - -<p> -“I must confess I can’t. <i>What</i> is wrong?” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything,” moaned Anne. “I feel as if I were disgraced -forever. What do you think a mother would feel like if she found her child -tattooed over with a baking powder advertisement? I feel just the same. I loved -my poor little story, and I wrote it out of the best that was in me. And it is -<i>sacrilege</i> to have it degraded to the level of a baking powder -advertisement. Don’t you remember what Professor Hamilton used to tell us -in the literature class at Queen’s? He said we were never to write a word -for a low or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the very highest ideals. -What will he think when he hears I’ve written a story to advertise -Rollings Reliable? And, oh, when it gets out at Redmond! Think how I’ll -be teased and laughed at!” -</p> - -<p> -“That you won’t,” said Gilbert, wondering uneasily if it were -that confounded Junior’s opinion in particular over which Anne was -worried. “The Reds will think just as I thought—that you, being -like nine out of ten of us, not overburdened with worldly wealth, had taken -this way of earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year. I -don’t see that there’s anything low or unworthy about that, or -anything ridiculous either. One would rather write masterpieces of literature -no doubt—but meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid.” -</p> - -<p> -This commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case cheered Anne a little. At -least it removed her dread of being laughed at, though the deeper hurt of an -outraged ideal remained. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a> -Chapter XVI<br/> -Adjusted Relationships</h2> - -<p> -“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—it’s homier than -home,” avowed Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. -They were all assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty’s -Place—Anne and Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, -the Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing over the -walls; the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent -to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like creamy -moons. -</p> - -<p> -It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and already -all believed the experiment would be a success. The first fortnight after their -return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they had been busy setting up their -household goods, organizing their little establishment, and adjusting different -opinions. -</p> - -<p> -Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return to -college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant. Her prize -story had been published in the Island papers; and Mr. William Blair had, upon -the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, green and yellow pamphlets, -containing it, one of which he gave to every customer. He sent a complimentary -bundle to Anne, who promptly dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her -humiliation was the consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks -thought it quite splendid that she should have won the prize. Her many friends -regarded her with honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pye -said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure she -remembered reading it in a paper years before. The Sloanes, who had found out -or guessed that Charlie had been “turned down,” said they -didn’t think it was much to be proud of; almost any one could have done -it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she had -taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do it; that was -what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where, with goodness knew what -kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was darkly dubious about the propriety -of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five -dollar check. -</p> - -<p> -“It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, that’s -what,” she said, half-proudly, half-severely. -</p> - -<p> -All things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. And it was -very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced Soph with hosts of -friends to greet on the merry opening day. Pris and Stella and Gilbert were -there, Charlie Sloane, looking more important than ever a Sophomore looked -before, Phil, with the Alec-and-Alonzo question still unsettled, and Moody -Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been teaching school ever since leaving -Queen’s, but his mother had concluded it was high time he gave it up and -turned his attention to learning how to be a minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell -on hard luck at the very beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless -Sophs, who were among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and -shaved half of his head. In this guise the luckless Moody Spurgeon had to go -about until his hair grew again. He told Anne bitterly that there were times -when he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to be a minister. -</p> - -<p> -Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty’s Place ready for -her. Miss Patty had sent the key to Anne, with a letter in which she said Gog -and Magog were packed in a box under the spare-room bed, but might be taken out -when wanted; in a postscript she added that she hoped the girls would be -careful about putting up pictures. The living room had been newly papered five -years before and she and Miss Maria did not want any more holes made in that -new paper than was absolutely necessary. For the rest she trusted everything to -Anne. -</p> - -<p> -How those girls enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, it was -almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of homemaking without the -bother of a husband. All brought something with them to adorn or make -comfortable the little house. Pris and Phil and Stella had knick-knacks and -pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to hang according to taste, in -reckless disregard of Miss Patty’s new paper. -</p> - -<p> -“We’ll putty the holes up when we leave, dear—she’ll -never know,” they said to protesting Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Diana had given Anne a pine needle cushion and Miss Ada had given both her and -Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla had sent a big -box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for Thanksgiving, and Mrs. -Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her five more. -</p> - -<p> -“You take them,” she said authoritatively. “They might as -well be in use as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to -gnaw.” -</p> - -<p> -No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of -mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of -Patty’s Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors. -Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display. The -gruff old millionaire who lived “next door” came over and wanted to -buy the gorgeous red and yellow “tulip-pattern” one which Mrs. -Rachel had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by -Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much to his -disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. That highly-gratified -lady sent word back that she had one just like it to spare, so the tobacco king -got his quilt after all, and insisted on having it spread on his bed, to the -disgust of his fashionable wife. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Lynde’s quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. -Patty’s Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was -really a rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very -glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde’s quilts, and hoped that the loan -of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness. Anne had the blue room -she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one. Phil was -blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and Aunt Jamesina was -to have the downstairs one off the living-room. Rusty at first slept on the -doorstep. -</p> - -<p> -Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became aware that -the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent smile. Anne -wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. Was her hat crooked? Was her -belt loose? Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw -Rusty. -</p> - -<p> -Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most forlorn -specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was well past -kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both ears were -lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously -swollen. As for color, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly singed -the result would have resembled the hue of this waif’s thin, draggled, -unsightly fur. -</p> - -<p> -Anne “shooed,” but the cat would not “shoo.” As long as -she stood he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his -one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself to -his company until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she coldly -shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. But when, -fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on -the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon Anne’s lap with a -half-pleading, half-triumphant “miaow.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I do <i>not</i>,” protested disgusted Anne. “The -creature followed me home from somewhere. I couldn’t get rid of him. Ugh, -get down. I like decent cats reasonably well; but I don’t like beasties -of your complexion.” -</p> - -<p> -Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne’s lap -and began to purr. -</p> - -<p> -“He has evidently adopted you,” laughed Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t BE adopted,” said Anne stubbornly. -</p> - -<p> -“The poor creature is starving,” said Phil pityingly. “Why, -his bones are almost coming through his skin.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I’ll give him a square meal and then he must return to -whence he came,” said Anne resolutely. -</p> - -<p> -The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the doorstep. On -the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the door was opened. No -coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; of nobody save Anne did he -take the least notice. Out of compassion the girls fed him; but when a week had -passed they decided that something must be done. The cat’s appearance had -improved. His eye and cheek had resumed their normal appearance; he was not -quite so thin; and he had been seen washing his face. -</p> - -<p> -“But for all that we can’t keep him,” said Stella. -“Aunt Jimsie is coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with -her. We can’t keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight -all the time with the Sarah-cat. He’s a fighter by nature. He had a -pitched battle last evening with the tobacco-king’s cat and routed him, -horse, foot and artillery.” -</p> - -<p> -“We must get rid of him,” agreed Anne, looking darkly at the -subject of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of -lamb-like meekness. “But the question is—how? How can four -unprotected females get rid of a cat who won’t be got rid of?” -</p> - -<p> -“We must chloroform him,” said Phil briskly. “That is the -most humane way.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?” demanded Anne -gloomily. -</p> - -<p> -“I do, honey. It’s one of my few—sadly few—useful -accomplishments. I’ve disposed of several at home. You take the cat in -the morning and give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap -bag—there’s one in the back porch—put the cat on it and turn -over him a wooden box. Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, -and slip it under the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and -leave it till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were -asleep. No pain—no struggle.” -</p> - -<p> -“It sounds easy,” said Anne dubiously. -</p> - -<p> -“It <i>is</i> easy. Just leave it to me. I’ll see to it,” -said Phil reassuringly. -</p> - -<p> -Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was lured -to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed into -Anne’s lap. Anne’s heart misgave her. This poor creature loved -her—trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction? -</p> - -<p> -“Here, take him,” she said hastily to Phil. “I feel like a -murderess.” -</p> - -<p> -“He won’t suffer, you know,” comforted Phil, but Anne had -fled. -</p> - -<p> -The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that day. But at -dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried. -</p> - -<p> -“Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard,” declared Phil, -“and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That’s the part I -always hate.” -</p> - -<p> -The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil gingerly -lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but distinct, sounded -an unmistakable mew under the box. -</p> - -<p> -“He—he isn’t dead,” gasped Anne, sitting blankly down -on the kitchen doorstep. -</p> - -<p> -“He must be,” said Phil incredulously. -</p> - -<p> -Another tiny mew proved that he wasn’t. The two girls stared at each -other. -</p> - -<p> -“What will we do?” questioned Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Why in the world don’t you come?” demanded Stella, appearing -in the doorway. “We’ve got the grave ready. ‘What silent -still and silent all?’” she quoted teasingly. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant -torrent’s fall,’” promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing -solemnly to the box. -</p> - -<p> -A burst of laughter broke the tension. -</p> - -<p> -“We must leave him here till morning,” said Phil, replacing the -stone. “He hasn’t mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard -were his dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of -our guilty consciences.” -</p> - -<p> -But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay leap to -Anne’s shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately. Never was -there a cat more decidedly alive. -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s a knot hole in the box,” groaned Phil. “I never -saw it. That’s why he didn’t die. Now, we’ve got to do it all -over again.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, we haven’t,” declared Anne suddenly. “Rusty -isn’t going to be killed again. He’s my cat—and you’ve -just got to make the best of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, well, if you’ll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the -Sarah-cat,” said Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the -whole affair. -</p> - -<p> -From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o’nights on the -scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land. By the -time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably respectable. But, -like Kipling’s cat, he “walked by himself.” His paw was -against every cat, and every cat’s paw against him. One by one he -vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human beings, he -loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke him. An angry spit and -something that sounded much like very improper language greeted any one who -did. -</p> - -<p> -“The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable,” declared -Stella. -</p> - -<p> -“Him was a nice old pussens, him was,” vowed Anne, cuddling her pet -defiantly. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I don’t know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to -live together,” said Stella pesimistically. “Cat-fights in the -orchard o’nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom -are unthinkable.” In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla -and Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina was -enthroned in the rocking chair before the open fire they figuratively bowed -down and worshipped her. -</p> - -<p> -Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular face, and -large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable youth, and as full of -hopes as a girl’s. She had pink cheeks and snow-white hair which she wore -in quaint little puffs over her ears. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a very old-fashioned way,” she said, knitting -industriously at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. “But -<i>I</i> am old-fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions -are, too. I don’t say they’re any the better of that, mind you. In -fact, I daresay they’re a good deal the worse. But they’ve worn -nice and easy. New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more -comfortable. I’m old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes and -opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to look after -you and keep you proper, but I’m not going to do it. You’re old -enough to know how to behave if you’re ever going to be. So, as far as I -am concerned,” concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her young eyes, -“you can all go to destruction in your own way.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, will somebody separate those cats?” pleaded Stella, -shudderingly. -</p> - -<p> -Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph. Joseph, -she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had gone to live in -Vancouver. -</p> - -<p> -“She couldn’t take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I -really couldn’t refuse. He’s a beautiful cat—that is, his -disposition is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many -colors.” -</p> - -<p> -It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a walking -rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. His legs were -white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow -on one side and a black patch on the other. His tail was yellow with a gray -tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch over one eye gave him a -fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek and inoffensive, of a sociable -disposition. In one respect, if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the -field. He toiled not neither did he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his -glory slept not on softer cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things. -</p> - -<p> -Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After they had -been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner which appealed to -him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down before the fire and proceeded -to wash her face. She was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat, with an enormous -dignity which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her plebian -origin. She had been given to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman. -</p> - -<p> -“Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the -Sarah-cat,” explained Aunt Jamesina. “She is eight years old, and a -remarkable mouser. Don’t worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat <i>never</i> fights -and Joseph rarely.” -</p> - -<p> -“They’ll have to fight here in self-defense,” said Stella. -</p> - -<p> -At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half way -across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short; his tail -expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his back rose up in a -defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and -defiance, and launched himself at the Sarah-cat. -</p> - -<p> -The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him -curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her capable -paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked himself up -dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears? He looked -dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The Sarah-cat -deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet operations. Rusty -decided that he would not. He never did. From that time on the Sarah-cat ruled -the roost. Rusty never again interfered with her. -</p> - -<p> -But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his disgrace, -swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight upon occasion and -fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles. Every day Rusty and -Joseph fought at sight. Anne took Rusty’s part and detested Joseph. -Stella was in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“Let them fight it out,” she said tolerantly. “They’ll -make friends after a bit. Joseph needs some exercise—he was getting too -fat. And Rusty has to learn he isn’t the only cat in the world.” -</p> - -<p> -Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn enemies -became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their paws about each -other, and gravely washed each other’s faces. -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve all got used to each other,” said Phil. “And -I’ve learned how to wash dishes and sweep a floor.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you needn’t try to make us believe you can chloroform a -cat,” laughed Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“It was all the fault of the knothole,” protested Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“It was a good thing the knothole was there,” said Aunt Jamesina -rather severely. “Kittens <i>have</i> to be drowned, I admit, or the -world would be overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be done to -death—unless he sucks eggs.” -</p> - -<p> -“You wouldn’t have thought Rusty very decent if you’d seen -him when he came here,” said Stella. “He positively looked like the -Old Nick.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t believe Old Nick can be so very, ugly” said Aunt -Jamesina reflectively. “He wouldn’t do so much harm if he was. -<i>I</i> always think of him as a rather handsome gentleman.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a> -Chapter XVII<br/> -A Letter from Davy</h2> - -<p> -“It’s beginning to snow, girls,” said Phil, coming in one -November evening, “and there are the loveliest little stars and crosses -all over the garden walk. I never noticed before what exquisite things -snowflakes really are. One has time to notice things like that in the simple -life. Bless you all for permitting me to live it. It’s really delightful -to feel worried because butter has gone up five cents a pound.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has it?” demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts. -</p> - -<p> -“It has—and here’s your butter. I’m getting quite -expert at marketing. It’s better fun than flirting,” concluded Phil -gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“Everything is going up scandalously,” sighed Stella. -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free,” said -Aunt Jamesina. -</p> - -<p> -“And so is laughter,” added Anne. “There’s no tax on it -yet and that is well, because you’re all going to laugh presently. -I’m going to read you Davy’s letter. His spelling has improved -immensely this past year, though he is not strong on apostrophes, and he -certainly possesses the gift of writing an interesting letter. Listen and -laugh, before we settle down to the evening’s study-grind.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear Anne,” ran Davy’s letter, “I take my pen to tell -you that we are all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. -It’s snowing some today and Marilla says the old woman in the sky is -shaking her feather beds. Is the old woman in the sky God’s wife, Anne? I -want to know. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Lynde has been real sick but she is better now. She fell down the -cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold of the shelf with all -the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it gave way and went down with her and -made a splendid crash. Marilla thought it was an earthquake at first. -</p> - -<p> -“One of the stewpans was all dinged up and Mrs. Lynde straned her ribs. -The doctor came and gave her medicine to rub on her ribs but she didn’t -under stand him and took it all inside instead. The doctor said it was a wonder -it dident kill her but it dident and it cured her ribs and Mrs. Lynde says -doctors dont know much anyhow. But we couldent fix up the stewpan. Marilla had -to throw it out. Thanksgiving was last week. There was no school and we had a -great dinner. I et mince pie and rost turkey and frut cake and donuts and -cheese and jam and choklut cake. Marilla said I’d die but I dident. Dora -had earake after it, only it wasent in her ears it was in her stummick. I -dident have earake anywhere. -</p> - -<p> -“Our new teacher is a man. He does things for jokes. Last week he made -all us third-class boys write a composishun on what kind of a wife we’d -like to have and the girls on what kind of a husband. He laughed fit to kill -when he read them. This was mine. I thought youd like to see it. -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -“‘The kind of a wife I’d like to Have. -</p> - -<p> -“‘She must have good manners and get my meals on time and do what I -tell her and always be very polite to me. She must be fifteen yers old. She -must be good to the poor and keep her house tidy and be good tempered and go to -church regularly. She must be very handsome and have curly hair. If I get a -wife that is just what I like Ill be an awful good husband to her. I think a -woman ought to be awful good to her husband. Some poor women haven’t any -husbands. -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -“‘<small>THE END</small>.’” -</p> - -<p> -“I was at Mrs. Isaac Wrights funeral at White Sands last week. The -husband of the corpse felt real sorry. Mrs. Lynde says Mrs. Wrights grandfather -stole a sheep but Marilla says we mustent speak ill of the dead. Why mustent -we, Anne? I want to know. It’s pretty safe, ain’t it? -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Lynde was awful mad the other day because I asked her if she was -alive in Noah’s time. I dident mean to hurt her feelings. I just wanted -to know. Was she, Anne? -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Harrison wanted to get rid of his dog. So he hunged him once but he -come to life and scooted for the barn while Mr. Harrison was digging the grave, -so he hunged him again and he stayed dead that time. Mr. Harrison has a new man -working for him. He’s awful okward. Mr. Harrison says he is left handed -in both his feet. Mr. Barry’s hired man is lazy. Mrs. Barry says that but -Mr. Barry says he aint lazy exactly only he thinks it easier to pray for things -than to work for them. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Harmon Andrews prize pig that she talked so much of died in a fit. -Mrs. Lynde says it was a judgment on her for pride. But I think it was hard on -the pig. Milty Boulter has been sick. The doctor gave him medicine and it -tasted horrid. I offered to take it for him for a quarter but the Boulters are -so mean. Milty says he’d rather take it himself and save his money. I -asked Mrs. Boulter how a person would go about catching a man and she got awful -mad and said she dident know, shed never chased men. -</p> - -<p> -“The A.V.I.S. is going to paint the hall again. They’re tired of -having it blue. -</p> - -<p> -“The new minister was here to tea last night. He took three pieces of -pie. If I did that Mrs. Lynde would call me piggy. And he et fast and took big -bites and Marilla is always telling me not to do that. Why can ministers do -what boys can’t? I want to know. -</p> - -<p> -“I haven’t any more news. Here are six kisses. xxxxxx. Dora sends -one. Heres hers. x. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Your loving friend<br/> -D<small>AVID</small> K<small>EITH</small>” -</p> - -<p> -“P.S. Anne, who was the devils father? I want to know.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a> -Chapter XVIII<br/> -Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl</h2> - -<p> -When Christmas holidays came the girls of Patty’s Place scattered to -their respective homes, but Aunt Jamesina elected to stay where she was. -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t go to any of the places I’ve been invited and -take those three cats,” she said. “And I’m not going to leave -the poor creatures here alone for nearly three weeks. If we had any decent -neighbors who would feed them I might, but there’s nothing except -millionaires on this street. So I’ll stay here and keep Patty’s -Place warm for you.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne went home with the usual joyous anticipations—which were not wholly -fulfilled. She found Avonlea in the grip of such an early, cold, and stormy -winter as even the “oldest inhabitant” could not recall. Green -Gables was literally hemmed in by huge drifts. Almost every day of that -ill-starred vacation it stormed fiercely; and even on fine days it drifted -unceasingly. No sooner were the roads broken than they filled in again. It was -almost impossible to stir out. The A.V.I.S. tried, on three evenings, to have a -party in honor of the college students, and on each evening the storm was so -wild that nobody could go, so they gave up the attempt in despair. Anne, -despite her love of and loyalty to Green Gables, could not help thinking -longingly of Patty’s Place, its cosy open fire, Aunt Jamesina’s -mirthful eyes, the three cats, the merry chatter of the girls, the pleasantness -of Friday evenings when college friends dropped in to talk of grave and gay. -</p> - -<p> -Anne was lonely; Diana, during the whole of the holidays, was imprisoned at -home with a bad attack of bronchitis. She could not come to Green Gables and it -was rarely Anne could get to Orchard Slope, for the old way through the Haunted -Wood was impassable with drifts, and the long way over the frozen Lake of -Shining Waters was almost as bad. Ruby Gillis was sleeping in the white-heaped -graveyard; Jane Andrews was teaching a school on western prairies. Gilbert, to -be sure, was still faithful, and waded up to Green Gables every possible -evening. But Gilbert’s visits were not what they once were. Anne almost -dreaded them. It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden -silence and find Gilbert’s hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite -unmistakable expression in their grave depths; and it was still more -disconcerting to find herself blushing hotly and uncomfortably under his gaze, -just as if—just as if—well, it was very embarrassing. Anne wished -herself back at Patty’s Place, where there was always somebody else about -to take the edge off a delicate situation. At Green Gables Marilla went -promptly to Mrs. Lynde’s domain when Gilbert came and insisted on taking -the twins with her. The significance of this was unmistakable and Anne was in a -helpless fury over it. -</p> - -<p> -Davy, however, was perfectly happy. He reveled in getting out in the morning -and shoveling out the paths to the well and henhouse. He gloried in the -Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and Mrs. Lynde vied with each other in -preparing for Anne, and he was reading an enthralling tale, in a school library -book, of a wonderful hero who seemed blessed with a miraculous faculty for -getting into scrapes from which he was usually delivered by an earthquake or a -volcanic explosion, which blew him high and dry out of his troubles, landed him -in a fortune, and closed the story with proper <i>éclat</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you it’s a bully story, Anne,” he said ecstatically. -“I’d ever so much rather read it than the Bible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Would you?” smiled Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Davy peered curiously at her. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t seem a bit shocked, Anne. Mrs. Lynde was awful shocked -when I said it to her.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I’m not shocked, Davy. I think it’s quite natural that a -nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the Bible. But when -you are older I hope and think that you will realize what a wonderful book the -Bible is.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I think some parts of it are fine,” conceded Davy. “That -story about Joseph now—it’s bully. But if I’d been Joseph -<i>I</i> wouldn’t have forgive the brothers. No, siree, Anne. I’d -have cut all their heads off. Mrs. Lynde was awful mad when I said that and -shut the Bible up and said she’d never read me any more of it if I talked -like that. So I don’t talk now when she reads it Sunday afternoons; I -just think things and say them to Milty Boulter next day in school. I told -Milty the story about Elisha and the bears and it scared him so he’s -never made fun of Mr. Harrison’s bald head once. Are there any bears on -P.E. Island, Anne? I want to know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not nowadays,” said Anne, absently, as the wind blew a scud of -snow against the window. “Oh, dear, will it ever stop storming.” -</p> - -<p> -“God knows,” said Davy airily, preparing to resume his reading. -</p> - -<p> -Anne <i>was</i> shocked this time. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy!” she exclaimed reproachfully. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Lynde says that,” protested Davy. “One night last week -Marilla said ‘Will Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix <i>ever</i> get -married?” and Mrs. Lynde said, “‘God knows’—just -like that.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it wasn’t right for her to say it,” said Anne, -promptly deciding upon which horn of this dilemma to empale herself. “It -isn’t right for anybody to take that name in vain or speak it lightly, -Davy. Don’t ever do it again.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not if I say it slow and solemn, like the minister?” queried Davy -gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“No, not even then.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I won’t. Ludovic Speed and Theodora Dix live in Middle -Grafton and Mrs. Rachel says he has been courting her for a hundred years. -Won’t they soon be too old to get married, Anne? I hope Gilbert -won’t court <i>you</i> that long. When are you going to be married, Anne? -Mrs. Lynde says it’s a sure thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Lynde is a—” began Anne hotly; then stopped. -“Awful old gossip,” completed Davy calmly. “That’s what -every one calls her. But is it a sure thing, Anne? I want to know.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re a very silly little boy, Davy,” said Anne, stalking -haughtily out of the room. The kitchen was deserted and she sat down by the -window in the fast falling wintry twilight. The sun had set and the wind had -died down. A pale chilly moon looked out behind a bank of purple clouds in the -west. The sky faded out, but the strip of yellow along the western horizon grew -brighter and fiercer, as if all the stray gleams of light were concentrating in -one spot; the distant hills, rimmed with priest-like firs, stood out in dark -distinctness against it. Anne looked across the still, white fields, cold and -lifeless in the harsh light of that grim sunset, and sighed. She was very -lonely; and she was sad at heart; for she was wondering if she would be able to -return to Redmond next year. It did not seem likely. The only scholarship -possible in the Sophomore year was a very small affair. She would not take -Marilla’s money; and there seemed little prospect of being able to earn -enough in the summer vacation. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose I’ll just have to drop out next year,” she thought -drearily, “and teach a district school again until I earn enough to -finish my course. And by that time all my old class will have graduated and -Patty’s Place will be out of the question. But there! I’m not going -to be a coward. I’m thankful I can earn my way through if -necessary.” -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s Mr. Harrison wading up the lane,” announced Davy, -running out. “I hope he’s brought the mail. It’s three days -since we got it. I want to see what them pesky Grits are doing. I’m a -Conservative, Anne. And I tell you, you have to keep your eye on them -Grits.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Harrison had brought the mail, and merry letters from Stella and Priscilla -and Phil soon dissipated Anne’s blues. Aunt Jamesina, too, had written, -saying that she was keeping the hearth-fire alight, and that the cats were all -well, and the house plants doing fine. -</p> - -<p> -“The weather has been real cold,” she wrote, “so I let the -cats sleep in the house—Rusty and Joseph on the sofa in the living-room, -and the Sarah-cat on the foot of my bed. It’s real company to hear her -purring when I wake up in the night and think of my poor daughter in the -foreign field. If it was anywhere but in India I wouldn’t worry, but they -say the snakes out there are terrible. It takes all the Sarah-cats’s -purring to drive away the thought of those snakes. I have enough faith for -everything but the snakes. I can’t think why Providence ever made them. -Sometimes I don’t think He did. I’m inclined to believe the Old -Harry had a hand in making <i>them</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne had left a thin, typewritten communication till the last, thinking it -unimportant. When she had read it she sat very still, with tears in her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter, Anne?” asked Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Josephine Barry is dead,” said Anne, in a low tone. -</p> - -<p> -“So she has gone at last,” said Marilla. “Well, she has been -sick for over a year, and the Barrys have been expecting to hear of her death -any time. It is well she is at rest for she has suffered dreadfully, Anne. She -was always kind to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“She has been kind to the last, Marilla. This letter is from her lawyer. -She has left me a thousand dollars in her will.” -</p> - -<p> -“Gracious, ain’t that an awful lot of money,” exclaimed Davy. -“She’s the woman you and Diana lit on when you jumped into the -spare room bed, ain’t she? Diana told me that story. Is that why she left -you so much?” -</p> - -<p> -“Hush, Davy,” said Anne gently. She slipped away to the porch gable -with a full heart, leaving Marilla and Mrs. Lynde to talk over the news to -their hearts’ content. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you s’pose Anne will ever get married now?” speculated -Davy anxiously. “When Dorcas Sloane got married last summer she said if -she’d had enough money to live on she’d never have been bothered -with a man, but even a widower with eight children was better’n living -with a sister-in-law.” -</p> - -<p> -“Davy Keith, do hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Rachel severely. -“The way you talk is scandalous for a small boy, that’s -what.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a> -Chapter XIX<br/> -An Interlude</h2> - -<p> -“To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I’ve left my -teens behind me forever,” said Anne, who was curled up on the hearth-rug -with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesina who was reading in her pet chair. They -were alone in the living room. Stella and Priscilla had gone to a committee -meeting and Phil was upstairs adorning herself for a party. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you feel kind of, sorry” said Aunt Jamesina. “The -teens are such a nice part of life. I’m glad I’ve never gone out of -them myself.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“You never will, Aunty. You’ll be eighteen when you should be a -hundred. Yes, I’m sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy -told me long ago that by the time I was twenty my character would be formed, -for good or evil. I don’t feel that it’s what it should be. -It’s full of flaws.” -</p> - -<p> -“So’s everybody’s,” said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. -“Mine’s cracked in a hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant -that when you are twenty your character would have got its permanent bent in -one direction or ’tother, and would go on developing in that line. -Don’t worry over it, Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and -yourself, and have a good time. That’s my philosophy and it’s -always worked pretty well. Where’s Phil off to tonight?” -</p> - -<p> -“She’s going to a dance, and she’s got the sweetest dress for -it—creamy yellow silk and cobwebby lace. It just suits those brown tints -of hers.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s magic in the words ‘silk’ and -‘lace,’ isn’t there?” said Aunt Jamesina. “The -very sound of them makes me feel like skipping off to a dance. And -<i>yellow</i> silk. It makes one think of a dress of sunshine. I always wanted -a yellow silk dress, but first my mother and then my husband wouldn’t -hear of it. The very first thing I’m going to do when I get to heaven is -to get a yellow silk dress.” -</p> - -<p> -Amid Anne’s peal of laughter Phil came downstairs, trailing clouds of -glory, and surveyed herself in the long oval mirror on the wall. -</p> - -<p> -“A flattering looking glass is a promoter of amiability,” she said. -“The one in my room does certainly make me green. Do I look pretty nice, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really know how pretty you are, Phil?” asked Anne, in -honest admiration. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I do. What are looking glasses and men for? That wasn’t -what I meant. Are all my ends tucked in? Is my skirt straight? And would this -rose look better lower down? I’m afraid it’s too high—it will -make me look lop-sided. But I hate things tickling my ears.” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is -lovely.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, there’s one thing in particular I like about -you—you’re so ungrudging. There isn’t a particle of envy in -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should she be envious?” demanded Aunt Jamesina. -“She’s not quite as goodlooking as you, maybe, but she’s got -a far handsomer nose.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know it,” conceded Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“My nose always has been a great comfort to me,” confessed Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“And I love the way your hair grows on your forehead, Anne. And that one -wee curl, always looking as if it were going to drop, but never dropping, is -delicious. But as for noses, mine is a dreadful worry to me. I know by the time -I’m forty it will be Byrney. What do you think I’ll look like when -I’m forty, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Like an old, matronly, married woman,” teased Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t,” said Phil, sitting down comfortably to wait for -her escort. “Joseph, you calico beastie, don’t you dare jump on my -lap. I won’t go to a dance all over cat hairs. No, Anne, I -<i>won’t</i> look matronly. But no doubt I’ll be married.” -</p> - -<p> -“To Alec or Alonzo?” asked Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“To one of them, I suppose,” sighed Phil, “if I can ever -decide which.” -</p> - -<p> -“It shouldn’t be hard to decide,” scolded Aunt Jamesina. -</p> - -<p> -“I was born a see-saw Aunty, and nothing can ever prevent me from -teetering.” -</p> - -<p> -“You ought to be more levelheaded, Philippa.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s best to be levelheaded, of course,” agreed Philippa, -“but you miss lots of fun. As for Alec and Alonzo, if you knew them -you’d understand why it’s difficult to choose between them. -They’re equally nice.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then take somebody who is nicer” suggested Aunt Jamesina. -“There’s that Senior who is so devoted to you—Will Leslie. He -has such nice, large, mild eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -“They’re a little bit too large and too mild—like a -cow’s,” said Phil cruelly. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you say about George Parker?” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s nothing to say about him except that he always looks as if -he had just been starched and ironed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Marr Holworthy then. You can’t find a fault with him.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, he would do if he wasn’t poor. I must marry a rich man, Aunt -Jamesina. That—and good looks—is an indispensable qualification. -I’d marry Gilbert Blythe if he were rich.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, would you?” said Anne, rather viciously. -</p> - -<p> -“We don’t like that idea a little bit, although we don’t want -Gilbert ourselves, oh, no,” mocked Phil. “But don’t -let’s talk of disagreeable subjects. I’ll have to marry sometime, I -suppose, but I shall put off the evil day as long as I can.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mustn’t marry anybody you don’t love, Phil, when -all’s said and done,” said Aunt Jamesina. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘Oh, hearts that loved in the good old way<br/> -Have been out o’ the fashion this many a day.’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -trilled Phil mockingly. “There’s the carriage. I fly—Bi-bi, -you two old-fashioned darlings.” -</p> - -<p> -When Phil had gone Aunt Jamesina looked solemnly at Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“That girl is pretty and sweet and goodhearted, but do you think she is -quite right in her mind, by spells, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I don’t think there’s anything the matter with -Phil’s mind,” said Anne, hiding a smile. “It’s just her -way of talking.” -</p> - -<p> -Aunt Jamesina shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I hope so, Anne. I do hope so, because I love her. But <i>I</i> -can’t understand her—she beats me. She isn’t like any of the -girls I ever knew, or any of the girls I was myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“How many girls were you, Aunt Jimsie?” -</p> - -<p> -“About half a dozen, my dear.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a> -Chapter XX<br/> -Gilbert Speaks</h2> - -<p> -“This has been a dull, prosy day,” yawned Phil, stretching herself -idly on the sofa, having previously dispossessed two exceedingly indignant -cats. -</p> - -<p> -Anne looked up from <i>Pickwick Papers</i>. Now that spring examinations were -over she was treating herself to Dickens. -</p> - -<p> -“It has been a prosy day for us,” she said thoughtfully, “but -to some people it has been a wonderful day. Some one has been rapturously happy -in it. Perhaps a great deed has been done somewhere today—or a great poem -written—or a great man born. And some heart has been broken, Phil.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why did you spoil your pretty thought by tagging that last sentence on, -honey?” grumbled Phil. “I don’t like to think of broken -hearts—or anything unpleasant.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think you’ll be able to shirk unpleasant things all your -life, Phil?” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear me, no. Am I not up against them now? You don’t call Alec and -Alonzo pleasant things, do you, when they simply plague my life out?” -</p> - -<p> -“You never take anything seriously, Phil.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should I? There are enough folks who do. The world needs people like -me, Anne, just to amuse it. It would be a terrible place if <i>everybody</i> -were intellectual and serious and in deep, deadly earnest. MY mission is, as -<i>Josiah Allen</i> says, ‘to charm and allure.’ Confess now. -Hasn’t life at Patty’s Place been really much brighter and -pleasanter this past winter because I’ve been here to leaven you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it has,” owned Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“And you all love me—even Aunt Jamesina, who thinks I’m stark -mad. So why should I try to be different? Oh, dear, I’m so sleepy. I was -awake until one last night, reading a harrowing ghost story. I read it in bed, -and after I had finished it do you suppose I could get out of bed to put the -light out? No! And if Stella had not fortunately come in late that lamp would -have burned good and bright till morning. When I heard Stella I called her in, -explained my predicament, and got her to put out the light. If I had got out -myself to do it I knew something would grab me by the feet when I was getting -in again. By the way, Anne, has Aunt Jamesina decided what to do this -summer?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, she’s going to stay here. I know she’s doing it for the -sake of those blessed cats, although she says it’s too much trouble to -open her own house, and she hates visiting.” -</p> - -<p> -“What are you reading?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Pickwick</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s a book that always makes me hungry,” said Phil. -“There’s so much good eating in it. The characters seem always to -be reveling on ham and eggs and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard -rummage after reading <i>Pickwick</i>. The mere thought reminds me that -I’m starving. Is there any tidbit in the pantry, Queen Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it.” -</p> - -<p> -Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the orchard in company -with Rusty. It was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night in early spring. The snow -was not quite all gone from the park; a little dingy bank of it yet lay under -the pines of the harbor road, screened from the influence of April suns. It -kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the evening air. But grass was growing -green in sheltered spots and Gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a -hidden corner. He came up from the park, his hands full of it. -</p> - -<p> -Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the poem of -a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset with the very -perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air—a wondrous mansion -whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in Araby’s perfume, -and where she reigned queen and chatelaine. She frowned as she saw Gilbert -coming through the orchard. Of late she had managed not to be left alone with -Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly now; and even Rusty had deserted her. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne took them and buried her face in them. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m in Mr. Silas Sloane’s barrens this very minute,” -she said rapturously. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, not for a fortnight. I’m going to visit with Phil in -Bolingbroke before I go home. You’ll be in Avonlea before I will.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I’ve been -offered a job in the Daily News office and I’m going to take it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh,” said Anne vaguely. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer -would be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect. -“Well,” she concluded flatly, “it is a good thing for you, of -course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I’ve been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next -year.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mustn’t work <i>too</i> hard,” said Anne, without any -very clear idea of what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil would -come out. “You’ve studied very constantly this winter. Isn’t -this a delightful evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets -under that old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had discovered a -gold mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are always discovering gold mines,” said Gilbert—also -absently. -</p> - -<p> -“Let us go and see if we can find some more,” suggested Anne -eagerly. “I’ll call Phil and—” -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne,” said Gilbert -quietly, taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. -“There is something I want to say to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, don’t say it,” cried Anne, pleadingly. -“Don’t—<i>please</i>, Gilbert.” -</p> - -<p> -“I must. Things can’t go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. -You know I do. I—I can’t tell you how much. Will you promise me -that some day you’ll be my wife?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I can’t,” said Anne miserably. “Oh, -Gilbert—you—you’ve spoiled everything.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you care for me at all?” Gilbert asked after a very -dreadful pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up. -</p> - -<p> -“Not—not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. -But I don’t love you, Gilbert.” -</p> - -<p> -“But can’t you give me some hope that you will—yet?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I can’t,” exclaimed Anne desperately. “I never, -never can love you—in that way—Gilbert. You must never speak of -this to me again.” -</p> - -<p> -There was another pause—so long and so dreadful that Anne was driven at -last to look up. Gilbert’s face was white to the lips. And his -eyes—but Anne shuddered and looked away. There was nothing romantic about -this. Must proposals be either grotesque or—horrible? Could she ever -forget Gilbert’s face? -</p> - -<p> -“Is there anybody else?” he asked at last in a low voice. -</p> - -<p> -“No—no,” said Anne eagerly. “I don’t care for any -one like <i>that</i>—and I <i>like</i> you better than anybody else in -the world, Gilbert. And we must—we must go on being friends, -Gilbert.” -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“Friends! Your friendship can’t satisfy me, Anne. I want your -love—and you tell me I can never have that.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert,” was all Anne could say. -Where, oh, where were all the gracious and graceful speeches wherewith, in -imagination, she had been wont to dismiss rejected suitors? -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert released her hand gently. -</p> - -<p> -“There isn’t anything to forgive. There have been times when I -thought you did care. I’ve deceived myself, that’s all. Goodbye, -Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind the pines, and -cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably precious had gone out of -her life. It was Gilbert’s friendship, of course. Oh, why must she lose -it after this fashion? -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter, honey?” asked Phil, coming in through the -moonlit gloom. -</p> - -<p> -Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a thousand miles away. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you’ve gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an -idiot, Anne Shirley!” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don’t -love?” said Anne coldly, goaded to reply. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t know love when you see it. You’ve tricked -something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the -real thing to look like that. There, that’s the first sensible thing -I’ve ever said in my life. I wonder how I managed it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Phil,” pleaded Anne, “please go away and leave me alone for -a little while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Without any Gilbert in it?” said Phil, going. -</p> - -<p> -A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. Would it -not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all Gilbert’s fault. He -had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must just learn to live without -it. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"></a> -Chapter XXI<br/> -Roses of Yesterday</h2> - -<p> -The fortnight Anne spent in Bolingbroke was a very pleasant one, with a little -under current of vague pain and dissatisfaction running through it whenever she -thought about Gilbert. There was not, however, much time to think about him. -“Mount Holly,” the beautiful old Gordon homestead, was a very gay -place, overrun by Phil’s friends of both sexes. There was quite a -bewildering succession of drives, dances, picnics and boating parties, all -expressively lumped together by Phil under the head of “jamborees”; -Alec and Alonzo were so constantly on hand that Anne wondered if they ever did -anything but dance attendance on that will-o’-the-wisp of a Phil. They -were both nice, manly fellows, but Anne would not be drawn into any opinion as -to which was the nicer. -</p> - -<p> -“And I depended so on you to help me make up my mind which of them I -should promise to marry,” mourned Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“You must do that for yourself. You are quite expert at making up your -mind as to whom other people should marry,” retorted Anne, rather -caustically. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, that’s a very different thing,” said Phil, truly. -</p> - -<p> -But the sweetest incident of Anne’s sojourn in Bolingbroke was the visit -to her birthplace—the little shabby yellow house in an out-of-the-way -street she had so often dreamed about. She looked at it with delighted eyes, as -she and Phil turned in at the gate. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s almost exactly as I’ve pictured it,” she said. -“There is no honeysuckle over the windows, but there is a lilac tree by -the gate, and—yes, there are the muslin curtains in the windows. How glad -I am it is still painted yellow.” -</p> - -<p> -A very tall, very thin woman opened the door. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, the Shirleys lived here twenty years ago,” she said, in -answer to Anne’s question. “They had it rented. I remember -’em. They both died of fever at onct. It was turrible sad. They left a -baby. I guess it’s dead long ago. It was a sickly thing. Old Thomas and -his wife took it—as if they hadn’t enough of their own.” -</p> - -<p> -“It didn’t die,” said Anne, smiling. “I was that -baby.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t say so! Why, you have grown,” exclaimed the woman, -as if she were much surprised that Anne was not still a baby. “Come to -look at you, I see the resemblance. You’re complected like your pa. He -had red hair. But you favor your ma in your eyes and mouth. She was a nice -little thing. My darter went to school to her and was nigh crazy about her. -They was buried in the one grave and the School Board put up a tombstone to -them as a reward for faithful service. Will you come in?” -</p> - -<p> -“Will you let me go all over the house?” asked Anne eagerly. -</p> - -<p> -“Laws, yes, you can if you like. ’Twon’t take you -long—there ain’t much of it. I keep at my man to build a new -kitchen, but he ain’t one of your hustlers. The parlor’s in there -and there’s two rooms upstairs. Just prowl about yourselves. I’ve -got to see to the baby. The east room was the one you were born in. I remember -your ma saying she loved to see the sunrise; and I mind hearing that you was -born just as the sun was rising and its light on your face was the first thing -your ma saw.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne went up the narrow stairs and into that little east room with a full -heart. It was as a shrine to her. Here her mother had dreamed the exquisite, -happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; here that red sunrise light had fallen -over them both in the sacred hour of birth; here her mother had died. Anne -looked about her reverently, her eyes with tears. It was for her one of the -jeweled hours of life that gleam out radiantly forever in memory. -</p> - -<p> -“Just to think of it—mother was younger than I am now when I was -born,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -When Anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall. She held -out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon. -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs -when I came here,” she said. “I dunno what they are—I never -bothered to look in ’em, but the address on the top one is ‘Miss -Bertha Willis,’ and that was your ma’s maiden name. You can take -’em if you’d keer to have ’em.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, thank you—thank you,” cried Anne, clasping the packet -rapturously. -</p> - -<p> -“That was all that was in the house,” said her hostess. “The -furniture was all sold to pay the doctor bills, and Mrs. Thomas got your -ma’s clothes and little things. I reckon they didn’t last long -among that drove of Thomas youngsters. They was destructive young animals, as I -mind ’em.” -</p> - -<p> -“I haven’t one thing that belonged to my mother,” said Anne, -chokily. “I—I can never thank you enough for these letters.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re quite welcome. Laws, but your eyes is like your ma’s. -She could just about talk with hers. Your father was sorter homely but awful -nice. I mind hearing folks say when they was married that there never was two -people more in love with each other—Pore creatures, they didn’t -live much longer; but they was awful happy while they was alive, and I -s’pose that counts for a good deal.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne longed to get home to read her precious letters; but she made one little -pilgrimage first. She went alone to the green corner of the “old” -Bolingbroke cemetery where her father and mother were buried, and left on their -grave the white flowers she carried. Then she hastened back to Mount Holly, -shut herself up in her room, and read the letters. Some were written by her -father, some by her mother. There were not many—only a dozen in -all—for Walter and Bertha Shirley had not been often separated during -their courtship. The letters were yellow and faded and dim, blurred with the -touch of passing years. No profound words of wisdom were traced on the stained -and wrinkled pages, but only lines of love and trust. The sweetness of -forgotten things clung to them—the far-off, fond imaginings of those -long-dead lovers. Bertha Shirley had possessed the gift of writing letters -which embodied the charming personality of the writer in words and thoughts -that retained their beauty and fragrance after the lapse of time. The letters -were tender, intimate, sacred. To Anne, the sweetest of all was the one written -after her birth to the father on a brief absence. It was full of a proud young -mother’s accounts of “baby”—her cleverness, her -brightness, her thousand sweetnesses. -</p> - -<p> -“I love her best when she is asleep and better still when she is -awake,” Bertha Shirley had written in the postscript. Probably it was the -last sentence she had ever penned. The end was very near for her. -</p> - -<p> -“This has been the most beautiful day of my life,” Anne said to -Phil that night. “I’ve FOUND my father and mother. Those letters -have made them REAL to me. I’m not an orphan any longer. I feel as if I -had opened a book and found roses of yesterday, sweet and beloved, between its -leaves.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"></a> -Chapter XXII<br/> -Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables</h2> - -<p> -The firelight shadows were dancing over the kitchen walls at Green Gables, for -the spring evening was chilly; through the open east window drifted in the -subtly sweet voices of the night. Marilla was sitting by the fire—at -least, in body. In spirit she was roaming olden ways, with feet grown young. Of -late Marilla had thus spent many an hour, when she thought she should have been -knitting for the twins. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose I’m growing old,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -Yet Marilla had changed but little in the past nine years, save to grow -something thinner, and even more angular; there was a little more gray in the -hair that was still twisted up in the same hard knot, with two -hairpins—<i>were</i> they the same hairpins?—still stuck through -it. But her expression was very different; the something about the mouth which -had hinted at a sense of humor had developed wonderfully; her eyes were gentler -and milder, her smile more frequent and tender. -</p> - -<p> -Marilla was thinking of her whole past life, her cramped but not unhappy -childhood, the jealously hidden dreams and the blighted hopes of her girlhood, -the long, gray, narrow, monotonous years of dull middle life that followed. And -the coming of Anne—the vivid, imaginative, impetuous child with her heart -of love, and her world of fancy, bringing with her color and warmth and -radiance, until the wilderness of existence had blossomed like the rose. -Marilla felt that out of her sixty years she had lived only the nine that had -followed the advent of Anne. And Anne would be home tomorrow night. -</p> - -<p> -The kitchen door opened. Marilla looked up expecting to see Mrs. Lynde. Anne -stood before her, tall and starry-eyed, with her hands full of Mayflowers and -violets. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne Shirley!” exclaimed Marilla. For once in her life she was -surprised out of her reserve; she caught her girl in her arms and crushed her -and her flowers against her heart, kissing the bright hair and sweet face -warmly. “I never looked for you till tomorrow night. How did you get from -Carmody?” -</p> - -<p> -“Walked, dearest of Marillas. Haven’t I done it a score of times in -the Queen’s days? The mailman is to bring my trunk tomorrow; I just got -homesick all at once, and came a day earlier. And oh! I’ve had such a -lovely walk in the May twilight; I stopped by the barrens and picked these -Mayflowers; I came through Violet-Vale; it’s just a big bowlful of -violets now—the dear, sky-tinted things. Smell them, Marilla—drink -them in.” -</p> - -<p> -Marilla sniffed obligingly, but she was more interested in Anne than in -drinking violets. -</p> - -<p> -“Sit down, child. You must be real tired. I’m going to get you some -supper.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s a darling moonrise behind the hills tonight, Marilla, and -oh, how the frogs sang me home from Carmody! I do love the music of the frogs. -It seems bound up with all my happiest recollections of old spring evenings. -And it always reminds me of the night I came here first. Do you remember it, -Marilla?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, yes,” said Marilla with emphasis. “I’m not -likely to forget it ever.” -</p> - -<p> -“They used to sing so madly in the marsh and brook that year. I would -listen to them at my window in the dusk, and wonder how they could seem so glad -and so sad at the same time. Oh, but it’s good to be home again! Redmond -was splendid and Bolingbroke delightful—but Green Gables is -<i>home</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Gilbert isn’t coming home this summer, I hear,” said -Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -“No.” Something in Anne’s tone made Marilla glance at her -sharply, but Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her violets in a bowl. -“See, aren’t they sweet?” she went on hurriedly. “The -year is a book, isn’t it, Marilla? Spring’s pages are written in -Mayflowers and violets, summer’s in roses, autumn’s in red maple -leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did Gilbert do well in his examinations?” persisted Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Excellently well. He led his class. But where are the twins and Mrs. -Lynde?” -</p> - -<p> -“Rachel and Dora are over at Mr. Harrison’s. Davy is down at -Boulters’. I think I hear him coming now.” -</p> - -<p> -Davy burst in, saw Anne, stopped, and then hurled himself upon her with a -joyful yell. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Anne, ain’t I glad to see you! Say, Anne, I’ve grown two -inches since last fall. Mrs. Lynde measured me with her tape today, and say, -Anne, see my front tooth. It’s gone. Mrs. Lynde tied one end of a string -to it and the other end to the door, and then shut the door. I sold it to Milty -for two cents. Milty’s collecting teeth.” -</p> - -<p> -“What in the world does he want teeth for?” asked Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -“To make a necklace for playing Indian Chief,” explained Davy, -climbing upon Anne’s lap. “He’s got fifteen already, and -everybody’s else’s promised, so there’s no use in the rest of -us starting to collect, too. I tell you the Boulters are great business -people.” -</p> - -<p> -“Were you a good boy at Mrs. Boulter’s?” asked Marilla -severely. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; but say, Marilla, I’m tired of being good.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’d get tired of being bad much sooner, Davy-boy,” said -Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it’d be fun while it lasted, wouldn’t it?” -persisted Davy. “I could be sorry for it afterwards, couldn’t -I?” -</p> - -<p> -“Being sorry wouldn’t do away with the consequences of being bad, -Davy. Don’t you remember the Sunday last summer when you ran away from -Sunday School? You told me then that being bad wasn’t worth while. What -were you and Milty doing today?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, we fished and chased the cat, and hunted for eggs, and yelled at the -echo. There’s a great echo in the bush behind the Boulter barn. Say, what -is echo, Anne; I want to know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Echo is a beautiful nymph, Davy, living far away in the woods, and -laughing at the world from among the hills.” -</p> - -<p> -“What does she look like?” -</p> - -<p> -“Her hair and eyes are dark, but her neck and arms are white as snow. No -mortal can ever see how fair she is. She is fleeter than a deer, and that -mocking voice of hers is all we can know of her. You can hear her calling at -night; you can hear her laughing under the stars. But you can never see her. -She flies afar if you follow her, and laughs at you always just over the next -hill.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is that true, Anne? Or is it a whopper?” demanded Davy staring. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy,” said Anne despairingly, “haven’t you sense -enough to distinguish between a fairytale and a falsehood?” -</p> - -<p> -“Then what is it that sasses back from the Boulter bush? I want to -know,” insisted Davy. -</p> - -<p> -“When you are a little older, Davy, I’ll explain it all to -you.” -</p> - -<p> -The mention of age evidently gave a new turn to Davy’s thoughts for after -a few moments of reflection, he whispered solemnly: -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, I’m going to be married.” -</p> - -<p> -“When?” asked Anne with equal solemnity. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, not until I’m grown-up, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, that’s a relief, Davy. Who is the lady?” -</p> - -<p> -“Stella Fletcher; she’s in my class at school. And say, Anne, -she’s the prettiest girl you ever saw. If I die before I grow up -you’ll keep an eye on her, won’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Davy Keith, do stop talking such nonsense,” said Marilla severely. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tisn’t nonsense,” protested Davy in an injured tone. -“She’s my promised wife, and if I was to die she’d be my -promised widow, wouldn’t she? And she hasn’t got a soul to look -after her except her old grandmother.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come and have your supper, Anne,” said Marilla, “and -don’t encourage that child in his absurd talk.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"></a> -Chapter XXIII<br/> -Paul Cannot Find the Rock People</h2> - -<p> -Life was very pleasant in Avonlea that summer, although Anne, amid all her -vacation joys, was haunted by a sense of “something gone which should be -there.” She would not admit, even in her inmost reflections, that this -was caused by Gilbert’s absence. But when she had to walk home alone from -prayer meetings and A.V.I.S. pow-wows, while Diana and Fred, and many other gay -couples, loitered along the dusky, starlit country roads, there was a queer, -lonely ache in her heart which she could not explain away. Gilbert did not even -write to her, as she thought he might have done. She knew he wrote to Diana -occasionally, but she would not inquire about him; and Diana, supposing that -Anne heard from him, volunteered no information. Gilbert’s mother, who -was a gay, frank, light-hearted lady, but not overburdened with tact, had a -very embarrassing habit of asking Anne, always in a painfully distinct voice -and always in the presence of a crowd, if she had heard from Gilbert lately. -Poor Anne could only blush horribly and murmur, “not very lately,” -which was taken by all, Mrs. Blythe included, to be merely a maidenly evasion. -</p> - -<p> -Apart from this, Anne enjoyed her summer. Priscilla came for a merry visit in -June; and, when she had gone, Mr. and Mrs. Irving, Paul and Charlotta the -Fourth came “home” for July and August. -</p> - -<p> -Echo Lodge was the scene of gaieties once more, and the echoes over the river -were kept busy mimicking the laughter that rang in the old garden behind the -spruces. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Lavendar” had not changed, except to grow even sweeter and -prettier. Paul adored her, and the companionship between them was beautiful to -see. -</p> - -<p> -“But I don’t call her ‘mother’ just by itself,” -he explained to Anne. “You see, <i>that</i> name belongs just to my own -little mother, and I can’t give it to any one else. You know, teacher. -But I call her ‘Mother Lavendar’ and I love her next best to -father. I—I even love her a <i>little</i> better than you, -teacher.” -</p> - -<p> -“Which is just as it ought to be,” answered Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Paul was thirteen now and very tall for his years. His face and eyes were as -beautiful as ever, and his fancy was still like a prism, separating everything -that fell upon it into rainbows. He and Anne had delightful rambles to wood and -field and shore. Never were there two more thoroughly “kindred -spirits.” -</p> - -<p> -Charlotta the Fourth had blossomed out into young ladyhood. She wore her hair -now in an enormous pompador and had discarded the blue ribbon bows of auld lang -syne, but her face was as freckled, her nose as snubbed, and her mouth and -smiles as wide as ever. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t think I talk with a Yankee accent, do you, Miss Shirley, -ma’am?” she demanded anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t notice it, Charlotta.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m real glad of that. They said I did at home, but I thought -likely they just wanted to aggravate me. I don’t want no Yankee accent. -Not that I’ve a word to say against the Yankees, Miss Shirley, -ma’am. They’re real civilized. But give me old P.E. Island every -time.” -</p> - -<p> -Paul spent his first fortnight with his grandmother Irving in Avonlea. Anne was -there to meet him when he came, and found him wild with eagerness to get to the -shore—Nora and the Golden Lady and the Twin Sailors would be there. He -could hardly wait to eat his supper. Could he not see Nora’s elfin face -peering around the point, watching for him wistfully? But it was a very sober -Paul who came back from the shore in the twilight. -</p> - -<p> -“Didn’t you find your Rock People?” asked Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Paul shook his chestnut curls sorrowfully. -</p> - -<p> -“The Twin Sailors and the Golden Lady never came at all,” he said. -“Nora was there—but Nora is not the same, teacher. She is -changed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Paul, it is you who are changed,” said Anne. “You have -grown too old for the Rock People. They like only children for playfellows. I -am afraid the Twin Sailors will never again come to you in the pearly, -enchanted boat with the sail of moonshine; and the Golden Lady will play no -more for you on her golden harp. Even Nora will not meet you much longer. You -must pay the penalty of growing-up, Paul. You must leave fairyland behind -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You two talk as much foolishness as ever you did,” said old Mrs. -Irving, half-indulgently, half-reprovingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, we don’t,” said Anne, shaking her head gravely. -“We are getting very, very wise, and it is such a pity. We are never half -so interesting when we have learned that language is given us to enable us to -conceal our thoughts.” -</p> - -<p> -“But it isn’t—it is given us to exchange our thoughts,” -said Mrs. Irving seriously. She had never heard of Tallyrand and did not -understand epigrams. -</p> - -<p> -Anne spent a fortnight of halcyon days at Echo Lodge in the golden prime of -August. While there she incidentally contrived to hurry Ludovic Speed in his -leisurely courting of Theodora Dix, as related duly in another chronicle of her -history.(1) Arnold Sherman, an elderly friend of the Irvings, was there at the -same time, and added not a little to the general pleasantness of life. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -(1 Chronicles of Avonlea.) -</p> - -<p> -“What a nice play-time this has been,” said Anne. “I feel -like a giant refreshed. And it’s only a fortnight more till I go back to -Kingsport, and Redmond and Patty’s Place. Patty’s Place is the -dearest spot, Miss Lavendar. I feel as if I had two homes—one at Green -Gables and one at Patty’s Place. But where has the summer gone? It -doesn’t seem a day since I came home that spring evening with the -Mayflowers. When I was little I couldn’t see from one end of the summer -to the other. It stretched before me like an unending season. Now, -‘’tis a handbreadth, ’tis a tale.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, are you and Gilbert Blythe as good friends as you used to -be?” asked Miss Lavendar quietly. -</p> - -<p> -“I am just as much Gilbert’s friend as ever I was, Miss -Lavendar.” -</p> - -<p> -Miss Lavendar shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“I see something’s gone wrong, Anne. I’m going to be -impertinent and ask what. Have you quarrelled?” -</p> - -<p> -“No; it’s only that Gilbert wants more than friendship and I -can’t give him more.” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you sure of that, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perfectly sure.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m very, very sorry.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder why everybody seems to think I ought to marry Gilbert -Blythe,” said Anne petulantly. -</p> - -<p> -“Because you were made and meant for each other, Anne—that is why. -You needn’t toss that young head of yours. It’s a fact.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"></a> -Chapter XXIV<br/> -Enter Jonas</h2> - -<p class="right"> -“P<small>ROSPECT</small> P<small>OINT</small>,<br/> -“August 20th. -</p> - -<p> -“Dear Anne—spelled—with—an—E,” wrote Phil, -“I must prop my eyelids open long enough to write you. I’ve -neglected you shamefully this summer, honey, but all my other correspondents -have been neglected, too. I have a huge pile of letters to answer, so I must -gird up the loins of my mind and hoe in. Excuse my mixed metaphors. I’m -fearfully sleepy. Last night Cousin Emily and I were calling at a -neighbor’s. There were several other callers there, and as soon as those -unfortunate creatures left, our hostess and her three daughters picked them all -to pieces. I knew they would begin on Cousin Emily and me as soon as the door -shut behind us. When we came home Mrs. Lilly informed us that the aforesaid -neighbor’s hired boy was supposed to be down with scarlet fever. You can -always trust Mrs. Lilly to tell you cheerful things like that. I have a horror -of scarlet fever. I couldn’t sleep when I went to bed for thinking of it. -I tossed and tumbled about, dreaming fearful dreams when I did snooze for a -minute; and at three I wakened up with a high fever, a sore throat, and a -raging headache. I knew I had scarlet fever; I got up in a panic and hunted up -Cousin Emily’s ‘doctor book’ to read up the symptoms. Anne, I -had them all. So I went back to bed, and knowing the worst, slept like a top -the rest of the night. Though why a top should sleep sounder than anything else -I never could understand. But this morning I was quite well, so it -couldn’t have been the fever. I suppose if I did catch it last night it -couldn’t have developed so soon. I can remember that in daytime, but at -three o’clock at night I never can be logical. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you wonder what I’m doing at Prospect Point. Well, I -always like to spend a month of summer at the shore, and father insists that I -come to his second-cousin Emily’s ‘select boardinghouse’ at -Prospect Point. So a fortnight ago I came as usual. And as usual old -‘Uncle Mark Miller’ brought me from the station with his ancient -buggy and what he calls his ‘generous purpose’ horse. He is a nice -old man and gave me a handful of pink peppermints. Peppermints always seem to -me such a religious sort of candy—I suppose because when I was a little -girl Grandmother Gordon always gave them to me in church. Once I asked, -referring to the smell of peppermints, ‘Is that the odor of -sanctity?’ I didn’t like to eat Uncle Mark’s peppermints -because he just fished them loose out of his pocket, and had to pick some rusty -nails and other things from among them before he gave them to me. But I -wouldn’t hurt his dear old feelings for anything, so I carefully sowed -them along the road at intervals. When the last one was gone, Uncle Mark said, -a little rebukingly, ‘Ye shouldn’t a’et all them candies to -onct, Miss Phil. You’ll likely have the stummick-ache.’ -</p> - -<p> -“Cousin Emily has only five boarders besides myself—four old ladies -and one young man. My right-hand neighbor is Mrs. Lilly. She is one of those -people who seem to take a gruesome pleasure in detailing all their many aches -and pains and sicknesses. You cannot mention any ailment but she says, shaking -her head, ‘Ah, I know too well what that is’—and then you get -all the details. Jonas declares he once spoke of locomotor ataxia in hearing -and she said she knew too well what that was. She suffered from it for ten -years and was finally cured by a traveling doctor. -</p> - -<p> -“Who is Jonas? Just wait, Anne Shirley. You’ll hear all about Jonas -in the proper time and place. He is not to be mixed up with estimable old -ladies. -</p> - -<p> -“My left-hand neighbor at the table is Mrs. Phinney. She always speaks -with a wailing, dolorous voice—you are nervously expecting her to burst -into tears every moment. She gives you the impression that life to her is -indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak of a laugh, is a -frivolity truly reprehensible. She has a worse opinion of me than Aunt -Jamesina, and she doesn’t love me hard to atone for it, as Aunty J. does, -either. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Maria Grimsby sits cati-corner from me. The first day I came I -remarked to Miss Maria that it looked a little like rain—and Miss Maria -laughed. I said the road from the station was very pretty—and Miss Maria -laughed. I said there seemed to be a few mosquitoes left yet—and Miss -Maria laughed. I said that Prospect Point was as beautiful as ever—and -Miss Maria laughed. If I were to say to Miss Maria, ‘My father has hanged -himself, my mother has taken poison, my brother is in the penitentiary, and I -am in the last stages of consumption,’ Miss Maria would laugh. She -can’t help it—she was born so; but is very sad and awful. -</p> - -<p> -“The fifth old lady is Mrs. Grant. She is a sweet old thing; but she -never says anything but good of anybody and so she is a very uninteresting -conversationalist. -</p> - -<p> -“And now for Jonas, Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“That first day I came I saw a young man sitting opposite me at the -table, smiling at me as if he had known me from my cradle. I knew, for Uncle -Mark had told me, that his name was Jonas Blake, that he was a Theological -Student from St. Columbia, and that he had taken charge of the Point Prospect -Mission Church for the summer. -</p> - -<p> -“He is a very ugly young man—really, the ugliest young man -I’ve ever seen. He has a big, loose-jointed figure with absurdly long -legs. His hair is tow-color and lank, his eyes are green, and his mouth is big, -and his ears—but I never think about his ears if I can help it. -</p> - -<p> -“He has a lovely voice—if you shut your eyes he is -adorable—and he certainly has a beautiful soul and disposition. -</p> - -<p> -“We were good chums right way. Of course he is a graduate of Redmond, and -that is a link between us. We fished and boated together; and we walked on the -sands by moonlight. He didn’t look so homely by moonlight and oh, he was -nice. Niceness fairly exhaled from him. The old ladies—except Mrs. -Grant—don’t approve of Jonas, because he laughs and jokes—and -because he evidently likes the society of frivolous me better than theirs. -</p> - -<p> -“Somehow, Anne, I don’t want him to think me frivolous. This is -ridiculous. Why should I care what a tow-haired person called Jonas, whom I -never saw before thinks of me? -</p> - -<p> -“Last Sunday Jonas preached in the village church. I went, of course, but -I couldn’t realize that Jonas was going to preach. The fact that he was a -minister—or going to be one—persisted in seeming a huge joke to me. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Jonas preached. And, by the time he had preached ten minutes, I -felt so small and insignificant that I thought I must be invisible to the naked -eye. Jonas never said a word about women and he never looked at me. But I -realized then and there what a pitiful, frivolous, small-souled little -butterfly I was, and how horribly different I must be from Jonas’ ideal -woman. <i>She</i> would be grand and strong and noble. He was so earnest and -tender and true. He was everything a minister ought to be. I wondered how I -could ever have thought him ugly—but he really is!—with those -inspired eyes and that intellectual brow which the roughly-falling hair hid on -week days. -</p> - -<p> -“It was a splendid sermon and I could have listened to it forever, and it -made me feel utterly wretched. Oh, I wish I was like <i>you</i>, Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“He caught up with me on the road home, and grinned as cheerfully as -usual. But his grin could never deceive me again. I had seen the <i>real</i> -Jonas. I wondered if he could ever see the <i>real Phil</i>—whom -<i>nobody</i>, not even you, Anne, has ever seen yet. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Jonas,’ I said—I forgot to call him Mr. Blake. -Wasn’t it dreadful? But there are times when things like that don’t -matter—‘Jonas, you were born to be a minister. You -<i>couldn’t</i> be anything else.’ -</p> - -<p> -“‘No, I couldn’t,’ he said soberly. ‘I tried to -be something else for a long time—I didn’t want to be a minister. -But I came to see at last that it was the work given me to do—and God -helping me, I shall try to do it.’ -</p> - -<p> -“His voice was low and reverent. I thought that he would do his work and -do it well and nobly; and happy the woman fitted by nature and training to help -him do it. <i>She</i> would be no feather, blown about by every fickle wind of -fancy. <i>She</i> would always know what hat to put on. Probably she would have -only one. Ministers never have much money. But she wouldn’t mind having -one hat or none at all, because she would have Jonas. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne Shirley, don’t you dare to say or hint or think that -I’ve fallen in love with Mr. Blake. Could <i>I</i> care for a lank, poor, -ugly theologue—named Jonas? As Uncle Mark says, ‘It’s -impossible, and what’s more it’s improbable.’ -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Good night,<br/> -P<small>HIL</small>.” -</p> - -<p> -“P.S. It is impossible—but I am horribly afraid it’s true. -I’m happy and wretched and scared. <i>He</i> can <i>never</i> care for -me, I know. Do you think I could ever develop into a passable minister’s -wife, Anne? And <i>would</i> they expect me to lead in prayer? P G.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"></a> -Chapter XXV<br/> -Enter Prince Charming</h2> - -<p> -“I’m contrasting the claims of indoors and out,” said Anne, -looking from the window of Patty’s Place to the distant pines of the -park. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve an afternoon to spend in sweet doing nothing, Aunt Jimsie. -Shall I spend it here where there is a cosy fire, a plateful of delicious -russets, three purring and harmonious cats, and two impeccable china dogs with -green noses? Or shall I go to the park, where there is the lure of gray woods -and of gray water lapping on the harbor rocks?” -</p> - -<p> -“If I was as young as you, I’d decide in favor of the park,” -said Aunt Jamesina, tickling Joseph’s yellow ear with a knitting needle. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought that you claimed to be as young as any of us, Aunty,” -teased Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, in my soul. But I’ll admit my legs aren’t as young as -yours. You go and get some fresh air, Anne. You look pale lately.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think I’ll go to the park,” said Anne restlessly. “I -don’t feel like tame domestic joys today. I want to feel alone and free -and wild. The park will be empty, for every one will be at the football -match.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you go to it?” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Nobody axed me, sir, she said’—at least, nobody but -that horrid little Dan Ranger. I wouldn’t go anywhere with him; but -rather than hurt his poor little tender feelings I said I wasn’t going to -the game at all. I don’t mind. I’m not in the mood for football -today somehow.” -</p> - -<p> -“You go and get some fresh air,” repeated Aunt Jamesina, “but -take your umbrella, for I believe it’s going to rain. I’ve -rheumatism in my leg.” -</p> - -<p> -“Only old people should have rheumatism, Aunty.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anybody is liable to rheumatism in her legs, Anne. It’s only old -people who should have rheumatism in their souls, though. Thank goodness, I -never have. When you get rheumatism in your soul you might as well go and pick -out your coffin.” -</p> - -<p> -It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad -hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the -pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow -the fogs out of her soul. Anne was not wont to be troubled with soul fog. But, -somehow, since her return to Redmond for this third year, life had not mirrored -her spirit back to her with its old, perfect, sparkling clearness. -</p> - -<p> -Outwardly, existence at Patty’s Place was the same pleasant round of work -and study and recreation that it had always been. On Friday evenings the big, -fire-lighted livingroom was crowded by callers and echoed to endless jest and -laughter, while Aunt Jamesina smiled beamingly on them all. The -“Jonas” of Phil’s letter came often, running up from St. -Columbia on the early train and departing on the late. He was a general -favorite at Patty’s Place, though Aunt Jamesina shook her head and opined -that divinity students were not what they used to be. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s <i>very</i> nice, my dear,” she told Phil, “but -ministers ought to be graver and more dignified.” -</p> - -<p> -“Can’t a man laugh and laugh and be a Christian still?” -demanded Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>men</i>—yes. But I was speaking of <i>ministers</i>, my -dear,” said Aunt Jamesina rebukingly. “And you shouldn’t -flirt so with Mr. Blake—you really shouldn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not flirting with him,” protested Phil. -</p> - -<p> -Nobody believed her, except Anne. The others thought she was amusing herself as -usual, and told her roundly that she was behaving very badly. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Blake isn’t of the Alec-and-Alonzo type, Phil,” said -Stella severely. “He takes things seriously. You may break his -heart.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really think I could?” asked Phil. “I’d love to -think so.” -</p> - -<p> -“Philippa Gordon! I never thought you were utterly unfeeling. The idea of -you saying you’d love to break a man’s heart!” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t say so, honey. Quote me correctly. I said I’d like -to think I <i>could</i> break it. I would like to know I had the <i>power</i> -to do it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t understand you, Phil. You are leading that man on -deliberately—and you know you don’t mean anything by it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean to make him ask me to marry him if I can,” said Phil -calmly. -</p> - -<p> -“I give you up,” said Stella hopelessly. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert came occasionally on Friday evenings. He seemed always in good spirits, -and held his own in the jests and repartee that flew about. He neither sought -nor avoided Anne. When circumstances brought them in contact he talked to her -pleasantly and courteously, as to any newly-made acquaintance. The old -camaraderie was gone entirely. Anne felt it keenly; but she told herself she -was very glad and thankful that Gilbert had got so completely over his -disappointment in regard to her. She had really been afraid, that April evening -in the orchard, that she had hurt him terribly and that the wound would be long -in healing. Now she saw that she need not have worried. Men have died and the -worms have eaten them but not for love. Gilbert evidently was in no danger of -immediate dissolution. He was enjoying life, and he was full of ambition and -zest. For him there was to be no wasting in despair because a woman was fair -and cold. Anne, as she listened to the ceaseless badinage that went on between -him and Phil, wondered if she had only imagined that look in his eyes when she -had told him she could never care for him. -</p> - -<p> -There were not lacking those who would gladly have stepped into Gilbert’s -vacant place. But Anne snubbed them without fear and without reproach. If the -real Prince Charming was never to come she would have none of a substitute. So -she sternly told herself that gray day in the windy park. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the rain of Aunt Jamesina’s prophecy came with a swish and rush. -Anne put up her umbrella and hurried down the slope. As she turned out on the -harbor road a savage gust of wind tore along it. Instantly her umbrella turned -wrong side out. Anne clutched at it in despair. And then—there came a -voice close to her. -</p> - -<p> -“Pardon me—may I offer you the shelter of my umbrella?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne looked up. Tall and handsome and distinguished-looking—dark, -melancholy, inscrutable eyes—melting, musical, sympathetic -voice—yes, the very hero of her dreams stood before her in the flesh. He -could not have more closely resembled her ideal if he had been made to order. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you,” she said confusedly. -</p> - -<p> -“We’d better hurry over to that little pavillion on the -point,” suggested the unknown. “We can wait there until this shower -is over. It is not likely to rain so heavily very long.” -</p> - -<p> -The words were very commonplace, but oh, the tone! And the smile which -accompanied them! Anne felt her heart beating strangely. -</p> - -<p> -Together they scurried to the pavilion and sat breathlessly down under its -friendly roof. Anne laughingly held up her false umbrella. -</p> - -<p> -“It is when my umbrella turns inside out that I am convinced of the total -depravity of inanimate things,” she said gaily. -</p> - -<p> -The raindrops sparkled on her shining hair; its loosened rings curled around -her neck and forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes big and starry. Her -companion looked down at her admiringly. She felt herself blushing under his -gaze. Who could he be? Why, there was a bit of the Redmond white and scarlet -pinned to his coat lapel. Yet she had thought she knew, by sight at least, all -the Redmond students except the Freshmen. And this courtly youth surely was no -Freshman. -</p> - -<p> -“We are schoolmates, I see,” he said, smiling at Anne’s -colors. “That ought to be sufficient introduction. My name is Royal -Gardner. And you are the Miss Shirley who read the Tennyson paper at the -Philomathic the other evening, aren’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; but I cannot place you at all,” said Anne, frankly. -“Please, where <i>do</i> you belong?” -</p> - -<p> -“I feel as if I didn’t belong anywhere yet. I put in my Freshman -and Sophomore years at Redmond two years ago. I’ve been in Europe ever -since. Now I’ve come back to finish my Arts course.” -</p> - -<p> -“This is my Junior year, too,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“So we are classmates as well as collegemates. I am reconciled to the -loss of the years that the locust has eaten,” said her companion, with a -world of meaning in those wonderful eyes of his. -</p> - -<p> -The rain came steadily down for the best part of an hour. But the time seemed -really very short. When the clouds parted and a burst of pale November sunshine -fell athwart the harbor and the pines Anne and her companion walked home -together. By the time they had reached the gate of Patty’s Place he had -asked permission to call, and had received it. Anne went in with cheeks of -flame and her heart beating to her fingertips. Rusty, who climbed into her lap -and tried to kiss her, found a very absent welcome. Anne, with her soul full of -romantic thrills, had no attention to spare just then for a crop-eared pussy -cat. -</p> - -<p> -That evening a parcel was left at Patty’s Place for Miss Shirley. It was -a box containing a dozen magnificent roses. Phil pounced impertinently on the -card that fell from it, read the name and the poetical quotation written on the -back. -</p> - -<p> -“Royal Gardner!” she exclaimed. “Why, Anne, I didn’t -know you were acquainted with Roy Gardner!” -</p> - -<p> -“I met him in the park this afternoon in the rain,” explained Anne -hurriedly. “My umbrella turned inside out and he came to my rescue with -his.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” Phil peered curiously at Anne. “And is that exceedingly -commonplace incident any reason why he should send us longstemmed roses by the -dozen, with a very sentimental rhyme? Or why we should blush divinest rosy-red -when we look at his card? Anne, thy face betrayeth thee.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t talk nonsense, Phil. Do you know Mr. Gardner?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve met his two sisters, and I know of him. So does everybody -worthwhile in Kingsport. The Gardners are among the richest, bluest, of -Bluenoses. Roy is adorably handsome and clever. Two years ago his -mother’s health failed and he had to leave college and go abroad with -her—his father is dead. He must have been greatly disappointed to have to -give up his class, but they say he was perfectly sweet about it. -Fee—fi—fo—fum, Anne. I smell romance. Almost do I envy you, -but not quite. After all, Roy Gardner isn’t Jonas.” -</p> - -<p> -“You goose!” said Anne loftily. But she lay long awake that night, -nor did she wish for sleep. Her waking fancies were more alluring than any -vision of dreamland. Had the real Prince come at last? Recalling those glorious -dark eyes which had gazed so deeply into her own, Anne was very strongly -inclined to think he had. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"></a> -Chapter XXVI<br/> -Enter Christine</h2> - -<p> -The girls at Patty’s Place were dressing for the reception which the -Juniors were giving for the Seniors in February. Anne surveyed herself in the -mirror of the blue room with girlish satisfaction. She had a particularly -pretty gown on. Originally it had been only a simple little slip of cream silk -with a chiffon overdress. But Phil had insisted on taking it home with her in -the Christmas holidays and embroidering tiny rosebuds all over the chiffon. -Phil’s fingers were deft, and the result was a dress which was the envy -of every Redmond girl. Even Allie Boone, whose frocks came from Paris, was wont -to look with longing eyes on that rosebud concoction as Anne trailed up the -main staircase at Redmond in it. -</p> - -<p> -Anne was trying the effect of a white orchid in her hair. Roy Gardner had sent -her white orchids for the reception, and she knew no other Redmond girl would -have them that night—when Phil came in with admiring gaze. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, this is certainly your night for looking handsome. Nine nights out -of ten I can easily outshine you. The tenth you blossom out suddenly into -something that eclipses me altogether. How do you manage it?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the dress, dear. Fine feathers.” -</p> - -<p> -“’Tisn’t. The last evening you flamed out into beauty you -wore your old blue flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you. If Roy -hadn’t already lost head and heart about you he certainly would tonight. -But I don’t like orchids on you, Anne. No; it isn’t jealousy. -Orchids don’t seem to <i>belong</i> to you. They’re too -exotic—too tropical—too insolent. Don’t put them in your -hair, anyway.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I won’t. I admit I’m not fond of orchids myself. I -don’t think they’re related to me. Roy doesn’t often send -them—he knows I like flowers I can live with. Orchids are only things you -can visit with.” -</p> - -<p> -“Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the evening—but—he -isn’t coming himself. He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting in the -slums! I don’t believe he wanted to come. Anne, I’m horribly afraid -Jonas doesn’t really care anything about me. And I’m trying to -decide whether I’ll pine away and die, or go on and get my B.A. and be -sensible and useful.” -</p> - -<p> -“You couldn’t possibly be sensible and useful, Phil, so you’d -better pine away and die,” said Anne cruelly. -</p> - -<p> -“Heartless Anne!” -</p> - -<p> -“Silly Phil! You know quite well that Jonas loves you.” -</p> - -<p> -“But—he won’t <i>tell</i> me so. And I can’t -<i>make</i> him. He <i>looks</i> it, I’ll admit. But -speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes isn’t a really reliable reason for -embroidering doilies and hemstitching tablecloths. I don’t want to begin -such work until I’m really engaged. It would be tempting Fate.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Blake is afraid to ask you to marry him, Phil. He is poor and -can’t offer you a home such as you’ve always had. You know that is -the only reason he hasn’t spoken long ago.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so,” agreed Phil dolefully. -“Well”—brightening up—“if he <i>won’t</i> -ask me to marry him I’ll ask him, that’s all. So it’s bound -to come right. I won’t worry. By the way, Gilbert Blythe is going about -constantly with Christine Stuart. Did you know?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was trying to fasten a little gold chain about her throat. She suddenly -found the clasp difficult to manage. <i>What</i> was the matter with -it—or with her fingers? -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she said carelessly. “Who is Christine Stuart?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ronald Stuart’s sister. She’s in Kingsport this winter -studying music. I haven’t seen her, but they say she’s very pretty -and that Gilbert is quite crazy over her. How angry I was when you refused -Gilbert, Anne. But Roy Gardner was foreordained for you. I can see that now. -You were right, after all.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne did not blush, as she usually did when the girls assumed that her eventual -marriage to Roy Gardner was a settled thing. All at once she felt rather dull. -Phil’s chatter seemed trivial and the reception a bore. She boxed poor -Rusty’s ears. -</p> - -<p> -“Get off that cushion instantly, you cat, you! Why don’t you stay -down where you belong?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne picked up her orchids and went downstairs, where Aunt Jamesina was -presiding over a row of coats hung before the fire to warm. Roy Gardner was -waiting for Anne and teasing the Sarah-cat while he waited. The Sarah-cat did -not approve of him. She always turned her back on him. But everybody else at -Patty’s Place liked him very much. Aunt Jamesina, carried away by his -unfailing and deferential courtesy, and the pleading tones of his delightful -voice, declared he was the nicest young man she ever knew, and that Anne was a -very fortunate girl. Such remarks made Anne restive. Roy’s wooing had -certainly been as romantic as girlish heart could desire, but—she wished -Aunt Jamesina and the girls would not take things so for granted. When Roy -murmured a poetical compliment as he helped her on with her coat, she did not -blush and thrill as usual; and he found her rather silent in their brief walk -to Redmond. He thought she looked a little pale when she came out of the -coeds’ dressing room; but as they entered the reception room her color -and sparkle suddenly returned to her. She turned to Roy with her gayest -expression. He smiled back at her with what Phil called “his deep, black, -velvety smile.” Yet she really did not see Roy at all. She was acutely -conscious that Gilbert was standing under the palms just across the room -talking to a girl who must be Christine Stuart. -</p> - -<p> -She was very handsome, in the stately style destined to become rather massive -in middle life. A tall girl, with large dark-blue eyes, ivory outlines, and a -gloss of darkness on her smooth hair. -</p> - -<p> -“She looks just as I’ve always wanted to look,” thought Anne -miserably. “Rose-leaf complexion—starry violet eyes—raven -hair—yes, she has them all. It’s a wonder her name isn’t -Cordelia Fitzgerald into the bargain! But I don’t believe her figure is -as good as mine, and her nose certainly isn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne felt a little comforted by this conclusion. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"></a> -Chapter XXVII<br/> -Mutual Confidences</h2> - -<p> -March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days -that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink -twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine. -</p> - -<p> -Over the girls at Patty’s Place was falling the shadow of April -examinations. They were studying hard; even Phil had settled down to text and -notebooks with a doggedness not to be expected of her. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m going to take the Johnson Scholarship in Mathematics,” -she announced calmly. “I could take the one in Greek easily, but -I’d rather take the mathematical one because I want to prove to Jonas -that I’m really enormously clever.” -</p> - -<p> -“Jonas likes you better for your big brown eyes and your crooked smile -than for all the brains you carry under your curls,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“When I was a girl it wasn’t considered lady-like to know anything -about Mathematics,” said Aunt Jamesina. “But times have changed. I -don’t know that it’s all for the better. Can you cook, Phil?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I never cooked anything in my life except a gingerbread and it was a -failure—flat in the middle and hilly round the edges. You know the kind. -But, Aunty, when I begin in good earnest to learn to cook don’t you think -the brains that enable me to win a mathematical scholarship will also enable me -to learn cooking just as well?” -</p> - -<p> -“Maybe,” said Aunt Jamesina cautiously. “I am not decrying -the higher education of women. My daughter is an M.A. She can cook, too. But I -taught her to cook <i>before</i> I let a college professor teach her -Mathematics.” -</p> - -<p> -In mid-March came a letter from Miss Patty Spofford, saying that she and Miss -Maria had decided to remain abroad for another year. -</p> - -<p> -“So you may have Patty’s Place next winter, too,” she wrote. -“Maria and I are going to run over Egypt. I want to see the Sphinx once -before I die.” -</p> - -<p> -“Fancy those two dames ‘running over Egypt’! I wonder if -they’ll look up at the Sphinx and knit,” laughed Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m so glad we can keep Patty’s Place for another -year,” said Stella. “I was afraid they’d come back. And then -our jolly little nest here would be broken up—and we poor callow -nestlings thrown out on the cruel world of boardinghouses again.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m off for a tramp in the park,” announced Phil, tossing -her book aside. “I think when I am eighty I’ll be glad I went for a -walk in the park tonight.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean?” asked Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Come with me and I’ll tell you, honey.” -</p> - -<p> -They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March evening. -Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, brooding silence—a -silence which was yet threaded through with many little silvery sounds which -you could hear if you hearkened as much with your soul as your ears. The girls -wandered down a long pineland aisle that seemed to lead right out into the -heart of a deep-red, overflowing winter sunset. -</p> - -<p> -“I’d go home and write a poem this blessed minute if I only knew -how,” declared Phil, pausing in an open space where a rosy light was -staining the green tips of the pines. “It’s all so wonderful -here—this great, white stillness, and those dark trees that always seem -to be thinking.” -</p> - -<p> -“‘The woods were God’s first temples,’” quoted -Anne softly. “One can’t help feeling reverent and adoring in such a -place. I always feel so near Him when I walk among the pines.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anne, I’m the happiest girl in the world,” confessed Phil -suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“So Mr. Blake has asked you to marry him at last?” said Anne -calmly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. And I sneezed three times while he was asking me. Wasn’t that -horrid? But I said ‘yes’ almost before he finished—I was so -afraid he might change his mind and stop. I’m besottedly happy. I -couldn’t really believe before that Jonas would ever care for frivolous -me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Phil, you’re not really frivolous,” said Anne gravely. -“‘Way down underneath that frivolous exterior of yours you’ve -got a dear, loyal, womanly little soul. Why do you hide it so?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t help it, Queen Anne. You are right—I’m not -frivolous at heart. But there’s a sort of frivolous skin over my soul and -I can’t take it off. As Mrs. Poyser says, I’d have to be hatched -over again and hatched different before I could change it. But Jonas knows the -real me and loves me, frivolity and all. And I love him. I never was so -surprised in my life as I was when I found out I loved him. I’d never -thought it possible to fall in love with an ugly man. Fancy me coming down to -one solitary beau. And one named Jonas! But I mean to call him Jo. That’s -such a nice, crisp little name. I couldn’t nickname Alonzo.” -</p> - -<p> -“What about Alec and Alonzo?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I told them at Christmas that I never could marry either of them. It -seems so funny now to remember that I ever thought it possible that I might. -They felt so badly I just cried over both of them—howled. But I knew -there was only one man in the world I could ever marry. I had made up my own -mind for once and it was real easy, too. It’s very delightful to feel so -sure, and know it’s your own sureness and not somebody -else’s.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you suppose you’ll be able to keep it up?” -</p> - -<p> -“Making up my mind, you mean? I don’t know, but Jo has given me a -splendid rule. He says, when I’m perplexed, just to do what I would wish -I had done when I shall be eighty. Anyhow, Jo can make up his mind quickly -enough, and it would be uncomfortable to have too much mind in the same -house.” -</p> - -<p> -“What will your father and mother say?” -</p> - -<p> -“Father won’t say much. He thinks everything I do right. But mother -<i>will</i> talk. Oh, her tongue will be as Byrney as her nose. But in the end -it will be all right.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll have to give up a good many things you’ve always had, -when you marry Mr. Blake, Phil.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I’ll have <i>him</i>. I won’t miss the other things. -We’re to be married a year from next June. Jo graduates from St. Columbia -this spring, you know. Then he’s going to take a little mission church -down on Patterson Street in the slums. Fancy me in the slums! But I’d go -there or to Greenland’s icy mountains with him.” -</p> - -<p> -“And this is the girl who would <i>never</i> marry a man who wasn’t -rich,” commented Anne to a young pine tree. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, don’t cast up the follies of my youth to me. I shall be poor -as gaily as I’ve been rich. You’ll see. I’m going to learn -how to cook and make over dresses. I’ve learned how to market since -I’ve lived at Patty’s Place; and once I taught a Sunday School -class for a whole summer. Aunt Jamesina says I’ll ruin Jo’s career -if I marry him. But I won’t. I know I haven’t much sense or -sobriety, but I’ve got what is ever so much better—the knack of -making people like me. There is a man in Bolingbroke who lisps and always -testifies in prayer-meeting. He says, ‘If you can’t thine like an -electric thtar thine like a candlethtick.’ I’ll be Jo’s -little candlestick.” -</p> - -<p> -“Phil, you’re incorrigible. Well, I love you so much that I -can’t make nice, light, congratulatory little speeches. But I’m -heart-glad of your happiness.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know. Those big gray eyes of yours are brimming over with real -friendship, Anne. Some day I’ll look the same way at you. You’re -going to marry Roy, aren’t you, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear Philippa, did you ever hear of the famous Betty Baxter, who -‘refused a man before he’d axed her’? I am not going to -emulate that celebrated lady by either refusing or accepting any one before he -‘axes’ me.” -</p> - -<p> -“All Redmond knows that Roy is crazy about you,” said Phil -candidly. “And you <i>do</i> love him, don’t you, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I suppose so,” said Anne reluctantly. She felt that she -ought to be blushing while making such a confession; but she was not; on the -other hand, she always blushed hotly when any one said anything about Gilbert -Blythe or Christine Stuart in her hearing. Gilbert Blythe and Christine Stuart -were nothing to her—absolutely nothing. But Anne had given up trying to -analyze the reason of her blushes. As for Roy, of course she was in love with -him—madly so. How could she help it? Was he not her ideal? Who could -resist those glorious dark eyes, and that pleading voice? Were not half the -Redmond girls wildly envious? And what a charming sonnet he had sent her, with -a box of violets, on her birthday! Anne knew every word of it by heart. It was -very good stuff of its kind, too. Not exactly up to the level of Keats or -Shakespeare—even Anne was not so deeply in love as to think that. But it -was very tolerable magazine verse. And it was addressed to <i>her</i>—not -to Laura or Beatrice or the Maid of Athens, but to her, Anne Shirley. To be -told in rhythmical cadences that her eyes were stars of the morning—that -her cheek had the flush it stole from the sunrise—that her lips were -redder than the roses of Paradise, was thrillingly romantic. Gilbert would -never have dreamed of writing a sonnet to her eyebrows. But then, Gilbert could -see a joke. She had once told Roy a funny story—and he had not seen the -point of it. She recalled the chummy laugh she and Gilbert had had together -over it, and wondered uneasily if life with a man who had no sense of humor -might not be somewhat uninteresting in the long run. But who could expect a -melancholy, inscrutable hero to see the humorous side of things? It would be -flatly unreasonable. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"></a> -Chapter XXVIII<br/> -A June Evening</h2> - -<p> -“I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always -June,” said Anne, as she came through the spice and bloom of the twilit -orchard to the front door steps, where Marilla and Mrs. Rachel were sitting, -talking over Mrs. Samson Coates’ funeral, which they had attended that -day. Dora sat between them, diligently studying her lessons; but Davy was -sitting tailor-fashion on the grass, looking as gloomy and depressed as his -single dimple would let him. -</p> - -<p> -“You’d get tired of it,” said Marilla, with a sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“I daresay; but just now I feel that it would take me a long time to get -tired of it, if it were all as charming as today. Everything loves June. -Davy-boy, why this melancholy November face in blossom-time?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m just sick and tired of living,” said the youthful -pessimist. -</p> - -<p> -“At ten years? Dear me, how sad!” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not making fun,” said Davy with dignity. -“I’m dis—dis—discouraged”—bringing out the -big word with a valiant effort. -</p> - -<p> -“Why and wherefore?” asked Anne, sitting down beside him. -</p> - -<p> -“’Cause the new teacher that come when Mr. Holmes got sick give me -ten sums to do for Monday. It’ll take me all day tomorrow to do them. It -isn’t fair to have to work Saturdays. Milty Boulter said he -wouldn’t do them, but Marilla says I’ve got to. I don’t like -Miss Carson a bit.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t talk like that about your teacher, Davy Keith,” said -Mrs. Rachel severely. “Miss Carson is a very fine girl. There is no -nonsense about her.” -</p> - -<p> -“That doesn’t sound very attractive,” laughed Anne. “I -like people to have a little nonsense about them. But I’m inclined to -have a better opinion of Miss Carson than you have. I saw her in prayer-meeting -last night, and she has a pair of eyes that can’t always look sensible. -Now, Davy-boy, take heart of grace. ‘Tomorrow will bring another -day’ and I’ll help you with the sums as far as in me lies. -Don’t waste this lovely hour ’twixt light and dark worrying over -arithmetic.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I won’t,” said Davy, brightening up. “If you -help me with the sums I’ll have ’em done in time to go fishing with -Milty. I wish old Aunt Atossa’s funeral was tomorrow instead of today. I -wanted to go to it ’cause Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa would be -sure to rise up in her coffin and say sarcastic things to the folks that come -to see her buried. But Marilla said she didn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“Poor Atossa laid in her coffin peaceful enough,” said Mrs. Lynde -solemnly. “I never saw her look so pleasant before, that’s what. -Well, there weren’t many tears shed over her, poor old soul. The Elisha -Wrights are thankful to be rid of her, and I can’t say I blame them a -mite.” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and not -leave one person behind you who is sorry you are gone,” said Anne, -shuddering. -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody except her parents ever loved poor Atossa, that’s certain, -not even her husband,” averred Mrs. Lynde. “She was his fourth -wife. He’d sort of got into the habit of marrying. He only lived a few -years after he married her. The doctor said he died of dyspepsia, but I shall -always maintain that he died of Atossa’s tongue, that’s what. Poor -soul, she always knew everything about her neighbors, but she never was very -well acquainted with herself. Well, she’s gone anyhow; and I suppose the -next excitement will be Diana’s wedding.” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems funny and horrible to think of Diana’s being -married,” sighed Anne, hugging her knees and looking through the gap in -the Haunted Wood to the light that was shining in Diana’s room. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t see what’s horrible about it, when she’s doing -so well,” said Mrs. Lynde emphatically. “Fred Wright has a fine -farm and he is a model young man.” -</p> - -<p> -“He certainly isn’t the wild, dashing, wicked, young man Diana once -wanted to marry,” smiled Anne. “Fred is extremely good.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just what he ought to be. Would you want Diana to marry a -wicked man? Or marry one yourself?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to marry anybody who was wicked, but I -think I’d like it if he <i>could</i> be wicked and <i>wouldn’t</i>. -Now, Fred is <i>hopelessly</i> good.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll have more sense some day, I hope,” said Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -Marilla spoke rather bitterly. She was grievously disappointed. She knew Anne -had refused Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea gossip buzzed over the fact, which had -leaked out, nobody knew how. Perhaps Charlie Sloane had guessed and told his -guesses for truth. Perhaps Diana had betrayed it to Fred and Fred had been -indiscreet. At all events it was known; Mrs. Blythe no longer asked Anne, in -public or private, if she had heard lately from Gilbert, but passed her by with -a frosty bow. Anne, who had always liked Gilbert’s merry, young-hearted -mother, was grieved in secret over this. Marilla said nothing; but Mrs. Lynde -gave Anne many exasperated digs about it, until fresh gossip reached that -worthy lady, through the medium of Moody Spurgeon MacPherson’s mother, -that Anne had another “beau” at college, who was rich and handsome -and good all in one. After that Mrs. Rachel held her tongue, though she still -wished in her inmost heart that Anne had accepted Gilbert. Riches were all very -well; but even Mrs. Rachel, practical soul though she was, did not consider -them the one essential. If Anne “liked” the Handsome Unknown better -than Gilbert there was nothing more to be said; but Mrs. Rachel was dreadfully -afraid that Anne was going to make the mistake of marrying for money. Marilla -knew Anne too well to fear this; but she felt that something in the universal -scheme of things had gone sadly awry. -</p> - -<p> -“What is to be, will be,” said Mrs. Rachel gloomily, “and -what isn’t to be happens sometimes. I can’t help believing -it’s going to happen in Anne’s case, if Providence doesn’t -interfere, that’s what.” Mrs. Rachel sighed. She was afraid -Providence wouldn’t interfere; and she didn’t dare to. -</p> - -<p> -Anne had wandered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and was curled up among the -ferns at the root of the big white birch where she and Gilbert had so often sat -in summers gone by. He had gone into the newspaper office again when college -closed, and Avonlea seemed very dull without him. He never wrote to her, and -Anne missed the letters that never came. To be sure, Roy wrote twice a week; -his letters were exquisite compositions which would have read beautifully in a -memoir or biography. Anne felt herself more deeply in love with him than ever -when she read them; but her heart never gave the queer, quick, painful bound at -sight of his letters which it had given one day when Mrs. Hiram Sloane had -handed her out an envelope addressed in Gilbert’s black, upright -handwriting. Anne had hurried home to the east gable and opened it -eagerly—to find a typewritten copy of some college society -report—“only that and nothing more.” Anne flung the harmless -screed across her room and sat down to write an especially nice epistle to Roy. -</p> - -<p> -Diana was to be married in five more days. The gray house at Orchard Slope was -in a turmoil of baking and brewing and boiling and stewing, for there was to be -a big, old-timey wedding. Anne, of course, was to be bridesmaid, as had been -arranged when they were twelve years old, and Gilbert was coming from Kingsport -to be best man. Anne was enjoying the excitement of the various preparations, -but under it all she carried a little heartache. She was, in a sense, losing -her dear old chum; Diana’s new home would be two miles from Green Gables, -and the old constant companionship could never be theirs again. Anne looked up -at Diana’s light and thought how it had beaconed to her for many years; -but soon it would shine through the summer twilights no more. Two big, painful -tears welled up in her gray eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh,” she thought, “how horrible it is that people have to -grow up—and marry—and <i>change!</i>” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"></a> -Chapter XXIX<br/> -Diana’s Wedding</h2> - -<p> -“After all, the only real roses are the pink ones,” said Anne, as -she tied white ribbon around Diana’s bouquet in the westward-looking -gable at Orchard Slope. “They are the flowers of love and faith.” -</p> - -<p> -Diana was standing nervously in the middle of the room, arrayed in her bridal -white, her black curls frosted over with the film of her wedding veil. Anne had -draped that veil, in accordance with the sentimental compact of years before. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all pretty much as I used to imagine it long ago, when I wept -over your inevitable marriage and our consequent parting,” she laughed. -“You are the bride of my dreams, Diana, with the ‘lovely misty -veil’; and I am <i>your</i> bridesmaid. But, alas! I haven’t the -puffed sleeves—though these short lace ones are even prettier. Neither is -my heart wholly breaking nor do I exactly hate Fred.” -</p> - -<p> -“We are not really parting, Anne,” protested Diana. -“I’m not going far away. We’ll love each other just as much -as ever. We’ve always kept that ‘oath’ of friendship we swore -long ago, haven’t we?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. We’ve kept it faithfully. We’ve had a beautiful -friendship, Diana. We’ve never marred it by one quarrel or coolness or -unkind word; and I hope it will always be so. But things can’t be quite -the same after this. You’ll have other interests. I’ll just be on -the outside. But ‘such is life’ as Mrs. Rachel says. Mrs. Rachel -has given you one of her beloved knitted quilts of the ‘tobacco -stripe’ pattern, and she says when I am married she’ll give me one, -too.” -</p> - -<p> -“The mean thing about your getting married is that I won’t be able -to be your bridesmaid,” lamented Diana. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m to be Phil’s bridesmaid next June, when she marries Mr. -Blake, and then I must stop, for you know the proverb ‘three times a -bridesmaid, never a bride,’” said Anne, peeping through the window -over the pink and snow of the blossoming orchard beneath. “Here comes the -minister, Diana.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Anne,” gasped Diana, suddenly turning very pale and beginning -to tremble. “Oh, Anne—I’m so nervous—I can’t go -through with it—Anne, I know I’m going to faint.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you do I’ll drag you down to the rainwater hogshed and drop you -in,” said Anne unsympathetically. “Cheer up, dearest. Getting -married can’t be so very terrible when so many people survive the -ceremony. See how cool and composed I am, and take courage.” -</p> - -<p> -“Wait till your turn comes, Miss Anne. Oh, Anne, I hear father coming -upstairs. Give me my bouquet. Is my veil right? Am I very pale?” -</p> - -<p> -“You look just lovely. Di, darling, kiss me good-bye for the last time. -Diana Barry will never kiss me again.” -</p> - -<p> -“Diana Wright will, though. There, mother’s calling. Come.” -</p> - -<p> -Following the simple, old-fashioned way in vogue then, Anne went down to the -parlor on Gilbert’s arm. They met at the top of the stairs for the first -time since they had left Kingsport, for Gilbert had arrived only that day. -Gilbert shook hands courteously. He was looking very well, though, as Anne -instantly noted, rather thin. He was not pale; there was a flush on his cheek -that had burned into it as Anne came along the hall towards him, in her soft, -white dress with lilies-of-the-valley in the shining masses of her hair. As -they entered the crowded parlor together a little murmur of admiration ran -around the room. “What a fine-looking pair they are,” whispered the -impressible Mrs. Rachel to Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -Fred ambled in alone, with a very red face, and then Diana swept in on her -father’s arm. She did not faint, and nothing untoward occurred to -interrupt the ceremony. Feasting and merry-making followed; then, as the -evening waned, Fred and Diana drove away through the moonlight to their new -home, and Gilbert walked with Anne to Green Gables. -</p> - -<p> -Something of their old comradeship had returned during the informal mirth of -the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking over that well-known road with -Gilbert again! -</p> - -<p> -The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear the whisper -of roses in blossom—the laughter of daisies—the piping of -grasses—many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. The beauty of -moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world. -</p> - -<p> -“Can’t we take a ramble up Lovers’ Lane before you go -in?” asked Gilbert as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining -Waters, in which the moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold. -</p> - -<p> -Anne assented readily. Lovers’ Lane was a veritable path in a fairyland -that night—a shimmering, mysterious place, full of wizardry in the -white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had been a time when such a walk -with Gilbert through Lovers’ Lane would have been far too dangerous. But -Roy and Christine had made it very safe now. Anne found herself thinking a good -deal about Christine as she chatted lightly to Gilbert. She had met her several -times before leaving Kingsport, and had been charmingly sweet to her. Christine -had also been charmingly sweet. Indeed, they were a most cordial pair. But for -all that, their acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. Evidently -Christine was not a kindred spirit. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?” asked Gilbert. -</p> - -<p> -“No. I’m going down east to Valley Road next week. Esther Haythorne -wants me to teach for her through July and August. They have a summer term in -that school, and Esther isn’t feeling well. So I’m going to -substitute for her. In one way I don’t mind. Do you know, I’m -beginning to feel a little bit like a stranger in Avonlea now? It makes me -sorry—but it’s true. It’s quite appalling to see the number -of children who have shot up into big boys and girls—really young men and -women—these past two years. Half of my pupils are grown up. It makes me -feel awfully old to see them in the places you and I and our mates used to -fill.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise—which -showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to go back -to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist of hope and -illusion, and possessed an indefinable something that had passed away forever. -Where was it now—the glory and the dream? -</p> - -<p> -“‘So wags the world away,’” quoted Gilbert practically, -and a trifle absently. Anne wondered if he were thinking of Christine. Oh, -Avonlea was going to be so lonely now—with Diana gone! -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"></a> -Chapter XXX<br/> -Mrs. Skinner’s Romance</h2> - -<p> -Anne stepped off the train at Valley Road station and looked about to see if -any one had come to meet her. She was to board with a certain Miss Janet Sweet, -but she saw no one who answered in the least to her preconception of that lady, -as formed from Esther’s letter. The only person in sight was an elderly -woman, sitting in a wagon with mail bags piled around her. Two hundred would -have been a charitable guess at her weight; her face was as round and red as a -harvest-moon and almost as featureless. She wore a tight, black, cashmere -dress, made in the fashion of ten years ago, a little dusty black straw hat -trimmed with bows of yellow ribbon, and faded black lace mits. -</p> - -<p> -“Here, you,” she called, waving her whip at Anne. “Are you -the new Valley Road schoolma’am?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I thought so. Valley Road is noted for its good-looking -schoolma’ams, just as Millersville is noted for its humly ones. Janet -Sweet asked me this morning if I could bring you out. I said, ‘Sartin I -kin, if she don’t mind being scrunched up some. This rig of mine’s -kinder small for the mail bags and I’m some heftier than Thomas!’ -Just wait, miss, till I shift these bags a bit and I’ll tuck you in -somehow. It’s only two miles to Janet’s. Her next-door -neighbor’s hired boy is coming for your trunk tonight. My name is -Skinner—Amelia Skinner.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was eventually tucked in, exchanging amused smiles with herself during the -process. -</p> - -<p> -“Jog along, black mare,” commanded Mrs. Skinner, gathering up the -reins in her pudgy hands. “This is my first trip on the mail rowte. -Thomas wanted to hoe his turnips today so he asked me to come. So I jest sot -down and took a standing-up snack and started. I sorter like it. O’ -course it’s rather tejus. Part of the time I sits and thinks and the rest -I jest sits. Jog along, black mare. I want to git home airly. Thomas is -terrible lonesome when I’m away. You see, we haven’t been married -very long.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” said Anne politely. -</p> - -<p> -“Just a month. Thomas courted me for quite a spell, though. It was real -romantic.” Anne tried to picture Mrs. Skinner on speaking terms with -romance and failed. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh?” she said again. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Y’see, there was another man after me. Jog along, black mare. -I’d been a widder so long folks had given up expecting me to marry again. -But when my darter—she’s a schoolma’am like you—went -out West to teach I felt real lonesome and wasn’t nowise sot against the -idea. Bime-by Thomas began to come up and so did the other feller—William -Obadiah Seaman, his name was. For a long time I couldn’t make up my mind -which of them to take, and they kep’ coming and coming, and I kep’ -worrying. Y’see, W.O. was rich—he had a fine place and carried -considerable style. He was by far the best match. Jog along, black mare.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you marry him?” asked Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, y’see, he didn’t love me,” answered Mrs. -Skinner, solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -Anne opened her eyes widely and looked at Mrs. Skinner. But there was not a -glint of humor on that lady’s face. Evidently Mrs. Skinner saw nothing -amusing in her own case. -</p> - -<p> -“He’d been a widder-man for three yers, and his sister kept house -for him. Then she got married and he just wanted some one to look after his -house. It was worth looking after, too, mind you that. It’s a handsome -house. Jog along, black mare. As for Thomas, he was poor, and if his house -didn’t leak in dry weather it was about all that could be said for it, -though it looks kind of pictureaskew. But, y’see, I loved Thomas, and I -didn’t care one red cent for W.O. So I argued it out with myself. -‘Sarah Crowe,’ say I—my first was a Crowe—‘you -can marry your rich man if you like but you won’t be happy. Folks -can’t get along together in this world without a little bit of love. -You’d just better tie up to Thomas, for he loves you and you love him and -nothing else ain’t going to do you.’ Jog along, black mare. So I -told Thomas I’d take him. All the time I was getting ready I never dared -drive past W.O.’s place for fear the sight of that fine house of his -would put me in the swithers again. But now I never think of it at all, and -I’m just that comfortable and happy with Thomas. Jog along, black -mare.” -</p> - -<p> -“How did William Obadiah take it?” queried Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, he rumpussed a bit. But he’s going to see a skinny old maid in -Millersville now, and I guess she’ll take him fast enough. She’ll -make him a better wife than his first did. W.O. never wanted to marry her. He -just asked her to marry him ’cause his father wanted him to, never -dreaming but that she’d say ‘no.’ But mind you, she said -‘yes.’ There was a predicament for you. Jog along, black mare. She -was a great housekeeper, but most awful mean. She wore the same bonnet for -eighteen years. Then she got a new one and W.O. met her on the road and -didn’t know her. Jog along, black mare. I feel that I’d a narrer -escape. I might have married him and been most awful miserable, like my poor -cousin, Jane Ann. Jane Ann married a rich man she didn’t care anything -about, and she hasn’t the life of a dog. She come to see me last week and -says, says she, ‘Sarah Skinner, I envy you. I’d rather live in a -little hut on the side of the road with a man I was fond of than in my big -house with the one I’ve got.’ Jane Ann’s man ain’t such -a bad sort, nuther, though he’s so contrary that he wears his fur coat -when the thermometer’s at ninety. The only way to git him to do anything -is to coax him to do the opposite. But there ain’t any love to smooth -things down and it’s a poor way of living. Jog along, black mare. -There’s Janet’s place in the hollow—‘Wayside,’ -she calls it. Quite pictureaskew, ain’t it? I guess you’ll be glad -to git out of this, with all them mail bags jamming round you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but I have enjoyed my drive with you very much,” said Anne -sincerely. -</p> - -<p> -“Git away now!” said Mrs. Skinner, highly flattered. “Wait -till I tell Thomas that. He always feels dretful tickled when I git a -compliment. Jog along, black mare. Well, here we are. I hope you’ll git -on well in the school, miss. There’s a short cut to it through the -ma’sh back of Janet’s. If you take that way be awful keerful. If -you once got stuck in that black mud you’d be sucked right down and never -seen or heard tell of again till the day of judgment, like Adam Palmer’s -cow. Jog along, black mare.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"></a> -Chapter XXXI<br/> -Anne to Philippa</h2> - -<p> -“Anne Shirley to Philippa Gordon, greeting. -</p> - -<p> -“Well-beloved, it’s high time I was writing you. Here am I, -installed once more as a country ‘schoolma’am’ at Valley -Road, boarding at ‘Wayside,’ the home of Miss Janet Sweet. Janet is -a dear soul and very nicelooking; tall, but not over-tall; stoutish, yet with a -certain restraint of outline suggestive of a thrifty soul who is not going to -be overlavish even in the matter of avoirdupois. She has a knot of soft, -crimpy, brown hair with a thread of gray in it, a sunny face with rosy cheeks, -and big, kind eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Moreover, she is one of those -delightful, old-fashioned cooks who don’t care a bit if they ruin your -digestion as long as they can give you feasts of fat things. -</p> - -<p> -“I like her; and she likes me—principally, it seems, because she -had a sister named Anne who died young. -</p> - -<p> -“‘I’m real glad to see you,’ she said briskly, when I -landed in her yard. ‘My, you don’t look a mite like I expected. I -was sure you’d be dark—my sister Anne was dark. And here -you’re redheaded!’ -</p> - -<p> -“For a few minutes I thought I wasn’t going to like Janet as much -as I had expected at first sight. Then I reminded myself that I really must be -more sensible than to be prejudiced against any one simply because she called -my hair red. Probably the word ‘auburn’ was not in Janet’s -vocabulary at all. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Wayside’ is a dear sort of little spot. The house is small -and white, set down in a delightful little hollow that drops away from the -road. Between road and house is an orchard and flower-garden all mixed up -together. The front door walk is bordered with quahog -clam-shells—‘cow-hawks,’ Janet calls them; there is Virginia -Creeper over the porch and moss on the roof. My room is a neat little spot -‘off the parlor’—just big enough for the bed and me. Over the -head of my bed there is a picture of Robby Burns standing at Highland -Mary’s grave, shadowed by an enormous weeping willow tree. Robby’s -face is so lugubrious that it is no wonder I have bad dreams. Why, the first -night I was here I dreamed I <i>couldn’t laugh</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“The parlor is tiny and neat. Its one window is so shaded by a huge -willow that the room has a grotto-like effect of emerald gloom. There are -wonderful tidies on the chairs, and gay mats on the floor, and books and cards -carefully arranged on a round table, and vases of dried grass on the -mantel-piece. Between the vases is a cheerful decoration of preserved coffin -plates—five in all, pertaining respectively to Janet’s father and -mother, a brother, her sister Anne, and a hired man who died here once! If I go -suddenly insane some of these days ‘know all men by these presents’ -that those coffin-plates have caused it. -</p> - -<p> -“But it’s all delightful and I said so. Janet loved me for it, just -as she detested poor Esther because Esther had said so much shade was -unhygienic and had objected to sleeping on a feather bed. Now, I glory in -feather-beds, and the more unhygienic and feathery they are the more I glory. -Janet says it is such a comfort to see me eat; she had been so afraid I would -be like Miss Haythorne, who wouldn’t eat anything but fruit and hot water -for breakfast and tried to make Janet give up frying things. Esther is really a -dear girl, but she is rather given to fads. The trouble is that she -hasn’t enough imagination and HAS a tendency to indigestion. -</p> - -<p> -“Janet told me I could have the use of the parlor when any young men -called! I don’t think there are many to call. I haven’t seen a -young man in Valley Road yet, except the next-door hired boy—Sam Toliver, -a very tall, lank, tow-haired youth. He came over one evening recently and sat -for an hour on the garden fence, near the front porch where Janet and I were -doing fancy-work. The only remarks he volunteered in all that time were, -‘Hev a peppermint, miss! Dew now-fine thing for car<i>arrh</i>, -peppermints,’ and, ‘Powerful lot o’ jump-grasses round here -ternight. Yep.’ -</p> - -<p> -“But there is a love affair going on here. It seems to be my fortune to -be mixed up, more or less actively, with elderly love affairs. Mr. and Mrs. -Irving always say that I brought about their marriage. Mrs. Stephen Clark of -Carmody persists in being most grateful to me for a suggestion which somebody -else would probably have made if I hadn’t. I do really think, though, -that Ludovic Speed would never have got any further along than placid courtship -if I had not helped him and Theodora Dix out. -</p> - -<p> -“In the present affair I am only a passive spectator. I’ve tried -once to help things along and made an awful mess of it. So I shall not meddle -again. I’ll tell you all about it when we meet.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"></a> -Chapter XXXII<br/> -Tea with Mrs. Douglas</h2> - -<p> -On the first Thursday night of Anne’s sojourn in Valley Road Janet asked -her to go to prayer-meeting. Janet blossomed out like a rose to attend that -prayer-meeting. She wore a pale-blue, pansy-sprinkled muslin dress with more -ruffles than one would ever have supposed economical Janet could be guilty of, -and a white leghorn hat with pink roses and three ostrich feathers on it. Anne -felt quite amazed. Later on, she found out Janet’s motive in so arraying -herself—a motive as old as Eden. -</p> - -<p> -Valley Road prayer-meetings seemed to be essentially feminine. There were -thirty-two women present, two half-grown boys, and one solitary man, beside the -minister. Anne found herself studying this man. He was not handsome or young or -graceful; he had remarkably long legs—so long that he had to keep them -coiled up under his chair to dispose of them—and he was stoop-shouldered. -His hands were big, his hair wanted barbering, and his moustache was unkempt. -But Anne thought she liked his face; it was kind and honest and tender; there -was something else in it, too—just what, Anne found it hard to define. -She finally concluded that this man had suffered and been strong, and it had -been made manifest in his face. There was a sort of patient, humorous endurance -in his expression which indicated that he would go to the stake if need be, but -would keep on looking pleasant until he really had to begin squirming. -</p> - -<p> -When prayer-meeting was over this man came up to Janet and said, -</p> - -<p> -“May I see you home, Janet?” -</p> - -<p> -Janet took his arm—“as primly and shyly as if she were no more than -sixteen, having her first escort home,” Anne told the girls at -Patty’s Place later on. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Shirley, permit me to introduce Mr. Douglas,” she said -stiffly. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Douglas nodded and said, “I was looking at you in prayer-meeting, -miss, and thinking what a nice little girl you were.” -</p> - -<p> -Such a speech from ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have annoyed Anne -bitterly; but the way in which Mr. Douglas said it made her feel that she had -received a very real and pleasing compliment. She smiled appreciatively at him -and dropped obligingly behind on the moonlit road. -</p> - -<p> -So Janet had a beau! Anne was delighted. Janet would make a paragon of a -wife—cheery, economical, tolerant, and a very queen of cooks. It would be -a flagrant waste on Nature’s part to keep her a permanent old maid. -</p> - -<p> -“John Douglas asked me to take you up to see his mother,” said -Janet the next day. “She’s bed-rid a lot of the time and never goes -out of the house. But she’s powerful fond of company and always wants to -see my boarders. Can you go up this evening?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne assented; but later in the day Mr. Douglas called on his mother’s -behalf to invite them up to tea on Saturday evening. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, why didn’t you put on your pretty pansy dress?” asked -Anne, when they left home. It was a hot day, and poor Janet, between her -excitement and her heavy black cashmere dress, looked as if she were being -broiled alive. -</p> - -<p> -“Old Mrs. Douglas would think it terrible frivolous and unsuitable, -I’m afraid. John likes that dress, though,” she added wistfully. -</p> - -<p> -The old Douglas homestead was half a mile from “Wayside” cresting a -windy hill. The house itself was large and comfortable, old enough to be -dignified, and girdled with maple groves and orchards. There were big, trim -barns behind it, and everything bespoke prosperity. Whatever the patient -endurance in Mr. Douglas’ face had meant it hadn’t, so Anne -reflected, meant debts and duns. -</p> - -<p> -John Douglas met them at the door and took them into the sitting-room, where -his mother was enthroned in an armchair. -</p> - -<p> -Anne had expected old Mrs. Douglas to be tall and thin, because Mr. Douglas -was. Instead, she was a tiny scrap of a woman, with soft pink cheeks, mild blue -eyes, and a mouth like a baby’s. Dressed in a beautiful, fashionably-made -black silk dress, with a fluffy white shawl over her shoulders, and her snowy -hair surmounted by a dainty lace cap, she might have posed as a grandmother -doll. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Janet dear?” she said sweetly. “I am so glad -to see you again, dear.” She put up her pretty old face to be kissed. -“And this is our new teacher. I’m delighted to meet you. My son has -been singing your praises until I’m half jealous, and I’m sure -Janet ought to be wholly so.” -</p> - -<p> -Poor Janet blushed, Anne said something polite and conventional, and then -everybody sat down and made talk. It was hard work, even for Anne, for nobody -seemed at ease except old Mrs. Douglas, who certainly did not find any -difficulty in talking. She made Janet sit by her and stroked her hand -occasionally. Janet sat and smiled, looking horribly uncomfortable in her -hideous dress, and John Douglas sat without smiling. -</p> - -<p> -At the tea table Mrs. Douglas gracefully asked Janet to pour the tea. Janet -turned redder than ever but did it. Anne wrote a description of that meal to -Stella. -</p> - -<p> -“We had cold tongue and chicken and strawberry preserves, lemon pie and -tarts and chocolate cake and raisin cookies and pound cake and fruit -cake—and a few other things, including more pie—caramel pie, I -think it was. After I had eaten twice as much as was good for me, Mrs. Douglas -sighed and said she feared she had nothing to tempt my appetite. -</p> - -<p> -“‘I’m afraid dear Janet’s cooking has spoiled you for -any other,’ she said sweetly. ‘Of course nobody in Valley Road -aspires to rival <i>her</i>. <i>Won’t</i> you have another piece of pie, -Miss Shirley? You haven’t eaten <i>anything</i>.’ -</p> - -<p> -“Stella, I had eaten a helping of tongue and one of chicken, three -biscuits, a generous allowance of preserves, a piece of pie, a tart, and a -square of chocolate cake!” -</p> - -<p> -After tea Mrs. Douglas smiled benevolently and told John to take “dear -Janet” out into the garden and get her some roses. “Miss Shirley -will keep me company while you are out—won’t you?” she said -plaintively. She settled down in her armchair with a sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“I am a very frail old woman, Miss Shirley. For over twenty years -I’ve been a great sufferer. For twenty long, weary years I’ve been -dying by inches.” -</p> - -<p> -“How painful!” said Anne, trying to be sympathetic and succeeding -only in feeling idiotic. -</p> - -<p> -“There have been scores of nights when they’ve thought I could -never live to see the dawn,” went on Mrs. Douglas solemnly. “Nobody -knows what I’ve gone through—nobody can know but myself. Well, it -can’t last very much longer now. My weary pilgrimage will soon be over, -Miss Shirley. It is a great comfort to me that John will have such a good wife -to look after him when his mother is gone—a great comfort, Miss -Shirley.” -</p> - -<p> -“Janet is a lovely woman,” said Anne warmly. -</p> - -<p> -“Lovely! A beautiful character,” assented Mrs. Douglas. “And -a perfect housekeeper—something I never was. My health would not permit -it, Miss Shirley. I am indeed thankful that John has made such a wise choice. I -hope and believe that he will be happy. He is my only son, Miss Shirley, and -his happiness lies very near my heart.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” said Anne stupidly. For the first time in her life she -was stupid. Yet she could not imagine why. She seemed to have absolutely -nothing to say to this sweet, smiling, angelic old lady who was patting her -hand so kindly. -</p> - -<p> -“Come and see me soon again, dear Janet,” said Mrs. Douglas -lovingly, when they left. “You don’t come half often enough. But -then I suppose John will be bringing you here to stay all the time one of these -days.” Anne, happening to glance at John Douglas, as his mother spoke, -gave a positive start of dismay. He looked as a tortured man might look when -his tormentors gave the rack the last turn of possible endurance. She felt sure -he must be ill and hurried poor blushing Janet away. -</p> - -<p> -“Isn’t old Mrs. Douglas a sweet woman?” asked Janet, as they -went down the road. -</p> - -<p> -“M—m,” answered Anne absently. She was wondering why John -Douglas had looked so. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s been a terrible sufferer,” said Janet feelingly. -“She takes terrible spells. It keeps John all worried up. He’s -scared to leave home for fear his mother will take a spell and nobody there but -the hired girl.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"></a> -Chapter XXXIII<br/> -“He Just Kept Coming and Coming” </h2> - -<p> -Three days later Anne came home from school and found Janet crying. Tears and -Janet seemed so incongruous that Anne was honestly alarmed. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, what is the matter?” she cried anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m—I’m forty today,” sobbed Janet. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you were nearly that yesterday and it didn’t hurt,” -comforted Anne, trying not to smile. -</p> - -<p> -“But—but,” went on Janet with a big gulp, “John Douglas -won’t ask me to marry him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, but he will,” said Anne lamely. “You must give him time, -Janet -</p> - -<p> -“Time!” said Janet with indescribable scorn. “He has had -twenty years. How much time does he want?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean that John Douglas has been coming to see you for twenty -years?” -</p> - -<p> -“He has. And he has never so much as mentioned marriage to me. And I -don’t believe he ever will now. I’ve never said a word to a mortal -about it, but it seems to me I’ve just got to talk it out with some one -at last or go crazy. John Douglas begun to go with me twenty years ago, before -mother died. Well, he kept coming and coming, and after a spell I begun making -quilts and things; but he never said anything about getting married, only just -kept coming and coming. There wasn’t anything I could do. Mother died -when we’d been going together for eight years. I thought he maybe would -speak out then, seeing as I was left alone in the world. He was real kind and -feeling, and did everything he could for me, but he never said marry. And -that’s the way it has been going on ever since. People blame <i>me</i> -for it. They say I won’t marry him because his mother is so sickly and I -don’t want the bother of waiting on her. Why, I’d <i>love</i> to -wait on John’s mother! But I let them think so. I’d rather -they’d blame me than pity me! It’s so dreadful humiliating that -John won’t ask me. And <i>why</i> won’t he? Seems to me if I only -knew his reason I wouldn’t mind it so much.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps his mother doesn’t want him to marry anybody,” -suggested Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, she does. She’s told me time and again that she’d love -to see John settled before her time comes. She’s always giving him -hints—you heard her yourself the other day. I thought I’d ha’ -gone through the floor.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s beyond me,” said Anne helplessly. She thought of -Ludovic Speed. But the cases were not parallel. John Douglas was not a man of -Ludovic’s type. -</p> - -<p> -“You should show more spirit, Janet,” she went on resolutely. -“Why didn’t you send him about his business long ago?” -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t,” said poor Janet pathetically. “You see, -Anne, I’ve always been awful fond of John. He might just as well keep -coming as not, for there was never anybody else I’d want, so it -didn’t matter.” -</p> - -<p> -“But it might have made him speak out like a man,” urged Anne. -</p> - -<p> -Janet shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I guess not. I was afraid to try, anyway, for fear he’d think -I meant it and just go. I suppose I’m a poor-spirited creature, but that -is how I feel. And I can’t help it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you <i>could</i> help it, Janet. It isn’t too late yet. Take a -firm stand. Let that man know you are not going to endure his shillyshallying -any longer. <i>I’ll</i> back you up.” -</p> - -<p> -“I dunno,” said Janet hopelessly. “I dunno if I could ever -get up enough spunk. Things have drifted so long. But I’ll think it -over.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne felt that she was disappointed in John Douglas. She had liked him so well, -and she had not thought him the sort of man who would play fast and loose with -a woman’s feelings for twenty years. He certainly should be taught a -lesson, and Anne felt vindictively that she would enjoy seeing the process. -Therefore she was delighted when Janet told her, as they were going to -prayer-meeting the next night, that she meant to show some -“sperrit.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll let John Douglas see I’m not going to be trodden on any -longer.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are perfectly right,” said Anne emphatically. -</p> - -<p> -When prayer-meeting was over John Douglas came up with his usual request. Janet -looked frightened but resolute. -</p> - -<p> -“No, thank you,” she said icily. “I know the road home pretty -well alone. I ought to, seeing I’ve been traveling it for forty years. So -you needn’t trouble yourself, <i>Mr</i>. Douglas.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was looking at John Douglas; and, in that brilliant moonlight, she saw the -last twist of the rack again. Without a word he turned and strode down the -road. -</p> - -<p> -“Stop! Stop!” Anne called wildly after him, not caring in the least -for the other dumbfounded onlookers. “Mr. Douglas, stop! Come -back.” -</p> - -<p> -John Douglas stopped but he did not come back. Anne flew down the road, caught -his arm and fairly dragged him back to Janet. -</p> - -<p> -“You must come back,” she said imploringly. “It’s all a -mistake, Mr. Douglas—all my fault. I made Janet do it. She didn’t -want to—but it’s all right now, isn’t it, Janet?” -</p> - -<p> -Without a word Janet took his arm and walked away. Anne followed them meekly -home and slipped in by the back door. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you are a nice person to back me up,” said Janet -sarcastically. -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t help it, Janet,” said Anne repentantly. “I -just felt as if I had stood by and seen murder done. I <i>had</i> to run after -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I’m just as glad you did. When I saw John Douglas making off -down that road I just felt as if every little bit of joy and happiness that was -left in my life was going with him. It was an awful feeling.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did he ask you why you did it?” asked Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“No, he never said a word about it,” replied Janet dully. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"></a> -Chapter XXXIV<br/> -John Douglas Speaks at Last</h2> - -<p> -Anne was not without a feeble hope that something might come of it after all. -But nothing did. John Douglas came and took Janet driving, and walked home from -prayer-meeting with her, as he had been doing for twenty years, and as he -seemed likely to do for twenty years more. The summer waned. Anne taught her -school and wrote letters and studied a little. Her walks to and from school -were pleasant. She always went by way of the swamp; it was a lovely -place—a boggy soil, green with the greenest of mossy hillocks; a silvery -brook meandered through it and spruces stood erectly, their boughs a-trail with -gray-green mosses, their roots overgrown with all sorts of woodland -lovelinesses. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, Anne found life in Valley Road a little monotonous. To be sure, -there was one diverting incident. -</p> - -<p> -She had not seen the lank, tow-headed Samuel of the peppermints since the -evening of his call, save for chance meetings on the road. But one warm August -night he appeared, and solemnly seated himself on the rustic bench by the -porch. He wore his usual working habiliments, consisting of varipatched -trousers, a blue jean shirt, out at the elbows, and a ragged straw hat. He was -chewing a straw and he kept on chewing it while he looked solemnly at Anne. -Anne laid her book aside with a sigh and took up her doily. Conversation with -Sam was really out of the question. -</p> - -<p> -After a long silence Sam suddenly spoke. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m leaving over there,” he said abruptly, waving his straw -in the direction of the neighboring house. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, are you?” said Anne politely. -</p> - -<p> -“Yep.” -</p> - -<p> -“And where are you going now?” -</p> - -<p> -“Wall, I’ve been thinking some of gitting a place of my own. -There’s one that’d suit me over at Millersville. But ef I rents it -I’ll want a woman.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so,” said Anne vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -“Yep.” -</p> - -<p> -There was another long silence. Finally Sam removed his straw again and said, -</p> - -<p> -“Will yeh hev me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Wh—a—t!” gasped Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Will yeh hev me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean—MARRY you?” queried poor Anne feebly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yep.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, I’m hardly acquainted with you,” cried Anne -indignantly. -</p> - -<p> -“But yeh’d git acquainted with me after we was married,” said -Sam. -</p> - -<p> -Anne gathered up her poor dignity. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly I won’t marry you,” she said haughtily. -</p> - -<p> -“Wall, yeh might do worse,” expostulated Sam. “I’m a -good worker and I’ve got some money in the bank.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t speak of this to me again. Whatever put such an idea into -your head?” said Anne, her sense of humor getting the better of her -wrath. It was such an absurd situation. -</p> - -<p> -“Yeh’re a likely-looking girl and hev a right-smart way o’ -stepping,” said Sam. “I don’t want no lazy woman. Think it -over. I won’t change my mind yit awhile. Wall, I must be gitting. Gotter -milk the cows.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne’s illusions concerning proposals had suffered so much of late years -that there were few of them left. So she could laugh wholeheartedly over this -one, not feeling any secret sting. She mimicked poor Sam to Janet that night, -and both of them laughed immoderately over his plunge into sentiment. -</p> - -<p> -One afternoon, when Anne’s sojourn in Valley Road was drawing to a close, -Alec Ward came driving down to “Wayside” in hot haste for Janet. -</p> - -<p> -“They want you at the Douglas place quick,” he said. “I -really believe old Mrs. Douglas is going to die at last, after pretending to do -it for twenty years.” -</p> - -<p> -Janet ran to get her hat. Anne asked if Mrs. Douglas was worse than usual. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s not half as bad,” said Alec solemnly, “and -that’s what makes me think it’s serious. Other times she’d be -screaming and throwing herself all over the place. This time she’s lying -still and mum. When Mrs. Douglas is mum she is pretty sick, you bet.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t like old Mrs. Douglas?” said Anne curiously. -</p> - -<p> -“I like cats as <i>is</i> cats. I don’t like cats as is -women,” was Alec’s cryptic reply. -</p> - -<p> -Janet came home in the twilight. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Douglas is dead,” she said wearily. “She died soon -after I got there. She just spoke to me once—‘I suppose -you’ll marry John now?’ she said. It cut me to the heart, Anne. To -think John’s own mother thought I wouldn’t marry him because of -her! I couldn’t say a word either—there were other women there. I -was thankful John had gone out.” -</p> - -<p> -Janet began to cry drearily. But Anne brewed her a hot drink of ginger tea to -her comforting. To be sure, Anne discovered later on that she had used white -pepper instead of ginger; but Janet never knew the difference. -</p> - -<p> -The evening after the funeral Janet and Anne were sitting on the front porch -steps at sunset. The wind had fallen asleep in the pinelands and lurid sheets -of heat-lightning flickered across the northern skies. Janet wore her ugly -black dress and looked her very worst, her eyes and nose red from crying. They -talked little, for Janet seemed faintly to resent Anne’s efforts to cheer -her up. She plainly preferred to be miserable. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the gate-latch clicked and John Douglas strode into the garden. He -walked towards them straight over the geranium bed. Janet stood up. So did -Anne. Anne was a tall girl and wore a white dress; but John Douglas did not see -her. -</p> - -<p> -“Janet,” he said, “will you marry me?” -</p> - -<p> -The words burst out as if they had been wanting to be said for twenty years and -<i>must</i> be uttered now, before anything else. -</p> - -<p> -Janet’s face was so red from crying that it couldn’t turn any -redder, so it turned a most unbecoming purple. -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you ask me before?” she said slowly. -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t. She made me promise not to—mother made me -promise not to. Nineteen years ago she took a terrible spell. We thought she -couldn’t live through it. She implored me to promise not to ask you to -marry me while she was alive. I didn’t want to promise such a thing, even -though we all thought she couldn’t live very long—the doctor only -gave her six months. But she begged it on her knees, sick and suffering. I had -to promise.” -</p> - -<p> -“What had your mother against me?” cried Janet. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing—nothing. She just didn’t want another -woman—<i>any</i> woman—there while she was living. She said if I -didn’t promise she’d die right there and I’d have killed her. -So I promised. And she’s held me to that promise ever since, though -I’ve gone on my knees to her in my turn to beg her to let me off.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you tell me this?” asked Janet chokingly. -“If I’d only <i>known!</i> Why didn’t you just tell -me?” -</p> - -<p> -“She made me promise I wouldn’t tell a soul,” said John -hoarsely. “She swore me to it on the Bible; Janet, I’d never have -done it if I’d dreamed it was to be for so long. Janet, you’ll -never know what I’ve suffered these nineteen years. I know I’ve -made you suffer, too, but you’ll marry me for all, won’t you, -Janet? Oh, Janet, won’t you? I’ve come as soon as I could to ask -you.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment the stupefied Anne came to her senses and realized that she had -no business to be there. She slipped away and did not see Janet until the next -morning, when the latter told her the rest of the story. -</p> - -<p> -“That cruel, relentless, deceitful old woman!” cried Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Hush—she’s dead,” said Janet solemnly. “If she -wasn’t—but she <i>is</i>. So we mustn’t speak evil of her. -But I’m happy at last, Anne. And I wouldn’t have minded waiting so -long a bit if I’d only known why.” -</p> - -<p> -“When are you to be married?” -</p> - -<p> -“Next month. Of course it will be very quiet. I suppose people will talk -terrible. They’ll say I made enough haste to snap John up as soon as his -poor mother was out of the way. John wanted to let them know the truth but I -said, ‘No, John; after all she was your mother, and we’ll keep the -secret between us, and not cast any shadow on her memory. I don’t mind -what people say, now that I know the truth myself. It don’t matter a -mite. Let it all be buried with the dead’ says I to him. So I coaxed him -round to agree with me.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re much more forgiving than I could ever be,” Anne said, -rather crossly. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll feel differently about a good many things when you get to -be my age,” said Janet tolerantly. “That’s one of the things -we learn as we grow older—how to forgive. It comes easier at forty than -it did at twenty.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"></a> -Chapter XXXV<br/> -The Last Redmond Year Opens</h2> - -<p> -“Here we are, all back again, nicely sunburned and rejoicing as a strong -man to run a race,” said Phil, sitting down on a suitcase with a sigh of -pleasure. “Isn’t it jolly to see this dear old Patty’s Place -again—and Aunty—and the cats? Rusty has lost another piece of ear, -hasn’t he?” -</p> - -<p> -“Rusty would be the nicest cat in the world if he had no ears at -all,” declared Anne loyally from her trunk, while Rusty writhed about her -lap in a frenzy of welcome. -</p> - -<p> -“Aren’t you glad to see us back, Aunty?” demanded Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. But I wish you’d tidy things up,” said Aunt Jamesina -plaintively, looking at the wilderness of trunks and suitcases by which the -four laughing, chattering girls were surrounded. “You can talk just as -well later on. Work first and then play used to be my motto when I was a -girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, we’ve just reversed that in this generation, Aunty. <i>Our</i> -motto is play your play and then dig in. You can do your work so much better if -you’ve had a good bout of play first.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you are going to marry a minister,” said Aunt Jamesina, picking -up Joseph and her knitting and resigning herself to the inevitable with the -charming grace that made her the queen of housemothers, “you will have to -give up such expressions as ‘dig in.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” moaned Phil. “Oh, why must a minister’s wife be -supposed to utter only prunes and prisms? I shan’t. Everybody on -Patterson Street uses slang—that is to say, metaphorical -language—and if I didn’t they would think me insufferably proud and -stuck up.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you broken the news to your family?” asked Priscilla, feeding -the Sarah-cat bits from her lunchbasket. -</p> - -<p> -Phil nodded. -</p> - -<p> -“How did they take it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, mother rampaged. But I stood rockfirm—even I, Philippa Gordon, -who never before could hold fast to anything. Father was calmer. Father’s -own daddy was a minister, so you see he has a soft spot in his heart for the -cloth. I had Jo up to Mount Holly, after mother grew calm, and they both loved -him. But mother gave him some frightful hints in every conversation regarding -what she had hoped for me. Oh, my vacation pathway hasn’t been exactly -strewn with roses, girls dear. But—I’ve won out and I’ve got -Jo. Nothing else matters.” -</p> - -<p> -“To you,” said Aunt Jamesina darkly. -</p> - -<p> -“Nor to Jo, either,” retorted Phil. “You keep on pitying him. -Why, pray? I think he’s to be envied. He’s getting brains, beauty, -and a heart of gold in <i>me</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s well we know how to take your speeches,” said Aunt -Jamesina patiently. “I hope you don’t talk like that before -strangers. What would they think?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I don’t want to know what they think. I don’t want to -see myself as others see me. I’m sure it would be horribly uncomfortable -most of the time. I don’t believe Burns was really sincere in that -prayer, either.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I daresay we all pray for some things that we really don’t -want, if we were only honest enough to look into our hearts,” owned Aunt -Jamesina candidly. “I’ve a notion that such prayers don’t -rise very far. <i>I</i> used to pray that I might be enabled to forgive a -certain person, but I know now I really didn’t want to forgive her. When -I finally got that I <i>did</i> want to I forgave her without having to pray -about it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t picture you as being unforgiving for long,” said -Stella. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I used to be. But holding spite doesn’t seem worth while when -you get along in years.” -</p> - -<p> -“That reminds me,” said Anne, and told the tale of John and Janet. -</p> - -<p> -“And now tell us about that romantic scene you hinted so darkly at in one -of your letters,” demanded Phil. -</p> - -<p> -Anne acted out Samuel’s proposal with great spirit. The girls shrieked -with laughter and Aunt Jamesina smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t in good taste to make fun of your beaux,” she said -severely; “but,” she added calmly, “I always did it -myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell us about your beaux, Aunty,” entreated Phil. “You must -have had any number of them.” -</p> - -<p> -“They’re not in the past tense,” retorted Aunt Jamesina. -“I’ve got them yet. There are three old widowers at home who have -been casting sheep’s eyes at me for some time. You children needn’t -think you own all the romance in the world.” -</p> - -<p> -“Widowers and sheep’s eyes don’t sound very romantic, -Aunty.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, no; but young folks aren’t always romantic either. Some of -my beaux certainly weren’t. I used to laugh at them scandalous, poor -boys. There was Jim Elwood—he was always in a sort of -day-dream—never seemed to sense what was going on. He didn’t wake -up to the fact that I’d said ‘no’ till a year after I’d -said it. When he did get married his wife fell out of the sleigh one night when -they were driving home from church and he never missed her. Then there was Dan -Winston. He knew too much. He knew everything in this world and most of what is -in the next. He could give you an answer to any question, even if you asked him -when the Judgment Day was to be. Milton Edwards was real nice and I liked him -but I didn’t marry him. For one thing, he took a week to get a joke -through his head, and for another he never asked me. Horatio Reeve was the most -interesting beau I ever had. But when he told a story he dressed it up so that -you couldn’t see it for frills. I never could decide whether he was lying -or just letting his imagination run loose.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what about the others, Aunty?” -</p> - -<p> -“Go away and unpack,” said Aunt Jamesina, waving Joseph at them by -mistake for a needle. “The others were too nice to make fun of. I shall -respect their memory. There’s a box of flowers in your room, Anne. They -came about an hour ago.” -</p> - -<p> -After the first week the girls of Patty’s Place settled down to a steady -grind of study; for this was their last year at Redmond and graduation honors -must be fought for persistently. Anne devoted herself to English, Priscilla -pored over classics, and Philippa pounded away at Mathematics. Sometimes they -grew tired, sometimes they felt discouraged, sometimes nothing seemed worth the -struggle for it. In one such mood Stella wandered up to the blue room one rainy -November evening. Anne sat on the floor in a little circle of light cast by the -lamp beside her, amid a surrounding snow of crumpled manuscript. -</p> - -<p> -“What in the world are you doing?” -</p> - -<p> -“Just looking over some old Story Club yarns. I wanted something to cheer -<i>and</i> inebriate. I’d studied until the world seemed azure. So I came -up here and dug these out of my trunk. They are so drenched in tears and -tragedy that they are excruciatingly funny.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m blue and discouraged myself,” said Stella, throwing -herself on the couch. “Nothing seems worthwhile. My very thoughts are -old. I’ve thought them all before. What is the use of living after all, -Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Honey, it’s just brain fag that makes us feel that way, and the -weather. A pouring rainy night like this, coming after a hard day’s -grind, would squelch any one but a Mark Tapley. You know it <i>is</i> -worthwhile to live.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I suppose so. But I can’t prove it to myself just now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just think of all the great and noble souls who have lived and worked in -the world,” said Anne dreamily. “Isn’t it worthwhile to come -after them and inherit what they won and taught? Isn’t it worthwhile to -think we can share their inspiration? And then, all the great souls that will -come in the future? Isn’t it worthwhile to work a little and prepare the -way for them—make just one step in their path easier?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, my mind agrees with you, Anne. But my soul remains doleful and -uninspired. I’m always grubby and dingy on rainy nights.” -</p> - -<p> -“Some nights I like the rain—I like to lie in bed and hear it -pattering on the roof and drifting through the pines.” -</p> - -<p> -“I like it when it stays on the roof,” said Stella. “It -doesn’t always. I spent a gruesome night in an old country farmhouse last -summer. The roof leaked and the rain came pattering down on my bed. There was -no poetry in <i>that</i>. I had to get up in the ‘mirk midnight’ -and chivy round to pull the bedstead out of the drip—and it was one of -those solid, old-fashioned beds that weigh a ton—more or less. And then -that drip-drop, drip-drop kept up all night until my nerves just went to -pieces. You’ve no idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling -with a mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like ghostly -footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you laughing over, Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -“These stories. As Phil would say they are killing—in more senses -than one, for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines we -had—and how we dressed them! -</p> - -<p> -“Silks—satins—velvets—jewels—laces—they -never wore anything else. Here is one of Jane Andrews’ stories depicting -her heroine as sleeping in a beautiful white satin nightdress trimmed with seed -pearls.” -</p> - -<p> -“Go on,” said Stella. “I begin to feel that life is worth -living as long as there’s a laugh in it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball -‘glittering from head to foot with large diamonds of the first -water.’ But what booted beauty or rich attire? ‘The paths of glory -lead but to the grave.’ They must either be murdered or die of a broken -heart. There was no escape for them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let me read some of your stories.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, here’s my masterpiece. Note its cheerful -title—‘My Graves.’ I shed quarts of tears while writing it, -and the other girls shed gallons while I read it. Jane Andrews’ mother -scolded her frightfully because she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that -week. It’s a harrowing tale of the wanderings of a Methodist -minister’s wife. I made her a Methodist because it was necessary that she -should wander. She buried a child every place she lived in. There were nine of -them and their graves were severed far apart, ranging from Newfoundland to -Vancouver. I described the children, pictured their several death beds, and -detailed their tombstones and epitaphs. I had intended to bury the whole nine -but when I had disposed of eight my invention of horrors gave out and I -permitted the ninth to live as a hopeless cripple.” -</p> - -<p> -While Stella read My Graves, punctuating its tragic paragraphs with chuckles, -and Rusty slept the sleep of a just cat who has been out all night curled up on -a Jane Andrews tale of a beautiful maiden of fifteen who went to nurse in a -leper colony—of course dying of the loathsome disease finally—Anne -glanced over the other manuscripts and recalled the old days at Avonlea school -when the members of the Story Club, sitting under the spruce trees or down -among the ferns by the brook, had written them. What fun they had had! How the -sunshine and mirth of those olden summers returned as she read. Not all the -glory that was Greece or the grandeur that was Rome could weave such wizardry -as those funny, tearful tales of the Story Club. Among the manuscripts Anne -found one written on sheets of wrapping paper. A wave of laughter filled her -gray eyes as she recalled the time and place of its genesis. It was the sketch -she had written the day she fell through the roof of the Cobb duckhouse on the -Tory Road. -</p> - -<p> -Anne glanced over it, then fell to reading it intently. It was a little -dialogue between asters and sweet-peas, wild canaries in the lilac bush, and -the guardian spirit of the garden. After she had read it, she sat, staring into -space; and when Stella had gone she smoothed out the crumpled manuscript. -</p> - -<p> -“I believe I will,” she said resolutely. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"></a> -Chapter XXXVI<br/> -The Gardners’Call</h2> - -<p> -“Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Aunt Jimsie,” said -Phil. “Here are three for Stella, and two for Pris, and a glorious fat -one for me from Jo. There’s nothing for you, Anne, except a -circular.” -</p> - -<p> -Nobody noticed Anne’s flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed her -carelessly. But a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a transfigured Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Honey, what good thing has happened?” -</p> - -<p> -“The Youth’s Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a -fortnight ago,” said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were accustomed -to having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite succeeding. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? Did -they pay you for it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes -that he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old -sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in—but I never really -thought it could be accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne, -recalling the bitter experience of Averil’s Atonement. -</p> - -<p> -“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let’s all go -up town and get drunk,” suggested Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“I <i>am</i> going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some -sort,” declared Anne gaily. “At all events it isn’t tainted -money—like the check I got for that horrible Reliable Baking Powder -story. I spent <i>it</i> usefully for clothes and hated them every time I put -them on.” -</p> - -<p> -“Think of having a real live author at Patty’s Place,” said -Priscilla. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a great responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed it is,” agreed Pris with equal solemnity. “Authors -are kittle cattle. You never know when or how they will break out. Anne may -make copy of us.” -</p> - -<p> -“I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great -responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina severely, “and I hope Anne -realizes, it. My daughter used to write stories before she went to the foreign -field, but now she has turned her attention to higher things. She used to say -her motto was ‘Never write a line you would be ashamed to read at your -own funeral.’ You’d better take that for yours, Anne, if you are -going to embark in literature. Though, to be sure,” added Aunt Jamesina -perplexedly, “Elizabeth always used to laugh when she said it. She always -laughed so much that I don’t know how she ever came to decide on being a -missionary. I’m thankful she did—I prayed that she -might—but—I wish she hadn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Aunt Jamesina wondered why those giddy girls all laughed. -</p> - -<p> -Anne’s eyes shone all that day; literary ambitions sprouted and budded in -her brain; their exhilaration accompanied her to Jennie Cooper’s walking -party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and Christine, walking just ahead of -her and Roy, could quite subdue the sparkle of her starry hopes. Nevertheless, -she was not so rapt from things of earth as to be unable to notice that -Christine’s walk was decidedly ungraceful. -</p> - -<p> -“But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face. So like a man,” -thought Anne scornfully. -</p> - -<p> -“Shall you be home Saturday afternoon?” asked Roy. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“My mother and sisters are coming to call on you,” said Roy -quietly. -</p> - -<p> -Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but it was -hardly a pleasant one. She had never met any of Roy’s family; she -realized the significance of his statement; and it had, somehow, an -irrevocableness about it that chilled her. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall be glad to see them,” she said flatly; and then wondered -if she really would be glad. She ought to be, of course. But would it not be -something of an ordeal? Gossip had filtered to Anne regarding the light in -which the Gardners viewed the “infatuation” of son and brother. Roy -must have brought pressure to bear in the matter of this call. Anne knew she -would be weighed in the balance. From the fact that they had consented to call -she understood that, willingly or unwillingly, they regarded her as a possible -member of their clan. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall just be myself. I shall not <i>try</i> to make a good -impression,” thought Anne loftily. But she was wondering what dress she -would better wear Saturday afternoon, and if the new style of high -hair-dressing would suit her better than the old; and the walking party was -rather spoiled for her. By night she had decided that she would wear her brown -chiffon on Saturday, but would do her hair low. -</p> - -<p> -Friday afternoon none of the girls had classes at Redmond. Stella took the -opportunity to write a paper for the Philomathic Society, and was sitting at -the table in the corner of the living-room with an untidy litter of notes and -manuscript on the floor around her. Stella always vowed she never could write -anything unless she threw each sheet down as she completed it. Anne, in her -flannel blouse and serge skirt, with her hair rather blown from her windy walk -home, was sitting squarely in the middle of the floor, teasing the Sarah-cat -with a wishbone. Joseph and Rusty were both curled up in her lap. A warm plummy -odor filled the whole house, for Priscilla was cooking in the kitchen. -Presently she came in, enshrouded in a huge work-apron, with a smudge of flour -on her nose, to show Aunt Jamesina the chocolate cake she had just iced. -</p> - -<p> -At this auspicious moment the knocker sounded. Nobody paid any attention to it -save Phil, who sprang up and opened it, expecting a boy with the hat she had -bought that morning. On the doorstep stood Mrs. Gardner and her daughters. -</p> - -<p> -Anne scrambled to her feet somehow, emptying two indignant cats out of her lap -as she did so, and mechanically shifting her wishbone from her right hand to -her left. Priscilla, who would have had to cross the room to reach the kitchen -door, lost her head, wildly plunged the chocolate cake under a cushion on the -inglenook sofa, and dashed upstairs. Stella began feverishly gathering up her -manuscript. Only Aunt Jamesina and Phil remained normal. Thanks to them, -everybody was soon sitting at ease, even Anne. Priscilla came down, apronless -and smudgeless, Stella reduced her corner to decency, and Phil saved the -situation by a stream of ready small talk. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gardner was tall and thin and handsome, exquisitely gowned, cordial with a -cordiality that seemed a trifle forced. Aline Gardner was a younger edition of -her mother, lacking the cordiality. She endeavored to be nice, but succeeded -only in being haughty and patronizing. Dorothy Gardner was slim and jolly and -rather tomboyish. Anne knew she was Roy’s favorite sister and warmed to -her. She would have looked very much like Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes -instead of roguish hazel ones. Thanks to her and Phil, the call really went off -very well, except for a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere and two rather -untoward incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to themselves, began a game of -chase, and sprang madly into Mrs. Gardner’s silken lap and out of it in -their wild career. Mrs. Gardner lifted her lorgnette and gazed after their -flying forms as if she had never seen cats before, and Anne, choking back -slightly nervous laughter, apologized as best she could. -</p> - -<p> -“You are fond of cats?” said Mrs. Gardner, with a slight intonation -of tolerant wonder. -</p> - -<p> -Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of cats, but -Mrs. Gardner’s tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she remembered that Mrs. -John Blythe was so fond of cats that she kept as many as her husband would -allow. -</p> - -<p> -“They <i>are</i> adorable animals, aren’t they?” she said -wickedly. -</p> - -<p> -“I have never liked cats,” said Mrs. Gardner remotely. -</p> - -<p> -“I love them,” said Dorothy. “They are so nice and selfish. -Dogs are <i>too</i> good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But -cats are gloriously human.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have two delightful old china dogs there. May I look at them -closely?” said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace and thereby -becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. Picking up Magog, she sat -down on the cushion under which was secreted Priscilla’s chocolate cake. -Priscilla and Anne exchanged agonized glances but could do nothing. The stately -Aline continued to sit on the cushion and discuss china dogs until the time of -departure. -</p> - -<p> -Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne’s hand and whisper -impulsively. -</p> - -<p> -“I <i>know</i> you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all -about you. I’m the only one of the family he tells things to, poor -boy—nobody <i>could</i> confide in mamma and Aline, you know. What -glorious times you girls must have here! Won’t you let me come often and -have a share in them?” -</p> - -<p> -“Come as often as you like,” Anne responded heartily, thankful that -one of Roy’s sisters was likable. She would never like Aline, so much was -certain; and Aline would never like her, though Mrs. Gardner might be won. -Altogether, Anne sighed with relief when the ordeal was over. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘Of all sad words of tongue or pen<br/> -The saddest are it might have been,’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. “This cake is now what -you might call a flat failure. And the cushion is likewise ruined. Never tell -me that Friday isn’t unlucky.” -</p> - -<p> -“People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn’t come on -Friday,” said Aunt Jamesina. -</p> - -<p> -“I fancy it was Roy’s mistake,” said Phil. “That boy -isn’t really responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where -<i>is</i> Anne?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying. But she made herself laugh -instead. Rusty and Joseph had been <i>too</i> awful! And Dorothy <i>was</i> a -dear. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"></a> -Chapter XXXVII<br/> -Full-fledged B.A.’s</h2> - -<p> -“I wish I were dead, or that it were tomorrow night,” groaned Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“If you live long enough both wishes will come true,” said Anne -calmly. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s easy for you to be serene. You’re at home in -Philosophy. I’m not—and when I think of that horrible paper -tomorrow I quail. If I should fail in it what would Jo say?” -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t fail. How did you get on in Greek today?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a good paper and perhaps it was bad -enough to make Homer turn over in his grave. I’ve studied and mulled over -notebooks until I’m incapable of forming an opinion of anything. How -thankful little Phil will be when all this examinating is over.” -</p> - -<p> -“Examinating? I never heard such a word.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, haven’t I as good a right to make a word as any one -else?” demanded Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“Words aren’t made—they grow,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind—I begin faintly to discern clear water ahead where no -examination breakers loom. Girls, do you—can you realize that our Redmond -Life is almost over?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t,” said Anne, sorrowfully. “It seems just -yesterday that Pris and I were alone in that crowd of Freshmen at Redmond. And -now we are Seniors in our final examinations.” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Potent, wise, and reverend Seniors,’” quoted Phil. -“Do you suppose we really are any wiser than when we came to -Redmond?” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t act as if you were by times,” said Aunt Jamesina -severely. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Aunt Jimsie, haven’t we been pretty good girls, take us by and -large, these three winters you’ve mothered us?” pleaded Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve been four of the dearest, sweetest, goodest girls that ever -went together through college,” averred Aunt Jamesina, who never spoiled -a compliment by misplaced economy. -</p> - -<p> -“But I mistrust you haven’t any too much sense yet. It’s not -to be expected, of course. Experience teaches sense. You can’t learn it -in a college course. You’ve been to college four years and I never was, -but I know heaps more than you do, young ladies.” -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘There are lots of things that never go by rule,<br/> -There’s a powerful pile o’ knowledge<br/> -That you never get at college,<br/> -There are heaps of things you never learn at school,’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -quoted Stella. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you learned anything at Redmond except dead languages and geometry -and such trash?” queried Aunt Jamesina. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes. I think we have, Aunty,” protested Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve learned the truth of what Professor Woodleigh told us last -Philomathic,” said Phil. “He said, ‘Humor is the spiciest -condiment in the feast of existence. Laugh at your mistakes but learn from -them, joke over your troubles but gather strength from them, make a jest of -your difficulties but overcome them.’ Isn’t that worth learning, -Aunt Jimsie?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it is, dearie. When you’ve learned to laugh at the things -that should be laughed at, and not to laugh at those that shouldn’t, -you’ve got wisdom and understanding.” -</p> - -<p> -“What have you got out of your Redmond course, Anne?” murmured -Priscilla aside. -</p> - -<p> -“I think,” said Anne slowly, “that I really have learned to -look upon each little hindrance as a jest and each great one as the -foreshadowing of victory. Summing up, I think that is what Redmond has given -me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall have to fall back on another Professor Woodleigh quotation to -express what it has done for me,” said Priscilla. “You remember -that he said in his address, ‘There is so much in the world for us all if -we only have the eyes to see it, and the heart to love it, and the hand to -gather it to ourselves—so much in men and women, so much in art and -literature, so much everywhere in which to delight, and for which to be -thankful.’ I think Redmond has taught me that in some measure, -Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Judging from what you all, say” remarked Aunt Jamesina, “the -sum and substance is that you can learn—if you’ve got natural -gumption enough—in four years at college what it would take about twenty -years of living to teach you. Well, that justifies higher education in my -opinion. It’s a matter I was always dubious about before.” -</p> - -<p> -“But what about people who haven’t natural gumption, Aunt -Jimsie?” -</p> - -<p> -“People who haven’t natural gumption never learn,” retorted -Aunt Jamesina, “neither in college nor life. If they live to be a hundred -they really don’t know anything more than when they were born. It’s -their misfortune not their fault, poor souls. But those of us who have some -gumption should duly thank the Lord for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Will you please define what gumption is, Aunt Jimsie?” asked Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I won’t, young woman. Any one who has gumption knows what it -is, and any one who hasn’t can never know what it is. So there is no need -of defining it.” -</p> - -<p> -The busy days flew by and examinations were over. Anne took High Honors in -English. Priscilla took Honors in Classics, and Phil in Mathematics. Stella -obtained a good all-round showing. Then came Convocation. -</p> - -<p> -“This is what I would once have called an epoch in my life,” said -Anne, as she took Roy’s violets out of their box and gazed at them -thoughtfully. She meant to carry them, of course, but her eyes wandered to -another box on her table. It was filled with lilies-of-the-valley, as fresh and -fragrant as those which bloomed in the Green Gables yard when June came to -Avonlea. Gilbert Blythe’s card lay beside it. -</p> - -<p> -Anne wondered why Gilbert should have sent her flowers for Convocation. She had -seen very little of him during the past winter. He had come to Patty’s -Place only one Friday evening since the Christmas holidays, and they rarely met -elsewhere. She knew he was studying very hard, aiming at High Honors and the -Cooper Prize, and he took little part in the social doings of Redmond. -Anne’s own winter had been quite gay socially. She had seen a good deal -of the Gardners; she and Dorothy were very intimate; college circles expected -the announcement of her engagement to Roy any day. Anne expected it herself. -Yet just before she left Patty’s Place for Convocation she flung -Roy’s violets aside and put Gilbert’s lilies-of-the-valley in their -place. She could not have told why she did it. Somehow, old Avonlea days and -dreams and friendships seemed very close to her in this attainment of her -long-cherished ambitions. She and Gilbert had once picturedout merrily the day -on which they should be capped and gowned graduates in Arts. The wonderful day -had come and Roy’s violets had no place in it. Only her old -friend’s flowers seemed to belong to this fruition of old-blossoming -hopes which he had once shared. -</p> - -<p> -For years this day had beckoned and allured to her; but when it came the one -single, keen, abiding memory it left with her was not that of the breathless -moment when the stately president of Redmond gave her cap and diploma and -hailed her B.A.; it was not of the flash in Gilbert’s eyes when he saw -her lilies, nor the puzzled pained glance Roy gave her as he passed her on the -platform. It was not of Aline Gardner’s condescending congratulations, or -Dorothy’s ardent, impulsive good wishes. It was of one strange, -unaccountable pang that spoiled this long-expected day for her and left in it a -certain faint but enduring flavor of bitterness. -</p> - -<p> -The Arts graduates gave a graduation dance that night. When Anne dressed for it -she tossed aside the pearl beads she usually wore and took from her trunk the -small box that had come to Green Gables on Christmas day. In it was a -thread-like gold chain with a tiny pink enamel heart as a pendant. On the -accompanying card was written, “With all good wishes from your old chum, -Gilbert.” Anne, laughing over the memory the enamel heart conjured up the -fatal day when Gilbert had called her “Carrots” and vainly tried to -make his peace with a pink candy heart, had written him a nice little note of -thanks. But she had never worn the trinket. Tonight she fastened it about her -white throat with a dreamy smile. -</p> - -<p> -She and Phil walked to Redmond together. Anne walked in silence; Phil chattered -of many things. Suddenly she said, -</p> - -<p> -“I heard today that Gilbert Blythe’s engagement to Christine Stuart -was to be announced as soon as Convocation was over. Did you hear anything of -it?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“I think it’s true,” said Phil lightly. -</p> - -<p> -Anne did not speak. In the darkness she felt her face burning. She slipped her -hand inside her collar and caught at the gold chain. One energetic twist and it -gave way. Anne thrust the broken trinket into her pocket. Her hands were -trembling and her eyes were smarting. -</p> - -<p> -But she was the gayest of all the gay revellers that night, and told Gilbert -unregretfully that her card was full when he came to ask her for a dance. -Afterwards, when she sat with the girls before the dying embers at -Patty’s Place, removing the spring chilliness from their satin skins, -none chatted more blithely than she of the day’s events. -</p> - -<p> -“Moody Spurgeon MacPherson called here tonight after you left,” -said Aunt Jamesina, who had sat up to keep the fire on. “He didn’t -know about the graduation dance. That boy ought to sleep with a rubber band -around his head to train his ears not to stick out. I had a beau once who did -that and it improved him immensely. It was I who suggested it to him and he -took my advice, but he never forgave me for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Moody Spurgeon is a very serious young man,” yawned Priscilla. -“He is concerned with graver matters than his ears. He is going to be a -minister, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I suppose the Lord doesn’t regard the ears of a man,” -said Aunt Jamesina gravely, dropping all further criticism of Moody Spurgeon. -Aunt Jamesina had a proper respect for the cloth even in the case of an -unfledged parson. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"></a> -Chapter XXXVIII<br/> -False Dawn</h2> - -<p> -“Just imagine—this night week I’ll be in -Avonlea—delightful thought!” said Anne, bending over the box in -which she was packing Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s quilts. “But just -imagine—this night week I’ll be gone forever from Patty’s -Place—horrible thought!” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder if the ghost of all our laughter will echo through the maiden -dreams of Miss Patty and Miss Maria,” speculated Phil. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Patty and Miss Maria were coming home, after having trotted over most of -the habitable globe. -</p> - -<p> -“We’ll be back the second week in May” wrote Miss Patty. -“I expect Patty’s Place will seem rather small after the Hall of -the Kings at Karnak, but I never did like big places to live in. And I’ll -be glad enough to be home again. When you start traveling late in life -you’re apt to do too much of it because you know you haven’t much -time left, and it’s a thing that grows on you. I’m afraid Maria -will never be contented again.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall leave here my fancies and dreams to bless the next comer,” -said Anne, looking around the blue room wistfully—her pretty blue room -where she had spent three such happy years. She had knelt at its window to pray -and had bent from it to watch the sunset behind the pines. She had heard the -autumn raindrops beating against it and had welcomed the spring robins at its -sill. She wondered if old dreams could haunt rooms—if, when one left -forever the room where she had joyed and suffered and laughed and wept, -something of her, intangible and invisible, yet nonetheless real, did not -remain behind like a voiceful memory. -</p> - -<p> -“I think,” said Phil, “that a room where one dreams and -grieves and rejoices and lives becomes inseparably connected with those -processes and acquires a personality of its own. I am sure if I came into this -room fifty years from now it would say ‘Anne, Anne’ to me. What -nice times we’ve had here, honey! What chats and jokes and good chummy -jamborees! Oh, dear me! I’m to marry Jo in June and I know I will be -rapturously happy. But just now I feel as if I wanted this lovely Redmond life -to go on forever.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m unreasonable enough just now to wish that, too,” -admitted Anne. “No matter what deeper joys may come to us later on -we’ll never again have just the same delightful, irresponsible existence -we’ve had here. It’s over forever, Phil.” -</p> - -<p> -“What are you going to do with Rusty?” asked Phil, as that -privileged pussy padded into the room. -</p> - -<p> -“I am going to take him home with me and Joseph and the Sarah-cat,” -announced Aunt Jamesina, following Rusty. “It would be a shame to -separate those cats now that they have learned to live together. It’s a -hard lesson for cats and humans to learn.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m sorry to part with Rusty,” said Anne regretfully, -“but it would be no use to take him to Green Gables. Marilla detests -cats, and Davy would tease his life out. Besides, I don’t suppose -I’ll be home very long. I’ve been offered the principalship of the -Summerside High School.” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you going to accept it?” asked Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“I—I haven’t decided yet,” answered Anne, with a -confused flush. -</p> - -<p> -Phil nodded understandingly. Naturally Anne’s plans could not be settled -until Roy had spoken. He would soon—there was no doubt of that. And there -was no doubt that Anne would say “yes” when he said “Will you -please?” Anne herself regarded the state of affairs with a seldom-ruffled -complacency. She was deeply in love with Roy. True, it was not just what she -had imagined love to be. But was anything in life, Anne asked herself wearily, -like one’s imagination of it? It was the old diamond disillusion of -childhood repeated—the same disappointment she had felt when she had -first seen the chill sparkle instead of the purple splendor she had -anticipated. “That’s not my idea of a diamond,” she had said. -But Roy was a dear fellow and they would be very happy together, even if some -indefinable zest was missing out of life. When Roy came down that evening and -asked Anne to walk in the park every one at Patty’s Place knew what he -had come to say; and every one knew, or thought they knew, what Anne’s -answer would be. -</p> - -<p> -“Anne is a very fortunate girl,” said Aunt Jamesina. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so,” said Stella, shrugging her shoulders. “Roy is -a nice fellow and all that. But there’s really nothing in him.” -</p> - -<p> -“That sounds very like a jealous remark, Stella Maynard,” said Aunt -Jamesina rebukingly. -</p> - -<p> -“It does—but I am not jealous,” said Stella calmly. “I -love Anne and I like Roy. Everybody says she is making a brilliant match, and -even Mrs. Gardner thinks her charming now. It all sounds as if it were made in -heaven, but I have my doubts. Make the most of that, Aunt Jamesina.” -</p> - -<p> -Roy asked Anne to marry him in the little pavilion on the harbor shore where -they had talked on the rainy day of their first meeting. Anne thought it very -romantic that he should have chosen that spot. And his proposal was as -beautifully worded as if he had copied it, as one of Ruby Gillis’ lovers -had done, out of a Deportment of Courtship and Marriage. The whole effect was -quite flawless. And it was also sincere. There was no doubt that Roy meant what -he said. There was no false note to jar the symphony. Anne felt that she ought -to be thrilling from head to foot. But she wasn’t; she was horribly cool. -When Roy paused for his answer she opened her lips to say her fateful yes. And -then—she found herself trembling as if she were reeling back from a -precipice. To her came one of those moments when we realize, as by a blinding -flash of illumination, more than all our previous years have taught us. She -pulled her hand from Roy’s. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I can’t marry you—I can’t—I -can’t,” she cried, wildly. -</p> - -<p> -Roy turned pale—and also looked rather foolish. He had—small blame -to him—felt very sure. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean?” he stammered. -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that I can’t marry you,” repeated Anne desperately. -“I thought I could—but I can’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why can’t you?” Roy asked more calmly. -</p> - -<p> -“Because—I don’t care enough for you.” -</p> - -<p> -A crimson streak came into Roy’s face. -</p> - -<p> -“So you’ve just been amusing yourself these two years?” he -said slowly. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, I haven’t,” gasped poor Anne. Oh, how could she -explain? She <i>couldn’t</i> explain. There are some things that cannot -be explained. “I did think I cared—truly I did—but I know now -I don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have ruined my life,” said Roy bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -“Forgive me,” pleaded Anne miserably, with hot cheeks and stinging -eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Roy turned away and stood for a few minutes looking out seaward. When he came -back to Anne, he was very pale again. -</p> - -<p> -“You can give me no hope?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -Anne shook her head mutely. -</p> - -<p> -“Then—good-bye,” said Roy. “I can’t understand -it—I can’t believe you are not the woman I’ve believed you to -be. But reproaches are idle between us. You are the only woman I can ever love. -I thank you for your friendship, at least. Good-bye, Anne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye,” faltered Anne. When Roy had gone she sat for a long -time in the pavilion, watching a white mist creeping subtly and remorselessly -landward up the harbor. It was her hour of humiliation and self-contempt and -shame. Their waves went over her. And yet, underneath it all, was a queer sense -of recovered freedom. -</p> - -<p> -She slipped into Patty’s Place in the dusk and escaped to her room. But -Phil was there on the window seat. -</p> - -<p> -“Wait,” said Anne, flushing to anticipate the scene. “Wait -til you hear what I have to say. Phil, Roy asked me to marry him-and I -refused.” -</p> - -<p> -“You—you <i>refused</i> him?” said Phil blankly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anne Shirley, are you in your senses?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think so,” said Anne wearily. “Oh, Phil, don’t scold -me. You don’t understand.” -</p> - -<p> -“I certainly don’t understand. You’ve encouraged Roy Gardner -in every way for two years—and now you tell me you’ve refused him. -Then you’ve just been flirting scandalously with him. Anne, I -couldn’t have believed it of <i>you</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“I <i>wasn’t</i> flirting with him—I honestly thought I cared -up to the last minute—and then—well, I just knew I <i>never</i> -could marry him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose,” said Phil cruelly, “that you intended to marry -him for his money, and then your better self rose up and prevented you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I <i>didnt’t</i>. I never thought about his money. Oh, I -can’t explain it to you any more than I could to him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I certainly think you have treated Roy shamefully,” said -Phil in exasperation. “He’s handsome and clever and rich and good. -What more do you want?” -</p> - -<p> -“I want some one who <i>belongs</i> in my life. He doesn’t. I was -swept off my feet at first by his good looks and knack of paying romantic -compliments; and later on I thought I <i>must</i> be in love because he was my -dark-eyed ideal.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am bad enough for not knowing my own mind, but you are worse,” -said Phil. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>I</i> <i>do</i> know my own mind,” protested Anne. “The -trouble is, my mind changes and then I have to get acquainted with it all over -again.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I suppose there is no use in saying anything to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is no need, Phil. I’m in the dust. This has spoiled -everything backwards. I can never think of Redmond days without recalling the -humiliation of this evening. Roy despises me—and you despise me—and -I despise myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“You poor darling,” said Phil, melting. “Just come here and -let me comfort you. I’ve no right to scold you. I’d have married -Alec or Alonzo if I hadn’t met Jo. Oh, Anne, things are so mixed-up in -real life. They aren’t clear-cut and trimmed off, as they are in -novels.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that <i>no</i> one will ever again ask me to marry him as long as -I live,” sobbed poor Anne, devoutly believing that she meant it. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"></a> -Chapter XXXIX<br/> -Deals with Weddings</h2> - -<p> -Anne felt that life partook of the nature of an anticlimax during the first few -weeks after her return to Green Gables. She missed the merry comradeship of -Patty’s Place. She had dreamed some brilliant dreams during the past -winter and now they lay in the dust around her. In her present mood of -self-disgust, she could not immediately begin dreaming again. And she -discovered that, while solitude with dreams is glorious, solitude without them -has few charms. -</p> - -<p> -She had not seen Roy again after their painful parting in the park pavilion; -but Dorothy came to see her before she left Kingsport. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m awfully sorry you won’t marry Roy,” she said. -“I did want you for a sister. But you are quite right. He would bore you -to death. I love him, and he is a dear sweet boy, but really he isn’t a -bit interesting. He looks as if he ought to be, but he isn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“This won’t spoil <i>our</i> friendship, will it, Dorothy?” -Anne had asked wistfully. -</p> - -<p> -“No, indeed. You’re too good to lose. If I can’t have you for -a sister I mean to keep you as a chum anyway. And don’t fret over Roy. He -is feeling terribly just now—I have to listen to his outpourings every -day—but he’ll get over it. He always does.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh—<i>always?</i>” said Anne with a slight change of voice. -“So he has ‘got over it’ before?” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear me, yes,” said Dorothy frankly. “Twice before. And he -raved to me just the same both times. Not that the others actually refused -him—they simply announced their engagements to some one else. Of course, -when he met you he vowed to me that he had never really loved before—that -the previous affairs had been merely boyish fancies. But I don’t think -you need worry.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne decided not to worry. Her feelings were a mixture of relief and -resentment. Roy had certainly told her she was the only one he had ever loved. -No doubt he believed it. But it was a comfort to feel that she had not, in all -likelihood, ruined his life. There were other goddesses, and Roy, according to -Dorothy, must needs be worshipping at some shrine. Nevertheless, life was -stripped of several more illusions, and Anne began to think drearily that it -seemed rather bare. -</p> - -<p> -She came down from the porch gable on the evening of her return with a -sorrowful face. -</p> - -<p> -“What has happened to the old Snow Queen, Marilla?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I knew you’d feel bad over that,” said Marilla. “I -felt bad myself. That tree was there ever since I was a young girl. It blew -down in the big gale we had in March. It was rotten at the core.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll miss it so,” grieved Anne. “The porch gable -doesn’t seem the same room without it. I’ll never look from its -window again without a sense of loss. And oh, I never came home to Green Gables -before that Diana wasn’t here to welcome me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Diana has something else to think of just now,” said Mrs. Lynde -significantly. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, tell me all the Avonlea news,” said Anne, sitting down on -the porch steps, where the evening sunshine fell over her hair in a fine golden -rain. -</p> - -<p> -“There isn’t much news except what we’ve wrote you,” -said Mrs. Lynde. “I suppose you haven’t heard that Simon Fletcher -broke his leg last week. It’s a great thing for his family. They’re -getting a hundred things done that they’ve always wanted to do but -couldn’t as long as he was about, the old crank.” -</p> - -<p> -“He came of an aggravating family,” remarked Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Aggravating? Well, rather! His mother used to get up in prayer-meeting -and tell all her children’s shortcomings and ask prayers for them. -’Course it made them mad, and worse than ever.” -</p> - -<p> -“You haven’t told Anne the news about Jane,” suggested -Marilla. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Jane,” sniffed Mrs. Lynde. “Well,” she conceded -grudgingly, “Jane Andrews is home from the West—came last -week—and she’s going to be married to a Winnipeg millionaire. You -may be sure Mrs. Harmon lost no time in telling it far and wide.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear old Jane—I’m so glad,” said Anne heartily. -“She deserves the good things of life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I ain’t saying anything against Jane. She’s a nice -enough girl. But she isn’t in the millionaire class, and you’ll -find there’s not much to recommend that man but his money, that’s -what. Mrs. Harmon says he’s an Englishman who has made money in mines but -<i>I</i> believe he’ll turn out to be a Yankee. He certainly must have -money, for he has just showered Jane with jewelry. Her engagement ring is a -diamond cluster so big that it looks like a plaster on Jane’s fat -paw.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Lynde could not keep some bitterness out of her tone. Here was Jane -Andrews, that plain little plodder, engaged to a millionaire, while Anne, it -seemed, was not yet bespoken by any one, rich or poor. And Mrs. Harmon Andrews -did brag insufferably. -</p> - -<p> -“What has Gilbert Blythe been doing to at college?” asked Marilla. -“I saw him when he came home last week, and he is so pale and thin I -hardly knew him.” -</p> - -<p> -“He studied very hard last winter,” said Anne. “You know he -took High Honors in Classics and the Cooper Prize. It hasn’t been taken -for five years! So I think he’s rather run down. We’re all a little -tired.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anyhow, you’re a B.A. and Jane Andrews isn’t and never will -be,” said Mrs. Lynde, with gloomy satisfaction. -</p> - -<p> -A few evenings later Anne went down to see Jane, but the latter was away in -Charlottetown—“getting sewing done,” Mrs. Harmon informed -Anne proudly. “Of course an Avonlea dressmaker wouldn’t do for Jane -under the circumstances.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve heard something very nice about Jane,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Jane has done pretty well, even if she isn’t a B.A.,” -said Mrs. Harmon, with a slight toss of her head. “Mr. Inglis is worth -millions, and they’re going to Europe on their wedding tour. When they -come back they’ll live in a perfect mansion of marble in Winnipeg. Jane -has only one trouble—she can cook so well and her husband won’t let -her cook. He is so rich he hires his cooking done. They’re going to keep -a cook and two other maids and a coachman and a man-of-all-work. But what about -<i>you</i>, Anne? I don’t hear anything of your being married, after all -your college-going.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh,” laughed Anne, “I am going to be an old maid. I really -can’t find any one to suit me.” It was rather wicked of her. She -deliberately meant to remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became an old maid it was -not because she had not had at least one chance of marriage. But Mrs. Harmon -took swift revenge. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, the over-particular girls generally get left, I notice. And -what’s this I hear about Gilbert Blythe being engaged to a Miss Stuart? -Charlie Sloane tells me she is perfectly beautiful. Is it true?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss -Stuart,” replied Anne, with Spartan composure, “but it is certainly -true that she is very lovely.” -</p> - -<p> -“I once thought you and Gilbert would have made a match of it,” -said Mrs. Harmon. “If you don’t take care, Anne, all of your beaux -will slip through your fingers.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. You could not fence -with an antagonist who met rapier thrust with blow of battle axe. -</p> - -<p> -“Since Jane is away,” she said, rising haughtily, “I -don’t think I can stay longer this morning. I’ll come down when she -comes home.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do,” said Mrs. Harmon effusively. “Jane isn’t a bit -proud. She just means to associate with her old friends the same as ever. -She’ll be real glad to see you.” -</p> - -<p> -Jane’s millionaire arrived the last of May and carried her off in a blaze -of splendor. Mrs. Lynde was spitefully gratified to find that Mr. Inglis was -every day of forty, and short and thin and grayish. Mrs. Lynde did not spare -him in her enumeration of his shortcomings, you may be sure. -</p> - -<p> -“It will take all his gold to gild a pill like him, that’s -what,” said Mrs. Rachel solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -“He looks kind and good-hearted,” said Anne loyally, “and -I’m sure he thinks the world of Jane.” -</p> - -<p> -“Humph!” said Mrs. Rachel. -</p> - -<p> -Phil Gordon was married the next week and Anne went over to Bolingbroke to be -her bridesmaid. Phil made a dainty fairy of a bride, and the Rev. Jo was so -radiant in his happiness that nobody thought him plain. -</p> - -<p> -“We’re going for a lovers’ saunter through the land of -Evangeline,” said Phil, “and then we’ll settle down on -Patterson Street. Mother thinks it is terrible—she thinks Jo might at -least take a church in a decent place. But the wilderness of the Patterson -slums will blossom like the rose for me if Jo is there. Oh, Anne, I’m so -happy my heart aches with it.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends; but it is sometimes a -little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by a happiness that is not your own. -And it was just the same when she went back to Avonlea. This time it was Diana -who was bathed in the wonderful glory that comes to a woman when her first-born -is laid beside her. Anne looked at the white young mother with a certain awe -that had never entered into her feelings for Diana before. Could this pale -woman with the rapture in her eyes be the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked -Diana she had played with in vanished schooldays? It gave her a queer desolate -feeling that she herself somehow belonged only in those past years and had no -business in the present at all. -</p> - -<p> -“Isn’t he perfectly beautiful?” said Diana proudly. -</p> - -<p> -The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred—just as round, just as red. -Anne really could not say conscientiously that she thought him beautiful, but -she vowed sincerely that he was sweet and kissable and altogether delightful. -</p> - -<p> -“Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE,” -said Diana. “But now that little Fred is here I wouldn’t exchange -him for a million girls. He just <i>couldn’t</i> have been anything but -his own precious self.” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,’” -quoted Mrs. Allan gaily. “If little Anne <i>had</i> come you’d have -felt just the same about her.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving it. She -was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her old girl friends had welcomed -her back rapturously. The reigning minister’s wife was an estimable lady, -but she was not exactly a kindred spirit. -</p> - -<p> -“I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk,” sighed Diana. -“I just long to hear him say ‘mother.’ And oh, I’m -determined that his first memory of me shall be a nice one. The first memory I -have of my mother is of her slapping me for something I had done. I am sure I -deserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I love her dearly. But I -do wish my first memory of her was nicer.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of all my -memories,” said Mrs. Allan. “I was five years old, and I had been -allowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters. When school came out -my sisters went home in different groups, each supposing I was with the other. -Instead I had run off with a little girl I had played with at recess. We went -to her home, which was near the school, and began making mud pies. We were -having a glorious time when my older sister arrived, breathless and angry. -</p> - -<p> -“‘You naughty girl” she cried, snatching my reluctant hand -and dragging me along with her. ‘Come home this minute. Oh, you’re -going to catch it! Mother is awful cross. She is going to give you a good -whipping.’ -</p> - -<p> -“I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor little heart. -I have never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk home. I had not -meant to be naughty. Phemy Cameron had asked me to go home with her and I had -not known it was wrong to go. And now I was to be whipped for it. When we got -home my sister dragged me into the kitchen where mother was sitting by the fire -in the twilight. My poor wee legs were trembling so that I could hardly stand. -And mother—mother just took me up in her arms, without one word of rebuke -or harshness, kissed me and held me close to her heart. ‘I was so -frightened you were lost, darling,’ she said tenderly. I could see the -love shining in her eyes as she looked down on me. She never scolded or -reproached me for what I had done—only told me I must never go away again -without asking permission. She died very soon afterwards. That is the only -memory I have of her. Isn’t it a beautiful one?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of the Birch Path -and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons. It was a -darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was heavy with blossom -fragrance—almost too heavy. The cloyed senses recoiled from it as from an -overfull cup. The birches of the path had grown from the fairy saplings of old -to big trees. Everything had changed. Anne felt that she would be glad when the -summer was over and she was away at work again. Perhaps life would not seem so -empty then. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“‘I’ve tried the world—it wears no more<br/> -The coloring of romance it wore,’” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -sighed Anne—and was straightway much comforted by the romance in the idea -of the world being denuded of romance! -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"></a> -Chapter XL<br/> -A Book of Revelation</h2> - -<p> -The Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent a happy -three weeks there in July. Miss Lavendar had not changed; Charlotta the Fourth -was a very grown-up young lady now, but still adored Anne sincerely. -</p> - -<p> -“When all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am, I -haven’t seen any one in Boston that’s equal to you,” she said -frankly. -</p> - -<p> -Paul was almost grown up, too. He was sixteen, his chestnut curls had given -place to close-cropped brown locks, and he was more interested in football than -fairies. But the bond between him and his old teacher still held. Kindred -spirits alone do not change with changing years. -</p> - -<p> -It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to Green Gables. -One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes sweep over the gulf was -ravaging the sea. As Anne came in the first raindrops dashed against the panes. -</p> - -<p> -“Was that Paul who brought you home?” asked Marilla. “Why -didn’t you make him stay all night. It’s going to be a wild -evening.” -</p> - -<p> -“He’ll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think. -Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight. Well, I’ve had a splendid visit, -but I’m glad to see you dear folks again. ‘East, west, hame’s -best.’ Davy, have you been growing again lately?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve growed a whole inch since you left,” said Davy proudly. -“I’m as tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain’t I glad. He’ll -have to stop crowing about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert -Blythe is dying?” Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at -Davy. Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint. -</p> - -<p> -“Davy, hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Rachel angrily. “Anne, -don’t look like that—<i>don’t look like that!</i> We -didn’t mean to tell you so suddenly.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is—it—true?” asked Anne in a voice that was not hers. -</p> - -<p> -“Gilbert is very ill,” said Mrs. Lynde gravely. “He took down -with typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of -it?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said that unknown voice. -</p> - -<p> -“It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he’d been -terribly run down. They’ve a trained nurse and everything’s been -done. <i>don’t</i> look like that, Anne. While there’s life -there’s hope.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of -him,” reiterated Davy. -</p> - -<p> -Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly out of -the kitchen. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>don’t</i> look so, dear,” said Mrs. Rachel, putting -her kind old arms about the pallid girl. “I haven’t given up hope, -indeed I haven’t. He’s got the Blythe constitution in his favor, -that’s what.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde’s arms away from her, walked blindly across -the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its window she -knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. The rain was beating down -over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods was full of the groans of mighty -trees wrung in the tempest, and the air throbbed with the thunderous crash of -billows on the distant shore. And Gilbert was dying! -</p> - -<p> -There is a book of Revelation in every one’s life, as there is in the -Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil through -the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert—had always loved him! -She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him out of her life -without agony than she could have cut off her right hand and cast it from her. -And the knowledge had come too late—too late even for the bitter solace -of being with him at the last. If she had not been so blind—so -foolish—she would have had the right to go to him now. But he would never -know that she loved him—he would go away from this life thinking that she -did not care. Oh, the black years of emptiness stretching before her! She could -not live through them—she could not! She cowered down by her window and -wished, for the first time in her gay young life, that she could die, too. If -Gilbert went away from her, without one word or sign or message, she could not -live. Nothing was of any value without him. She belonged to him and he to her. -In her hour of supreme agony she had no doubt of that. He did not love -Christine Stuart—never had loved Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool she -had been not to realize what the bond was that had held her to Gilbert—to -think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And -now she must pay for her folly as for a crime. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook their -heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away. The storm raged -all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne saw a fairy fringe of -light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby -rim. The clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses on the -horizon; the sky gleamed blue and silvery. A hush fell over the world. -</p> - -<p> -Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the rain-wind -blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and cooled her dry, -burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was lilting up the lane. A moment -later Pacifique Buote came in sight. -</p> - -<p> -Anne’s physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched at -a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George Fletcher’s -hired man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher -was Gilbert’s aunt. Pacifique would know if—if—Pacifique -would know what there was to be known. -</p> - -<p> -Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not see -Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost past before she -succeeded in making her quivering lips call, “Pacifique!” -</p> - -<p> -Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning. -</p> - -<p> -“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did you come from George -Fletcher’s this morning?” -</p> - -<p> -“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably. “I got de word las’ -night dat my fader, he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go den, -so I start vair early dis mornin’. I’m goin’ troo de woods -for short cut.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?” Anne’s -desperation drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable -than this hideous suspense. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s better,” said Pacifique. “He got de turn -las’ night. De doctor say he’ll be all right now dis soon while. -Had close shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus’ keel himself at college. Well, I -mus’ hurry. De old man, he’ll be in hurry to see me.” -</p> - -<p> -Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with eyes -where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He was a very -lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he was as beautiful as -those who bring good tidings on the mountains. Never, as long as she lived, -would Anne see Pacifique’s brown, round, black-eyed face without a warm -remembrance of the moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for mourning. -</p> - -<p> -Long after Pacifique’s gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music -and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover’s Lane Anne stood -under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread -has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In -the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The -trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in -perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very -wonderful Book came to her lips, -</p> - -<p> -“Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"></a> -Chapter XLI<br/> -Love Takes Up the Glass of Time</h2> - -<p> -“I’ve come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles -through September woods and ‘over hills where spices grow,’ this -afternoon,” said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. -“Suppose we visit Hester Gray’s garden.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy, green -stuff, looked up rather blankly. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I wish I could,” she said slowly, “but I really -can’t, Gilbert. I’m going to Alice Penhallow’s wedding this -evening, you know. I’ve got to do something to this dress, and by the -time it’s finished I’ll have to get ready. I’m so sorry. -I’d love to go.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?” asked Gilbert, -apparently not much disappointed. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I think so.” -</p> - -<p> -“In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should -otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is to be married tonight. -Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne—Phil’s, Alice’s, -and Jane’s. I’ll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her -wedding.” -</p> - -<p> -“You really can’t blame her when you think of the tremendous -Andrews connection who had to be invited. The house could hardly hold them all. -I was only bidden by grace of being Jane’s old chum—at least on -Jane’s part. I think Mrs. Harmon’s motive for inviting me was to -let me see Jane’s surpassing gorgeousness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn’t tell -where the diamonds left off and Jane began?” -</p> - -<p> -Anne laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and white -satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, prim little Jane was -almost lost to sight. But she was <i>very</i> happy, and so was Mr. -Inglis—and so was Mrs. Harmon.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is that the dress you’re going to wear tonight?” asked -Gilbert, looking down at the fluffs and frills. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Isn’t it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. The -Haunted Wood is full of them this summer.” -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown, with the -virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and white stars shining -against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision made him catch his breath. But -he turned lightly away. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I’ll be up tomorrow. Hope you’ll have a nice time -tonight.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was -friendly—very friendly—far too friendly. He had come quite often to -Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their old comradeship had -returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. The rose of love made the -blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast. And Anne had again begun -to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but friendship. In the common -light of common day her radiant certainty of that rapt morning had faded. She -was haunted by a miserable fear that her mistake could never be rectified. It -was quite likely that it was Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. Perhaps he -was even engaged to her. Anne tried to put all unsettling hopes out of her -heart, and reconcile herself to a future where work and ambition must take the -place of love. She could do good, if not noble, work as a teacher; and the -success her little sketches were beginning to meet with in certain editorial -sanctums augured well for her budding literary dreams. But—but—Anne -picked up her green dress and sighed again. -</p> - -<p> -When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him, fresh as -the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the preceding night. She -wore a green dress—not the one she had worn to the wedding, but an old -one which Gilbert had told her at a Redmond reception he liked especially. It -was just the shade of green that brought out the rich tints of her hair, and -the starry gray of her eyes and the iris-like delicacy of her skin. Gilbert, -glancing at her sideways as they walked along a shadowy woodpath, thought she -had never looked so lovely. Anne, glancing sideways at Gilbert, now and then, -thought how much older he looked since his illness. It was as if he had put -boyhood behind him forever. -</p> - -<p> -The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry when -they reached Hester Gray’s garden, and sat down on the old bench. But it -was beautiful there, too—as beautiful as it had been on the faraway day -of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and she had found it. -Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets; now golden rod had kindled -its fairy torches in the corners and asters dotted it bluely. The call of the -brook came up through the woods from the valley of birches with all its old -allurement; the mellow air was full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields -rimmed by fences bleached silvery gray in the suns of many summers, and long -hills scarfed with the shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the west -wind old dreams returned. -</p> - -<p> -“I think,” said Anne softly, “that ‘the land where -dreams come true’ is in the blue haze yonder, over that little -valley.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?” asked Gilbert. -</p> - -<p> -Something in his tone—something she had not heard since that miserable -evening in the orchard at Patty’s Place—made Anne’s heart -beat wildly. But she made answer lightly. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn’t do for us to have all our -dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream -about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting from the -asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I’m -sure they would be very beautiful.” -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked. -</p> - -<p> -“I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, -although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a -home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of -friends—and <i>you!</i>” -</p> - -<p> -Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking over -her like a wave. It almost frightened her. -</p> - -<p> -“I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today -will you give me a different answer?” -</p> - -<p> -Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all the -love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a moment. He -wanted no other answer. -</p> - -<p> -They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden must have -been, crept over it. There was so much to talk over and recall—things -said and done and heard and thought and felt and misunderstood. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought you loved Christine Stuart,” Anne told him, as -reproachfully as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she -loved Roy Gardner. -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert laughed boyishly. -</p> - -<p> -“Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it and she -knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was coming to -Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I would look after her -a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. So I did. And then I liked -Christine for her own sake. She is one of the nicest girls I’ve ever -known. I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with each other. I -didn’t care. Nothing mattered much to me for a time there, after you told -me you could never love me, Anne. There was nobody else—there never could -be anybody else for me but you. I’ve loved you ever since that day you -broke your slate over my head in school.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a -little fool,” said Anne. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I tried to stop,” said Gilbert frankly, “not because I -thought you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance -for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn’t—and I -can’t tell you, either, what it’s meant to me these two years to -believe you were going to marry him, and be told every week by some busybody -that your engagement was on the point of being announced. I believed it until -one blessed day when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from Phil -Gordon—Phil Blake, rather—in which she told me there was really -nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to ‘try again.’ Well, -the doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne laughed—then shivered. -</p> - -<p> -“I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I -knew—I <i>knew</i> then—and I thought it was too late.” -</p> - -<p> -“But it wasn’t, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, -doesn’t it? Let’s resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty -all our lives for the gift it has given us.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the birthday of our happiness,” said Anne softly. -“I’ve always loved this old garden of Hester Gray’s, and now -it will be dearer than ever.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I’ll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne,” said -Gilbert sadly. “It will be three years before I’ll finish my -medical course. And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble -halls.” -</p> - -<p> -Anne laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want <i>you</i>. -You see I’m quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble -halls may be all very well, but there is more ‘scope for -imagination’ without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn’t -matter. We’ll just be happy, waiting and working for each other—and -dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now.” -</p> - -<p> -Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home together in -the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding -paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted -meadows where winds of hope and memory blew. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF THE ISLAND ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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