"I\n\nAn Irate Neighbor\n\n\nA tall, slim girl, \"half-past sixteen,\" with serious gray eyes and hair\nwhich her friends called auburn, had sat down on the broad red sandstone\ndoorstep of a Prince Edward Island farmhouse one ripe afternoon in\nAugust, firmly resolved to construe so many lines of Virgil.\n\nBut an August afternoon, with blue hazes scarfing the harvest slopes,\nlittle winds whispering elfishly in the poplars, and a dancing slendor\nof red poppies outflaming against the dark coppice of young firs in a\ncorner of the cherry orchard, was fitter for dreams than dead languages.\nThe Virgil soon slipped unheeded to the ground, and Anne, her chin\npropped on her clasped hands, and her eyes on the splendid mass of\nfluffy clouds that were heaping up just over Mr. J. A. Harrison's house\nlike a great white mountain, was far away in a delicious world where a\ncertain schoolteacher was doing a wonderful work, shaping the destinies\nof future statesmen, and inspiring youthful minds and hearts with high\nand lofty ambitions.\n\nTo be sure, if you came down to harsh facts . . . which, it must be\nconfessed, Anne seldom did until she had to . . . it did not seem likely\nthat there was much promising material for celebrities in Avonlea\nschool; but you could never tell what might happen if a teacher used\nher influence for good. Anne had certain rose-tinted ideals of what a\nteacher might accomplish if she only went the right way about it; and\nshe was in the midst of a delightful scene, forty years hence, with a\nfamous personage . . . just exactly what he was to be famous for was left\nin convenient haziness, but Anne thought it would be rather nice to have\nhim a college president or a Canadian premier . . . bowing low over her\nwrinkled hand and assuring her that it was she who had first kindled his\nambition, and that all his success in life was due to the lessons she\nhad instilled so long ago in Avonlea school. This pleasant vision was\nshattered by a most unpleasant interruption.\n\nA demure little Jersey cow came scuttling down the lane and five seconds\nlater Mr. Harrison arrived . . . if \"arrived\" be not too mild a term to\ndescribe the manner of his irruption into the yard.\n\nHe bounced over the fence without waiting to open the gate, and angrily\nconfronted astonished Anne, who had risen to her feet and stood looking\nat him in some bewilderment. Mr. Harrison was their new righthand\nneighbor and she had never met him before, although she had seen him\nonce or twice.\n\nIn early April, before Anne had come home from Queen's, Mr. Robert Bell,\nwhose farm adjoined the Cuthbert place on the west, had sold out and\nmoved to Charlottetown. His farm had been bought by a certain Mr. J. A.\nHarrison, whose name, and the fact that he was a New Brunswick man, were\nall that was known about him. But before he had been a month in Avonlea\nhe had won the reputation of being an odd person . . . \"a crank,\" Mrs.\nRachel Lynde said. Mrs. Rachel was an outspoken lady, as those of you\nwho may have already made her acquaintance will remember. Mr. Harrison\nwas certainly different from other people . . . and that is the essential\ncharacteristic of a crank, as everybody knows.\n\nIn the first place he kept house for himself and had publicly stated\nthat he wanted no fools of women around his diggings. Feminine\nAvonlea took its revenge by the gruesome tales it related about his\nhouse-keeping and cooking. He had hired little John Henry Carter of\nWhite Sands and John Henry started the stories. For one thing, there\nwas never any stated time for meals in the Harrison establishment. Mr.\nHarrison \"got a bite\" when he felt hungry, and if John Henry were around\nat the time, he came in for a share, but if he were not, he had to wait\nuntil Mr. Harrison's next hungry spell. John Henry mournfully averred\nthat he would have starved to death if it wasn't that he got home on\nSundays and got a good filling up, and that his mother always gave him a\nbasket of \"grub\" to take back with him on Monday mornings.\n\nAs for washing dishes, Mr. Harrison never made any pretence of doing it\nunless a rainy Sunday came. Then he went to work and washed them all at\nonce in the rainwater hogshead, and left them to drain dry.\n\nAgain, Mr. Harrison was \"close.\" When he was asked to subscribe to the\nRev. Mr. Allan's salary he said he'd wait and see how many dollars'\nworth of good he got out of his preaching first . . . he didn't believe\nin buying a pig in a poke. And when Mrs. Lynde went to ask for a\ncontribution to missions . . . and incidentally to see the inside of\nthe house . . . he told her there were more heathens among the old woman\ngossips in Avonlea than anywhere else he knew of, and he'd cheerfully\ncontribute to a mission for Christianizing them if she'd undertake it.\nMrs. Rachel got herself away and said it was a mercy poor Mrs. Robert\nBell was safe in her grave, for it would have broken her heart to see\nthe state of her house in which she used to take so much pride.\n\n\"Why, she scrubbed the kitchen floor every second day,\" Mrs. Lynde told\nMarilla Cuthbert indignantly, \"and if you could see it now! I had to\nhold up my skirts as I walked across it.\"\n\nFinally, Mr. Harrison kept a parrot called Ginger. Nobody in Avonlea had\never kept a parrot before; consequently that proceeding was considered\nbarely respectable. And such a parrot! If you took John Henry Carter's\nword for it, never was such an unholy bird. It swore terribly. Mrs.\nCarter would have taken John Henry away at once if she had been sure\nshe could get another place for him. Besides, Ginger had bitten a piece\nright out of the back of John Henry's neck one day when he had stooped\ndown too near the cage. Mrs. Carter showed everybody the mark when the\nluckless John Henry went home on Sundays.\n\nAll these things flashed through Anne's mind as Mr. Harrison stood,\nquite speechless with wrath apparently, before her. In his most amiable\nmood Mr. Harrison could not have been considered a handsome man; he was\nshort and fat and bald; and now, with his round face purple with rage\nand his prominent blue eyes almost sticking out of his head, Anne\nthought he was really the ugliest person she had ever seen.\n\nAll at once Mr. Harrison found his voice.\n\n\"I'm not going to put up with this,\" he spluttered, \"not a day longer,\ndo you hear, miss. Bless my soul, this is the third time, miss . . .  the\nthird time! Patience has ceased to be a virtue, miss. I warned your aunt\nthe last time not to let it occur again . . .  and she's let it . . . she's\ndone it . . . what does she mean by it, that is what I want to know. That\nis what I'm here about, miss.\"\n\n\"Will you explain what the trouble is?\" asked Anne, in her most\ndignified manner. She had been practicing it considerably of late to\nhave it in good working order when school began; but it had no apparent\neffect on the irate J. A. Harrison.\n\n\"Trouble, is it? Bless my soul, trouble enough, I should think. The\ntrouble is, miss, that I found that Jersey cow of your aunt's in my oats\nagain, not half an hour ago. The third time, mark you. I found her in\nlast Tuesday and I found her in yesterday. I came here and told your\naunt not to let it occur again. She has let it occur again. Where's your\naunt, miss? I just want to see her for a minute and give her a piece of\nmy mind . . . a piece of J. A. Harrison's mind, miss.\"\n\n\"If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she is not my aunt, and she has gone\ndown to East Grafton to see a distant relative of hers who is very ill,\"\nsaid Anne, with due increase of dignity at every word. \"I am very sorry\nthat my cow should have broken into your oats . . .  she is my cow and not\nMiss Cuthbert's . . . Matthew gave her to me three years ago when she was\na little calf and he bought her from Mr. Bell.\"\n\n\"Sorry, miss! Sorry isn't going to help matters any. You'd better go and\nlook at the havoc that animal has made in my oats . . . trampled them from\ncenter to circumference, miss.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" repeated Anne firmly, \"but perhaps if you kept your\nfences in better repair Dolly might not have broken in. It is your part\nof the line fence that separates your oatfield from our pasture and I\nnoticed the other day that it was not in very good condition.\"\n\n\"My fence is all right,\" snapped Mr. Harrison, angrier than ever at this\ncarrying of the war into the enemy's country. \"The jail fence couldn't\nkeep a demon of a cow like that out. And I can tell you, you redheaded\nsnippet, that if the cow is yours, as you say, you'd be better employed\nin watching her out of other people's grain than in sitting round\nreading yellow-covered novels,\" . . . with a scathing glance at the\ninnocent tan-colored Virgil by Anne's feet.\n\nSomething at that moment was red besides Anne's hair . . . which had\nalways been a tender point with her.\n\n\"I'd rather have red hair than none at all, except a little fringe round\nmy ears,\" she flashed.\n\nThe shot told, for Mr. Harrison was really very sensitive about his bald\nhead. His anger choked him up again and he could only glare speechlessly\nat Anne, who recovered her temper and followed up her advantage.\n\n\"I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison, because I have an\nimagination. I can easily imagine how very trying it must be to find a\ncow in your oats and I shall not cherish any hard feelings against you\nfor the things you've said. I promise you that Dolly shall never break\ninto your oats again. I give you my word of honor on THAT point.\"\n\n\"Well, mind you she doesn't,\" muttered Mr. Harrison in a somewhat\nsubdued tone; but he stamped off angrily enough and Anne heard him\ngrowling to himself until he was out of earshot.\n\nGrievously disturbed in mind, Anne marched across the yard and shut the\nnaughty Jersey up in the milking pen.\n\n\"She can't possibly get out of that unless she tears the fence down,\"\nshe reflected. \"She looks pretty quiet now. I daresay she has sickened\nherself on those oats. I wish I'd sold her to Mr. Shearer when he wanted\nher last week, but I thought it was just as well to wait until we had\nthe auction of the stock and let them all go together. I believe it is\ntrue about Mr. Harrison being a crank. Certainly there's nothing of the\nkindred spirit about HIM.\"\n\nAnne had always a weather eye open for kindred spirits.\n\nMarilla Cuthbert was driving into the yard as Anne returned from the\nhouse, and the latter flew to get tea ready. They discussed the matter\nat the tea table.\n\n\"I'll be glad when the auction is over,\" said Marilla. \"It is too much\nresponsibility having so much stock about the place and nobody but that\nunreliable Martin to look after them. He has never come back yet and he\npromised that he would certainly be back last night if I'd give him the\nday off to go to his aunt's funeral. I don't know how many aunts he has\ngot, I am sure. That's the fourth that's died since he hired here a year\nago. I'll be more than thankful when the crop is in and Mr. Barry takes\nover the farm. We'll have to keep Dolly shut up in the pen till Martin\ncomes, for she must be put in the back pasture and the fences there have\nto be fixed. I declare, it is a world of trouble, as Rachel says. Here's\npoor Mary Keith dying and what is to become of those two children of\nhers is more than I know. She has a brother in British Columbia and she\nhas written to him about them, but she hasn't heard from him yet.\"\n\n\"What are the children like? How old are they?\"\n\n\"Six past . . . they're twins.\"\n\n\"Oh, I've always been especially interested in twins ever since Mrs.\nHammond had so many,\" said Anne eagerly. \"Are they pretty?\"\n\n\"Goodness, you couldn't tell . . . they were too dirty. Davy had been\nout making mud pies and Dora went out to call him in. Davy pushed her\nheadfirst into the biggest pie and then, because she cried, he got into\nit himself and wallowed in it to show her it was nothing to cry about.\nMary said Dora was really a very good child but that Davy was full of\nmischief. He has never had any bringing up you might say. His father\ndied when he was a baby and Mary has been sick almost ever since.\"\n\n\"I'm always sorry for children that have no bringing up,\" said Anne\nsoberly. \"You know _I_ hadn't any till you took me in hand. I hope their\nuncle will look after them. Just what relation is Mrs. Keith to you?\"\n\n\"Mary? None in the world. It was her husband . . . he was our third\ncousin. There's Mrs. Lynde coming through the yard. I thought she'd be\nup to hear about Mary.\"\n\n\"Don't tell her about Mr. Harrison and the cow,\" implored Anne.\n\nMarilla promised; but the promise was quite unnecessary, for Mrs. Lynde\nwas no sooner fairly seated than she said,\n\n\"I saw Mr. Harrison chasing your Jersey out of his oats today when I was\ncoming home from Carmody. I thought he looked pretty mad. Did he make\nmuch of a rumpus?\"\n\nAnne and Marilla furtively exchanged amused smiles. Few things in\nAvonlea ever escaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morning Anne had said,\n\n\"If you went to your own room at midnight, locked the door, pulled down\nthe blind, and SNEEZED, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the next day how your\ncold was!\"\n\n\"I believe he did,\" admitted Marilla. \"I was away. He gave Anne a piece\nof his mind.\"\n\n\"I think he is a very disagreeable man,\" said Anne, with a resentful\ntoss of her ruddy head.\n\n\"You never said a truer word,\" said Mrs. Rachel solemnly. \"I knew\nthere'd be trouble when Robert Bell sold his place to a New Brunswick\nman, that's what. I don't know what Avonlea is coming to, with so many\nstrange people rushing into it. It'll soon not be safe to go to sleep in\nour beds.\"\n\n\"Why, what other strangers are coming in?\" asked Marilla.\n\n\"Haven't you heard? Well, there's a family of Donnells, for one thing.\nThey've rented Peter Sloane's old house. Peter has hired the man to run\nhis mill. They belong down east and nobody knows anything about them.\nThen that shiftless Timothy Cotton family are going to move up from\nWhite Sands and they'll simply be a burden on the public. He is\nin consumption . . . when he isn't stealing . . .  and his wife is a\nslack-twisted creature that can't turn her hand to a thing. She washes\nher dishes SITTING DOWN. Mrs. George Pye has taken her husband's orphan\nnephew, Anthony Pye. He'll be going to school to you, Anne, so you may\nexpect trouble, that's what. And you'll have another strange pupil, too.\nPaul Irving is coming from the States to live with his grandmother.\nYou remember his father, Marilla . . . Stephen Irving, him that jilted\nLavendar Lewis over at Grafton?\"\n\n\"I don't think he jilted her. There was a quarrel . . . I suppose there\nwas blame on both sides.\"\n\n\"Well, anyway, he didn't marry her, and she's been as queer as possible\never since, they say . . . living all by herself in that little stone\nhouse she calls Echo Lodge. Stephen went off to the States and went\ninto business with his uncle and married a Yankee. He's never been home\nsince, though his mother has been up to see him once or twice. His wife\ndied two years ago and he's sending the boy home to his mother for a\nspell. He's ten years old and I don't know if he'll be a very desirable\npupil. You can never tell about those Yankees.\"\n\nMrs Lynde looked upon all people who had the misfortune to be born\nor brought up elsewhere than in Prince Edward Island with a decided\ncan-any-good-thing-come-out-of-Nazareth air. They MIGHT be good people,\nof course; but you were on the safe side in doubting it. She had a\nspecial prejudice against \"Yankees.\" Her husband had been cheated out\nof ten dollars by an employer for whom he had once worked in Boston and\nneither angels nor principalities nor powers could have convinced Mrs.\nRachel that the whole United States was not responsible for it.\n\n\"Avonlea school won't be the worse for a little new blood,\" said Marilla\ndrily, \"and if this boy is anything like his father he'll be all right.\nSteve Irving was the nicest boy that was ever raised in these parts,\nthough some people did call him proud. I should think Mrs. Irving would\nbe very glad to have the child. She has been very lonesome since her\nhusband died.\"\n\n\"Oh, the boy may be well enough, but he'll be different from Avonlea\nchildren,\" said Mrs. Rachel, as if that clinched the matter. Mrs.\nRachel's opinions concerning any person, place, or thing, were always\nwarranted to wear. \"What's this I hear about your going to start up a\nVillage Improvement Society, Anne?\"\n\n\"I was just talking it over with some of the girls and boys at the last\nDebating Club,\" said Anne, flushing. \"They thought it would be rather\nnice . . . and so do Mr. and Mrs. Allan. Lots of villages have them now.\"\n\n\"Well, you'll get into no end of hot water if you do. Better leave it\nalone, Anne, that's what. People don't like being improved.\"\n\n\"Oh, we are not going to try to improve the PEOPLE. It is Avonlea\nitself. There are lots of things which might be done to make it\nprettier. For instance, if we could coax Mr. Levi Boulter to pull\ndown that dreadful old house on his upper farm wouldn't that be an\nimprovement?\"\n\n\"It certainly would,\" admitted Mrs. Rachel. \"That old ruin has been an\neyesore to the settlement for years. But if you Improvers can coax\nLevi Boulter to do anything for the public that he isn't to be paid for\ndoing, may I be there to see and hear the process, that's what. I don't\nwant to discourage you, Anne, for there may be something in your idea,\nthough I suppose you did get it out of some rubbishy Yankee magazine;\nbut you'll have your hands full with your school and I advise you as a\nfriend not to bother with your improvements, that's what. But there,\nI know you'll go ahead with it if you've set your mind on it. You were\nalways one to carry a thing through somehow.\"\n\nSomething about the firm outlines of Anne's lips told that Mrs. Rachel\nwas not far astray in this estimate. Anne's heart was bent on forming\nthe Improvement Society. Gilbert Blythe, who was to teach in White\nSands but would always be home from Friday night to Monday morning, was\nenthusiastic about it; and most of the other folks were willing to go in\nfor anything that meant occasional meetings and consequently some \"fun.\"\nAs for what the \"improvements\" were to be, nobody had any very clear\nidea except Anne and Gilbert. They had talked them over and planned them\nout until an ideal Avonlea existed in their minds, if nowhere else.\n\nMrs. Rachel had still another item of news.\n\n\"They've given the Carmody school to a Priscilla Grant. Didn't you go to\nQueen's with a girl of that name, Anne?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed. Priscilla to teach at Carmody! How perfectly lovely!\"\nexclaimed Anne, her gray eyes lighting up until they looked like evening\nstars, causing Mrs. Lynde to wonder anew if she would ever get it\nsettled to her satisfaction whether Anne Shirley were really a pretty\ngirl or not.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nSelling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure\n\n\nAnne drove over to Carmody on a shopping expedition the next afternoon\nand took Diana Barry with her. Diana was, of course, a pledged member of\nthe Improvement Society, and the two girls talked about little else all\nthe way to Carmody and back.\n\n\"The very first thing we ought to do when we get started is to have that\nhall painted,\" said Diana, as they drove past the Avonlea hall, a rather\nshabby building set down in a wooded hollow, with spruce trees hooding\nit about on all sides. \"It's a disgraceful looking place and we must\nattend to it even before we try to get Mr. Levi Boulder to pull his\nhouse down. Father says we'll never succeed in DOING that. Levi Boulter\nis too mean to spend the time it would take.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he'll let the boys take it down if they promise to haul\nthe boards and split them up for him for kindling wood,\" said Anne\nhopefully. \"We must do our best and be content to go slowly at first.\nWe can't expect to improve everything all at once. We'll have to educate\npublic sentiment first, of course.\"\n\nDiana wasn't exactly sure what educating public sentiment meant; but it\nsounded fine and she felt rather proud that she was going to belong to a\nsociety with such an aim in view.\n\n\"I thought of something last night that we could do, Anne. You know\nthat three-cornered piece of ground where the roads from Carmody and\nNewbridge and White Sands meet? It's all grown over with young spruce;\nbut wouldn't it be nice to have them all cleared out, and just leave the\ntwo or three birch trees that are on it?\"\n\n\"Splendid,\" agreed Anne gaily. \"And have a rustic seat put under the\nbirches. And when spring comes we'll have a flower-bed made in the\nmiddle of it and plant geraniums.\"\n\n\"Yes; only we'll have to devise some way of getting old Mrs. Hiram\nSloane to keep her cow off the road, or she'll eat our geraniums\nup,\" laughed Diana. \"I begin to see what you mean by educating public\nsentiment, Anne. There's the old Boulter house now. Did you ever see\nsuch a rookery? And perched right close to the road too. An old house\nwith its windows gone always makes me think of something dead with its\neyes picked out.\"\n\n\"I think an old, deserted house is such a sad sight,\" said Anne\ndreamily. \"It always seems to me to be thinking about its past and\nmourning for its old-time joys. Marilla says that a large family was\nraised in that old house long ago, and that it was a real pretty place,\nwith a lovely garden and roses climbing all over it. It was full of\nlittle children and laughter and songs; and now it is empty, and nothing\never wanders through it but the wind. How lonely and sorrowful it must\nfeel! Perhaps they all come back on moonlit nights . . . the ghosts of the\nlittle children of long ago and the roses and the songs . . . and for a\nlittle while the old house can dream it is young and joyous again.\"\n\nDiana shook her head.\n\n\"I never imagine things like that about places now, Anne. Don't you\nremember how cross mother and Marilla were when we imagined ghosts into\nthe Haunted Wood? To this day I can't go through that bush comfortably\nafter dark; and if I began imagining such things about the old Boulter\nhouse I'd be frightened to pass it too. Besides, those children aren't\ndead. They're all grown up and doing well . . . and one of them is a\nbutcher. And flowers and songs couldn't have ghosts anyhow.\"\n\nAnne smothered a little sigh. She loved Diana dearly and they had always\nbeen good comrades. But she had long ago learned that when she wandered\ninto the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was by an\nenchanted path where not even her dearest might follow her.\n\nA thunder-shower came up while the girls were at Carmody; it did\nnot last long, however, and the drive home, through lanes where the\nraindrops sparkled on the boughs and little leafy valleys where the\ndrenched ferns gave out spicy odors, was delightful. But just as they\nturned into the Cuthbert lane Anne saw something that spoiled the beauty\nof the landscape for her.\n\nBefore them on the right extended Mr. Harrison's broad, gray-green field\nof late oats, wet and luxuriant; and there, standing squarely in the\nmiddle of it, up to her sleek sides in the lush growth, and blinking at\nthem calmly over the intervening tassels, was a Jersey cow!\n\nAnne dropped the reins and stood up with a tightening of the lips that\nboded no good to the predatory quadruped. Not a word said she, but she\nclimbed nimbly down over the wheels, and whisked across the fence before\nDiana understood what had happened.\n\n\"Anne, come back,\" shrieked the latter, as soon as she found her voice.\n\"You'll ruin your dress in that wet grain . . . ruin it. She doesn't hear\nme! Well, she'll never get that cow out by herself. I must go and help\nher, of course.\"\n\nAnne was charging through the grain like a mad thing. Diana hopped\nbriskly down, tied the horse securely to a post, turned the skirt of her\npretty gingham dress over her shoulders, mounted the fence, and started\nin pursuit of her frantic friend. She could run faster than Anne, who\nwas hampered by her clinging and drenched skirt, and soon overtook her.\nBehind them they left a trail that would break Mr. Harrison's heart when\nhe should see it.\n\n\"Anne, for mercy's sake, stop,\" panted poor Diana. \"I'm right out of\nbreath and you are wet to the skin.\"\n\n\"I must . . . get . . . that cow . . . out . . . before . . . Mr.\nHarrison . . . sees her,\" gasped Anne. \"I don't . . . care . . . if I'm\n. . . drowned . . . if we . . . can . . . only . . . do that.\"\n\nBut the Jersey cow appeared to see no good reason for being hustled out\nof her luscious browsing ground. No sooner had the two breathless girls\ngot near her than she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite corner\nof the field.\n\n\"Head her off,\" screamed Anne. \"Run, Diana, run.\"\n\nDiana did run. Anne tried to, and the wicked Jersey went around the\nfield as if she were possessed. Privately, Diana thought she was. It was\nfully ten minutes before they headed her off and drove her through the\ncorner gap into the Cuthbert lane.\n\nThere is no denying that Anne was in anything but an angelic temper\nat that precise moment. Nor did it soothe her in the least to behold a\nbuggy halted just outside the lane, wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmody\nand his son, both of whom wore a broad smile.\n\n\"I guess you'd better have sold me that cow when I wanted to buy her\nlast week, Anne,\" chuckled Mr. Shearer.\n\n\"I'll sell her to you now, if you want her,\" said her flushed and\ndisheveled owner. \"You may have her this very minute.\"\n\n\"Done. I'll give you twenty for her as I offered before, and Jim here\ncan drive her right over to Carmody. She'll go to town with the rest of\nthe shipment this evening. Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a Jersey cow.\"\n\nFive minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey cow were marching up the\nroad, and impulsive Anne was driving along the Green Gables lane with\nher twenty dollars.\n\n\"What will Marilla say?\" asked Diana.\n\n\"Oh, she won't care. Dolly was my own cow and it isn't likely she'd\nbring more than twenty dollars at the auction. But oh dear, if Mr.\nHarrison sees that grain he will know she has been in again, and after\nmy giving him my word of honor that I'd never let it happen! Well, it\nhas taught me a lesson not to give my word of honor about cows. A cow\nthat could jump over or break through our milk-pen fence couldn't be\ntrusted anywhere.\"\n\nMarilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde's, and when she returned knew all\nabout Dolly's sale and transfer, for Mrs. Lynde had seen most of the\ntransaction from her window and guessed the rest.\n\n\"I suppose it's just as well she's gone, though you DO do things in a\ndreadful headlong fashion, Anne. I don't see how she got out of the pen,\nthough. She must have broken some of the boards off.\"\n\n\"I didn't think of looking,\" said Anne, \"but I'll go and see now. Martin\nhas never come back yet. Perhaps some more of his aunts have died. I\nthink it's something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the octogenarians. The\nother evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaper and she said to Mr.\nSloane, 'I see here that another octogenarian has just died. What is an\noctogenarian, Peter?' And Mr. Sloane said he didn't know, but they must\nbe very sickly creatures, for you never heard tell of them but they were\ndying. That's the way with Martin's aunts.\"\n\n\"Martin's just like all the rest of those French,\" said Marilla in\ndisgust. \"You can't depend on them for a day.\" Marilla was looking over\nAnne's Carmody purchases when she heard a shrill shriek in the barnyard.\nA minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wringing her hands.\n\n\"Anne Shirley, what's the matter now?\"\n\n\"Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This is terrible. And it's all my\nfault. Oh, will I EVER learn to stop and reflect a little before doing\nreckless things? Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something dreadful\nsome day, and now I've done it!\"\n\n\"Anne, you are the most exasperating girl! WHAT is it you've done?\"\n\n\"Sold Mr. Harrison's Jersey cow . . . the one he bought from Mr. Bell\n. . . to Mr. Shearer! Dolly is out in the milking pen this very minute.\"\n\n\"Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?\"\n\n\"I only wish I were. There's no dream about it, though it's very like a\nnightmare. And Mr. Harrison's cow is in Charlottetown by this time. Oh,\nMarilla, I thought I'd finished getting into scrapes, and here I am in\nthe very worst one I ever was in in my life. What can I do?\"\n\n\"Do? There's nothing to do, child, except go and see Mr. Harrison about\nit. We can offer him our Jersey in exchange if he doesn't want to take\nthe money. She is just as good as his.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he'll be awfully cross and disagreeable about it, though,\"\nmoaned Anne.\n\n\"I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritable sort of a man. I'll go\nand explain to him if you like.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I'm not as mean as that,\" exclaimed Anne. \"This is all my\nfault and I'm certainly not going to let you take my punishment. I'll go\nmyself and I'll go at once. The sooner it's over the better, for it will\nbe terribly humiliating.\"\n\nPoor Anne got her hat and her twenty dollars and was passing out when\nshe happened to glance through the open pantry door. On the table\nreposed a nut cake which she had baked that morning . . . a particularly\ntoothsome concoction iced with pink icing and adorned with walnuts. Anne\nhad intended it for Friday evening, when the youth of Avonlea were to\nmeet at Green Gables to organize the Improvement Society. But what were\nthey compared to the justly offended Mr. Harrison? Anne thought that\ncake ought to soften the heart of any man, especially one who had to do\nhis own cooking, and she promptly popped it into a box. She would take\nit to Mr. Harrison as a peace offering.\n\n\"That is, if he gives me a chance to say anything at all,\" she thought\nruefully, as she climbed the lane fence and started on a short cut\nacross the fields, golden in the light of the dreamy August evening. \"I\nknow now just how people feel who are being led to execution.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nMr. Harrison at Home\n\n\nMr. Harrison's house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashed\nstructure, set against a thick spruce grove.\n\nMr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshaded veranda, in his shirt\nsleeves, enjoying his evening pipe. When he realized who was coming up\nthe path he sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the house, and\nshut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable result of his surprise,\nmingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of temper the day\nbefore. But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from Anne's\nheart.\n\n\"If he's so cross now what will he be when he hears what I've done,\" she\nreflected miserably, as she rapped at the door.\n\nBut Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to enter\nin a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He had laid\naside his pipe and donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty chair\nvery politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly enough\nif it had not been for the telltale of a parrot who was peering through\nthe bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had Anne seated\nherself than Ginger exclaimed,\n\n\"Bless my soul, what's that redheaded snippet coming here for?\"\n\nIt would be hard to say whose face was the redder, Mr. Harrison's or\nAnne's.\n\n\"Don't you mind that parrot,\" said Mr. Harrison, casting a furious\nglance at Ginger. \"He's . . . he's always talking nonsense. I got him\nfrom my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don't always use the choicest\nlanguage, and parrots are very imitative birds.\"\n\n\"So I should think,\" said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errand\nquelling her resentment. She couldn't afford to snub Mr. Harrison under\nthe circumstances, that was certain. When you had just sold a man's\nJersey cow offhand, without his knowledge or consent you must not\nmind if his parrot repeated uncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the\n\"redheaded snippet\" was not quite so meek as she might otherwise have\nbeen.\n\n\"I've come to confess something to you, Mr. Harrison,\" she said\nresolutely. \"It's . . . it's about . . . that Jersey cow.\"\n\n\"Bless my soul,\" exclaimed Mr. Harrison nervously, \"has she gone and\nbroken into my oats again? Well, never mind . . . never mind if she has.\nIt's no difference . . . none at all, I . . . I was too hasty yesterday,\nthat's a fact. Never mind if she has.\"\n\n\"Oh, if it were only that,\" sighed Anne. \"But it's ten times worse. I\ndon't . . .\"\n\n\"Bless my soul, do you mean to say she's got into my wheat?\"\n\n\"No . . . no . . . not the wheat. But . . .\"\n\n\"Then it's the cabbages! She's broken into my cabbages that I was\nraising for Exhibition, hey?\"\n\n\"It's NOT the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I'll tell you everything . . .\nthat is what I came for--but please don't interrupt me. It makes me so\nnervous. Just let me tell my story and don't say anything till I get\nthrough--and then no doubt you'll say plenty,\" Anne concluded, but in\nthought only.\n\n\"I won't say another word,\" said Mr. Harrison, and he didn't. But\nGinger was not bound by any contract of silence and kept ejaculating,\n\"Redheaded snippet\" at intervals until Anne felt quite wild.\n\n\"I shut my Jersey cow up in our pen yesterday. This morning I went to\nCarmody and when I came back I saw a Jersey cow in your oats. Diana and\nI chased her out and you can't imagine what a hard time we had. I was\nso dreadfully wet and tired and vexed--and Mr. Shearer came by that very\nminute and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot for\ntwenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should have waited and consulted\nMarilla, of course. But I'm dreadfully given to doing things without\nthinking--everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. Shearer took\nthe cow right away to ship her on the afternoon train.\"\n\n\"Redheaded snippet,\" quoted Ginger in a tone of profound contempt.\n\nAt this point Mr. Harrison arose and, with an expression that would have\nstruck terror into any bird but a parrot, carried Ginger's cage into an\nadjoining room and shut the door. Ginger shrieked, swore, and otherwise\nconducted himself in keeping with his reputation, but finding himself\nleft alone, relapsed into sulky silence.\n\n\"Excuse me and go on,\" said Mr. Harrison, sitting down again. \"My\nbrother the sailor never taught that bird any manners.\"\n\n\"I went home and after tea I went out to the milking pen. Mr.\nHarrison,\" . . . Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands with her old\nchildish gesture, while her big gray eyes gazed imploringly into Mr.\nHarrison's embarrassed face . . . \"I found my cow still shut up in the\npen. It was YOUR cow I had sold to Mr. Shearer.\"\n\n\"Bless my soul,\" exclaimed Mr. Harrison, in blank amazement at this\nunlooked-for conclusion. \"What a VERY extraordinary thing!\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't in the least extraordinary that I should be getting myself\nand other people into scrapes,\" said Anne mournfully. \"I'm noted for\nthat. You might suppose I'd have grown out of it by this time . . . I'll\nbe seventeen next March . . . but it seems that I haven't. Mr. Harrison,\nis it too much to hope that you'll forgive me? I'm afraid it's too late\nto get your cow back, but here is the money for her . . . or you can have\nmine in exchange if you'd rather. She's a very good cow. And I can't\nexpress how sorry I am for it all.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut,\" said Mr. Harrison briskly, \"don't say another word about it,\nmiss. It's of no consequence . . . no consequence whatever. Accidents will\nhappen. I'm too hasty myself sometimes, miss . . .  far too hasty. But I\ncan't help speaking out just what I think and folks must take me as they\nfind me. If that cow had been in my cabbages now . . . but never mind, she\nwasn't, so it's all right. I think I'd rather have your cow in exchange,\nsince you want to be rid of her.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I'm so glad you are not vexed. I was\nafraid you would be.\"\n\n\"And I suppose you were scared to death to come here and tell me, after\nthe fuss I made yesterday, hey? But you mustn't mind me, I'm a terrible\noutspoken old fellow, that's all . . . awful apt to tell the truth, no\nmatter if it is a bit plain.\"\n\n\"So is Mrs. Lynde,\" said Anne, before she could prevent herself.\n\n\"Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don't you tell me I'm like that old gossip,\" said Mr.\nHarrison irritably. \"I'm not . . . not a bit. What have you got in that\nbox?\"\n\n\"A cake,\" said Anne archly. In her relief at Mr. Harrison's unexpected\namiability her spirits soared upward feather-light. \"I brought it over\nfor you . . . I thought perhaps you didn't have cake very often.\"\n\n\"I don't, that's a fact, and I'm mighty fond of it, too. I'm much\nobliged to you. It looks good on top. I hope it's good all the way\nthrough.\"\n\n\"It is,\" said Anne, gaily confident. \"I have made cakes in my time that\nwere NOT, as Mrs. Allan could tell you, but this one is all right. I\nmade it for the Improvement Society, but I can make another for them.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you what, miss, you must help me eat it. I'll put the\nkettle on and we'll have a cup of tea. How will that do?\"\n\n\"Will you let me make the tea?\" said Anne dubiously.\n\nMr. Harrison chuckled.\n\n\"I see you haven't much confidence in my ability to make tea. You're\nwrong . . . I can brew up as good a jorum of tea as you ever drank. But go\nahead yourself. Fortunately it rained last Sunday, so there's plenty of\nclean dishes.\"\n\nAnne hopped briskly up and went to work. She washed the teapot in\nseveral waters before she put the tea to steep. Then she swept the stove\nand set the table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The state of\nthat pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said nothing. Mr. Harrison\ntold her where to find the bread and butter and a can of peaches. Anne\nadorned the table with a bouquet from the garden and shut her eyes to\nthe stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready and Anne found\nherself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison at his own table, pouring his tea\nfor him, and chatting freely to him about her school and friends and\nplans. She could hardly believe the evidence of her senses.\n\nMr. Harrison had brought Ginger back, averring that the poor bird would\nbe lonesome; and Anne, feeling that she could forgive everybody and\neverything, offered him a walnut. But Ginger's feelings had been\ngrievously hurt and he rejected all overtures of friendship. He sat\nmoodily on his perch and ruffled his feathers up until he looked like a\nmere ball of green and gold.\n\n\"Why do you call him Ginger?\" asked Anne, who liked appropriate names\nand thought Ginger accorded not at all with such gorgeous plumage.\n\n\"My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had some reference to his\ntemper. I think a lot of that bird though . . . you'd be surprised if you\nknew how much. He has his faults of course. That bird has cost me a good\ndeal one way and another. Some people object to his swearing habits but\nhe can't be broken of them. I've tried . . . other people have tried.\nSome folks have prejudices against parrots. Silly, ain't it? I like them\nmyself. Ginger's a lot of company to me. Nothing would induce me to give\nthat bird up . . . nothing in the world, miss.\"\n\nMr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as explosively as if he\nsuspected her of some latent design of persuading him to give Ginger up.\nAnne, however, was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety little\nman, and before the meal was over they were quite good friends. Mr.\nHarrison found out about the Improvement Society and was disposed to\napprove of it.\n\n\"That's right. Go ahead. There's lots of room for improvement in this\nsettlement . . . and in the people too.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" flashed Anne. To herself, or to her particular\ncronies, she might admit that there were some small imperfections,\neasily removable, in Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear a\npractical outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely different\nthing. \"I think Avonlea is a lovely place; and the people in it are very\nnice, too.\"\n\n\"I guess you've got a spice of temper,\" commented Mr. Harrison,\nsurveying the flushed cheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. \"It goes\nwith hair like yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place or I\nwouldn't have located here; but I suppose even you will admit that it\nhas SOME faults?\"\n\n\"I like it all the better for them,\" said loyal Anne. \"I don't like\nplaces or people either that haven't any faults. I think a truly perfect\nperson would be very uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she never met\na perfect person, but she's heard enough about one  . . . her husband's\nfirst wife. Don't you think it must be very uncomfortable to be married\nto a man whose first wife was perfect?\"\n\n\"It would be more uncomfortable to be married to the perfect wife,\"\ndeclared Mr. Harrison, with a sudden and inexplicable warmth.\n\nWhen tea was over Anne insisted on washing the dishes, although Mr.\nHarrison assured her that there were enough in the house to do for weeks\nyet. She would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but no broom\nwas visible and she did not like to ask where it was for fear there\nwasn't one at all.\n\n\"You might run across and talk to me once in a while,\" suggested Mr.\nHarrison when she was leaving. \"'Tisn't far and folks ought to be\nneighborly. I'm kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to me\nthere'll be some fun in it. Who are you going to tackle first?\"\n\n\"We are not going to meddle with PEOPLE . . . it is only PLACES we mean to\nimprove,\" said Anne, in a dignified tone. She rather suspected that Mr.\nHarrison was making fun of the project.\n\nWhen she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from the window . . . a lithe,\ngirlish shape, tripping lightheartedly across the fields in the sunset\nafterglow.\n\n\"I'm a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap,\" he said aloud, \"but there's\nsomething about that little girl makes me feel young again . . . and it's\nsuch a pleasant sensation I'd like to have it repeated once in a while.\"\n\n\"Redheaded snippet,\" croaked Ginger mockingly.\n\nMr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot.\n\n\"You ornery bird,\" he muttered, \"I almost wish I'd wrung your neck when\nmy brother the sailor brought you home. Will you never be done getting\nme into trouble?\"\n\nAnne ran home blithely and recounted her adventures to Marilla, who had\nbeen not a little alarmed by her long absence and was on the point of\nstarting out to look for her.\n\n\"It's a pretty good world, after all, isn't it, Marilla?\" concluded Anne\nhappily. \"Mrs. Lynde was complaining the other day that it wasn't much\nof a world. She said whenever you looked forward to anything pleasant\nyou were sure to be more or less disappointed  . . . perhaps that is true.\nBut there is a good side to it too. The bad things don't always come\nup to your expectations either  . . . they nearly always turn out ever so\nmuch better than you think. I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasant\nexperience when I went over to Mr. Harrison's tonight; and instead he\nwas quite kind and I had almost a nice time. I think we're going to be\nreal good friends if we make plenty of allowances for each other, and\neverything has turned out for the best. But all the same, Marilla, I\nshall certainly never again sell a cow before making sure to whom she\nbelongs. And I do NOT like parrots!\"\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nDifferent Opinions\n\n\nOne evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, Gilbert Blythe, and Anne Shirley\nwere lingering by a fence in the shadow of gently swaying spruce boughs,\nwhere a wood cut known as the Birch Path joined the main road. Jane had\nbeen up to spend the afternoon with Anne, who walked part of the way\nhome with her; at the fence they met Gilbert, and all three were now\ntalking about the fateful morrow; for that morrow was the first of\nSeptember and the schools would open. Jane would go to Newbridge and\nGilbert to White Sands.\n\n\"You both have the advantage of me,\" sighed Anne. \"You're going to teach\nchildren who don't know you, but I have to teach my own old schoolmates,\nand Mrs. Lynde says she's afraid they won't respect me as they would\na stranger unless I'm very cross from the first. But I don't believe a\nteacher should be cross. Oh, it seems to me such a responsibility!\"\n\n\"I guess we'll get on all right,\" said Jane comfortably. Jane was not\ntroubled by any aspirations to be an influence for good. She meant to\nearn her salary fairly, please the trustees, and get her name on the\nSchool Inspector's roll of honor. Further ambitions Jane had none. \"The\nmain thing will be to keep order and a teacher has to be a little cross\nto do that. If my pupils won't do as I tell them I shall punish them.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Give them a good whipping, of course.\"\n\n\"Oh, Jane, you wouldn't,\" cried Anne, shocked. \"Jane, you COULDN'T!\"\n\n\"Indeed, I could and would, if they deserved it,\" said Jane decidedly.\n\n\"I could NEVER whip a child,\" said Anne with equal decision. \"I don't\nbelieve in it AT ALL. Miss Stacy never whipped any of us and she had\nperfect order; and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no order\nat all. No, if I can't get along without whipping I shall not try to\nteach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win my\npupils' affections and then they will WANT to do what I tell them.\"\n\n\"But suppose they don't?\" said practical Jane.\n\n\"I wouldn't whip them anyhow. I'm sure it wouldn't do any good. Oh,\ndon't whip your pupils, Jane dear, no matter what they do.\"\n\n\"What do you think about it, Gilbert?\" demanded Jane. \"Don't you think\nthere are some children who really need a whipping now and then?\"\n\n\"Don't you think it's a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child . . .  ANY\nchild?\" exclaimed Anne, her face flushing with earnestness.\n\n\"Well,\" said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real convictions and his\nwish to measure up to Anne's ideal, \"there's something to be said on\nboth sides. I don't believe in whipping children MUCH. I think, as you\nsay, Anne, that there are better ways of managing as a rule, and that\ncorporal punishment should be a last resort. But on the other hand,\nas Jane says, I believe there is an occasional child who can't be\ninfluenced in any other way and who, in short, needs a whipping and\nwould be improved by it. Corporal punishment as a last resort is to be\nmy rule.\"\n\nGilbert, having tried to please both sides, succeeded, as is usual and\neminently right, in pleasing neither. Jane tossed her head.\n\n\"I'll whip my pupils when they're naughty. It's the shortest and easiest\nway of convincing them.\"\n\nAnne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance.\n\n\"I shall never whip a child,\" she repeated firmly. \"I feel sure it isn't\neither right or necessary.\"\n\n\"Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him to do something?\" said\nJane.\n\n\"I'd keep him in after school and talk kindly and firmly to him,\" said\nAnne. \"There is some good in every person if you can find it. It is\na teacher's duty to find and develop it. That is what our School\nManagement professor at Queen's told us, you know. Do you suppose you\ncould find any good in a child by whipping him? It's far more important\nto influence the children aright than it is even to teach them the three\nR's, Professor Rennie says.\"\n\n\"But the Inspector examines them in the three R's, mind you, and he\nwon't give you a good report if they don't come up to his standard,\"\nprotested Jane.\n\n\"I'd rather have my pupils love me and look back to me in after years as\na real helper than be on the roll of honor,\" asserted Anne decidedly.\n\n\"Wouldn't you punish children at all, when they misbehaved?\" asked\nGilbert.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I suppose I shall have to, although I know I'll hate to do it.\nBut you can keep them in at recess or stand them on the floor or give\nthem lines to write.\"\n\n\"I suppose you won't punish the girls by making them sit with the boys?\"\nsaid Jane slyly.\n\nGilbert and Anne looked at each other and smiled rather foolishly. Once\nupon a time, Anne had been made to sit with Gilbert for punishment and\nsad and bitter had been the consequences thereof.\n\n\"Well, time will tell which is the best way,\" said Jane philosophically\nas they parted.\n\nAnne went back to Green Gables by way of Birch Path, shadowy, rustling,\nfern-scented, through Violet Vale and past Willowmere, where dark and\nlight kissed each other under the firs, and down through Lover's Lane\n. . . spots she and Diana had so named long ago. She walked slowly,\nenjoying the sweetness of wood and field and the starry summer twilight,\nand thinking soberly about the new duties she was to take up on the\nmorrow. When she reached the yard at Green Gables Mrs. Lynde's loud,\ndecided tones floated out through the open kitchen window.\n\n\"Mrs. Lynde has come up to give me good advice about tomorrow,\" thought\nAnne with a grimace, \"but I don't believe I'll go in. Her advice is\nmuch like pepper, I think . . . excellent in small quantities but rather\nscorching in her doses. I'll run over and have a chat with Mr. Harrison\ninstead.\"\n\nThis was not the first time Anne had run over and chatted with Mr.\nHarrison since the notable affair of the Jersey cow. She had been\nthere several evenings and Mr. Harrison and she were very good friends,\nalthough there were times and seasons when Anne found the outspokenness\non which he prided himself rather trying. Ginger still continued to\nregard her with suspicion, and never failed to greet her sarcastically\nas \"redheaded snippet.\" Mr. Harrison had tried vainly to break him\nof the habit by jumping excitedly up whenever he saw Anne coming and\nexclaiming,\n\n\"Bless my soul, here's that pretty little girl again,\" or something\nequally flattering. But Ginger saw through the scheme and scorned it.\nAnne was never to know how many compliments Mr. Harrison paid her behind\nher back. He certainly never paid her any to her face.\n\n\"Well, I suppose you've been back in the woods laying in a supply of\nswitches for tomorrow?\" was his greeting as Anne came up the veranda\nsteps.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" said Anne indignantly. She was an excellent target for\nteasing because she always took things so seriously. \"I shall never have\na switch in my school, Mr. Harrison. Of course, I shall have to have a\npointer, but I shall use it for pointing ONLY.\"\n\n\"So you mean to strap them instead? Well, I don't know but you're right.\nA switch stings more at the time but the strap smarts longer, that's a\nfact.\"\n\n\"I shall not use anything of the sort. I'm not going to whip my pupils.\"\n\n\"Bless my soul,\" exclaimed Mr. Harrison in genuine astonishment, \"how do\nyou lay out to keep order then?\"\n\n\"I shall govern by affection, Mr. Harrison.\"\n\n\"It won't do,\" said Mr. Harrison, \"won't do at all, Anne. 'Spare the\nrod and spoil the child.' When I went to school the master whipped me\nregular every day because he said if I wasn't in mischief just then I\nwas plotting it.\"\n\n\"Methods have changed since your schooldays, Mr. Harrison.\"\n\n\"But human nature hasn't. Mark my words, you'll never manage the young\nfry unless you keep a rod in pickle for them. The thing is impossible.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm going to try my way first,\" said Anne, who had a fairly\nstrong will of her own and was apt to cling very tenaciously to her\ntheories.\n\n\"You're pretty stubborn, I reckon,\" was Mr. Harrison's way of putting\nit. \"Well, well, we'll see. Someday when you get riled up . . . and people\nwith hair like yours are desperate apt to get riled . . . you'll forget\nall your pretty little notions and give some of them a whaling. You're\ntoo young to be teaching anyhow  . . . far too young and childish.\"\n\nAltogether, Anne went to bed that night in a rather pessimistic mood.\nShe slept poorly and was so pale and tragic at breakfast next morning\nthat Marilla was alarmed and insisted on making her take a cup of\nscorching ginger tea. Anne sipped it patiently, although she could not\nimagine what good ginger tea would do. Had it been some magic brew,\npotent to confer age and experience, Anne would have swallowed a quart\nof it without flinching.\n\n\"Marilla, what if I fail!\"\n\n\"You'll hardly fail completely in one day and there's plenty more days\ncoming,\" said Marilla. \"The trouble with you, Anne, is that you'll\nexpect to teach those children everything and reform all their faults\nright off, and if you can't you'll think you've failed.\"\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nA Full-fledged Schoolma'am\n\n\nWhen Anne reached the school that morning . . . for the first time in her\nlife she had traversed the Birch Path deaf and blind to its beauties . . .\nall was quiet and still. The preceding teacher had trained the\nchildren to be in their places at her arrival, and when Anne entered the\nschoolroom she was confronted by prim rows of \"shining morning faces\"\nand bright, inquisitive eyes. She hung up her hat and faced her pupils,\nhoping that she did not look as frightened and foolish as she felt and\nthat they would not perceive how she was trembling.\n\nShe had sat up until nearly twelve the preceding night composing a\nspeech she meant to make to her pupils upon opening the school. She had\nrevised and improved it painstakingly, and then she had learned it off\nby heart. It was a very good speech and had some very fine ideas in it,\nespecially about mutual help and earnest striving after knowledge. The\nonly trouble was that she could not now remember a word of it.\n\nAfter what seemed to her a year . . . about ten seconds in reality . . .\nshe said faintly, \"Take your Testaments, please,\" and sank breathlessly\ninto her chair under cover of the rustle and clatter of desk lids that\nfollowed. While the children read their verses Anne marshalled her shaky\nwits into order and looked over the array of little pilgrims to the\nGrownup Land.\n\nMost of them were, of course, quite well known to her. Her own\nclassmates had passed out in the preceding year but the rest had all\ngone to school with her, excepting the primer class and ten newcomers\nto Avonlea. Anne secretly felt more interest in these ten than in those\nwhose possibilities were already fairly well mapped out to her. To be\nsure, they might be just as commonplace as the rest; but on the other\nhand there MIGHT be a genius among them. It was a thrilling idea.\n\nSitting by himself at a corner desk was Anthony Pye. He had a dark,\nsullen little face, and was staring at Anne with a hostile expression in\nhis black eyes. Anne instantly made up her mind that she would win that\nboy's affection and discomfit the Pyes utterly.\n\nIn the other corner another strange boy was sitting with Arty Sloane. . .\na jolly looking little chap, with a snub nose, freckled face, and big,\nlight blue eyes, fringed with whitish lashes . . .  probably the DonNELL\nboy; and if resemblance went for anything, his sister was sitting across\nthe aisle with Mary Bell. Anne wondered what sort of mother the child\nhad, to send her to school dressed as she was. She wore a faded pink\nsilk dress, trimmed with a great deal of cotton lace, soiled white\nkid slippers, and silk stockings. Her sandy hair was tortured into\ninnumerable kinky and unnatural curls, surmounted by a flamboyant bow\nof pink ribbon bigger than her head. Judging from her expression she was\nvery well satisfied with herself.\n\nA pale little thing, with smooth ripples of fine, silky, fawn-colored\nhair flowing over her shoulders, must, Anne thought, be Annetta Bell,\nwhose parents had formerly lived in the Newbridge school district, but,\nby reason of hauling their house fifty yards north of its old site were\nnow in Avonlea. Three pallid little girls crowded into one seat were\ncertainly Cottons; and there was no doubt that the small beauty with\nthe long brown curls and hazel eyes, who was casting coquettish looks at\nJack Gills over the edge of her Testament, was Prillie Rogerson, whose\nfather had recently married a second wife and brought Prillie home from\nher grandmother's in Grafton. A tall, awkward girl in a back seat, who\nseemed to have too many feet and hands, Anne could not place at all, but\nlater on discovered that her name was Barbara Shaw and that she had come\nto live with an Avonlea aunt. She was also to find that if Barbara ever\nmanaged to walk down the aisle without falling over her own or somebody\nelse's feet the Avonlea scholars wrote the unusual fact up on the porch\nwall to commemorate it.\n\nBut when Anne's eyes met those of the boy at the front desk facing\nher own, a queer little thrill went over her, as if she had found her\ngenius. She knew this must be Paul Irving and that Mrs. Rachel Lynde\nhad been right for once when she prophesied that he would be unlike the\nAvonlea children. More than that, Anne realized that he was unlike other\nchildren anywhere, and that there was a soul subtly akin to her own\ngazing at her out of the very dark blue eyes that were watching her so\nintently.\n\nShe knew Paul was ten but he looked no more than eight. He had the most\nbeautiful little face she had ever seen in a child . . .  features of\nexquisite delicacy and refinement, framed in a halo of chestnut curls.\nHis mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, the crimson lips\njust softly touching and curving into finely finished little corners\nthat narrowly escaped being dimpled. He had a sober, grave, meditative\nexpression, as if his spirit was much older than his body; but when\nAnne smiled softly at him it vanished in a sudden answering smile, which\nseemed an illumination of his whole being, as if some lamp had suddenly\nkindled into flame inside of him, irradiating him from top to toe. Best\nof all, it was involuntary, born of no external effort or motive, but\nsimply the outflashing of a hidden personality, rare and fine and sweet.\nWith a quick interchange of smiles Anne and Paul were fast friends\nforever before a word had passed between them.\n\nThe day went by like a dream. Anne could never clearly recall it\nafterwards. It almost seemed as if it were not she who was teaching\nbut somebody else. She heard classes and worked sums and set copies\nmechanically. The children behaved quite well; only two cases of\ndiscipline occurred. Morley Andrews was caught driving a pair of trained\ncrickets in the aisle. Anne stood Morley on the platform for an\nhour and . . . which Morley felt much more keenly . . .  confiscated his\ncrickets. She put them in a box and on the way from school set them free\nin Violet Vale; but Morley believed, then and ever afterwards, that she\ntook them home and kept them for her own amusement.\n\nThe other culprit was Anthony Pye, who poured the last drops of water\nfrom his slate bottle down the back of Aurelia Clay's neck. Anne kept\nAnthony in at recess and talked to him about what was expected of\ngentlemen, admonishing him that they never poured water down ladies'\nnecks. She wanted all her boys to be gentlemen, she said. Her little\nlecture was quite kind and touching; but unfortunately Anthony remained\nabsolutely untouched. He listened to her in silence, with the same\nsullen expression, and whistled scornfully as he went out. Anne\nsighed; and then cheered herself up by remembering that winning a Pye's\naffections, like the building of Rome, wasn't the work of a day. In\nfact, it was doubtful whether some of the Pyes had any affections to\nwin; but Anne hoped better things of Anthony, who looked as if he might\nbe a rather nice boy if one ever got behind his sullenness.\n\nWhen school was dismissed and the children had gone Anne dropped wearily\ninto her chair. Her head ached and she felt woefully discouraged. There\nwas no real reason for discouragement, since nothing very dreadful had\noccurred; but Anne was very tired and inclined to believe that she would\nnever learn to like teaching. And how terrible it would be to be doing\nsomething you didn't like every day for . . . well, say forty years. Anne\nwas of two minds whether to have her cry out then and there, or wait\ntill she was safely in her own white room at home. Before she could\ndecide there was a click of heels and a silken swish on the porch floor,\nand Anne found herself confronted by a lady whose appearance made her\nrecall a recent criticism of Mr. Harrison's on an overdressed female he\nhad seen in a Charlottetown store. \"She looked like a head-on collision\nbetween a fashion plate and a nightmare.\"\n\nThe newcomer was gorgeously arrayed in a pale blue summer silk, puffed,\nfrilled, and shirred wherever puff, frill, or shirring could possibly\nbe placed. Her head was surmounted by a huge white chiffon hat, bedecked\nwith three long but rather stringy ostrich feathers. A veil of pink\nchiffon, lavishly sprinkled with huge black dots, hung like a flounce\nfrom the hat brim to her shoulders and floated off in two airy streamers\nbehind her. She wore all the jewelry that could be crowded on one small\nwoman, and a very strong odor of perfume attended her.\n\n\"I am Mrs. DonNELL . . . Mrs. H. B. DonNELL,\" announced this vision, \"and\nI have come in to see you about something Clarice Almira told me when\nshe came home to dinner today. It annoyed me EXCESSIVELY.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" faltered Anne, vainly trying to recollect any incident of\nthe morning connected with the Donnell children.\n\n\"Clarice Almira told me that you pronounced our name DONnell. Now, Miss\nShirley, the correct pronunciation of our name is DonNELL . . .  accent on\nthe last syllable. I hope you'll remember this in future.\"\n\n\"I'll try to,\" gasped Anne, choking back a wild desire to laugh. \"I know\nby experience that it's very unpleasant to have one's name SPELLED wrong\nand I suppose it must be even worse to have it pronounced wrong.\"\n\n\"Certainly it is. And Clarice Almira also informed me that you call my\nson Jacob.\"\n\n\"He told me his name was Jacob,\" protested Anne.\n\n\"I might well have expected that,\" said Mrs. H. B. Donnell, in a tone\nwhich implied that gratitude in children was not to be looked for in\nthis degenerate age. \"That boy has such plebeian tastes, Miss Shirley.\nWhen he was born I wanted to call him St. Clair  . . . it sounds SO\naristocratic, doesn't it? But his father insisted he should be called\nJacob after his uncle. I yielded, because Uncle Jacob was a rich old\nbachelor. And what do you think, Miss Shirley? When our innocent boy was\nfive years old Uncle Jacob actually went and got married and now he has\nthree boys of his own. Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? The moment\nthe invitation to the wedding . . . for he had the impertinence to send\nus an invitation, Miss Shirley . . . came to the house I said, 'No more\nJacobs for me, thank you.' From that day I called my son St. Clair and\nSt. Clair I am determined he shall be called. His father obstinately\ncontinues to call him Jacob, and the boy himself has a perfectly\nunaccountable preference for the vulgar name. But St. Clair he is and\nSt. Clair he shall remain. You will kindly remember this, Miss Shirley,\nwill you not? THANK you. I told Clarice Almira that I was sure it was\nonly a misunderstanding and that a word would set it right. Donnell. . .\naccent on the last syllable . . . and St. Clair . . . on no account\nJacob. You'll remember? THANK you.\"\n\nWhen Mrs. H. B. DonNELL had skimmed away Anne locked the school door and\nwent home. At the foot of the hill she found Paul Irving by the Birch\nPath. He held out to her a cluster of the dainty little wild orchids\nwhich Avonlea children called \"rice lillies.\"\n\n\"Please, teacher, I found these in Mr. Wright's field,\" he said shyly,\n\"and I came back to give them to you because I thought you were the\nkind of lady that would like them, and because . . .\" he lifted his big\nbeautiful eyes . . . \"I like you, teacher.\"\n\n\"You darling,\" said Anne, taking the fragrant spikes. As if Paul's words\nhad been a spell of magic, discouragement and weariness passed from her\nspirit, and hope upwelled in her heart like a dancing fountain. She went\nthrough the Birch Path light-footedly, attended by the sweetness of her\norchids as by a benediction.\n\n\"Well, how did you get along?\" Marilla wanted to know.\n\n\"Ask me that a month later and I may be able to tell you. I can't now\n. . . I don't know myself . . . I'm too near it. My thoughts feel as if\nthey had been all stirred up until they were thick and muddy. The only\nthing I feel really sure of having accomplished today is that I taught\nCliffie Wright that A is A. He never knew it before. Isn't it something\nto have started a soul along a path that may end in Shakespeare and\nParadise Lost?\"\n\nMrs. Lynde came up later on with more encouragement. That good lady had\nwaylaid the schoolchildren at her gate and demanded of them how they\nliked their new teacher.\n\n\"And every one of them said they liked you splendid, Anne, except\nAnthony Pye. I must admit he didn't. He said you 'weren't any good,\njust like all girl teachers.' There's the Pye leaven for you. But never\nmind.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to mind,\" said Anne quietly, \"and I'm going to make\nAnthony Pye like me yet. Patience and kindness will surely win him.\"\n\n\"Well, you can never tell about a Pye,\" said Mrs. Rachel cautiously.\n\"They go by contraries, like dreams, often as not. As for that DonNELL\nwoman, she'll get no DonNELLing from me, I can assure you. The name is\nDONnell and always has been. The woman is crazy, that's what. She has a\npug dog she calls Queenie and it has its meals at the table along with\nthe family, eating off a china plate. I'd be afraid of a judgment if I\nwas her. Thomas says Donnell himself is a sensible, hard-working man,\nbut he hadn't much gumption when he picked out a wife, that's what.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nAll Sorts and Conditions of Men . . . and women\n\n\nA September day on Prince Edward Island hills; a crisp wind blowing\nup over the sand dunes from the sea; a long red road, winding through\nfields and woods, now looping itself about a corner of thick set\nspruces, now threading a plantation of young maples with great feathery\nsheets of ferns beneath them, now dipping down into a hollow where a\nbrook flashed out of the woods and into them again, now basking in\nopen sunshine between ribbons of golden-rod and smoke-blue asters;\nair athrill with the pipings of myriads of crickets, those glad little\npensioners of the summer hills; a plump brown pony ambling along the\nroad; two girls behind him, full to the lips with the simple, priceless\njoy of youth and life.\n\n\"Oh, this is a day left over from Eden, isn't it, Diana?\" . . . and Anne\nsighed for sheer happiness. \"The air has magic in it. Look at the purple\nin the cup of the harvest valley, Diana. And oh, do smell the dying fir!\nIt's coming up from that little sunny hollow where Mr. Eben Wright has\nbeen cutting fence poles. Bliss is it on such a day to be alive; but\nto smell dying fir is very heaven. That's two thirds Wordsworth and one\nthird Anne Shirley. It doesn't seem possible that there should be dying\nfir in heaven, does it? And yet it doesn't seem to me that heaven would\nbe quite perfect if you couldn't get a whiff of dead fir as you went\nthrough its woods. Perhaps we'll have the odor there without the death.\nYes, I think that will be the way. That delicious aroma must be the\nsouls of the firs . . . and of course it will be just souls in heaven.\"\n\n\"Trees haven't souls,\" said practical Diana, \"but the smell of dead fir\nis certainly lovely. I'm going to make a cushion and fill it with fir\nneedles. You'd better make one too, Anne.\"\n\n\"I think I shall . . . and use it for my naps. I'd be certain to dream I\nwas a dryad or a woodnymph then. But just this minute I'm well content\nto be Anne Shirley, Avonlea schoolma'am, driving over a road like this\non such a sweet, friendly day.\"\n\n\"It's a lovely day but we have anything but a lovely task before us,\"\nsighed Diana. \"Why on earth did you offer to canvass this road, Anne?\nAlmost all the cranks in Avonlea live along it, and we'll probably be\ntreated as if we were begging for ourselves. It's the very worst road of\nall.\"\n\n\"That is why I chose it. Of course Gilbert and Fred would have taken\nthis road if we had asked them. But you see, Diana, I feel myself\nresponsible for the A.V.I.S., since I was the first to suggest it, and\nit seems to me that I ought to do the most disagreeable things. I'm\nsorry on your account; but you needn't say a word at the cranky places.\nI'll do all the talking . . .  Mrs. Lynde would say I was well able to.\nMrs. Lynde doesn't know whether to approve of our enterprise or not. She\ninclines to, when she remembers that Mr. and Mrs. Allan are in favor of\nit; but the fact that village improvement societies first originated in\nthe States is a count against it. So she is halting between two opinions\nand only success will justify us in Mrs. Lynde's eyes. Priscilla is\ngoing to write a paper for our next Improvement meeting, and I expect it\nwill be good, for her aunt is such a clever writer and no doubt it runs\nin the family. I shall never forget the thrill it gave me when I found\nout that Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan was Priscilla's aunt. It seemed so\nwonderful that I was a friend of the girl whose aunt wrote 'Edgewood\nDays' and 'The Rosebud Garden.'\"\n\n\"Where does Mrs. Morgan live?\"\n\n\"In Toronto. And Priscilla says she is coming to the Island for a visit\nnext summer, and if it is possible Priscilla is going to arrange to have\nus meet her. That seems almost too good to be true--but it's something\npleasant to imagine after you go to bed.\"\n\nThe Avonlea Village Improvement Society was an organized fact.\nGilbert Blythe was president, Fred Wright vice-president, Anne Shirley\nsecretary, and Diana Barry treasurer. The \"Improvers,\" as they were\npromptly christened, were to meet once a fortnight at the homes of\nthe members. It was admitted that they could not expect to affect many\nimprovements so late in the season; but they meant to plan the next\nsummer's campaign, collect and discuss ideas, write and read papers,\nand, as Anne said, educate the public sentiment generally.\n\nThere was some disapproval, of course, and . . . which the Improvers felt\nmuch more keenly . . . a good deal of ridicule. Mr. Elisha Wright was\nreported to have said that a more appropriate name for the organization\nwould be Courting Club. Mrs. Hiram Sloane declared she had heard the\nImprovers meant to plough up all the roadsides and set them out with\ngeraniums. Mr. Levi Boulter warned his neighbors that the Improvers\nwould insist that everybody pull down his house and rebuild it after\nplans approved by the society. Mr. James Spencer sent them word that he\nwished they would kindly shovel down the church hill. Eben Wright told\nAnne that he wished the Improvers could induce old Josiah Sloane to\nkeep his whiskers trimmed. Mr. Lawrence Bell said he would whitewash\nhis barns if nothing else would please them but he would NOT hang lace\ncurtains in the cowstable windows. Mr. Major Spencer asked Clifton\nSloane, an Improver who drove the milk to the Carmody cheese factory,\nif it was true that everybody would have to have his milk-stand\nhand-painted next summer and keep an embroidered centerpiece on it.\n\nIn spite of . . . or perhaps, human nature being what it is, because of\n. . . this, the Society went gamely to work at the only improvement they\ncould hope to bring about that fall. At the second meeting, in the Barry\nparlor, Oliver Sloane moved that they start a subscription to re-shingle\nand paint the hall; Julia Bell seconded it, with an uneasy feeling that\nshe was doing something not exactly ladylike. Gilbert put the motion,\nit was carried unanimously, and Anne gravely recorded it in her minutes.\nThe next thing was to appoint a committee, and Gertie Pye, determined\nnot to let Julia Bell carry off all the laurels, boldly moved that Miss\nJane Andrews be chairman of said committee. This motion being also duly\nseconded and carried, Jane returned the compliment by appointing Gertie\non the committee, along with Gilbert, Anne, Diana, and Fred Wright. The\ncommittee chose their routes in private conclave. Anne and Diana were\ntold off for the Newbridge road, Gilbert and Fred for the White Sands\nroad, and Jane and Gertie for the Carmody road.\n\n\"Because,\" explained Gilbert to Anne, as they walked home together\nthrough the Haunted Wood, \"the Pyes all live along that road and they\nwon't give a cent unless one of themselves canvasses them.\"\n\nThe next Saturday Anne and Diana started out. They drove to the end of\nthe road and canvassed homeward, calling first on the \"Andrew girls.\"\n\n\"If Catherine is alone we may get something,\" said Diana, \"but if Eliza\nis there we won't.\"\n\nEliza was there . . . very much so . . . and looked even grimmer than\nusual. Miss Eliza was one of those people who give you the impression\nthat life is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak of\na laugh, is a waste of nervous energy truly reprehensible. The Andrew\ngirls had been \"girls\" for fifty odd years and seemed likely to remain\ngirls to the end of their earthly pilgrimage. Catherine, it was said,\nhad not entirely given up hope, but Eliza, who was born a pessimist, had\nnever had any. They lived in a little brown house built in a sunny\ncorner scooped out of Mark Andrew's beech woods. Eliza complained that\nit was terrible hot in summer, but Catherine was wont to say it was\nlovely and warm in winter.\n\nEliza was sewing patchwork, not because it was needed but simply as\na protest against the frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting. Eliza\nlistened with a frown and Catherine with a smile, as the girls explained\ntheir errand. To be sure, whenever Catherine caught Eliza's eye she\ndiscarded the smile in guilty confusion; but it crept back the next\nmoment.\n\n\"If I had money to waste,\" said Eliza grimly, \"I'd burn it up and have\nthe fun of seeing a blaze maybe; but I wouldn't give it to that hall,\nnot a cent. It's no benefit to the settlement . . . just a place for young\nfolks to meet and carry on when they's better be home in their beds.\"\n\n\"Oh, Eliza, young folks must have some amusement,\" protested Catherine.\n\n\"I don't see the necessity. We didn't gad about to halls and places when\nwe were young, Catherine Andrews. This world is getting worse every day.\"\n\n\"I think it's getting better,\" said Catherine firmly.\n\n\"YOU think!\" Miss Eliza's voice expressed the utmost contempt. \"It\ndoesn't signify what you THINK, Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts.\"\n\n\"Well, I always like to look on the bright side, Eliza.\"\n\n\"There isn't any bright side.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed there is,\" cried Anne, who couldn't endure such heresy in\nsilence. \"Why, there are ever so many bright sides, Miss Andrews. It's\nreally a beautiful world.\"\n\n\"You won't have such a high opinion of it when you've lived as long\nin it as I have,\" retorted Miss Eliza sourly, \"and you won't be so\nenthusiastic about improving it either. How is your mother, Diana? Dear\nme, but she has failed of late. She looks terrible run down. And how\nlong is it before Marilla expects to be stone blind, Anne?\"\n\n\"The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse if she is very\ncareful,\" faltered Anne.\n\nEliza shook her head.\n\n\"Doctors always talk like that just to keep people cheered up. I\nwouldn't have much hope if I was her. It's best to be prepared for the\nworst.\"\n\n\"But oughtn't we be prepared for the best too?\" pleaded Anne. \"It's just\nas likely to happen as the worst.\"\n\n\"Not in my experience, and I've fifty-seven years to set against your\nsixteen,\" retorted Eliza. \"Going, are you? Well, I hope this new society\nof yours will be able to keep Avonlea from running any further down hill\nbut I haven't much hope of it.\"\n\nAnne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, and drove away as fast as\nthe fat pony could go. As they rounded the curve below the beech wood\na plump figure came speeding over Mr. Andrews' pasture, waving to them\nexcitedly. It was Catherine Andrews and she was so out of breath that\nshe could hardly speak, but she thrust a couple of quarters into Anne's\nhand.\n\n\"That's my contribution to painting the hall,\" she gasped. \"I'd like to\ngive you a dollar but I don't dare take more from my egg money for Eliza\nwould find it out if I did. I'm real interested in your society and I\nbelieve you're going to do a lot of good. I'm an optimist. I HAVE to be,\nliving with Eliza. I must hurry back before she misses me . . . she thinks\nI'm feeding the hens. I hope you'll have good luck canvassing, and don't\nbe cast down over what Eliza said. The world IS getting better . . . it\ncertainly is.\"\n\nThe next house was Daniel Blair's.\n\n\"Now, it all depends on whether his wife is home or not,\" said Diana,\nas they jolted along a deep-rutted lane. \"If she is we won't get a cent.\nEverybody says Dan Blair doesn't dare have his hair cut without\nasking her permission; and it's certain she's very close, to state it\nmoderately. She says she has to be just before she's generous. But Mrs.\nLynde says she's so much 'before' that generosity never catches up with\nher at all.\"\n\nAnne related their experience at the Blair place to Marilla that\nevening.\n\n\"We tied the horse and then rapped at the kitchen door. Nobody came but\nthe door was open and we could hear somebody in the pantry, going on\ndreadfully. We couldn't make out the words but Diana says she knows they\nwere swearing by the sound of them. I can't believe that of Mr.\nBlair, for he is always so quiet and meek; but at least he had great\nprovocation, for Marilla, when that poor man came to the door, red as\na beet, with perspiration streaming down his face, he had on one of his\nwife's big gingham aprons. 'I can't get this durned thing off,' he said,\n'for the strings are tied in a hard knot and I can't bust 'em, so you'll\nhave to excuse me, ladies.' We begged him not to mention it and went in\nand sat down. Mr. Blair sat down too; he twisted the apron around to\nhis back and rolled it up, but he did look so ashamed and worried that\nI felt sorry for him, and Diana said she feared we had called at an\ninconvenient time. 'Oh, not at all,' said Mr. Blair, trying to smile\n. . . you know he is always very polite . . . 'I'm a little busy . . .\ngetting ready to bake a cake as it were. My wife got a telegram today\nthat her sister from Montreal is coming tonight and she's gone to the\ntrain to meet her and left orders for me to make a cake for tea. She\nwrit out the recipe and told me what to do but I've clean forgot half\nthe directions already. And it says, 'flavor according to taste.' What\ndoes that mean? How can you tell? And what if my taste doesn't happen to\nbe other people's taste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla be enough for a\nsmall layer cake?\"\n\n\"I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He didn't seem to be in his\nproper sphere at all. I had heard of henpecked husbands and now I felt\nthat I saw one. It was on my lips to say, 'Mr. Blair, if you'll give\nus a subscription for the hall I'll mix up your cake for you.' But I\nsuddenly thought it wouldn't be neighborly to drive too sharp a bargain\nwith a fellow creature in distress. So I offered to mix the cake for him\nwithout any conditions at all. He just jumped at my offer. He said he'd\nbeen used to making his own bread before he was married but he feared\ncake was beyond him, and yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got me\nanother apron, and Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr. Blair\nran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten all about his apron\nand when he ran it streamed out behind him and Diana said she thought\nshe would die to see it. He said he could bake the cake all right . . . he\nwas used to that . . . and then he asked for our list and he put down four\ndollars. So you see we were rewarded. But even if he hadn't given a cent\nI'd always feel that we had done a truly Christian act in helping him.\"\n\nTheodore White's was the next stopping place. Neither Anne nor Diana\nhad ever been there before, and they had only a very slight acquaintance\nwith Mrs. Theodore, who was not given to hospitality. Should they go to\nthe back or front door? While they held a whispered consultation Mrs.\nTheodore appeared at the front door with an armful of newspapers.\nDeliberately she laid them down one by one on the porch floor and the\nporch steps, and then down the path to the very feet of her mystified\ncallers.\n\n\"Will you please wipe your feet carefully on the grass and then walk on\nthese papers?\" she said anxiously. \"I've just swept the house all over\nand I can't have any more dust tracked in. The path's been real muddy\nsince the rain yesterday.\"\n\n\"Don't you dare laugh,\" warned Anne in a whisper, as they marched along\nthe newspapers. \"And I implore you, Diana, not to look at me, no matter\nwhat she says, or I shall not be able to keep a sober face.\"\n\nThe papers extended across the hall and into a prim, fleckless parlor.\nAnne and Diana sat down gingerly on the nearest chairs and explained\ntheir errand. Mrs. White heard them politely, interrupting only twice,\nonce to chase out an adventurous fly, and once to pick up a tiny wisp\nof grass that had fallen on the carpet from Anne's dress. Anne felt\nwretchedly guilty; but Mrs. White subscribed two dollars and paid the\nmoney down . . . \"to prevent us from having to go back for it,\" Diana said\nwhen they got away. Mrs. White had the newspapers gathered up before\nthey had their horse untied and as they drove out of the yard they saw\nher busily wielding a broom in the hall.\n\n\"I've always heard that Mrs. Theodore White was the neatest woman\nalive and I'll believe it after this,\" said Diana, giving way to her\nsuppressed laughter as soon as it was safe.\n\n\"I am glad she has no children,\" said Anne solemnly. \"It would be\ndreadful beyond words for them if she had.\"\n\nAt the Spencers' Mrs. Isabella Spencer made them miserable by saying\nsomething ill-natured about everyone in Avonlea. Mr. Thomas Boulter\nrefused to give anything because the hall, when it had been built,\ntwenty years before, hadn't been built on the site he recommended. Mrs.\nEsther Bell, who was the picture of health, took half an hour to detail\nall her aches and pains, and sadly put down fifty cents because she\nwouldn't be there that time next year to do it . . . no, she would be in\nher grave.\n\nTheir worst reception, however, was at Simon Fletcher's. When they\ndrove into the yard they saw two faces peering at them through the porch\nwindow. But although they rapped and waited patiently and persistently\nnobody came to the door. Two decidedly ruffled and indignant girls drove\naway from Simon Fletcher's. Even Anne admitted that she was beginning\nto feel discouraged. But the tide turned after that. Several Sloane\nhomesteads came next, where they got liberal subscriptions, and from\nthat to the end they fared well, with only an occasional snub. Their\nlast place of call was at Robert Dickson's by the pond bridge. They\nstayed to tea here, although they were nearly home, rather than risk\noffending Mrs. Dickson, who had the reputation of being a very \"touchy\"\nwoman.\n\nWhile they were there old Mrs. James White called in.\n\n\"I've just been down to Lorenzo's,\" she announced. \"He's the proudest\nman in Avonlea this minute. What do you think? There's a brand new boy\nthere . . . and after seven girls that's quite an event, I can tell you.\"\nAnne pricked up her ears, and when they drove away she said.\n\n\"I'm going straight to Lorenzo White's.\"\n\n\"But he lives on the White Sands road and it's quite a distance out of\nour way,\" protested Diana. \"Gilbert and Fred will canvass him.\"\n\n\"They are not going around until next Saturday and it will be too late\nby then,\" said Anne firmly. \"The novelty will be worn off. Lorenzo\nWhite is dreadfully mean but he will subscribe to ANYTHING just now. We\nmustn't let such a golden opportunity slip, Diana.\" The result justified\nAnne's foresight. Mr. White met them in the yard, beaming like the\nsun upon an Easter day. When Anne asked for a subscription he agreed\nenthusiastically.\n\n\"Certain, certain. Just put me down for a dollar more than the highest\nsubscription you've got.\"\n\n\"That will be five dollars . . . Mr. Daniel Blair put down four,\" said\nAnne, half afraid. But Lorenzo did not flinch.\n\n\"Five it is . . . and here's the money on the spot. Now, I want you\nto come into the house. There's something in there worth seeing . . .\nsomething very few people have seen as yet. Just come in and pass YOUR\nopinion.\"\n\n\"What will we say if the baby isn't pretty?\" whispered Diana in\ntrepidation as they followed the excited Lorenzo into the house.\n\n\"Oh, there will certainly be something else nice to say about it,\" said\nAnne easily. \"There always is about a baby.\"\n\nThe baby WAS pretty, however, and Mr. White felt that he got his five\ndollars' worth of the girls' honest delight over the plump little\nnewcomer. But that was the first, last, and only time that Lorenzo White\never subscribed to anything.\n\nAnne, tired as she was, made one more effort for the public weal that\nnight, slipping over the fields to interview Mr. Harrison, who was as\nusual smoking his pipe on the veranda with Ginger beside him. Strickly\nspeaking he was on the Carmody road; but Jane and Gertie, who were not\nacquainted with him save by doubtful report, had nervously begged Anne\nto canvass him.\n\nMr. Harrison, however, flatly refused to subscribe a cent, and all\nAnne's wiles were in vain.\n\n\"But I thought you approved of our society, Mr. Harrison,\" she mourned.\n\n\"So I do . . . so I do . . . but my approval doesn't go as deep as my\npocket, Anne.\"\n\n\"A few more experiences such as I have had today would make me as much\nof a pessimist as Miss Eliza Andrews,\" Anne told her reflection in the\neast gable mirror at bedtime.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nThe Pointing of Duty\n\n\nAnne leaned back in her chair one mild October evening and sighed. She\nwas sitting at a table covered with text books and exercises, but the\nclosely written sheets of paper before her had no apparent connection\nwith studies or school work.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked Gilbert, who had arrived at the open kitchen\ndoor just in time to hear the sigh.\n\nAnne colored, and thrust her writing out of sight under some school\ncompositions.\n\n\"Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write out some of my\nthoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn't get them to\nplease me. They seem so still and foolish directly they're written down\non white paper with black ink. Fancies are like shadows . . .  you can't\ncage them, they're such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I'll learn\nthe secret some day if I keep on trying. I haven't a great many spare\nmoments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises and\ncompositions, I don't always feel like writing any of my own.\"\n\n\"You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne. All the children like\nyou,\" said Gilbert, sitting down on the stone step.\n\n\"No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and WON'T like me. What is worse, he\ndoesn't respect me . . . no, he doesn't. He simply holds me in contempt\nand I don't mind confessing to you that it worries me miserably. It\nisn't that he is so very bad . . . he is only rather mischievous, but no\nworse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys me; but he obeys with\na scornful air of toleration as if it wasn't worthwhile disputing the\npoint or he would . . . and it has a bad effect on the others. I've tried\nevery way to win him but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I want to,\nfor he's rather a cute little lad, if he IS a Pye, and I could like him\nif he'd let me.\"\n\n\"Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears at home.\"\n\n\"Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up his\nown mind about things. He has always gone to men before and he says girl\nteachers are no good. Well, we'll see what patience and kindness\nwill do. I like overcoming difficulties and teaching is really very\ninteresting work. Paul Irving makes up for all that is lacking in the\nothers. That child is a perfect darling, Gilbert, and a genius into the\nbargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him some day,\" concluded\nAnne in a tone of conviction.\n\n\"I like teaching, too,\" said Gilbert. \"It's good training, for one\nthing. Why, Anne, I've learned more in the weeks I've been teaching the\nyoung ideas of White Sands than I learned in all the years I went to\nschool myself. We all seem to be getting on pretty well. The Newbridge\npeople like Jane, I hear; and I think White Sands is tolerably satisfied\nwith your humble servant . . . all except Mr. Andrew Spencer. I met Mrs.\nPeter Blewett on my way home last night and she told me she thought it\nher duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn't approve of my methods.\"\n\n\"Have you ever noticed,\" asked Anne reflectively, \"that when people\nsay it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare for\nsomething disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it a\nduty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you? Mrs. H. B.\nDonNELL called at the school again yesterday and told me she thought\nit HER duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrew didn't approve of\nmy reading fairy tales to the children, and that Mr. Rogerson thought\nPrillie wasn't coming on fast enough in arithmetic. If Prillie would\nspend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate she might do\nbetter. I feel quite sure that Jack Gillis works her class sums for her,\nthough I've never been able to catch him red-handed.\"\n\n\"Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs. DonNELL's hopeful son to his\nsaintly name?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" laughed Anne, \"but it was really a difficult task. At first, when\nI called him 'St. Clair' he would not take the least notice until I'd\nspoken two or three times; and then, when the other boys nudged him, he\nwould look up with such an aggrieved air, as if I'd called him John or\nCharlie and he couldn't be expected to know I meant him. So I kept\nhim in after school one night and talked kindly to him. I told him his\nmother wished me to call him St. Clair and I couldn't go against her\nwishes. He saw it when it was all explained out . . . he's really a very\nreasonable little fellow . . . and he said _I_ could call him St. Clair\nbut that he'd 'lick the stuffing' out of any of the boys that tried it.\nOf course, I had to rebuke him again for using such shocking language.\nSince then _I_ call him St. Clair and the boys call him Jake and all\ngoes smoothly. He informs me that he means to be a carpenter, but Mrs.\nDonNELL says I am to make a college professor out of him.\"\n\nThe mention of college gave a new direction to Gilbert's thoughts, and\nthey talked for a time of their plans and wishes . . . gravely, earnestly,\nhopefully, as youth loves to talk, while the future is yet an untrodden\npath full of wonderful possibilities.\n\nGilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor.\n\n\"It's a splendid profession,\" he said enthusiastically. \"A fellow has to\nfight something all through life . . . didn't somebody once define man\nas a fighting animal? . . . and I want to fight disease and pain and\nignorance . . . which are all members one of another. I want to do my\nshare of honest, real work in the world, Anne . . .  add a little to the\nsum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating\nsince it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me\nthat I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who\nwill live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can get\nsquare with his obligations to the race.\"\n\n\"I'd like to add some beauty to life,\" said Anne dreamily. \"I don't\nexactly want to make people KNOW more . . . though I know that IS the\nnoblest ambition . . . but I'd love to make them have a pleasanter time\nbecause of me . . . to have some little joy or happy thought that would\nnever have existed if I hadn't been born.\"\n\n\"I think you're fulfilling that ambition every day,\" said Gilbert\nadmiringly.\n\nAnd he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright.\nAfter she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown across\nit like a gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for the time\nbeing at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report.\n\nFinally Gilbert rose regretfully.\n\n\"Well, I must run up to MacPhersons'. Moody Spurgeon came home from\nQueen's today for Sunday and he was to bring me out a book Professor\nBoyd is lending me.\"\n\n\"And I must get Marilla's tea. She went to see Mrs. Keith this evening\nand she will soon be back.\"\n\nAnne had tea ready when Marilla came home; the fire was crackling\ncheerily, a vase of frost-bleached ferns and ruby-red maple leaves\nadorned the table, and delectable odors of ham and toast pervaded the\nair. But Marilla sank into her chair with a deep sigh.\n\n\"Are your eyes troubling you? Does your head ache?\" queried Anne\nanxiously.\n\n\"No. I'm only tired . . . and worried. It's about Mary and those children\n . . . Mary is worse . . . she can't last much longer. And as for the\ntwins, _I_ don't know what is to become of them.\"\n\n\"Hasn't their uncle been heard from?\"\n\n\"Yes, Mary had a letter from him. He's working in a lumber camp and\n'shacking it,' whatever that means. Anyway, he says he can't possibly\ntake the children till the spring. He expects to be married then and\nwill have a home to take them to; but he says she must get some of the\nneighbors to keep them for the winter. She says she can't bear to ask\nany of them. Mary never got on any too well with the East Grafton people\nand that's a fact. And the long and short of it is, Anne, that I'm\nsure Mary wants me to take those children . . . she didn't say so but she\nLOOKED it.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Anne clasped her hands, all athrill with excitement. \"And of\ncourse you will, Marilla, won't you?\"\n\n\"I haven't made up my mind,\" said Marilla rather tartly. \"I don't rush\ninto things in your headlong way, Anne. Third cousinship is a pretty\nslim claim. And it will be a fearful responsibility to have two children\nof six years to look after . . . twins, at that.\"\n\nMarilla had an idea that twins were just twice as bad as single\nchildren.\n\n\"Twins are very interesting . . . at least one pair of them,\" said Anne.\n\"It's only when there are two or three pairs that it gets monotonous.\nAnd I think it would be real nice for you to have something to amuse you\nwhen I'm away in school.\"\n\n\"I don't reckon there'd be much amusement in it . . . more worry and\nbother than anything else, I should say. It wouldn't be so risky if they\nwere even as old as you were when I took you. I wouldn't mind Dora so\nmuch . . . she seems good and quiet. But that Davy is a limb.\"\n\nAnne was fond of children and her heart yearned over the Keith twins.\nThe remembrance of her own neglected childhood was very vivid with\nher still. She knew that Marilla's only vulnerable point was her stern\ndevotion to what she believed to be her duty, and Anne skillfully\nmarshalled her arguments along this line.\n\n\"If Davy is naughty it's all the more reason why he should have good\ntraining, isn't it, Marilla? If we don't take them we don't know who\nwill, nor what kind of influences may surround them. Suppose Mrs.\nKeith's next door neighbors, the Sprotts, were to take them. Mrs. Lynde\nsays Henry Sprott is the most profane man that ever lived and you can't\nbelieve a word his children say. Wouldn't it be dreadful to have the\ntwins learn anything like that? Or suppose they went to the Wiggins'.\nMrs. Lynde says that Mr. Wiggins sells everything off the place that can\nbe sold and brings his family up on skim milk. You wouldn't like your\nrelations to be starved, even if they were only third cousins, would\nyou? It seems to me, Marilla, that it is our duty to take them.\"\n\n\"I suppose it is,\" assented Marilla gloomily. \"I daresay I'll tell Mary\nI'll take them. You needn't look so delighted, Anne. It will mean a good\ndeal of extra work for you. I can't sew a stitch on account of my eyes,\nso you'll have to see to the making and mending of their clothes. And\nyou don't like sewing.\"\n\n\"I hate it,\" said Anne calmly, \"but if you are willing to take those\nchildren from a sense of duty surely I can do their sewing from a sense\nof duty. It does people good to have to do things they don't like . . . in\nmoderation.\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nMarilla Adopts Twins\n\n\nMrs. Rachel Lynde was sitting at her kitchen window, knitting a quilt,\njust as she had been sitting one evening several years previously when\nMatthew Cuthbert had driven down over the hill with what Mrs. Rachel\ncalled \"his imported orphan.\" But that had been in springtime; and this\nwas late autumn, and all the woods were leafless and the fields sere and\nbrown. The sun was just setting with a great deal of purple and golden\npomp behind the dark woods west of Avonlea when a buggy drawn by a\ncomfortable brown nag came down the hill. Mrs. Rachel peered at it\neagerly.\n\n\"There's Marilla getting home from the funeral,\" she said to her\nhusband, who was lying on the kitchen lounge. Thomas Lynde lay more on\nthe lounge nowadays than he had been used to do, but Mrs. Rachel, who\nwas so sharp at noticing anything beyond her own household, had not as\nyet noticed this. \"And she's got the twins with her, . . . yes, there's\nDavy leaning over the dashboard grabbing at the pony's tail and Marilla\njerking him back. Dora's sitting up on the seat as prim as you please.\nShe always looks as if she'd just been starched and ironed. Well, poor\nMarilla is going to have her hands full this winter and no mistake.\nStill, I don't see that she could do anything less than take them, under\nthe circumstances, and she'll have Anne to help her. Anne's tickled\nto death over the whole business, and she has a real knacky way with\nchildren, I must say. Dear me, it doesn't seem a day since poor Matthew\nbrought Anne herself home and everybody laughed at the idea of Marilla\nbringing up a child. And now she has adopted twins. You're never safe\nfrom being surprised till you're dead.\"\n\nThe fat pony jogged over the bridge in Lynde's Hollow and along the\nGreen Gables lane. Marilla's face was rather grim. It was ten miles from\nEast Grafton and Davy Keith seemed to be possessed with a passion for\nperpetual motion. It was beyond Marilla's power to make him sit still\nand she had been in an agony the whole way lest he fall over the back\nof the wagon and break his neck, or tumble over the dashboard under the\npony's heels. In despair she finally threatened to whip him soundly when\nshe got him home. Whereupon Davy climbed into her lap, regardless of\nthe reins, flung his chubby arms about her neck and gave her a bear-like\nhug.\n\n\"I don't believe you mean it,\" he said, smacking her wrinkled cheek\naffectionately. \"You don't LOOK like a lady who'd whip a little boy just\n'cause he couldn't keep still. Didn't you find it awful hard to keep\nstill when you was only 's old as me?\"\n\n\"No, I always kept still when I was told,\" said Marilla, trying to speak\nsternly, albeit she felt her heart waxing soft within her under Davy's\nimpulsive caresses.\n\n\"Well, I s'pose that was 'cause you was a girl,\" said Davy, squirming\nback to his place after another hug. \"You WAS a girl once, I s'pose,\nthough it's awful funny to think of it. Dora can sit still . . . but there\nain't much fun in it _I_ don't think. Seems to me it must be slow to be\na girl. Here, Dora, let me liven you up a bit.\"\n\nDavy's method of \"livening up\" was to grasp Dora's curls in his fingers\nand give them a tug. Dora shrieked and then cried.\n\n\"How can you be such a naughty boy and your poor mother just laid in her\ngrave this very day?\" demanded Marilla despairingly.\n\n\"But she was glad to die,\" said Davy confidentially. \"I know, 'cause\nshe told me so. She was awful tired of being sick. We'd a long talk the\nnight before she died. She told me you was going to take me and Dora for\nthe winter and I was to be a good boy. I'm going to be good, but can't\nyou be good running round just as well as sitting still? And she said I\nwas always to be kind to Dora and stand up for her, and I'm going to.\"\n\n\"Do you call pulling her hair being kind to her?\"\n\n\"Well, I ain't going to let anybody else pull it,\" said Davy, doubling\nup his fists and frowning. \"They'd just better try it. I didn't hurt her\nmuch . . . she just cried 'cause she's a girl. I'm glad I'm a boy but I'm\nsorry I'm a twin. When Jimmy Sprott's sister conterdicks him he just\nsays, 'I'm oldern you, so of course I know better,' and that settles\nHER. But I can't tell Dora that, and she just goes on thinking diffrunt\nfrom me. You might let me drive the gee-gee for a spell, since I'm a\nman.\"\n\nAltogether, Marilla was a thankful woman when she drove into her own\nyard, where the wind of the autumn night was dancing with the brown\nleaves. Anne was at the gate to meet them and lift the twins out. Dora\nsubmitted calmly to be kissed, but Davy responded to Anne's welcome\nwith one of his hearty hugs and the cheerful announcement, \"I'm Mr. Davy\nKeith.\"\n\nAt the supper table Dora behaved like a little lady, but Davy's manners\nleft much to be desired.\n\n\"I'm so hungry I ain't got time to eat p'litely,\" he said when Marilla\nreproved him. \"Dora ain't half as hungry as I am. Look at all the\nex'cise I took on the road here. That cake's awful nice and plummy. We\nhaven't had any cake at home for ever'n ever so long, 'cause mother was\ntoo sick to make it and Mrs. Sprott said it was as much as she could do\nto bake our bread for us. And Mrs. Wiggins never puts any plums in HER\ncakes. Catch her! Can I have another piece?\"\n\nMarilla would have refused but Anne cut a generous second slice.\nHowever, she reminded Davy that he ought to say \"Thank you\" for it. Davy\nmerely grinned at her and took a huge bite. When he had finished the\nslice he said,\n\n\"If you'll give me ANOTHER piece I'll say thank you for IT.\"\n\n\"No, you have had plenty of cake,\" said Marilla in a tone which Anne\nknew and Davy was to learn to be final.\n\nDavy winked at Anne, and then, leaning over the table, snatched Dora's\nfirst piece of cake, from which she had just taken one dainty little\nbite, out of her very fingers and, opening his mouth to the fullest\nextent, crammed the whole slice in. Dora's lip trembled and Marilla\nwas speechless with horror. Anne promptly exclaimed, with her best\n\"schoolma'am\" air,\n\n\"Oh, Davy, gentlemen don't do things like that.\"\n\n\"I know they don't,\" said Davy, as soon as he could speak, \"but I ain't\na gemplum.\"\n\n\"But don't you want to be?\" said shocked Anne.\n\n\"Course I do. But you can't be a gemplum till you grow up.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed you can,\" Anne hastened to say, thinking she saw a chance to\nsow good seed betimes. \"You can begin to be a gentleman when you are a\nlittle boy. And gentlemen NEVER snatch things from ladies . . .  or forget\nto say thank you . . . or pull anybody's hair.\"\n\n\"They don't have much fun, that's a fact,\" said Davy frankly. \"I guess\nI'll wait till I'm grown up to be one.\"\n\nMarilla, with a resigned air, had cut another piece of cake for Dora.\nShe did not feel able to cope with Davy just then. It had been a hard\nday for her, what with the funeral and the long drive. At that moment\nshe looked forward to the future with a pessimism that would have done\ncredit to Eliza Andrews herself.\n\nThe twins were not noticeably alike, although both were fair. Dora had\nlong sleek curls that never got out of order. Davy had a crop of fuzzy\nlittle yellow ringlets all over his round head. Dora's hazel eyes were\ngentle and mild; Davy's were as roguish and dancing as an elf's. Dora's\nnose was straight, Davy's a positive snub; Dora had a \"prunes and\nprisms\" mouth, Davy's was all smiles; and besides, he had a dimple\nin one cheek and none in the other, which gave him a dear, comical,\nlopsided look when he laughed. Mirth and mischief lurked in every corner\nof his little face.\n\n\"They'd better go to bed,\" said Marilla, who thought it was the easiest\nway to dispose of them. \"Dora will sleep with me and you can put Davy in\nthe west gable. You're not afraid to sleep alone, are you, Davy?\"\n\n\"No; but I ain't going to bed for ever so long yet,\" said Davy\ncomfortably.\n\n\"Oh, yes, you are.\" That was all the much-tried Marilla said, but\nsomething in her tone squelched even Davy. He trotted obediently\nupstairs with Anne.\n\n\"When I'm grown up the very first thing I'm going to do is stay up ALL\nnight just to see what it would be like,\" he told her confidentially.\n\nIn after years Marilla never thought of that first week of the twins'\nsojourn at Green Gables without a shiver. Not that it really was so much\nworse than the weeks that followed it; but it seemed so by reason of its\nnovelty. There was seldom a waking minute of any day when Davy was not\nin mischief or devising it; but his first notable exploit occurred two\ndays after his arrival, on Sunday morning . . . a fine, warm day, as\nhazy and mild as September. Anne dressed him for church while Marilla\nattended to Dora. Davy at first objected strongly to having his face\nwashed.\n\n\"Marilla washed it yesterday . . . and Mrs. Wiggins scoured me with hard\nsoap the day of the funeral. That's enough for one week. I don't see the\ngood of being so awful clean. It's lots more comfable being dirty.\"\n\n\"Paul Irving washes his face every day of his own accord,\" said Anne\nastutely.\n\nDavy had been an inmate of Green Gables for little over forty-eight\nhours; but he already worshipped Anne and hated Paul Irving, whom he had\nheard Anne praising enthusiastically the day after his arrival. If Paul\nIrving washed his face every day, that settled it. He, Davy Keith,\nwould do it too, if it killed him. The same consideration induced him\nto submit meekly to the other details of his toilet, and he was really\na handsome little lad when all was done. Anne felt an almost maternal\npride in him as she led him into the old Cuthbert pew.\n\nDavy behaved quite well at first, being occupied in casting covert\nglances at all the small boys within view and wondering which was\nPaul Irving. The first two hymns and the Scripture reading passed off\nuneventfully. Mr. Allan was praying when the sensation came.\n\nLauretta White was sitting in front of Davy, her head slightly bent\nand her fair hair hanging in two long braids, between which a tempting\nexpanse of white neck showed, encased in a loose lace frill. Lauretta\nwas a fat, placid-looking child of eight, who had conducted herself\nirreproachably in church from the very first day her mother carried her\nthere, an infant of six months.\n\nDavy thrust his hand into his pocket and produced . . . a caterpillar, a\nfurry, squirming caterpillar. Marilla saw and clutched at him but she\nwas too late. Davy dropped the caterpillar down Lauretta's neck.\n\nRight into the middle of Mr. Allan's prayer burst a series of piercing\nshrieks. The minister stopped appalled and opened his eyes. Every head\nin the congregation flew up. Lauretta White was dancing up and down in\nher pew, clutching frantically at the back of her dress.\n\n\"Ow . . . mommer . . . mommer . . . ow . . . take it off . . . ow . . .\nget it out . . . ow . . . that bad boy put it down my neck . . . ow . . .\nmommer . . . it's going further down . . . ow . . . ow . . . ow. . . .\"\n\nMrs. White rose and with a set face carried the hysterical, writhing\nLauretta out of church. Her shrieks died away in the distance and Mr.\nAllan proceeded with the service. But everybody felt that it was a\nfailure that day. For the first time in her life Marilla took no notice\nof the text and Anne sat with scarlet cheeks of mortification.\n\nWhen they got home Marilla put Davy to bed and made him stay there for\nthe rest of the day. She would not give him any dinner but allowed him a\nplain tea of bread and milk. Anne carried it to him and sat sorrowfully\nby him while he ate it with an unrepentant relish. But Anne's mournful\neyes troubled him.\n\n\"I s'pose,\" he said reflectively, \"that Paul Irving wouldn't have\ndropped a caterpillar down a girl's neck in church, would he?\"\n\n\"Indeed he wouldn't,\" said Anne sadly.\n\n\"Well, I'm kind of sorry I did it, then,\" conceded Davy. \"But it was\nsuch a jolly big caterpillar . . . I picked him up on the church steps\njust as we went in. It seemed a pity to waste him. And say, wasn't it\nfun to hear that girl yell?\"\n\nTuesday afternoon the Aid Society met at Green Gables. Anne hurried home\nfrom school, for she knew that Marilla would need all the assistance she\ncould give. Dora, neat and proper, in her nicely starched white dress\nand black sash, was sitting with the members of the Aid in the parlor,\nspeaking demurely when spoken to, keeping silence when not, and in every\nway comporting herself as a model child. Davy, blissfully dirty, was\nmaking mud pies in the barnyard.\n\n\"I told him he might,\" said Marilla wearily. \"I thought it would keep\nhim out of worse mischief. He can only get dirty at that. We'll have our\nteas over before we call him to his. Dora can have hers with us, but\nI would never dare to let Davy sit down at the table with all the Aids\nhere.\"\n\nWhen Anne went to call the Aids to tea she found that Dora was not in\nthe parlor. Mrs. Jasper Bell said Davy had come to the front door and\ncalled her out. A hasty consultation with Marilla in the pantry resulted\nin a decision to let both children have their teas together later on.\n\nTea was half over when the dining room was invaded by a forlorn figure.\nMarilla and Anne stared in dismay, the Aids in amazement. Could that be\nDora . . . that sobbing nondescript in a drenched, dripping dress and hair\nfrom which the water was streaming on Marilla's new coin-spot rug?\n\n\"Dora, what has happened to you?\" cried Anne, with a guilty glance at\nMrs. Jasper Bell, whose family was said to be the only one in the world\nin which accidents never occurred.\n\n\"Davy made me walk the pigpen fence,\" wailed Dora. \"I didn't want to but\nhe called me a fraid-cat. And I fell off into the pigpen and my dress\ngot all dirty and the pig runned right over me. My dress was just awful\nbut Davy said if I'd stand under the pump he'd wash it clean, and I did\nand he pumped water all over me but my dress ain't a bit cleaner and my\npretty sash and shoes is all spoiled.\"\n\nAnne did the honors of the table alone for the rest of the meal while\nMarilla went upstairs and redressed Dora in her old clothes. Davy was\ncaught and sent to bed without any supper. Anne went to his room at\ntwilight and talked to him seriously . . . a method in which she had great\nfaith, not altogether unjustified by results. She told him she felt very\nbadly over his conduct.\n\n\"I feel sorry now myself,\" admitted Davy, \"but the trouble is I never\nfeel sorry for doing things till after I've did them. Dora wouldn't help\nme make pies, cause she was afraid of messing her clo'es and that made\nme hopping mad. I s'pose Paul Irving wouldn't have made HIS sister walk\na pigpen fence if he knew she'd fall in?\"\n\n\"No, he would never dream of such a thing. Paul is a perfect little\ngentleman.\"\n\nDavy screwed his eyes tight shut and seemed to meditate on this for a\ntime. Then he crawled up and put his arms about Anne's neck, snuggling\nhis flushed little face down on her shoulder.\n\n\"Anne, don't you like me a little bit, even if I ain't a good boy like\nPaul?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do,\" said Anne sincerely. Somehow, it was impossible to help\nliking Davy. \"But I'd like you better still if you weren't so naughty.\"\n\n\"I . . . did something else today,\" went on Davy in a muffled voice. \"I'm\nsorry now but I'm awful scared to tell you. You won't be very cross,\nwill you? And you won't tell Marilla, will you?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to tell her. But I think I can\npromise you I won't if you promise me that you will never do it again,\nwhatever it is.\"\n\n\"No, I never will. Anyhow, it's not likely I'd find any more of them\nthis year. I found this one on the cellar steps.\"\n\n\"Davy, what is it you've done?\"\n\n\"I put a toad in Marilla's bed. You can go and take it out if you like.\nBut say, Anne, wouldn't it be fun to leave it there?\"\n\n\"Davy Keith!\" Anne sprang from Davy's clinging arms and flew across the\nhall to Marilla's room. The bed was slightly rumpled. She threw back the\nblankets in nervous haste and there in very truth was the toad, blinking\nat her from under a pillow.\n\n\"How can I carry that awful thing out?\" moaned Anne with a shudder. The\nfire shovel suggested itself to her and she crept down to get it while\nMarilla was busy in the pantry. Anne had her own troubles carrying that\ntoad downstairs, for it hopped off the shovel three times and once she\nthought she had lost it in the hall. When she finally deposited it in\nthe cherry orchard she drew a long breath of relief.\n\n\"If Marilla knew she'd never feel safe getting into bed again in her\nlife. I'm so glad that little sinner repented in time. There's Diana\nsignaling to me from her window. I'm glad . . . I really feel the need of\nsome diversion, for what with Anthony Pye in school and Davy Keith at\nhome my nerves have had about all they can endure for one day.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nA Question of Color\n\n\n\"That old nuisance of a Rachel Lynde was here again today, pestering me\nfor a subscription towards buying a carpet for the vestry room,\" said\nMr. Harrison wrathfully. \"I detest that woman more than anybody I know.\nShe can put a whole sermon, text, comment, and application, into six\nwords, and throw it at you like a brick.\"\n\nAnne, who was perched on the edge of the veranda, enjoying the charm\nof a mild west wind blowing across a newly ploughed field on a gray\nNovember twilight and piping a quaint little melody among the twisted\nfirs below the garden, turned her dreamy face over her shoulder.\n\n\"The trouble is, you and Mrs. Lynde don't understand one another,\" she\nexplained. \"That is always what is wrong when people don't like each\nother. I didn't like Mrs. Lynde at first either; but as soon as I came\nto understand her I learned to.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Lynde may be an acquired taste with some folks; but I didn't keep\non eating bananas because I was told I'd learn to like them if I did,\"\ngrowled Mr. Harrison. \"And as for understanding her, I understand that\nshe is a confirmed busybody and I told her so.\"\n\n\"Oh, that must have hurt her feelings very much,\" said Anne\nreproachfully. \"How could you say such a thing? I said some dreadful\nthings to Mrs. Lynde long ago but it was when I had lost my temper. I\ncouldn't say them DELIBERATELY.\"\n\n\"It was the truth and I believe in telling the truth to everybody.\"\n\n\"But you don't tell the whole truth,\" objected Anne. \"You only tell the\ndisagreeable part of the truth. Now, you've told me a dozen times that\nmy hair was red, but you've never once told me that I had a nice nose.\"\n\n\"I daresay you know it without any telling,\" chuckled Mr. Harrison.\n\n\"I know I have red hair too . . . although it's MUCH darker than it used\nto be . . . so there's no need of telling me that either.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I'll try and not mention it again since you're so\nsensitive. You must excuse me, Anne. I've got a habit of being outspoken\nand folks mustn't mind it.\"\n\n\"But they can't help minding it. And I don't think it's any help\nthat it's your habit. What would you think of a person who went about\nsticking pins and needles into people and saying, 'Excuse me, you\nmustn't mind it . . . it's just a habit I've got.' You'd think he was\ncrazy, wouldn't you? And as for Mrs. Lynde being a busybody, perhaps she\nis. But did you tell her she had a very kind heart and always helped the\npoor, and never said a word when Timothy Cotton stole a crock of butter\nout of her dairy and told his wife he'd bought it from her? Mrs. Cotton\ncast it up to her the next time they met that it tasted of turnips and\nMrs. Lynde just said she was sorry it had turned out so poorly.\"\n\n\"I suppose she has some good qualities,\" conceded Mr. Harrison\ngrudgingly. \"Most folks have. I have some myself, though you might never\nsuspect it. But anyhow I ain't going to give anything to that carpet.\nFolks are everlasting begging for money here, it seems to me. How's your\nproject of painting the hall coming on?\"\n\n\"Splendidly. We had a meeting of the A.V.I.S. last Friday night and\nfound that we had plenty of money subscribed to paint the hall and\nshingle the roof too. MOST people gave very liberally, Mr. Harrison.\"\n\nAnne was a sweet-souled lass, but she could instill some venom into\ninnocent italics when occasion required.\n\n\"What color are you going to have it?\"\n\n\"We have decided on a very pretty green. The roof will be dark red, of\ncourse. Mr. Roger Pye is going to get the paint in town today.\"\n\n\"Who's got the job?\"\n\n\"Mr. Joshua Pye of Carmody. He has nearly finished the shingling. We had\nto give him the contract, for every one of the Pyes . . .  and there are\nfour families, you know . . . said they wouldn't give a cent unless Joshua\ngot it. They had subscribed twelve dollars between them and we thought\nthat was too much to lose, although some people think we shouldn't have\ngiven in to the Pyes. Mrs. Lynde says they try to run everything.\"\n\n\"The main question is will this Joshua do his work well. If he does I\ndon't see that it matters whether his name is Pye or Pudding.\"\n\n\"He has the reputation of being a good workman, though they say he's a\nvery peculiar man. He hardly ever talks.\"\n\n\"He's peculiar enough all right then,\" said Mr. Harrison drily. \"Or at\nleast, folks here will call him so. I never was much of a talker till\nI came to Avonlea and then I had to begin in self-defense or Mrs. Lynde\nwould have said I was dumb and started a subscription to have me taught\nsign language. You're not going yet, Anne?\"\n\n\"I must. I have some sewing to do for Dora this evening. Besides, Davy\nis probably breaking Marilla's heart with some new mischief by this\ntime. This morning the first thing he said was, 'Where does the dark go,\nAnne? I want to know.' I told him it went around to the other side of\nthe world but after breakfast he declared it didn't . . . that it went\ndown the well. Marilla says she caught him hanging over the well-box\nfour times today, trying to reach down to the dark.\"\n\n\"He's a limb,\" declared Mr. Harrison. \"He came over here yesterday and\npulled six feathers out of Ginger's tail before I could get in from the\nbarn. The poor bird has been moping ever since. Those children must be a\nsight of trouble to you folks.\"\n\n\"Everything that's worth having is some trouble,\" said Anne, secretly\nresolving to forgive Davy's next offence, whatever it might be, since he\nhad avenged her on Ginger.\n\nMr. Roger Pye brought the hall paint home that night and Mr. Joshua Pye,\na surly, taciturn man, began painting the next day. He was not disturbed\nin his task. The hall was situated on what was called \"the lower road.\"\nIn late autumn this road was always muddy and wet, and people going to\nCarmody traveled by the longer \"upper\" road. The hall was so closely\nsurrounded by fir woods that it was invisible unless you were near it.\nMr. Joshua Pye painted away in the solitude and independence that were\nso dear to his unsociable heart.\n\nFriday afternoon he finished his job and went home to Carmody. Soon\nafter his departure Mrs. Rachel Lynde drove by, having braved the mud of\nthe lower road out of curiosity to see what the hall looked like in its\nnew coat of paint. When she rounded the spruce curve she saw.\n\nThe sight affected Mrs. Lynde oddly. She dropped the reins, held up her\nhands, and said \"Gracious Providence!\" She stared as if she could not\nbelieve her eyes. Then she laughed almost hysterically.\n\n\"There must be some mistake . . . there must. I knew those Pyes would make\na mess of things.\"\n\nMrs. Lynde drove home, meeting several people on the road and stopping\nto tell them about the hall. The news flew like wildfire. Gilbert\nBlythe, poring over a text book at home, heard it from his father's\nhired boy at sunset, and rushed breathlessly to Green Gables, joined on\nthe way by Fred Wright. They found Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, and Anne\nShirley, despair personified, at the yard gate of Green Gables, under\nthe big leafless willows.\n\n\"It isn't true surely, Anne?\" exclaimed Gilbert.\n\n\"It is true,\" answered Anne, looking like the muse of tragedy. \"Mrs.\nLynde called on her way from Carmody to tell me. Oh, it is simply\ndreadful! What is the use of trying to improve anything?\"\n\n\"What is dreadful?\" asked Oliver Sloane, arriving at this moment with a\nbandbox he had brought from town for Marilla.\n\n\"Haven't you heard?\" said Jane wrathfully. \"Well, its simply this. . .\nJoshua Pye has gone and painted the hall blue instead of green. . .\na deep, brilliant blue, the shade they use for painting carts and\nwheelbarrows. And Mrs. Lynde says it is the most hideous color for a\nbuilding, especially when combined with a red roof, that she ever saw\nor imagined. You could simply have knocked me down with a feather when I\nheard it. It's heartbreaking, after all the trouble we've had.\"\n\n\"How on earth could such a mistake have happened?\" wailed Diana.\n\nThe blame of this unmerciful disaster was eventually narrowed down to\nthe Pyes. The Improvers had decided to use Morton-Harris paints and\nthe Morton-Harris paint cans were numbered according to a color card.\nA purchaser chose his shade on the card and ordered by the accompanying\nnumber. Number 147 was the shade of green desired and when Mr. Roger Pye\nsent word to the Improvers by his son, John Andrew, that he was going to\ntown and would get their paint for them, the Improvers told John Andrew\nto tell his father to get 147. John Andrew always averred that he did\nso, but Mr. Roger Pye as stanchly declared that John Andrew told him\n157; and there the matter stands to this day.\n\nThat night there was blank dismay in every Avonlea house where an\nImprover lived. The gloom at Green Gables was so intense that it\nquenched even Davy. Anne wept and would not be comforted.\n\n\"I must cry, even if I am almost seventeen, Marilla,\" she sobbed. \"It\nis so mortifying. And it sounds the death knell of our society. We'll\nsimply be laughed out of existence.\"\n\nIn life, as in dreams, however, things often go by contraries. The\nAvonlea people did not laugh; they were too angry. Their money had\ngone to paint the hall and consequently they felt themselves bitterly\naggrieved by the mistake. Public indignation centered on the Pyes. Roger\nPye and John Andrew had bungled the matter between them; and as for\nJoshua Pye, he must be a born fool not to suspect there was something\nwrong when he opened the cans and saw the color of the paint. Joshua\nPye, when thus animadverted upon, retorted that the Avonlea taste in\ncolors was no business of his, whatever his private opinion might be; he\nhad been hired to paint the hall, not to talk about it; and he meant to\nhave his money for it.\n\nThe Improvers paid him his money in bitterness of spirit, after\nconsulting Mr. Peter Sloane, who was a magistrate.\n\n\"You'll have to pay it,\" Peter told him. \"You can't hold him responsible\nfor the mistake, since he claims he was never told what the color was\nsupposed to be but just given the cans and told to go ahead. But it's a\nburning shame and that hall certainly does look awful.\"\n\nThe luckless Improvers expected that Avonlea would be more prejudiced\nthan ever against them; but instead, public sympathy veered around in\ntheir favor. People thought the eager, enthusiastic little band who had\nworked so hard for their object had been badly used. Mrs. Lynde told\nthem to keep on and show the Pyes that there really were people in the\nworld who could do things without making a muddle of them. Mr. Major\nSpencer sent them word that he would clean out all the stumps along the\nroad front of his farm and seed it down with grass at his own expense;\nand Mrs. Hiram Sloane called at the school one day and beckoned Anne\nmysteriously out into the porch to tell her that if the \"Sassiety\"\nwanted to make a geranium bed at the crossroads in the spring they\nneedn't be afraid of her cow, for she would see that the marauding\nanimal was kept within safe bounds. Even Mr. Harrison chuckled, if he\nchuckled at all, in private, and was all sympathy outwardly.\n\n\"Never mind, Anne. Most paints fade uglier every year but that blue is\nas ugly as it can be to begin with, so it's bound to fade prettier. And\nthe roof is shingled and painted all right. Folks will be able to sit in\nthe hall after this without being leaked on. You've accomplished so much\nanyhow.\"\n\n\"But Avonlea's blue hall will be a byword in all the neighboring\nsettlements from this time out,\" said Anne bitterly.\n\nAnd it must be confessed that it was.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nDavy in Search of a Sensation\n\n\nAnne, walking home from school through the Birch Path one November\nafternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing.\nThe day had been a good day; all had gone well in her little kingdom.\nSt. Clair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the question\nof his name; Prillie Rogerson's face had been so puffed up from the\neffects of toothache that she did not once try to coquette with the\nboys in her vicinity. Barbara Shaw had met with only ONE accident . . .\nspilling a dipper of water over the floor . . . and Anthony Pye had not\nbeen in school at all.\n\n\"What a nice month this November has been!\" said Anne, who had never\nquite got over her childish habit of talking to herself. \"November is\nusually such a disagreeable month . . . as if the year had suddenly found\nout that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over\nit. This year is growing old gracefully . . . just like a stately old lady\nwho knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We've\nhad lovely days and delicious twilights. This last fortnight has been so\npeaceful, and even Davy has been almost well-behaved. I really think\nhe is improving a great deal. How quiet the woods are today . . .  not\na murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops! It sounds like\nsurf on a faraway shore. How dear the woods are! You beautiful trees! I\nlove every one of you as a friend.\"\n\nAnne paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss its\ncream-white trunk. Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her and\nlaughed.\n\n\"Anne Shirley, you're only pretending to be grown up. I believe when\nyou're alone you're as much a little girl as you ever were.\"\n\n\"Well, one can't get over the habit of being a little girl all at once,\"\nsaid Anne gaily. \"You see, I was little for fourteen years and I've only\nbeen grown-uppish for scarcely three. I'm sure I shall always feel like\na child in the woods. These walks home from school are almost the only\ntime I have for dreaming . . .  except the half-hour or so before I go to\nsleep. I'm so busy with teaching and studying and helping Marilla with\nthe twins that I haven't another moment for imagining things. You don't\nknow what splendid adventures I have for a little while after I go to\nbed in the east gable every night. I always imagine I'm something very\nbrilliant and triumphant and splendid . . .  a great prima donna or a Red\nCross nurse or a queen. Last night I was a queen. It's really splendid\nto imagine you are a queen. You have all the fun of it without any of\nthe inconveniences and you can stop being a queen whenever you want to,\nwhich you couldn't in real life. But here in the woods I like best to\nimagine quite different things . . . I'm a dryad living in an old pine, or\na little brown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf. That white birch\nyou caught me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference is, she's\na tree and I'm a girl, but that's no real difference. Where are you\ngoing, Diana?\"\n\n\"Down to the Dicksons. I promised to help Alberta cut out her new dress.\nCan't you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?\"\n\n\"I might . . . since Fred Wright is away in town,\" said Anne with a rather\ntoo innocent face.\n\nDiana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on. She did not look\noffended, however.\n\nAnne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons' that evening, but she\ndid not. When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of affairs\nwhich banished every other thought from her mind. Marilla met her in the\nyard . . . a wild-eyed Marilla.\n\n\"Anne, Dora is lost!\"\n\n\"Dora! Lost!\" Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard gate,\nand detected merriment in his eyes. \"Davy, do you know where she is?\"\n\n\"No, I don't,\" said Davy stoutly. \"I haven't seen her since dinner time,\ncross my heart.\"\n\n\"I've been away ever since one o'clock,\" said Marilla. \"Thomas Lynde\ntook sick all of a sudden and Rachel sent up for me to go at once. When\nI left here Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy was\nmaking mud pies behind the barn. I only got home half an hour ago . . .\nand no Dora to be seen. Davy declares he never saw her since I left.\"\n\n\"Neither I did,\" avowed Davy solemnly.\n\n\"She must be somewhere around,\" said Anne. \"She would never wander far\naway alone . . . you know how timid she is. Perhaps she has fallen asleep\nin one of the rooms.\"\n\nMarilla shook her head.\n\n\"I've hunted the whole house through. But she may be in some of the\nbuildings.\"\n\nA thorough search followed. Every corner of house, yard, and\noutbuildings was ransacked by those two distracted people. Anne roved\nthe orchards and the Haunted Wood, calling Dora's name. Marilla took a\ncandle and explored the cellar. Davy accompanied each of them in turn,\nand was fertile in thinking of places where Dora could possibly be.\nFinally they met again in the yard.\n\n\"It's a most mysterious thing,\" groaned Marilla.\n\n\"Where can she be?\" said Anne miserably\n\n\"Maybe she's tumbled into the well,\" suggested Davy cheerfully.\n\nAnne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other's eyes. The thought\nhad been with them both through their entire search but neither had\ndared to put it into words.\n\n\"She . . . she might have,\" whispered Marilla.\n\nAnne, feeling faint and sick, went to the wellbox and peered over. The\nbucket sat on the shelf inside. Far down below was a tiny glimmer of\nstill water. The Cuthbert well was the deepest in Avonlea. If Dora. . .\nbut Anne could not face the idea. She shuddered and turned away.\n\n\"Run across for Mr. Harrison,\" said Marilla, wringing her hands.\n\n\"Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away . . . they went to town today.\nI'll go for Mr. Barry.\"\n\nMr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a coil of rope to which was\nattached a claw-like instrument that had been the business end of a\ngrubbing fork. Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken with horror\nand dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy, astride the gate,\nwatched the group with a face indicative of huge enjoyment.\n\nFinally Mr. Barry shook his head, with a relieved air.\n\n\"She can't be down there. It's a mighty curious thing where she could\nhave got to, though. Look here, young man, are you sure you've no idea\nwhere your sister is?\"\n\n\"I've told you a dozen times that I haven't,\" said Davy, with an injured\nair. \"Maybe a tramp come and stole her.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Marilla sharply, relieved from her horrible fear of\nthe well. \"Anne, do you suppose she could have strayed over to Mr.\nHarrison's? She has always been talking about his parrot ever since that\ntime you took her over.\"\n\n\"I can't believe Dora would venture so far alone but I'll go over and\nsee,\" said Anne.\n\nNobody was looking at Davy just then or it would have been seen that a\nvery decided change came over his face. He quietly slipped off the gate\nand ran, as fast as his fat legs could carry him, to the barn.\n\nAnne hastened across the fields to the Harrison establishment in no\nvery hopeful frame of mind. The house was locked, the window shades\nwere down, and there was no sign of anything living about the place. She\nstood on the veranda and called Dora loudly.\n\nGinger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and swore with sudden\nfierceness; but between his outbursts Anne heard a plaintive cry\nfrom the little building in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as a\ntoolhouse. Anne flew to the door, unhasped it, and caught up a small\nmortal with a tearstained face who was sitting forlornly on an upturned\nnail keg.\n\n\"Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us! How came you to be\nhere?\"\n\n\"Davy and I came over to see Ginger,\" sobbed Dora, \"but we couldn't see\nhim after all, only Davy made him swear by kicking the door. And then\nDavy brought me here and run out and shut the door; and I couldn't get\nout. I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I'm so hungry and\ncold; and I thought you'd never come, Anne.\"\n\n\"Davy?\" But Anne could say no more. She carried Dora home with a heavy\nheart. Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was drowned out in\nthe pain caused by Davy's behavior. The freak of shutting Dora up might\neasily have been pardoned. But Davy had told falsehoods . . . downright\ncoldblooded falsehoods about it. That was the ugly fact and Anne could\nnot shut her eyes to it. She could have sat down and cried with sheer\ndisappointment. She had grown to love Davy dearly . . . how dearly she had\nnot known until this minute . . . and it hurt her unbearably to discover\nthat he was guilty of deliberate falsehood.\n\nMarilla listened to Anne's tale in a silence that boded no good\nDavy-ward; Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily dealt\nwith. When he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the sobbing,\nshivering Dora, got her her supper and put her to bed. Then she returned\nto the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in, leading, or rather\npulling, the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she had just found hidden\naway in the darkest corner of the stable.\n\nShe jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor and then went and\nsat down by the east window. Anne was sitting limply by the west window.\nBetween them stood the culprit. His back was toward Marilla and it was\na meek, subdued, frightened back; but his face was toward Anne and\nalthough it was a little shamefaced there was a gleam of comradeship\nin Davy's eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and was going to be\npunished for it, but could count on a laugh over it all with Anne later\non.\n\nBut no half hidden smile answered him in Anne's gray eyes, as there\nmight have done had it been only a question of mischief. There was\nsomething else . . . something ugly and repulsive.\n\n\"How could you behave so, Davy?\" she asked sorrowfully.\n\nDavy squirmed uncomfortably.\n\n\"I just did it for fun. Things have been so awful quiet here for so long\nthat I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare. It was,\ntoo.\"\n\nIn spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over the\nrecollection.\n\n\"But you told a falsehood about it, Davy,\" said Anne, more sorrowfully\nthan ever.\n\nDavy looked puzzled.\n\n\"What's a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper?\"\n\n\"I mean a story that was not true.\"\n\n\"Course I did,\" said Davy frankly. \"If I hadn't you wouldn't have been\nscared. I HAD to tell it.\"\n\nAnne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions. Davy's\nimpenitent attitude gave the finishing touch. Two big tears brimmed up\nin her eyes.\n\n\"Oh, Davy, how could you?\" she said, with a quiver in her voice. \"Don't\nyou know how wrong it was?\"\n\nDavy was aghast. Anne crying . . . he had made Anne cry! A flood of real\nremorse rolled like a wave over his warm little heart and engulfed it.\nHe rushed to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms around\nher neck, and burst into tears.\n\n\"I didn't know it was wrong to tell whoppers,\" he sobbed. \"How did you\nexpect me to know it was wrong? All Mr. Sprott's children told them\nREGULAR every day, and cross their hearts too. I s'pose Paul Irving\nnever tells whoppers and here I've been trying awful hard to be as good\nas him, but now I s'pose you'll never love me again. But I think you\nmight have told me it was wrong. I'm awful sorry I've made you cry,\nAnne, and I'll never tell a whopper again.\"\n\nDavy buried his face in Anne's shoulder and cried stormily. Anne, in a\nsudden glad flash of understanding, held him tight and looked over his\ncurly thatch at Marilla.\n\n\"He didn't know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, Marilla. I think we\nmust forgive him for that part of it this time if he will promise never\nto say what isn't true again.\"\n\n\"I never will, now that I know it's bad,\" asseverated Davy between sobs.\n\"If you ever catch me telling a whopper again you can . . .\" Davy groped\nmentally for a suitable penance . . . \"you can skin me alive, Anne.\"\n\n\"Don't say 'whopper,' Davy . . . say 'falsehood,'\" said the schoolma'am.\n\n\"Why?\" queried Davy, settling comfortably down and looking up with\na tearstained, investigating face. \"Why ain't whopper as good as\nfalsehood? I want to know. It's just as big a word.\"\n\n\"It's slang; and it's wrong for little boys to use slang.\"\n\n\"There's an awful lot of things it's wrong to do,\" said Davy with a\nsigh. \"I never s'posed there was so many. I'm sorry it's wrong to tell\nwhop . . .  falsehoods, 'cause it's awful handy, but since it is I'm never\ngoing to tell any more. What are you going to do to me for telling them\nthis time? I want to know.\" Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla.\n\n\"I don't want to be too hard on the child,\" said Marilla. \"I daresay\nnobody ever did tell him it was wrong to tell lies, and those Sprott\nchildren were no fit companions for him. Poor Mary was too sick to train\nhim properly and I presume you couldn't expect a six-year-old child to\nknow things like that by instinct. I suppose we'll just have to assume\nhe doesn't know ANYTHING right and begin at the beginning. But he'll\nhave to be punished for shutting Dora up, and I can't think of any way\nexcept to send him to bed without his supper and we've done that so\noften. Can't you suggest something else, Anne? I should think you ought\nto be able to, with that imagination you're always talking of.\"\n\n\"But punishments are so horrid and I like to imagine only pleasant\nthings,\" said Anne, cuddling Davy. \"There are so many unpleasant things\nin the world already that there is no use in imagining any more.\"\n\nIn the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual, there to remain until noon\nnext day. He evidently did some thinking, for when Anne went up to her\nroom a little later she heard him calling her name softly. Going in, she\nfound him sitting up in bed, with his elbows on his knees and his chin\npropped on his hands.\n\n\"Anne,\" he said solemnly, \"is it wrong for everybody to tell whop . . .\nfalsehoods? I want to know?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed.\"\n\n\"Is it wrong for a grown-up person?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Davy decidedly, \"Marilla is bad, for SHE tells them. And\nshe's worse'n me, for I didn't know it was wrong but she does.\"\n\n\"Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her life,\" said Anne\nindignantly.\n\n\"She did so. She told me last Tuesday that something dreadful WOULD\nhappen to me if I didn't say my prayers every night. And I haven't said\nthem for over a week, just to see what would happen . . .  and nothing\nhas,\" concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone.\n\nAnne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the conviction that it would\nbe fatal, and then earnestly set about saving Marilla's reputation.\n\n\"Why, Davy Keith,\" she said solemnly, \"something dreadful HAS happened\nto you this very day.\"\n\nDavy looked sceptical.\n\n\"I s'pose you mean being sent to bed without any supper,\" he said\nscornfully, \"but THAT isn't dreadful. Course, I don't like it, but I've\nbeen sent to bed so much since I come here that I'm getting used to it.\nAnd you don't save anything by making me go without supper either, for I\nalways eat twice as much for breakfast.\"\n\n\"I don't mean your being sent to bed. I mean the fact that you told a\nfalsehood today. And, Davy,\" . . . Anne leaned over the footboard of the\nbed and shook her finger impressively at the culprit . . . \"for a boy to\ntell what isn't true is almost the worst thing that could HAPPEN to him\n. . . almost the very worst. So you see Marilla told you the truth.\"\n\n\"But I thought the something bad would be exciting,\" protested Davy in\nan injured tone.\n\n\"Marilla isn't to blame for what you thought. Bad things aren't always\nexciting. They're very often just nasty and stupid.\"\n\n\"It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking down the well,\nthough,\" said Davy, hugging his knees.\n\nAnne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and then she collapsed\non the sitting room lounge and laughed until her sides ached.\n\n\"I wish you'd tell me the joke,\" said Marilla, a little grimly. \"I\nhaven't seen much to laugh at today.\"\n\n\"You'll laugh when you hear this,\" assured Anne. And Marilla did laugh,\nwhich showed how much her education had advanced since the adoption of\nAnne. But she sighed immediately afterwards.\n\n\"I suppose I shouldn't have told him that, although I heard a minister\nsay it to a child once. But he did aggravate me so. It was that night\nyou were at the Carmody concert and I was putting him to bed. He said\nhe didn't see the good of praying until he got big enough to be of some\nimportance to God. Anne, I do not know what we are going to do with that\nchild. I never saw his beat. I'm feeling clean discouraged.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't say that, Marilla. Remember how bad I was when I came here.\"\n\n\"Anne, you never were bad . . . NEVER. I see that now, when I've learned\nwhat real badness is. You were always getting into terrible scrapes,\nI'll admit, but your motive was always good. Davy is just bad from sheer\nlove of it.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I don't think it is real badness with him either,\" pleaded\nAnne. \"It's just mischief. And it is rather quiet for him here, you\nknow. He has no other boys to play with and his mind has to have\nsomething to occupy it. Dora is so prim and proper she is no good for\na boy's playmate. I really think it would be better to let them go to\nschool, Marilla.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marilla resolutely, \"my father always said that no child\nshould be cooped up in the four walls of a school until it was seven\nyears old, and Mr. Allan says the same thing. The twins can have a few\nlessons at home but go to school they shan't till they're seven.\"\n\n\"Well, we must try to reform Davy at home then,\" said Anne cheerfully.\n\"With all his faults he's really a dear little chap. I can't help loving\nhim. Marilla, it may be a dreadful thing to say, but honestly, I like\nDavy better than Dora, for all she's so good.\"\n\n\"I don't know but that I do, myself,\" confessed Marilla, \"and it isn't\nfair, for Dora isn't a bit of trouble. There couldn't be a better child\nand you'd hardly know she was in the house.\"\n\n\"Dora is too good,\" said Anne. \"She'd behave just as well if there\nwasn't a soul to tell her what to do. She was born already brought up,\nso she doesn't need us; and I think,\" concluded Anne, hitting on a very\nvital truth, \"that we always love best the people who need us. Davy\nneeds us badly.\"\n\n\"He certainly needs something,\" agreed Marilla. \"Rachel Lynde would say\nit was a good spanking.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nFacts and Fancies\n\n\n\"Teaching is really very interesting work,\" wrote Anne to a Queen's\nAcademy chum. \"Jane says she thinks it is monotonous but I don't find it\nso. Something funny is almost sure to happen every day, and the children\nsay such amusing things. Jane says she punishes her pupils when\nthey make funny speeches, which is probably why she finds teaching\nmonotonous. This afternoon little Jimmy Andrews was trying to spell\n'speckled' and couldn't manage it. 'Well,' he said finally, 'I can't\nspell it but I know what it means.'\n\n\"'What?' I asked.\n\n\"'St. Clair Donnell's face, miss.'\n\n\"St. Clair is certainly very much freckled, although I try to prevent\nthe others from commenting on it . . . for I was freckled once and well do\nI remember it. But I don't think St. Clair minds. It was because Jimmy\ncalled him 'St. Clair' that St. Clair pounded him on the way home from\nschool. I heard of the pounding, but not officially, so I don't think\nI'll take any notice of it.\n\n\"Yesterday I was trying to teach Lottie Wright to do addition. I said,\n'If you had three candies in one hand and two in the other, how many\nwould you have altogether?' 'A mouthful,' said Lottie. And in the\nnature study class, when I asked them to give me a good reason why toads\nshouldn't be killed, Benjie Sloane gravely answered, 'Because it would\nrain the next day.'\n\n\"It's so hard not to laugh, Stella. I have to save up all my amusement\nuntil I get home, and Marilla says it makes her nervous to hear wild\nshrieks of mirth proceeding from the east gable without any apparent\ncause. She says a man in Grafton went insane once and that was how it\nbegan.\n\n\"Did you know that Thomas a Becket was canonized as a SNAKE? Rose Bell\nsays he was . . . also that William Tyndale WROTE the New Testament.\nClaude White says a 'glacier' is a man who puts in window frames!\n\n\"I think the most difficult thing in teaching, as well as the most\ninteresting, is to get the children to tell you their real thoughts\nabout things. One stormy day last week I gathered them around me at\ndinner hour and tried to get them to talk to me just as if I were one of\nthemselves. I asked them to tell me the things they most wanted. Some\nof the answers were commonplace enough  . . .  dolls, ponies, and skates.\nOthers were decidedly original. Hester Boulter wanted 'to wear her\nSunday dress every day and eat in the sitting room.' Hannah Bell wanted\n'to be good without having to take any trouble about it.' Marjory White,\naged ten, wanted to be a WIDOW. Questioned why, she gravely said that if\nyou weren't married people called you an old maid, and if you were your\nhusband bossed you; but if you were a widow there'd be no danger\nof either. The most remarkable wish was Sally Bell's. She wanted a\n'honeymoon.' I asked her if she knew what it was and she said she\nthought it was an extra nice kind of bicycle because her cousin in\nMontreal went on a honeymoon when he was married and he had always had\nthe very latest in bicycles!\n\n\"Another day I asked them all to tell me the naughtiest thing they had\never done. I couldn't get the older ones to do so, but the third class\nanswered quite freely. Eliza Bell had 'set fire to her aunt's carded\nrolls.' Asked if she meant to do it she said, 'not altogether.' She just\ntried a little end to see how it would burn and the whole bundle blazed\nup in a jiffy. Emerson Gillis had spent ten cents for candy when he\nshould have put it in his missionary box. Annetta Bell's worst crime was\n'eating some blueberries that grew in the graveyard.' Willie White had\n'slid down the sheephouse roof a lot of times with his Sunday trousers\non.' 'But I was punished for it 'cause I had to wear patched pants to\nSunday School all summer, and when you're punished for a thing you don't\nhave to repent of it,' declared Willie.\n\n\"I wish you could see some of their compositions . . . so much do I wish\nit that I'll send you copies of some written recently. Last week I told\nthe fourth class I wanted them to write me letters about anything they\npleased, adding by way of suggestion that they might tell me of some\nplace they had visited or some interesting thing or person they had\nseen. They were to write the letters on real note paper, seal them in an\nenvelope, and address them to me, all without any assistance from other\npeople. Last Friday morning I found a pile of letters on my desk and\nthat evening I realized afresh that teaching has its pleasures as well\nas its pains. Those compositions would atone for much. Here is Ned\nClay's, address, spelling, and grammar as originally penned.\n\n\"'Miss teacher ShiRley\n\nGreen gabels.\n\np.e. Island can\n\nbirds\n\n\n\"'Dear teacher I think I will write you a composition about birds. birds\nis very useful animals. my cat catches birds. His name is William but pa\ncalls him tom. he is oll striped and he got one of his ears froz of\nlast winter. only for that he would be a good-looking cat. My unkle\nhas adopted a cat. it come to his house one day and woudent go away and\nunkle says it has forgot more than most people ever knowed. he lets it\nsleep on his rocking chare and my aunt says he thinks more of it than he\ndoes of his children. that is not right. we ought to be kind to cats\nand give them new milk but we ought not be better to them than to our\nchildren. this is oll I can think of so no more at present from\n\nedward blake ClaY.'\"\n\n\n\"St. Clair Donnell's is, as usual, short and to the point. St. Clair\nnever wastes words. I do not think he chose his subject or added the\npostscript out of malice aforethought. It is just that he has not a\ngreat deal of tact or imagination.\"\n\n\n\"'Dear Miss Shirley\n\n\"'You told us to describe something strange we have seen. I will describe\nthe Avonlea Hall. It has two doors, an inside one and an outside one.\nIt has six windows and a chimney. It has two ends and two sides. It is\npainted blue. That is what makes it strange. It is built on the lower\nCarmody road. It is the third most important building in Avonlea. The\nothers are the church and the blacksmith shop. They hold debating clubs\nand lectures in it and concerts.\n\n\"'Yours truly,\n\n\"'Jacob Donnell.\n\n\"'P.S. The hall is a very bright blue.'\"\n\n\n\"Annetta Bell's letter was quite long, which surprised me, for writing\nessays is not Annetta's forte, and hers are generally as brief as St.\nClair's. Annetta is a quiet little puss and a model of good behavior,\nbut there isn't a shadow of orginality in her. Here is her letter.--\n\n\"'Dearest teacher,\n\n\"\"I think I will write you a letter to tell you how much I love you. I\nlove you with my whole heart and soul and mind . . . with all there is of\nme to love . . . and I want to serve you for ever. It would be my highest\nprivilege. That is why I try so hard to be good in school and learn my\nlessuns.\n\n\"'You are so beautiful, my teacher. Your voice is like music and your\neyes are like pansies when the dew is on them. You are like a tall\nstately queen. Your hair is like rippling gold. Anthony Pye says it is\nred, but you needn't pay any attention to Anthony.\n\n\"'I have only known you for a few months but I cannot realize that there\nwas ever a time when I did not know you . . . when you had not come into\nmy life to bless and hallow it. I will always look back to this year\nas the most wonderful in my life because it brought you to me. Besides,\nit's the year we moved to Avonlea from Newbridge. My love for you has\nmade my life very rich and it has kept me from much of harm and evil. I\nowe this all to you, my sweetest teacher.\n\n\"'I shall never forget how sweet you looked the last time I saw you in\nthat black dress with flowers in your hair. I shall see you like that\nfor ever, even when we are both old and gray. You will always be young\nand fair to me, dearest teacher. I am thinking of you all the time. . .\nin the morning and at the noontide and at the twilight. I love you when\nyou laugh and when you sigh . . . even when you look disdainful. I never\nsaw you look cross though Anthony Pye says you always look so but I\ndon't wonder you look cross at him for he deserves it. I love you in\nevery dress . . . you seem more adorable in each new dress than the last.\n\n\"'Dearest teacher, good night. The sun has set and the stars are\nshining . . . stars that are as bright and beautiful as your eyes. I kiss\nyour hands and face, my sweet. May God watch over you and protect you\nfrom all harm.\n\n\"\"Your afecksionate pupil,\n\n\"'Annetta Bell.'\"\n\n\n\"This extraordinary letter puzzled me not a little. I knew Annetta\ncouldn't have composed it any more than she could fly. When I went to\nschool the next day I took her for a walk down to the brook at recess\nand asked her to tell me the truth about the letter. Annetta cried\nand 'fessed up freely. She said she had never written a letter and she\ndidn't know how to, or what to say, but there was bundle of love letters\nin her mother's top bureau drawer which had been written to her by an\nold 'beau.'\n\n\"'It wasn't father,' sobbed Annetta, 'it was someone who was studying\nfor a minister, and so he could write lovely letters, but ma didn't\nmarry him after all. She said she couldn't make out what he was driving\nat half the time. But I thought the letters were sweet and that I'd just\ncopy things out of them here and there to write you. I put \"teacher\"\nwhere he put \"lady\" and I put in something of my own when I could think\nof it and I changed some words. I put \"dress\" in place of \"mood.\" I\ndidn't know just what a \"mood\" was but I s'posed it was something to\nwear. I didn't s'pose you'd know the difference. I don't see how you\nfound out it wasn't all mine. You must be awful clever, teacher.'\n\n\"I told Annetta it was very wrong to copy another person's letter and\npass it off as her own. But I'm afraid that all Annetta repented of was\nbeing found out.\n\n\"'And I do love you, teacher,' she sobbed. 'It was all true, even if the\nminister wrote it first. I do love you with all my heart.'\n\n\"It's very difficult to scold anybody properly under such circumstances.\n\n\"Here is Barbara Shaw's letter. I can't reproduce the blots of the\noriginal.\n\n\"'Dear teacher,\n\n\"\"You said we might write about a visit. I never visited but once. It was\nat my Aunt Mary's last winter. My Aunt Mary is a very particular woman\nand a great housekeeper. The first night I was there we were at tea.\nI knocked over a jug and broke it. Aunt Mary said she had had that jug\never since she was married and nobody had ever broken it before. When we\ngot up I stepped on her dress and all the gathers tore out of the skirt.\nThe next morning when I got up I hit the pitcher against the basin\nand cracked them both and I upset a cup of tea on the tablecloth at\nbreakfast. When I was helping Aunt Mary with the dinner dishes I\ndropped a china plate and it smashed. That evening I fell downstairs and\nsprained my ankle and had to stay in bed for a week. I heard Aunt Mary\ntell Uncle Joseph it was a mercy or I'd have broken everything in the\nhouse. When I got better it was time to go home. I don't like visiting\nvery much. I like going to school better, especially since I came to\nAvonlea.\n\n\"'Yours respectfully,\n\n\"\"Barbara Shaw.'\"\n\n\n\"Willie White's began,\n\n\"\"Respected Miss,\n\n\"\"I want to tell you about my Very Brave Aunt. She lives in Ontario and\none day she went out to the barn and saw a dog in the yard. The dog had\nno business there so she got a stick and whacked him hard and drove him\ninto the barn and shut him up. Pretty soon a man came looking for an\ninaginary lion' (Query;--Did Willie mean a menagerie lion?) 'that had\nrun away from a circus. And it turned out that the dog was a lion and my\nVery Brave Aunt had druv him into the barn with a stick. It was a wonder\nshe was not et up but she was very brave. Emerson Gillis says if she\nthought it was a dog she wasn't any braver than if it really was a\ndog. But Emerson is jealous because he hasn't got a Brave Aunt himself,\nnothing but uncles.'\n\n\"'I have kept the best for the last. You laugh at me because I think Paul\nis a genius but I am sure his letter will convince you that he is a very\nuncommon child. Paul lives away down near the shore with his grandmother\nand he has no playmates . . . no real playmates. You remember our School\nManagement professor told us that we must not have 'favorites' among\nour pupils, but I can't help loving Paul Irving the best of all mine.\nI don't think it does any harm, though, for everybody loves Paul, even\nMrs. Lynde, who says she could never have believed she'd get so fond of\na Yankee. The other boys in school like him too. There is nothing weak\nor girlish about him in spite of his dreams and fancies. He is very\nmanly and can hold his own in all games. He fought St. Clair Donnell\nrecently because St. Clair said the Union Jack was away ahead of the\nStars and Stripes as a flag. The result was a drawn battle and a mutual\nagreement to respect each other's patriotism henceforth. St. Clair says\nhe can hit the HARDEST but Paul can hit the OFTENEST.'\"\n\n\n\"Paul's Letter.\n\n\"'My dear teacher,\n\n\"'You told us we might write you about some interesting people we knew. I\nthink the most interesting people I know are my rock people and I mean\nto tell you about them. I have never told anybody about them except\ngrandma and father but I would like to have you know about them\nbecause you understand things. There are a great many people who do not\nunderstand things so there is no use in telling them.'\n\n\"'My rock people live at the shore. I used to visit them almost every\nevening before the winter came. Now I can't go till spring, but they\nwill be there, for people like that never change . . . that is the\nsplendid thing about them. Nora was the first one of them I got\nacquainted with and so I think I love her the best. She lives in\nAndrews' Cove and she has black hair and black eyes, and she knows all\nabout the mermaids and the water kelpies. You ought to hear the stories\nshe can tell. Then there are the Twin Sailors. They don't live anywhere,\nthey sail all the time, but they often come ashore to talk to me. They\nare a pair of jolly tars and they have seen everything in the world. . .\nand more than what is in the world. Do you know what happened to the\nyoungest Twin Sailor once? He was sailing and he sailed right into a\nmoonglade. A moonglade is the track the full moon makes on the water\nwhen it is rising from the sea, you know, teacher. Well, the youngest\nTwin Sailor sailed along the moonglade till he came right up to the\nmoon, and there was a little golden door in the moon and he opened it\nand sailed right through. He had some wonderful adventures in the moon\nbut it would make this letter too long to tell them.'\n\n\"'Then there is the Golden Lady of the cave. One day I found a big cave\ndown on the shore and I went away in and after a while I found the\nGolden Lady. She has golden hair right down to her feet and her dress\nis all glittering and glistening like gold that is alive. And she has a\ngolden harp and plays on it all day long . . . you can hear the music any\ntime along shore if you listen carefully but most people would think it\nwas only the wind among the rocks. I've never told Nora about the Golden\nLady. I was afraid it might hurt her feelings. It even hurt her feelings\nif I talked too long with the Twin Sailors.'\n\n\"'I always met the Twin Sailors at the Striped Rocks. The youngest\nTwin Sailor is very good-tempered but the oldest Twin Sailor can look\ndreadfully fierce at times. I have my suspicions about that oldest Twin.\nI believe he'd be a pirate if he dared. There's really something very\nmysterious about him. He swore once and I told him if he ever did\nit again he needn't come ashore to talk to me because I'd promised\ngrandmother I'd never associate with anybody that swore. He was pretty\nwell scared, I can tell you, and he said if I would forgive him he would\ntake me to the sunset. So the next evening when I was sitting on the\nStriped Rocks the oldest Twin came sailing over the sea in an enchanted\nboat and I got in her. The boat was all pearly and rainbowy, like the\ninside of the mussel shells, and her sail was like moonshine. Well, we\nsailed right across to the sunset. Think of that, teacher, I've been\nin the sunset. And what do you suppose it is? The sunset is a land\nall flowers. We sailed into a great garden, and the clouds are beds of\nflowers. We sailed into a great harbor, all the color of gold, and\nI stepped right out of the boat on a big meadow all covered with\nbuttercups as big as roses. I stayed there for ever so long. It seemed\nnearly a year but the Oldest Twin says it was only a few minutes. You\nsee, in the sunset land the time is ever so much longer than it is here.'\n\n\"'Your loving pupil Paul Irving.'\n\n\"'P. S. of course, this letter isn't really true, teacher. P.I.'\"\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nA Jonah Day\n\n\nIt really began the night before with a restless, wakeful vigil of\ngrumbling toothache. When Anne arose in the dull, bitter winter morning\nshe felt that life was flat, stale, and unprofitable.\n\nShe went to school in no angelic mood. Her cheek was swollen and her\nface ached. The schoolroom was cold and smoky, for the fire refused to\nburn and the children were huddled about it in shivering groups. Anne\nsent them to their seats with a sharper tone than she had ever used\nbefore. Anthony Pye strutted to his with his usual impertinent swagger\nand she saw him whisper something to his seat-mate and then glance at\nher with a grin.\n\nNever, so it seemed to Anne, had there been so many squeaky pencils as\nthere were that morning; and when Barbara Shaw came up to the desk with\na sum she tripped over the coal scuttle with disastrous results.\nThe coal rolled to every part of the room, her slate was broken into\nfragments, and when she picked herself up, her face, stained with coal\ndust, sent the boys into roars of laughter.\n\nAnne turned from the second reader class which she was hearing.\n\n\"Really, Barbara,\" she said icily, \"if you cannot move without falling\nover something you'd better remain in your seat. It is positively\ndisgraceful for a girl of your age to be so awkward.\"\n\nPoor Barbara stumbled back to her desk, her tears combining with the\ncoal dust to produce an effect truly grotesque. Never before had her\nbeloved, sympathetic teacher spoken to her in such a tone or fashion,\nand Barbara was heartbroken. Anne herself felt a prick of conscience but\nit only served to increase her mental irritation, and the second reader\nclass remember that lesson yet, as well as the unmerciful infliction\nof arithmetic that followed. Just as Anne was snapping the sums out St.\nClair Donnell arrived breathlessly.\n\n\"You are half an hour late, St. Clair,\" Anne reminded him frigidly. \"Why\nis this?\"\n\n\"Please, miss, I had to help ma make a pudding for dinner 'cause we're\nexpecting company and Clarice Almira's sick,\" was St. Clair's answer,\ngiven in a perfectly respectful voice but nevertheless provocative of\ngreat mirth among his mates.\n\n\"Take your seat and work out the six problems on page eighty-four of\nyour arithmetic for punishment,\" said Anne. St. Clair looked rather\namazed at her tone but he went meekly to his desk and took out his\nslate. Then he stealthily passed a small parcel to Joe Sloane across the\naisle. Anne caught him in the act and jumped to a fatal conclusion about\nthat parcel.\n\nOld Mrs. Hiram Sloane had lately taken to making and selling \"nut cakes\"\nby way of adding to her scanty income. The cakes were specially tempting\nto small boys and for several weeks Anne had had not a little trouble in\nregard to them. On their way to school the boys would invest their spare\ncash at Mrs. Hiram's, bring the cakes along with them to school, and, if\npossible, eat them and treat their mates during school hours. Anne had\nwarned them that if they brought any more cakes to school they would be\nconfiscated; and yet here was St. Clair Donnell coolly passing a parcel\nof them, wrapped up in the blue and white striped paper Mrs. Hiram used,\nunder her very eyes.\n\n\"Joseph,\" said Anne quietly, \"bring that parcel here.\"\n\nJoe, startled and abashed, obeyed. He was a fat urchin who always\nblushed and stuttered when he was frightened. Never did anybody look\nmore guilty than poor Joe at that moment.\n\n\"Throw it into the fire,\" said Anne.\n\nJoe looked very blank.\n\n\"P . . . p . . . p . . . lease, m . . . m . . . miss,\" he began.\n\n\"Do as I tell you, Joseph, without any words about it.\"\n\n\"B . . . b . . . but m . . . m . . . miss . . . th . . . th . . .\nthey're . . .\" gasped Joe in desperation.\n\n\"Joseph, are you going to obey me or are you NOT?\" said Anne.\n\nA bolder and more self-possessed lad than Joe Sloane would have been\noverawed by her tone and the dangerous flash of her eyes. This was a new\nAnne whom none of her pupils had ever seen before. Joe, with an agonized\nglance at St. Clair, went to the stove, opened the big, square front\ndoor, and threw the blue and white parcel in, before St. Clair, who\nhad sprung to his feet, could utter a word. Then he dodged back just in\ntime.\n\nFor a few moments the terrified occupants of Avonlea school did not know\nwhether it was an earthquake or a volcanic explosion that had occurred.\nThe innocent looking parcel which Anne had rashly supposed to contain\nMrs. Hiram's nut cakes really held an assortment of firecrackers\nand pinwheels for which Warren Sloane had sent to town by St.\nClair Donnell's father the day before, intending to have a birthday\ncelebration that evening. The crackers went off in a thunderclap of\nnoise and the pinwheels bursting out of the door spun madly around the\nroom, hissing and spluttering. Anne dropped into her chair white with\ndismay and all the girls climbed shrieking upon their desks. Joe Sloane\nstood as one transfixed in the midst of the commotion and St. Clair,\nhelpless with laughter, rocked to and fro in the aisle. Prillie Rogerson\nfainted and Annetta Bell went into hysterics.\n\nIt seemed a long time, although it was really only a few minutes, before\nthe last pinwheel subsided. Anne, recovering herself, sprang to open\ndoors and windows and let out the gas and smoke which filled the room.\nThen she helped the girls carry the unconscious Prillie into the porch,\nwhere Barbara Shaw, in an agony of desire to be useful, poured a pailful\nof half frozen water over Prillie's face and shoulders before anyone\ncould stop her.\n\nIt was a full hour before quiet was restored  . . . but it was a quiet\nthat might be felt. Everybody realized that even the explosion had not\ncleared the teacher's mental atmosphere. Nobody, except Anthony Pye,\ndared whisper a word. Ned Clay accidentally squeaked his pencil while\nworking a sum, caught Anne's eye and wished the floor would open and\nswallow him up. The geography class were whisked through a continent\nwith a speed that made them dizzy. The grammar class were parsed\nand analyzed within an inch of their lives. Chester Sloane, spelling\n\"odoriferous\" with two f's, was made to feel that he could never live\ndown the disgrace of it, either in this world or that which is to come.\n\nAnne knew that she had made herself ridiculous and that the incident\nwould be laughed over that night at a score of tea-tables, but the\nknowledge only angered her further. In a calmer mood she could have\ncarried off the situation with a laugh but now that was impossible; so\nshe ignored it in icy disdain.\n\nWhen Anne returned to the school after dinner all the children were\nas usual in their seats and every face was bent studiously over a desk\nexcept Anthony Pye's. He peered across his book at Anne, his black eyes\nsparkling with curiosity and mockery. Anne twitched open the drawer\nof her desk in search of chalk and under her very hand a lively mouse\nsprang out of the drawer, scampered over the desk, and leaped to the\nfloor.\n\nAnne screamed and sprang back, as if it had been a snake, and Anthony\nPye laughed aloud.\n\nThen a silence fell . . . a very creepy, uncomfortable silence. Annetta\nBell was of two minds whether to go into hysterics again or not,\nespecially as she didn't know just where the mouse had gone. But she\ndecided not to. Who could take any comfort out of hysterics with a\nteacher so white-faced and so blazing-eyed standing before one?\n\n\"Who put that mouse in my desk?\" said Anne. Her voice was quite low but\nit made a shiver go up and down Paul Irving's spine. Joe Sloane caught\nher eye, felt responsible from the crown of his head to the sole of his\nfeet, but stuttered out wildly,\n\n\"N . . . n . . . not m . . . m . . . me t . . . t . . . teacher, n . . .\nn . . . not m . . . m . . . me.\"\n\nAnne paid no attention to the wretched Joseph. She looked at Anthony\nPye, and Anthony Pye looked back unabashed and unashamed.\n\n\"Anthony, was it you?\"\n\n\"Yes, it was,\" said Anthony insolently.\n\nAnne took her pointer from her desk. It was a long, heavy hardwood\npointer.\n\n\"Come here, Anthony.\"\n\nIt was far from being the most severe punishment Anthony Pye had ever\nundergone. Anne, even the stormy-souled Anne she was at that moment,\ncould not have punished any child cruelly. But the pointer nipped keenly\nand finally Anthony's bravado failed him; he winced and the tears came\nto his eyes.\n\nAnne, conscience-stricken, dropped the pointer and told Anthony to go\nto his seat. She sat down at her desk feeling ashamed, repentant, and\nbitterly mortified. Her quick anger was gone and she would have given\nmuch to have been able to seek relief in tears. So all her boasts had\ncome to this . . . she had actually whipped one of her pupils. How Jane\nwould triumph! And how Mr. Harrison would chuckle! But worse than\nthis, bitterest thought of all, she had lost her last chance of winning\nAnthony Pye. Never would he like her now.\n\nAnne, by what somebody has called \"a Herculaneum effort,\" kept back her\ntears until she got home that night. Then she shut herself in the east\ngable room and wept all her shame and remorse and disappointment into\nher pillows . . . wept so long that Marilla grew alarmed, invaded the\nroom, and insisted on knowing what the trouble was.\n\n\"The trouble is, I've got things the matter with my conscience,\" sobbed\nAnne. \"Oh, this has been such a Jonah day, Marilla. I'm so ashamed of\nmyself. I lost my temper and whipped Anthony Pye.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it,\" said Marilla with decision. \"It's what you should\nhave done long ago.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, Marilla. And I don't see how I can ever look those children\nin the face again. I feel that I have humiliated myself to the very\ndust. You don't know how cross and hateful and horrid I was. I can't\nforget the expression in Paul Irving's eyes . . . he looked so surprised\nand disappointed. Oh, Marilla, I HAVE tried so hard to be patient and to\nwin Anthony's liking . . . and now it has all gone for nothing.\"\n\nMarilla passed her hard work-worn hand over the girl's glossy, tumbled\nhair with a wonderful tenderness. When Anne's sobs grew quieter she\nsaid, very gently for her,\n\n\"You take things too much to heart, Anne. We all make mistakes . . . but\npeople forget them. And Jonah days come to everybody. As for Anthony\nPye, why need you care if he does dislike you? He is the only one.\"\n\n\"I can't help it. I want everybody to love me and it hurts me so when\nanybody doesn't. And Anthony never will now. Oh, I just made an idiot of\nmyself today, Marilla. I'll tell you the whole story.\"\n\nMarilla listened to the whole story, and if she smiled at certain parts\nof it Anne never knew. When the tale was ended she said briskly,\n\n\"Well, never mind. This day's done and there's a new one coming\ntomorrow, with no mistakes in it yet, as you used to say yourself. Just\ncome downstairs and have your supper. You'll see if a good cup of tea\nand those plum puffs I made today won't hearten you up.\"\n\n\"Plum puffs won't minister to a mind diseased,\" said Anne\ndisconsolately; but Marilla thought it a good sign that she had\nrecovered sufficiently to adapt a quotation.\n\nThe cheerful supper table, with the twins' bright faces, and Marilla's\nmatchless plum puffs . . . of which Davy ate four . . .  did \"hearten her\nup\" considerably after all. She had a good sleep that night and\nawakened in the morning to find herself and the world transformed. It\nhad snowed softly and thickly all through the hours of darkness and the\nbeautiful whiteness, glittering in the frosty sunshine, looked like a\nmantle of charity cast over all the mistakes and humiliations of the\npast.\n\n     \"Every morn is a fresh beginning,\n     Every morn is the world made new,\"\n\nsang Anne, as she dressed.\n\nOwing to the snow she had to go around by the road to school and she\nthought it was certainly an impish coincidence that Anthony Pye should\ncome ploughing along just as she left the Green Gables lane. She felt\nas guilty as if their positions were reversed; but to her unspeakable\nastonishment Anthony not only lifted his cap . . . which he had never done\nbefore . . . but said easily,\n\n\"Kind of bad walking, ain't it? Can I take those books for you,\nteacher?\"\n\nAnne surrendered her books and wondered if she could possibly be awake.\nAnthony walked on in silence to the school, but when Anne took her books\nshe smiled down at him . . . not the stereotyped \"kind\" smile she had so\npersistently assumed for his benefit but a sudden outflashing of good\ncomradeship. Anthony smiled . . . no, if the truth must be told, Anthony\nGRINNED back. A grin is not generally supposed to be a respectful thing;\nyet Anne suddenly felt that if she had not yet won Anthony's liking she\nhad, somehow or other, won his respect.\n\nMrs. Rachel Lynde came up the next Saturday and confirmed this.\n\n\"Well, Anne, I guess you've won over Anthony Pye, that's what. He says\nhe believes you are some good after all, even if you are a girl. Says\nthat whipping you gave him was 'just as good as a man's.'\"\n\n\"I never expected to win him by whipping him, though,\" said Anne,\na little mournfully, feeling that her ideals had played her false\nsomewhere. \"It doesn't seem right. I'm sure my theory of kindness can't\nbe wrong.\"\n\n\"No, but the Pyes are an exception to every known rule, that's what,\"\ndeclared Mrs. Rachel with conviction.\n\nMr. Harrison said, \"Thought you'd come to it,\" when he heard it, and\nJane rubbed it in rather unmercifully.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nA Golden Picnic\n\n\nAnne, on her way to Orchard Slope, met Diana, bound for Green Gables,\njust where the mossy old log bridge spanned the brook below the Haunted\nWood, and they sat down by the margin of the Dryad's Bubble, where tiny\nferns were unrolling like curly-headed green pixy folk wakening up from\na nap.\n\n\"I was just on my way over to invite you to help me celebrate my\nbirthday on Saturday,\" said Anne.\n\n\"Your birthday? But your birthday was in March!\"\n\n\"That wasn't my fault,\" laughed Anne. \"If my parents had consulted me\nit would never have happened then. I should have chosen to be born in\nspring, of course. It must be delightful to come into the world with the\nmayflowers and violets. You would always feel that you were their foster\nsister. But since I didn't, the next best thing is to celebrate my\nbirthday in the spring. Priscilla is coming over Saturday and Jane will\nbe home. We'll all four start off to the woods and spend a golden day\nmaking the acquaintance of the spring. We none of us really know her\nyet, but we'll meet her back there as we never can anywhere else. I\nwant to explore all those fields and lonely places anyhow. I have a\nconviction that there are scores of beautiful nooks there that have\nnever really been SEEN although they may have been LOOKED at. We'll\nmake friends with wind and sky and sun, and bring home the spring in our\nhearts.\"\n\n\"It SOUNDS awfully nice,\" said Diana, with some inward distrust of\nAnne's magic of words. \"But won't it be very damp in some places yet?\"\n\n\"Oh, we'll wear rubbers,\" was Anne's concession to practicalities.\n\"And I want you to come over early Saturday morning and help me prepare\nlunch. I'm going to have the daintiest things possible . . .  things that\nwill match the spring, you understand . . . little jelly tarts and lady\nfingers, and drop cookies frosted with pink and yellow icing, and\nbuttercup cake. And we must have sandwiches too, though they're NOT very\npoetical.\"\n\nSaturday proved an ideal day for a picnic . . . a day of breeze and blue,\nwarm, sunny, with a little rollicking wind blowing across meadow\nand orchard. Over every sunlit upland and field was a delicate,\nflower-starred green.\n\nMr. Harrison, harrowing at the back of his farm and feeling some of the\nspring witch-work even in his sober, middle-aged blood, saw four girls,\nbasket laden, tripping across the end of his field where it joined a\nfringing woodland of birch and fir. Their blithe voices and laughter\nechoed down to him.\n\n\"It's so easy to be happy on a day like this, isn't it?\" Anne was\nsaying, with true Anneish philosophy. \"Let's try to make this a really\ngolden day, girls, a day to which we can always look back with delight.\nWe're to seek for beauty and refuse to see anything else. 'Begone, dull\ncare!' Jane, you are thinking of something that went wrong in school\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\" gasped Jane, amazed.\n\n\"Oh, I know the expression . . . I've felt it often enough on my own face.\nBut put it out of your mind, there's a dear. It will keep till Monday\n. . . or if it doesn't so much the better. Oh, girls, girls, see that patch\nof violets! There's something for memory's picture gallery. When I'm\neighty years old . . . if I ever am . . . I shall shut my eyes and see\nthose violets just as I see them now. That's the first good gift our day\nhas given us.\"\n\n\"If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet,\" said\nPriscilla.\n\nAnne glowed.\n\n\"I'm so glad you SPOKE that thought, Priscilla, instead of just\nthinking it and keeping it to yourself. This world would be a much more\ninteresting place . . . although it IS very interesting anyhow . . .  if\npeople spoke out their real thoughts.\"\n\n\"It would be too hot to hold some folks,\" quoted Jane sagely.\n\n\"I suppose it might be, but that would be their own faults for thinking\nnasty things. Anyhow, we can tell all our thoughts today because we are\ngoing to have nothing but beautiful thoughts. Everybody can say just\nwhat comes into her head. THAT is conversation. Here's a little path I\nnever saw before. Let's explore it.\"\n\nThe path was a winding one, so narrow that the girls walked in single\nfile and even then the fir boughs brushed their faces. Under the firs\nwere velvety cushions of moss, and further on, where the trees were\nsmaller and fewer, the ground was rich in a variety of green growing\nthings.\n\n\"What a lot of elephant's ears,\" exclaimed Diana. \"I'm going to pick a\nbig bunch, they're so pretty.\"\n\n\"How did such graceful feathery things ever come to have such a dreadful\nname?\" asked Priscilla.\n\n\"Because the person who first named them either had no imagination at\nall or else far too much,\" said Anne, \"Oh, girls, look at that!\"\n\n\"That\" was a shallow woodland pool in the center of a little open glade\nwhere the path ended. Later on in the season it would be dried up\nand its place filled with a rank growth of ferns; but now it was a\nglimmering placid sheet, round as a saucer and clear as crystal. A\nring of slender young birches encircled it and little ferns fringed its\nmargin.\n\n\"HOW sweet!\" said Jane.\n\n\"Let us dance around it like wood-nymphs,\" cried Anne, dropping her\nbasket and extending her hands.\n\nBut the dance was not a success for the ground was boggy and Jane's\nrubbers came off.\n\n\"You can't be a wood-nymph if you have to wear rubbers,\" was her\ndecision.\n\n\"Well, we must name this place before we leave it,\" said Anne, yielding\nto the indisputable logic of facts. \"Everybody suggest a name and we'll\ndraw lots. Diana?\"\n\n\"Birch Pool,\" suggested Diana promptly.\n\n\"Crystal Lake,\" said Jane.\n\nAnne, standing behind them, implored Priscilla with her eyes not to\nperpetrate another such name and Priscilla rose to the occasion with\n\"Glimmer-glass.\" Anne's selection was \"The Fairies' Mirror.\"\n\nThe names were written on strips of birch bark with a pencil Schoolma'am\nJane produced from her pocket, and placed in Anne's hat. Then Priscilla\nshut her eyes and drew one. \"Crystal Lake,\" read Jane triumphantly.\nCrystal Lake it was, and if Anne thought that chance had played the pool\na shabby trick she did not say so.\n\nPushing through the undergrowth beyond, the girls came out to the young\ngreen seclusion of Mr. Silas Sloane's back pasture. Across it they\nfound the entrance to a lane striking up through the woods and voted\nto explore it also. It rewarded their quest with a succession of pretty\nsurprises. First, skirting Mr. Sloane's pasture, came an archway of wild\ncherry trees all in bloom. The girls swung their hats on their arms\nand wreathed their hair with the creamy, fluffy blossoms. Then the lane\nturned at right angles and plunged into a spruce wood so thick and dark\nthat they walked in a gloom as of twilight, with not a glimpse of sky or\nsunlight to be seen.\n\n\"This is where the bad wood elves dwell,\" whispered Anne. \"They are\nimpish and malicious but they can't harm us, because they are not\nallowed to do evil in the spring. There was one peeping at us around\nthat old twisted fir; and didn't you see a group of them on that big\nfreckly toadstool we just passed? The good fairies always dwell in the\nsunshiny places.\"\n\n\"I wish there really were fairies,\" said Jane. \"Wouldn't it be nice to\nhave three wishes granted you . . . or even only one? What would you wish\nfor, girls, if you could have a wish granted? I'd wish to be rich and\nbeautiful and clever.\"\n\n\"I'd wish to be tall and slender,\" said Diana.\n\n\"I would wish to be famous,\" said Priscilla. Anne thought of her hair\nand then dismissed the thought as unworthy.\n\n\"I'd wish it might be spring all the time and in everybody's heart and\nall our lives,\" she said.\n\n\"But that,\" said Priscilla, \"would be just wishing this world were like\nheaven.\"\n\n\"Only like a part of heaven. In the other parts there would be summer\nand autumn . . . yes, and a bit of winter, too. I think I want glittering\nsnowy fields and white frosts in heaven sometimes. Don't you, Jane?\"\n\n\"I . . . I don't know,\" said Jane uncomfortably. Jane was a good girl,\na member of the church, who tried conscientiously to live up to her\nprofession and believed everything she had been taught. But she never\nthought about heaven any more than she could help, for all that.\n\n\"Minnie May asked me the other day if we would wear our best dresses\nevery day in heaven,\" laughed Diana.\n\n\"And didn't you tell her we would?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"Mercy, no! I told her we wouldn't be thinking of dresses at all there.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think we will . . . a LITTLE,\" said Anne earnestly. \"There'll be\nplenty of time in all eternity for it without neglecting more important\nthings. I believe we'll all wear beautiful dresses . . . or I suppose\nRAIMENT would be a more suitable way of speaking. I shall want to wear\npink for a few centuries at first . . . it would take me that long to get\ntired of it, I feel sure. I do love pink so and I can never wear it in\nTHIS world.\"\n\nPast the spruces the lane dipped down into a sunny little open where\na log bridge spanned a brook; and then came the glory of a sunlit\nbeechwood where the air was like transparent golden wine, and the leaves\nfresh and green, and the wood floor a mosaic of tremulous sunshine. Then\nmore wild cherries, and a little valley of lissome firs, and then a hill\nso steep that the girls lost their breath climbing it; but when they\nreached the top and came out into the open the prettiest surprise of all\nawaited them.\n\nBeyond were the \"back fields\" of the farms that ran out to the upper\nCarmody road. Just before them, hemmed in by beeches and firs but open\nto the south, was a little corner and in it a garden  . . . or what had\nonce been a garden. A tumbledown stone dyke, overgrown with mosses and\ngrass, surrounded it. Along the eastern side ran a row of garden cherry\ntrees, white as a snowdrift. There were traces of old paths still and\na double line of rosebushes through the middle; but all the rest of the\nspace was a sheet of yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, most\nlavish, wind-swayed bloom above the lush green grasses.\n\n\"Oh, how perfectly lovely!\" three of the girls cried. Anne only gazed in\neloquent silence.\n\n\"How in the world does it happen that there ever was a garden back\nhere?\" said Priscilla in amazement.\n\n\"It must be Hester Gray's garden,\" said Diana. \"I've heard mother speak\nof it but I never saw it before, and I wouldn't have supposed that it\ncould be in existence still. You've heard the story, Anne?\"\n\n\"No, but the name seems familiar to me.\"\n\n\"Oh, you've seen it in the graveyard. She is buried down there in the\npoplar corner. You know the little brown stone with the opening gates\ncarved on it and 'Sacred to the memory of Hester Gray, aged twenty-two.'\nJordan Gray is buried right beside her but there's no stone to him. It's\na wonder Marilla never told you about it, Anne. To be sure, it happened\nthirty years ago and everybody has forgotten.\"\n\n\"Well, if there's a story we must have it,\" said Anne. \"Let's sit right\ndown here among the narcissi and Diana will tell it. Why, girls, there\nare hundreds of them . . . they've spread over everything. It looks as if\nthe garden were carpeted with moonshine and sunshine combined. This is\na discovery worth making. To think that I've lived within a mile of this\nplace for six years and have never seen it before! Now, Diana.\"\n\n\"Long ago,\" began Diana, \"this farm belonged to old Mr. David Gray. He\ndidn't live on it . . . he lived where Silas Sloane lives now. He had one\nson, Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work and while\nhe was there he fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray. She\nwas working in a store and she hated it. She'd been brought up in the\ncountry and she always wanted to get back. When Jordan asked her to\nmarry him she said she would if he'd take her away to some quiet spot\nwhere she'd see nothing but fields and trees. So he brought her to\nAvonlea. Mrs. Lynde said he was taking a fearful risk in marrying a\nYankee, and it's certain that Hester was very delicate and a very poor\nhousekeeper; but mother says she was very pretty and sweet and Jordan\njust worshipped the ground she walked on. Well, Mr. Gray gave Jordan\nthis farm and he built a little house back here and Jordan and Hester\nlived in it for four years. She never went out much and hardly anybody\nwent to see her except mother and Mrs. Lynde. Jordan made her this\ngarden and she was crazy about it and spent most of her time in it. She\nwasn't much of a housekeeper but she had a knack with flowers. And then\nshe got sick. Mother says she thinks she was in consumption before she\never came here. She never really laid up but just grew weaker and weaker\nall the time. Jordan wouldn't have anybody to wait on her. He did it all\nhimself and mother says he was as tender and gentle as a woman. Every\nday he'd wrap her in a shawl and carry her out to the garden and she'd\nlie there on a bench quite happy. They say she used to make Jordan kneel\ndown by her every night and morning and pray with her that she might die\nout in the garden when the time came. And her prayer was answered. One\nday Jordan carried her out to the bench and then he picked all the roses\nthat were out and heaped them over her; and she just smiled up at him\n. . . and closed her eyes . . . and that,\" concluded Diana softly, \"was\nthe end.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a dear story,\" sighed Anne, wiping away her tears.\n\n\"What became of Jordan?\" asked Priscilla.\n\n\"He sold the farm after Hester died and went back to Boston. Mr. Jabez\nSloane bought the farm and hauled the little house out to the road.\nJordan died about ten years after and he was brought home and buried\nbeside Hester.\"\n\n\"I can't understand how she could have wanted to live back here, away\nfrom everything,\" said Jane.\n\n\"Oh, I can easily understand THAT,\" said Anne thoughtfully. \"I wouldn't\nwant it myself for a steady thing, because, although I love the fields\nand woods, I love people too. But I can understand it in Hester. She\nwas tired to death of the noise of the big city and the crowds of people\nalways coming and going and caring nothing for her. She just wanted to\nescape from it all to some still, green, friendly place where she could\nrest. And she got just what she wanted, which is something very few\npeople do, I believe. She had four beautiful years before she died. . .\nfour years of perfect happiness, so I think she was to be envied more\nthan pitied. And then to shut your eyes and fall asleep among roses,\nwith the one you loved best on earth smiling down at you . . . oh, I think\nit was beautiful!\"\n\n\"She set out those cherry trees over there,\" said Diana. \"She told\nmother she'd never live to eat their fruit, but she wanted to think that\nsomething she had planted would go on living and helping to make the\nworld beautiful after she was dead.\"\n\n\"I'm so glad we came this way,\" said Anne, the shining-eyed. \"This is\nmy adopted birthday, you know, and this garden and its story is the\nbirthday gift it has given me. Did your mother ever tell you what Hester\nGray looked like, Diana?\"\n\n\"No . . . only just that she was pretty.\"\n\n\"I'm rather glad of that, because I can imagine what she looked like,\nwithout being hampered by facts. I think she was very slight and small,\nwith softly curling dark hair and big, sweet, timid brown eyes, and a\nlittle wistful, pale face.\"\n\nThe girls left their baskets in Hester's garden and spent the rest\nof the afternoon rambling in the woods and fields surrounding it,\ndiscovering many pretty nooks and lanes. When they got hungry they had\nlunch in the prettiest spot of all . . . on the steep bank of a gurgling\nbrook where white birches shot up out of long feathery grasses. The\ngirls sat down by the roots and did full justice to Anne's dainties,\neven the unpoetical sandwiches being greatly appreciated by hearty,\nunspoiled appetites sharpened by all the fresh air and exercise they had\nenjoyed. Anne had brought glasses and lemonade for her guests, but for\nher own part drank cold brook water from a cup fashioned out of birch\nbark. The cup leaked, and the water tasted of earth, as brook water\nis apt to do in spring; but Anne thought it more appropriate to the\noccasion than lemonade.\n\n\"Look do you see that poem?\" she said suddenly, pointing.\n\n\"Where?\" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on\nthe birch trees.\n\n\"There . . . down in the brook . . . that old green, mossy log with the\nwater flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'd\nbeen combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it,\nfar down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw.\"\n\n\"I should rather call it a picture,\" said Jane. \"A poem is lines and\nverses.\"\n\n\"Oh dear me, no.\" Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry\ncoronal positively. \"The lines and verses are only the outward garments\nof the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are\nYOU, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them  . . . and that beautiful\nbit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a\nsoul . . . even of a poem.\"\n\n\"I wonder what a soul . . . a person's soul . . . would look like,\" said\nPriscilla dreamily.\n\n\"Like that, I should think,\" answered Anne, pointing to a radiance of\nsifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree. \"Only with shape and\nfeatures of course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light. And\nsome are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers . . . and some\nhave a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea . . . and some are pale and\ntransparent like mist at dawn.\"\n\n\"I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers,\" said Priscilla.\n\n\"Then your soul is a golden narcissus,\" said Anne, \"and Diana's is like\na red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and\nsweet.\"\n\n\"And your own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart,\"\nfinished Priscilla.\n\nJane whispered to Diana that she really could not understand what they\nwere talking about. Could she?\n\nThe girls went home by the light of a calm golden sunset, their baskets\nfilled with narcissus blossoms from Hester's garden, some of which Anne\ncarried to the cemetery next day and laid upon Hester's grave. Minstrel\nrobins were whistling in the firs and the frogs were singing in the\nmarshes. All the basins among the hills were brimmed with topaz and\nemerald light.\n\n\"Well, we have had a lovely time after all,\" said Diana, as if she had\nhardly expected to have it when she set out.\n\n\"It has been a truly golden day,\" said Priscilla.\n\n\"I'm really awfully fond of the woods myself,\" said Jane.\n\nAnne said nothing. She was looking afar into the western sky and\nthinking of little Hester Gray.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nA Danger Averted\n\n\nAnne, walking home from the post office one Friday evening, was joined\nby Mrs. Lynde, who was as usual cumbered with all the cares of church\nand state.\n\n\"I've just been down to Timothy Cotton's to see if I could get Alice\nLouise to help me for a few days,\" she said. \"I had her last week, for,\nthough she's too slow to stop quick, she's better than nobody. But\nshe's sick and can't come. Timothy's sitting there, too, coughing and\ncomplaining. He's been dying for ten years and he'll go on dying for\nten years more. That kind can't even die and have done with it . . . they\ncan't stick to anything, even to being sick, long enough to finish it.\nThey're a terrible shiftless family and what is to become of them I\ndon't know, but perhaps Providence does.\"\n\nMrs. Lynde sighed as if she rather doubted the extent of Providential\nknowledge on the subject.\n\n\"Marilla was in about her eyes again Tuesday, wasn't she? What did the\nspecialist think of them?\" she continued.\n\n\"He was much pleased,\" said Anne brightly. \"He says there is a great\nimprovement in them and he thinks the danger of her losing her sight\ncompletely is past. But he says she'll never be able to read much or\ndo any fine hand-work again. How are your preparations for your bazaar\ncoming on?\"\n\nThe Ladies' Aid Society was preparing for a fair and supper, and Mrs.\nLynde was the head and front of the enterprise.\n\n\"Pretty well . . . and that reminds me. Mrs. Allan thinks it would be nice\nto fix up a booth like an old-time kitchen and serve a supper of baked\nbeans, doughnuts, pie, and so on. We're collecting old-fashioned fixings\neverywhere. Mrs. Simon Fletcher is going to lend us her mother's braided\nrugs and Mrs. Levi Boulter some old chairs and Aunt Mary Shaw will lend\nus her cupboard with the glass doors. I suppose Marilla will let us have\nher brass candlesticks? And we want all the old dishes we can get. Mrs.\nAllan is specially set on having a real blue willow ware platter if we\ncan find one. But nobody seems to have one. Do you know where we could\nget one?\"\n\n\"Miss Josephine Barry has one. I'll write and ask her if she'll lend it\nfor the occasion,\" said Anne.\n\n\"Well, I wish you would. I guess we'll have the supper in about a\nfortnight's time. Uncle Abe Andrews is prophesying rain and storms for\nabout that time; and that's a pretty sure sign we'll have fine weather.\"\n\nThe said \"Uncle Abe,\" it may be mentioned, was at least like other\nprophets in that he had small honor in his own country. He was, in\nfact, considered in the light of a standing joke, for few of his weather\npredictions were ever fulfilled. Mr. Elisha Wright, who labored under\nthe impression that he was a local wit, used to say that nobody in\nAvonlea ever thought of looking in the Charlottetown dailies for weather\nprobabilities. No; they just asked Uncle Abe what it was going to be\ntomorrow and expected the opposite. Nothing daunted, Uncle Abe kept on\nprophesying.\n\n\"We want to have the fair over before the election comes off,\" continued\nMrs. Lynde, \"for the candidates will be sure to come and spend lots of\nmoney. The Tories are bribing right and left, so they might as well be\ngiven a chance to spend their money honestly for once.\"\n\nAnne was a red-hot Conservative, out of loyalty to Matthew's memory,\nbut she said nothing. She knew better than to get Mrs. Lynde started\non politics. She had a letter for Marilla, postmarked from a town in\nBritish Columbia.\n\n\"It's probably from the children's uncle,\" she said excitedly, when she\ngot home. \"Oh, Marilla, I wonder what he says about them.\"\n\n\"The best plan might be to open it and see,\" said Marilla curtly. A\nclose observer might have thought that she was excited also, but she\nwould rather have died than show it.\n\nAnne tore open the letter and glanced over the somewhat untidy and\npoorly written contents.\n\n\"He says he can't take the children this spring . . . he's been sick most\nof the winter and his wedding is put off. He wants to know if we can\nkeep them till the fall and he'll try and take them then. We will, of\ncourse, won't we Marilla?\"\n\n\"I don't see that there is anything else for us to do,\" said Marilla\nrather grimly, although she felt a secret relief. \"Anyhow they're not so\nmuch trouble as they were . . . or else we've got used to them. Davy has\nimproved a great deal.\"\n\n\"His MANNERS are certainly much better,\" said Anne cautiously, as if she\nwere not prepared to say as much for his morals.\n\nAnne had come home from school the previous evening, to find Marilla\naway at an Aid meeting, Dora asleep on the kitchen sofa, and Davy in\nthe sitting room closet, blissfully absorbing the contents of a jar of\nMarilla's famous yellow plum preserves . . .  \"company jam,\" Davy called\nit . . . which he had been forbidden to touch. He looked very guilty when\nAnne pounced on him and whisked him out of the closet.\n\n\"Davy Keith, don't you know that it is very wrong of you to be eating\nthat jam, when you were told never to meddle with anything in THAT\ncloset?\"\n\n\"Yes, I knew it was wrong,\" admitted Davy uncomfortably, \"but plum jam\nis awful nice, Anne. I just peeped in and it looked so good I thought\nI'd take just a weeny taste. I stuck my finger in . . .\" Anne groaned\n. . . \"and licked it clean. And it was so much gooder than I'd ever thought\nthat I got a spoon and just SAILED IN.\"\n\nAnne gave him such a serious lecture on the sin of stealing plum jam\nthat Davy became conscience stricken and promised with repentant kisses\nnever to do it again.\n\n\"Anyhow, there'll be plenty of jam in heaven, that's one comfort,\" he\nsaid complacently.\n\nAnne nipped a smile in the bud.\n\n\"Perhaps there will . . . if we want it,\" she said, \"But what makes you\nthink so?\"\n\n\"Why, it's in the catechism,\" said Davy.\n\n\"Oh, no, there is nothing like THAT in the catechism, Davy.\"\n\n\"But I tell you there is,\" persisted Davy. \"It was in that question\nMarilla taught me last Sunday. 'Why should we love God?' It says,\n'Because He makes preserves, and redeems us.' Preserves is just a holy\nway of saying jam.\"\n\n\"I must get a drink of water,\" said Anne hastily. When she came back it\ncost her some time and trouble to explain to Davy that a certain comma\nin the said catechism question made a great deal of difference in the\nmeaning.\n\n\"Well, I thought it was too good to be true,\" he said at last, with a\nsigh of disappointed conviction. \"And besides, I didn't see when He'd\nfind time to make jam if it's one endless Sabbath day, as the hymn\nsays. I don't believe I want to go to heaven. Won't there ever be any\nSaturdays in heaven, Anne?\"\n\n\"Yes, Saturdays, and every other kind of beautiful days. And every day\nin heaven will be more beautiful than the one before it, Davy,\" assured\nAnne, who was rather glad that Marilla was not by to be shocked.\nMarilla, it is needless to say, was bringing the twins up in the\ngood old ways of theology and discouraged all fanciful speculations\nthereupon. Davy and Dora were taught a hymn, a catechism question, and\ntwo Bible verses every Sunday. Dora learned meekly and recited like a\nlittle machine, with perhaps as much understanding or interest as if she\nwere one. Davy, on the contrary, had a lively curiosity, and frequently\nasked questions which made Marilla tremble for his fate.\n\n\"Chester Sloane says we'll do nothing all the time in heaven but walk\naround in white dresses and play on harps; and he says he hopes he won't\nhave to go till he's an old man, 'cause maybe he'll like it better then.\nAnd he thinks it will be horrid to wear dresses and I think so too. Why\ncan't men angels wear trousers, Anne? Chester Sloane is interested in\nthose things, 'cause they're going to make a minister of him. He's got\nto be a minister 'cause his grandmother left the money to send him to\ncollege and he can't have it unless he is a minister. She thought a\nminister was such a 'spectable thing to have in a family. Chester says\nhe doesn't mind much . . . though he'd rather be a blacksmith . . . but\nhe's bound to have all the fun he can before he begins to be a minister,\n'cause he doesn't expect to have much afterwards. I ain't going to be a\nminister. I'm going to be a storekeeper, like Mr. Blair, and keep heaps\nof candy and bananas. But I'd rather like going to your kind of a heaven\nif they'd let me play a mouth organ instead of a harp. Do you s'pose\nthey would?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think they would if you wanted it,\" was all Anne could trust\nherself to say.\n\nThe A.V.I.S. met at Mr. Harmon Andrews' that evening and a full\nattendance had been requested, since important business was to be\ndiscussed. The A.V.I.S. was in a flourishing condition, and had already\naccomplished wonders. Early in the spring Mr. Major Spencer had redeemed\nhis promise and had stumped, graded, and seeded down all the road front\nof his farm. A dozen other men, some prompted by a determination not to\nlet a Spencer get ahead of them, others goaded into action by Improvers\nin their own households, had followed his example. The result was\nthat there were long strips of smooth velvet turf where once had been\nunsightly undergrowth or brush. The farm fronts that had not been done\nlooked so badly by contrast that their owners were secretly shamed into\nresolving to see what they could do another spring. The triangle of\nground at the cross roads had also been cleared and seeded down, and\nAnne's bed of geraniums, unharmed by any marauding cow, was already set\nout in the center.\n\nAltogether, the Improvers thought that they were getting on beautifully,\neven if Mr. Levi Boulter, tactfully approached by a carefully selected\ncommittee in regard to the old house on his upper farm, did bluntly tell\nthem that he wasn't going to have it meddled with.\n\nAt this especial meeting they intended to draw up a petition to the\nschool trustees, humbly praying that a fence be put around the school\ngrounds; and a plan was also to be discussed for planting a few\nornamental trees by the church, if the funds of the society would\npermit of it . . . for, as Anne said, there was no use in starting\nanother subscription as long as the hall remained blue. The members were\nassembled in the Andrews' parlor and Jane was already on her feet to\nmove the appointment of a committee which should find out and report\non the price of said trees, when Gertie Pye swept in, pompadoured and\nfrilled within an inch of her life. Gertie had a habit of being late\n. . . \"to make her entrance more effective,\" spiteful people said.\nGertie's entrance in this instance was certainly effective, for she\npaused dramatically on the middle of the floor, threw up her hands,\nrolled her eyes, and exclaimed, \"I've just heard something perfectly\nawful. What DO you think? Mr. Judson Parker IS GOING TO RENT ALL THE\nROAD FENCE OF HIS FARM TO A PATENT MEDICINE COMPANY TO PAINT\nADVERTISEMENTS ON.\"\n\nFor once in her life Gertie Pye made all the sensation she desired. If\nshe had thrown a bomb among the complacent Improvers she could hardly\nhave made more.\n\n\"It CAN'T be true,\" said Anne blankly.\n\n\"That's just what _I_ said when I heard it first, don't you know,\" said\nGertie, who was enjoying herself hugely. \"_I_ said it couldn't be true\n. . . that Judson Parker wouldn't have the HEART to do it, don't you know.\nBut father met him this afternoon and asked him about it and he said it\nWAS true. Just fancy! His farm is side-on to the Newbridge road and how\nperfectly awful it will look to see advertisements of pills and plasters\nall along it, don't you know?\"\n\nThe Improvers DID know, all too well. Even the least imaginative among\nthem could picture the grotesque effect of half a mile of board fence\nadorned with such advertisements. All thought of church and school\ngrounds vanished before this new danger. Parliamentary rules and\nregulations were forgotten, and Anne, in despair, gave up trying to keep\nminutes at all. Everybody talked at once and fearful was the hubbub.\n\n\"Oh, let us keep calm,\" implored Anne, who was the most excited of them\nall, \"and try to think of some way of preventing him.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you're going to prevent him,\" exclaimed Jane bitterly.\n\"Everybody knows what Judson Parker is. He'd do ANYTHING for money. He\nhasn't a SPARK of public spirit or ANY sense of the beautiful.\"\n\nThe prospect looked rather unpromising. Judson Parker and his sister\nwere the only Parkers in Avonlea, so that no leverage could be exerted\nby family connections. Martha Parker was a lady of all too certain\nage who disapproved of young people in general and the Improvers\nin particular. Judson was a jovial, smooth-spoken man, so uniformly\ngoodnatured and bland that it was surprising how few friends he had.\nPerhaps he had got the better in too many business transactions. . .\nwhich seldom makes for popularity. He was reputed to be very \"sharp\"\nand it was the general opinion that he \"hadn't much principle.\"\n\n\"If Judson Parker has a chance to 'turn an honest penny,' as he says\nhimself, he'll never lose it,\" declared Fred Wright.\n\n\"Is there NOBODY who has any influence over him?\" asked Anne\ndespairingly.\n\n\"He goes to see Louisa Spencer at White Sands,\" suggested Carrie Sloane.\n\"Perhaps she could coax him not to rent his fences.\"\n\n\"Not she,\" said Gilbert emphatically. \"I know Louisa Spencer well. She\ndoesn't 'believe' in Village Improvement Societies, but she DOES believe\nin dollars and cents. She'd be more likely to urge Judson on than to\ndissuade him.\"\n\n\"The only thing to do is to appoint a committee to wait on him and\nprotest,\" said Julia Bell, \"and you must send girls, for he'd hardly be\ncivil to boys  . . . but _I_ won't go, so nobody need nominate me.\"\n\n\"Better send Anne alone,\" said Oliver Sloane. \"She can talk Judson over\nif anybody can.\"\n\nAnne protested. She was willing to go and do the talking; but she must\nhave others with her \"for moral support.\" Diana and Jane were therefore\nappointed to support her morally and the Improvers broke up, buzzing\nlike angry bees with indignation. Anne was so worried that she didn't\nsleep until nearly morning, and then she dreamed that the trustees had\nput a fence around the school and painted \"Try Purple Pills\" all over\nit.\n\nThe committee waited on Judson Parker the next afternoon. Anne pleaded\neloquently against his nefarious design and Jane and Diana supported her\nmorally and valiantly. Judson was sleek, suave, flattering; paid them\nseveral compliments of the delicacy of sunflowers; felt real bad to\nrefuse such charming young ladies  . . . but business was business;\ncouldn't afford to let sentiment stand in the way these hard times.\n\n\"But I'll tell what I WILL do,\" he said, with a twinkle in his light,\nfull eyes. \"I'll tell the agent he must use only handsome, tasty colors\n. . . red and yellow and so on. I'll tell him he mustn't paint the ads\nBLUE on any account.\"\n\nThe vanquished committee retired, thinking things not lawful to be\nuttered.\n\n\"We have done all we can do and must simply trust the rest to\nProvidence,\" said Jane, with an unconscious imitation of Mrs. Lynde's\ntone and manner.\n\n\"I wonder if Mr. Allan could do anything,\" reflected Diana.\n\nAnne shook her head.\n\n\"No, it's no use to worry Mr. Allan, especially now when the baby's so\nsick. Judson would slip away from him as smoothly as from us, although\nhe HAS taken to going to church quite regularly just now. That is simply\nbecause Louisa Spencer's father is an elder and very particular about\nsuch things.\"\n\n\"Judson Parker is the only man in Avonlea who would dream of renting\nhis fences,\" said Jane indignantly. \"Even Levi Boulter or Lorenzo White\nwould never stoop to that, tightfisted as they are. They would have too\nmuch respect for public opinion.\"\n\nPublic opinion was certainly down on Judson Parker when the facts became\nknown, but that did not help matters much. Judson chuckled to himself\nand defied it, and the Improvers were trying to reconcile themselves to\nthe prospect of seeing the prettiest part of the Newbridge road defaced\nby advertisements, when Anne rose quietly at the president's call\nfor reports of committees on the occasion of the next meeting of the\nSociety, and announced that Mr. Judson Parker had instructed her to\ninform the Society that he was NOT going to rent his fences to the\nPatent Medicine Company.\n\nJane and Diana stared as if they found it hard to believe their ears.\nParliamentary etiquette, which was generally very strictly enforced in\nthe A.V.I.S., forbade them giving instant vent to their curiosity, but\nafter the Society adjourned Anne was besieged for explanations. Anne had\nno explanation to give. Judson Parker had overtaken her on the road the\npreceding evening and told her that he had decided to humor the A.V.I.S.\nin its peculiar prejudice against patent medicine advertisements. That\nwas all Anne would say, then or ever afterwards, and it was the simple\ntruth; but when Jane Andrews, on her way home, confided to Oliver Sloane\nher firm belief that there was more behind Judson Parker's mysterious\nchange of heart than Anne Shirley had revealed, she spoke the truth\nalso.\n\nAnne had been down to old Mrs. Irving's on the shore road the preceding\nevening and had come home by a short cut which led her first over the\nlow-lying shore fields, and then through the beech wood below Robert\nDickson's, by a little footpath that ran out to the main road just above\nthe Lake of Shining Waters . . . known to unimaginative people as Barry's\npond.\n\nTwo men were sitting in their buggies, reined off to the side of the\nroad, just at the entrance of the path. One was Judson Parker; the other\nwas Jerry Corcoran, a Newbridge man against whom, as Mrs. Lynde would\nhave told you in eloquent italics, nothing shady had ever been PROVED.\nHe was an agent for agricultural implements and a prominent personage\nin matters political. He had a finger . . .  some people said ALL his\nfingers . . . in every political pie that was cooked; and as Canada was\non the eve of a general election Jerry Corcoran had been a busy man\nfor many weeks, canvassing the county in the interests of his party's\ncandidate. Just as Anne emerged from under the overhanging beech boughs\nshe heard Corcoran say, \"If you'll vote for Amesbury, Parker . . . well,\nI've a note for that pair of harrows you've got in the spring. I suppose\nyou wouldn't object to having it back, eh?\"\n\n\"We . . . ll, since you put it in that way,\" drawled Judson with a\ngrin, \"I reckon I might as well do it. A man must look out for his own\ninterests in these hard times.\"\n\nBoth saw Anne at this moment and conversation abruptly ceased. Anne\nbowed frostily and walked on, with her chin slightly more tilted than\nusual. Soon Judson Parker overtook her.\n\n\"Have a lift, Anne?\" he inquired genially.\n\n\"Thank you, no,\" said Anne politely, but with a fine, needle-like\ndisdain in her voice that pierced even Judson Parker's none too\nsensitive consciousness. His face reddened and he twitched his reins\nangrily; but the next second prudential considerations checked him. He\nlooked uneasily at Anne, as she walked steadily on, glancing neither to\nthe right nor to the left. Had she heard Corcoran's unmistakable\noffer and his own too plain acceptance of it? Confound Corcoran! If\nhe couldn't put his meaning into less dangerous phrases he'd get\ninto trouble some of these long-come-shorts. And confound redheaded\nschool-ma'ams with a habit of popping out of beechwoods where they had\nno business to be. If Anne had heard, Judson Parker, measuring her corn\nin his own half bushel, as the country saying went, and cheating himself\nthereby, as such people generally do, believed that she would tell\nit far and wide. Now, Judson Parker, as has been seen, was not overly\nregardful of public opinion; but to be known as having accepted a bribe\nwould be a nasty thing; and if it ever reached Isaac Spencer's ears\nfarewell forever to all hope of winning Louisa Jane with her comfortable\nprospects as the heiress of a well-to-do farmer. Judson Parker knew\nthat Mr. Spencer looked somewhat askance at him as it was; he could not\nafford to take any risks.\n\n\"Ahem . . . Anne, I've been wanting to see you about that little matter we\nwere discussing the other day. I've decided not to let my fences to\nthat company after all. A society with an aim like yours ought to be\nencouraged.\"\n\nAnne thawed out the merest trifle.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said.\n\n\"And . . . and . . . you needn't mention that little conversation of mine\nwith Jerry.\"\n\n\"I have no intention of mentioning it in any case,\" said Anne icily, for\nshe would have seen every fence in Avonlea painted with advertisements\nbefore she would have stooped to bargain with a man who would sell his\nvote.\n\n\"Just so . . . just so,\" agreed Judson, imagining that they understood\neach other beautifully. \"I didn't suppose you would. Of course, I was\nonly stringing Jerry . . . he thinks he's so all-fired cute and smart.\nI've no intention of voting for Amesbury. I'm going to vote for Grant as\nI've always done . . . you'll see that when the election comes off. I just\nled Jerry on to see if he would commit himself. And it's all right about\nthe fence  . . . you can tell the Improvers that.\"\n\n\"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I've often heard, but\nI think there are some who could be spared,\" Anne told her reflection\nin the east gable mirror that night. \"I wouldn't have mentioned the\ndisgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience is clear on THAT\nscore. I really don't know who or what is to be thanked for this. _I_\ndid nothing to bring it about, and it's hard to believe that Providence\never works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson Parker and\nJerry Corcoran have.\"\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\nThe Beginning of Vacation\n\n\nAnne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when the\nwinds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadows\nwere long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key into\nher pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, she\nhad been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction.\n. . . only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strap\noftener . . . and two delightful months of a well-earned vacation\nbeckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herself\nas she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand.\nSince the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weekly\npilgrimage to Matthew's grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla,\nhad already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but his\nmemory was still green in Anne's heart and always would be. She could\nnever forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her the\nlove and sympathy her starved childhood had craved.\n\nAt the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow of\nthe spruces . . . a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive\nface. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces of\ntears on his cheeks.\n\n\"I thought I'd wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to\nthe graveyard,\" he said, slipping his hand into hers. \"I'm going there,\ntoo . . . I'm taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving's\ngrave for grandma. And look, teacher, I'm going to put this bunch of\nwhite roses beside Grandpa's grave in memory of my little mother. . .\nbecause I can't go to her grave to put it there. But don't you think\nshe'll know all about it, just the same?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.\"\n\n\"You see, teacher, it's just three years today since my little mother\ndied. It's such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever\n. . . and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me\nthat I just can't bear it, it hurts so.\"\n\nPaul's voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses,\nhoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.\n\n\"And yet,\" said Anne, very softly, \"you wouldn't want it to stop hurting\n . . . you wouldn't want to forget your little mother even if you could.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I wouldn't . . . that's just the way I feel. You're so good\nat understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well . . . not even\ngrandma, although she's so good to me. Father understood pretty well,\nbut still I couldn't talk much to him about mother, because it made him\nfeel so bad. When he put his hand over his face I always knew it was\ntime to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfully lonesome without\nme; but you see he has nobody but a housekeeper now and he thinks\nhousekeepers are no good to bring up little boys, especially when he has\nto be away from home so much on business. Grandmothers are better, next\nto mothers. Someday, when I'm brought up, I'll go back to father and\nwe're never going to be parted again.\"\n\nPaul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that she\nfelt as if she had known them. She thought his mother must have been\nvery like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and she\nhad an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deep\nand tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world.\n\n\"Father's not very easy to get acquainted with,\" Paul had said once. \"I\nnever got really acquainted with him until after my little mother died.\nBut he's splendid when you do get to know him. I love him the best in\nall the world, and Grandma Irving next, and then you, teacher. I'd love\nyou next to father if it wasn't my DUTY to love Grandma Irving best,\nbecause she's doing so much for me. YOU know, teacher. I wish she would\nleave the lamp in my room till I go to sleep, though. She takes it right\nout as soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn't be a coward.\nI'm NOT scared, but I'd RATHER have the light. My little mother used\nalways to sit beside me and hold my hand till I went to sleep. I expect\nshe spoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know.\"\n\nNo, Anne did not know this, although she might imagine it. She thought\nsadly of HER \"little mother,\" the mother who had thought her so\n\"perfectly beautiful\" and who had died so long ago and was buried beside\nher boyish husband in that unvisited grave far away. Anne could not\nremember her mother and for this reason she almost envied Paul.\n\n\"My birthday is next week,\" said Paul, as they walked up the long red\nhill, basking in the June sunshine, \"and father wrote me that he is\nsending me something that he thinks I'll like better than anything else\nhe could send. I believe it has come already, for Grandma is keeping the\nbookcase drawer locked and that is something new. And when I asked her\nwhy, she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn't be too\ncurious. It's very exciting to have a birthday, isn't it? I'll be\neleven. You'd never think it to look at me, would you? Grandma says\nI'm very small for my age and that it's all because I don't eat enough\nporridge. I do my very best, but Grandma gives such generous platefuls\n. . . there's nothing mean about Grandma, I can tell you. Ever since you\nand I had that talk about praying going home from Sunday School\nthat day, teacher . . .  when you said we ought to pray about all our\ndifficulties . . . I've prayed every night that God would give me enough\ngrace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge in the mornings. But\nI've never been able to do it yet, and whether it's because I have too\nlittle grace or too much porridge I really can't decide. Grandma says\nfather was brought up on porridge, and it certainly did work well in\nhis case, for you ought to see the shoulders he has. But sometimes,\"\nconcluded Paul with a sigh and a meditative air \"I really think porridge\nwill be the death of me.\"\n\nAnne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not looking at her.\nAll Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandson up in\naccordance with the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals.\n\n\"Let us hope not, dear,\" she said cheerfully. \"How are your rock people\ncoming on? Does the oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?\"\n\n\"He HAS to,\" said Paul emphatically. \"He knows I won't associate with\nhim if he doesn't. He is really full of wickedness, I think.\"\n\n\"And has Nora found out about the Golden Lady yet?\"\n\n\"No; but I think she suspects. I'm almost sure she watched me the last\ntime I went to the cave. _I_ don't mind if she finds out . . .  it is only\nfor HER sake I don't want her to . . . so that her feelings won't be hurt.\nBut if she is DETERMINED to have her feelings hurt it can't be helped.\"\n\n\"If I were to go to the shore some night with you do you think I could\nsee your rock people too?\"\n\nPaul shook his head gravely.\n\n\"No, I don't think you could see MY rock people. I'm the only person who\ncan see them. But you could see rock people of your own. You're one of\nthe kind that can. We're both that kind. YOU know, teacher,\" he added,\nsqueezing her hand chummily. \"Isn't it splendid to be that kind,\nteacher?\"\n\n\"Splendid,\" Anne agreed, gray shining eyes looking down into blue\nshining ones. Anne and Paul both knew\n\n     \"How fair the realm\n     Imagination opens to the view,\"\n\nand both knew the way to that happy land. There the rose of joy bloomed\nimmortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweet\nbells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded. The\nknowledge of that land's geography . . .  \"east o' the sun, west o' the\nmoon\" . . . is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. It\nmust be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can never\ndeface it or take it away. It is better to possess it, living in a\ngarret, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it.\n\nThe Avonlea graveyard was as yet the grass-grown solitude it had always\nbeen. To be sure, the Improvers had an eye on it, and Priscilla Grant\nhad read a paper on cemeteries before the last meeting of the Society.\nAt some future time the Improvers meant to have the lichened, wayward\nold board fence replaced by a neat wire railing, the grass mown and the\nleaning monuments straightened up.\n\nAnne put on Matthew's grave the flowers she had brought for it, and then\nwent over to the little poplar shaded corner where Hester Gray slept.\nEver since the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on Hester's\ngrave when she visited Matthew's. The evening before she had made a\npilgrimage back to the little deserted garden in the woods and brought\ntherefrom some of Hester's own white roses.\n\n\"I thought you would like them better than any others, dear,\" she said\nsoftly.\n\nAnne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over the grass and she\nlooked up to see Mrs. Allan. They walked home together.\n\nMrs. Allan's face was not the face of the girlbride whom the minister\nhad brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloom\nand youthful curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes and\nmouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery accounted for some of them;\nand some new ones had come during the recent illness, now happily over,\nof her little son. But Mrs. Allan's dimples were as sweet and sudden as\never, her eyes as clear and bright and true; and what her face lacked\nof girlish beauty was now more than atoned for in added tenderness and\nstrength.\n\n\"I suppose you are looking forward to your vacation, Anne?\" she said, as\nthey left the graveyard.\n\nAnne nodded.\n\n\"Yes. . . . I could roll the word as a sweet morsel under my tongue. I\nthink the summer is going to be lovely. For one thing, Mrs. Morgan is\ncoming to the Island in July and Priscilla is going to bring her up. I\nfeel one of my old 'thrills' at the mere thought.\"\n\n\"I hope you'll have a good time, Anne. You've worked very hard this past\nyear and you have succeeded.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. I've come so far short in so many things. I haven't\ndone what I meant to do when I began to teach last fall. I haven't lived\nup to my ideals.\"\n\n\"None of us ever do,\" said Mrs. Allan with a sigh. \"But then, Anne, you\nknow what Lowell says, 'Not failure but low aim is crime.' We must have\nideals and try to live up to them, even if we never quite succeed. Life\nwould be a sorry business without them. With them it's grand and great.\nHold fast to your ideals, Anne.\"\n\n\"I shall try. But I have to let go most of my theories,\" said Anne,\nlaughing a little. \"I had the most beautiful set of theories you ever\nknew when I started out as a schoolma'am, but every one of them has\nfailed me at some pinch or another.\"\n\n\"Even the theory on corporal punishment,\" teased Mrs. Allan.\n\nBut Anne flushed.\n\n\"I shall never forgive myself for whipping Anthony.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, dear, he deserved it. And it agreed with him. You have had no\ntrouble with him since and he has come to think there's nobody like you.\nYour kindness won his love after the idea that a 'girl was no good' was\nrooted out of his stubborn mind.\"\n\n\"He may have deserved it, but that is not the point. If I had calmly and\ndeliberately decided to whip him because I thought it a just punishment\nfor him I would not feel over it as I do. But the truth is, Mrs. Allan,\nthat I just flew into a temper and whipped him because of that. I wasn't\nthinking whether it was just or unjust . . . even if he hadn't deserved it\nI'd have done it just the same. That is what humiliates me.\"\n\n\"Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so just put it behind you. We should\nregret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forward\ninto the future with us. There goes Gilbert Blythe on his wheel . . . home\nfor his vacation too, I suppose. How are you and he getting on with your\nstudies?\"\n\n\"Pretty well. We plan to finish the Virgil tonight . . . there are only\ntwenty lines to do. Then we are not going to study any more until\nSeptember.\"\n\n\"Do you think you will ever get to college?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know.\" Anne looked dreamily afar to the opal-tinted\nhorizon. \"Marilla's eyes will never be much better than they are now,\nalthough we are so thankful to think that they will not get worse. And\nthen there are the twins . . . somehow I don't believe their uncle will\never really send for them. Perhaps college may be around the bend in the\nroad, but I haven't got to the bend yet and I don't think much about it\nlest I might grow discontented.\"\n\n\"Well, I should like to see you go to college, Anne; but if you never\ndo, don't be discontented about it. We make our own lives wherever we\nare, after all . . . college can only help us to do it more easily. They\nare broad or narrow according to what we put into them, not what we get\nout. Life is rich and full here . . .  everywhere . . . if we can only\nlearn how to open our whole hearts to its richness and fulness.\"\n\n\"I think I understand what you mean,\" said Anne thoughtfully, \"and I\nknow I have so much to feel thankful for . . . oh, so much . . .  my work,\nand Paul Irving, and the dear twins, and all my friends. Do you know,\nMrs. Allan, I'm so thankful for friendship. It beautifies life so much.\"\n\n\"True friendship is a very helpful thing indeed,\" said Mrs. Allan,\n\"and we should have a very high ideal of it, and never sully it by any\nfailure in truth and sincerity. I fear the name of friendship is often\ndegraded to a kind of intimacy that has nothing of real friendship in\nit.\"\n\n\"Yes . . . like Gertie Pye's and Julia Bell's. They are very intimate\nand go everywhere together; but Gertie is always saying nasty things of\nJulia behind her back and everybody thinks she is jealous of her because\nshe is always so pleased when anybody criticizes Julia. I think it is\ndesecration to call that friendship. If we have friends we should look\nonly for the best in them and give them the best that is in us, don't\nyou think? Then friendship would be the most beautiful thing in the\nworld.\"\n\n\"Friendship IS very beautiful,\" smiled Mrs. Allan, \"but some day . . .\"\n\nThen she paused abruptly. In the delicate, white-browed face beside her,\nwith its candid eyes and mobile features, there was still far more of\nthe child than of the woman. Anne's heart so far harbored only dreams of\nfriendship and ambition, and Mrs. Allan did not wish to brush the bloom\nfrom her sweet unconsciousness. So she left her sentence for the future\nyears to finish.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nThe Substance of Things Hoped For\n\n\n\"Anne,\" said Davy appealingly, scrambling up on the shiny,\nleather-covered sofa in the Green Gables kitchen, where Anne sat,\nreading a letter, \"Anne, I'm AWFUL hungry. You've no idea.\"\n\n\"I'll get you a piece of bread and butter in a minute,\" said Anne\nabsently. Her letter evidently contained some exciting news, for her\ncheeks were as pink as the roses on the big bush outside, and her eyes\nwere as starry as only Anne's eyes could be.\n\n\"But I ain't bread and butter hungry,\" said Davy in a disgusted tone.\n\"I'm plum cake hungry.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" laughed Anne, laying down her letter and putting her arm about\nDavy to give him a squeeze, \"that's a kind of hunger that can be endured\nvery comfortably, Davy-boy. You know it's one of Marilla's rules that\nyou can't have anything but bread and butter between meals.\"\n\n\"Well, gimme a piece then . . . please.\"\n\nDavy had been at last taught to say \"please,\" but he generally tacked\nit on as an afterthought. He looked with approval at the generous slice\nAnne presently brought to him. \"You always put such a nice lot of butter\non it, Anne. Marilla spreads it pretty thin. It slips down a lot easier\nwhen there's plenty of butter.\"\n\nThe slice \"slipped down\" with tolerable ease, judging from its rapid\ndisappearance. Davy slid head first off the sofa, turned a double\nsomersault on the rug, and then sat up and announced decidedly,\n\n\"Anne, I've made up my mind about heaven. I don't want to go there.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Anne gravely.\n\n\"Cause heaven is in Simon Fletcher's garret, and I don't like Simon\nFletcher.\"\n\n\"Heaven in . . . Simon Fletcher's garret!\" gasped Anne, too amazed even\nto laugh. \"Davy Keith, whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your\nhead?\"\n\n\"Milty Boulter says that's where it is. It was last Sunday in Sunday\nSchool. The lesson was about Elijah and Elisha, and I up and asked Miss\nRogerson where heaven was. Miss Rogerson looked awful offended. She was\ncross anyhow, because when she'd asked us what Elijah left Elisha when\nhe went to heaven Milty Boulter said, 'His old clo'es,' and us fellows\nall laughed before we thought. I wish you could think first and do\nthings afterwards, 'cause then you wouldn't do them. But Milty didn't\nmean to be disrespeckful. He just couldn't think of the name of the\nthing. Miss Rogerson said heaven was where God was and I wasn't to ask\nquestions like that. Milty nudged me and said in a whisper, 'Heaven's\nin Uncle Simon's garret and I'll esplain about it on the road home.' So\nwhen we was coming home he esplained. Milty's a great hand at esplaining\nthings. Even if he don't know anything about a thing he'll make up a lot\nof stuff and so you get it esplained all the same. His mother is Mrs.\nSimon's sister and he went with her to the funeral when his cousin, Jane\nEllen, died. The minister said she'd gone to heaven, though Milty says\nshe was lying right before them in the coffin. But he s'posed they\ncarried the coffin to the garret afterwards. Well, when Milty and his\nmother went upstairs after it was all over to get her bonnet he asked\nher where heaven was that Jane Ellen had gone to, and she pointed right\nto the ceiling and said, 'Up there.' Milty knew there wasn't anything\nbut the garret over the ceiling, so that's how HE found out. And he's\nbeen awful scared to go to his Uncle Simon's ever since.\"\n\nAnne took Davy on her knee and did her best to straighten out this\ntheological tangle also. She was much better fitted for the task than\nMarilla, for she remembered her own childhood and had an instinctive\nunderstanding of the curious ideas that seven-year-olds sometimes get\nabout matters that are, of course, very plain and simple to grown up\npeople. She had just succeeded in convincing Davy that heaven was NOT in\nSimon Fletcher's garret when Marilla came in from the garden, where she\nand Dora had been picking peas. Dora was an industrious little soul and\nnever happier than when \"helping\" in various small tasks suited to her\nchubby fingers. She fed chickens, picked up chips, wiped dishes, and ran\nerrands galore. She was neat, faithful and observant; she never had\nto be told how to do a thing twice and never forgot any of her little\nduties. Davy, on the other hand, was rather heedless and forgetful; but\nhe had the born knack of winning love, and even yet Anne and Marilla\nliked him the better.\n\nWhile Dora proudly shelled the peas and Davy made boats of the pods,\nwith masts of matches and sails of paper, Anne told Marilla about the\nwonderful contents of her letter.\n\n\"Oh, Marilla, what do you think? I've had a letter from Priscilla and\nshe says that Mrs. Morgan is on the Island, and that if it is fine\nThursday they are going to drive up to Avonlea and will reach here about\ntwelve. They will spend the afternoon with us and go to the hotel at\nWhite Sands in the evening, because some of Mrs. Morgan's American\nfriends are staying there. Oh, Marilla, isn't it wonderful? I can hardly\nbelieve I'm not dreaming.\"\n\n\"I daresay Mrs. Morgan is a lot like other people,\" said Marilla drily,\nalthough she did feel a trifle excited herself. Mrs. Morgan was a famous\nwoman and a visit from her was no commonplace occurrence. \"They'll be\nhere to dinner, then?\"\n\n\"Yes; and oh, Marilla, may I cook every bit of the dinner myself? I want\nto feel that I can do something for the author of 'The Rosebud Garden,'\nif it is only to cook a dinner for her. You won't mind, will you?\"\n\n\"Goodness, I'm not so fond of stewing over a hot fire in July that it\nwould vex me very much to have someone else do it. You're quite welcome\nto the job.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you,\" said Anne, as if Marilla had just conferred a\ntremendous favor, \"I'll make out the menu this very night.\"\n\n\"You'd better not try to put on too much style,\" warned Marilla, a\nlittle alarmed by the high-flown sound of 'menu.' \"You'll likely come to\ngrief if you do.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not going to put on any 'style,' if you mean trying to do or\nhave things we don't usually have on festal occasions,\" assured Anne.\n\"That would be affectation, and, although I know I haven't as much sense\nand steadiness as a girl of seventeen and a schoolteacher ought to have,\nI'm not so silly as THAT. But I want to have everything as nice and\ndainty as possible. Davy-boy, don't leave those peapods on the back\nstairs . . . someone might slip on them. I'll have a light soup to begin\nwith . . . you know I can make lovely cream-of-onion soup . . . and then\na couple of roast fowls. I'll have the two white roosters. I have real\naffection for those roosters and they've been pets ever since the gray\nhen hatched out just the two of them . . . little balls of yellow down.\nBut I know they would have to be sacrificed sometime, and surely there\ncouldn't be a worthier occasion than this. But oh, Marilla, _I_ cannot\nkill them . . . not even for Mrs. Morgan's sake. I'll have to ask John\nHenry Carter to come over and do it for me.\"\n\n\"I'll do it,\" volunteered Davy, \"if Marilla'll hold them by the legs,\n'cause I guess it'd take both my hands to manage the axe. It's awful\njolly fun to see them hopping about after their heads are cut off.\"\n\n\"Then I'll have peas and beans and creamed potatoes and a lettuce salad,\nfor vegetables,\" resumed Anne, \"and for dessert, lemon pie with whipped\ncream, and coffee and cheese and lady fingers. I'll make the pies and\nlady fingers tomorrow and do up my white muslin dress. And I must tell\nDiana tonight, for she'll want to do up hers. Mrs. Morgan's heroines\nare nearly always dressed in white muslin, and Diana and I have always\nresolved that that was what we would wear if we ever met her. It will\nbe such a delicate compliment, don't you think? Davy, dear, you mustn't\npoke peapods into the cracks of the floor. I must ask Mr. and Mrs. Allan\nand Miss Stacy to dinner, too, for they're all very anxious to meet Mrs.\nMorgan. It's so fortunate she's coming while Miss Stacy is here. Davy\ndear, don't sail the peapods in the water bucket . . . go out to the\ntrough. Oh, I do hope it will be fine Thursday, and I think it will, for\nUncle Abe said last night when he called at Mr. Harrison's, that it was\ngoing to rain most of this week.\"\n\n\"That's a good sign,\" agreed Marilla.\n\nAnne ran across to Orchard Slope that evening to tell the news to Diana,\nwho was also very much excited over it, and they discussed the matter in\nthe hammock swung under the big willow in the Barry garden.\n\n\"Oh, Anne, mayn't I help you cook the dinner?\" implored Diana. \"You know\nI can make splendid lettuce salad.\"\n\n\"Indeed you, may\" said Anne unselfishly. \"And I shall want you to help\nme decorate too. I mean to have the parlor simply a BOWER of blossoms\n. . . and the dining table is to be adorned with wild roses. Oh, I do\nhope everything will go smoothly. Mrs. Morgan's heroines NEVER get\ninto scrapes or are taken at a disadvantage, and they are always so\nselfpossessed and such good housekeepers. They seem to be BORN good\nhousekeepers. You remember that Gertrude in 'Edgewood Days' kept house\nfor her father when she was only eight years old. When I was eight\nyears old I hardly knew how to do a thing except bring up children. Mrs.\nMorgan must be an authority on girls when she has written so much about\nthem, and I do want her to have a good opinion of us. I've imagined\nit all out a dozen different ways . . . what she'll look like, and what\nshe'll say, and what I'll say. And I'm so anxious about my nose. There\nare seven freckles on it, as you can see. They came at the A.V.I S.\npicnic, when I went around in the sun without my hat. I suppose it's\nungrateful of me to worry over them, when I should be thankful they're\nnot spread all over my face as they once were; but I do wish they hadn't\ncome . . . all Mrs. Morgan's heroines have such perfect complexions. I\ncan't recall a freckled one among them.\"\n\n\"Yours are not very noticeable,\" comforted Diana. \"Try a little lemon\njuice on them tonight.\"\n\nThe next day Anne made her pies and lady fingers, did up her muslin\ndress, and swept and dusted every room in the house . . . a quite\nunnecessary proceeding, for Green Gables was, as usual, in the apple pie\norder dear to Marilla's heart. But Anne felt that a fleck of dust would\nbe a desecration in a house that was to be honored by a visit from\nCharlotte E. Morgan. She even cleaned out the \"catch-all\" closet under\nthe stairs, although there was not the remotest possibility of Mrs.\nMorgan's seeing its interior.\n\n\"But I want to FEEL that it is in perfect order, even if she isn't to\nsee it,\" Anne told Marilla. \"You know, in her book 'Golden Keys,' she\nmakes her two heroines Alice and Louisa take for their motto that verse\nof Longfellow's,\n\n     'In the elder days of art\n     Builders wrought with greatest care\n     Each minute and unseen part,\n     For the gods see everywhere,'\n\nand so they always kept their cellar stairs scrubbed and never forgot\nto sweep under the beds. I should have a guilty conscience if I thought\nthis closet was in disorder when Mrs. Morgan was in the house. Ever\nsince we read 'Golden Keys,' last April, Diana and I have taken that\nverse for our motto too.\"\n\nThat night John Henry Carter and Davy between them contrived to execute\nthe two white roosters, and Anne dressed them, the usually distasteful\ntask glorified in her eyes by the destination of the plump birds.\n\n\"I don't like picking fowls,\" she told Marilla, \"but isn't it fortunate\nwe don't have to put our souls into what our hands may be doing? I've\nbeen picking chickens with my hands but in imagination I've been roaming\nthe Milky Way.\"\n\n\"I thought you'd scattered more feathers over the floor than usual,\"\nremarked Marilla.\n\nThen Anne put Davy to bed and made him promise that he would behave\nperfectly the next day.\n\n\"If I'm as good as good can be all day tomorrow will you let me be just\nas bad as I like all the next day?\" asked Davy.\n\n\"I couldn't do that,\" said Anne discreetly, \"but I'll take you and Dora\nfor a row in the flat right to the bottom of the pond, and we'll go\nashore on the sandhills and have a picnic.\"\n\n\"It's a bargain,\" said Davy. \"I'll be good, you bet. I meant to go over\nto Mr. Harrison's and fire peas from my new popgun at Ginger but another\nday'll do as well. I espect it will be just like Sunday, but a picnic at\nthe shore'll make up for THAT.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nA Chapter of Accidents\n\n\nAnne woke three times in the night and made pilgrimages to her window to\nmake sure that Uncle Abe's prediction was not coming true. Finally the\nmorning dawned pearly and lustrous in a sky full of silver sheen and\nradiance, and the wonderful day had arrived.\n\nDiana appeared soon after breakfast, with a basket of flowers over one\narm and HER muslin dress over the other . . . for it would not do to don\nit until all the dinner preparations were completed. Meanwhile she wore\nher afternoon pink print and a lawn apron fearfully and wonderfully\nruffled and frilled; and very neat and pretty and rosy she was.\n\n\"You look simply sweet,\" said Anne admiringly.\n\nDiana sighed.\n\n\"But I've had to let out every one of my dresses AGAIN. I weigh four\npounds more than I did in July. Anne, WHERE will this end? Mrs. Morgan's\nheroines are all tall and slender.\"\n\n\"Well, let's forget our troubles and think of our mercies,\" said Anne\ngaily. \"Mrs. Allan says that whenever we think of anything that is a\ntrial to us we should also think of something nice that we can set\nover against it. If you are slightly too plump you've got the dearest\ndimples; and if I have a freckled nose the SHAPE of it is all right. Do\nyou think the lemon juice did any good?\"\n\n\"Yes, I really think it did,\" said Diana critically; and, much elated,\nAnne led the way to the garden, which was full of airy shadows and\nwavering golden lights.\n\n\"We'll decorate the parlor first. We have plenty of time, for Priscilla\nsaid they'd be here about twelve or half past at the latest, so we'll\nhave dinner at one.\"\n\nThere may have been two happier and more excited girls somewhere in\nCanada or the United States at that moment, but I doubt it. Every snip\nof the scissors, as rose and peony and bluebell fell, seemed to chirp,\n\"Mrs. Morgan is coming today.\" Anne wondered how Mr. Harrison COULD go\non placidly mowing hay in the field across the lane, just as if nothing\nwere going to happen.\n\nThe parlor at Green Gables was a rather severe and gloomy apartment,\nwith rigid horsehair furniture, stiff lace curtains, and white\nantimacassars that were always laid at a perfectly correct angle, except\nat such times as they clung to unfortunate people's buttons. Even Anne\nhad never been able to infuse much grace into it, for Marilla would not\npermit any alterations. But it is wonderful what flowers can accomplish\nif you give them a fair chance; when Anne and Diana finished with the\nroom you would not have recognized it.\n\nA great blue bowlful of snowballs overflowed on the polished table. The\nshining black mantelpiece was heaped with roses and ferns. Every shelf\nof the what-not held a sheaf of bluebells; the dark corners on either\nside of the grate were lighted up with jars full of glowing crimson\npeonies, and the grate itself was aflame with yellow poppies. All\nthis splendor and color, mingled with the sunshine falling through the\nhoneysuckle vines at the windows in a leafy riot of dancing shadows over\nwalls and floor, made of the usually dismal little room the veritable\n\"bower\" of Anne's imagination, and even extorted a tribute of admiration\nfrom Marilla, who came in to criticize and remained to praise.\n\n\"Now, we must set the table,\" said Anne, in the tone of a priestess\nabout to perform some sacred rite in honor of a divinity. \"We'll have a\nbig vaseful of wild roses in the center and one single rose in front\nof everybody's plate--and a special bouquet of rosebuds only by Mrs.\nMorgan's--an allusion to 'The Rosebud Garden' you know.\"\n\nThe table was set in the sitting room, with Marilla's finest linen and\nthe best china, glass, and silver. You may be perfectly certain that\nevery article placed on it was polished or scoured to the highest\npossible perfection of gloss and glitter.\n\nThen the girls tripped out to the kitchen, which was filled with\nappetizing odors emanating from the oven, where the chickens were\nalready sizzling splendidly. Anne prepared the potatoes and Diana got\nthe peas and beans ready. Then, while Diana shut herself into the pantry\nto compound the lettuce salad, Anne, whose cheeks were already beginning\nto glow crimson, as much with excitement as from the heat of the fire,\nprepared the bread sauce for the chickens, minced her onions for the\nsoup, and finally whipped the cream for her lemon pies.\n\nAnd what about Davy all this time? Was he redeeming his promise to\nbe good? He was, indeed. To be sure, he insisted on remaining in the\nkitchen, for his curiosity wanted to see all that went on. But as he sat\nquietly in a corner, busily engaged in untying the knots in a piece of\nherring net he had brought home from his last trip to the shore, nobody\nobjected to this.\n\nAt half past eleven the lettuce salad was made, the golden circles of\nthe pies were heaped with whipped cream, and everything was sizzling and\nbubbling that ought to sizzle and bubble.\n\n\"We'd better go and dress now,\" said Anne, \"for they may be here by\ntwelve. We must have dinner at sharp one, for the soup must be served as\nsoon as it's done.\"\n\nSerious indeed were the toilet rites presently performed in the east\ngable. Anne peered anxiously at her nose and rejoiced to see that its\nfreckles were not at all prominent, thanks either to the lemon juice\nor to the unusual flush on her cheeks. When they were ready they looked\nquite as sweet and trim and girlish as ever did any of \"Mrs. Morgan's\nheroines.\"\n\n\"I do hope I'll be able to say something once in a while, and not sit\nlike a mute,\" said Diana anxiously. \"All Mrs. Morgan's heroines converse\nso beautifully. But I'm afraid I'll be tongue-tied and stupid. And I'll\nbe sure to say 'I seen.' I haven't often said it since Miss Stacy taught\nhere; but in moments of excitement it's sure to pop out. Anne, if I\nwere to say 'I seen' before Mrs. Morgan I'd die of mortification. And it\nwould be almost as bad to have nothing to say.\"\n\n\"I'm nervous about a good many things,\" said Anne, \"but I don't think\nthere is much fear that I won't be able to talk.\"\n\nAnd, to do her justice, there wasn't.\n\nAnne shrouded her muslin glories in a big apron and went down to concoct\nher soup. Marilla had dressed herself and the twins, and looked more\nexcited than she had ever been known to look before. At half past twelve\nthe Allans and Miss Stacy came. Everything was going well but Anne was\nbeginning to feel nervous. It was surely time for Priscilla and Mrs.\nMorgan to arrive. She made frequent trips to the gate and looked as\nanxiously down the lane as ever her namesake in the Bluebeard story\npeered from the tower casement.\n\n\"Suppose they don't come at all?\" she said piteously.\n\n\"Don't suppose it. It would be too mean,\" said Diana, who, however, was\nbeginning to have uncomfortable misgivings on the subject.\n\n\"Anne,\" said Marilla, coming out from the parlor, \"Miss Stacy wants to\nsee Miss Barry's willowware platter.\"\n\nAnne hastened to the sitting room closet to get the platter. She had,\nin accordance with her promise to Mrs. Lynde, written to Miss Barry of\nCharlottetown, asking for the loan of it. Miss Barry was an old friend\nof Anne's, and she promptly sent the platter out, with a letter exhorting\nAnne to be very careful of it, for she had paid twenty dollars for it.\nThe platter had served its purpose at the Aid bazaar and had then been\nreturned to the Green Gables closet, for Anne would not trust anybody\nbut herself to take it back to town.\n\nShe carried the platter carefully to the front door where her guests\nwere enjoying the cool breeze that blew up from the brook. It was\nexamined and admired; then, just as Anne had taken it back into her own\nhands, a terrific crash and clatter sounded from the kitchen pantry.\nMarilla, Diana, and Anne fled out, the latter pausing only long enough\nto set the precious platter hastily down on the second step of the\nstairs.\n\nWhen they reached the pantry a truly harrowing spectacle met their eyes\n. . . a guilty looking small boy scrambling down from the table, with his\nclean print blouse liberally plastered with yellow filling, and on the\ntable the shattered remnants of what had been two brave, becreamed lemon\npies.\n\nDavy had finished ravelling out his herring net and had wound the twine\ninto a ball. Then he had gone into the pantry to put it up on the shelf\nabove the table, where he already kept a score or so of similar balls,\nwhich, so far as could be discovered, served no useful purpose save to\nyield the joy of possession. Davy had to climb on the table and reach\nover to the shelf at a dangerous angle . . . something he had been\nforbidden by Marilla to do, as he had come to grief once before in the\nexperiment. The result in this instance was disastrous. Davy slipped\nand came sprawling squarely down on the lemon pies. His clean blouse was\nruined for that time and the pies for all time. It is, however, an ill\nwind that blows nobody good, and the pig was eventually the gainer by\nDavy's mischance.\n\n\"Davy Keith,\" said Marilla, shaking him by the shoulder, \"didn't I\nforbid you to climb up on that table again? Didn't I?\"\n\n\"I forgot,\" whimpered Davy. \"You've told me not to do such an awful lot\nof things that I can't remember them all.\"\n\n\"Well, you march upstairs and stay there till after dinner. Perhaps\nyou'll get them sorted out in your memory by that time. No, Anne, never\nyou mind interceding for him. I'm not punishing him because he\nspoiled your pies . . . that was an accident. I'm punishing him for his\ndisobedience. Go, Davy, I say.\"\n\n\"Ain't I to have any dinner?\" wailed Davy.\n\n\"You can come down after dinner is over and have yours in the kitchen.\"\n\n\"Oh, all right,\" said Davy, somewhat comforted. \"I know Anne'll save\nsome nice bones for me, won't you, Anne? 'Cause you know I didn't mean\nto fall on the pies. Say, Anne, since they ARE spoiled can't I take some\nof the pieces upstairs with me?\"\n\n\"No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy,\" said Marilla, pushing him\ntoward the hall.\n\n\"What shall we do for dessert?\" asked Anne, looking regretfully at the\nwreck and ruin.\n\n\"Get out a crock of strawberry preserves,\" said Marilla consolingly.\n\"There's plenty of whipped cream left in the bowl for it.\"\n\nOne o'clock came . . . but no Priscilla or Mrs. Morgan. Anne was in an\nagony. Everything was done to a turn and the soup was just what soup\nshould be, but couldn't be depended on to remain so for any length of\ntime.\n\n\"I don't believe they're coming after all,\" said Marilla crossly.\n\nAnne and Diana sought comfort in each other's eyes.\n\nAt half past one Marilla again emerged from the parlor.\n\n\"Girls, we MUST have dinner. Everybody is hungry and it's no use waiting\nany longer. Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan are not coming, that's plain, and\nnothing is being improved by waiting.\"\n\nAnne and Diana set about lifting the dinner, with all the zest gone out\nof the performance.\n\n\"I don't believe I'll be able to eat a mouthful,\" said Diana dolefully.\n\n\"Nor I. But I hope everything will be nice for Miss Stacy's and Mr. and\nMrs. Allan's sakes,\" said Anne listlessly.\n\nWhen Diana dished the peas she tasted them and a very peculiar\nexpression crossed her face.\n\n\"Anne, did YOU put sugar in these peas?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anne, mashing the potatoes with the air of one expected to\ndo her duty. \"I put a spoonful of sugar in. We always do. Don't you like\nit?\"\n\n\"But _I_ put a spoonful in too, when I set them on the stove,\" said\nDiana.\n\nAnne dropped her masher and tasted the peas also. Then she made a\ngrimace.\n\n\"How awful! I never dreamed you had put sugar in, because I knew your\nmother never does. I happened to think of it, for a wonder . . .  I'm\nalways forgetting it . . . so I popped a spoonful in.\"\n\n\"It's a case of too many cooks, I guess,\" said Marilla, who had listened\nto this dialogue with a rather guilty expression. \"I didn't think you'd\nremember about the sugar, Anne, for I'm perfectly certain you never did\nbefore . . . so _I_ put in a spoonful.\"\n\nThe guests in the parlor heard peal after peal of laughter from the\nkitchen, but they never knew what the fun was about. There were no green\npeas on the dinner table that day, however.\n\n\"Well,\" said Anne, sobering down again with a sigh of recollection, \"we\nhave the salad anyhow and I don't think anything has happened to the\nbeans. Let's carry the things in and get it over.\"\n\nIt cannot be said that that dinner was a notable success socially.\nThe Allans and Miss Stacy exerted themselves to save the situation and\nMarilla's customary placidity was not noticeably ruffled. But Anne\nand Diana, between their disappointment and the reaction from their\nexcitement of the forenoon, could neither talk nor eat. Anne tried\nheroically to bear her part in the conversation for the sake of her\nguests; but all the sparkle had been quenched in her for the time being,\nand, in spite of her love for the Allans and Miss Stacy, she couldn't\nhelp thinking how nice it would be when everybody had gone home and she\ncould bury her weariness and disappointment in the pillows of the east\ngable.\n\nThere is an old proverb that really seems at times to be inspired . . .\n\"it never rains but it pours.\" The measure of that day's tribulations\nwas not yet full. Just as Mr. Allan had finished returning thanks there\narose a strange, ominous sound on the stairs, as of some hard, heavy\nobject bounding from step to step, finishing up with a grand smash\nat the bottom. Everybody ran out into the hall. Anne gave a shriek of\ndismay.\n\nAt the bottom of the stairs lay a big pink conch shell amid the\nfragments of what had been Miss Barry's platter; and at the top of the\nstairs knelt a terrified Davy, gazing down with wide-open eyes at the\nhavoc.\n\n\"Davy,\" said Marilla ominously, \"did you throw that conch down ON\nPURPOSE?\"\n\n\"No, I never did,\" whimpered Davy. \"I was just kneeling here, quiet as\nquiet, to watch you folks through the bannisters, and my foot struck\nthat old thing and pushed it off . . . and I'm awful hungry . . . and I\ndo wish you'd lick a fellow and have done with it, instead of always\nsending him upstairs to miss all the fun.\"\n\n\"Don't blame Davy,\" said Anne, gathering up the fragments with trembling\nfingers. \"It was my fault. I set that platter there and forgot all about\nit. I am properly punished for my carelessness; but oh, what will Miss\nBarry say?\"\n\n\"Well, you know she only bought it, so it isn't the same as if it was an\nheirloom,\" said Diana, trying to console.\n\nThe guests went away soon after, feeling that it was the most tactful\nthing to do, and Anne and Diana washed the dishes, talking less than\nthey had ever been known to do before. Then Diana went home with a\nheadache and Anne went with another to the east gable, where she stayed\nuntil Marilla came home from the post office at sunset, with a letter\nfrom Priscilla, written the day before. Mrs. Morgan had sprained her\nankle so severely that she could not leave her room.\n\n\"And oh, Anne dear,\" wrote Priscilla, \"I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid we\nwon't get up to Green Gables at all now, for by the time Aunty's ankle\nis well she will have to go back to Toronto. She has to be there by a\ncertain date.\"\n\n\"Well,\" sighed Anne, laying the letter down on the red sandstone step\nof the back porch, where she was sitting, while the twilight rained down\nout of a dappled sky, \"I always thought it was too good to be true that\nMrs. Morgan should really come. But there . . . that speech sounds as\npessimistic as Miss Eliza Andrews and I'm ashamed of making it. After\nall, it was NOT too good to be true . . . things just as good and far\nbetter are coming true for me all the time. And I suppose the events of\ntoday have a funny side too. Perhaps when Diana and I are old and gray\nwe shall be able to laugh over them. But I feel that I can't expect to\ndo it before then, for it has truly been a bitter disappointment.\"\n\n\"You'll probably have a good many more and worse disappointments than\nthat before you get through life,\" said Marilla, who honestly thought\nshe was making a comforting speech. \"It seems to me, Anne, that you are\nnever going to outgrow your fashion of setting your heart so on things\nand then crashing down into despair because you don't get them.\"\n\n\"I know I'm too much inclined that, way\" agreed Anne ruefully. \"When I\nthink something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on the\nwings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down to\nearth with a thud. But really, Marilla, the flying part IS glorious\nas long as it lasts . . . it's like soaring through a sunset. I think it\nalmost pays for the thud.\"\n\n\"Well, maybe it does,\" admitted Marilla. \"I'd rather walk calmly along\nand do without both flying and thud. But everybody has her own way of\nliving . . . I used to think there was only one right way  . . . but since\nI've had you and the twins to bring up I don't feel so sure of it. What\nare you going to do about Miss Barry's platter?\"\n\n\"Pay her back the twenty dollars she paid for it, I suppose. I'm so\nthankful it wasn't a cherished heirloom because then no money could\nreplace it.\"\n\n\"Maybe you could find one like it somewhere and buy it for her.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. Platters as old as that are very scarce. Mrs. Lynde\ncouldn't find one anywhere for the supper. I only wish I could, for of\ncourse Miss Barry would just as soon have one platter as another, if\nboth were equally old and genuine. Marilla, look at that big star over\nMr. Harrison's maple grove, with all that holy hush of silvery sky about\nit. It gives me a feeling that is like a prayer. After all, when one\ncan see stars and skies like that, little disappointments and accidents\ncan't matter so much, can they?\"\n\n\"Where's Davy?\" said Marilla, with an indifferent glance at the star.\n\n\"In bed. I've promised to take him and Dora to the shore for a picnic\ntomorrow. Of course, the original agreement was that he must be good.\nBut he TRIED to be good . . . and I hadn't the heart to disappoint him.\"\n\n\"You'll drown yourself or the twins, rowing about the pond in that\nflat,\" grumbled Marilla. \"I've lived here for sixty years and I've never\nbeen on the pond yet.\"\n\n\"Well, it's never too late to mend,\" said Anne roguishly. \"Suppose you\ncome with us tomorrow. We'll shut Green Gables up and spend the whole\nday at the shore, daffing the world aside.\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said Marilla, with indignant emphasis. \"I'd be a nice\nsight, wouldn't I, rowing down the pond in a flat? I think I hear Rachel\npronouncing on it. There's Mr. Harrison driving away somewhere. Do you\nsuppose there is any truth in the gossip that Mr. Harrison is going to\nsee Isabella Andrews?\"\n\n\"No, I'm sure there isn't. He just called there one evening on business\nwith Mr. Harmon Andrews and Mrs. Lynde saw him and said she knew he was\ncourting because he had a white collar on. I don't believe Mr. Harrison\nwill ever marry. He seems to have a prejudice against marriage.\"\n\n\"Well, you can never tell about those old bachelors. And if he had a\nwhite collar on I'd agree with Rachel that it looks suspicious, for I'm\nsure he never was seen with one before.\"\n\n\"I think he only put it on because he wanted to conclude a business deal\nwith Harmon Andrews,\" said Anne. \"I've heard him say that's the only\ntime a man needs to be particular about his appearance, because if he\nlooks prosperous the party of the second part won't be so likely to try\nto cheat him. I really feel sorry for Mr. Harrison; I don't believe he\nfeels satisfied with his life. It must be very lonely to have no one to\ncare about except a parrot, don't you think? But I notice Mr. Harrison\ndoesn't like to be pitied. Nobody does, I imagine.\"\n\n\"There's Gilbert coming up the lane,\" said Marilla. \"If he wants you to\ngo for a row on the pond mind you put on your coat and rubbers. There's\na heavy dew tonight.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nAn Adventure on the Tory Road\n\n\n\"Anne,\" said Davy, sitting up in bed and propping his chin on his hands,\n\"Anne, where is sleep? People go to sleep every night, and of course I\nknow it's the place where I do the things I dream, but I want to know\nWHERE it is and how I get there and back without knowing anything about\nit . . . and in my nighty too. Where is it?\"\n\nAnne was kneeling at the west gable window watching the sunset sky\nthat was like a great flower with petals of crocus and a heart of fiery\nyellow. She turned her head at Davy's question and answered dreamily,\n\n     \"'Over the mountains of the moon,\n     Down the valley of the shadow.'\"\n\nPaul Irving would have known the meaning of this, or made a meaning out\nof it for himself, if he didn't; but practical Davy, who, as Anne\noften despairingly remarked, hadn't a particle of imagination, was only\npuzzled and disgusted.\n\n\"Anne, I believe you're just talking nonsense.\"\n\n\"Of course, I was, dear boy. Don't you know that it is only very foolish\nfolk who talk sense all the time?\"\n\n\"Well, I think you might give a sensible answer when I ask a sensible\nquestion,\" said Davy in an injured tone.\n\n\"Oh, you are too little to understand,\" said Anne. But she felt rather\nashamed of saying it; for had she not, in keen remembrance of many\nsimilar snubs administered in her own early years, solemnly vowed that\nshe would never tell any child it was too little to understand? Yet here\nshe was doing it . . . so wide sometimes is the gulf between theory and\npractice.\n\n\"Well, I'm doing my best to grow,\" said Davy, \"but it's a thing you\ncan't hurry much. If Marilla wasn't so stingy with her jam I believe I'd\ngrow a lot faster.\"\n\n\"Marilla is not stingy, Davy,\" said Anne severely. \"It is very\nungrateful of you to say such a thing.\"\n\n\"There's another word that means the same thing and sounds a lot better,\nbut I don't just remember it,\" said Davy, frowning intently. \"I heard\nMarilla say she was it, herself, the other day.\"\n\n\"If you mean ECONOMICAL, it's a VERY different thing from being stingy.\nIt is an excellent trait in a person if she is economical. If Marilla\nhad been stingy she wouldn't have taken you and Dora when your mother\ndied. Would you have liked to live with Mrs. Wiggins?\"\n\n\"You just bet I wouldn't!\" Davy was emphatic on that point. \"Nor I don't\nwant to go out to Uncle Richard neither. I'd far rather live here, even\nif Marilla is that long-tailed word when it comes to jam, 'cause YOU'RE\nhere, Anne. Say, Anne, won't you tell me a story 'fore I go to sleep? I\ndon't want a fairy story. They're all right for girls, I s'pose, but I\nwant something exciting . . . lots of killing and shooting in it, and a\nhouse on fire, and in'trusting things like that.\"\n\nFortunately for Anne, Marilla called out at this moment from her room.\n\n\"Anne, Diana's signaling at a great rate. You'd better see what she\nwants.\"\n\nAnne ran to the east gable and saw flashes of light coming through the\ntwilight from Diana's window in groups of five, which meant, according\nto their old childish code, \"Come over at once for I have something\nimportant to reveal.\" Anne threw her white shawl over her head and\nhastened through the Haunted Wood and across Mr. Bell's pasture corner\nto Orchard Slope.\n\n\"I've good news for you, Anne,\" said Diana. \"Mother and I have just\ngot home from Carmody, and I saw Mary Sentner from Spencer vale in\nMr. Blair's store. She says the old Copp girls on the Tory Road have a\nwillow-ware platter and she thinks it's exactly like the one we had at\nthe supper. She says they'll likely sell it, for Martha Copp has never\nbeen known to keep anything she COULD sell; but if they won't there's a\nplatter at Wesley Keyson's at Spencervale and she knows they'd sell it,\nbut she isn't sure it's just the same kind as Aunt Josephine's.\"\n\n\"I'll go right over to Spencervale after it tomorrow,\" said Anne\nresolutely, \"and you must come with me. It will be such a weight off\nmy mind, for I have to go to town day after tomorrow and how can I face\nyour Aunt Josephine without a willow-ware platter? It would be even\nworse than the time I had to confess about jumping on the spare room\nbed.\"\n\nBoth girls laughed over the old memory . . . concerning which, if any of\nmy readers are ignorant and curious, I must refer them to Anne's earlier\nhistory.\n\nThe next afternoon the girls fared forth on their platter hunting\nexpedition. It was ten miles to Spencervale and the day was not\nespecially pleasant for traveling. It was very warm and windless, and\nthe dust on the road was such as might have been expected after six\nweeks of dry weather.\n\n\"Oh, I do wish it would rain soon,\" sighed Anne. \"Everything is so\nparched up. The poor fields just seem pitiful to me and the trees seem\nto be stretching out their hands pleading for rain. As for my garden, it\nhurts me every time I go into it. I suppose I shouldn't complain about\na garden when the farmers' crops are suffering so. Mr. Harrison says his\npastures are so scorched up that his poor cows can hardly get a bite to\neat and he feels guilty of cruelty to animals every time he meets their\neyes.\"\n\nAfter a wearisome drive the girls reached Spencervale and turned down\nthe \"Tory\" Road . . . a green, solitary highway where the strips of grass\nbetween the wheel tracks bore evidence to lack of travel. Along most of\nits extent it was lined with thick-set young spruces crowding down\nto the roadway, with here and there a break where the back field of\na Spencervale farm came out to the fence or an expanse of stumps was\naflame with fireweed and goldenrod.\n\n\"Why is it called the Tory Road?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"Mr. Allan says it is on the principle of calling a place a grove\nbecause there are no trees in it,\" said Diana, \"for nobody lives along\nthe road except the Copp girls and old Martin Bovyer at the further end,\nwho is a Liberal. The Tory government ran the road through when they\nwere in power just to show they were doing something.\"\n\nDiana's father was a Liberal, for which reason she and Anne never\ndiscussed politics. Green Gables folk had always been Conservatives.\n\nFinally the girls came to the old Copp homestead . . . a place of such\nexceeding external neatness that even Green Gables would have suffered\nby contrast. The house was a very old-fashioned one, situated on a\nslope, which fact had necessitated the building of a stone basement\nunder one end. The house and out-buildings were all whitewashed to a\ncondition of blinding perfection and not a weed was visible in the prim\nkitchen garden surrounded by its white paling.\n\n\"The shades are all down,\" said Diana ruefully. \"I believe that nobody\nis home.\"\n\nThis proved to be the case. The girls looked at each other in\nperplexity.\n\n\"I don't know what to do,\" said Anne. \"If I were sure the platter was\nthe right kind I would not mind waiting until they came home. But if it\nisn't it may be too late to go to Wesley Keyson's afterward.\"\n\nDiana looked at a certain little square window over the basement.\n\n\"That is the pantry window, I feel sure,\" she said, \"because this house\nis just like Uncle Charles' at Newbridge, and that is their pantry\nwindow. The shade isn't down, so if we climbed up on the roof of that\nlittle house we could look into the pantry and might be able to see the\nplatter. Do you think it would be any harm?\"\n\n\"No, I don't think so,\" decided Anne, after due reflection, \"since our\nmotive is not idle curiosity.\"\n\nThis important point of ethics being settled, Anne prepared to mount the\naforesaid \"little house,\" a construction of lathes, with a peaked roof,\nwhich had in times past served as a habitation for ducks. The Copp girls\nhad given up keeping ducks . . . \"because they were such untidy birds\". .\n. and the house had not been in use for some years, save as an abode of\ncorrection for setting hens. Although scrupulously whitewashed it had\nbecome somewhat shaky, and Anne felt rather dubious as she scrambled up\nfrom the vantage point of a keg placed on a box.\n\n\"I'm afraid it won't bear my weight,\" she said as she gingerly stepped\non the roof.\n\n\"Lean on the window sill,\" advised Diana, and Anne accordingly leaned.\nMuch to her delight, she saw, as she peered through the pane, a\nwillow-ware platter, exactly such as she was in quest of, on the shelf\nin front of the window. So much she saw before the catastrophe came. In\nher joy Anne forgot the precarious nature of her footing, incautiously\nceased to lean on the window sill, gave an impulsive little hop of\npleasure . . . and the next moment she had crashed through the roof up\nto her armpits, and there she hung, quite unable to extricate herself.\nDiana dashed into the duck house and, seizing her unfortunate friend by\nthe waist, tried to draw her down.\n\n\"Ow . . . don't,\" shrieked poor Anne. \"There are some long splinters\nsticking into me. See if you can put something under my feet . . . then\nperhaps I can draw myself up.\"\n\nDiana hastily dragged in the previously mentioned keg and Anne found\nthat it was just sufficiently high to furnish a secure resting place for\nher feet. But she could not release herself.\n\n\"Could I pull you out if I crawled up?\" suggested Diana.\n\nAnne shook her head hopelessly.\n\n\"No . . . the splinters hurt too badly. If you can find an axe you might\nchop me out, though. Oh dear, I do really begin to believe that I was\nborn under an ill-omened star.\"\n\nDiana searched faithfully but no axe was to be found.\n\n\"I'll have to go for help,\" she said, returning to the prisoner.\n\n\"No, indeed, you won't,\" said Anne vehemently. \"If you do the story of\nthis will get out everywhere and I shall be ashamed to show my face.\nNo, we must just wait until the Copp girls come home and bind them\nto secrecy. They'll know where the axe is and get me out. I'm not\nuncomfortable, as long as I keep perfectly still . . .  not uncomfortable\nin BODY I mean. I wonder what the Copp girls value this house at. I\nshall have to pay for the damage I've done, but I wouldn't mind that if\nI were only sure they would understand my motive in peeping in at their\npantry window. My sole comfort is that the platter is just the kind I\nwant and if Miss Copp will only sell it to me I shall be resigned to\nwhat has happened.\"\n\n\"What if the Copp girls don't come home until after night . . . or till\ntomorrow?\" suggested Diana.\n\n\"If they're not back by sunset you'll have to go for other assistance,\nI suppose,\" said Anne reluctantly, \"but you mustn't go until you really\nhave to. Oh dear, this is a dreadful predicament. I wouldn't mind my\nmisfortunes so much if they were romantic, as Mrs. Morgan's heroines'\nalways are, but they are always just simply ridiculous. Fancy what the\nCopp girls will think when they drive into their yard and see a girl's\nhead and shoulders sticking out of the roof of one of their outhouses.\nListen . . . is that a wagon? No, Diana, I believe it is thunder.\"\n\nThunder it was undoubtedly, and Diana, having made a hasty pilgrimage\naround the house, returned to announce that a very black cloud was\nrising rapidly in the northwest.\n\n\"I believe we're going to have a heavy thunder-shower,\" she exclaimed in\ndismay, \"Oh, Anne, what will we do?\"\n\n\"We must prepare for it,\" said Anne tranquilly. A thunderstorm seemed a\ntrifle in comparison with what had already happened. \"You'd better drive\nthe horse and buggy into that open shed. Fortunately my parasol is in\nthe buggy. Here . . . take my hat with you. Marilla told me I was a goose\nto put on my best hat to come to the Tory Road and she was right, as she\nalways is.\"\n\nDiana untied the pony and drove into the shed, just as the first heavy\ndrops of rain fell. There she sat and watched the resulting downpour,\nwhich was so thick and heavy that she could hardly see Anne through it,\nholding the parasol bravely over her bare head. There was not a great\ndeal of thunder, but for the best part of an hour the rain came\nmerrily down. Occasionally Anne slanted back her parasol and waved an\nencouraging hand to her friend; But conversation at that distance was\nquite out of the question. Finally the rain ceased, the sun came out,\nand Diana ventured across the puddles of the yard.\n\n\"Did you get very wet?\" she asked anxiously.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" returned Anne cheerfully. \"My head and shoulders are quite\ndry and my skirt is only a little damp where the rain beat through the\nlathes. Don't pity me, Diana, for I haven't minded it at all. I kept\nthinking how much good the rain will do and how glad my garden must be\nfor it, and imagining what the flowers and buds would think when the\ndrops began to fall. I imagined out a most interesting dialogue between\nthe asters and the sweet peas and the wild canaries in the lilac bush\nand the guardian spirit of the garden. When I go home I mean to write\nit down. I wish I had a pencil and paper to do it now, because I daresay\nI'll forget the best parts before I reach home.\"\n\nDiana the faithful had a pencil and discovered a sheet of wrapping paper\nin the box of the buggy. Anne folded up her dripping parasol, put on her\nhat, spread the wrapping paper on a shingle Diana handed up, and wrote\nout her garden idyl under conditions that could hardly be considered as\nfavorable to literature. Nevertheless, the result was quite pretty, and\nDiana was \"enraptured\" when Anne read it to her.\n\n\"Oh, Anne, it's sweet . . . just sweet. DO send it to the 'Canadian\nWoman.'\"\n\nAnne shook her head.\n\n\"Oh, no, it wouldn't be suitable at all. There is no PLOT in it, you\nsee. It's just a string of fancies. I like writing such things, but of\ncourse nothing of the sort would ever do for publication, for editors\ninsist on plots, so Priscilla says. Oh, there's Miss Sarah Copp now.\nPLEASE, Diana, go and explain.\"\n\nMiss Sarah Copp was a small person, garbed in shabby black, with a hat\nchosen less for vain adornment than for qualities that would wear well.\nShe looked as amazed as might be expected on seeing the curious\ntableau in her yard, but when she heard Diana's explanation she was all\nsympathy. She hurriedly unlocked the back door, produced the axe, and\nwith a few skillfull blows set Anne free. The latter, somewhat tired\nand stiff, ducked down into the interior of her prison and thankfully\nemerged into liberty once more.\n\n\"Miss Copp,\" she said earnestly. \"I assure you I looked into your pantry\nwindow only to discover if you had a willow-ware platter. I didn't see\nanything else--I didn't LOOK for anything else.\"\n\n\"Bless you, that's all right,\" said Miss Sarah amiably. \"You needn't\nworry--there's no harm done. Thank goodness, we Copps keep our pantries\npresentable at all times and don't care who sees into them. As for that\nold duckhouse, I'm glad it's smashed, for maybe now Martha will agree to\nhaving it taken down. She never would before for fear it might come in\nhandy sometime and I've had to whitewash it every spring. But you might\nas well argue with a post as with Martha. She went to town today--I\ndrove her to the station. And you want to buy my platter. Well, what\nwill you give for it?\"\n\n\"Twenty dollars,\" said Anne, who was never meant to match business wits\nwith a Copp, or she would not have offered her price at the start.\n\n\"Well, I'll see,\" said Miss Sarah cautiously. \"That platter is mine\nfortunately, or I'd never dare to sell it when Martha wasn't here. As\nit is, I daresay she'll raise a fuss. Martha's the boss of this\nestablishment I can tell you. I'm getting awful tired of living under\nanother woman's thumb. But come in, come in. You must be real tired and\nhungry. I'll do the best I can for you in the way of tea but I warn you\nnot to expect anything but bread and butter and some cowcumbers. Martha\nlocked up all the cake and cheese and preserves afore she went. She\nalways does, because she says I'm too extravagant with them if company\ncomes.\"\n\nThe girls were hungry enough to do justice to any fare, and they enjoyed\nMiss Sarah's excellent bread and butter and \"cowcumbers\" thoroughly.\nWhen the meal was over Miss Sarah said,\n\n\"I don't know as I mind selling the platter. But it's worth twenty-five\ndollars. It's a very old platter.\"\n\nDiana gave Anne's foot a gentle kick under the table, meaning, \"Don't\nagree--she'll let it go for twenty if you hold out.\" But Anne was not\nminded to take any chances in regard to that precious platter. She\npromptly agreed to give twenty-five and Miss Sarah looked as if she felt\nsorry she hadn't asked for thirty.\n\n\"Well, I guess you may have it. I want all the money I can scare up just\nnow. The fact is--\" Miss Sarah threw up her head importantly, with a\nproud flush on her thin cheeks--\"I'm going to be married--to Luther\nWallace. He wanted me twenty years ago. I liked him real well but he was\npoor then and father packed him off. I s'pose I shouldn't have let him\ngo so meek but I was timid and frightened of father. Besides, I didn't\nknow men were so skurse.\"\n\nWhen the girls were safely away, Diana driving and Anne holding\nthe coveted platter carefully on her lap, the green, rain-freshened\nsolitudes of the Tory Road were enlivened by ripples of girlish\nlaughter.\n\n\"I'll amuse your Aunt Josephine with the 'strange eventful history' of\nthis afternoon when I go to town tomorrow. We've had a rather trying\ntime but it's over now. I've got the platter, and that rain has laid the\ndust beautifully. So 'all's well that ends well.'\"\n\n\"We're not home yet,\" said Diana rather pessimistically, \"and there's\nno telling what may happen before we are. You're such a girl to have\nadventures, Anne.\"\n\n\"Having adventures comes natural to some people,\" said Anne serenely.\n\"You just have a gift for them or you haven't.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nJust a Happy Day\n\n\n\"After all,\" Anne had said to Marilla once, \"I believe the nicest and\nsweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful\nor exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures,\nfollowing one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.\"\n\nLife at Green Gables was full of just such days, for Anne's adventures\nand misadventures, like those of other people, did not all happen at\nonce, but were sprinkled over the year, with long stretches of harmless,\nhappy days between, filled with work and dreams and laughter and\nlessons. Such a day came late in August. In the forenoon Anne and Diana\nrowed the delighted twins down the pond to the sandshore to pick \"sweet\ngrass\" and paddle in the surf, over which the wind was harping an old\nlyric learned when the world was young.\n\nIn the afternoon Anne walked down to the old Irving place to see Paul.\nShe found him stretched out on the grassy bank beside the thick fir\ngrove that sheltered the house on the north, absorbed in a book of fairy\ntales. He sprang up radiantly at sight of her.\n\n\"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, teacher,\" he said eagerly, \"because\nGrandma's away. You'll stay and have tea with me, won't you? It's so\nlonesome to have tea all by oneself. YOU know, teacher. I've had serious\nthoughts of asking Young Mary Joe to sit down and eat her tea with me,\nbut I expect Grandma wouldn't approve. She says the French have to be\nkept in their place. And anyhow, it's difficult to talk with Young Mary\nJoe. She just laughs and says, 'Well, yous do beat all de kids I ever\nknowed.' That isn't my idea of conversation.\"\n\n\"Of course I'll stay to tea,\" said Anne gaily. \"I was dying to be asked.\nMy mouth has been watering for some more of your grandma's delicious\nshortbread ever since I had tea here before.\"\n\nPaul looked very sober.\n\n\"If it depended on me, teacher,\" he said, standing before Anne with his\nhands in his pockets and his beautiful little face shadowed with sudden\ncare, \"You should have shortbread with a right good will. But it depends\non Mary Joe. I heard Grandma tell her before she left that she wasn't to\ngive me any shortcake because it was too rich for little boys' stomachs.\nBut maybe Mary Joe will cut some for you if I promise I won't eat any.\nLet us hope for the best.\"\n\n\"Yes, let us,\" agreed Anne, whom this cheerful philosophy suited\nexactly, \"and if Mary Joe proves hard-hearted and won't give me any\nshortbread it doesn't matter in the least, so you are not to worry over\nthat.\"\n\n\"You're sure you won't mind if she doesn't?\" said Paul anxiously.\n\n\"Perfectly sure, dear heart.\"\n\n\"Then I won't worry,\" said Paul, with a long breath of relief,\n\"especially as I really think Mary Joe will listen to reason. She's not\na naturally unreasonable person, but she has learned by experience that\nit doesn't do to disobey Grandma's orders. Grandma is an excellent woman\nbut people must do as she tells them. She was very much pleased with\nme this morning because I managed at last to eat all my plateful of\nporridge. It was a great effort but I succeeded. Grandma says she thinks\nshe'll make a man of me yet. But, teacher, I want to ask you a very\nimportant question. You will answer it truthfully, won't you?\"\n\n\"I'll try,\" promised Anne.\n\n\"Do you think I'm wrong in my upper story?\" asked Paul, as if his very\nexistence depended on her reply.\n\n\"Goodness, no, Paul,\" exclaimed Anne in amazement. \"Certainly you're\nnot. What put such an idea into your head?\"\n\n\"Mary Joe . . . but she didn't know I heard her. Mrs. Peter Sloane's\nhired girl, Veronica, came to see Mary Joe last evening and I heard them\ntalking in the kitchen as I was going through the hall. I heard Mary Joe\nsay, 'Dat Paul, he is de queeres' leetle boy. He talks dat queer. I tink\ndere's someting wrong in his upper story.' I couldn't sleep last night\nfor ever so long, thinking of it, and wondering if Mary Joe was right. I\ncouldn't bear to ask Grandma about it somehow, but I made up my mind I'd\nask you. I'm so glad you think I'm all right in my upper story.\"\n\n\"Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant girl, and you are\nnever to worry about anything she says,\" said Anne indignantly, secretly\nresolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability of\nrestraining Mary Joe's tongue.\n\n\"Well, that's a weight off my mind,\" said Paul. \"I'm perfectly happy\nnow, teacher, thanks to you. It wouldn't be nice to have something wrong\nin your upper story, would it, teacher? I suppose the reason Mary\nJoe imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about things\nsometimes.\"\n\n\"It is a rather dangerous practice,\" admitted Anne, out of the depths of\nher own experience.\n\n\"Well, by and by I'll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Joe and you can\nsee for yourself if there's anything queer in them,\" said Paul, \"but\nI'll wait till it begins to get dark. That is the time I ache to tell\npeople things, and when nobody else is handy I just HAVE to tell Mary\nJoe. But after this I won't, if it makes her imagine I'm wrong in my\nupper story. I'll just ache and bear it.\"\n\n\"And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to Green Gables and tell\nme your thoughts,\" suggested Anne, with all the gravity that endeared\nher to children, who so dearly love to be taken seriously.\n\n\"Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won't be there when I go because he makes\nfaces at me. I don't mind VERY much because he is such a little boy and\nI am quite a big one, but still it is not pleasant to have faces made\nat you. And Davy makes such terrible ones. Sometimes I am frightened he\nwill never get his face straightened out again. He makes them at me\nin church when I ought to be thinking of sacred things. Dora likes me\nthough, and I like her, but not so well as I did before she told\nMinnie May Barry that she meant to marry me when I grew up. I may marry\nsomebody when I grow up but I'm far too young to be thinking of it yet,\ndon't you think, teacher?\"\n\n\"Rather young,\" agreed teacher.\n\n\"Speaking of marrying, reminds me of another thing that has been\ntroubling me of late,\" continued Paul. \"Mrs. Lynde was down here one\nday last week having tea with Grandma, and Grandma made me show her\nmy little mother's picture . . . the one father sent me for my birthday\npresent. I didn't exactly want to show it to Mrs. Lynde. Mrs. Lynde is a\ngood, kind woman, but she isn't the sort of person you want to show your\nmother's picture to. YOU know, teacher. But of course I obeyed Grandma.\nMrs. Lynde said she was very pretty but kind of actressy looking, and\nmust have been an awful lot younger than father. Then she said, 'Some of\nthese days your pa will be marrying again likely. How will you like to\nhave a new ma, Master Paul?' Well, the idea almost took my breath away,\nteacher, but I wasn't going to let Mrs. Lynde see THAT. I just looked\nher straight in the face . . . like this . . . and I said, 'Mrs. Lynde,\nfather made a pretty good job of picking out my first mother and I could\ntrust him to pick out just as good a one the second time.' And I CAN\ntrust him, teacher. But still, I hope, if he ever does give me a new\nmother, he'll ask my opinion about her before it's too late. There's\nMary Joe coming to call us to tea. I'll go and consult with her about\nthe shortbread.\"\n\nAs a result of the \"consultation,\" Mary Joe cut the shortbread and added\na dish of preserves to the bill of fare. Anne poured the tea and she\nand Paul had a very merry meal in the dim old sitting room whose windows\nwere open to the gulf breezes, and they talked so much \"nonsense\" that\nMary Joe was quite scandalized and told Veronica the next evening that\n\"de school mees\" was as queer as Paul. After tea Paul took Anne up to\nhis room to show her his mother's picture, which had been the mysterious\nbirthday present kept by Mrs. Irving in the bookcase. Paul's little\nlow-ceilinged room was a soft whirl of ruddy light from the sun that was\nsetting over the sea and swinging shadows from the fir trees that grew\nclose to the square, deep-set window. From out this soft glow and glamor\nshone a sweet, girlish face, with tender mother eyes, that was hanging\non the wall at the foot of the bed.\n\n\"That's my little mother,\" said Paul with loving pride. \"I got Grandma\nto hang it there where I'd see it as soon as I opened my eyes in the\nmorning. I never mind not having the light when I go to bed now, because\nit just seems as if my little mother was right here with me. Father knew\njust what I would like for a birthday present, although he never asked\nme. Isn't it wonderful how much fathers DO know?\"\n\n\"Your mother was very lovely, Paul, and you look a little like her. But\nher eyes and hair are darker than yours.\"\n\n\"My eyes are the same color as father's,\" said Paul, flying about the\nroom to heap all available cushions on the window seat, \"but father's\nhair is gray. He has lots of it, but it is gray. You see, father is\nnearly fifty. That's ripe old age, isn't it? But it's only OUTSIDE he's\nold. INSIDE he's just as young as anybody. Now, teacher, please sit\nhere; and I'll sit at your feet. May I lay my head against your knee?\nThat's the way my little mother and I used to sit. Oh, this is real\nsplendid, I think.\"\n\n\"Now, I want to hear those thoughts which Mary Joe pronounces so queer,\"\nsaid Anne, patting the mop of curls at her side. Paul never needed any\ncoaxing to tell his thoughts . . . at least, to congenial souls.\n\n\"I thought them out in the fir grove one night,\" he said dreamily. \"Of\ncourse I didn't BELIEVE them but I THOUGHT them. YOU know, teacher. And\nthen I wanted to tell them to somebody and there was nobody but Mary\nJoe. Mary Joe was in the pantry setting bread and I sat down on the\nbench beside her and I said, 'Mary Joe, do you know what I think? I\nthink the evening star is a lighthouse on the land where the fairies\ndwell.' And Mary Joe said, 'Well, yous are de queer one. Dare ain't no\nsuch ting as fairies.' I was very much provoked. Of course, I knew there\nare no fairies; but that needn't prevent my thinking there is. You know,\nteacher. But I tried again quite patiently. I said, 'Well then, Mary\nJoe, do you know what I think? I think an angel walks over the world\nafter the sun sets . . . a great, tall, white angel, with silvery folded\nwings . . .  and sings the flowers and birds to sleep. Children can hear\nhim if they know how to listen.' Then Mary Joe held up her hands all\nover flour and said, 'Well, yous are de queer leetle boy. Yous make\nme feel scare.' And she really did looked scared. I went out then and\nwhispered the rest of my thoughts to the garden. There was a little\nbirch tree in the garden and it died. Grandma says the salt spray\nkilled it; but I think the dryad belonging to it was a foolish dryad who\nwandered away to see the world and got lost. And the little tree was so\nlonely it died of a broken heart.\"\n\n\"And when the poor, foolish little dryad gets tired of the world and\ncomes back to her tree HER heart will break,\" said Anne.\n\n\"Yes; but if dryads are foolish they must take the consequences, just as\nif they were real people,\" said Paul gravely. \"Do you know what I think\nabout the new moon, teacher? I think it is a little golden boat full of\ndreams.\"\n\n\"And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into your\nsleep.\"\n\n\"Exactly, teacher. Oh, you DO know. And I think the violets are little\nsnips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes for the\nstars to shine through. And the buttercups are made out of old sunshine;\nand I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go to heaven.\nNow, teacher, do you see anything so very queer about those thoughts?\"\n\n\"No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they are strange and\nbeautiful thoughts for a little boy to think, and so people who couldn't\nthink anything of the sort themselves, if they tried for a hundred\nyears, think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul  . . . some day\nyou are going to be a poet, I believe.\"\n\nWhen Anne reached home she found a very different type of boyhood\nwaiting to be put to bed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressed\nhim he bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow.\n\n\"Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers,\" said Anne rebukingly.\n\n\"No, I didn't forget,\" said Davy defiantly, \"but I ain't going to say\nmy prayers any more. I'm going to give up trying to be good, 'cause no\nmatter how good I am you'd like Paul Irving better. So I might as well\nbe bad and have the fun of it.\"\n\n\"I don't like Paul Irving BETTER,\" said Anne seriously. \"I like you just\nas well, only in a different way.\"\n\n\"But I want you to like me the same way,\" pouted Davy.\n\n\"You can't like different people the same way. You don't like Dora and\nme the same way, do you?\"\n\nDavy sat up and reflected.\n\n\"No . . . o . . . o,\" he admitted at last, \"I like Dora because she's my\nsister but I like you because you're YOU.\"\n\n\"And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy,\" said\nAnne gaily.\n\n\"Well, I kind of wish I'd said my prayers then,\" said Davy, convinced by\nthis logic. \"But it's too much bother getting out now to say them. I'll\nsay them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won't that do as well?\"\n\nNo, Anne was positive it would not do as well. So Davy scrambled out\nand knelt down at her knee. When he had finished his devotions he leaned\nback on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her.\n\n\"Anne, I'm gooder than I used to be.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed you are, Davy,\" said Anne, who never hesitated to give\ncredit where credit was due.\n\n\"I KNOW I'm gooder,\" said Davy confidently, \"and I'll tell you how I\nknow it. Today Marilla give me two pieces of bread and jam, one for me\nand one for Dora. One was a good deal bigger than the other and Marilla\ndidn't say which was mine. But I give the biggest piece to Dora. That\nwas good of me, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Very good, and very manly, Davy.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" admitted Davy, \"Dora wasn't very hungry and she only et\nhalf her slice and then she give the rest to me. But I didn't know she\nwas going to do that when I give it to her, so I WAS good, Anne.\"\n\nIn the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad's Bubble and saw\nGilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had a\nsudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how manly\nhe looked--the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear, straightforward\neyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsome\nlad, even though he didn't look at all like her ideal man. She and Diana\nhad long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastes\nseemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and distinguished looking,\nwith melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice.\nThere was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert's\nphysiognomy, but of course that didn't matter in friendship!\n\nGilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and looked\napprovingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal\nwoman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even\nto those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to\nvex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has\nhis dreams as have others, and in Gilbert's future there was always a\ngirl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a\nflower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy of\nits goddess. Even in quiet Avonlea there were temptations to be met\nand faced. White Sands youth were a rather \"fast\" set, and Gilbert was\npopular wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne's\nfriendship and perhaps some distant day her love; and he watched over\nword and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were to\npass in judgment on it. She held over him the unconscious influence that\nevery girl, whose ideals are high and pure, wields over her friends; an\ninfluence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those ideals\nand which she would as certainly lose if she were ever false to them. In\nGilbert's eyes Anne's greatest charm was the fact that she never stooped\nto the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls--the small\njealousies, the little deceits and rivalries, the palpable bids for\nfavor. Anne held herself apart from all this, not consciously or of\ndesign, but simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreign\nto her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal clear in its motives and\naspirations.\n\nBut Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into words, for he had\nalready too good reason to know that Anne would mercilessly and frostily\nnip all attempts at sentiment in the bud--or laugh at him, which was ten\ntimes worse.\n\n\"You look like a real dryad under that birch tree,\" he said teasingly.\n\n\"I love birch trees,\" said Anne, laying her cheek against the creamy\nsatin of the slim bole, with one of the pretty, caressing gestures that\ncame so natural to her.\n\n\"Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr. Major Spencer has decided to set\nout a row of white birches all along the road front of his farm, by way\nof encouraging the A.V.I.S.,\" said Gilbert. \"He was talking to me about\nit today. Major Spencer is the most progressive and public-spirited\nman in Avonlea. And Mr. William Bell is going to set out a spruce\nhedge along his road front and up his lane. Our Society is getting on\nsplendidly, Anne. It is past the experimental stage and is an accepted\nfact. The older folks are beginning to take an interest in it and the\nWhite Sands people are talking of starting one too. Even Elisha Wright\nhas come around since that day the Americans from the hotel had the\npicnic at the shore. They praised our roadsides so highly and said they\nwere so much prettier than in any other part of the Island. And when, in\ndue time, the other farmers follow Mr. Spencer's good example and plant\nornamental trees and hedges along their road fronts Avonlea will be the\nprettiest settlement in the province.\"\n\n\"The Aids are talking of taking up the graveyard,\" said Anne, \"and I\nhope they will, because there will have to be a subscription for that,\nand it would be no use for the Society to try it after the hall affair.\nBut the Aids would never have stirred in the matter if the Society\nhadn't put it into their thoughts unofficially. Those trees we planted\non the church grounds are flourishing, and the trustees have promised\nme that they will fence in the school grounds next year. If they do I'll\nhave an arbor day and every scholar shall plant a tree; and we'll have a\ngarden in the corner by the road.\"\n\n\"We've succeeded in almost all our plans so far, except in getting the\nold Boulter house removed,\" said Gilbert, \"and I've given THAT up\nin despair. Levi won't have it taken down just to vex us. There's a\ncontrary streak in all the Boulters and it's strongly developed in him.\"\n\n\"Julia Bell wants to send another committee to him, but I think the\nbetter way will just be to leave him severely alone,\" said Anne sagely.\n\n\"And trust to Providence, as Mrs. Lynde says,\" smiled Gilbert.\n\"Certainly, no more committees. They only aggravate him. Julia Bell\nthinks you can do anything, if you only have a committee to attempt\nit. Next spring, Anne, we must start an agitation for nice lawns and\ngrounds. We'll sow good seed betimes this winter. I've a treatise here\non lawns and lawnmaking and I'm going to prepare a paper on the subject\nsoon. Well, I suppose our vacation is almost over. School opens Monday.\nHas Ruby Gillis got the Carmody school?\"\n\n\"Yes; Priscilla wrote that she had taken her own home school, so the\nCarmody trustees gave it to Ruby. I'm sorry Priscilla is not coming\nback, but since she can't I'm glad Ruby has got the school. She will be\nhome for Saturdays and it will seem like old times, to have her and Jane\nand Diana and myself all together again.\"\n\nMarilla, just home from Mrs. Lynde's, was sitting on the back porch step\nwhen Anne returned to the house.\n\n\"Rachel and I have decided to have our cruise to town tomorrow,\" she\nsaid. \"Mr. Lynde is feeling better this week and Rachel wants to go\nbefore he has another sick spell.\"\n\n\"I intend to get up extra early tomorrow morning, for I've ever so much\nto do,\" said Anne virtuously. \"For one thing, I'm going to shift the\nfeathers from my old bedtick to the new one. I ought to have done it\nlong ago but I've just kept putting it off . . .  it's such a detestable\ntask. It's a very bad habit to put off disagreeable things, and I never\nmean to again, or else I can't comfortably tell my pupils not to do it.\nThat would be inconsistent. Then I want to make a cake for Mr. Harrison\nand finish my paper on gardens for the A.V.I.S., and write Stella, and\nwash and starch my muslin dress, and make Dora's new apron.\"\n\n\"You won't get half done,\" said Marilla pessimistically. \"I never yet\nplanned to do a lot of things but something happened to prevent me.\"\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\nThe Way It Often Happens\n\n\nAnne rose betimes the next morning and blithely greeted the fresh day,\nwhen the banners of the sunrise were shaken triumphantly across the\npearly skies. Green Gables lay in a pool of sunshine, flecked with the\ndancing shadows of poplar and willow. Beyond the land was Mr. Harrison's\nwheatfield, a great, windrippled expanse of pale gold. The world was\nso beautiful that Anne spent ten blissful minutes hanging idly over the\ngarden gate drinking the loveliness in.\n\nAfter breakfast Marilla made ready for her journey. Dora was to go with\nher, having been long promised this treat.\n\n\"Now, Davy, you try to be a good boy and don't bother Anne,\" she\nstraitly charged him. \"If you are good I'll bring you a striped candy\ncane from town.\"\n\nFor alas, Marilla had stooped to the evil habit of bribing people to be\ngood!\n\n\"I won't be bad on purpose, but s'posen I'm bad zacksidentally?\" Davy\nwanted to know.\n\n\"You'll have to guard against accidents,\" admonished Marilla. \"Anne, if\nMr. Shearer comes today get a nice roast and some steak. If he doesn't\nyou'll have to kill a fowl for dinner tomorrow.\"\n\nAnne nodded.\n\n\"I'm not going to bother cooking any dinner for just Davy and myself\ntoday,\" she said. \"That cold ham bone will do for noon lunch and I'll\nhave some steak fried for you when you come home at night.\"\n\n\"I'm going to help Mr. Harrison haul dulse this morning,\" announced\nDavy. \"He asked me to, and I guess he'll ask me to dinner too. Mr.\nHarrison is an awful kind man. He's a real sociable man. I hope I'll be\nlike him when I grow up. I mean BEHAVE like him . . . I don't want to LOOK\nlike him. But I guess there's no danger, for Mrs. Lynde says I'm a very\nhandsome child. Do you s'pose it'll last, Anne? I want to know?\"\n\n\"I daresay it will,\" said Anne gravely. \"You ARE a handsome boy, Davy,\"\n . . . Marilla looked volumes of disapproval . . . \"but you must live up to\nit and be just as nice and gentlemanly as you look to be.\"\n\n\"And you told Minnie May Barry the other day, when you found her crying\n'cause some one said she was ugly, that if she was nice and kind and\nloving people wouldn't mind her looks,\" said Davy discontentedly. \"Seems\nto me you can't get out of being good in this world for some reason or\n'nother. You just HAVE to behave.\"\n\n\"Don't you want to be good?\" asked Marilla, who had learned a great deal\nbut had not yet learned the futility of asking such questions.\n\n\"Yes, I want to be good but not TOO good,\" said Davy cautiously. \"You\ndon't have to be very good to be a Sunday School superintendent. Mr.\nBell's that, and he's a real bad man.\"\n\n\"Indeed he's not,\" said Marila indignantly.\n\n\"He is . . . he says he is himself,\" asseverated Davy. \"He said it when\nhe prayed in Sunday School last Sunday. He said he was a vile worm and\na miserable sinner and guilty of the blackest 'niquity. What did he do\nthat was so bad, Marilla? Did he kill anybody? Or steal the collection\ncents? I want to know.\"\n\nFortunately Mrs. Lynde came driving up the lane at this moment and\nMarilla made off, feeling that she had escaped from the snare of the\nfowler, and wishing devoutly that Mr. Bell were not quite so highly\nfigurative in his public petitions, especially in the hearing of small\nboys who were always \"wanting to know.\"\n\nAnne, left alone in her glory, worked with a will. The floor was swept,\nthe beds made, the hens fed, the muslin dress washed and hung out on the\nline. Then Anne prepared for the transfer of feathers. She mounted to\nthe garret and donned the first old dress that came to hand . . . a navy\nblue cashmere she had worn at fourteen. It was decidedly on the short\nside and as \"skimpy\" as the notable wincey Anne had worn upon the\noccasion of her debut at Green Gables; but at least it would not be\nmaterially injured by down and feathers. Anne completed her toilet by\ntying a big red and white spotted handkerchief that had belonged to\nMatthew over her head, and, thus accoutred, betook herself to the\nkitchen chamber, whither Marilla, before her departure, had helped her\ncarry the feather bed.\n\nA cracked mirror hung by the chamber window and in an unlucky moment\nAnne looked into it. There were those seven freckles on her nose,\nmore rampant than ever, or so it seemed in the glare of light from the\nunshaded window.\n\n\"Oh, I forgot to rub that lotion on last night,\" she thought. \"I'd\nbetter run down to the pantry and do it now.\"\n\nAnne had already suffered many things trying to remove those freckles.\nOn one occasion the entire skin had peeled off her nose but the freckles\nremained. A few days previously she had found a recipe for a freckle\nlotion in a magazine and, as the ingredients were within her reach, she\nstraightway compounded it, much to the disgust of Marilla, who thought\nthat if Providence had placed freckles on your nose it was your bounden\nduty to leave them there.\n\nAnne scurried down to the pantry, which, always dim from the big willow\ngrowing close to the window, was now almost dark by reason of the shade\ndrawn to exclude flies. Anne caught the bottle containing the lotion\nfrom the shelf and copiously anointed her nose therewith by means of\na little sponge sacred to the purpose. This important duty done, she\nreturned to her work. Any one who has ever shifted feathers from one\ntick to another will not need to be told that when Anne finished she\nwas a sight to behold. Her dress was white with down and fluff, and her\nfront hair, escaping from under the handkerchief, was adorned with a\nveritable halo of feathers. At this auspicious moment a knock sounded at\nthe kitchen door.\n\n\"That must be Mr. Shearer,\" thought Anne. \"I'm in a dreadful mess but\nI'll have to run down as I am, for he's always in a hurry.\"\n\nDown flew Anne to the kitchen door. If ever a charitable floor did open\nto swallow up a miserable, befeathered damsel the Green Gables porch\nfloor should promptly have engulfed Anne at that moment. On the doorstep\nwere standing Priscilla Grant, golden and fair in silk attire, a short,\nstout gray-haired lady in a tweed suit, and another lady, tall\nstately, wonderfully gowned, with a beautiful, highbred face and large,\nblack-lashed violet eyes, whom Anne \"instinctively felt,\" as she would\nhave said in her earlier days, to be Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan.\n\nIn the dismay of the moment one thought stood out from the confusion of\nAnne's mind and she grasped at it as at the proverbial straw. All Mrs.\nMorgan's heroines were noted for \"rising to the occasion.\" No matter\nwhat their troubles were, they invariably rose to the occasion and\nshowed their superiority over all ills of time, space, and quantity.\nAnne therefore felt it was HER duty to rise to the occasion and she did\nit, so perfectly that Priscilla afterward declared she never admired\nAnne Shirley more than at that moment. No matter what her outraged\nfeelings were she did not show them. She greeted Priscilla and was\nintroduced to her companions as calmly and composedly as if she had been\narrayed in purple and fine linen. To be sure, it was somewhat of a shock\nto find that the lady she had instinctively felt to be Mrs. Morgan was\nnot Mrs. Morgan at all, but an unknown Mrs. Pendexter, while the stout\nlittle gray-haired woman was Mrs. Morgan; but in the greater shock the\nlesser lost its power. Anne ushered her guests to the spare room and\nthence into the parlor, where she left them while she hastened out to\nhelp Priscilla unharness her horse.\n\n\"It's dreadful to come upon you so unexpectedly as this,\" apologized\nPriscilla, \"but I did not know till last night that we were coming. Aunt\nCharlotte is going away Monday and she had promised to spend today with\na friend in town. But last night her friend telephoned to her not to\ncome because they were quarantined for scarlet fever. So I suggested we\ncome here instead, for I knew you were longing to see her. We called\nat the White Sands Hotel and brought Mrs. Pendexter with us. She is a\nfriend of aunt's and lives in New York and her husband is a millionaire.\nWe can't stay very long, for Mrs. Pendexter has to be back at the hotel\nby five o'clock.\"\n\nSeveral times while they were putting away the horse Anne caught\nPriscilla looking at her in a furtive, puzzled way.\n\n\"She needn't stare at me so,\" Anne thought a little resentfully. \"If she\ndoesn't KNOW what it is to change a feather bed she might IMAGINE it.\"\n\nWhen Priscilla had gone to the parlor, and before Anne could escape\nupstairs, Diana walked into the kitchen. Anne caught her astonished\nfriend by the arm.\n\n\"Diana Barry, who do you suppose is in that parlor at this very moment?\nMrs. Charlotte E. Morgan . . . and a New York millionaire's wife . . . and\nhere I am like THIS . . . and NOT A THING IN THE HOUSE FOR DINNER BUT A\nCOLD HAM BONE, Diana!\"\n\nBy this time Anne had become aware that Diana was staring at her in\nprecisely the same bewildered fashion as Priscilla had done. It was\nreally too much.\n\n\"Oh, Diana, don't look at me so,\" she implored. \"YOU, at least, must\nknow that the neatest person in the world couldn't empty feathers from\none tick into another and remain neat in the process.\"\n\n\"It . . . it . . . isn't the feathers,\" hesitated Diana. \"It's . . .\nit's . . . your nose, Anne.\"\n\n\"My nose? Oh, Diana, surely nothing has gone wrong with it!\"\n\nAnne rushed to the little looking glass over the sink. One glance\nrevealed the fatal truth. Her nose was a brilliant scarlet!\n\nAnne sat down on the sofa, her dauntless spirit subdued at last.\n\n\"What is the matter with it?\" asked Diana, curiosity overcoming\ndelicacy.\n\n\"I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotion on it, but I must have used\nthat red dye Marilla has for marking the pattern on her rugs,\" was the\ndespairing response. \"What shall I do?\"\n\n\"Wash it off,\" said Diana practically.\n\n\"Perhaps it won't wash off. First I dye my hair; then I dye my nose.\nMarilla cut my hair off when I dyed it but that remedy would hardly be\npracticable in this case. Well, this is another punishment for vanity\nand I suppose I deserve it . . . though there's not much comfort in THAT.\nIt is really almost enough to make one believe in ill-luck, though Mrs.\nLynde says there is no such thing, because everything is foreordained.\"\n\nFortunately the dye washed off easily and Anne, somewhat consoled,\nbetook herself to the east gable while Diana ran home. Presently Anne\ncame down again, clothed and in her right mind. The muslin dress she had\nfondly hoped to wear was bobbing merrily about on the line outside, so\nshe was forced to content herself with her black lawn. She had the fire\non and the tea steeping when Diana returned; the latter wore HER muslin,\nat least, and carried a covered platter in her hand.\n\n\"Mother sent you this,\" she said, lifting the cover and displaying a\nnicely carved and jointed chicken to Anne's greatful eyes.\n\nThe chicken was supplemented by light new bread, excellent butter and\ncheese, Marilla's fruit cake and a dish of preserved plums, floating\nin their golden syrup as in congealed summer sunshine. There was a big\nbowlful of pink-and-white asters also, by way of decoration; yet the\nspread seemed very meager beside the elaborate one formerly prepared for\nMrs. Morgan.\n\nAnne's hungry guests, however, did not seem to think anything was\nlacking and they ate the simple viands with apparent enjoyment. But\nafter the first few moments Anne thought no more of what was or was\nnot on her bill of fare. Mrs. Morgan's appearance might be somewhat\ndisappointing, as even her loyal worshippers had been forced to admit to\neach other; but she proved to be a delightful conversationalist. She had\ntraveled extensively and was an excellent storyteller. She had seen\nmuch of men and women, and crystalized her experiences into witty little\nsentences and epigrams which made her hearers feel as if they were\nlistening to one of the people in clever books. But under all her\nsparkle there was a strongly felt undercurrent of true, womanly sympathy\nand kindheartedness which won affection as easily as her brilliancy\nwon admiration. Nor did she monopolize the conversation. She could draw\nothers out as skillfully and fully as she could talk herself, and Anne\nand Diana found themselves chattering freely to her. Mrs. Pendexter said\nlittle; she merely smiled with her lovely eyes and lips, and ate chicken\nand fruit cake and preserves with such exquisite grace that she conveyed\nthe impression of dining on ambrosia and honeydew. But then, as Anne\nsaid to Diana later on, anybody so divinely beautiful as Mrs. Pendexter\ndidn't need to talk; it was enough for her just to LOOK.\n\nAfter dinner they all had a walk through Lover's Lane and Violet Vale\nand the Birch Path, then back through the Haunted Wood to the Dryad's\nBubble, where they sat down and talked for a delightful last half hour.\nMrs. Morgan wanted to know how the Haunted Wood came by its name, and\nlaughed until she cried when she heard the story and Anne's dramatic\naccount of a certain memorable walk through it at the witching hour of\ntwilight.\n\n\"It has indeed been a feast of reason and flow of soul, hasn't it?\" said\nAnne, when her guests had gone and she and Diana were alone again. \"I\ndon't know which I enjoyed more . . . listening to Mrs. Morgan or gazing\nat Mrs. Pendexter. I believe we had a nicer time than if we'd known they\nwere coming and been cumbered with much serving. You must stay to tea\nwith me, Diana, and we'll talk it all over.\"\n\n\"Priscilla says Mrs. Pendexter's husband's sister is married to an\nEnglish earl; and yet she took a second helping of the plum preserves,\"\nsaid Diana, as if the two facts were somehow incompatible.\n\n\"I daresay even the English earl himself wouldn't have turned up his\naristocratic nose at Marilla's plum preserves,\" said Anne proudly.\n\nAnne did not mention the misfortune which had befallen HER nose when\nshe related the day's history to Marilla that evening. But she took the\nbottle of freckle lotion and emptied it out of the window.\n\n\"I shall never try any beautifying messes again,\" she said, darkly\nresolute. \"They may do for careful, deliberate people; but for anyone so\nhopelessly given over to making mistakes as I seem to be it's tempting\nfate to meddle with them.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\nSweet Miss Lavendar\n\n\nSchool opened and Anne returned to her work, with fewer theories but\nconsiderably more experience. She had several new pupils, six- and\nseven-year-olds just venturing, round-eyed, into a world of wonder.\nAmong them were Davy and Dora. Davy sat with Milty Boulter, who had been\ngoing to school for a year and was therefore quite a man of the world.\nDora had made a compact at Sunday School the previous Sunday to sit\nwith Lily Sloane; but Lily Sloane not coming the first day, she was\ntemporarily assigned to Mirabel Cotton, who was ten years old and\ntherefore, in Dora's eyes, one of the \"big girls.\"\n\n\"I think school is great fun,\" Davy told Marilla when he got home that\nnight. \"You said I'd find it hard to sit still and I did . . .  you mostly\ndo tell the truth, I notice . . . but you can wriggle your legs about\nunder the desk and that helps a lot. It's splendid to have so many boys\nto play with. I sit with Milty Boulter and he's fine. He's longer than\nme but I'm wider. It's nicer to sit in the back seats but you can't sit\nthere till your legs grow long enough to touch the floor. Milty drawed a\npicture of Anne on his slate and it was awful ugly and I told him if he\nmade pictures of Anne like that I'd lick him at recess. I thought first\nI'd draw one of him and put horns and a tail on it, but I was afraid it\nwould hurt his feelings, and Anne says you should never hurt anyone's\nfeelings. It seems it's dreadful to have your feelings hurt. It's better\nto knock a boy down than hurt his feelings if you MUST do something.\nMilty said he wasn't scared of me but he'd just as soon call it somebody\nelse to 'blige me, so he rubbed out Anne's name and printed Barbara\nShaw's under it. Milty doesn't like Barbara 'cause she calls him a sweet\nlittle boy and once she patted him on his head.\"\n\nDora said primly that she liked school; but she was very quiet, even\nfor her; and when at twilight Marilla bade her go upstairs to bed she\nhesitated and began to cry.\n\n\"I'm . . . I'm frightened,\" she sobbed. \"I . . . I don't want to go\nupstairs alone in the dark.\"\n\n\"What notion have you got into your head now?\" demanded Marilla. \"I'm\nsure you've gone to bed alone all summer and never been frightened\nbefore.\"\n\nDora still continued to cry, so Anne picked her up, cuddled her\nsympathetically, and whispered,\n\n\"Tell Anne all about it, sweetheart. What are you frightened of?\"\n\n\"Of . . . of Mirabel Cotton's uncle,\" sobbed Dora. \"Mirabel Cotton told me\nall about her family today in school. Nearly everybody in her family has\ndied . . . all her grandfathers and grandmothers and ever so many uncles\nand aunts. They have a habit of dying, Mirabel says. Mirabel's awful\nproud of having so many dead relations, and she told me what they all\ndied of, and what they said, and how they looked in their coffins. And\nMirabel says one of her uncles was seen walking around the house after\nhe was buried. Her mother saw him. I don't mind the rest so much but I\ncan't help thinking about that uncle.\"\n\nAnne went upstairs with Dora and sat by her until she fell asleep. The\nnext day Mirabel Cotton was kept in at recess and \"gently but firmly\"\ngiven to understand that when you were so unfortunate as to possess an\nuncle who persisted in walking about houses after he had been decently\ninterred it was not in good taste to talk about that eccentric gentleman\nto your deskmate of tender years. Mirabel thought this very harsh. The\nCottons had not much to boast of. How was she to keep up her prestige\namong her schoolmates if she were forbidden to make capital out of the\nfamily ghost?\n\nSeptember slipped by into a gold and crimson graciousness of October.\nOne Friday evening Diana came over.\n\n\"I'd a letter from Ella Kimball today, Anne, and she wants us to go over\nto tea tomorrow afternoon to meet her cousin, Irene Trent, from town.\nBut we can't get one of our horses to go, for they'll all be in use\ntomorrow, and your pony is lame . . . so I suppose we can't go.\"\n\n\"Why can't we walk?\" suggested Anne. \"If we go straight back through the\nwoods we'll strike the West Grafton road not far from the Kimball place.\nI was through that way last winter and I know the road. It's no more\nthan four miles and we won't have to walk home, for Oliver Kimball will\nbe sure to drive us. He'll be only too glad of the excuse, for he goes\nto see Carrie Sloane and they say his father will hardly ever let him\nhave a horse.\"\n\nIt was accordingly arranged that they should walk, and the following\nafternoon they set out, going by way of Lover's Lane to the back of the\nCuthbert farm, where they found a road leading into the heart of acres\nof glimmering beech and maple woods, which were all in a wondrous glow\nof flame and gold, lying in a great purple stillness and peace.\n\n\"It's as if the year were kneeling to pray in a vast cathedral full of\nmellow stained light, isn't it?\" said Anne dreamily. \"It doesn't seem\nright to hurry through it, does it? It seems irreverent, like running in\na church.\"\n\n\"We MUST hurry though,\" said Diana, glancing at her watch. \"We've left\nourselves little enough time as it is.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll walk fast but don't ask me to talk,\" said Anne, quickening\nher pace. \"I just want to drink the day's loveliness in . . . I feel as if\nshe were holding it out to my lips like a cup of airy wine and I'll take\na sip at every step.\"\n\nPerhaps it was because she was so absorbed in \"drinking it in\" that Anne\ntook the left turning when they came to a fork in the road. She should\nhave taken the right, but ever afterward she counted it the most\nfortunate mistake of her life. They came out finally to a lonely, grassy\nroad, with nothing in sight along it but ranks of spruce saplings.\n\n\"Why, where are we?\" exclaimed Diana in bewilderment. \"This isn't the\nWest Grafton road.\"\n\n\"No, it's the base line road in Middle Grafton,\" said Anne, rather\nshamefacedly. \"I must have taken the wrong turning at the fork. I\ndon't know where we are exactly, but we must be all of three miles from\nKimballs' still.\"\n\n\"Then we can't get there by five, for it's half past four now,\" said\nDiana, with a despairing look at her watch. \"We'll arrive after they\nhave had their tea, and they'll have all the bother of getting ours over\nagain.\"\n\n\"We'd better turn back and go home,\" suggested Anne humbly. But Diana,\nafter consideration, vetoed this.\n\n\"No, we may as well go and spend the evening, since we have come this\nfar.\"\n\nA few yards further on the girls came to a place where the road forked\nagain.\n\n\"Which of these do we take?\" asked Diana dubiously.\n\nAnne shook her head.\n\n\"I don't know and we can't afford to make any more mistakes. Here is a\ngate and a lane leading right into the wood. There must be a house at\nthe other side. Let us go down and inquire.\"\n\n\"What a romantic old lane this it,\" said Diana, as they walked along its\ntwists and turns. It ran under patriarchal old firs whose branches met\nabove, creating a perpetual gloom in which nothing except moss could\ngrow. On either hand were brown wood floors, crossed here and there\nby fallen lances of sunlight. All was very still and remote, as if the\nworld and the cares of the world were far away.\n\n\"I feel as if we were walking through an enchanted forest,\" said Anne in\na hushed tone. \"Do you suppose we'll ever find our way back to the\nreal world again, Diana? We shall presently come to a palace with a\nspellbound princess in it, I think.\"\n\nAround the next turn they came in sight, not indeed of a palace, but of\na little house almost as surprising as a palace would have been in this\nprovince of conventional wooden farmhouses, all as much alike in general\ncharacteristics as if they had grown from the same seed. Anne stopped\nshort in rapture and Diana exclaimed, \"Oh, I know where we are now.\nThat is the little stone house where Miss Lavendar Lewis lives . . . Echo\nLodge, she calls it, I think. I've often heard of it but I've never seen\nit before. Isn't it a romantic spot?\"\n\n\"It's the sweetest, prettiest place I ever saw or imagined,\" said Anne\ndelightedly. \"It looks like a bit out of a story book or a dream.\"\n\nThe house was a low-eaved structure built of undressed blocks of red\nIsland sandstone, with a little peaked roof out of which peered two\ndormer windows, with quaint wooden hoods over them, and two great\nchimneys. The whole house was covered with a luxuriant growth of ivy,\nfinding easy foothold on the rough stonework and turned by autumn frosts\nto most beautiful bronze and wine-red tints.\n\nBefore the house was an oblong garden into which the lane gate where\nthe girls were standing opened. The house bounded it on one side; on\nthe three others it was enclosed by an old stone dyke, so overgrown with\nmoss and grass and ferns that it looked like a high, green bank. On the\nright and left the tall, dark spruces spread their palm-like branches\nover it; but below it was a little meadow, green with clover aftermath,\nsloping down to the blue loop of the Grafton River. No other house or\nclearing was in sight . . . nothing but hills and valleys covered with\nfeathery young firs.\n\n\"I wonder what sort of a person Miss Lewis is,\" speculated Diana as they\nopened the gate into the garden. \"They say she is very peculiar.\"\n\n\"She'll be interesting then,\" said Anne decidedly. \"Peculiar people are\nalways that at least, whatever else they are or are not. Didn't I tell\nyou we would come to an enchanted palace? I knew the elves hadn't woven\nmagic over that lane for nothing.\"\n\n\"But Miss Lavendar Lewis is hardly a spellbound princess,\" laughed\nDiana. \"She's an old maid . . . she's forty-five and quite gray, I've\nheard.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's only part of the spell,\" asserted Anne confidently. \"At\nheart she's young and beautiful still . . . and if we only knew how to\nunloose the spell she would step forth radiant and fair again. But we\ndon't know how . . . it's always and only the prince who knows that\n. . . and Miss Lavendar's prince hasn't come yet. Perhaps some fatal\nmischance has befallen him . . . though THAT'S against the law of all\nfairy tales.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid he came long ago and went away again,\" said Diana. \"They say\nshe used to be engaged to Stephan Irving . . . Paul's father . . . when\nthey were young. But they quarreled and parted.\"\n\n\"Hush,\" warned Anne. \"The door is open.\"\n\nThe girls paused in the porch under the tendrils of ivy and knocked\nat the open door. There was a patter of steps inside and a rather odd\nlittle personage presented herself . . . a girl of about fourteen, with a\nfreckled face, a snub nose, a mouth so wide that it did really seem as\nif it stretched \"from ear to ear,\" and two long braids of fair hair tied\nwith two enormous bows of blue ribbon.\n\n\"Is Miss Lewis at home?\" asked Diana.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. Come in, ma'am. I'll tell Miss Lavendar you're here, ma'am.\nShe's upstairs, ma'am.\"\n\nWith this the small handmaiden whisked out of sight and the girls,\nleft alone, looked about them with delighted eyes. The interior of this\nwonderful little house was quite as interesting as its exterior.\n\nThe room had a low ceiling and two square, small-paned windows,\ncurtained with muslin frills. All the furnishings were old-fashioned,\nbut so well and daintily kept that the effect was delicious. But it must\nbe candidly admitted that the most attractive feature, to two healthy\ngirls who had just tramped four miles through autumn air, was a table,\nset out with pale blue china and laden with delicacies, while little\ngolden-hued ferns scattered over the cloth gave it what Anne would have\ntermed \"a festal air.\"\n\n\"Miss Lavendar must be expecting company to tea,\" she whispered. \"There\nare six places set. But what a funny little girl she has. She looked\nlike a messenger from pixy land. I suppose she could have told us the\nroad, but I was curious to see Miss Lavendar. S . . . s . . . sh, she's\ncoming.\"\n\nAnd with that Miss Lavendar Lewis was standing in the doorway. The girls\nwere so surprised that they forgot good manners and simply stared.\nThey had unconsciously been expecting to see the usual type of elderly\nspinster as known to their experience  . . . a rather angular personage,\nwith prim gray hair and spectacles. Nothing more unlike Miss Lavendar\ncould possibly be imagined.\n\nShe was a little lady with snow-white hair beautifully wavy and thick,\nand carefully arranged in becoming puffs and coils. Beneath it was an\nalmost girlish face, pink cheeked and sweet lipped, with big soft brown\neyes and dimples . . . actually dimples. She wore a very dainty gown of\ncream muslin with pale-hued roses on it . . . a gown which would have\nseemed ridiculously juvenile on most women of her age, but which suited\nMiss Lavendar so perfectly that you never thought about it at all.\n\n\"Charlotta the Fourth says that you wished to see me,\" she said, in a\nvoice that matched her appearance.\n\n\"We wanted to ask the right road to West Grafton,\" said Diana. \"We\nare invited to tea at Mr. Kimball's, but we took the wrong path coming\nthrough the woods and came out to the base line instead of the West\nGrafton road. Do we take the right or left turning at your gate?\"\n\n\"The left,\" said Miss Lavendar, with a hesitating glance at her tea\ntable. Then she exclaimed, as if in a sudden little burst of resolution,\n\n\"But oh, won't you stay and have tea with me? Please, do. Mr. Kimball's\nwill have tea over before you get there. And Charlotta the Fourth and I\nwill be so glad to have you.\"\n\nDiana looked mute inquiry at Anne.\n\n\"We'd like to stay,\" said Anne promptly, for she had made up her mind\nthat she wanted to know more of this surprising Miss Lavendar, \"if it\nwon't inconvenience you. But you are expecting other guests, aren't\nyou?\"\n\nMiss Lavendar looked at her tea table again, and blushed.\n\n\"I know you'll think me dreadfully foolish,\" she said. \"I AM foolish\n. . . and I'm ashamed of it when I'm found out, but never unless I AM\nfound out. I'm not expecting anybody . . . I was just pretending I was.\nYou see, I was so lonely. I love company . . .  that is, the right kind\nof company.. .but so few people ever come here because it is so far out\nof the way. Charlotta the Fourth was lonely too. So I just pretended I\nwas going to have a tea party. I cooked for it . . . and decorated the\ntable for it.. . and set it with my mother's wedding china  . . . and I\ndressed up for it.\" Diana secretly thought Miss Lavendar quite as\npeculiar as report had pictured her. The idea of a woman of forty-five\nplaying at having a tea party, just as if she were a little girl! But\nAnne of the shining eyes exclaimed joyfuly, \"Oh, do YOU imagine things\ntoo?\"\n\nThat \"too\" revealed a kindred spirit to Miss Lavendar.\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" she confessed, boldly. \"Of course it's silly in anybody as\nold as I am. But what is the use of being an independent old maid if\nyou can't be silly when you want to, and when it doesn't hurt anybody?\nA person must have some compensations. I don't believe I could live at\ntimes if I didn't pretend things. I'm not often caught at it though, and\nCharlotta the Fourth never tells. But I'm glad to be caught today, for\nyou have really come and I have tea all ready for you. Will you go up to\nthe spare room and take off your hats? It's the white door at the head\nof the stairs. I must run out to the kitchen and see that Charlotta the\nFourth isn't letting the tea boil. Charlotta the Fourth is a very good\ngirl but she WILL let the tea boil.\"\n\nMiss Lavendar tripped off to the kitchen on hospitable thoughts intent\nand the girls found their way up to the spare room, an apartment as\nwhite as its door, lighted by the ivy-hung dormer window and looking, as\nAnne said, like the place where happy dreams grew.\n\n\"This is quite an adventure, isn't it?\" said Diana. \"And isn't Miss\nLavendar sweet, if she IS a little odd? She doesn't look a bit like an\nold maid.\"\n\n\"She looks just as music sounds, I think,\" answered Anne.\n\nWhen they went down Miss Lavendar was carrying in the teapot, and behind\nher, looking vastly pleased, was Charlotta the Fourth, with a plate of\nhot biscuits.\n\n\"Now, you must tell me your names,\" said Miss Lavendar. \"I'm so glad you\nare young girls. I love young girls. It's so easy to pretend I'm a girl\nmyself when I'm with them. I do hate\" . . . with a little grimace . . . \"to\nbelieve I'm old. Now, who are you . . .  just for convenience' sake? Diana\nBarry? And Anne Shirley? May I pretend that I've known you for a hundred\nyears and call you Anne and Diana right away?\"\n\n\"You, may\" the girls said both together.\n\n\"Then just let's sit comfily down and eat everything,\" said Miss\nLavendar happily. \"Charlotta, you sit at the foot and help with the\nchicken. It is so fortunate that I made the sponge cake and doughnuts.\nOf course, it was foolish to do it for imaginary guests . . .  I know\nCharlotta the Fourth thought so, didn't you, Charlotta? But you see how\nwell it has turned out. Of course they wouldn't have been wasted, for\nCharlotta the Fourth and I could have eaten them through time. But\nsponge cake is not a thing that improves with time.\"\n\nThat was a merry and memorable meal; and when it was over they all went\nout to the garden, lying in the glamor of sunset.\n\n\"I do think you have the loveliest place here,\" said Diana, looking\nround her admiringly.\n\n\"Why do you call it Echo Lodge?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"Charlotta,\" said Miss Lavendar, \"go into the house and bring out the\nlittle tin horn that is hanging over the clock shelf.\"\n\nCharlotta the Fourth skipped off and returned with the horn.\n\n\"Blow it, Charlotta,\" commanded Miss Lavendar.\n\nCharlotta accordingly blew, a rather raucous, strident blast. There was\nmoment's stillness . . . and then from the woods over the river came a\nmultitude of fairy echoes, sweet, elusive, silvery, as if all the \"horns\nof elfland\" were blowing against the sunset. Anne and Diana exclaimed in\ndelight.\n\n\"Now laugh, Charlotta . . . laugh loudly.\"\n\nCharlotta, who would probably have obeyed if Miss Lavendar had told her\nto stand on her head, climbed upon the stone bench and laughed loud\nand heartily. Back came the echoes, as if a host of pixy people were\nmimicking her laughter in the purple woodlands and along the fir-fringed\npoints.\n\n\"People always admire my echoes very much,\" said Miss Lavendar, as if\nthe echoes were her personal property. \"I love them myself. They\nare very good company . . . with a little pretending. On calm evenings\nCharlotta the Fourth and I often sit out here and amuse ourselves with\nthem. Charlotta, take back the horn and hang it carefully in its place.\"\n\n\"Why do you call her Charlotta the Fourth?\" asked Diana, who was\nbursting with curiosity on this point.\n\n\"Just to keep her from getting mixed up with other Charlottas in my\nthoughts,\" said Miss Lavendar seriously. \"They all look so much alike\nthere's no telling them apart. Her name isn't really Charlotta at all.\nIt is . . . let me see . . . what is it? I THINK it's Leonora . . . yes, it\nIS Leonora. You see, it is this way. When mother died ten years ago I\ncouldn't stay here alone . . .  and I couldn't afford to pay the wages of\na grown-up girl. So I got little Charlotta Bowman to come and stay with\nme for board and clothes. Her name really was Charlotta . . . she was\nCharlotta the First. She was just thirteen. She stayed with me till\nshe was sixteen and then she went away to Boston, because she could\ndo better there. Her sister came to stay with me then. Her name was\nJulietta . . . Mrs. Bowman had a weakness for fancy names I think . . .\nbut she looked so like Charlotta that I kept calling her that all the\ntime . . .and she didn't mind. So I just gave up trying to remember her\nright name. She was Charlotta the Second, and when she went away Evelina\ncame and she was Charlotta the Third. Now I have Charlotta the Fourth;\nbut when she is sixteen . . . she's fourteen now . . .  she will want to\ngo to Boston too, and what I shall do then I really do not know.\nCharlotta the Fourth is the last of the Bowman girls, and the best. The\nother Charlottas always let me see that they thought it silly of me to\npretend things but Charlotta the Fourth never does, no matter what she\nmay really think. I don't care what people think about me if they don't\nlet me see it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Diana looking regretfully at the setting sun. \"I suppose\nwe must go if we want to get to Mr. Kimball's before dark. We've had a\nlovely time, Miss Lewis.\"\n\n\"Won't you come again to see me?\" pleaded Miss Lavendar.\n\nTall Anne put her arm about the little lady.\n\n\"Indeed we shall,\" she promised. \"Now that we have discovered you we'll\nwear out our welcome coming to see you. Yes, we must go . . .  'we must\ntear ourselves away,' as Paul Irving says every time he comes to Green\nGables.\"\n\n\"Paul Irving?\" There was a subtle change in Miss Lavendar's voice. \"Who\nis he? I didn't think there was anybody of that name in Avonlea.\"\n\nAnne felt vexed at her own heedlessness. She had forgotten about Miss\nLavendar's old romance when Paul's name slipped out.\n\n\"He is a little pupil of mine,\" she explained slowly. \"He came from\nBoston last year to live with his grandmother, Mrs. Irving of the shore\nroad.\"\n\n\"Is he Stephen Irving's son?\" Miss Lavendar asked, bending over her\nnamesake border so that her face was hidden.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'm going to give you girls a bunch of lavendar apiece,\" said Miss\nLavendar brightly, as if she had not heard the answer to her question.\n\"It's very sweet, don't you think? Mother always loved it. She planted\nthese borders long ago. Father named me Lavendar because he was so fond\nof it. The very first time he saw mother was when he visited her home in\nEast Grafton with her brother. He fell in love with her at first sight;\nand they put him in the spare room bed to sleep and the sheets were\nscented with lavendar and he lay awake all night and thought of her. He\nalways loved the scent of lavendar after that . . . and that was why he\ngave me the name. Don't forget to come back soon, girls dear. We'll be\nlooking for you, Charlotta the Fourth and I.\"\n\nShe opened the gate under the firs for them to pass through. She looked\nsuddenly old and tired; the glow and radiance had faded from her face;\nher parting smile was as sweet with ineradicable youth as ever, but\nwhen the girls looked back from the first curve in the lane they saw her\nsitting on the old stone bench under the silver poplar in the middle of\nthe garden with her head leaning wearily on her hand.\n\n\"She does look lonely,\" said Diana softly. \"We must come often to see\nher.\"\n\n\"I think her parents gave her the only right and fitting name that could\npossibly be given her,\" said Anne. \"If they had been so blind as to name\nher Elizabeth or Nellie or Muriel she must have been called\nLavendar just the same, I think. It's so suggestive of sweetness and\nold-fashioned graces and 'silk attire.' Now, my name just smacks of\nbread and butter, patchwork and chores.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think so,\" said Diana. \"Anne seems to me real stately and\nlike a queen. But I'd like Kerrenhappuch if it happened to be your\nname. I think people make their names nice or ugly just by what they are\nthemselves. I can't bear Josie or Gertie for names now but before I knew\nthe Pye girls I thought them real pretty.\"\n\n\"That's a lovely idea, Diana,\" said Anne enthusiastically. \"Living so\nthat you beautify your name, even if it wasn't beautiful to begin with\n. . . making it stand in people's thoughts for something so lovely and\npleasant that they never think of it by itself. Thank you, Diana.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\nOdds and Ends\n\n\n\"So you had tea at the stone house with Lavendar Lewis?\" said Marilla\nat the breakfast table next morning. \"What is she like now? It's over\nfifteen years since I saw her last . . . it was one Sunday in Grafton\nchurch. I suppose she has changed a great deal. Davy Keith, when you\nwant something you can't reach, ask to have it passed and don't spread\nyourself over the table in that fashion. Did you ever see Paul Irving\ndoing that when he was here to meals?\"\n\n\"But Paul's arms are longer'n mine,\" brumbled Davy. \"They've had eleven\nyears to grow and mine've only had seven. 'Sides, I DID ask, but you\nand Anne was so busy talking you didn't pay any 'tention. 'Sides, Paul's\nnever been here to any meal escept tea, and it's easier to be p'lite\nat tea than at breakfast. You ain't half as hungry. It's an awful long\nwhile between supper and breakfast. Now, Anne, that spoonful ain't any\nbigger than it was last year and I'M ever so much bigger.\"\n\n\"Of course, I don't know what Miss Lavendar used to look like but I\ndon't fancy somehow that she has changed a great deal,\" said Anne, after\nshe had helped Davy to maple syrup, giving him two spoonfuls to pacify\nhim. \"Her hair is snow-white but her face is fresh and almost girlish,\nand she has the sweetest brown eyes . . . such a pretty shade of\nwood-brown with little golden glints in them . . .  and her voice makes\nyou think of white satin and tinkling water and fairy bells all mixed up\ntogether.\"\n\n\"She was reckoned a great beauty when she was a girl,\" said Marilla. \"I\nnever knew her very well but I liked her as far as I did know her. Some\nfolks thought her peculiar even then. DAVY, if ever I catch you at such\na trick again you'll be made to wait for your meals till everyone else\nis done, like the French.\"\n\nMost conversations between Anne and Marilla in the presence of the\ntwins, were punctuated by these rebukes Davy-ward. In this instance,\nDavy, sad to relate, not being able to scoop up the last drops of his\nsyrup with his spoon, had solved the difficulty by lifting his plate in\nboth hands and applying his small pink tongue to it. Anne looked at him\nwith such horrified eyes that the little sinner turned red and said,\nhalf shamefacedly, half defiantly,\n\n\"There ain't any wasted that way.\"\n\n\"People who are different from other people are always called peculiar,\"\nsaid Anne. \"And Miss Lavendar is certainly different, though it's hard\nto say just where the difference comes in. Perhaps it is because she is\none of those people who never grow old.\"\n\n\"One might as well grow old when all your generation do,\" said Marilla,\nrather reckless of her pronouns. \"If you don't, you don't fit in\nanywhere. Far as I can learn Lavendar Lewis has just dropped out of\neverything. She's lived in that out of the way place until everybody has\nforgotten her. That stone house is one of the oldest on the Island. Old\nMr. Lewis built it eighty years ago when he came out from England.\nDavy, stop joggling Dora's elbow. Oh, I saw you! You needn't try to look\ninnocent. What does make you behave so this morning?\"\n\n\"Maybe I got out of the wrong side of the bed,\" suggested Davy. \"Milty\nBoulter says if you do that things are bound to go wrong with you all\nday. His grandmother told him. But which is the right side? And what are\nyou to do when your bed's against the wall? I want to know.\"\n\n\"I've always wondered what went wrong between Stephen Irving and\nLavendar Lewis,\" continued Marilla, ignoring Davy. \"They were certainly\nengaged twenty-five years ago and then all at once it was broken off.\nI don't know what the trouble was but it must have been something\nterrible, for he went away to the States and never come home since.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was nothing very dreadful after all. I think the little\nthings in life often make more trouble than the big things,\" said Anne,\nwith one of those flashes of insight which experience could not have\nbettered. \"Marilla, please don't say anything about my being at Miss\nLavendar's to Mrs. Lynde. She'd be sure to ask a hundred questions and\nsomehow I wouldn't like it . . . nor Miss Lavendar either if she knew, I\nfeel sure.\"\n\n\"I daresay Rachel would be curious,\" admitted Marilla, \"though she\nhasn't as much time as she used to have for looking after other people's\naffairs. She's tied home now on account of Thomas; and she's feeling\npretty downhearted, for I think she's beginning to lose hope of his ever\ngetting better. Rachel will be left pretty lonely if anything happens to\nhim, with all her children settled out west, except Eliza in town; and\nshe doesn't like her husband.\"\n\nMarilla's pronouns slandered Eliza, who was very fond of her husband.\n\n\"Rachel says if he'd only brace up and exert his will power he'd get\nbetter. But what is the use of asking a jellyfish to sit up straight?\"\ncontinued Marilla. \"Thomas Lynde never had any will power to exert. His\nmother ruled him till he married and then Rachel carried it on. It's a\nwonder he dared to get sick without asking her permission. But there, I\nshouldn't talk so. Rachel has been a good wife to him. He'd never have\namounted to anything without her, that's certain. He was born to be\nruled; and it's well he fell into the hands of a clever, capable manager\nlike Rachel. He didn't mind her way. It saved him the bother of ever\nmaking up his own mind about anything. Davy, do stop squirming like an\neel.\"\n\n\"I've nothing else to do,\" protested Davy. \"I can't eat any more, and\nit's no fun watching you and Anne eat.\"\n\n\"Well, you and Dora go out and give the hens their wheat,\" said Marilla.\n\"And don't you try to pull any more feathers out of the white rooster's\ntail either.\"\n\n\"I wanted some feathers for an Injun headdress,\" said Davy sulkily.\n\"Milty Boulter has a dandy one, made out of the feathers his mother give\nhim when she killed their old white gobbler. You might let me have some.\nThat rooster's got ever so many more'n he wants.\"\n\n\"You may have the old feather duster in the garret,\" said Anne, \"and\nI'll dye them green and red and yellow for you.\"\n\n\"You do spoil that boy dreadfully,\" said Marilla, when Davy, with a\nradiant face, had followed prim Dora out. Marilla's education had made\ngreat strides in the past six years; but she had not yet been able to\nrid herself of the idea that it was very bad for a child to have too\nmany of its wishes indulged.\n\n\"All the boys of his class have Indian headdresses, and Davy wants one\ntoo,\" said Anne. \"_I_ know how it feels . . . I'll never forget how I used\nto long for puffed sleeves when all the other girls had them. And Davy\nisn't being spoiled. He is improving every day. Think what a difference\nthere is in him since he came here a year ago.\"\n\n\"He certainly doesn't get into as much mischief since he began to go to\nschool,\" acknowledged Marilla. \"I suppose he works off the tendency with\nthe other boys. But it's a wonder to me we haven't heard from Richard\nKeith before this. Never a word since last May.\"\n\n\"I'll be afraid to hear from him,\" sighed Anne, beginning to clear away\nthe dishes. \"If a letter should come I'd dread opening it, for fear it\nwould tell us to send the twins to him.\"\n\nA month later a letter did come. But it was not from Richard Keith. A\nfriend of his wrote to say that Richard Keith had died of consumption a\nfortnight previously. The writer of the letter was the executor of his\nwill and by that will the sum of two thousand dollars was left to Miss\nMarilla Cuthbert in trust for David and Dora Keith until they came of\nage or married. In the meantime the interest was to be used for their\nmaintenance.\n\n\"It seems dreadful to be glad of anything in connection with a death,\"\nsaid Anne soberly. \"I'm sorry for poor Mr. Keith; but I AM glad that we\ncan keep the twins.\"\n\n\"It's a very good thing about the money,\" said Marilla practically. \"I\nwanted to keep them but I really didn't see how I could afford to do\nit, especially when they grew older. The rent of the farm doesn't do any\nmore than keep the house and I was bound that not a cent of your money\nshould be spent on them. You do far too much for them as it is. Dora\ndidn't need that new hat you bought her any more than a cat needs two\ntails. But now the way is made clear and they are provided for.\"\n\nDavy and Dora were delighted when they heard that they were to live at\nGreen Gables, \"for good.\" The death of an uncle whom they had never seen\ncould not weigh a moment in the balance against that. But Dora had one\nmisgiving.\n\n\"Was Uncle Richard buried?\" she whispered to Anne.\n\n\"Yes, dear, of course.\"\n\n\"He . . . he . . . isn't like Mirabel Cotton's uncle, is he?\" in a still\nmore agitated whisper. \"He won't walk about houses after being buried,\nwill he, Anne?\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\nMiss Lavendar's Romance\n\n\n\"I think I'll take a walk through to Echo Lodge this evening,\" said\nAnne, one Friday afternoon in December.\n\n\"It looks like snow,\" said Marilla dubiously.\n\n\"I'll be there before the snow comes and I mean to stay all night. Diana\ncan't go because she has company, and I'm sure Miss Lavendar will be\nlooking for me tonight. It's a whole fortnight since I was there.\"\n\nAnne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since that October day.\nSometimes she and Diana drove around by the road; sometimes they walked\nthrough the woods. When Diana could not go Anne went alone. Between\nher and Miss Lavendar had sprung up one of those fervent, helpful\nfriendships possible only between a woman who has kept the freshness of\nyouth in her heart and soul, and a girl whose imagination and intuition\nsupplied the place of experience. Anne had at last discovered a real\n\"kindred spirit,\" while into the little lady's lonely, sequestered life\nof dreams Anne and Diana came with the wholesome joy and exhilaration of\nthe outer existence, which Miss Lavendar, \"the world forgetting, by the\nworld forgot,\" had long ceased to share; they brought an atmosphere of\nyouth and reality to the little stone house. Charlotta the Fourth always\ngreeted them with her very widest smile . . . and Charlotta's smiles WERE\nfearfully wide . . . loving them for the sake of her adored mistress as\nwell as for their own. Never had there been such \"high jinks\" held in\nthe little stone house as were held there that beautiful, late-lingering\nautumn, when November seemed October over again, and even December aped\nthe sunshine and hazes of summer.\n\nBut on this particular day it seemed as if December had remembered that\nit was time for winter and had turned suddenly dull and brooding, with\na windless hush predictive of coming snow. Nevertheless, Anne keenly\nenjoyed her walk through the great gray maze of the beechlands; though\nalone she never found it lonely; her imagination peopled her path\nwith merry companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pretended\nconversation that was wittier and more fascinating than conversations\nare apt to be in real life, where people sometimes fail most lamentably\nto talk up to the requirements. In a \"make believe\" assembly of choice\nspirits everybody says just the thing you want her to say and so gives\nyou the chance to say just what YOU want to say. Attended by this\ninvisible company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lane\njust as broad, feathery flakes began to flutter down softly.\n\nAt the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big,\nbroad-branching fir. She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head and\nshoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.\n\n\"You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies,\" called Anne merrily.\n\n\"I thought you would come tonight, Anne,\" said Miss Lavendar, running\nforward. \"And I'm doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Her\nmother is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should have\nbeen very lonely if you hadn't come . . . even the dreams and the echoes\nwouldn't have been enough company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,\"\nshe added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the soft\nrose-flush of walking on her face. \"How pretty and how young! It's so\ndelightful to be seventeen, isn't it? I do envy you,\" concluded Miss\nLavendar candidly.\n\n\"But you are only seventeen at heart,\" smiled Anne.\n\n\"No, I'm old . . . or rather middle-aged, which is far worse,\" sighed Miss\nLavendar. \"Sometimes I can pretend I'm not, but at other times I realize\nit. And I can't reconcile myself to it as most women seem to. I'm just\nas rebellious as I was when I discovered my first gray hair. Now,\nAnne, don't look as if you were trying to understand. Seventeen CAN'T\nunderstand. I'm going to pretend right away that I am seventeen too, and\nI can do it, now that you're here. You always bring youth in your hand\nlike a gift. We're going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . what do\nyou want for tea? We'll have whatever you like. Do think of something\nnice and indigestible.\"\n\nThere were sounds of riot and mirth in the little stone house that\nnight. What with cooking and feasting and making candy and laughing and\n\"pretending,\" it is quite true that Miss Lavendar and Anne comported\nthemselves in a fashion entirely unsuited to the dignity of a spinster\nof forty-five and a sedate schoolma'am. Then, when they were tired, they\nsat down on the rug before the grate in the parlor, lighted only by the\nsoft fireshine and perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar's open rose-jar\non the mantel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing around\nthe eaves and the snow was thudding softly against the windows, as if a\nhundred storm sprites were tapping for entrance.\n\n\"I'm so glad you're here, Anne,\" said Miss Lavendar, nibbling at her\ncandy. \"If you weren't I should be blue . . . very blue . . .  almost navy\nblue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and the\nsunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wants\nreal things then. But you don't know this . . . seventeen never knows\nit. At seventeen dreams DO satisfy because you think the realities are\nwaiting for you further on. When I was seventeen, Anne, I didn't think\nforty-five would find me a white-haired little old maid with nothing but\ndreams to fill my life.\"\n\n\"But you aren't an old maid,\" said Anne, smiling into Miss Lavendar's\nwistful woodbrown eyes. \"Old maids are BORN . . . they don't BECOME.\"\n\n\"Some are born old maids, some achieve old maidenhood, and some have old\nmaidenhood thrust upon them,\" parodied Miss Lavendar whimsically.\n\n\"You are one of those who have achieved it then,\" laughed Anne, \"and\nyou've done it so beautifully that if every old maid were like you they\nwould come into the fashion, I think.\"\n\n\"I always like to do things as well as possible,\" said Miss Lavendar\nmeditatively, \"and since an old maid I had to be I was determined to be\na very nice one. People say I'm odd; but it's just because I follow my\nown way of being an old maid and refuse to copy the traditional pattern.\nAnne, did anyone ever tell you anything about Stephen Irving and me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anne candidly, \"I've heard that you and he were engaged\nonce.\"\n\n\"So we were . . . twenty-five years ago . . . a lifetime ago. And we\nwere to have been married the next spring. I had my wedding dress made,\nalthough nobody but mother and Stephen ever knew THAT. We'd been engaged\nin a way almost all our lives, you might say. When Stephen was a little\nboy his mother would bring him here when she came to see my mother; and\nthe second time he ever came . . .  he was nine and I was six . . . he\ntold me out in the garden that he had pretty well made up his mind to\nmarry me when he grew up. I remember that I said 'Thank you'; and when\nhe was gone I told mother very gravely that there was a great weight off\nmy mind, because I wasn't frightened any more about having to be an old\nmaid. How poor mother laughed!\"\n\n\"And what went wrong?\" asked Anne breathlessly.\n\n\"We had just a stupid, silly, commonplace quarrel. So commonplace that,\nif you'll believe me, I don't even remember just how it began. I hardly\nknow who was the more to blame for it. Stephen did really begin it, but\nI suppose I provoked him by some foolishness of mine. He had a rival or\ntwo, you see. I was vain and coquettish and liked to tease him a little.\nHe was a very high-strung, sensitive fellow. Well, we parted in a temper\non both sides. But I thought it would all come right; and it would have\nif Stephen hadn't come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I'm sorry to say\"\n. . . Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if she were about to confess a\npredilection for murdering people, \"that I am a dreadfully sulky person.\nOh, you needn't smile, . . .  it's only too true. I DO sulk; and Stephen\ncame back before I had finished sulking. I wouldn't listen to him and I\nwouldn't forgive him; and so he went away for good. He was too proud to\ncome again. And then I sulked because he didn't come. I might have sent\nfor him perhaps, but I couldn't humble myself to do that. I was just\nas proud as he was . . . pride and sulkiness make a very bad combination,\nAnne. But I could never care for anybody else and I didn't want to.\nI knew I would rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marry\nanybody who wasn't Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now,\nof course. How sympathetic you look, Anne . . . as sympathetic as only\nseventeen can look. But don't overdo it. I'm really a very happy,\ncontented little person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break,\nif ever a heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not coming\nback. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life isn't half as dreadful as\nit is in books. It's a good deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won't\nthink THAT a very romantic simile. It takes spells of aching and gives\nyou a sleepless night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoy\nlife and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the\nmatter with it. And now you're looking disappointed. You don't think\nI'm half as interesting a person as you did five minutes ago when you\nbelieved I was always the prey of a tragic memory bravely hidden beneath\nexternal smiles. That's the worst . . . or the best . . .  of real life,\nAnne. It WON'T let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make you\ncomfortable . . . and succeeding...even when you're determined to be\nunhappy and romantic. Isn't this candy scrumptious? I've eaten far more\nthan is good for me already but I'm going to keep recklessly on.\"\n\nAfter a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly,\n\n\"It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen's son that first day you were\nhere, Anne. I've never been able to mention him to you since, but I've\nwanted to know all about him. What sort of a boy is he?\"\n\n\"He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, Miss Lavendar . . .  and\nhe pretends things too, just as you and I do.\"\n\n\"I'd like to see him,\" said Miss Lavendar softly, as if talking to\nherself. \"I wonder if he looks anything like the little dream-boy who\nlives here with me . . . MY little dream-boy.\"\n\n\"If you would like to see Paul I'll bring him through with me sometime,\"\nsaid Anne.\n\n\"I would like it . . . but not too soon. I want to get used to the\nthought. There might be more pain than pleasure in it . . . if he looked\ntoo much like Stephen . . . or if he didn't look enough like him. In a\nmonth's time you may bring him.\"\n\nAccordingly, a month later Anne and Paul walked through the woods to\nthe stone house, and met Miss Lavendar in the lane. She had not been\nexpecting them just then and she turned very pale.\n\n\"So this is Stephen's boy,\" she said in a low tone, taking Paul's hand\nand looking at him as he stood, beautiful and boyish, in his smart\nlittle fur coat and cap. \"He . . . he is very like his father.\"\n\n\"Everybody says I'm a chip off the old block,\" remarked Paul, quite at\nhis ease.\n\nAnne, who had been watching the little scene, drew a relieved breath.\nShe saw that Miss Lavendar and Paul had \"taken\" to each other, and that\nthere would be no constraint or stiffness. Miss Lavendar was a very\nsensible person, in spite of her dreams and romance, and after\nthat first little betrayal she tucked her feelings out of sight and\nentertained Paul as brightly and naturally as if he were anybody's son\nwho had come to see her. They all had a jolly afternoon together and\nsuch a feast of fat things by way of supper as would have made old Mrs.\nIrving hold up her hands in horror, believing that Paul's digestion\nwould be ruined for ever.\n\n\"Come again, laddie,\" said Miss Lavendar, shaking hands with him at\nparting.\n\n\"You may kiss me if you like,\" said Paul gravely.\n\nMiss Lavendar stooped and kissed him.\n\n\"How did you know I wanted to?\" she whispered.\n\n\"Because you looked at me just as my little mother used to do when she\nwanted to kiss me. As a rule, I don't like to be kissed. Boys don't. You\nknow, Miss Lewis. But I think I rather like to have you kiss me. And of\ncourse I'll come to see you again. I think I'd like to have you for a\nparticular friend of mine, if you don't object.\"\n\n\"I . . . I don't think I shall object,\" said Miss Lavendar. She turned\nand went in very quickly; but a moment later she was waving a gay and\nsmiling good-bye to them from the window.\n\n\"I like Miss Lavendar,\" announced Paul, as they walked through the beech\nwoods. \"I like the way she looked at me, and I like her stone house, and\nI like Charlotta the Fourth. I wish Grandma Irving had a Charlotta the\nFourth instead of a Mary Joe. I feel sure Charlotta the Fourth wouldn't\nthink I was wrong in my upper story when I told her what I think about\nthings. Wasn't that a splendid tea we had, teacher? Grandma says a boy\nshouldn't be thinking about what he gets to eat, but he can't help it\nsometimes when he is real hungry. YOU know, teacher. I don't think Miss\nLavendar would make a boy eat porridge for breakfast if he didn't like\nit. She'd get things for him he did like. But of course\" . . .  Paul was\nnothing if not fair-minded . . . \"that mightn't be very good for him. It's\nvery nice for a change though, teacher. YOU know.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\nA Prophet in His Own Country\n\n\nOne May day Avonlea folks were mildly excited over some \"Avonlea\nNotes,\" signed \"Observer,\" which appeared in the Charlottetown 'Daily\nEnterprise.' Gossip ascribed the authorship thereof to Charlie Sloane,\npartly because the said Charlie had indulged in similar literary flights\nin times past, and partly because one of the notes seemed to embody a\nsneer at Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea juvenile society persisted in regarding\nGilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane as rivals in the good graces of a\ncertain damsel with gray eyes and an imagination.\n\nGossip, as usual, was wrong. Gilbert Blythe, aided and abetted by Anne,\nhad written the notes, putting in the one about himself as a blind. Only\ntwo of the notes have any bearing on this history:\n\n\"Rumor has it that there will be a wedding in our village ere the\ndaisies are in bloom. A new and highly respected citizen will lead to\nthe hymeneal altar one of our most popular ladies.\n\n\"Uncle Abe, our well-known weather prophet, predicts a violent storm\nof thunder and lightning for the evening of the twenty-third of May,\nbeginning at seven o'clock sharp. The area of the storm will extend over\nthe greater part of the Province. People traveling that evening will do\nwell to take umbrellas and mackintoshes with them.\"\n\n\"Uncle Abe really has predicted a storm for sometime this spring,\" said\nGilbert, \"but do you suppose Mr. Harrison really does go to see Isabella\nAndrews?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Anne, laughing, \"I'm sure he only goes to play checkers with\nMr. Harrison Andrews, but Mrs. Lynde says she knows Isabella Andrews\nmust be going to get married, she's in such good spirits this spring.\"\n\nPoor old Uncle Abe felt rather indignant over the notes. He suspected\nthat \"Observer\" was making fun of him. He angrily denied having assigned\nany particular date for his storm but nobody believed him.\n\nLife in Avonlea continued on the smooth and even tenor of its way.\nThe \"planting\" was put in; the Improvers celebrated an Arbor Day. Each\nImprover set out, or caused to be set out, five ornamental trees. As the\nsociety now numbered forty members, this meant a total of two hundred\nyoung trees. Early oats greened over the red fields; apple orchards\nflung great blossoming arms about the farmhouses and the Snow Queen\nadorned itself as a bride for her husband. Anne liked to sleep with her\nwindow open and let the cherry fragrance blow over her face all night.\nShe thought it very poetical. Marilla thought she was risking her life.\n\n\"Thanksgiving should be celebrated in the spring,\" said Anne one evening\nto Marilla, as they sat on the front door steps and listened to the\nsilver-sweet chorus of the frogs. \"I think it would be ever so much\nbetter than having it in November when everything is dead or asleep.\nThen you have to remember to be thankful; but in May one simply can't\nhelp being thankful . . .  that they are alive, if for nothing else. I\nfeel exactly as Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden before the\ntrouble began. IS that grass in the hollow green or golden? It seems to\nme, Marilla, that a pearl of a day like this, when the blossoms are out\nand the winds don't know where to blow from next for sheer crazy delight\nmust be pretty near as good as heaven.\"\n\nMarilla looked scandalized and glanced apprehensively around to make\nsure the twins were not within earshot. They came around the corner of\nthe house just then.\n\n\"Ain't it an awful nice-smelling evening?\" asked Davy, sniffing\ndelightedly as he swung a hoe in his grimy hands. He had been working\nin his garden. That spring Marilla, by way of turning Davy's passion for\nreveling in mud and clay into useful channels, had given him and Dora\na small plot of ground for a garden. Both had eagerly gone to work in\na characteristic fashion. Dora planted, weeded, and watered carefully,\nsystematically, and dispassionately. As a result, her plot was already\ngreen with prim, orderly little rows of vegetables and annuals. Davy,\nhowever, worked with more zeal than discretion; he dug and hoed and\nraked and watered and transplanted so energetically that his seeds had\nno chance for their lives.\n\n\"How is your garden coming on, Davy-boy?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"Kind of slow,\" said Davy with a sigh. \"I don't know why the things\ndon't grow better. Milty Boulter says I must have planted them in the\ndark of the moon and that's the whole trouble. He says you must never\nsow seeds or kill pork or cut your hair or do any 'portant thing in the\nwrong time of the moon. Is that true, Anne? I want to know.\"\n\n\"Maybe if you didn't pull your plants up by the roots every other day to\nsee how they're getting on 'at the other end,' they'd do better,\" said\nMarilla sarcastically.\n\n\"I only pulled six of them up,\" protested Davy. \"I wanted to see if\nthere was grubs at the roots. Milty Boulter said if it wasn't the moon's\nfault it must be grubs. But I only found one grub. He was a great big\njuicy curly grub. I put him on a stone and got another stone and smashed\nhim flat. He made a jolly SQUISH I tell you. I was sorry there wasn't\nmore of them. Dora's garden was planted same time's mine and her things\nare growing all right. It CAN'T be the moon,\" Davy concluded in a\nreflective tone.\n\n\"Marilla, look at that apple tree,\" said Anne. \"Why, the thing is human.\nIt is reaching out long arms to pick its own pink skirts daintily up and\nprovoke us to admiration.\"\n\n\"Those Yellow Duchess trees always bear well,\" said Marilla\ncomplacently. \"That tree'll be loaded this year. I'm real glad. . .\nthey're great for pies.\"\n\nBut neither Marilla nor Anne nor anybody else was fated to make pies out\nof Yellow Duchess apples that year.\n\nThe twenty-third of May came . . . an unseasonably warm day, as none\nrealized more keenly than Anne and her little beehive of pupils,\nsweltering over fractions and syntax in the Avonlea schoolroom. A hot\nbreeze blew all the forenoon; but after noon hour it died away into a\nheavy stillness. At half past three Anne heard a low rumble of thunder.\nShe promptly dismissed school at once, so that the children might get\nhome before the storm came.\n\nAs they went out to the playground Anne perceived a certain shadow and\ngloom over the world in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining\nbrightly. Annetta Bell caught her hand nervously.\n\n\"Oh, teacher, look at that awful cloud!\"\n\nAnne looked and gave an exclamation of dismay. In the northwest a mass\nof cloud, such as she had never in all her life beheld before, was\nrapidly rolling up. It was dead black, save where its curled and fringed\nedges showed a ghastly, livid white. There was something about it\nindescribably menacing as it gloomed up in the clear blue sky; now and\nagain a bolt of lightning shot across it, followed by a savage growl. It\nhung so low that it almost seemed to be touching the tops of the wooded\nhills.\n\nMr. Harmon Andrews came clattering up the hill in his truck wagon,\nurging his team of grays to their utmost speed. He pulled them to a halt\nopposite the school.\n\n\"Guess Uncle Abe's hit it for once in his life, Anne,\" he shouted. \"His\nstorm's coming a leetle ahead of time. Did ye ever see the like of that\ncloud? Here, all you young ones, that are going my way, pile in, and\nthose that ain't scoot for the post office if ye've more'n a quarter of\na mile to go, and stay there till the shower's over.\"\n\nAnne caught Davy and Dora by the hands and flew down the hill, along the\nBirch Path, and past Violet Vale and Willowmere, as fast as the twins'\nfat legs could go. They reached Green Gables not a moment too soon and\nwere joined at the door by Marilla, who had been hustling her ducks and\nchickens under shelter. As they dashed into the kitchen the light seemed\nto vanish, as if blown out by some mighty breath; the awful cloud rolled\nover the sun and a darkness as of late twilight fell across the world.\nAt the same moment, with a crash of thunder and a blinding glare of\nlightning, the hail swooped down and blotted the landscape out in one\nwhite fury.\n\nThrough all the clamor of the storm came the thud of torn branches\nstriking the house and the sharp crack of breaking glass. In three\nminutes every pane in the west and north windows was broken and the\nhail poured in through the apertures covering the floor with stones, the\nsmallest of which was as big as a hen's egg. For three quarters of an\nhour the storm raged unabated and no one who underwent it ever forgot\nit. Marilla, for once in her life shaken out of her composure by sheer\nterror, knelt by her rocking chair in a corner of the kitchen, gasping\nand sobbing between the deafening thunder peals. Anne, white as paper,\nhad dragged the sofa away from the window and sat on it with a twin on\neither side. Davy at the first crash had howled, \"Anne, Anne, is it the\nJudgment Day? Anne, Anne, I never meant to be naughty,\" and then\nhad buried his face in Anne's lap and kept it there, his little body\nquivering. Dora, somewhat pale but quite composed, sat with her hand\nclasped in Anne's, quiet and motionless. It is doubtful if an earthquake\nwould have disturbed Dora.\n\nThen, almost as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased. The hail\nstopped, the thunder rolled and muttered away to the eastward, and the\nsun burst out merry and radiant over a world so changed that it seemed\nan absurd thing to think that a scant three quarters of an hour could\nhave effected such a transformation.\n\nMarilla rose from her knees, weak and trembling, and dropped on her\nrocker. Her face was haggard and she looked ten years older.\n\n\"Have we all come out of that alive?\" she asked solemnly.\n\n\"You bet we have,\" piped Davy cheerfully, quite his own man again. \"I\nwasn't a bit scared either . . . only just at the first. It come on a\nfellow so sudden. I made up my mind quick as a wink that I wouldn't\nfight Teddy Sloane Monday as I'd promised; but now maybe I will. Say,\nDora, was you scared?\"\n\n\"Yes, I was a little scared,\" said Dora primly, \"but I held tight to\nAnne's hand and said my prayers over and over again.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd have said my prayers too if I'd have thought of it,\" said\nDavy; \"but,\" he added triumphantly, \"you see I came through just as safe\nas you for all I didn't say them.\"\n\nAnne got Marilla a glassful of her potent currant wine . . . HOW potent\nit was Anne, in her earlier days, had had all too good reason to know\n. . . and then they went to the door to look out on the strange scene.\n\nFar and wide was a white carpet, knee deep, of hailstones; drifts of\nthem were heaped up under the eaves and on the steps. When, three or\nfour days later, those hailstones melted, the havoc they had wrought was\nplainly seen, for every green growing thing in the field or garden was\ncut off. Not only was every blossom stripped from the apple trees but\ngreat boughs and branches were wrenched away. And out of the two hundred\ntrees set out by the Improvers by far the greater number were snapped\noff or torn to shreds.\n\n\"Can it possibly be the same world it was an hour ago?\" asked Anne,\ndazedly. \"It MUST have taken longer than that to play such havoc.\"\n\n\"The like of this has never been known in Prince Edward Island,\" said\nMarilla, \"never. I remember when I was a girl there was a bad storm, but\nit was nothing to this. We'll hear of terrible destruction, you may be\nsure.\"\n\n\"I do hope none of the children were caught out in it,\" murmured Anne\nanxiously. As it was discovered later, none of the children had been,\nsince all those who had any distance to go had taken Mr. Andrews'\nexcellent advice and sought refuge at the post office.\n\n\"There comes John Henry Carter,\" said Marilla.\n\nJohn Henry came wading through the hailstones with a rather scared grin.\n\n\"Oh, ain't this awful, Miss Cuthbert? Mr. Harrison sent me over to see\nif yous had come out all right.\"\n\n\"We're none of us killed,\" said Marilla grimly, \"and none of the\nbuildings was struck. I hope you got off equally well.\"\n\n\"Yas'm. Not quite so well, ma'am. We was struck. The lightning knocked\nover the kitchen chimbly and come down the flue and knocked over\nGinger's cage and tore a hole in the floor and went into the sullar.\nYas'm.\"\n\n\"Was Ginger hurt?\" queried Anne.\n\n\"Yas'm. He was hurt pretty bad. He was killed.\" Later on Anne went over\nto comfort Mr. Harrison. She found him sitting by the table, stroking\nGinger's gay dead body with a trembling hand.\n\n\"Poor Ginger won't call you any more names, Anne,\" he said mournfully.\n\nAnne could never have imagined herself crying on Ginger's account, but\nthe tears came into her eyes.\n\n\"He was all the company I had, Anne . . . and now he's dead. Well, well,\nI'm an old fool to care so much. I'll let on I don't care. I know you're\ngoing to say something sympathetic as soon as I stop talking . . . but\ndon't. If you did I'd cry like a baby. Hasn't this been a terrible\nstorm? I guess folks won't laugh at Uncle Abe's predictions again. Seems\nas if all the storms that he's been prophesying all his life that never\nhappened came all at once. Beats all how he struck the very day though,\ndon't it? Look at the mess we have here. I must hustle round and get\nsome boards to patch up that hole in the floor.\"\n\nAvonlea folks did nothing the next day but visit each other and\ncompare damages. The roads were impassable for wheels by reason of the\nhailstones, so they walked or rode on horseback. The mail came late with\nill tidings from all over the province. Houses had been struck, people\nkilled and injured; the whole telephone and telegraph system had been\ndisorganized, and any number of young stock exposed in the fields had\nperished.\n\nUncle Abe waded out to the blacksmith's forge early in the morning and\nspent the whole day there. It was Uncle Abe's hour of triumph and he\nenjoyed it to the full. It would be doing Uncle Abe an injustice to say\nthat he was glad the storm had happened; but since it had to be he was\nvery glad he had predicted it . . . to the very day, too. Uncle Abe forgot\nthat he had ever denied setting the day. As for the trifling discrepancy\nin the hour, that was nothing.\n\nGilbert arrived at Green Gables in the evening and found Marilla and\nAnne busily engaged in nailing strips of oilcloth over the broken\nwindows.\n\n\"Goodness only knows when we'll get glass for them,\" said Marilla. \"Mr.\nBarry went over to Carmody this afternoon but not a pane could he get\nfor love or money. Lawson and Blair were cleaned out by the Carmody\npeople by ten o'clock. Was the storm bad at White Sands, Gilbert?\"\n\n\"I should say so. I was caught in the school with all the children and\nI thought some of them would go mad with fright. Three of them fainted,\nand two girls took hysterics, and Tommy Blewett did nothing but shriek\nat the top of his voice the whole time.\"\n\n\"I only squealed once,\" said Davy proudly. \"My garden was all smashed\nflat,\" he continued mournfully, \"but so was Dora's,\" he added in a tone\nwhich indicated that there was yet balm in Gilead.\n\nAnne came running down from the west gable.\n\n\"Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news? Mr. Levi Boulter's old house\nwas struck and burned to the ground. It seems to me that I'm dreadfully\nwicked to feel glad over THAT, when so much damage has been done.\nMr. Boulter says he believes the A.V.I.S. magicked up that storm on\npurpose.\"\n\n\"Well, one thing is certain,\" said Gilbert, laughing, \"'Observer' has\nmade Uncle Abe's reputation as a weather prophet. 'Uncle Abe's storm'\nwill go down in local history. It is a most extraordinary coincidence\nthat it should have come on the very day we selected. I actually have a\nhalf guilty feeling, as if I really had 'magicked' it up. We may as\nwell rejoice over the old house being removed, for there's not much to\nrejoice over where our young trees are concerned. Not ten of them have\nescaped.\"\n\n\"Ah, well, we'll just have to plant them over again next spring,\" said\nAnne philosophically. \"That is one good thing about this world . . . there\nare always sure to be more springs.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\nAn Avonlea Scandal\n\n\nOne blithe June morning, a fortnight after Uncle Abe's storm, Anne came\nslowly through the Green Gables yard from the garden, carrying in her\nhands two blighted stalks of white narcissus.\n\n\"Look, Marilla,\" she said sorrowfully, holding up the flowers before the\neyes of a grim lady, with her hair coifed in a green gingham apron, who\nwas going into the house with a plucked chicken, \"these are the only\nbuds the storm spared . . . and even they are imperfect. I'm so sorry\n. . . I wanted some for Matthew's grave. He was always so fond of June\nlilies.\"\n\n\"I kind of miss them myself,\" admitted Marilla, \"though it doesn't seem\nright to lament over them when so many worse things have happened. . .\nall the crops destroyed as well as the fruit.\"\n\n\"But people have sown their oats over again,\" said Anne comfortingly,\n\"and Mr. Harrison says he thinks if we have a good summer they will come\nout all right though late. And my annuals are all coming up again . . .\nbut oh, nothing can replace the June lilies. Poor little Hester Gray\nwill have none either. I went all the way back to her garden last night\nbut there wasn't one. I'm sure she'll miss them.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's right for you to say such things, Anne, I really\ndon't,\" said Marilla severely. \"Hester Gray has been dead for thirty\nyears and her spirit is in heaven . . . I hope.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I believe she loves and remembers her garden here still,\" said\nAnne. \"I'm sure no matter how long I'd lived in heaven I'd like to look\ndown and see somebody putting flowers on my grave. If I had had a garden\nhere like Hester Gray's it would take me more than thirty years, even in\nheaven, to forget being homesick for it by spells.\"\n\n\"Well, don't let the twins hear you talking like that,\" was Marilla's\nfeeble protest, as she carried her chicken into the house.\n\nAnne pinned her narcissi on her hair and went to the lane gate, where\nshe stood for awhile sunning herself in the June brightness before\ngoing in to attend to her Saturday morning duties. The world was growing\nlovely again; old Mother Nature was doing her best to remove the traces\nof the storm, and, though she was not to succeed fully for many a moon,\nshe was really accomplishing wonders.\n\n\"I wish I could just be idle all day today,\" Anne told a bluebird, who\nwas singing and swinging on a willow bough, \"but a schoolma'am, who is\nalso helping to bring up twins, can't indulge in laziness, birdie. How\nsweet you are singing, little bird. You are just putting the feelings of\nmy heart into song ever so much better than I could myself. Why, who is\ncoming?\"\n\nAn express wagon was jolting up the lane, with two people on the front\nseat and a big trunk behind. When it drew near Anne recognized the\ndriver as the son of the station agent at Bright River; but his\ncompanion was a stranger . . . a scrap of a woman who sprang nimbly down\nat the gate almost before the horse came to a standstill. She was a very\npretty little person, evidently nearer fifty than forty, but with rosy\ncheeks, sparkling black eyes, and shining black hair, surmounted by\na wonderful beflowered and beplumed bonnet. In spite of having driven\neight miles over a dusty road she was as neat as if she had just stepped\nout of the proverbial bandbox.\n\n\"Is this where Mr. James A. Harrison lives?\" she inquired briskly.\n\n\"No, Mr. Harrison lives over there,\" said Anne, quite lost in\nastonishment.\n\n\"Well, I DID think this place seemed too tidy . . . MUCH too tidy for\nJames A. to be living here, unless he has greatly changed since I knew\nhim,\" chirped the little lady. \"Is it true that James A. is going to be\nmarried to some woman living in this settlement?\"\n\n\"No, oh no,\" cried Anne, flushing so guiltily that the stranger looked\ncuriously at her, as if she half suspected her of matrimonial designs on\nMr. Harrison.\n\n\"But I saw it in an Island paper,\" persisted the Fair Unknown. \"A friend\nsent a marked copy to me . . . friends are always so ready to do such\nthings. James A.'s name was written in over 'new citizen.'\"\n\n\"Oh, that note was only meant as a joke,\" gasped Anne. \"Mr. Harrison has\nno intention of marrying ANYBODY. I assure you he hasn't.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad to hear it,\" said the rosy lady, climbing nimbly back to\nher seat in the wagon, \"because he happens to be married already. _I_\nam his wife. Oh, you may well look surprised. I suppose he has been\nmasquerading as a bachelor and breaking hearts right and left. Well,\nwell, James A.,\" nodding vigorously over the fields at the long white\nhouse, \"your fun is over. I am here . . . though I wouldn't have bothered\ncoming if I hadn't thought you were up to some mischief. I suppose,\"\nturning to Anne, \"that parrot of his is as profane as ever?\"\n\n\"His parrot . . . is dead . . . I THINK,\" gasped poor Anne, who couldn't\nhave felt sure of her own name at that precise moment.\n\n\"Dead! Everything will be all right then,\" cried the rosy lady\njubilantly. \"I can manage James A. if that bird is out of the way.\"\n\nWith which cryptic utterance she went joyfully on her way and Anne flew\nto the kitchen door to meet Marilla.\n\n\"Anne, who was that woman?\"\n\n\"Marilla,\" said Anne solemnly, but with dancing eyes, \"do I look as if I\nwere crazy?\"\n\n\"Not more so than usual,\" said Marilla, with no thought of being\nsarcastic.\n\n\"Well then, do you think I am awake?\"\n\n\"Anne, what nonsense has got into you? Who was that woman, I say?\"\n\n\"Marilla, if I'm not crazy and not asleep she can't be such stuff as\ndreams are made of . . . she must be real. Anyway, I'm sure I couldn't\nhave imagined such a bonnet. She says she is Mr. Harrison's wife,\nMarilla.\"\n\nMarilla stared in her turn.\n\n\"His wife! Anne Shirley! Then what has he been passing himself off as an\nunmarried man for?\"\n\n\"I don't suppose he did, really,\" said Anne, trying to be just. \"He\nnever said he wasn't married. People simply took it for granted. Oh\nMarilla, what will Mrs. Lynde say to this?\"\n\nThey found out what Mrs. Lynde had to say when she came up that evening.\nMrs. Lynde wasn't surprised! Mrs. Lynde had always expected something\nof the sort! Mrs. Lynde had always known there was SOMETHING about Mr.\nHarrison!\n\n\"To think of his deserting his wife!\" she said indignantly. \"It's like\nsomething you'd read of in the States, but who would expect such a thing\nto happen right here in Avonlea?\"\n\n\"But we don't know that he deserted her,\" protested Anne, determined to\nbelieve her friend innocent till he was proved guilty. \"We don't know\nthe rights of it at all.\"\n\n\"Well, we soon will. I'm going straight over there,\" said Mrs. Lynde,\nwho had never learned that there was such a word as delicacy in the\ndictionary. \"I'm not supposed to know anything about her arrival, and\nMr. Harrison was to bring some medicine for Thomas from Carmody today,\nso that will be a good excuse. I'll find out the whole story and come in\nand tell you on the way back.\"\n\nMrs. Lynde rushed in where Anne had feared to tread. Nothing would have\ninduced the latter to go over to the Harrison place; but she had her\nnatural and proper share of curiosity and she felt secretly glad that\nMrs. Lynde was going to solve the mystery. She and Marilla waited\nexpectantly for that good lady's return, but waited in vain. Mrs. Lynde\ndid not revisit Green Gables that night. Davy, arriving home at nine\no'clock from the Boulter place, explained why.\n\n\"I met Mrs. Lynde and some strange woman in the Hollow,\" he said, \"and\ngracious, how they were talking both at once! Mrs. Lynde said to tell\nyou she was sorry it was too late to call tonight. Anne, I'm awful\nhungry. We had tea at Milty's at four and I think Mrs. Boulter is real\nmean. She didn't give us any preserves or cake  . . . and even the bread\nwas skurce.\"\n\n\"Davy, when you go visiting you must never criticize anything you are\ngiven to eat,\" said Anne solemnly. \"It is very bad manners.\"\n\n\"All right . . . I'll only think it,\" said Davy cheerfully. \"Do give a\nfellow some supper, Anne.\"\n\nAnne looked at Marilla, who followed her into the pantry and shut the\ndoor cautiously.\n\n\"You can give him some jam on his bread, I know what tea at Levi\nBoulter's is apt to be.\"\n\nDavy took his slice of bread and jam with a sigh.\n\n\"It's a kind of disappointing world after all,\" he remarked. \"Milty has\na cat that takes fits . . . she's took a fit regular every day for three\nweeks. Milty says it's awful fun to watch her. I went down today on\npurpose to see her have one but the mean old thing wouldn't take a fit\nand just kept healthy as healthy, though Milty and me hung round all\nthe afternoon and waited. But never mind\"  . . . Davy brightened up as the\ninsidious comfort of the plum jam stole into his soul . . . \"maybe I'll\nsee her in one sometime yet. It doesn't seem likely she'd stop having\nthem all at once when she's been so in the habit of it, does it? This\njam is awful nice.\"\n\nDavy had no sorrows that plum jam could not cure.\n\nSunday proved so rainy that there was no stirring abroad; but by Monday\neverybody had heard some version of the Harrison story. The school\nbuzzed with it and Davy came home, full of information.\n\n\"Marilla, Mr. Harrison has a new wife . . . well, not ezackly new, but\nthey've stopped being married for quite a spell, Milty says. I always\ns'posed people had to keep on being married once they'd begun, but Milty\nsays no, there's ways of stopping if you can't agree. Milty says one way\nis just to start off and leave your wife, and that's what Mr. Harrison\ndid. Milty says Mr. Harrison left his wife because she throwed things at\nhim . . . HARD things . . . and Arty Sloane says it was because she\nwouldn't let him smoke, and Ned Clay says it was 'cause she never let up\nscolding him. I wouldn't leave MY wife for anything like that. I'd just\nput my foot down and say, 'Mrs. Davy, you've just got to do what'll\nplease ME 'cause I'm a MAN.' THAT'D settle her pretty quick I guess. But\nAnnetta Clay says SHE left HIM because he wouldn't scrape his boots at\nthe door and she doesn't blame her. I'm going right over to Mr.\nHarrison's this minute to see what she's like.\"\n\nDavy soon returned, somewhat cast down.\n\n\"Mrs. Harrison was away . . . she's gone to Carmody with Mrs. Rachel Lynde\nto get new paper for the parlor. And Mr. Harrison said to tell Anne to\ngo over and see him 'cause he wants to have a talk with her. And say,\nthe floor is scrubbed, and Mr. Harrison is shaved, though there wasn't\nany preaching yesterday.\"\n\nThe Harrison kitchen wore a very unfamiliar look to Anne. The floor was\nindeed scrubbed to a wonderful pitch of purity and so was every article\nof furniture in the room; the stove was polished until she could see her\nface in it; the walls were whitewashed and the window panes sparkled\nin the sunlight. By the table sat Mr. Harrison in his working clothes,\nwhich on Friday had been noted for sundry rents and tatters but which\nwere now neatly patched and brushed. He was sprucely shaved and what\nlittle hair he had was carefully trimmed.\n\n\"Sit down, Anne, sit down,\" said Mr. Harrison in a tone but two degrees\nremoved from that which Avonlea people used at funerals. \"Emily's\ngone over to Carmody with Rachel Lynde . . . she's struck up a lifelong\nfriendship already with Rachel Lynde. Beats all how contrary women\nare. Well, Anne, my easy times are over . . . all over. It's neatness and\ntidiness for me for the rest of my natural life, I suppose.\"\n\nMr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully, but an irrepressible\ntwinkle in his eye betrayed him.\n\n\"Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife is come back,\" cried Anne, shaking\nher finger at him. \"You needn't pretend you're not, because I can see it\nplainly.\"\n\nMr. Harrison relaxed into a sheepish smile.\n\n\"Well . . . well . . . I'm getting used to it,\" he conceded. \"I can't say\nI was sorry to see Emily. A man really needs some protection in a\ncommunity like this, where he can't play a game of checkers with a\nneighbor without being accused of wanting to marry that neighbor's\nsister and having it put in the paper.\"\n\n\"Nobody would have supposed you went to see Isabella Andrews if you\nhadn't pretended to be unmarried,\" said Anne severely.\n\n\"I didn't pretend I was. If anybody'd have asked me if I was married I'd\nhave said I was. But they just took it for granted. I wasn't anxious to\ntalk about the matter . . . I was feeling too sore over it. It would have\nbeen nuts for Mrs. Rachel Lynde if she had known my wife had left me,\nwouldn't it now?\"\n\n\"But some people say that you left her.\"\n\n\"She started it, Anne, she started it. I'm going to tell you the whole\nstory, for I don't want you to think worse of me than I deserve . . . nor\nof Emily neither. But let's go out on the veranda. Everything is so\nfearful neat in here that it kind of makes me homesick. I suppose I'll\nget used to it after awhile but it eases me up to look at the yard.\nEmily hasn't had time to tidy it up yet.\"\n\nAs soon as they were comfortably seated on the veranda Mr. Harrison\nbegan his tale of woe.\n\n\"I lived in Scottsford, New Brunswick, before I came here, Anne. My\nsister kept house for me and she suited me fine; she was just reasonably\ntidy and she let me alone and spoiled me . . . so Emily says. But three\nyears ago she died. Before she died she worried a lot about what was\nto become of me and finally she got me to promise I'd get married. She\nadvised me to take Emily Scott because Emily had money of her own and\nwas a pattern housekeeper. I said, says I, 'Emily Scott wouldn't look at\nme.' 'You ask her and see,' says my sister; and just to ease her mind I\npromised her I would . . . and I did. And Emily said she'd have me. Never\nwas so surprised in my life, Anne . . . a smart pretty little woman like\nher and an old fellow like me. I tell you I thought at first I was in\nluck. Well, we were married and took a little wedding trip to St. John\nfor a fortnight and then we went home. We got home at ten o'clock at\nnight, and I give you my word, Anne, that in half an hour that woman was\nat work housecleaning. Oh, I know you're thinking my house needed it . . .\nyou've got a very expressive face, Anne; your thoughts just come out\non it like print . . . but it didn't, not that bad. It had got pretty\nmixed up while I was keeping bachelor's hall, I admit, but I'd got a\nwoman to come in and clean it up before I was married and there'd been\nconsiderable painting and fixing done. I tell you if you took Emily into\na brand new white marble palace she'd be into the scrubbing as soon as\nshe could get an old dress on. Well, she cleaned house till one o'clock\nthat night and at four she was up and at it again. And she kept on that\nway . . . far's I could see she never stopped. It was scour and sweep and\ndust everlasting, except on Sundays, and then she was just longing for\nMonday to begin again. But it was her way of amusing herself and I\ncould have reconciled myself to it if she'd left me alone. But that\nshe wouldn't do. She'd set out to make me over but she hadn't caught me\nyoung enough. I wasn't allowed to come into the house unless I changed\nmy boots for slippers at the door. I darsn't smoke a pipe for my life\nunless I went to the barn. And I didn't use good enough grammar. Emily'd\nbeen a schoolteacher in her early life and she'd never got over it. Then\nshe hated to see me eating with my knife. Well, there it was, pick and\nnag everlasting. But I s'pose, Anne, to be fair, _I_ was cantankerous\ntoo. I didn't try to improve as I might have done . . . I just got cranky\nand disagreeable when she found fault. I told her one day she hadn't\ncomplained of my grammar when I proposed to her. It wasn't an overly\ntactful thing to say. A woman would forgive a man for beating her sooner\nthan for hinting she was too much pleased to get him. Well, we bickered\nalong like that and it wasn't exactly pleasant, but we might have got\nused to each other after a spell if it hadn't been for Ginger. Ginger\nwas the rock we split on at last. Emily didn't like parrots and she\ncouldn't stand Ginger's profane habits of speech. I was attached to the\nbird for my brother the sailor's sake. My brother the sailor was a pet\nof mine when we were little tads and he'd sent Ginger to me when he was\ndying. I didn't see any sense in getting worked up over his swearing.\nThere's nothing I hate worse'n profanity in a human being, but in a\nparrot, that's just repeating what it's heard with no more understanding\nof it than I'd have of Chinese, allowances might be made. But Emily\ncouldn't see it that way. Women ain't logical. She tried to break Ginger\nof swearing but she hadn't any better success than she had in trying to\nmake me stop saying 'I seen' and 'them things.' Seemed as if the more\nshe tried the worse Ginger got, same as me.\n\n\"Well, things went on like this, both of us getting raspier, till the\nCLIMAX came. Emily invited our minister and his wife to tea, and another\nminister and HIS wife that was visiting them. I'd promised to put Ginger\naway in some safe place where nobody would hear him . . . Emily wouldn't\ntouch his cage with a ten-foot pole  . . .  and I meant to do it, for I\ndidn't want the ministers to hear anything unpleasant in my house. But\nit slipped my mind . . . Emily was worrying me so much about clean collars\nand grammar that it wasn't any wonder . . . and I never thought of that\npoor parrot till we sat down to tea. Just as minister number one was in\nthe very middle of saying grace, Ginger, who was on the veranda outside\nthe dining room window, lifted up HIS voice. The gobbler had come into\nview in the yard and the sight of a gobbler always had an unwholesome\neffect on Ginger. He surpassed himself that time. You can smile, Anne,\nand I don't deny I've chuckled some over it since myself, but at the\ntime I felt almost as much mortified as Emily. I went out and carried\nGinger to the barn. I can't say I enjoyed the meal. I knew by the look\nof Emily that there was trouble brewing for Ginger and James A. When the\nfolks went away I started for the cow pasture and on the way I did some\nthinking. I felt sorry for Emily and kind of fancied I hadn't been so\nthoughtful of her as I might; and besides, I wondered if the ministers\nwould think that Ginger had learned his vocabulary from me. The long\nand short of it was, I decided that Ginger would have to be mercifully\ndisposed of and when I'd druv the cows home I went in to tell Emily\nso. But there was no Emily and there was a letter on the table . . . just\naccording to the rule in story books. Emily writ that I'd have to choose\nbetween her and Ginger; she'd gone back to her own house and there she\nwould stay till I went and told her I'd got rid of that parrot.\n\n\"I was all riled up, Anne, and I said she might stay till doomsday if\nshe waited for that; and I stuck to it. I packed up her belongings and\nsent them after her. It made an awful lot of talk  . . . Scottsford was\npretty near as bad as Avonlea for gossip . . . and everybody sympathized\nwith Emily. It kept me all cross and cantankerous and I saw I'd have to\nget out or I'd never have any peace. I concluded I'd come to the Island.\nI'd been here when I was a boy and I liked it; but Emily had always said\nshe wouldn't live in a place where folks were scared to walk out after\ndark for fear they'd fall off the edge. So, just to be contrary, I moved\nover here. And that's all there is to it. I hadn't ever heard a word\nfrom or about Emily till I come home from the back field Saturday and\nfound her scrubbing the floor but with the first decent dinner I'd had\nsince she left me all ready on the table. She told me to eat it first\nand then we'd talk . . . by which I concluded that Emily had learned some\nlessons about getting along with a man. So she's here and she's going to\nstay . . . seeing that Ginger's dead and the Island's some bigger than she\nthought. There's Mrs. Lynde and her now. No, don't go, Anne. Stay and\nget acquainted with Emily. She took quite a notion to you Saturday . . .\nwanted to know who that handsome redhaired girl was at the next house.\"\n\nMrs. Harrison welcomed Anne radiantly and insisted on her staying to\ntea.\n\n\"James A. has been telling me all about you and how kind you've been,\nmaking cakes and things for him,\" she said. \"I want to get acquainted\nwith all my new neighbors just as soon as possible. Mrs. Lynde is a\nlovely woman, isn't she? So friendly.\"\n\nWhen Anne went home in the sweet June dusk, Mrs. Harrison went with her\nacross the fields where the fireflies were lighting their starry lamps.\n\n\"I suppose,\" said Mrs. Harrison confidentially, \"that James A. has told\nyou our story?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then I needn't tell it, for James A. is a just man and he would tell\nthe truth. The blame was far from being all on his side. I can see that\nnow. I wasn't back in my own house an hour before I wished I hadn't been\nso hasty but I wouldn't give in. I see now that I expected too much of\na man. And I was real foolish to mind his bad grammar. It doesn't matter\nif a man does use bad grammar so long as he is a good provider and\ndoesn't go poking round the pantry to see how much sugar you've used\nin a week. I feel that James A. and I are going to be real happy now.\nI wish I knew who 'Observer' is, so that I could thank him. I owe him a\nreal debt of gratitude.\"\n\nAnne kept her own counsel and Mrs. Harrison never knew that her\ngratitude found its way to its object. Anne felt rather bewildered\nover the far-reaching consequences of those foolish \"notes.\" They had\nreconciled a man to his wife and made the reputation of a prophet.\n\nMrs. Lynde was in the Green Gables kitchen. She had been telling the\nwhole story to Marilla.\n\n\"Well, and how do you like Mrs. Harrison?\" she asked Anne.\n\n\"Very much. I think she's a real nice little woman.\"\n\n\"That's exactly what she is,\" said Mrs. Rachel with emphasis, \"and as\nI've just been sayin' to Marilla, I think we ought all to overlook Mr.\nHarrison's peculiarities for her sake and try to make her feel at home\nhere, that's what. Well, I must get back. Thomas'll be wearying for me.\nI get out a little since Eliza came and he's seemed a lot better these\npast few days, but I never like to be long away from him. I hear Gilbert\nBlythe has resigned from White Sands. He'll be off to college in the\nfall, I suppose.\"\n\nMrs. Rachel looked sharply at Anne, but Anne was bending over a sleepy\nDavy nodding on the sofa and nothing was to be read in her face. She\ncarried Davy away, her oval girlish cheek pressed against his curly\nyellow head. As they went up the stairs Davy flung a tired arm about\nAnne's neck and gave her a warm hug and a sticky kiss.\n\n\"You're awful nice, Anne. Milty Boulter wrote on his slate today and\nshowed it to Jennie Sloane,\n\n     \"'Roses red and vi'lets blue,\n     Sugar's sweet, and so are you\"\n\nand that 'spresses my feelings for you ezackly, Anne.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\nAround the Bend\n\n\nThomas Lynde faded out of life as quietly and unobtrusively as he had\nlived it. His wife was a tender, patient, unwearied nurse. Sometimes\nRachel had been a little hard on her Thomas in health, when his slowness\nor meekness had provoked her; but when he became ill no voice could be\nlower, no hand more gently skillful, no vigil more uncomplaining.\n\n\"You've been a good wife to me, Rachel,\" he once said simply, when she\nwas sitting by him in the dusk, holding his thin, blanched old hand\nin her work-hardened one. \"A good wife. I'm sorry I ain't leaving you\nbetter off; but the children will look after you. They're all smart,\ncapable children, just like their mother. A good mother . . . a good\nwoman . . .  .\"\n\nHe had fallen asleep then, and the next morning, just as the white dawn\nwas creeping up over the pointed firs in the hollow, Marilla went softly\ninto the east gable and wakened Anne.\n\n\"Anne, Thomas Lynde is gone . . . their hired boy just brought the word.\nI'm going right down to Rachel.\"\n\nOn the day after Thomas Lynde's funeral Marilla went about Green Gables\nwith a strangely preoccupied air. Occasionally she looked at Anne,\nseemed on the point of saying something, then shook her head and\nbuttoned up her mouth. After tea she went down to see Mrs. Rachel; and\nwhen she returned she went to the east gable, where Anne was correcting\nschool exercises.\n\n\"How is Mrs. Lynde tonight?\" asked the latter.\n\n\"She's feeling calmer and more composed,\" answered Marilla, sitting\ndown on Anne's bed . . . a proceeding which betokened some unusual mental\nexcitement, for in Marilla's code of household ethics to sit on a\nbed after it was made up was an unpardonable offense. \"But she's very\nlonely. Eliza had to go home today . . . her son isn't well and she felt\nshe couldn't stay any longer.\"\n\n\"When I've finished these exercises I'll run down and chat awhile with\nMrs. Lynde,\" said Anne. \"I had intended to study some Latin composition\ntonight but it can wait.\"\n\n\"I suppose Gilbert Blythe is going to college in the fall,\" said Marilla\njerkily. \"How would you like to go too, Anne?\"\n\nAnne looked up in astonishment.\n\n\"I would like it, of course, Marilla. But it isn't possible.\"\n\n\"I guess it can be made possible. I've always felt that you should go.\nI've never felt easy to think you were giving it all up on my account.\"\n\n\"But Marilla, I've never been sorry for a moment that I stayed\nhome. I've been so happy . . . Oh, these past two years have just been\ndelightful.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I know you've been contented enough. But that isn't the\nquestion exactly. You ought to go on with your education. You've saved\nenough to put you through one year at Redmond and the money the stock\nbrought in will do for another year . . . and there's scholarships and\nthings you might win.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I can't go, Marilla. Your eyes are better, of course; but I\ncan't leave you alone with the twins. They need so much looking after.\"\n\n\"I won't be alone with them. That's what I meant to discuss with you.\nI had a long talk with Rachel tonight. Anne, she's feeling dreadful bad\nover a good many things. She's not left very well off. It seems they\nmortgaged the farm eight years ago to give the youngest boy a start\nwhen he went west; and they've never been able to pay much more than the\ninterest since. And then of course Thomas' illness has cost a good deal,\none way or another. The farm will have to be sold and Rachel thinks\nthere'll be hardly anything left after the bills are settled. She says\nshe'll have to go and live with Eliza and it's breaking her heart to\nthink of leaving Avonlea. A woman of her age doesn't make new friends\nand interests easy. And, Anne, as she talked about it the thought came\nto me that I would ask her to come and live with me, but I thought I\nought to talk it over with you first before I said anything to her. If I\nhad Rachel living with me you could go to college. How do you feel about\nit?\"\n\n\"I feel . . . as if . . . somebody . . . had handed me . . . the moon\n. . . and I didn't know . . . exactly . . . what to do . . . with it,\"\nsaid Anne dazedly. \"But as for asking Mrs. Lynde to come here, that is\nfor you to decide, Marilla. Do you think . . . are you sure . . . you\nwould like it? Mrs. Lynde is a good woman and a kind neighbor, but . . .\nbut . . .\"\n\n\"But she's got her faults, you mean to say? Well, she has, of course;\nbut I think I'd rather put up with far worse faults than see Rachel go\naway from Avonlea. I'd miss her terrible. She's the only close friend\nI've got here and I'd be lost without her. We've been neighbors for\nforty-five years and we've never had a quarrel . . . though we came rather\nnear it that time you flew at Mrs. Rachel for calling you homely and\nredhaired. Do you remember, Anne?\"\n\n\"I should think I do,\" said Anne ruefully. \"People don't forget things\nlike that. How I hated poor Mrs. Rachel at that moment!\"\n\n\"And then that 'apology' you made her. Well, you were a handful, in all\nconscience, Anne. I did feel so puzzled and bewildered how to manage\nyou. Matthew understood you better.\"\n\n\"Matthew understood everything,\" said Anne softly, as she always spoke\nof him.\n\n\"Well, I think it could be managed so that Rachel and I wouldn't clash\nat all. It always seemed to me that the reason two women can't get along\nin one house is that they try to share the same kitchen and get in each\nother's way. Now, if Rachel came here, she could have the north gable\nfor her bedroom and the spare room for a kitchen as well as not, for we\ndon't really need a spare room at all. She could put her stove there\nand what furniture she wanted to keep, and be real comfortable and\nindependent. She'll have enough to live on of course...her children'll\nsee to that...so all I'd be giving her would be house room. Yes, Anne,\nfar as I'm concerned I'd like it.\"\n\n\"Then ask her,\" said Anne promptly. \"I'd be very sorry myself to see\nMrs. Rachel go away.\"\n\n\"And if she comes,\" continued Marilla, \"You can go to college as well as\nnot. She'll be company for me and she'll do for the twins what I can't\ndo, so there's no reason in the world why you shouldn't go.\"\n\nAnne had a long meditation at her window that night. Joy and regret\nstruggled together in her heart. She had come at last . . . suddenly and\nunexpectedly . . . to the bend in the road; and college was around it,\nwith a hundred rainbow hopes and visions; but Anne realized as well that\nwhen she rounded that curve she must leave many sweet things behind. . .\nall the little simple duties and interests which had grown so dear to\nher in the last two years and which she had glorified into beauty and\ndelight by the enthusiasm she had put into them. She must give up her\nschool . . .  and she loved every one of her pupils, even the stupid and\nnaughty ones. The mere thought of Paul Irving made her wonder if Redmond\nwere such a name to conjure with after all.\n\n\"I've put out a lot of little roots these two years,\" Anne told the\nmoon, \"and when I'm pulled up they're going to hurt a great deal. But\nit's best to go, I think, and, as Marilla says, there's no good reason\nwhy I shouldn't. I must get out all my ambitions and dust them.\"\n\nAnne sent in her resignation the next day; and Mrs. Rachel, after a\nheart to heart talk with Marilla, gratefully accepted the offer of a\nhome at Green Gables. She elected to remain in her own house for the\nsummer, however; the farm was not to be sold until the fall and there\nwere many arrangements to be made.\n\n\"I certainly never thought of living as far off the road as Green\nGables,\" sighed Mrs. Rachel to herself. \"But really, Green Gables\ndoesn't seem as out of the world as it used to do . . . Anne has lots of\ncompany and the twins make it real lively. And anyhow, I'd rather live\nat the bottom of a well than leave Avonlea.\"\n\nThese two decisions being noised abroad speedily ousted the arrival of\nMrs. Harrison in popular gossip. Sage heads were shaken over Marilla\nCuthbert's rash step in asking Mrs. Rachel to live with her. People\nopined that they wouldn't get on together. They were both \"too fond of\ntheir own way,\" and many doleful predictions were made, none of which\ndisturbed the parties in question at all. They had come to a clear and\ndistinct understanding of the respective duties and rights of their new\narrangements and meant to abide by them.\n\n\"I won't meddle with you nor you with me,\" Mrs. Rachel had said\ndecidedly, \"and as for the twins, I'll be glad to do all I can for them;\nbut I won't undertake to answer Davy's questions, that's what. I'm not\nan encyclopedia, neither am I a Philadelphia lawyer. You'll miss Anne\nfor that.\"\n\n\"Sometimes Anne's answers were about as queer as Davy's questions,\" said\nMarilla drily. \"The twins will miss her and no mistake; but her future\ncan't be sacrificed to Davy's thirst for information. When he asks\nquestions I can't answer I'll just tell him children should be seen and\nnot heard. That was how I was brought up, and I don't know but what it\nwas just as good a way as all these new-fangled notions for training\nchildren.\"\n\n\"Well, Anne's methods seem to have worked fairly well with Davy,\" said\nMrs. Lynde smilingly. \"He is a reformed character, that's what.\"\n\n\"He isn't a bad little soul,\" conceded Marilla. \"I never expected to\nget as fond of those children as I have. Davy gets round you somehow\n. . . and Dora is a lovely child, although she is . . . kind of . . .\nwell, kind of . . .\"\n\n\"Monotonous? Exactly,\" supplied Mrs. Rachel. \"Like a book where every\npage is the same, that's what. Dora will make a good, reliable woman\nbut she'll never set the pond on fire. Well, that sort of folks are\ncomfortable to have round, even if they're not as interesting as the\nother kind.\"\n\nGilbert Blythe was probably the only person to whom the news of Anne's\nresignation brought unmixed pleasure. Her pupils looked upon it as\na sheer catastrophe. Annetta Bell had hysterics when she went home.\nAnthony Pye fought two pitched and unprovoked battles with other boys by\nway of relieving his feelings. Barbara Shaw cried all night. Paul Irving\ndefiantly told his grandmother that she needn't expect him to eat any\nporridge for a week.\n\n\"I can't do it, Grandma,\" he said. \"I don't really know if I can eat\nANYTHING. I feel as if there was a dreadful lump in my throat. I'd have\ncried coming home from school if Jake Donnell hadn't been watching me.\nI believe I will cry after I go to bed. It wouldn't show on my eyes\ntomorrow, would it? And it would be such a relief. But anyway, I can't\neat porridge. I'm going to need all my strength of mind to bear up\nagainst this, Grandma, and I won't have any left to grapple with\nporridge. Oh Grandma, I don't know what I'll do when my beautiful\nteacher goes away. Milty Boulter says he bets Jane Andrews will get\nthe school. I suppose Miss Andrews is very nice. But I know she won't\nunderstand things like Miss Shirley.\"\n\nDiana also took a very pessimistic view of affairs.\n\n\"It will be horribly lonesome here next winter,\" she mourned, one\ntwilight when the moonlight was raining \"airy silver\" through the cherry\nboughs and filling the east gable with a soft, dream-like radiance\nin which the two girls sat and talked, Anne on her low rocker by the\nwindow, Diana sitting Turkfashion on the bed. \"You and Gilbert will\nbe gone  . . . and the Allans too. They are going to call Mr. Allan to\nCharlottetown and of course he'll accept. It's too mean. We'll be\nvacant all winter, I suppose, and have to listen to a long string of\ncandidates . . . and half of them won't be any good.\"\n\n\"I hope they won't call Mr. Baxter from East Grafton here, anyhow,\"\nsaid Anne decidedly. \"He wants the call but he does preach such gloomy\nsermons. Mr. Bell says he's a minister of the old school, but Mrs. Lynde\nsays there's nothing whatever the matter with him but indigestion. His\nwife isn't a very good cook, it seems, and Mrs. Lynde says that when a\nman has to eat sour bread two weeks out of three his theology is bound\nto get a kink in it somewhere. Mrs. Allan feels very badly about going\naway. She says everybody has been so kind to her since she came here\nas a bride that she feels as if she were leaving lifelong friends. And\nthen, there's the baby's grave, you know. She says she doesn't see how\nshe can go away and leave that . . . it was such a little mite of a thing\nand only three months old, and she says she is afraid it will miss its\nmother, although she knows better and wouldn't say so to Mr. Allan for\nanything. She says she has slipped through the birch grove back of the\nmanse nearly every night to the graveyard and sung a little lullaby to\nit. She told me all about it last evening when I was up putting some of\nthose early wild roses on Matthew's grave. I promised her that as long\nas I was in Avonlea I would put flowers on the baby's grave and when I\nwas away I felt sure that . . .\"\n\n\"That I would do it,\" supplied Diana heartily. \"Of course I will. And\nI'll put them on Matthew's grave too, for your sake, Anne.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you. I meant to ask you to if you would. And on little Hester\nGray's too? Please don't forget hers. Do you know, I've thought and\ndreamed so much about little Hester Gray that she has become strangely\nreal to me. I think of her, back there in her little garden in that\ncool, still, green corner; and I have a fancy that if I could steal back\nthere some spring evening, just at the magic time 'twixt light and\ndark, and tiptoe so softly up the beech hill that my footsteps could not\nfrighten her, I would find the garden just as it used to be, all sweet\nwith June lilies and early roses, with the tiny house beyond it all hung\nwith vines; and little Hester Gray would be there, with her soft eyes,\nand the wind ruffling her dark hair, wandering about, putting her\nfingertips under the chins of the lilies and whispering secrets with the\nroses; and I would go forward, oh, so softly, and hold out my hands and\nsay to her, 'Little Hester Gray, won't you let me be your playmate, for\nI love the roses too?' And we would sit down on the old bench and talk\na little and dream a little, or just be beautifully silent together. And\nthen the moon would rise and I would look around me  . . . and there would\nbe no Hester Gray and no little vine-hung house, and no roses . . . only\nan old waste garden starred with June lilies amid the grasses, and the\nwind sighing, oh, so sorrowfully in the cherry trees. And I would not\nknow whether it had been real or if I had just imagined it all.\" Diana\ncrawled up and got her back against the headboard of the bed. When your\ncompanion of twilight hour said such spooky things it was just as well\nnot to be able to fancy there was anything behind you.\n\n\"I'm afraid the Improvement Society will go down when you and Gilbert\nare both gone,\" she remarked dolefully.\n\n\"Not a bit of fear of it,\" said Anne briskly, coming back from dreamland\nto the affairs of practical life. \"It is too firmly established for\nthat, especially since the older people are becoming so enthusiastic\nabout it. Look what they are doing this summer for their lawns and\nlanes. Besides, I'll be watching for hints at Redmond and I'll write a\npaper for it next winter and send it over. Don't take such a gloomy view\nof things, Diana. And don't grudge me my little hour of gladness and\njubilation now. Later on, when I have to go away, I'll feel anything but\nglad.\"\n\n\"It's all right for you to be glad . . . you're going to college and\nyou'll have a jolly time and make heaps of lovely new friends.\"\n\n\"I hope I shall make new friends,\" said Anne thoughtfully. \"The\npossibilities of making new friends help to make life very fascinating.\nBut no matter how many friends I make they'll never be as dear to me as\nthe old ones . . . especially a certain girl with black eyes and dimples.\nCan you guess who she is, Diana?\"\n\n\"But there'll be so many clever girls at Redmond,\" sighed Diana, \"and\nI'm only a stupid little country girl who says 'I seen' sometimes. . .\nthough I really know better when I stop to think. Well, of course these\npast two years have really been too pleasant to last. I know SOMEBODY\nwho is glad you are going to Redmond anyhow. Anne, I'm going to ask\nyou a question . . . a serious question. Don't be vexed and do answer\nseriously. Do you care anything for Gilbert?\"\n\n\"Ever so much as a friend and not a bit in the way you mean,\" said Anne\ncalmly and decidedly; she also thought she was speaking sincerely.\n\nDiana sighed. She wished, somehow, that Anne had answered differently.\n\n\"Don't you mean EVER to be married, Anne?\"\n\n\"Perhaps . . . some day . . . when I meet the right one,\" said Anne,\nsmiling dreamily up at the moonlight.\n\n\"But how can you be sure when you do meet the right one?\" persisted\nDiana.\n\n\"Oh, I should know him . . . SOMETHING would tell me. You know what my\nideal is, Diana.\"\n\n\"But people's ideals change sometimes.\"\n\n\"Mine won't. And I COULDN'T care for any man who didn't fulfill it.\"\n\n\"What if you never meet him?\"\n\n\"Then I shall die an old maid,\" was the cheerful response. \"I daresay it\nisn't the hardest death by any means.\"\n\n\"Oh, I suppose the dying would be easy enough; it's the living an old\nmaid I shouldn't like,\" said Diana, with no intention of being humorous.\n\"Although I wouldn't mind being an old maid VERY much if I could be one\nlike Miss Lavendar. But I never could be. When I'm forty-five I'll be\nhorribly fat. And while there might be some romance about a thin old\nmaid there couldn't possibly be any about a fat one. Oh, mind you,\nNelson Atkins proposed to Ruby Gillis three weeks ago. Ruby told me all\nabout it. She says she never had any intention of taking him, because\nany one who married him will have to go in with the old folks; but Ruby\nsays that he made such a perfectly beautiful and romantic proposal that\nit simply swept her off her feet. But she didn't want to do anything\nrash so she asked for a week to consider; and two days later she was\nat a meeting of the Sewing Circle at his mother's and there was a book\ncalled 'The Complete Guide to Etiquette,' lying on the parlor table.\nRuby said she simply couldn't describe her feelings when in a section\nof it headed, 'The Deportment of Courtship and Marriage,' she found the\nvery proposal Nelson had made, word for word. She went home and wrote\nhim a perfectly scathing refusal; and she says his father and mother\nhave taken turns watching him ever since for fear he'll drown himself in\nthe river; but Ruby says they needn't be afraid; for in the Deportment\nof Courtship and Marriage it told how a rejected lover should behave\nand there's nothing about drowning in THAT. And she says Wilbur Blair\nis literally pining away for her but she's perfectly helpless in the\nmatter.\"\n\nAnne made an impatient movement.\n\n\"I hate to say it . . . it seems so disloyal . . . but, well, I don't\nlike Ruby Gillis now. I liked her when we went to school and Queen's\ntogether . . . though not so well as you and Jane of course. But this last\nyear at Carmody she seems so different . . . so . . . so . . .\"\n\n\"I know,\" nodded Diana. \"It's the Gillis coming out in her . . .  she\ncan't help it. Mrs. Lynde says that if ever a Gillis girl thought about\nanything but the boys she never showed it in her walk and conversation.\nShe talks about nothing but boys and what compliments they pay her, and\nhow crazy they all are about her at Carmody. And the strange thing is,\nthey ARE, too . . .\" Diana admitted this somewhat resentfully. \"Last\nnight when I saw her in Mr. Blair's store she whispered to me that she'd\njust made a new 'mash.' I wouldn't ask her who it was, because I\nknew she was dying to BE asked. Well, it's what Ruby always wanted, I\nsuppose. You remember even when she was little she always said she meant\nto have dozens of beaus when she grew up and have the very gayest time\nshe could before she settled down. She's so different from Jane, isn't\nshe? Jane is such a nice, sensible, lady-like girl.\"\n\n\"Dear old Jane is a jewel,\" agreed Anne, \"but,\" she added, leaning\nforward to bestow a tender pat on the plump, dimpled little hand hanging\nover her pillow, \"there's nobody like my own Diana after all. Do\nyou remember that evening we first met, Diana, and 'swore' eternal\nfriendship in your garden? We've kept that 'oath,' I think . . . we've\nnever had a quarrel nor even a coolness. I shall never forget the thrill\nthat went over me the day you told me you loved me. I had had such a\nlonely, starved heart all through my childhood. I'm just beginning to\nrealize how starved and lonely it really was. Nobody cared anything for\nme or wanted to be bothered with me. I should have been miserable if\nit hadn't been for that strange little dream-life of mine, wherein I\nimagined all the friends and love I craved. But when I came to Green\nGables everything was changed. And then I met you. You don't know what\nyour friendship meant to me. I want to thank you here and now, dear, for\nthe warm and true affection you've always given me.\"\n\n\"And always, always will,\" sobbed Diana. \"I shall NEVER love anybody\n. . . any GIRL . . . half as well as I love you. And if I ever do marry\nand have a little girl of my own I'm going to name her ANNE.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\nAn Afternoon at the Stone House\n\n\n\"Where are you going, all dressed up, Anne?\" Davy wanted to know. \"You\nlook bully in that dress.\"\n\nAnne had come down to dinner in a new dress of pale green muslin . . .\nthe first color she had worn since Matthew's death. It became her\nperfectly, bringing out all the delicate, flower-like tints of her face\nand the gloss and burnish of her hair.\n\n\"Davy, how many times have I told you that you mustn't use that word,\"\nshe rebuked. \"I'm going to Echo Lodge.\"\n\n\"Take me with you,\" entreated Davy.\n\n\"I would if I were driving. But I'm going to walk and it's too far for\nyour eight-year-old legs. Besides, Paul is going with me and I fear you\ndon't enjoy yourself in his company.\"\n\n\"Oh, I like Paul lots better'n I did,\" said Davy, beginning to make\nfearful inroads into his pudding. \"Since I've got pretty good myself I\ndon't mind his being gooder so much. If I can keep on I'll catch up with\nhim some day, both in legs and goodness. 'Sides, Paul's real nice to\nus second primer boys in school. He won't let the other big boys meddle\nwith us and he shows us lots of games.\"\n\n\"How came Paul to fall into the brook at noon hour yesterday?\" asked\nAnne. \"I met him on the playground, such a dripping figure that I sent\nhim promptly home for clothes without waiting to find out what had\nhappened.\"\n\n\"Well, it was partly a zacksident,\" explained Davy. \"He stuck his head\nin on purpose but the rest of him fell in zacksidentally. We was all\ndown at the brook and Prillie Rogerson got mad at Paul about something\n. . . she's awful mean and horrid anyway, if she IS pretty . . . and said\nthat his grandmother put his hair up in curl rags every night. Paul\nwouldn't have minded what she said, I guess, but Gracie Andrews laughed,\nand Paul got awful red, 'cause Gracie's his girl, you know. He's CLEAN\nGONE on her . . . brings her flowers and carries her books as far as the\nshore road. He got as red as a beet and said his grandmother didn't do\nany such thing and his hair was born curly. And then he laid down on\nthe bank and stuck his head right into the spring to show them. Oh,\nit wasn't the spring we drink out of . . .\" seeing a horrified look on\nMarilla's face . . . \"it was the little one lower down. But the bank's\nawful slippy and Paul went right in. I tell you he made a bully splash.\nOh, Anne, Anne, I didn't mean to say that . . . it just slipped out before\nI thought. He made a SPLENDID splash. But he looked so funny when he\ncrawled out, all wet and muddy. The girls laughed more'n ever, but\nGracie didn't laugh. She looked sorry. Gracie's a nice girl but she's\ngot a snub nose. When I get big enough to have a girl I won't have one\nwith a snub nose . . . I'll pick one with a pretty nose like yours, Anne.\"\n\n\"A boy who makes such a mess of syrup all over his face when he is\neating his pudding will never get a girl to look at him,\" said Marilla\nseverely.\n\n\"But I'll wash my face before I go courting,\" protested Davy, trying to\nimprove matters by rubbing the back of his hand over the smears. \"And\nI'll wash behind my ears too, without being told. I remembered to this\nmorning, Marilla. I don't forget half as often as I did. But . . .\" and\nDavy sighed . . . \"there's so many corners about a fellow that it's awful\nhard to remember them all. Well, if I can't go to Miss Lavendar's I'll\ngo over and see Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison's an awful nice woman, I\ntell you. She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-purpose for little\nboys, and she always gives me the scrapings out of a pan she's mixed\nup a plum cake in. A good many plums stick to the sides, you see. Mr.\nHarrison was always a nice man, but he's twice as nice since he got\nmarried over again. I guess getting married makes folks nicer. Why don't\nYOU get married, Marilla? I want to know.\"\n\nMarilla's state of single blessedness had never been a sore point with\nher, so she answered amiably, with an exchange of significant looks with\nAnne, that she supposed it was because nobody would have her.\n\n\"But maybe you never asked anybody to have you,\" protested Davy.\n\n\"Oh, Davy,\" said Dora primly, shocked into speaking without being spoken\nto, \"it's the MEN that have to do the asking.\"\n\n\"I don't know why they have to do it ALWAYS,\" grumbled Davy. \"Seems\nto me everything's put on the men in this world. Can I have some more\npudding, Marilla?\"\n\n\"You've had as much as was good for you,\" said Marilla; but she gave him\na moderate second helping.\n\n\"I wish people could live on pudding. Why can't they, Marilla? I want to\nknow.\"\n\n\"Because they'd soon get tired of it.\"\n\n\"I'd like to try that for myself,\" said skeptical Davy. \"But I guess\nit's better to have pudding only on fish and company days than none at\nall. They never have any at Milty Boulter's. Milty says when company\ncomes his mother gives them cheese and cuts it herself . . . one little\nbit apiece and one over for manners.\"\n\n\"If Milty Boulter talks like that about his mother at least you needn't\nrepeat it,\" said Marilla severely.\n\n\"Bless my soul,\" . . . Davy had picked this expression up from Mr.\nHarrison and used it with great gusto . . . \"Milty meant it as a\ncompelment. He's awful proud of his mother, cause folks say she could\nscratch a living on a rock.\"\n\n\"I . . . I suppose them pesky hens are in my pansy bed again,\" said\nMarilla, rising and going out hurriedly.\n\nThe slandered hens were nowhere near the pansy bed and Marilla did not\neven glance at it. Instead, she sat down on the cellar hatch and laughed\nuntil she was ashamed of herself.\n\nWhen Anne and Paul reached the stone house that afternoon they found\nMiss Lavendar and Charlotta the Fourth in the garden, weeding, raking,\nclipping, and trimming as if for dear life. Miss Lavendar herself, all\ngay and sweet in the frills and laces she loved, dropped her shears\nand ran joyously to meet her guests, while Charlotta the Fourth grinned\ncheerfully.\n\n\"Welcome, Anne. I thought you'd come today. You belong to the afternoon\nso it brought you. Things that belong together are sure to come\ntogether. What a lot of trouble that would save some people if they only\nknew it. But they don't . . . and so they waste beautiful energy moving\nheaven and earth to bring things together that DON'T belong. And you,\nPaul . . . why, you've grown! You're half a head taller than when you were\nhere before.\"\n\n\"Yes, I've begun to grow like pigweed in the night, as Mrs. Lynde\nsays,\" said Paul, in frank delight over the fact. \"Grandma says it's the\nporridge taking effect at last. Perhaps it is. Goodness knows . . .\" Paul\nsighed deeply . . . \"I've eaten enough to make anyone grow. I do hope,\nnow that I've begun, I'll keep on till I'm as tall as father. He is six\nfeet, you know, Miss Lavendar.\"\n\nYes, Miss Lavendar did know; the flush on her pretty cheeks deepened\na little; she took Paul's hand on one side and Anne's on the other and\nwalked to the house in silence.\n\n\"Is it a good day for the echoes, Miss Lavendar?\" queried Paul\nanxiously. The day of his first visit had been too windy for echoes and\nPaul had been much disappointed.\n\n\"Yes, just the best kind of a day,\" answered Miss Lavendar, rousing\nherself from her reverie. \"But first we are all going to have something\nto eat. I know you two folks didn't walk all the way back here through\nthose beechwoods without getting hungry, and Charlotta the Fourth and\nI can eat any hour of the day . . . we have such obliging appetites. So\nwe'll just make a raid on the pantry. Fortunately it's lovely and\nfull. I had a presentiment that I was going to have company today and\nCharlotta the Fourth and I prepared.\"\n\n\"I think you are one of the people who always have nice things in\ntheir pantry,\" declared Paul. \"Grandma's like that too. But she doesn't\napprove of snacks between meals. I wonder,\" he added meditatively, \"if I\nOUGHT to eat them away from home when I know she doesn't approve.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think she would disapprove after you have had a long walk.\nThat makes a difference,\" said Miss Lavendar, exchanging amused glances\nwith Anne over Paul's brown curls. \"I suppose that snacks ARE extremely\nunwholesome. That is why we have them so often at Echo Lodge. We. . .\nCharlotta the Fourth and I . . . live in defiance of every known law\nof diet. We eat all sorts of indigestible things whenever we happen to\nthink of it, by day or night; and we flourish like green bay trees.\nWe are always intending to reform. When we read any article in a paper\nwarning us against something we like we cut it out and pin it up on the\nkitchen wall so that we'll remember it. But we never can somehow . . .\nuntil after we've gone and eaten that very thing. Nothing has ever\nkilled us yet; but Charlotta the Fourth has been known to have bad\ndreams after we had eaten doughnuts and mince pie and fruit cake before\nwe went to bed.\"\n\n\"Grandma lets me have a glass of milk and a slice of bread and butter\nbefore I go to bed; and on Sunday nights she puts jam on the bread,\"\nsaid Paul. \"So I'm always glad when it's Sunday night . . .  for more\nreasons than one. Sunday is a very long day on the shore road. Grandma\nsays it's all too short for her and that father never found Sundays\ntiresome when he was a little boy. It wouldn't seem so long if I could\ntalk to my rock people but I never do that because Grandma doesn't\napprove of it on Sundays. I think a good deal; but I'm afraid my\nthoughts are worldly. Grandma says we should never think anything but\nreligious thoughts on Sundays. But teacher here said once that every\nreally beautiful thought was religious, no matter what it was about, or\nwhat day we thought it on. But I feel sure Grandma thinks that sermons\nand Sunday School lessons are the only things you can think truly\nreligious thoughts about. And when it comes to a difference of opinion\nbetween Grandma and teacher I don't know what to do. In my heart\" . . .\nPaul laid his hand on his breast and raised very serious blue eyes to\nMiss Lavendar's immediately sympathetic face . . . \"I agree with teacher.\nBut then, you see, Grandma has brought father up HER way and made a\nbrilliant success of him; and teacher has never brought anybody up yet,\nthough she's helping with Davy and Dora. But you can't tell how they'll\nturn out till they ARE grown up. So sometimes I feel as if it might be\nsafer to go by Grandma's opinions.\"\n\n\"I think it would,\" agreed Anne solemnly. \"Anyway, I daresay that if\nyour Grandma and I both got down to what we really do mean, under our\ndifferent ways of expressing it, we'd find out we both meant much the\nsame thing. You'd better go by her way of expressing it, since it's been\nthe result of experience. We'll have to wait until we see how the twins\ndo turn out before we can be sure that my way is equally good.\" After\nlunch they went back to the garden, where Paul made the acquaintance of\nthe echoes, to his wonder and delight, while Anne and Miss Lavendar sat\non the stone bench under the poplar and talked.\n\n\"So you are going away in the fall?\" said Miss Lavendar wistfully. \"I\nought to be glad for your sake, Anne . . . but I'm horribly, selfishly\nsorry. I shall miss you so much. Oh, sometimes, I think it is of no use\nto make friends. They only go out of your life after awhile and leave a\nhurt that is worse than the emptiness before they came.\"\n\n\"That sounds like something Miss Eliza Andrews might say but never Miss\nLavendar,\" said Anne. \"NOTHING is worse than emptiness . . . and I'm not\ngoing out of your life. There are such things as letters and vacations.\nDearest, I'm afraid you're looking a little pale and tired.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . hoo . . . hoo . . . hoo,\" went Paul on the dyke, where he had\nbeen making noises diligently . . . not all of them melodious in the\nmaking, but all coming back transmuted into the very gold and silver of\nsound by the fairy alchemists over the river. Miss Lavendar made an\nimpatient movement with her pretty hands.\n\n\"I'm just tired of everything . . . even of the echoes. There is nothing\nin my life but echoes . . . echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys.\nThey're beautiful and mocking. Oh Anne, it's horrid of me to talk like\nthis when I have company. It's just that I'm getting old and it doesn't\nagree with me. I know I'll be fearfully cranky by the time I'm sixty.\nBut perhaps all I need is a course of blue pills.\" At this moment\nCharlotta the Fourth, who had disappeared after lunch, returned, and\nannounced that the northeast corner of Mr. John Kimball's pasture was\nred with early strawberries, and wouldn't Miss Shirley like to go and\npick some.\n\n\"Early strawberries for tea!\" exclaimed Miss Lavendar. \"Oh, I'm not so\nold as I thought . . . and I don't need a single blue pill! Girls, when\nyou come back with your strawberries we'll have tea out here under the\nsilver poplar. I'll have it all ready for you with home-grown cream.\"\n\nAnne and Charlotta the Fourth accordingly betook themselves back to Mr.\nKimball's pasture, a green remote place where the air was as soft as\nvelvet and fragrant as a bed of violets and golden as amber.\n\n\"Oh, isn't it sweet and fresh back here?\" breathed Anne. \"I just feel as\nif I were drinking in the sunshine.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, so do I. That's just exactly how I feel too, ma'am,\" agreed\nCharlotta the Fourth, who would have said precisely the same thing if\nAnne had remarked that she felt like a pelican of the wilderness. Always\nafter Anne had visited Echo Lodge Charlotta the Fourth mounted to her\nlittle room over the kitchen and tried before her looking glass to speak\nand look and move like Anne. Charlotta could never flatter herself\nthat she quite succeeded; but practice makes perfect, as Charlotta had\nlearned at school, and she fondly hoped that in time she might catch the\ntrick of that dainty uplift of chin, that quick, starry outflashing\nof eyes, that fashion of walking as if you were a bough swaying in the\nwind. It seemed so easy when you watched Anne. Charlotta the Fourth\nadmired Anne wholeheartedly. It was not that she thought her so very\nhandsome. Diana Barry's beauty of crimson cheek and black curls was\nmuch more to Charlotta the Fourth's taste than Anne's moonshine charm of\nluminous gray eyes and the pale, everchanging roses of her cheeks.\n\n\"But I'd rather look like you than be pretty,\" she told Anne sincerely.\n\nAnne laughed, sipped the honey from the tribute, and cast away the\nsting. She was used to taking her compliments mixed. Public opinion\nnever agreed on Anne's looks. People who had heard her called handsome\nmet her and were disappointed. People who had heard her called plain\nsaw her and wondered where other people's eyes were. Anne herself would\nnever believe that she had any claim to beauty. When she looked in the\nglass all she saw was a little pale face with seven freckles on the nose\nthereof. Her mirror never revealed to her the elusive, ever-varying play\nof feeling that came and went over her features like a rosy illuminating\nflame, or the charm of dream and laughter alternating in her big eyes.\n\nWhile Anne was not beautiful in any strictly defined sense of the word\nshe possessed a certain evasive charm and distinction of appearance that\nleft beholders with a pleasurable sense of satisfaction in that softly\nrounded girlhood of hers, with all its strongly felt potentialities.\nThose who knew Anne best felt, without realizing that they felt it, that\nher greatest attraction was the aura of possibility surrounding her. . .\nthe power of future development that was in her. She seemed to walk in\nan atmosphere of things about to happen.\n\nAs they picked, Charlotta the Fourth confided to Anne her fears\nregarding Miss Lavendar. The warm-hearted little handmaiden was honestly\nworried over her adored mistress' condition.\n\n\"Miss Lavendar isn't well, Miss Shirley, ma'am. I'm sure she isn't,\nthough she never complains. She hasn't seemed like herself this long\nwhile, ma'am . . . not since that day you and Paul were here together\nbefore. I feel sure she caught cold that night, ma'am. After you and him\nhad gone she went out and walked in the garden for long after dark with\nnothing but a little shawl on her. There was a lot of snow on the walks\nand I feel sure she got a chill, ma'am. Ever since then I've noticed her\nacting tired and lonesome like. She don't seem to take an interest in\nanything, ma'am. She never pretends company's coming, nor fixes up for\nit, nor nothing, ma'am. It's only when you come she seems to chirk up a\nbit. And the worst sign of all, Miss Shirley, ma'am . . .\" Charlotta the\nFourth lowered her voice as if she were about to tell some exceedingly\nweird and awful symptom indeed . . . \"is that she never gets cross now\nwhen I breaks things. Why, Miss Shirley, ma'am, yesterday I bruk\nher green and yaller bowl that's always stood on the bookcase. Her\ngrandmother brought it out from England and Miss Lavendar was awful\nchoice of it. I was dusting it just as careful, Miss Shirley, ma'am, and\nit slipped out, so fashion, afore I could grab holt of it, and bruk into\nabout forty millyun pieces. I tell you I was sorry and scared. I thought\nMiss Lavendar would scold me awful, ma'am; and I'd ruther she had than\ntake it the way she did. She just come in and hardly looked at it and\nsaid, 'It's no matter, Charlotta. Take up the pieces and throw them\naway.' Just like that, Miss Shirley, ma'am . . . 'take up the pieces and\nthrow them away,' as if it wasn't her grandmother's bowl from England.\nOh, she isn't well and I feel awful bad about it. She's got nobody to\nlook after her but me.\"\n\nCharlotta the Fourth's eyes brimmed up with tears. Anne patted the\nlittle brown paw holding the cracked pink cup sympathetically.\n\n\"I think Miss Lavendar needs a change, Charlotta. She stays here alone\ntoo much. Can't we induce her to go away for a little trip?\"\n\nCharlotta shook her head, with its rampant bows, disconsolately.\n\n\"I don't think so, Miss Shirley, ma'am. Miss Lavendar hates visiting.\nShe's only got three relations she ever visits and she says she just\ngoes to see them as a family duty. Last time when she come home she said\nshe wasn't going to visit for family duty no more. 'I've come home in\nlove with loneliness, Charlotta,' she says to me, 'and I never want to\nstray from my own vine and fig tree again. My relations try so hard to\nmake an old lady of me and it has a bad effect on me.' Just like that,\nMiss Shirley, ma'am. 'It has a very bad effect on me.' So I don't think\nit would do any good to coax her to go visiting.\"\n\n\"We must see what can be done,\" said Anne decidedly, as she put the last\npossible berry in her pink cup. \"Just as soon as I have my vacation I'll\ncome through and spend a whole week with you. We'll have a picnic every\nday and pretend all sorts of interesting things, and see if we can't\ncheer Miss Lavendar up.\"\n\n\"That will be the very thing, Miss Shirley, ma'am,\" exclaimed Charlotta\nthe Fourth in rapture. She was glad for Miss Lavendar's sake and for her\nown too. With a whole week in which to study Anne constantly she would\nsurely be able to learn how to move and behave like her.\n\nWhen the girls got back to Echo Lodge they found that Miss Lavendar\nand Paul had carried the little square table out of the kitchen to\nthe garden and had everything ready for tea. Nothing ever tasted so\ndelicious as those strawberries and cream, eaten under a great blue\nsky all curdled over with fluffy little white clouds, and in the long\nshadows of the wood with its lispings and its murmurings. After tea Anne\nhelped Charlotta wash the dishes in the kitchen, while Miss Lavendar sat\non the stone bench with Paul and heard all about his rock people. She\nwas a good listener, this sweet Miss Lavendar, but just at the last it\nstruck Paul that she had suddenly lost interest in the Twin Sailors.\n\n\"Miss Lavendar, why do you look at me like that?\" he asked gravely.\n\n\"How do I look, Paul?\"\n\n\"Just as if you were looking through me at somebody I put you in mind\nof,\" said Paul, who had such occasional flashes of uncanny insight that\nit wasn't quite safe to have secrets when he was about.\n\n\"You do put me in mind of somebody I knew long ago,\" said Miss Lavendar\ndreamily.\n\n\"When you were young?\"\n\n\"Yes, when I was young. Do I seem very old to you, Paul?\"\n\n\"Do you know, I can't make up my mind about that,\" said Paul\nconfidentially. \"Your hair looks old . . . I never knew a young person\nwith white hair. But your eyes are as young as my beautiful teacher's\nwhen you laugh. I tell you what, Miss Lavendar\" . . .  Paul's voice and\nface were as solemn as a judge's . . . \"I think you would make a splendid\nmother. You have just the right look in your eyes . . .  the look my\nlittle mother always had. I think it's a pity you haven't any boys of\nyour own.\"\n\n\"I have a little dream boy, Paul.\"\n\n\"Oh, have you really? How old is he?\"\n\n\"About your age I think. He ought to be older because I dreamed him long\nbefore you were born. But I'll never let him get any older than eleven\nor twelve; because if I did some day he might grow up altogether and\nthen I'd lose him.\"\n\n\"I know,\" nodded Paul. \"That's the beauty of dream-people . . . they stay\nany age you want them. You and my beautiful teacher and me myself are\nthe only folks in the world that I know of that have dream-people. Isn't\nit funny and nice we should all know each other? But I guess that kind\nof people always find each other out. Grandma never has dream-people and\nMary Joe thinks I'm wrong in the upper story because I have them. But I\nthink it's splendid to have them. YOU know, Miss Lavendar. Tell me all\nabout your little dream-boy.\"\n\n\"He has blue eyes and curly hair. He steals in and wakens me with a kiss\nevery morning. Then all day he plays here in the garden . . .  and I play\nwith him. Such games as we have. We run races and talk with the echoes;\nand I tell him stories. And when twilight comes . . .\"\n\n\"I know,\" interrupted Paul eagerly. \"He comes and sits beside you . . .\nSO . . . because of course at twelve he'd be too big to climb into your\nlap  . . . and lays his head on your shoulder . . . SO . . . and you put\nyour arms about him and hold him tight, tight, and rest your cheek on\nhis head . . .  yes, that's the very way. Oh, you DO know, Miss\nLavendar.\"\n\nAnne found the two of them there when she came out of the stone house,\nand something in Miss Lavendar's face made her hate to disturb them.\n\n\"I'm afraid we must go, Paul, if we want to get home before dark. Miss\nLavendar, I'm going to invite myself to Echo Lodge for a whole week\npretty soon.\"\n\n\"If you come for a week I'll keep you for two,\" threatened Miss\nLavendar.\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\nThe Prince Comes Back to the Enchanted Palace\n\n\nThe last day of school came and went. A triumphant \"semi-annual\nexamination\" was held and Anne's pupils acquitted themselves splendidly.\nAt the close they gave her an address and a writing desk. All the girls\nand ladies present cried, and some of the boys had it cast up to them\nlater on that they cried too, although they always denied it.\n\nMrs. Harmon Andrews, Mrs. Peter Sloane, and Mrs. William Bell walked\nhome together and talked things over.\n\n\"I do think it is such a pity Anne is leaving when the children seem\nso much attached to her,\" sighed Mrs. Peter Sloane, who had a habit of\nsighing over everything and even finished off her jokes that way. \"To\nbe sure,\" she added hastily, \"we all know we'll have a good teacher next\nyear too.\"\n\n\"Jane will do her duty, I've no doubt,\" said Mrs. Andrews rather\nstiffly. \"I don't suppose she'll tell the children quite so many fairy\ntales or spend so much time roaming about the woods with them. But she\nhas her name on the Inspector's Roll of Honor and the Newbridge people\nare in a terrible state over her leaving.\"\n\n\"I'm real glad Anne is going to college,\" said Mrs. Bell. \"She has\nalways wanted it and it will be a splendid thing for her.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know.\" Mrs. Andrews was determined not to agree fully\nwith anybody that day. \"I don't see that Anne needs any more education.\nShe'll probably be marrying Gilbert Blythe, if his infatuation for her\nlasts till he gets through college, and what good will Latin and Greek\ndo her then? If they taught you at college how to manage a man there\nmight be some sense in her going.\"\n\nMrs. Harmon Andrews, so Avonlea gossip whispered, had never learned\nhow to manage her \"man,\" and as a result the Andrews household was not\nexactly a model of domestic happiness.\n\n\"I see that the Charlottetown call to Mr. Allan is up before the\nPresbytery,\" said Mrs. Bell. \"That means we'll be losing him soon, I\nsuppose.\"\n\n\"They're not going before September,\" said Mrs. Sloane. \"It will be\na great loss to the community . . . though I always did think that Mrs.\nAllan dressed rather too gay for a minister's wife. But we are none of\nus perfect. Did you notice how neat and snug Mr. Harrison looked today?\nI never saw such a changed man. He goes to church every Sunday and has\nsubscribed to the salary.\"\n\n\"Hasn't that Paul Irving grown to be a big boy?\" said Mrs. Andrews. \"He\nwas such a mite for his age when he came here. I declare I hardly knew\nhim today. He's getting to look a lot like his father.\"\n\n\"He's a smart boy,\" said Mrs. Bell.\n\n\"He's smart enough, but\" . . . Mrs. Andrews lowered her voice . . . \"I\nbelieve he tells queer stories. Gracie came home from school one day\nlast week with the greatest rigmarole he had told her about people who\nlived down at the shore . . . stories there couldn't be a word of truth\nin, you know. I told Gracie not to believe them, and she said Paul\ndidn't intend her to. But if he didn't what did he tell them to her\nfor?\"\n\n\"Anne says Paul is a genius,\" said Mrs. Sloane.\n\n\"He may be. You never know what to expect of them Americans,\" said Mrs.\nAndrews. Mrs. Andrews' only acquaintance with the word \"genius\" was\nderived from the colloquial fashion of calling any eccentric individual\n\"a queer genius.\" She probably thought, with Mary Joe, that it meant a\nperson with something wrong in his upper story.\n\nBack in the schoolroom Anne was sitting alone at her desk, as she had\nsat on the first day of school two years before, her face leaning on her\nhand, her dewy eyes looking wistfully out of the window to the Lake of\nShining Waters. Her heart was so wrung over the parting with her pupils\nthat for a moment college had lost all its charm. She still felt the\nclasp of Annetta Bell's arms about her neck and heard the childish\nwail, \"I'll NEVER love any teacher as much as you, Miss Shirley, never,\nnever.\"\n\nFor two years she had worked earnestly and faithfully, making many\nmistakes and learning from them. She had had her reward. She had taught\nher scholars something, but she felt that they had taught her much\nmore . . . lessons of tenderness, self-control, innocent wisdom, lore\nof childish hearts. Perhaps she had not succeeded in \"inspiring\" any\nwonderful ambitions in her pupils, but she had taught them, more by her\nown sweet personality than by all her careful precepts, that it was good\nand necessary in the years that were before them to live their lives\nfinely and graciously, holding fast to truth and courtesy and kindness,\nkeeping aloof from all that savored of falsehood and meanness and\nvulgarity. They were, perhaps, all unconscious of having learned such\nlessons; but they would remember and practice them long after they had\nforgotten the capital of Afghanistan and the dates of the Wars of the\nRoses.\n\n\"Another chapter in my life is closed,\" said Anne aloud, as she locked\nher desk. She really felt very sad over it; but the romance in the idea\nof that \"closed chapter\" did comfort her a little.\n\nAnne spent a fortnight at Echo Lodge early in her vacation and everybody\nconcerned had a good time.\n\nShe took Miss Lavendar on a shopping expedition to town and persuaded\nher to buy a new organdy dress; then came the excitement of cutting\nand making it together, while the happy Charlotta the Fourth basted and\nswept up clippings. Miss Lavendar had complained that she could not feel\nmuch interest in anything, but the sparkle came back to her eyes over\nher pretty dress.\n\n\"What a foolish, frivolous person I must be,\" she sighed. \"I'm\nwholesomely ashamed to think that a new dress . . .  even it is a\nforget-me-not organdy . . . should exhilarate me so, when a good\nconscience and an extra contribution to Foreign Missions couldn't do\nit.\"\n\nMidway in her visit Anne went home to Green Gables for a day to mend the\ntwins' stockings and settle up Davy's accumulated store of questions. In\nthe evening she went down to the shore road to see Paul Irving. As she\npassed by the low, square window of the Irving sitting room she caught\na glimpse of Paul on somebody's lap; but the next moment he came flying\nthrough the hall.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley,\" he cried excitedly, \"you can't think what has\nhappened! Something so splendid. Father is here . . .  just think of that!\nFather is here! Come right in. Father, this is my beautiful teacher. YOU\nknow, father.\"\n\nStephen Irving came forward to meet Anne with a smile. He was a tall,\nhandsome man of middle age, with iron-gray hair, deep-set, dark blue\neyes, and a strong, sad face, splendidly modeled about chin and brow.\nJust the face for a hero of romance, Anne thought with a thrill of\nintense satisfaction. It was so disappointing to meet someone who ought\nto be a hero and find him bald or stooped, or otherwise lacking in\nmanly beauty. Anne would have thought it dreadful if the object of Miss\nLavendar's romance had not looked the part.\n\n\"So this is my little son's 'beautiful teacher,' of whom I have heard\nso much,\" said Mr. Irving with a hearty handshake. \"Paul's letters have\nbeen so full of you, Miss Shirley, that I feel as if I were pretty well\nacquainted with you already. I want to thank you for what you have done\nfor Paul. I think that your influence has been just what he needed.\nMother is one of the best and dearest of women; but her robust,\nmatter-of-fact Scotch common sense could not always understand a\ntemperament like my laddie's. What was lacking in her you have supplied.\nBetween you, I think Paul's training in these two past years has been as\nnearly ideal as a motherless boy's could be.\"\n\nEverybody likes to be appreciated. Under Mr. Irving's praise Anne's\nface \"burst flower like into rosy bloom,\" and the busy, weary man of the\nworld, looking at her, thought he had never seen a fairer, sweeter slip\nof girlhood than this little \"down east\" schoolteacher with her red hair\nand wonderful eyes.\n\nPaul sat between them blissfully happy.\n\n\"I never dreamed father was coming,\" he said radiantly. \"Even Grandma\ndidn't know it. It was a great surprise. As a general thing . . .\" Paul\nshook his brown curls gravely . . . \"I don't like to be surprised. You\nlose all the fun of expecting things when you're surprised. But in a\ncase like this it is all right. Father came last night after I had gone\nto bed. And after Grandma and Mary Joe had stopped being surprised he\nand Grandma came upstairs to look at me, not meaning to wake me up till\nmorning. But I woke right up and saw father. I tell you I just sprang at\nhim.\"\n\n\"With a hug like a bear's,\" said Mr. Irving, putting his arms around\nPaul's shoulder smilingly. \"I hardly knew my boy, he had grown so big\nand brown and sturdy.\"\n\n\"I don't know which was the most pleased to see father, Grandma or I,\"\ncontinued Paul. \"Grandma's been in kitchen all day making the things\nfather likes to eat. She wouldn't trust them to Mary Joe, she says.\nThat's HER way of showing gladness. _I_ like best just to sit and talk\nto father. But I'm going to leave you for a little while now if you'll\nexcuse me. I must get the cows for Mary Joe. That is one of my daily\nduties.\"\n\nWhen Paul had scampered away to do his \"daily duty\" Mr. Irving talked to\nAnne of various matters. But Anne felt that he was thinking of something\nelse underneath all the time. Presently it came to the surface.\n\n\"In Paul's last letter he spoke of going with you to visit an old . . .\nfriend of mine . . . Miss Lewis at the stone house in Grafton. Do you know\nher well?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, she is a very dear friend of mine,\" was Anne's demure\nreply, which gave no hint of the sudden thrill that tingled over her\nfrom head to foot at Mr. Irving's question. Anne \"felt instinctively\"\nthat romance was peeping at her around a corner.\n\nMr. Irving rose and went to the window, looking out on a great, golden,\nbillowing sea where a wild wind was harping. For a few moments there was\nsilence in the little dark-walled room. Then he turned and looked down\ninto Anne's sympathetic face with a smile, half-whimsical, half-tender.\n\n\"I wonder how much you know,\" he said.\n\n\"I know all about it,\" replied Anne promptly. \"You see,\" she explained\nhastily, \"Miss Lavendar and I are very intimate. She wouldn't tell\nthings of such a sacred nature to everybody. We are kindred spirits.\"\n\n\"Yes, I believe you are. Well, I am going to ask a favor of you. I would\nlike to go and see Miss Lavendar if she will let me. Will you ask her if\nI may come?\"\n\nWould she not? Oh, indeed she would! Yes, this was romance, the very,\nthe real thing, with all the charm of rhyme and story and dream. It was\na little belated, perhaps, like a rose blooming in October which should\nhave bloomed in June; but none the less a rose, all sweetness and\nfragrance, with the gleam of gold in its heart. Never did Anne's\nfeet bear her on a more willing errand than on that walk through the\nbeechwoods to Grafton the next morning. She found Miss Lavendar in the\ngarden. Anne was fearfully excited. Her hands grew cold and her voice\ntrembled.\n\n\"Miss Lavendar, I have something to tell you . . . something very\nimportant. Can you guess what it is?\"\n\nAnne never supposed that Miss Lavendar could GUESS; but Miss Lavendar's\nface grew very pale and Miss Lavendar said in a quiet, still voice,\nfrom which all the color and sparkle that Miss Lavendar's voice usually\nsuggested had faded.\n\n\"Stephen Irving is home?\"\n\n\"How did you know? Who told you?\" cried Anne disappointedly, vexed that\nher great revelation had been anticipated.\n\n\"Nobody. I knew that must be it, just from the way you spoke.\"\n\n\"He wants to come and see you,\" said Anne. \"May I send him word that he\nmay?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" fluttered Miss Lavendar. \"There is no reason why he\nshouldn't. He is only coming as any old friend might.\"\n\nAnne had her own opinion about that as she hastened into the house to\nwrite a note at Miss Lavendar's desk.\n\n\"Oh, it's delightful to be living in a storybook,\" she thought gaily.\n\"It will come out all right of course . . . it must . . . and Paul will\nhave a mother after his own heart and everybody will be happy. But Mr.\nIrving will take Miss Lavendar away . . . and dear knows what will\nhappen to the little stone house . . . and so there are two sides to it,\nas there seems to be to everything in this world.\" The important note\nwas written and Anne herself carried it to the Grafton post office,\nwhere she waylaid the mail carrier and asked him to leave it at the\nAvonlea office.\n\n\"It's so very important,\" Anne assured him anxiously. The mail carrier\nwas a rather grumpy old personage who did not at all look the part of a\nmessenger of Cupid; and Anne was none too certain that his memory was to\nbe trusted. But he said he would do his best to remember and she had to\nbe contented with that.\n\nCharlotta the Fourth felt that some mystery pervaded the stone house\nthat afternoon . . . a mystery from which she was excluded. Miss Lavendar\nroamed about the garden in a distracted fashion. Anne, too, seemed\npossessed by a demon of unrest, and walked to and fro and went up and\ndown. Charlotta the Fourth endured it till patience ceased to be a\nvirtue; then she confronted Anne on the occasion of that romantic young\nperson's third aimless peregrination through the kitchen.\n\n\"Please, Miss Shirley, ma'am,\" said Charlotta the Fourth, with an\nindignant toss of her very blue bows, \"it's plain to be seen you and\nMiss Lavendar have got a secret and I think, begging your pardon if I'm\ntoo forward, Miss Shirley, ma'am, that it's real mean not to tell me\nwhen we've all been such chums.\"\n\n\"Oh, Charlotta dear, I'd have told you all about it if it were my\nsecret . . . but it's Miss Lavendar's, you see. However, I'll tell you\nthis much . . . and if nothing comes of it you must never breathe a word\nabout it to a living soul. You see, Prince Charming is coming tonight.\nHe came long ago, but in a foolish moment went away and wandered afar\nand forgot the secret of the magic pathway to the enchanted castle,\nwhere the princess was weeping her faithful heart out for him. But\nat last he remembered it again and the princess is waiting still. . .\nbecause nobody but her own dear prince could carry her off.\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, what is that in prose?\" gasped the mystified\nCharlotta.\n\nAnne laughed.\n\n\"In prose, an old friend of Miss Lavendar's is coming to see her\ntonight.\"\n\n\"Do you mean an old beau of hers?\" demanded the literal Charlotta.\n\n\"That is probably what I do mean . . . in prose,\" answered Anne gravely.\n\"It is Paul's father . . . Stephen Irving. And goodness knows what will\ncome of it, but let us hope for the best, Charlotta.\"\n\n\"I hope that he'll marry Miss Lavendar,\" was Charlotta's unequivocal\nresponse. \"Some women's intended from the start to be old maids, and I'm\nafraid I'm one of them, Miss Shirley, ma'am, because I've awful little\npatience with the men. But Miss Lavendar never was. And I've been awful\nworried, thinking what on earth she'd do when I got so big I'd HAVE to\ngo to Boston. There ain't any more girls in our family and dear\nknows what she'd do if she got some stranger that might laugh at her\npretendings and leave things lying round out of their place and not\nbe willing to be called Charlotta the Fifth. She might get someone who\nwouldn't be as unlucky as me in breaking dishes but she'd never get\nanyone who'd love her better.\"\n\nAnd the faithful little handmaiden dashed to the oven door with a sniff.\n\nThey went through the form of having tea as usual that night at Echo\nLodge; but nobody really ate anything. After tea Miss Lavendar went to\nher room and put on her new forget-me-not organdy, while Anne did her\nhair for her. Both were dreadfully excited; but Miss Lavendar pretended\nto be very calm and indifferent.\n\n\"I must really mend that rent in the curtain tomorrow,\" she said\nanxiously, inspecting it as if it were the only thing of any importance\njust then. \"Those curtains have not worn as well as they should,\nconsidering the price I paid. Dear me, Charlotta has forgotten to dust\nthe stair railing AGAIN. I really MUST speak to her about it.\"\n\nAnne was sitting on the porch steps when Stephen Irving came down the\nlane and across the garden.\n\n\"This is the one place where time stands still,\" he said, looking around\nhim with delighted eyes. \"There is nothing changed about this house or\ngarden since I was here twenty-five years ago. It makes me feel young\nagain.\"\n\n\"You know time always does stand still in an enchanted palace,\" said\nAnne seriously. \"It is only when the prince comes that things begin to\nhappen.\"\n\nMr. Irving smiled a little sadly into her uplifted face, all astar with\nits youth and promise.\n\n\"Sometimes the prince comes too late,\" he said. He did not ask Anne\nto translate her remark into prose. Like all kindred spirits he\n\"understood.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, not if he is the real prince coming to the true princess,\" said\nAnne, shaking her red head decidedly, as she opened the parlor door.\nWhen he had gone in she shut it tightly behind him and turned to\nconfront Charlotta the Fourth, who was in the hall, all \"nods and becks\nand wreathed smiles.\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am,\" she breathed, \"I peeked from the kitchen\nwindow . . . and he's awful handsome . . . and just the right age for Miss\nLavendar. And oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, do you think it would be much\nharm to listen at the door?\"\n\n\"It would be dreadful, Charlotta,\" said Anne firmly, \"so just you come\naway with me out of the reach of temptation.\"\n\n\"I can't do anything, and it's awful to hang round just waiting,\" sighed\nCharlotta. \"What if he don't propose after all, Miss Shirley, ma'am?\nYou can never be sure of them men. My older sister, Charlotta the\nFirst, thought she was engaged to one once. But it turned out HE had a\ndifferent opinion and she says she'll never trust one of them again. And\nI heard of another case where a man thought he wanted one girl awful bad\nwhen it was really her sister he wanted all the time. When a man don't\nknow his own mind, Miss Shirley, ma'am, how's a poor woman going to be\nsure of it?\"\n\n\"We'll go to the kitchen and clean the silver spoons,\" said Anne.\n\"That's a task which won't require much thinking fortunately . . .  for I\nCOULDN'T think tonight. And it will pass the time.\"\n\nIt passed an hour. Then, just as Anne laid down the last shining spoon,\nthey heard the front door shut. Both sought comfort fearfully in each\nother's eyes.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am,\" gasped Charlotta, \"if he's going away this\nearly there's nothing into it and never will be.\" They flew to the\nwindow. Mr. Irving had no intention of going away. He and Miss Lavendar\nwere strolling slowly down the middle path to the stone bench.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, he's got his arm around her waist,\" whispered\nCharlotta the Fourth delightedly. \"He must have proposed to her or she'd\nnever allow it.\"\n\nAnne caught Charlotta the Fourth by her own plump waist and danced her\naround the kitchen until they were both out of breath.\n\n\"Oh, Charlotta,\" she cried gaily, \"I'm neither a prophetess nor the\ndaughter of a prophetess but I'm going to make a prediction. There'll\nbe a wedding in this old stone house before the maple leaves are red. Do\nyou want that translated into prose, Charlotta?\"\n\n\"No, I can understand that,\" said Charlotta. \"A wedding ain't poetry.\nWhy, Miss Shirley, ma'am, you're crying! What for?\"\n\n\"Oh, because it's all so beautiful . . . and story bookish . . . and\nromantic . . . and sad,\" said Anne, winking the tears out of her eyes.\n\"It's all perfectly lovely . . . but there's a little sadness mixed up in\nit too, somehow.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course there's a resk in marrying anybody,\" conceded Charlotta\nthe Fourth, \"but, when all's said and done, Miss Shirley, ma'am, there's\nmany a worse thing than a husband.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\nPoetry and Prose\n\n\nFor the next month Anne lived in what, for Avonlea, might be called\na whirl of excitement. The preparation of her own modest outfit for\nRedmond was of secondary importance. Miss Lavendar was getting ready to\nbe married and the stone house was the scene of endless consultations\nand plannings and discussions, with Charlotta the Fourth hovering on the\noutskirts of things in agitated delight and wonder. Then the dressmaker\ncame, and there was the rapture and wretchedness of choosing fashions\nand being fitted. Anne and Diana spent half their time at Echo Lodge and\nthere were nights when Anne could not sleep for wondering whether she\nhad done right in advising Miss Lavendar to select brown rather than\nnavy blue for her traveling dress, and to have her gray silk made\nprincess.\n\nEverybody concerned in Miss Lavendar's story was very happy. Paul Irving\nrushed to Green Gables to talk the news over with Anne as soon as his\nfather had told him.\n\n\"I knew I could trust father to pick me out a nice little second\nmother,\" he said proudly. \"It's a fine thing to have a father you can\ndepend on, teacher. I just love Miss Lavendar. Grandma is pleased, too.\nShe says she's real glad father didn't pick out an American for his\nsecond wife, because, although it turned out all right the first time,\nsuch a thing wouldn't be likely to happen twice. Mrs. Lynde says she\nthoroughly approves of the match and thinks its likely Miss Lavendar\nwill give up her queer notions and be like other people, now that she's\ngoing to be married. But I hope she won't give her queer notions up,\nteacher, because I like them. And I don't want her to be like other\npeople. There are too many other people around as it is. YOU know,\nteacher.\"\n\nCharlotta the Fourth was another radiant person.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it has all turned out so beautiful. When Mr.\nIrving and Miss Lavendar come back from their tower I'm to go up to\nBoston and live with them . . . and me only fifteen, and the other girls\nnever went till they were sixteen. Ain't Mr. Irving splendid? He\njust worships the ground she treads on and it makes me feel so queer\nsometimes to see the look in his eyes when he's watching her. It beggars\ndescription, Miss Shirley, ma'am. I'm awful thankful they're so fond\nof each other. It's the best way, when all's said and done, though some\nfolks can get along without it. I've got an aunt who has been married\nthree times and says she married the first time for love and the last\ntwo times for strictly business, and was happy with all three except at\nthe times of the funerals. But I think she took a resk, Miss Shirley,\nma'am.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all so romantic,\" breathed Anne to Marilla that night. \"If I\nhadn't taken the wrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball's I'd never\nhave known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn't met her I'd never have taken\nPaul there . . . and he'd never have written to his father about visiting\nMiss Lavendar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco. Mr.\nIrving says whenever he got that letter he made up his mind to send his\npartner to San Francisco and come here instead. He hadn't heard anything\nof Miss Lavendar for fifteen years. Somebody had told him then that\nshe was to be married and he thought she was and never asked anybody\nanything about her. And now everything has come right. And I had a\nhand in bringing it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde says, everything is\nforeordained and it was bound to happen anyway. But even so, it's nice\nto think one was an instrument used by predestination. Yes indeed, it's\nvery romantic.\"\n\n\"I can't see that it's so terribly romantic at all,\" said Marilla rather\ncrisply. Marilla thought Anne was too worked up about it and had plenty\nto do with getting ready for college without \"traipsing\" to Echo Lodge\ntwo days out of three helping Miss Lavendar. \"In the first place two\nyoung fools quarrel and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the States\nand after a spell gets married up there and is perfectly happy from all\naccounts. Then his wife dies and after a decent interval he thinks he'll\ncome home and see if his first fancy'll have him. Meanwhile, she's been\nliving single, probably because nobody nice enough came along to want\nher, and they meet and agree to be married after all. Now, where is the\nromance in all that?\"\n\n\"Oh, there isn't any, when you put it that way,\" gasped Anne, rather\nas if somebody had thrown cold water over her. \"I suppose that's how\nit looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it through\npoetry . . . and _I_ think it's nicer . . .\" Anne recovered herself and\nher eyes shone and her cheeks flushed . . . \"to look at it through\npoetry.\"\n\nMarilla glanced at the radiant young face and refrained from further\nsarcastic comments. Perhaps some realization came to her that after all\nit was better to have, like Anne, \"the vision and the faculty divine\"\n. . . that gift which the world cannot bestow or take away, of looking at\nlife through some transfiguring . . . or revealing? . . . medium, whereby\neverything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wearing a glory and\na freshness not visible to those who, like herself and Charlotta the\nFourth, looked at things only through prose.\n\n\"When's the wedding to be?\" she asked after a pause.\n\n\"The last Wednesday in August. They are to be married in the garden\nunder the honeysuckle trellis . . . the very spot where Mr. Irving\nproposed to her twenty-five years ago. Marilla, that IS romantic, even\nin prose. There's to be nobody there except Mrs. Irving and Paul and\nGilbert and Diana and I, and Miss Lavendar's cousins. And they will\nleave on the six o'clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast. When\nthey come back in the fall Paul and Charlotta the Fourth are to go up to\nBoston to live with them. But Echo Lodge is to be left just as it is. . .\nonly of course they'll sell the hens and cow, and board up the windows\n. . . and every summer they're coming down to live in it. I'm so glad. It\nwould have hurt me dreadfully next winter at Redmond to think of that\ndear stone house all stripped and deserted, with empty rooms . . . or far\nworse still, with other people living in it. But I can think of it now,\njust as I've always seen it, waiting happily for the summer to bring\nlife and laughter back to it again.\"\n\nThere was more romance in the world than that which had fallen to\nthe share of the middle-aged lovers of the stone house. Anne stumbled\nsuddenly on it one evening when she went over to Orchard Slope by the\nwood cut and came out into the Barry garden. Diana Barry and Fred Wright\nwere standing together under the big willow. Diana was leaning against\nthe gray trunk, her lashes cast down on very crimson cheeks. One hand\nwas held by Fred, who stood with his face bent toward her, stammering\nsomething in low earnest tones. There were no other people in the world\nexcept their two selves at that magic moment; so neither of them saw\nAnne, who, after one dazed glance of comprehension, turned and sped\nnoiselessly back through the spruce wood, never stopping till she gained\nher own gable room, where she sat breathlessly down by her window and\ntried to collect her scattered wits.\n\n\"Diana and Fred are in love with each other,\" she gasped. \"Oh, it does\nseem so . . . so . . . so HOPELESSLY grown up.\"\n\nAnne, of late, had not been without her suspicions that Diana was\nproving false to the melancholy Byronic hero of her early dreams. But\nas \"things seen are mightier than things heard,\" or suspected, the\nrealization that it was actually so came to her with almost the shock of\nperfect surprise. This was succeeded by a queer, little lonely feeling\n. . . as if, somehow, Diana had gone forward into a new world, shutting\na gate behind her, leaving Anne on the outside.\n\n\"Things are changing so fast it almost frightens me,\" Anne thought,\na little sadly. \"And I'm afraid that this can't help making some\ndifference between Diana and me. I'm sure I can't tell her all my\nsecrets after this . . . she might tell Fred. And what CAN she see in\nFred? He's very nice and jolly . . . but he's just Fred Wright.\"\n\nIt is always a very puzzling question . . . what can somebody see in\nsomebody else? But how fortunate after all that it is so, for if\neverybody saw alike . . . well, in that case, as the old Indian said,\n\"Everybody would want my squaw.\" It was plain that Diana DID see\nsomething in Fred Wright, however Anne's eyes might be holden. Diana\ncame to Green Gables the next evening, a pensive, shy young lady, and\ntold Anne the whole story in the dusky seclusion of the east gable. Both\ngirls cried and kissed and laughed.\n\n\"I'm so happy,\" said Diana, \"but it does seem ridiculous to think of me\nbeing engaged.\"\n\n\"What is it really like to be engaged?\" asked Anne curiously.\n\n\"Well, that all depends on who you're engaged to,\" answered Diana, with\nthat maddening air of superior wisdom always assumed by those who are\nengaged over those who are not. \"It's perfectly lovely to be engaged to\nFred . . . but I think it would be simply horrid to be engaged to anyone\nelse.\"\n\n\"There's not much comfort for the rest of us in that, seeing that there\nis only one Fred,\" laughed Anne.\n\n\"Oh, Anne, you don't understand,\" said Diana in vexation. \"I didn't\nmean THAT . . . it's so hard to explain. Never mind, you'll understand\nsometime, when your own turn comes.\"\n\n\"Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understand now. What is an imagination\nfor if not to enable you to peep at life through other people's eyes?\"\n\n\"You must be my bridesmaid, you know, Anne. Promise me that . . .\nwherever you may be when I'm married.\"\n\n\"I'll come from the ends of the earth if necessary,\" promised Anne\nsolemnly.\n\n\"Of course, it won't be for ever so long yet,\" said Diana, blushing.\n\"Three years at the very least . . . for I'm only eighteen and mother says\nno daughter of hers shall be married before she's twenty-one. Besides,\nFred's father is going to buy the Abraham Fletcher farm for him and he\nsays he's got to have it two thirds paid for before he'll give it to him\nin his own name. But three years isn't any too much time to get ready\nfor housekeeping, for I haven't a speck of fancy work made yet. But I'm\ngoing to begin crocheting doilies tomorrow. Myra Gillis had thirty-seven\ndoilies when she was married and I'm determined I shall have as many as\nshe had.\"\n\n\"I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to keep house with only\nthirty-six doilies,\" conceded Anne, with a solemn face but dancing eyes.\n\nDiana looked hurt.\n\n\"I didn't think you'd make fun of me, Anne,\" she said reproachfully.\n\n\"Dearest, I wasn't making fun of you,\" cried Anne repentantly. \"I\nwas only teasing you a bit. I think you'll make the sweetest little\nhousekeeper in the world. And I think it's perfectly lovely of you to be\nplanning already for your home o'dreams.\"\n\nAnne had no sooner uttered the phrase, \"home o'dreams,\" than it\ncaptivated her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one of\nher own. It was, of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud,\nand melancholy; but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in hanging\nabout too, helping her arrange pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplish\nsundry other tasks which a proud and melancholy hero evidently\nconsidered beneath his dignity. Anne tried to banish Gilbert's image\nfrom her castle in Spain but, somehow, he went on being there, so\nAnne, being in a hurry, gave up the attempt and pursued her aerial\narchitecture with such success that her \"home o'dreams\" was built and\nfurnished before Diana spoke again.\n\n\"I suppose, Anne, you must think it's funny I should like Fred so well\nwhen he's so different from the kind of man I've always said I would\nmarry . . . the tall, slender kind? But somehow I wouldn't want Fred to be\ntall and slender . . . because, don't you see, he wouldn't be Fred then.\nOf course,\" added Diana rather dolefully, \"we will be a dreadfully pudgy\ncouple. But after all that's better than one of us being short and fat\nand the other tall and lean, like Morgan Sloane and his wife. Mrs. Lynde\nsays it always makes her think of the long and short of it when she sees\nthem together.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Anne to herself that night, as she brushed her hair before\nher gilt framed mirror, \"I am glad Diana is so happy and satisfied.\nBut when my turn comes . . . if it ever does . . . I do hope there'll be\nsomething a little more thrilling about it. But then Diana thought so\ntoo, once. I've heard her say time and again she'd never get engaged any\npoky commonplace way . . . he'd HAVE to do something splendid to win her.\nBut she has changed. Perhaps I'll change too. But I won't . . . and\nI'm determined I won't. Oh, I think these engagements are dreadfully\nunsettling things when they happen to your intimate friends.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\nA Wedding at the Stone House\n\nThe last week in August came. Miss Lavendar was to be married in it.\nTwo weeks later Anne and Gilbert would leave for Redmond College. In a\nweek's time Mrs. Rachel Lynde would move to Green Gables and set up\nher lares and penates in the erstwhile spare room, which was already\nprepared for her coming. She had sold all her superfluous household\nplenishings by auction and was at present reveling in the congenial\noccupation of helping the Allans pack up. Mr. Allan was to preach his\nfarewell sermon the next Sunday. The old order was changing rapidly to\ngive place to the new, as Anne felt with a little sadness threading all\nher excitement and happiness.\n\n\"Changes ain't totally pleasant but they're excellent things,\" said Mr.\nHarrison philosophically. \"Two years is about long enough for things\nto stay exactly the same. If they stayed put any longer they might grow\nmossy.\"\n\nMr. Harrison was smoking on his veranda. His wife had self-sacrificingly\ntold that he might smoke in the house if he took care to sit by an\nopen window. Mr. Harrison rewarded this concession by going outdoors\naltogether to smoke in fine weather, and so mutual goodwill reigned.\n\nAnne had come over to ask Mrs. Harrison for some of her yellow dahlias.\nShe and Diana were going through to Echo Lodge that evening to help Miss\nLavendar and Charlotta the Fourth with their final preparations for the\nmorrow's bridal. Miss Lavendar herself never had dahlias; she did not\nlike them and they would not have suited the fine retirement of her\nold-fashioned garden. But flowers of any kind were rather scarce in\nAvonlea and the neighboring districts that summer, thanks to Uncle Abe's\nstorm; and Anne and Diana thought that a certain old cream-colored stone\njug, usually kept sacred to doughnuts, brimmed over with yellow dahlias,\nwould be just the thing to set in a dim angle of the stone house stairs,\nagainst the dark background of red hall paper.\n\n\"I s'pose you'll be starting off for college in a fortnight's time?\"\ncontinued Mr. Harrison. \"Well, we're going to miss you an awful lot,\nEmily and me. To be sure, Mrs. Lynde'll be over there in your place.\nThere ain't nobody but a substitute can be found for them.\"\n\nThe irony of Mr. Harrison's tone is quite untransferable to paper. In\nspite of his wife's intimacy with Mrs. Lynde, the best that could be\nsaid of the relationship between her and Mr. Harrison even under the new\nregime, was that they preserved an armed neutrality.\n\n\"Yes, I'm going,\" said Anne. \"I'm very glad with my head . . . and very\nsorry with my heart.\"\n\n\"I s'pose you'll be scooping up all the honors that are lying round\nloose at Redmond.\"\n\n\"I may try for one or two of them,\" confessed Anne, \"but I don't care so\nmuch for things like that as I did two years ago. What I want to get out\nof my college course is some knowledge of the best way of living life\nand doing the most and best with it. I want to learn to understand and\nhelp other people and myself.\"\n\nMr. Harrison nodded.\n\n\"That's the idea exactly. That's what college ought to be for, instead\nof for turning out a lot of B.A.'s, so chock full of book-learning\nand vanity that there ain't room for anything else. You're all right.\nCollege won't be able to do you much harm, I reckon.\"\n\nDiana and Anne drove over to Echo Lodge after tea, taking with them all\nthe flowery spoil that several predatory expeditions in their own and\ntheir neighbors' gardens had yielded. They found the stone house agog\nwith excitement. Charlotta the Fourth was flying around with such vim\nand briskness that her blue bows seemed really to possess the power of\nbeing everywhere at once. Like the helmet of Navarre, Charlotta's blue\nbows waved ever in the thickest of the fray.\n\n\"Praise be to goodness you've come,\" she said devoutly, \"for there's\nheaps of things to do . . . and the frosting on that cake WON'T harden\n. . . and there's all the silver to be rubbed up yet . . .  and the\nhorsehair trunk to be packed . . . and the roosters for the chicken\nsalad are running out there beyant the henhouse yet, crowing, Miss\nShirley, ma'am. And Miss Lavendar ain't to be trusted to do a thing. I\nwas thankful when Mr. Irving came a few minutes ago and took her off for\na walk in the woods. Courting's all right in its place, Miss Shirley,\nma'am, but if you try to mix it up with cooking and scouring\neverything's spoiled. That's MY opinion, Miss Shirley, ma'am.\"\n\nAnne and Diana worked so heartily that by ten o'clock even Charlotta\nthe Fourth was satisfied. She braided her hair in innumerable plaits and\ntook her weary little bones off to bed.\n\n\"But I'm sure I shan't sleep a blessed wink, Miss Shirley, ma'am, for\nfear that something'll go wrong at the last minute . . . the cream won't\nwhip . . . or Mr. Irving'll have a stroke and not be able to come.\"\n\n\"He isn't in the habit of having strokes, is he?\" asked Diana, the\ndimpled corners of her mouth twitching. To Diana, Charlotta the Fourth\nwas, if not exactly a thing of beauty, certainly a joy forever.\n\n\"They're not things that go by habit,\" said Charlotta the Fourth with\ndignity. \"They just HAPPEN . . . and there you are. ANYBODY can have a\nstroke. You don't have to learn how. Mr. Irving looks a lot like an\nuncle of mine that had one once just as he was sitting down to dinner\none day. But maybe everything'll go all right. In this world you've just\ngot to hope for the best and prepare for the worst and take whatever God\nsends.\"\n\n\"The only thing I'm worried about is that it won't be fine tomorrow,\"\nsaid Diana. \"Uncle Abe predicted rain for the middle of the week, and\never since the big storm I can't help believing there's a good deal in\nwhat Uncle Abe says.\"\n\nAnne, who knew better than Diana just how much Uncle Abe had to do with\nthe storm, was not much disturbed by this. She slept the sleep of the\njust and weary, and was roused at an unearthly hour by Charlotta the\nFourth.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it's awful to call you so early,\" came wailing\nthrough the keyhole, \"but there's so much to do yet . . . and oh, Miss\nShirley, ma'am, I'm skeered it's going to rain and I wish you'd get up\nand tell me you think it ain't.\" Anne flew to the window, hoping against\nhope that Charlotta the Fourth was saying this merely by way of rousing\nher effectually. But alas, the morning did look unpropitious. Below the\nwindow Miss Lavendar's garden, which should have been a glory of pale\nvirgin sunshine, lay dim and windless; and the sky over the firs was\ndark with moody clouds.\n\n\"Isn't it too mean!\" said Diana.\n\n\"We must hope for the best,\" said Anne determinedly. \"If it only doesn't\nactually rain, a cool, pearly gray day like this would really be nicer\nthan hot sunshine.\"\n\n\"But it will rain,\" mourned Charlotta, creeping into the room, a figure\nof fun, with her many braids wound about her head, the ends, tied up\nwith white thread, sticking out in all directions. \"It'll hold off till\nthe last minute and then pour cats and dogs. And all the folks will get\nsopping . . . and track mud all over the house . . . and they won't be\nable to be married under the honeysuckle . . . and it's awful unlucky\nfor no sun to shine on a bride, say what you will, Miss Shirley, ma'am.\n_I_ knew things were going too well to last.\"\n\nCharlotta the Fourth seemed certainly to have borrowed a leaf out of\nMiss Eliza Andrews' book.\n\nIt did not rain, though it kept on looking as if it meant to. By noon\nthe rooms were decorated, the table beautifully laid; and upstairs was\nwaiting a bride, \"adorned for her husband.\"\n\n\"You do look sweet,\" said Anne rapturously.\n\n\"Lovely,\" echoed Diana.\n\n\"Everything's ready, Miss Shirley, ma'am, and nothing dreadful has\nhappened YET,\" was Charlotta's cheerful statement as she betook herself\nto her little back room to dress. Out came all the braids; the resultant\nrampant crinkliness was plaited into two tails and tied, not with two\nbows alone, but with four, of brand-new ribbon, brightly blue. The two\nupper bows rather gave the impression of overgrown wings sprouting from\nCharlotta's neck, somewhat after the fashion of Raphael's cherubs. But\nCharlotta the Fourth thought them very beautiful, and after she had\nrustled into a white dress, so stiffly starched that it could stand\nalone, she surveyed herself in her glass with great satisfaction . . . a\nsatisfaction which lasted until she went out in the hall and caught\na glimpse through the spare room door of a tall girl in some softly\nclinging gown, pinning white, star-like flowers on the smooth ripples of\nher ruddy hair.\n\n\"Oh, I'll NEVER be able to look like Miss Shirley,\" thought poor\nCharlotta despairingly. \"You just have to be born so, I guess . . .  don't\nseem's if any amount of practice could give you that AIR.\"\n\nBy one o'clock the guests had come, including Mr. and Mrs. Allan, for\nMr. Allan was to perform the ceremony in the absence of the Grafton\nminister on his vacation. There was no formality about the marriage.\nMiss Lavendar came down the stairs to meet her bridegroom at the foot,\nand as he took her hand she lifted her big brown eyes to his with a look\nthat made Charlotta the Fourth, who intercepted it, feel queerer than\never. They went out to the honeysuckle arbor, where Mr. Allan was\nawaiting them. The guests grouped themselves as they pleased. Anne and\nDiana stood by the old stone bench, with Charlotta the Fourth between\nthem, desperately clutching their hands in her cold, tremulous little\npaws.\n\nMr. Allan opened his blue book and the ceremony proceeded. Just as\nMiss Lavendar and Stephen Irving were pronounced man and wife a very\nbeautiful and symbolic thing happened. The sun suddenly burst through\nthe gray and poured a flood of radiance on the happy bride. Instantly\nthe garden was alive with dancing shadows and flickering lights.\n\n\"What a lovely omen,\" thought Anne, as she ran to kiss the bride. Then\nthe three girls left the rest of the guests laughing around the bridal\npair while they flew into the house to see that all was in readiness for\nthe feast.\n\n\"Thanks be to goodness, it's over, Miss Shirley, ma'am,\" breathed\nCharlotta the Fourth, \"and they're married safe and sound, no matter\nwhat happens now. The bags of rice are in the pantry, ma'am, and the old\nshoes are behind the door, and the cream for whipping is on the sullar\nsteps.\"\n\nAt half past two Mr. and Mrs. Irving left, and everybody went to Bright\nRiver to see them off on the afternoon train. As Miss Lavendar . . . I\nbeg her pardon, Mrs. Irving . . . stepped from the door of her old home\nGilbert and the girls threw the rice and Charlotta the Fourth hurled an\nold shoe with such excellent aim that she struck Mr. Allan squarely on\nthe head. But it was reserved for Paul to give the prettiest send-off.\nHe popped out of the porch ringing furiously a huge old brass dinner\nbell which had adorned the dining room mantel. Paul's only motive was to\nmake a joyful noise; but as the clangor died away, from point and curve\nand hill across the river came the chime of \"fairy wedding bells,\"\nringing clearly, sweetly, faintly and more faint, as if Miss Lavendar's\nbeloved echoes were bidding her greeting and farewell. And so, amid this\nbenediction of sweet sounds, Miss Lavendar drove away from the old life\nof dreams and make-believes to a fuller life of realities in the busy\nworld beyond.\n\nTwo hours later Anne and Charlotta the Fourth came down the lane again.\nGilbert had gone to West Grafton on an errand and Diana had to keep an\nengagement at home. Anne and Charlotta had come back to put things in\norder and lock up the little stone house. The garden was a pool of late\ngolden sunshine, with butterflies hovering and bees booming; but the\nlittle house had already that indefinable air of desolation which always\nfollows a festivity.\n\n\"Oh dear me, don't it look lonesome?\" sniffed Charlotta the Fourth, who\nhad been crying all the way home from the station. \"A wedding ain't much\ncheerfuller than a funeral after all, when it's all over, Miss Shirley,\nma'am.\"\n\nA busy evening followed. The decorations had to be removed, the dishes\nwashed, the uneaten delicacies packed into a basket for the delectation\nof Charlotta the Fourth's young brothers at home. Anne would not rest\nuntil everything was in apple-pie order; after Charlotta had gone home\nwith her plunder Anne went over the still rooms, feeling like one who\ntrod alone some banquet hall deserted, and closed the blinds. Then\nshe locked the door and sat down under the silver poplar to wait for\nGilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedly thinking \"long, long\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"What are you thinking of, Anne?\" asked Gilbert, coming down the walk.\nHe had left his horse and buggy out at the road.\n\n\"Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving,\" answered Anne dreamily. \"Isn't it\nbeautiful to think how everything has turned out . . . how they have come\ntogether again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?\"\n\n\"Yes, it's beautiful,\" said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne's\nuplifted face, \"but wouldn't it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if\nthere had been NO separation or misunderstanding . . .  if they had come\nhand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but\nthose which belonged to each other?\"\n\nFor a moment Anne's heart fluttered queerly and for the first time her\neyes faltered under Gilbert's gaze and a rosy flush stained the\npaleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before her\ninner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of\nunsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, romance did not\ncome into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down;\nperhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways;\nperhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of\nillumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music,\nperhaps . . .  perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful\nfriendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.\n\nThen the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lane\nwas not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the evening\nbefore. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger,\nand the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery,\nits pain and gladness.\n\nGilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence he read the history\nof the next four years in the light of Anne's remembered blush. Four\nyears of earnest, happy work . . . and then the guerdon of a useful\nknowledge gained and a sweet heart won.\n\nBehind them in the garden the little stone house brooded among the\nshadows. It was lonely but not forsaken. It had not yet done with dreams\nand laughter and the joy of life; there were to be future summers for\nthe little stone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And over the river in\npurple durance the echoes bided their time.\n"