Anne of Avonlea - Sandroid.org

Anne of AvonleaLucy Maud Montgomery

The preparer of this public-domain (U.S.)text is not known. The correct words wereobtained from the L. C. Page & Company,Inc., edition of this book, copyright 1909—Thirteenth Impression, April 1911. Mostspellings and combined words have been leftas they were in the majority of the editionsorginally published. Some spelling errors wepresume were not intended have been corrected.The Project Gutenberg edition (“avon10”)was subsequently converted to L A TEX usingGutenMark software and re-edited (formattingonly) by Ron Burkey. Most of the ellipsesused in the Project Gutenberg edition havebeen replaced by em-dashes. Report problems(other than ellipses vs. em-dashes) toinfo@sandroid.org.Revision: ADate: 01/16/03

ContentsI. An Irate Neighbor 1II. Selling in Haste and Repentingat Leisure 17III. Mr. Harrison at Home 27IV. Different Opinions 39V. A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 47VI. All Sorts and Conditions of Men—and Women 59VII. The Pointing of Duty 77VIII. Marilla Adopts Twins 87IX. A Question of Color 101X. Davy in Search of a Sensation 111XI. Facts and Fancies 127i

iiXII. A Jonah Day 143XIII. A Golden Picnic 155XIV. A Danger Averted 171XV. The Beginning of Vacation 189XVI. The Substance of ThingsHoped For 201XVII. A Chapter of Accidents 213XVIII. An Adventure on the Tory Road 231XIX. Just a Happy Day 247XX. The Way It Often Happens 265XXI. Sweet Miss Lavendar 277XXII. Odds and Ends 297XXIII. Miss Lavendar’s Romance 305XXIV. A Prophet in His Own Country 317XXV. An Avonlea Scandal 331XXVI. Around the Bend 351XXVII. An Afternoon at theStone House 369

iiiXXVIII. The Prince Comes Back to theEnchanted Palace 389XXIX. Poetry and Prose 407XXX. A Wedding at the Stone House 419

ivFlowers spring to blossom where she walksThe careful ways of duty,Our hard, stiff lines of life with herAre flowing curves of beauty.—WHITTIER

I. An IrateNeighborA tall, slim girl, “half-past sixteen,” with seriousgray eyes and hair which her friendscalled auburn, had sat down on the broadred sandstone doorstep of a Prince Edward Islandfarmhouse one ripe afternoon in August,firmly resolved to construe so many lines ofVirgil.But an August afternoon, with blue hazesscarfing the harvest slopes, little winds whisperingelfishly in the poplars, and a dancingslendor of red poppies outflaming against thedark coppice of young firs in a corner of thecherry orchard, was fitter for dreams thandead languages. The Virgil soon slipped unheededto the ground, and Anne, her chinpropped on her clasped hands, and her eyeson the splendid mass of fluffy clouds thatwere heaping up just over Mr. J. A. Harrison’shouse like a great white mountain, was1

2 Anne of Avonleafar away in a delicious world where a certainschoolteacher was doing a wonderful work,shaping the destinies of future statesmen,and inspiring youthful minds and hearts withhigh and lofty ambitions.To be sure, if you came down to harshfacts—which, it must be confessed, Anne seldomdid until she had to—it did not seemlikely that there was much promising materialfor celebrities in Avonlea school; butyou could never tell what might happen if ateacher used her influence for good. Anne hadcertain rose-tinted ideals of what a teachermight accomplish if she only went the rightway about it; and she was in the midst of adelightful scene, forty years hence, with a famouspersonage—just exactly what he was tobe famous for was left in convenient haziness,but Anne thought it would be rather nice tohave him a college president or a Canadianpremier—bowing low over her wrinkled handand assuring her that it was she who had firstkindled his ambition, and that all his successin life was due to the lessons she had instilledso long ago in Avonlea school. This pleasantvision was shattered by a most unpleasant interruption.A demure little Jersey cow came scuttlingdown the lane and five seconds later Mr. Harrisonarrived—if “arrived” be not too mild a

An Irate Neighbor 3term to describe the manner of his irruptioninto the yard.He bounced over the fence without waitingto open the gate, and angrily confrontedastonished Anne, who had risen to her feetand stood looking at him in some bewilderment.Mr. Harrison was their new righthandneighbor and she had never met him before,although she had seen him once or twice.In early April, before Anne had come homefrom Queen’s, Mr. Robert Bell, whose farm adjoinedthe Cuthbert place on the west, hadsold out and moved to Charlottetown. Hisfarm had been bought by a certain Mr. J. A.Harrison, whose name, and the fact that hewas a New Brunswick man, were all that wasknown about him. But before he had beena month in Avonlea he had won the reputationof being an odd person—“a crank,” Mrs.Rachel Lynde said. Mrs. Rachel was an outspokenlady, as those of you who may havealready made her acquaintance will remember.Mr. Harrison was certainly different fromother people—and that is the essential characteristicof a crank, as everybody knows.In the first place he kept house for himselfand had publicly stated that he wantedno fools of women around his diggings. FeminineAvonlea took its revenge by the gruesometales it related about his house-keeping

4 Anne of Avonleaand cooking. He had hired little JohnHenry Carter of White Sands and John Henrystarted the stories. For one thing, there wasnever any stated time for meals in the Harrisonestablishment. Mr. Harrison “got a bite”when he felt hungry, and if John Henry werearound at the time, he came in for a share, butif he were not, he had to wait until Mr. Harrison’snext hungry spell. John Henry mournfullyaverred that he would have starved todeath if it wasn’t that he got home on Sundaysand got a good filling up, and that hismother always gave him a basket of “grub” totake back with him on Monday mornings.As for washing dishes, Mr. Harrison nevermade any pretence of doing it unless a rainySunday came. Then he went to work andwashed them all at once in the rainwaterhogshead, and left them to drain dry.Again, Mr. Harrison was “close.” When hewas asked to subscribe to the Rev. Mr. Allan’ssalary he said he’d wait and see how manydollars’ worth of good he got out of his preachingfirst—he didn’t believe in buying a pig ina poke. And when Mrs. Lynde went to askfor a contribution to missions—and incidentallyto see the inside of the house—he toldher there were more heathens among the oldwoman gossips in Avonlea than anywhere elsehe knew of, and he’d cheerfully contribute to

An Irate Neighbor 5a mission for Christianizing them if she’d undertakeit. Mrs. Rachel got herself away andsaid it was a mercy poor Mrs. Robert Bell wassafe in her grave, for it would have broken herheart to see the state of her house in whichshe used to take so much pride.“Why, she scrubbed the kitchen floor everysecond day,” Mrs. Lynde told Marilla Cuthbertindignantly, “and if you could see it now! I hadto hold up my skirts as I walked across it.”Finally, Mr. Harrison kept a parrot calledGinger. Nobody in Avonlea had ever kept aparrot before; consequently that proceedingwas considered barely respectable. And sucha parrot! If you took John Henry Carter’sword for it, never was such an unholy bird. Itswore terribly. Mrs. Carter would have takenJohn Henry away at once if she had been sureshe could get another place for him. Besides,Ginger had bitten a piece right out of the backof John Henry’s neck one day when he hadstooped down too near the cage. Mrs. Cartershowed everybody the mark when the lucklessJohn Henry went home on Sundays.All these things flashed through Anne’smind as Mr. Harrison stood, quite speechlesswith wrath apparently, before her. In hismost amiable mood Mr. Harrison could nothave been considered a handsome man; hewas short and fat and bald; and now, with his

6 Anne of Avonlearound face purple with rage and his prominentblue eyes almost sticking out of his head,Anne thought he was really the ugliest personshe had ever seen.All at once Mr. Harrison found his voice.“I’m not going to put up with this,” hespluttered, “not a day longer, do you hear,miss. Bless my soul, this is the third time,miss—the third time! Patience has ceased tobe a virtue, miss. I warned your aunt the lasttime not to let it occur again—and she’s letit—she’s done it—what does she mean by it,that is what I want to know. That is what I’mhere about, miss.”“Will you explain what the trouble is?”asked Anne, in her most dignified manner.She had been practicing it considerably of lateto have it in good working order when schoolbegan; but it had no apparent effect on theirate J. A. Harrison.“Trouble, is it? Bless my soul, troubleenough, I should think. The trouble is, miss,that I found that Jersey cow of your aunt’s inmy oats again, not half an hour ago. The thirdtime, mark you. I found her in last Tuesdayand I found her in yesterday. I came hereand told your aunt not to let it occur again.She has let it occur again. Where’s your aunt,miss? I just want to see her for a minute andgive her a piece of my mind—a piece of J. A.

An Irate Neighbor 7Harrison’s mind, miss.”“If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she isnot my aunt, and she has gone down to EastGrafton to see a distant relative of hers who isvery ill,” said Anne, with due increase of dignityat every word. “I am very sorry that mycow should have broken into your oats—sheis my cow and not Miss Cuthbert’s—Matthewgave her to me three years ago when she wasa little calf and he bought her from Mr. Bell.”“Sorry, miss! Sorry isn’t going to help mattersany. You’d better go and look at the havocthat animal has made in my oats—trampledthem from center to circumference, miss.”“I am very sorry,” repeated Anne firmly,“but perhaps if you kept your fences in betterrepair Dolly might not have broken in. Itis your part of the line fence that separatesyour oatfield from our pasture and I noticedthe other day that it was not in very good condition.”“My fence is all right,” snapped Mr. Harrison,angrier than ever at this carrying of thewar into the enemy’s country. “The jail fencecouldn’t keep a demon of a cow like that out.And I can tell you, you redheaded snippet,that if the cow is yours, as you say, you’d bebetter employed in watching her out of otherpeople’s grain than in sitting round readingyellowcovered novels,”—with a scathing

8 Anne of Avonleaglance at the innocent tan-colored Virgil byAnne’s feet.Something at that moment was red besidesAnne’s hair—which had always been a tenderpoint with her.“I’d rather have red hair than none atall, except a little fringe round my ears,” sheflashed.The shot told, for Mr. Harrison was reallyvery sensitive about his bald head. His angerchoked him up again and he could only glarespeechlessly at Anne, who recovered her temperand followed up her advantage.“I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison,because I have an imagination. I caneasily imagine how very trying it must be tofind a cow in your oats and I shall not cherishany hard feelings against you for the thingsyou’ve said. I promise you that Dolly shallnever break into your oats again. I give youmy word of honor on that point.”“Well, mind you she doesn’t,” muttered Mr.Harrison in a somewhat subdued tone; but hestamped off angrily enough and Anne heardhim growling to himself until he was out ofearshot.Grievously disturbed in mind, Annemarched across the yard and shut thenaughty Jersey up in the milking pen.“She can’t possibly get out of that unless

An Irate Neighbor 9she tears the fence down,” she reflected. “Shelooks pretty quiet now. I daresay she has sickenedherself on those oats. I wish I’d soldher to Mr. Shearer when he wanted her lastweek, but I thought it was just as well to waituntil we had the auction of the stock and letthem all go together. I believe it is true aboutMr. Harrison being a crank. Certainly there’snothing of the kindred spirit about him.”Anne had always a weather eye open forkindred spirits.Marilla Cuthbert was driving into the yardas Anne returned from the house, and the latterflew to get tea ready. They discussed thematter at the tea table.“I’ll be glad when the auction is over,” saidMarilla. “It is too much responsibility havingso much stock about the place and nobodybut that unreliable Martin to look after them.He has never come back yet and he promisedthat he would certainly be back last night ifI’d give him the day off to go to his aunt’s funeral.I don’t know how many aunts he hasgot, I am sure. That’s the fourth that’s diedsince he hired here a year ago. I’ll be morethan thankful when the crop is in and Mr.Barry takes over the farm. We’ll have to keepDolly shut up in the pen till Martin comes, forshe must be put in the back pasture and thefences there have to be fixed. I declare, it is a

10 Anne of Avonleaworld of trouble, as Rachel says. Here’s poorMary Keith dying and what is to become ofthose two children of hers is more than I know.She has a brother in British Columbia and shehas written to him about them, but she hasn’theard from him yet.”“What are the children like? How old arethey?”“Six past—they’re twins.”“Oh, I’ve always been especially interestedin twins ever since Mrs. Hammond had somany,” said Anne eagerly. “Are they pretty?”“Goodness, you couldn’t tell—they were toodirty. Davy had been out making mud piesand Dora went out to call him in. Davypushed her headfirst into the biggest pie andthen, because she cried, he got into it himselfand wallowed in it to show her it was nothingto cry about. Mary said Dora was really a verygood child but that Davy was full of mischief.He has never had any bringing up you mightsay. His father died when he was a baby andMary has been sick almost ever since.”“I’m always sorry for children that have nobringing up,” said Anne soberly. “You know Ihadn’t any till you took me in hand. I hopetheir uncle will look after them. Just whatrelation is Mrs. Keith to you?”“Mary? None in the world. It was herhusband—he was our third cousin. There’s

An Irate Neighbor 11Mrs. Lynde coming through the yard. Ithought she’d be up to hear about Mary”“Don’t tell her about Mr. Harrison and thecow,” implored Anne.Marilla promised; but the promise wasquite unnecessary, for Mrs. Lynde was nosooner fairly seated than she said,“I saw Mr. Harrison chasing your Jerseyout of his oats today when I was coming homefrom Carmody. I thought he looked prettymad. Did he make much of a rumpus?”Anne and Marilla furtively exchangedamused smiles. Few things in Avonlea everescaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morningAnne had said,“If you went to your own room at midnight,locked the door, pulled down the blind, andsneezed, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the nextday how your cold was!”“I believe he did,” admitted Marilla. “I wasaway. He gave Anne a piece of his mind.”“I think he is a very disagreeable man,”said Anne, with a resentful toss of her ruddyhead.“You never said a truer word,” said Mrs.Rachel solemnly. “I knew there’d be troublewhen Robert Bell sold his place to a NewBrunswick man, that’s what. I don’t knowwhat Avonlea is coming to, with so manystrange people rushing into it. It’ll soon not

12 Anne of Avonleabe safe to go to sleep in our beds.”“Why, what other strangers are comingin?” asked Marilla.“Haven’t you heard? Well, there’s a familyof Donnells, for one thing. They’ve rentedPeter Sloane’s old house. Peter has hiredthe man to run his mill. They belong downeast and nobody knows anything about them.Then that shiftless Timothy Cotton familyare going to move up from White Sands andthey’ll simply be a burden on the public. Heis in consumption—when he isn’t stealing—and his wife is a slack-twisted creature thatcan’t turn her hand to a thing. She washesher dishes sitting down. Mrs. George Pyehas taken her husband’s orphan nephew, AnthonyPye. He’ll be going to school to you,Anne, so you many expect trouble, that’swhat. And you’ll have another strange pupil,too. Paul Irving is coming from the Statesto live with his grandmother. You rememberhis father, Marilla—Stephen Irving, him thatjilted Lavendar Lewis over at Grafton?”“I don’t think he jilted her. There was aquarrel—I suppose there was blame on bothsides.”“Well, anyway, he didn’t marry her, andshe’s been as queer as possible ever since, theysay—living all by herself in that little stonehouse she calls Echo Lodge. Stephen went off

An Irate Neighbor 13to the States and went into business with hisuncle and married a Yankee. He’s never beenhome since, though his mother has been upto see him once or twice. His wife died twoyears ago and he’s sending the boy home tohis mother for a spell. He’s ten years old andI don’t know if he’ll be a very desirable pupil.You can never tell about those Yankees.”Mrs Lynde looked upon all people whohad the misfortune to be born or broughtup elsewhere than in Prince Edward Islandwith a decided can-any-good-thing-come-outof-Nazarethair. They might be good people, ofcourse; but you were on the safe side in doubtingit. She had a special prejudice against“Yankees.” Her husband had been cheatedout of ten dollars by an employer for whomhe had once worked in Boston and neither angelsnor principalities nor powers could haveconvinced Mrs. Rachel that the whole UnitedStates was not responsible for it.“Avonlea school won’t be the worse for alittle new blood,” said Marilla drily, “and ifthis boy is anything like his father he’ll be allright. Steve Irving was the nicest boy thatwas ever raised in these parts, though somepeople did call him proud. I should think Mrs.Irving would be very glad to have the child.She has been very lonesome since her husbanddied.”

14 Anne of Avonlea“Oh, the boy may be well enough, buthe’ll be different from Avonlea children,” saidMrs. Rachel, as if that clinched the matter.Mrs. Rachel’s opinions concerning any person,place, or thing, were always warrantedto wear. “What’s this I hear about your goingto start up a Village Improvement Society,Anne?”“I was just talking it over with some ofthe girls and boys at the last Debating Club,”said Anne, flushing. “They thought it wouldbe rather nice—and so do Mr. and Mrs. Allan.Lots of villages have them now.”“Well, you’ll get into no end of hot waterif you do. Better leave it alone, Anne, that’swhat. People don’t like being improved.”“Oh, we are not going to try to improve thepeople. It is Avonlea itself. There are lots ofthings which might be done to make it prettier.For instance, if we could coax Mr. LeviBoulter to pull down that dreadful old houseon his upper farm wouldn’t that be an improvement?”“It certainly would,” admitted Mrs. Rachel.“That old ruin has been an eyesore to the settlementfor years. But if you Improvers cancoax Levi Boulter to do anything for the publicthat he isn’t to be paid for doing, may I bethere to see and hear the process, that’s what.I don’t want to discourage you, Anne, for there

An Irate Neighbor 15may be something in your idea, though I supposeyou did get it out of some rubbishy Yankeemagazine; but you’ll have your hands fullwith your school and I advise you as a friendnot to bother with your improvements, that’swhat. But there, I know you’ll go ahead withit if you’ve set your mind on it. You were alwaysone to carry a thing through somehow.”Something about the firm outlines ofAnne’s lips told that Mrs. Rachel was not farastray in this estimate. Anne’s heart was benton forming the Improvement Society. GilbertBlythe, who was to teach in White Sands butwould always be home from Friday night toMonday morning, was enthusiastic about it;and most of the other folks were willing to goin for anything that meant occasional meetingsand consequently some “fun.” As for whatthe “improvements” were to be, nobody hadany very clear idea except Anne and Gilbert.They had talked them over and planned themout until an ideal Avonlea existed in theirminds, if nowhere else.Mrs. Rachel had still another item of news.“They’ve given the Carmody school to aPriscilla Grant. Didn’t you go to Queen’s witha girl of that name, Anne?”“Yes, indeed. Priscilla to teach at Carmody!How perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Anne,her gray eyes lighting up until they looked

16 Anne of Avonlealike evening stars, causing Mrs. Lynde to wonderanew if she would ever get it settled to hersatisfaction whether Anne Shirley were reallya pretty girl or not.

II. Selling in Hasteand Repenting atLeisureAnne drove over to Carmody on a shoppingexpedition the next afternoon and took DianaBarry with her. Diana was, of course, apledged member of the Improvement Society,and the two girls talked about little else allthe way to Carmody and back.“The very first thing we ought to do whenwe get started is to have that hall painted,”said Diana, as they drove past the Avonleahall, a rather shabby building set down in awooded hollow, with spruce trees hooding itabout on all sides. “It’s a disgraceful lookingplace and we must attend to it even before wetry to get Mr. Levi Boulder to pull his housedown. Father says we’ll never succeed in doingthat. Levi Boulter is too mean to spendthe time it would take.”17

18 Anne of Avonlea“Perhaps he’ll let the boys take it downif they promise to haul the boards and splitthem up for him for kindling wood,” said Annehopefully. “We must do our best and be contentto go slowly at first. We can’t expect toimprove everything all at once. We’ll have toeducate public sentiment first, of course.”Diana wasn’t exactly sure what educatingpublic sentiment meant; but it sounded fineand she felt rather proud that she was goingto belong to a society with such an aim in view.“I thought of something last night that wecould do, Anne. You know that three-corneredpiece of ground where the roads from Carmodyand Newbridge and White Sands meet?It’s all grown over with young spruce; butwouldn’t it be nice to have them all clearedout, and just leave the two or three birch treesthat are on it?”“Splendid,” agreed Anne gaily. “And havea rustic seat put under the birches. And whenspring comes we’ll have a flower-bed made inthe middle of it and plant geraniums.”“Yes; only we’ll have to devise some way ofgetting old Mrs. Hiram Sloane to keep her cowoff the road, or she’ll eat our geraniums up,”laughed Diana. “I begin to see what you meanby educating public sentiment, Anne. There’sthe old Boulter house now. Did you ever seesuch a rookery? And perched right close to the

Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure 19road too. An old house with its windows gonealways makes me think of something deadwith its eyes picked out.”“I think an old, deserted house is such asad sight,” said Anne dreamily. “It alwaysseems to me to be thinking about its pastand mourning for its old-time joys. Marillasays that a large family was raised in that oldhouse long ago, and that it was a real prettyplace, with a lovely garden and roses climbingall over it. It was full of little children andlaughter and songs; and now it is empty, andnothing ever wanders through it but the wind.How lonely and sorrowful it must feel! Perhapsthey all come back on moonlit nights—the ghosts of the little children of long ago andthe roses and the songs—and for a little whilethe old house can dream it is young and joyousagain.”Diana shook her head.“I never imagine things like that aboutplaces now, Anne. Don’t you remember howcross mother and Marilla were when we imaginedghosts into the Haunted Wood? To thisday I can’t go through that bush comfortablyafter dark; and if I began imaginingsuch things about the old Boulter house I’d befrightened to pass it too. Besides, those childrenaren’t dead. They’re all grown up anddoing well—and one of them is a butcher. And

20 Anne of Avonleaflowers and songs couldn’t have ghosts anyhow.”Anne smothered a little sigh. She lovedDiana dearly and they had always been goodcomrades. But she had long ago learned thatwhen she wandered into the realm of fancyshe must go alone. The way to it was by anenchanted path where not even her dearestmight follow her.A thunder-shower came up while the girlswere at Carmody; it did not last long, however,and the drive home, through lanes where theraindrops sparkled on the boughs and littleleafy valleys where the drenched ferns gaveout spicy odors, was delightful. But just asthey turned into the Cuthbert lane Anne sawsomething that spoiled the beauty of the landscapefor her.Before them on the right extended Mr.Harrison’s broad, gray-green field of lateoats, wet and luxuriant; and there, standingsquarely in the middle of it, up to her sleeksides in the lush growth, and blinking at themcalmly over the intervening tassels, was a Jerseycow!Anne dropped the reins and stood up witha tightening of the lips that boded no good tothe predatory quadruped. Not a word saidshe, but she climbed nimbly down over thewheels, and whisked across the fence before

Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure 21Diana understood what had happened.“Anne, come back,” shrieked the latter, assoon as she found her voice. “You’ll ruin yourdress in that wet grain—ruin it. She doesn’thear me! Well, she’ll never get that cow out byherself. I must go and help her, of course.”Anne was charging through the grain likea mad thing. Diana hopped briskly down, tiedthe horse securely to a post, turned the skirtof her pretty gingham dress over her shoulders,mounted the fence, and started in pursuitof her frantic friend. She could run fasterthan Anne, who was hampered by her clingingand drenched skirt, and soon overtook her.Behind them they left a trail that would breakMr. Harrison’s heart when he should see it.“Anne, for mercy’s sake, stop,” panted poorDiana. “I’m right out of breath and you arewet to the skin.”“I must — get — that cow — out — before— Mr. Harrison — sees her,” gasped Anne. “Idon’t — care — if I’m — drowned — if we —can — only — do that.”But the Jersey cow appeared to see nogood reason for being hustled out of her lusciousbrowsing ground. No sooner had the twobreathless girls got near her than she turnedand bolted squarely for the opposite corner ofthe field.“Head her off,” screamed Anne. “Run, Di-

22 Anne of Avonleaana, run.”Diana did run. Anne tried to, and thewicked Jersey went around the field as if shewere possessed. Privately, Diana thought shewas. It was fully ten minutes before theyheaded her off and drove her through the cornergap into the Cuthbert lane.There is no denying that Anne was in anythingbut an angelic temper at that precisemoment. Nor did it soothe her in the leastto behold a buggy halted just outside the lane,wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmody and hisson, both of whom wore a broad smile.“I guess you’d better have sold me that cowwhen I wanted to buy her last week, Anne,”chuckled Mr. Shearer.“I’ll sell her to you now, if you want her,”said her flushed and disheveled owner. “Youmay have her this very minute.”“Done. I’ll give you twenty for her as I offeredbefore, and Jim here can drive her rightover to Carmody. She’ll go to town with therest of the shipment this evening. Mr. Reed ofBrighton wants a Jersey cow.”Five minutes later Jim Shearer and theJersey cow were marching up the road, andimpulsive Anne was driving along the GreenGables lane with her twenty dollars.“What will Marilla say?” asked Diana.“Oh, she won’t care. Dolly was my own

Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure 23cow and it isn’t likely she’d bring more thantwenty dollars at the auction. But oh dear, ifMr. Harrison sees that grain he will know shehas been in again, and after my giving himmy word of honor that I’d never let it happen!Well, it has taught me a lesson not togive my word of honor about cows. A cow thatcould jump over or break through our milkpenfence couldn’t be trusted anywhere.”Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde’s,and when she returned knew all about Dolly’ssale and transfer, for Mrs. Lynde had seenmost of the transaction from her window andguessed the rest.“I suppose it’s just as well she’s gone,though you do do things in a dreadful headlongfashion, Anne. I don’t see how she gotout of the pen, though. She must have brokensome of the boards off.”“I didn’t think of looking,” said Anne, “butI’ll go and see now. Martin has never comeback yet. Perhaps some more of his auntshave died. I think it’s something like Mr. PeterSloane and the octogenarians. The otherevening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaperand she said to Mr. Sloane, ‘I see here thatanother octogenarian has just died. What isan octogenarian, Peter?’ And Mr. Sloane saidhe didn’t know, but they must be very sicklycreatures, for you never heard tell of them but

24 Anne of Avonleathey were dying. That’s the way with Martin’saunts.”“Martin’s just like all the rest of thoseFrench,” said Marilla in disgust. “You can’tdepend on them for a day.” Marilla was lookingover Anne’s Carmody purchases when sheheard a shrill shriek in the barnyard. Aminute later Anne dashed into the kitchen,wringing her hands.“Anne Shirley, what’s the matter now?”“Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This isterrible. And it’s all my fault. Oh, will I everlearn to stop and reflect a little before doingreckless things? Mrs. Lynde always told meI would do something dreadful some day, andnow I’ve done it!”“Anne, you are the most exasperating girl!What is it you’ve done?”“Sold Mr. Harrison’s Jersey cow—the onehe bought from Mr. Bell—to Mr. Shearer!Dolly is out in the milking pen this veryminute.”“Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?”“I only wish I were. There’s no dreamabout it, though it’s very like a nightmare.And Mr. Harrison’s cow is in Charlottetown bythis time. Oh, Marilla, I thought I’d finishedgetting into scrapes, and here I am in the veryworst one I ever was in in my life. What can Ido?”

Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure 25“Do? There’s nothing to do, child, except goand see Mr. Harrison about it. We can offerhim our Jersey in exchange if he doesn’t wantto take the money. She is just as good as his.”“I’m sure he’ll be awfully cross and disagreeableabout it, though,” moaned Anne.“I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritablesort of a man. I’ll go and explain to himif you like.”“No, indeed, I’m not as mean as that,” exclaimedAnne. “This is all my fault and I’mcertainly not going to let you take my punishment.I’ll go myself and I’ll go at once. Thesooner it’s over the better, for it will be terriblyhumiliating.”Poor Anne got her hat and her twentydollars and was passing out when she happenedto glance through the open pantrydoor. On the table reposed a nut cake whichshe had baked that morning—a particularlytoothsome concoction iced with pink icing andadorned with walnuts. Anne had intended itfor Friday evening, when the youth of Avonleawere to meet at Green Gables to organizethe Improvement Society. But what were theycompared to the justly offended Mr. Harrison?Anne thought that cake ought to soften theheart of any man, especially one who had todo his own cooking, and she promptly poppedit into a box. She would take it to Mr. Harri-

26 Anne of Avonleason as a peace offering.“That is, if he gives me a chance to sayanything at all,” she thought ruefully, as sheclimbed the lane fence and started on a shortcut across the fields, golden in the light of thedreamy August evening. “I know now justhow people feel who are being led to execution.”

III. Mr. Harrison atHomeMr. Harrison’s house was an old-fashioned,low-eaved, whitewashed structure, setagainst a thick spruce grove.Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshadedveranda, in his shirt sleeves, enjoyinghis evening pipe. When he realized whowas coming up the path he sprang suddenlyto his feet, bolted into the house, and shut thedoor. This was merely the uncomfortable resultof his surprise, mingled with a good dealof shame over his outburst of temper the daybefore. But it nearly swept the remnant of hercourage from Anne’s heart.“If he’s so cross now what will he be whenhe hears what I’ve done,” she reflected miserably,as she rapped at the door.But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly,and invited her to enter in a tone quitemild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He27

28 Anne of Avonleahad laid aside his pipe and donned his coat;he offered Anne a very dusty chair very politely,and her reception would have passed offpleasantly enough if it had not been for thetelltale of a parrot who was peering throughthe bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes.No sooner had Anne seated herself than Gingerexclaimed,“Bless my soul, what’s that redheadedsnippet coming here for?”It would be hard to say whose face was theredder, Mr. Harrison’s or Anne’s.“Don’t you mind that parrot,” said Mr.Harrison, casting a furious glance at Ginger.“He’s—he’s always talking nonsense. I gothim from my brother who was a sailor. Sailorsdon’t always use the choicest language, andparrots are very imitative birds.”“So I should think,” said poor Anne, the remembranceof her errand quelling her resentment.She couldn’t afford to snub Mr. Harrisonunder the circumstances, that was certain.When you had just sold a man’s Jerseycow offhand, without his knowledge or consentyou must not mind if his parrot repeateduncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the“redheaded snippet” was not quite so meek asshe might otherwise have been.“I’ve come to confess something to you,Mr. Harrison,” she said resolutely. “It’s—it’s

Mr. Harrison at Home 29about—that Jersey cow”“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrisonnervously, “has she gone and broken into myoats again? Well, never mind—never mind ifshe has. It’s no difference—none at all. I—Iwas too hasty yesterday, that’s a fact. Nevermind if she has.”“Oh, if it were only that,” sighed Anne.“But it’s ten times worse. I don’t—”“Bless my soul, do you mean to say she’sgot into my wheat?”“No—no—not the wheat. But—”“Then it’s the cabbages! She’s broken intomy cabbages that I was raising for Exhibition,hey?”“It’s not the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I’lltell you everything—that is what I came for—but please don’t interrupt me. It makes me sonervous. Just let me tell my story and don’tsay anything till I get through—and then nodoubt you’ll say plenty,” Anne concluded, butin thought only.“I won’t say another word,” said Mr. Harrison,and he didn’t. But Ginger was not boundby any contract of silence and kept ejaculating,“Redheaded snippet” at intervals untilAnne felt quite wild.“I shut my Jersey cow up in our pen yesterday.This morning I went to Carmody andwhen I came back I saw a Jersey cow in your

30 Anne of Avonleaoats. Diana and I chased her out and you can’timagine what a hard time we had. I was sodreadfully wet and tired and vexed—and Mr.Shearer came by that very minute and offeredto buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot fortwenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I shouldhave waited and consulted Marilla, of course.But I’m dreadfully given to doing things withoutthinking—everybody who knows me willtell you that. Mr. Shearer took the cow rightaway to ship her on the afternoon train.”“Redheaded snippet,” quoted Ginger in atone of profound contempt.At this point Mr. Harrison arose and, withan expression that would have struck terrorinto any bird but a parrot, carried Ginger’scage into an adjoining room and shut the door.Ginger shrieked, swore, and otherwise conductedhimself in keeping with his reputation,but finding himself left alone, relapsed intosulky silence.“Excuse me and go on,” said Mr. Harrison,sitting down again. “My brother the sailornever taught that bird any manners.”“I went home and after tea I went outto the milking pen. Mr. Harrison,”—Anneleaned forward, clasping her hands with herold childish gesture, while her big gray eyesgazed imploringly into Mr. Harrison’s embarrassedface—“I found my cow still shut up in

Mr. Harrison at Home 31the pen. It was your cow I had sold to Mr.Shearer.”“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison,in blank amazement at this unlooked-for conclusion.“What a very extraordinary thing!”“Oh, it isn’t in the least extraordinary thatI should be getting myself and other peopleinto scrapes,” said Anne mournfully. “I’mnoted for that. You might suppose I’d havegrown out of it by this time—I’ll be seventeennext March—but it seems that I haven’t. Mr.Harrison, is it too much to hope that you’ll forgiveme? I’m afraid it’s too late to get yourcow back, but here is the money for her—oryou can have mine in exchange if you’d rather.She’s a very good cow. And I can’t express howsorry I am for it all.”“Tut, tut,” said Mr. Harrison briskly, “don’tsay another word about it, miss. It’s of noconsequence—no consequence whatever. Accidentswill happen. I’m too hasty myselfsometimes, miss—far too hasty. But I can’thelp speaking out just what I think and folksmust take me as they find me. If that cow hadbeen in my cabbages now—but never mind,she wasn’t, so it’s all right. I think I’d ratherhave your cow in exchange, since you want tobe rid of her.”“Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I’m so gladyou are not vexed. I was afraid you would be.”

32 Anne of Avonlea“And I suppose you were scared to death tocome here and tell me, after the fuss I madeyesterday, hey? But you mustn’t mind me,I’m a terrible outspoken old fellow, that’s all—awful apt to tell the truth, no matter if it is abit plain.”“So is Mrs. Lynde,” said Anne, before shecould prevent herself.“Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don’t you tell me I’mlike that old gossip,” said Mr. Harrison irritably.“I’m not—not a bit. What have you got inthat box?”“A cake,” said Anne archly. In her relief atMr. Harrison’s unexpected amiability her spiritssoared upward feather-light. “I broughtit over for you—I thought perhaps you didn’thave cake very often.”“I don’t, that’s a fact, and I’m mighty fondof it, too. I’m much obliged to you. It looksgood on top. I hope it’s good all the waythrough.”“It is,” said Anne, gaily confident. “I havemade cakes in my time that were not, as Mrs.Allan could tell you, but this one is all right.I made it for the Improvement Society, but Ican make another for them.”“Well, I’ll tell you what, miss, you musthelp me eat it. I’ll put the kettle on and we’llhave a cup of tea. How will that do?”“Will you let me make the tea?” said Anne

Mr. Harrison at Home 33dubiously.Mr. Harrison chuckled.“I see you haven’t much confidence in myability to make tea. You’re wrong—I can brewup as good a jorum of tea as you ever drank.But go ahead yourself. Fortunately it rainedlast Sunday, so there’s plenty of clean dishes.”Anne hopped briskly up and went to work.She washed the teapot in several waters beforeshe put the tea to steep. Then sheswept the stove and set the table, bringing thedishes out of the pantry. The state of thatpantry horrified Anne, but she wisely saidnothing. Mr. Harrison told her where to findthe bread and butter and a can of peaches.Anne adorned the table with a bouquet fromthe garden and shut her eyes to the stains onthe tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready andAnne found herself sitting opposite Mr. Harrisonat his own table, pouring his tea for him,and chatting freely to him about her schooland friends and plans. She could hardly believethe evidence of her senses.Mr. Harrison had brought Ginger back,averring that the poor bird would be lonesome;and Anne, feeling that she could forgiveeverybody and everything, offered him a walnut.But Ginger’s feelings had been grievouslyhurt and he rejected all overtures of friendship.He sat moodily on his perch and ruffled

34 Anne of Avonleahis feathers up until he looked like a mere ballof green and gold.“Why do you call him Ginger?” asked Anne,who liked appropriate names and thoughtGinger accorded not at all with such gorgeousplumage.“My brother the sailor named him. Maybeit had some reference to his temper. I thinka lot of that bird though—you’d be surprisedif you knew how much. He has his faults ofcourse. That bird has cost me a good dealone way and another. Some people object tohis swearing habits but he can’t be brokenof them. I’ve tried—other people have tried.Some folks have prejudices against parrots.Silly, ain’t it? I like them myself. Ginger’s alot of company to me. Nothing would induceme to give that bird up—nothing in the world,miss.”Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence atAnne as explosively as if he suspected her ofsome latent design of persuading him to giveGinger up. Anne, however, was beginning tolike the queer, fussy, fidgety little man, andbefore the meal was over they were quite goodfriends. Mr. Harrison found out about the ImprovementSociety and was disposed to approveof it.“That’s right. Go ahead. There’s lots ofroom for improvement in this settlement—

Mr. Harrison at Home 35and in the people too.”“Oh, I don’t know,” flashed Anne. To herself,or to her particular cronies, she might admitthat there were some small imperfections,easily removable, in Avonlea and its inhabitants.But to hear a practical outsider likeMr. Harrison saying it was an entirely differentthing. “I think Avonlea is a lovely place;and the people in it are very nice, too.”“I guess you’ve got a spice of temper,” commentedMr. Harrison, surveying the flushedcheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. “Itgoes with hair like yours, I reckon. Avonleais a pretty decent place or I wouldn’t have locatedhere; but I suppose even you will admitthat it has some faults?”“I like it all the better for them,” said loyalAnne. “I don’t like places or people either thathaven’t any faults. I think a truly perfect personwould be very uninteresting. Mrs. MiltonWhite says she never met a perfect person,but she’s heard enough about one—herhusband’s first wife. Don’t you think it mustbe very uncomfortable to be married to a manwhose first wife was perfect?”“It would be more uncomfortable to bemarried to the perfect wife,” declared Mr.Harrison, with a sudden and inexplicablewarmth.When tea was over Anne insisted on wash-

36 Anne of Avonleaing the dishes, although Mr. Harrison assuredher that there were enough in the house to dofor weeks yet. She would dearly have loved tosweep the floor also, but no broom was visibleand she did not like to ask where it was forfear there wasn’t one at all.“You might run across and talk to me oncein a while,” suggested Mr. Harrison when shewas leaving. “’Tisn’t far and folks ought tobe neighborly. I’m kind of interested in thatsociety of yours. Seems to me there’ll be somefun in it. Who are you going to tackle first?”“We are not going to meddle with people—it is only places we mean to improve,” saidAnne, in a dignified tone. She rather suspectedthat Mr. Harrison was making fun ofthe project.When she had gone Mr. Harrison watchedher from the window—a lithe, girlish shape,tripping lightheartedly across the fields in thesunset afterglow.“I’m a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap,”he said aloud, “but there’s something aboutthat little girl makes me feel young again—and it’s such a pleasant sensation I’d like tohave it repeated once in a while.”“Redheaded snippet,” croaked Gingermockingly.Mr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot.“You ornery bird,” he muttered, “I almost

Mr. Harrison at Home 37wish I’d wrung your neck when my brotherthe sailor brought you home. Will you neverbe done getting me into trouble?”Anne ran home blithely and recounted heradventures to Marilla, who had been not a littlealarmed by her long absence and was onthe point of starting out to look for her.“It’s a pretty good world, after all, isn’tit, Marilla?” concluded Anne happily. “Mrs.Lynde was complaining the other day that itwasn’t much of a world. She said wheneveryou looked forward to anything pleasant youwere sure to be more or less disappointed—perhaps that is true. But there is a good sideto it too. The bad things don’t always come upto your expectations either—they nearly alwaysturn out ever so much better than youthink. I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasantexperience when I went over to Mr.Harrison’s tonight; and instead he was quitekind and I had almost a nice time. I thinkwe’re going to be real good friends if we makeplenty of allowances for each other, and everythinghas turned out for the best. But all thesame, Marilla, I shall certainly never againsell a cow before making sure to whom she belongs.And I do not like parrots!”

38 Anne of Avonlea

IV. DifferentOpinionsOne evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, GilbertBlythe, and Anne Shirley were lingering by afence in the shadow of gently swaying spruceboughs, where a wood cut known as the BirchPath joined the main road. Jane had been upto spend the afternoon with Anne, who walkedpart of the way home with her; at the fencethey met Gilbert, and all three were now talkingabout the fateful morrow; for that morrowwas the first of September and the schoolswould open. Jane would go to Newbridge andGilbert to White Sands.“You both have the advantage of me,”sighed Anne. “You’re going to teach childrenwho don’t know you, but I have to teach myown old schoolmates, and Mrs. Lynde saysshe’s afraid they won’t respect me as theywould a stranger unless I’m very cross fromthe first. But I don’t believe a teacher should39

40 Anne of Avonleabe cross. Oh, it seems to me such a responsibility!”“I guess we’ll get on all right,” said Janecomfortably. Jane was not troubled by anyaspirations to be an influence for good. Shemeant to earn her salary fairly, please thetrustees, and get her name on the School Inspector’sroll of honor. Further ambitions Janehad none. “The main thing will be to keep orderand a teacher has to be a little cross to dothat. If my pupils won’t do as I tell them Ishall punish them.”“How?”“Give them a good whipping, of course.”“Oh, Jane, you wouldn’t,” cried Anne,shocked. “Jane, you couldn’t!”“Indeed, I could and would, if they deservedit,” said Jane decidedly.“I could never whip a child,” said Anne withequal decision. “I don’t believe in it at all.Miss Stacy never whipped any of us and shehad perfect order; and Mr. Phillips was alwayswhipping and he had no order at all. No, if Ican’t get along without whipping I shall nottry to teach school. There are better ways ofmanaging. I shall try to win my pupils’ affectionsand then they will want to do what I tellthem.”“But suppose they don’t?” said practicalJane.

Different Opinions 41“I wouldn’t whip them anyhow. I’m sureit wouldn’t do any good. Oh, don’t whip yourpupils, Jane dear, no matter what they do.”“What do you think about it, Gilbert?” demandedJane. “Don’t you think there aresome children who really need a whippingnow and then?”“Don’t you think it’s a cruel, barbarousthing to whip a child—Any child?” exclaimedAnne, her face flushing with earnestness.“Well,” said Gilbert slowly, torn betweenhis real convictions and his wish to measureup to Anne’s ideal, “there’s something to besaid on both sides. I don’t believe in whippingchildren much. I think, as you say, Anne,that there are better ways of managing as arule, and that corporal punishment should bea last resort. But on the other hand, as Janesays, I believe there is an occasional child whocan’t be influenced in any other way and who,in short, needs a whipping and would be improvedby it. Corporal punishment as a lastresort is to be my rule.”Gilbert, having tried to please both sides,succeeded, as is usual and eminently right, inpleasing neither. Jane tossed her head.“I’ll whip my pupils when they’re naughty.It’s the shortest and easiest way of convincingthem.”Anne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance.

42 Anne of Avonlea“I shall never whip a child,” she repeatedfirmly. “I feel sure it isn’t either right or necessary.”“Suppose a boy sauced you back when youtold him to do something?” said Jane.“I’d keep him in after school and talkkindly and firmly to him,” said Anne. “Thereis some good in every person if you can findit. It is a teacher’s duty to find and developit. That is what our School Management professorat Queen’s told us, you know. Do yousuppose you could find any good in a childby whipping him? It’s far more important toinfluence the children aright than it is evento teach them the three R’s, Professor Renniesays.”“But the Inspector examines them in thethree R’s, mind you, and he won’t give you agood report if they don’t come up to his standard,”protested Jane.“I’d rather have my pupils love me and lookback to me in after years as a real helper thanbe on the roll of honor,” asserted Anne decidedly.“Wouldn’t you punish children at all, whenthey misbehaved?” asked Gilbert.“Oh, yes, I suppose I shall have to, althoughI know I’ll hate to do it. But you cankeep them in at recess or stand them on thefloor or give them lines to write.”

Different Opinions 43“I suppose you won’t punish the girls bymaking them sit with the boys?” said Janeslyly.Gilbert and Anne looked at each other andsmiled rather foolishly. Once upon a time,Anne had been made to sit with Gilbert forpunishment and sad and bitter had been theconsequences thereof.“Well, time will tell which is the best way,”said Jane philosophically as they parted.Anne went back to Green Gables by wayof Birch Path, shadowy, rustling, fern-scented,through Violet Vale and past Willowmere,where dark and light kissed each other underthe firs, and down through Lover’s Lane—spots she and Diana had so named long ago.She walked slowly, enjoying the sweetness ofwood and field and the starry summer twilight,and thinking soberly about the newduties she was to take up on the morrow.When she reached the yard at Green GablesMrs. Lynde’s loud, decided tones floated outthrough the open kitchen window.“Mrs. Lynde has come up to give me goodadvice about tomorrow,” thought Anne with agrimace, “but I don’t believe I’ll go in. Her adviceis much like pepper, I think—excellent insmall quantities but rather scorching in herdoses. I’ll run over and have a chat with Mr.Harrison instead.”

44 Anne of AvonleaThis was not the first time Anne had runover and chatted with Mr. Harrison since thenotable affair of the Jersey cow. She had beenthere several evenings and Mr. Harrison andshe were very good friends, although therewere times and seasons when Anne foundthe outspokenness on which he prided himselfrather trying. Ginger still continued to regardher with suspicion, and never failed to greether sarcastically as “redheaded snippet.” Mr.Harrison had tried vainly to break him of thehabit by jumping excitedly up whenever hesaw Anne coming and exclaiming,“Bless my soul, here’s that pretty little girlagain,” or something equally flattering. ButGinger saw through the scheme and scornedit. Anne was never to know how many complimentsMr. Harrison paid her behind her back.He certainly never paid her any to her face.“Well, I suppose you’ve been back in thewoods laying in a supply of switches for tomorrow?”was his greeting as Anne came upthe veranda steps.“No, indeed,” said Anne indignantly. Shewas an excellent target for teasing becauseshe always took things so seriously. “I shallnever have a switch in my school, Mr. Harrison.Of course, I shall have to have a pointer,but I shall use it for pointing only.”“So you mean to strap them instead? Well,

Different Opinions 45I don’t know but you’re right. A switch stingsmore at the time but the strap smarts longer,that’s a fact.”“I shall not use anything of the sort. I’mnot going to whip my pupils.”“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison ingenuine astonishment, “how do you lay out tokeep order then?”“I shall govern by affection, Mr. Harrison.”“It won’t do,” said Mr. Harrison, “won’t doat all, Anne. ‘Spare the rod and spoil thechild.’ When I went to school the masterwhipped me regular every day because he saidif I wasn’t in mischief just then I was plottingit.”“Methods have changed since your schooldays,Mr. Harrison.”“But human nature hasn’t. Mark mywords, you’ll never manage the young fry unlessyou keep a rod in pickle for them. Thething is impossible.”“Well, I’m going to try my way first,” saidAnne, who had a fairly strong will of her ownand was apt to cling very tenaciously to hertheories.“You’re pretty stubborn, I reckon,” was Mr.Harrison’s way of putting it. “Well, well, we’llsee. Someday when you get riled up—andpeople with hair like yours are desperate aptto get riled—you’ll forget all your pretty lit-

46 Anne of Avonleatle notions and give some of them a whaling.You’re too young to be teaching anyhow—fartoo young and childish.”Altogether, Anne went to bed that night ina rather pessimistic mood. She slept poorlyand was so pale and tragic at breakfast nextmorning that Marilla was alarmed and insistedon making her take a cup of scorchingginger tea. Anne sipped it patiently, althoughshe could not imagine what good ginger teawould do. Had it been some magic brew, potentto confer age and experience, Anne wouldhave swallowed a quart of it without flinching.“Marilla, what if I fail!”“You’ll hardly fail completely in one dayand there’s plenty more days coming,” saidMarilla. “The trouble with you, Anne, is thatyou’ll expect to teach those children everythingand reform all their faults right off, andif you can’t you’ll think you’ve failed.”

V. A Full-fledgedSchoolma’amWhen Anne reached the school thatmorning—for the first time in her lifeshe had traversed the Birch Path deaf andblind to its beauties—all was quiet and still.The preceding teacher had trained the childrento be in their places at her arrival, andwhen Anne entered the schoolroom she wasconfronted by prim rows of “shining morningfaces” and bright, inquisitive eyes. She hungup her hat and faced her pupils, hoping thatshe did not look as frightened and foolish asshe felt and that they would not perceive howshe was trembling.She had sat up until nearly twelve the precedingnight composing a speech she meant tomake to her pupils upon opening the school.She had revised and improved it painstakingly,and then she had learned it off by heart.It was a very good speech and had some very47

48 Anne of Avonleafine ideas in it, especially about mutual helpand earnest striving after knowledge. Theonly trouble was that she could not now remembera word of it.After what seemed to her a year—aboutten seconds in reality—she said faintly, “Takeyour Testaments, please,” and sank breathlesslyinto her chair under cover of the rustleand clatter of desk lids that followed.While the children read their verses Annemarshalled her shaky wits into order andlooked over the array of little pilgrims to theGrownup Land.Most of them were, of course, quite wellknown to her. Her own classmates had passedout in the preceding year but the rest had allgone to school with her, excepting the primerclass and ten newcomers to Avonlea. Anne secretlyfelt more interest in these ten than inthose whose possibilities were already fairlywell mapped out to her. To be sure, they mightbe just as commonplace as the rest; but onthe other hand there might be a genius amongthem. It was a thrilling idea.Sitting by himself at a corner desk was AnthonyPye. He had a dark, sullen little face,and was staring at Anne with a hostile expressionin his black eyes. Anne instantly made upher mind that she would win that boy’s affectionand discomfit the Pyes utterly.

A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 49In the other corner another strange boywas sitting with Arty Sloane—a jolly lookinglittle chap, with a snub nose, freckled face,and big, light blue eyes, fringed with whitishlashes—probably the Donnell boy; and if resemblancewent for anything, his sister wassitting across the aisle with Mary Bell. Annewondered what sort of mother the child had,to send her to school dressed as she was. Shewore a faded pink silk dress, trimmed with agreat deal of cotton lace, soiled white kid slippers,and silk stockings. Her sandy hair wastortured into innumerable kinky and unnaturalcurls, surmounted by a flamboyant bowof pink ribbon bigger than her head. Judgingfrom her expression she was very well satisfiedwith herself.A pale little thing, with smooth ripples offine, silky, fawn-colored hair flowing over hershoulders, must, Anne thought, be AnnettaBell, whose parents had formerly lived in theNewbridge school district, but, by reason ofhauling their house fifty yards north of its oldsite were now in Avonlea. Three pallid littlegirls crowded into one seat were certainly Cottons;and there was no doubt that the smallbeauty with the long brown curls and hazeleyes, who was casting coquettish looks at JackGills over the edge of her Testament, was PrillieRogerson, whose father had recently mar-

50 Anne of Avonlearied a second wife and brought Prillie homefrom her grandmother’s in Grafton. A tall,awkward girl in a back seat, who seemed tohave too many feet and hands, Anne could notplace at all, but later on discovered that hername was Barbara Shaw and that she hadcome to live with an Avonlea aunt. She wasalso to find that if Barbara ever managed towalk down the aisle without falling over herown or somebody else’s feet the Avonlea scholarswrote the unusual fact up on the porchwall to commemorate it.But when Anne’s eyes met those of the boyat the front desk facing her own, a queer littlethrill went over her, as if she had found hergenius. She knew this must be Paul Irvingand that Mrs. Rachel Lynde had been rightfor once when she prophesied that he wouldbe unlike the Avonlea children. More thanthat, Anne realized that he was unlike otherchildren anywhere, and that there was a soulsubtly akin to her own gazing at her out of thevery dark blue eyes that were watching her sointently.She knew Paul was ten but he looked nomore than eight. He had the most beautifullittle face she had ever seen in a child—features of exquisite delicacy and refinement,framed in a halo of chestnut curls. His mouthwas delicious, being full without pouting, the

A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 51crimson lips just softly touching and curvinginto finely finished little corners that narrowlyescaped being dimpled. He had a sober,grave, meditative expression, as if his spiritwas much older than his body; but when Annesmiled softly at him it vanished in a suddenanswering smile, which seemed an illuminationof his whole being, as if some lamp hadsuddenly kindled into flame inside of him, irradiatinghim from top to toe. Best of all, itwas involuntary, born of no external effort ormotive, but simply the outflashing of a hiddenpersonality, rare and fine and sweet. Witha quick interchange of smiles Anne and Paulwere fast friends forever before a word hadpassed between them.The day went by like a dream. Anne couldnever clearly recall it afterwards. It almostseemed as if it were not she who was teachingbut somebody else. She heard classesand worked sums and set copies mechanically.The children behaved quite well; onlytwo cases of discipline occurred. Morley Andrewswas caught driving a pair of trainedcrickets in the aisle. Anne stood Morley on theplatform for an hour and—which Morley feltmuch more keenly—confiscated his crickets.She put them in a box and on the way fromschool set them free in Violet Vale; but Morleybelieved, then and ever afterwards, that she

52 Anne of Avonleatook them home and kept them for her ownamusement.The other culprit was Anthony Pye, whopoured the last drops of water from his slatebottle down the back of Aurelia Clay’s neck.Anne kept Anthony in at recess and talked tohim about what was expected of gentlemen,admonishing him that they never poured waterdown ladies’ necks. She wanted all herboys to be gentlemen, she said. Her littlelecture was quite kind and touching; butunfortunately Anthony remained absolutelyuntouched. He listened to her in silence,with the same sullen expression, and whistledscornfully as he went out. Anne sighed;and then cheered herself up by rememberingthat winning a Pye’s affections, like the buildingof Rome, wasn’t the work of a day. In fact,it was doubtful whether some of the Pyes hadany affections to win; but Anne hoped betterthings of Anthony, who looked as if he mightbe a rather nice boy if one ever got behind hissullenness.When school was dismissed and the childrenhad gone Anne dropped wearily into herchair. Her head ached and she felt woefullydiscouraged. There was no real reason fordiscouragement, since nothing very dreadfulhad occurred; but Anne was very tired and inclinedto believe that she would never learn to

A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 53like teaching. And how terrible it would be tobe doing something you didn’t like every dayfor—well, say forty years. Anne was of twominds whether to have her cry out then andthere, or wait till she was safely in her ownwhite room at home. Before she could decidethere was a click of heels and a silken swishon the porch floor, and Anne found herself confrontedby a lady whose appearance made herrecall a recent criticism of Mr. Harrison’s onan overdressed female he had seen in a Charlottetownstore. “She looked like a head-oncollision between a fashion plate and a nightmare.”The newcomer was gorgeously arrayed ina pale blue summer silk, puffed, frilled, andshirred wherever puff, frill, or shirring couldpossibly be placed. Her head was surmountedby a huge white chiffon hat, bedecked withthree long but rather stringy ostrich feathers.A veil of pink chiffon, lavishly sprinkledwith huge black dots, hung like a flounce fromthe hat brim to her shoulders and floated offin two airy streamers behind her. She woreall the jewelry that could be crowded on onesmall woman, and a very strong odor of perfumeattended her.“I am Mrs. Donnell—Mrs. H. B. Donnell,”announced this vision, “and I have come in tosee you about something Clarice Almira told

54 Anne of Avonleame when she came home to dinner today. Itannoyed me excessively.”“I’m sorry,” faltered Anne, vainly tryingto recollect any incident of the morning connectedwith the Donnell children.“Clarice Almira told me that you pronouncedour name Donnell. Now, MissShirley, the correct pronunciation of our nameis Donnell—accent on the last syllable. I hopeyou’ll remember this in future.”“I’ll try to,” gasped Anne, choking back awild desire to laugh. “I know by experiencethat it’s very unpleasant to have one’s namespelled wrong and I suppose it must be evenworse to have it pronounced wrong.”“Certainly it is. And Clarice Almira alsoinformed me that you call my son Jacob.”“He told me his name was Jacob,”protested Anne.“I might well have expected that,” saidMrs. H. B. Donnell, in a tone which impliedthat gratitude in children was not to be lookedfor in this degenerate age. “That boy hassuch plebeian tastes, Miss Shirley. When hewas born I wanted to call him St. Clair—itsounds so aristocratic, doesn’t it? But his fatherinsisted he should be called Jacob afterhis uncle. I yielded, because Uncle Jacob wasa rich old bachelor. And what do you think,Miss Shirley? When our innocent boy was five

A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 55years old Uncle Jacob actually went and gotmarried and now he has three boys of his own.Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? Themoment the invitation to the wedding—for hehad the impertinence to send us an invitation,Miss Shirley—came to the house I said, ‘Nomore Jacobs for me, thank you.’ From thatday I called my son St. Clair and St. Clair Iam determined he shall be called. His fatherobstinately continues to call him Jacob, andthe boy himself has a perfectly unaccountablepreference for the vulgar name. But St. Clairhe is and St. Clair he shall remain. You willkindly remember this, Miss Shirley, will younot? Thank you. I told Clarice Almira thatI was sure it was only a misunderstandingand that a word would set it right. Donnell—accent on the last syllable—and St. Clair—onno account Jacob. You’ll remember? Thankyou.”When Mrs. H. B. Donnell had skimmedaway Anne locked the school door and wenthome. At the foot of the hill she found PaulIrving by the Birch Path. He held out to her acluster of the dainty little wild orchids whichAvonlea children called “rice lillies.”“Please, teacher, I found these in Mr.Wright’s field,” he said shyly, “and I cameback to give them to you because I thoughtyou were the kind of lady that would like

56 Anne of Avonleathem, and because—” he lifted his big beautifuleyes—“I like you, teacher.”“You darling,” said Anne, taking the fragrantspikes. As if Paul’s words had been aspell of magic, discouragement and wearinesspassed from her spirit, and hope upwelledin her heart like a dancing fountain. Shewent through the Birch Path light-footedly, attendedby the sweetness of her orchids as by abenediction.“Well, how did you get along?” Marillawanted to know.“Ask me that a month later and I may beable to tell you. I can’t now—I don’t knowmyself—I’m too near it. My thoughts feel asif they had been all stirred up until they werethick and muddy. The only thing I feel reallysure of having accomplished today is that Itaught Cliffie Wright that A is A. He neverknew it before. Isn’t it something to havestarted a soul along a path that may end inShakespeare and Paradise Lost?”Mrs. Lynde came up later on with more encouragement.That good lady had waylaid theschoolchildren at her gate and demanded ofthem how they liked their new teacher.“And every one of them said they liked yousplendid, Anne, except Anthony Pye. I mustadmit he didn’t. He said you ‘weren’t anygood, just like all girl teachers.’ There’s the

A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 57Pye leaven for you. But never mind.”“I’m not going to mind,” said Anne quietly,“and I’m going to make Anthony Pye like meyet. Patience and kindness will surely winhim.”“Well, you can never tell about a Pye,”said Mrs. Rachel cautiously. “They go by contraries,like dreams, often as not. As for thatDonnell woman, she’ll get no Donnelling fromme, I can assure you. The name is Donnelland always has been. The woman is crazy,that’s what. She has a pug dog she calls Queenieand it has its meals at the table alongwith the family, eating off a china plate. I’d beafraid of a judgment if I was her. Thomas saysDonnell himself is a sensible, hard-workingman, but he hadn’t much gumption when hepicked out a wife, that’s what.”

58 Anne of Avonlea

VI. All Sorts andConditions ofMen—and WomenA September day on Prince Edward Islandhills; a crisp wind blowing up over the sanddunes from the sea; a long red road, windingthrough fields and woods, now looping itselfabout a corner of thick set spruces, nowthreading a plantation of young maples withgreat feathery sheets of ferns beneath them,now dipping down into a hollow where a brookflashed out of the woods and into them again,now basking in open sunshine between ribbonsof golden-rod and smoke-blue asters; airathrill with the pipings of myriads of crickets,those glad little pensioners of the summerhills; a plump brown pony ambling along theroad; two girls behind him, full to the lips withthe simple, priceless joy of youth and life.“Oh, this is a day left over from Eden, isn’t59

60 Anne of Avonleait, Diana?”—and Anne sighed for sheer happiness.“The air has magic in it. Look at thepurple in the cup of the harvest valley, Diana.And oh, do smell the dying fir! It’s coming upfrom that little sunny hollow where Mr. EbenWright has been cutting fence poles. Blissis it on such a day to be alive; but to smelldying fir is very heaven. That’s two thirdsWordsworth and one third Anne Shirley. Itdoesn’t seem possible that there should be dyingfir in heaven, does it? And yet it doesn’tseem to me that heaven would be quite perfectif you couldn’t get a whiff of dead fir asyou went through its woods. Perhaps we’llhave the odor there without the death. Yes,I think that will be the way. That deliciousaroma must be the souls of the firs—and ofcourse it will be just souls in heaven.”“Trees haven’t souls,” said practical Diana,“but the smell of dead fir is certainly lovely.I’m going to make a cushion and fill it with firneedles. You’d better make one too, Anne.”“I think I shall—and use it for my naps.I’d be certain to dream I was a dryad ora woodnymph then. But just this minuteI’m well content to be Anne Shirley, Avonleaschoolma’am, driving over a road like this onsuch a sweet, friendly day.”“It’s a lovely day but we have anything buta lovely task before us,” sighed Diana. “Why

All Sorts and Conditions 61on earth did you offer to canvass this road,Anne? Almost all the cranks in Avonlea livealong it, and we’ll probably be treated as if wewere begging for ourselves. It’s the very worstroad of all.”“That is why I chose it. Of course Gilbertand Fred would have taken this road if wehad asked them. But you see, Diana, I feelmyself responsible for the A.V.I.S., since I wasthe first to suggest it, and it seems to me thatI ought to do the most disagreeable things.I’m sorry on your account; but you needn’tsay a word at the cranky places. I’ll do allthe talking—Mrs. Lynde would say I was wellable to. Mrs. Lynde doesn’t know whether toapprove of our enterprise or not. She inclinesto, when she remembers that Mr. and Mrs. Allanare in favor of it; but the fact that villageimprovement societies first originated in theStates is a count against it. So she is haltingbetween two opinions and only success willjustify us in Mrs. Lynde’s eyes. Priscilla isgoing to write a paper for our next Improvementmeeting, and I expect it will be good, forher aunt is such a clever writer and no doubtit runs in the family. I shall never forget thethrill it gave me when I found out that Mrs.Charlotte E. Morgan was Priscilla’s aunt. Itseemed so wonderful that I was a friend ofthe girl whose aunt wrote Edgewood Days and

62 Anne of AvonleaThe Rosebud Garden.”“Where does Mrs. Morgan live?”“In Toronto. And Priscilla says she is comingto the Island for a visit next summer, andif it is possible Priscilla is going to arrangeto have us meet her. That seems almost toogood to be true—but it’s something pleasantto imagine after you go to bed.”The Avonlea Village Improvement Societywas an organized fact. Gilbert Blythe waspresident, Fred Wright vice-president, AnneShirley secretary, and Diana Barry treasurer.The “Improvers,” as they were promptly christened,were to meet once a fortnight at thehomes of the members. It was admitted thatthey could not expect to affect many improvementsso late in the season; but they meant toplan the next summer’s campaign, collect anddiscuss ideas, write and read papers, and, asAnne said, educate the public sentiment generally.There was some disapproval, of course,and—which the Improvers felt much morekeenly—a good deal of ridicule. Mr. ElishaWright was reported to have said that a moreappropriate name for the organization wouldbe Courting Club. Mrs. Hiram Sloane declaredshe had heard the Improvers meantto plough up all the roadsides and set themout with geraniums. Mr. Levi Boulter warned

All Sorts and Conditions 63his neighbors that the Improvers would insistthat everybody pull down his house andrebuild it after plans approved by the society.Mr. James Spencer sent them word thathe wished they would kindly shovel down thechurch hill. Eben Wright told Anne that hewished the Improvers could induce old JosiahSloane to keep his whiskers trimmed. Mr.Lawrence Bell said he would whitewash hisbarns if nothing else would please them but hewould not hang lace curtains in the cowstablewindows. Mr. Major Spencer asked CliftonSloane, an Improver who drove the milk tothe Carmody cheese factory, if it was true thateverybody would have to have his milk-standhand-painted next summer and keep an embroideredcenterpiece on it.In spite of—or perhaps, human nature beingwhat it is, because of—this, the Societywent gamely to work at the only improvementthey could hope to bring about that fall. At thesecond meeting, in the Barry parlor, OliverSloane moved that they start a subscriptionto re-shingle and paint the hall; Julia Bell secondedit, with an uneasy feeling that she wasdoing something not exactly ladylike. Gilbertput the motion, it was carried unanimously,and Anne gravely recorded it in her minutes.The next thing was to appoint a committee,and Gertie Pye, determined not to let Julia

64 Anne of AvonleaBell carry off all the laurels, boldly moved thatMiss Jane Andrews be chairman of said committee.This motion being also duly secondedand carried, Jane returned the complimentby appointing Gertie on the committee, alongwith Gilbert, Anne, Diana, and Fred Wright.The committee chose their routes in privateconclave. Anne and Diana were told off forthe Newbridge road, Gilbert and Fred for theWhite Sands road, and Jane and Gertie for theCarmody road.“Because,” explained Gilbert to Anne,as they walked home together through theHaunted Wood, “the Pyes all live along thatroad and they won’t give a cent unless one ofthemselves canvasses them.”The next Saturday Anne and Dianastarted out. They drove to the end of the roadand canvassed homeward, calling first on the“Andrew girls.”“If Catherine is alone we may get something,”said Diana, “but if Eliza is there wewon’t.”Eliza was there—very much so—andlooked even grimmer than usual. Miss Elizawas one of those people who give you the impressionthat life is indeed a vale of tears, andthat a smile, never to speak of a laugh, is awaste of nervous energy truly reprehensible.The Andrew girls had been “girls” for fifty odd

All Sorts and Conditions 65years and seemed likely to remain girls to theend of their earthly pilgrimage. Catherine, itwas said, had not entirely given up hope, butEliza, who was born a pessimist, had neverhad any. They lived in a little brown housebuilt in a sunny corner scooped out of MarkAndrew’s beech woods. Eliza complained thatit was terrible hot in summer, but Catherinewas wont to say it was lovely and warm inwinter.Eliza was sewing patchwork, not becauseit was needed but simply as a protest againstthe frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting.Eliza listened with a frown and Catherinewith a smile, as the girls explained their errand.To be sure, whenever Catherine caughtEliza’s eye she discarded the smile in guiltyconfusion; but it crept back the next moment.“If I had money to waste,” said Elizagrimly, “I’d burn it up and have the fun ofseeing a blaze maybe; but I wouldn’t give itto that hall, not a cent. It’s no benefit tothe settlement—just a place for young folks tomeet and carry on when they’s better be homein their beds.”“Oh, Eliza, young folks must have someamusement,” protested Catherine.“I don’t see the necessity. We didn’t gadabout to halls and places when we wereyoung, Catherine Andrews. This world is get-

66 Anne of Avonleating worse every day”“I think it’s getting better,” said Catherinefirmly.“You think!” Miss Eliza’s voice expressedthe utmost contempt. “It doesn’t signify whatyou think, Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts.”“Well, I always like to look on the brightside, Eliza.”“There isn’t any bright side.”“Oh, indeed there is,” cried Anne, whocouldn’t endure such heresy in silence. “Why,there are ever so many bright sides, Miss Andrews.It’s really a beautiful world.”“You won’t have such a high opinion of itwhen you’ve lived as long in it as I have,” retortedMiss Eliza sourly, “and you won’t be soenthusiastic about improving it either. Howis your mother, Diana? Dear me, but she hasfailed of late. She looks terrible run down.And how long is it before Marilla expects tobe stone blind, Anne?”“The doctor thinks her eyes will not get anyworse if she is very careful,” faltered Anne.Eliza shook her head.“Doctors always talk like that just to keeppeople cheered up. I wouldn’t have much hopeif I was her. It’s best to be prepared for theworst.”“But oughtn’t we be prepared for the besttoo?” pleaded Anne. “It’s just as likely to hap-

All Sorts and Conditions 67pen as the worst.”“Not in my experience, and I’ve fifty-sevenyears to set against your sixteen,” retortedEliza. “Going, are you? Well, I hope thisnew society of yours will be able to keep Avonleafrom running any further down hill but Ihaven’t much hope of it.”Anne and Diana got themselves thankfullyout, and drove away as fast as the fat ponycould go. As they rounded the curve belowthe beech wood a plump figure came speedingover Mr. Andrews’ pasture, waving to themexcitedly. It was Catherine Andrews and shewas so out of breath that she could hardlyspeak, but she thrust a couple of quarters intoAnne’s hand.“That’s my contribution to painting thehall,” she gasped. “I’d like to give you a dollarbut I don’t dare take more from my eggmoney for Eliza would find it out if I did. I’mreal interested in your society and I believeyou’re going to do a lot of good. I’m an optimist.I have to be, living with Eliza. I musthurry back before she misses me—she thinksI’m feeding the hens. I hope you’ll have goodluck canvassing, and don’t be cast down overwhat Eliza said. The world is getting better—it certainly is.”The next house was Daniel Blair’s.“Now, it all depends on whether his wife is

68 Anne of Avonleahome or not,” said Diana, as they jolted alonga deep-rutted lane. “If she is we won’t get acent. Everybody says Dan Blair doesn’t darehave his hair cut without asking her permission;and it’s certain she’s very close, to stateit moderately. She says she has to be just beforeshe’s generous. But Mrs. Lynde says she’sso much ‘before’ that generosity never catchesup with her at all.”Anne related their experience at the Blairplace to Marilla that evening.“We tied the horse and then rapped atthe kitchen door. Nobody came but the doorwas open and we could hear somebody in thepantry, going on dreadfully. We couldn’t makeout the words but Diana says she knows theywere swearing by the sound of them. I can’tbelieve that of Mr. Blair, for he is always soquiet and meek; but at least he had greatprovocation, for Marilla, when that poor mancame to the door, red as a beet, with perspirationstreaming down his face, he had on oneof his wife’s big gingham aprons. ‘I can’t getthis durned thing off,’ he said, ‘for the stringsare tied in a hard knot and I can’t bust ’em, soyou’ll have to excuse me, ladies.’ We beggedhim not to mention it and went in and satdown. Mr. Blair sat down too; he twisted theapron around to his back and rolled it up, buthe did look so ashamed and worried that I

All Sorts and Conditions 69felt sorry for him, and Diana said she fearedwe had called at an inconvenient time. ‘Oh,not at all,’ said Mr. Blair, trying to smile—you know he is always very polite—‘I’m a littlebusy—getting ready to bake a cake as itwere. My wife got a telegram today that hersister from Montreal is coming tonight andshe’s gone to the train to meet her and left ordersfor me to make a cake for tea. She writout the recipe and told me what to do but I’veclean forgot half the directions already. And itsays, “flavor according to taste.” What doesthat mean? How can you tell? And whatif my taste doesn’t happen to be other people’staste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla beenough for a small layer cake?”“I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man.He didn’t seem to be in his proper sphere atall. I had heard of henpecked husbands andnow I felt that I saw one. It was on my lips tosay, ‘Mr. Blair, if you’ll give us a subscriptionfor the hall I’ll mix up your cake for you.’ But Isuddenly thought it wouldn’t be neighborly todrive too sharp a bargain with a fellow creaturein distress. So I offered to mix the cakefor him without any conditions at all. He justjumped at my offer. He said he’d been usedto making his own bread before he was marriedbut he feared cake was beyond him, andyet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got me

70 Anne of Avonleaanother apron, and Diana beat the eggs and Imixed the cake. Mr. Blair ran about and gotus the materials. He had forgotten all abouthis apron and when he ran it streamed outbehind him and Diana said she thought shewould die to see it. He said he could bake thecake all right—he was used to that—and thenhe asked for our list and he put down four dollars.So you see we were rewarded. But evenif he hadn’t given a cent I’d always feel thatwe had done a truly Christian act in helpinghim.”Theodore White’s was the next stoppingplace. Neither Anne nor Diana had ever beenthere before, and they had only a very slightacquaintance with Mrs. Theodore, who wasnot given to hospitality. Should they go to theback or front door? While they held a whisperedconsultation Mrs. Theodore appeared atthe front door with an armful of newspapers.Deliberately she laid them down one by one onthe porch floor and the porch steps, and thendown the path to the very feet of her mystifiedcallers.“Will you please wipe your feet carefully onthe grass and then walk on these papers?” shesaid anxiously. “I’ve just swept the house allover and I can’t have any more dust trackedin. The path’s been real muddy since the rainyesterday.”

All Sorts and Conditions 71“Don’t you dare laugh,” warned Anne in awhisper, as they marched along the newspapers.“And I implore you, Diana, not to look atme, no matter what she says, or I shall not beable to keep a sober face.”The papers extended across the hall andinto a prim, fleckless parlor. Anne and Dianasat down gingerly on the nearest chairsand explained their errand. Mrs. White heardthem politely, interrupting only twice, onceto chase out an adventurous fly, and once topick up a tiny wisp of grass that had fallenon the carpet from Anne’s dress. Anne feltwretchedly guilty; but Mrs. White subscribedtwo dollars and paid the money down—“toprevent us from having to go back for it,” Dianasaid when they got away. Mrs. White hadthe newspapers gathered up before they hadtheir horse untied and as they drove out of theyard they saw her busily wielding a broom inthe hall.“I’ve always heard that Mrs. TheodoreWhite was the neatest woman alive and I’llbelieve it after this,” said Diana, giving wayto her suppressed laughter as soon as it wassafe.“I am glad she has no children,” said Annesolemnly. “It would be dreadful beyond wordsfor them if she had.”At the Spencers’ Mrs. Isabella Spencer

72 Anne of Avonleamade them miserable by saying somethingill-natured about everyone in Avonlea. Mr.Thomas Boulter refused to give anything becausethe hall, when it had been built, twentyyears before, hadn’t been built on the site herecommended. Mrs. Esther Bell, who was thepicture of health, took half an hour to detailall her aches and pains, and sadly put downfifty cents because she wouldn’t be there thattime next year to do it—no, she would be inher grave.Their worst reception, however, was at SimonFletcher’s. When they drove into theyard they saw two faces peering at themthrough the porch window. But although theyrapped and waited patiently and persistentlynobody came to the door. Two decidedly ruffledand indignant girls drove away from SimonFletcher’s. Even Anne admitted that shewas beginning to feel discouraged. But thetide turned after that. Several Sloane homesteadscame next, where they got liberal subscriptions,and from that to the end they faredwell, with only an occasional snub. Their lastplace of call was at Robert Dickson’s by thepond bridge. They stayed to tea here, althoughthey were nearly home, rather thanrisk offending Mrs. Dickson, who had the reputationof being a very “touchy” woman.While they were there old Mrs. James

All Sorts and Conditions 73White called in.“I’ve just been down to Lorenzo’s,” she announced.“He’s the proudest man in Avonleathis minute. What do you think? There’s abrand new boy there—and after seven girlsthat’s quite an event, I can tell you.” Annepricked up her ears, and when they droveaway she said.“I’m going straight to Lorenzo White’s.”“But he lives on the White Sands road andit’s quite a distance out of our, way” protestedDiana. “Gilbert and Fred will canvass him.”“They are not going around until next Saturdayand it will be too late by then,” saidAnne firmly. “The novelty will be worn off.Lorenzo White is dreadfully mean but he willsubscribe to anything just now. We mustn’t letsuch a golden opportunity slip, Diana.” Theresult justified Anne’s foresight. Mr. Whitemet them in the yard, beaming like the sunupon an Easter day. When Anne asked for asubscription he agreed enthusiastically.“Certain, certain. Just put me down fora dollar more than the highest subscriptionyou’ve got.”“That will be five dollars—Mr. Daniel Blairput down four,” said Anne, half afraid. ButLorenzo did not flinch.“Five it is—and here’s the money on thespot. Now, I want you to come into the house.

74 Anne of AvonleaThere’s something in there worth seeing—something very few people have seen as yet.Just come in and pass your opinion.”“What will we say if the baby isn’t pretty?”whispered Diana in trepidation as they followedthe excited Lorenzo into the house.“Oh, there will certainly be something elsenice to say about it,” said Anne easily. “Therealways is about a baby.”The baby was pretty, however, and Mr.White felt that he got his five dollars’ worthof the girls’ honest delight over the plump littlenewcomer. But that was the first, last, andonly time that Lorenzo White ever subscribedto anything.Anne, tired as she was, made one more effortfor the public weal that night, slippingover the fields to interview Mr. Harrison, whowas as usual smoking his pipe on the verandawith Ginger beside him. Strickly speaking hewas on the Carmody road; but Jane and Gertie,who were not acquainted with him save bydoubtful report, had nervously begged Anneto canvass him.Mr. Harrison, however, flatly refused tosubscribe a cent, and all Anne’s wiles were invain.“But I thought you approved of our society,Mr. Harrison,” she mourned.“So I do—so I do—but my approval doesn’t

All Sorts and Conditions 75go as deep as my pocket, Anne.”“A few more experiences such as I have hadtoday would make me as much of a pessimistas Miss Eliza Andrews,” Anne told her reflectionin the east gable mirror at bedtime.

76 Anne of Avonlea

VII. The Pointingof DutyAnne leaned back in her chair one mild Octoberevening and sighed. She was sitting ata table covered with text books and exercises,but the closely written sheets of paper beforeher had no apparent connection with studiesor school work.“What is the matter?” asked Gilbert, whohad arrived at the open kitchen door just intime to hear the sigh.Anne colored, and thrust her writing out ofsight under some school compositions.“Nothing very dreadful. I was just tryingto write out some of my thoughts, as ProfessorHamilton advised me, but I couldn’t get themto please me. They seem so still and foolishdirectly they’re written down on white paperwith black ink. Fancies are like shadows—youcan’t cage them, they’re such wayward, dancingthings. But perhaps I’ll learn the secret77

78 Anne of Avonleasome day if I keep on trying. I haven’t a greatmany spare moments, you know. By the timeI finish correcting school exercises and compositions,I don’t always feel like writing any ofmy own.”“You are getting on splendidly in school,Anne. All the children like you,” said Gilbert,sitting down on the stone step.“No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn’t andwon’t like me. What is worse, he doesn’t respectme—no, he doesn’t. He simply holds mein contempt and I don’t mind confessing to youthat it worries me miserably. It isn’t that heis so very bad—he is only rather mischievous,but no worse than some of the others. He seldomdisobeys me; but he obeys with a scornfulair of toleration as if it wasn’t worthwhiledisputing the point or he would—and it has abad effect on the others. I’ve tried every wayto win him but I’m beginning to fear I nevershall. I want to, for he’s rather a cute littlelad, if he is a Pye, and I could like him if he’dlet me.”“Probably it’s merely the effect of what hehears at home.”“Not altogether. Anthony is an independentlittle chap and makes up his own mindabout things. He has always gone to men beforeand he says girl teachers are no good.Well, we’ll see what patience and kindness

The Pointing of Duty 79will do. I like overcoming difficulties andteaching is really very interesting work. PaulIrving makes up for all that is lacking in theothers. That child is a perfect darling, Gilbert,and a genius into the bargain. I’m persuadedthe world will hear of him some day,” concludedAnne in a tone of conviction.“I like teaching, too,” said Gilbert. “It’sgood training, for one thing. Why, Anne, I’velearned more in the weeks I’ve been teachingthe young the ideas of White Sands than Ilearned in all the years I went to school myself.We all seem to be getting on pretty well.The Newbridge people like Jane, I hear; and Ithink White Sands is tolerably satisfied withyour humble servant—all except Mr. AndrewSpencer. I met Mrs. Peter Blewett on my wayhome last night and she told me she thought ither duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn’tapprove of my methods.”“Have you ever noticed,” asked Anne reflectively,“that when people say it is theirduty to tell you a certain thing you may preparefor something disagreeable? Why is itthat they never seem to think it a duty to tellyou the pleasant things they hear about you?Mrs. H. B. Donnell called at the school againyesterday and told me she thought it her dutyto inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrew didn’tapprove of my reading fairy tales to the chil-

80 Anne of Avonleadren, and that Mr. Rogerson thought Prilliewasn’t coming on fast enough in arithmetic.If Prillie would spend less time making eyesat the boys over her slate she might do better.I feel quite sure that Jack Gillis worksher class sums for her, though I’ve never beenable to catch him red-handed.”“Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs.Donnell’s hopeful son to his saintly name?”“Yes,” laughed Anne, “but it was really adifficult task. At first, when I called him ‘St.Clair’ he would not take the least notice untilI’d spoken two or three times; and then, whenthe other boys nudged him, he would look upwith such an aggrieved air, as if I’d called himJohn or Charlie and he couldn’t be expectedto know I meant him. So I kept him in afterschool one night and talked kindly to him.I told him his mother wished me to call himSt. Clair and I couldn’t go against her wishes.He saw it when it was all explained out—he’sreally a very reasonable little fellow—and hesaid I could call him St. Clair but that he’d‘lick the stuffing’ out of any of the boys thattried it. Of course, I had to rebuke him againfor using such shocking language. Since thenI call him St. Clair and the boys call him Jakeand all goes smoothly. He informs me thathe means to be a carpenter, but Mrs. Donnellsays I am to make a college professor out of

The Pointing of Duty 81him.”The mention of college gave a new directionto Gilbert’s thoughts, and they talkedfor a time of their plans and wishes—gravely,earnestly, hopefully, as youth loves to talk,while the future is yet an untrodden path fullof wonderful possibilities.Gilbert had finally made up his mind thathe was going to be a doctor.“It’s a splendid profession,” he said enthusiastically.“A fellow has to fight somethingall through life—didn’t somebody oncedefine man as a fighting animal?—and I wantto fight disease and pain and ignorance—which are all members one of another. I wantto do my share of honest, real work in theworld, Anne—add a little to the sum of humanknowledge that all the good men havebeen accumulating since it began. The folkswho lived before me have done so much forme that I want to show my gratitude by doingsomething for the folks who will live afterme. It seems to me that is the only way a fellowcan get square with his obligations to therace.”“I’d like to add some beauty to life,” saidAnne dreamily. “I don’t exactly want to makepeople know more—though I know that isthe noblest ambition—but I’d love to makethem have a pleasanter time because of me—

82 Anne of Avonleato have some little joy or happy thought thatwould never have existed if I hadn’t beenborn.”“I think you’re fulfilling that ambition everyday,” said Gilbert admiringly.And he was right. Anne was one of thechildren of light by birthright. After she hadpassed through a life with a smile or a wordthrown across it like a gleam of sunshine theowner of that life saw it, for the time being atleast, as hopeful and lovely and of good report.Finally Gilbert rose regretfully.“Well, I must run up to MacPhersons’.Moody Spurgeon came home from Queen’s todayfor Sunday and he was to bring me out abook Professor Boyd is lending me.”“And I must get Marilla’s tea. She went tosee Mrs. Keith this evening and she will soonbe back.”Anne had tea ready when Marilla camehome; the fire was crackling cheerily, a vaseof frost-bleached ferns and ruby-red mapleleaves adorned the table, and delectable odorsof ham and toast pervaded the air. But Marillasank into her chair with a deep sigh.“Are your eyes troubling you? Does yourhead ache?” queried Anne anxiously.“No. I’m only tired—and worried. It’sabout Mary and those children—Mary isworse—she can’t last much longer. And as for

The Pointing of Duty 83the twins, I don’t know what is to become ofthem.”“Hasn’t their uncle been heard from?”“Yes, Mary had a letter from him. He’sworking in a lumber camp and ‘shacking it,’whatever that means. Anyway, he says hecan’t possibly take the children till the spring.He expects to be married then and will havea home to take them to; but he says she mustget some of the neighbors to keep them for thewinter. She says she can’t bear to ask any ofthem. Mary never got on any too well withthe East Grafton people and that’s a fact. Andthe long and short of it is, Anne, that I’m sureMary wants me to take those children—shedidn’t say so but she looked it.”“Oh!” Anne clasped her hands, all athrillwith excitement. “And of course you will, Marilla,won’t you?”“I haven’t made up my mind,” said Marillarather tartly. “I don’t rush into things inyour headlong way, Anne. Third cousinship isa pretty slim claim. And it will be a fearful responsibilityto have two children of six yearsto look after—twins, at that.”Marilla had an idea that twins were justtwice as bad as single children.“Twins are very interesting—at least onepair of them,” said Anne. “It’s only when thereare two or three pairs that it gets monotonous.

84 Anne of AvonleaAnd I think it would be real nice for you tohave something to amuse you when I’m awayin school.”“I don’t reckon there’d be much amusementin it—more worry and bother than anythingelse, I should say. It wouldn’t be so riskyif they were even as old as you were when Itook you. I wouldn’t mind Dora so much—she seems good and quiet. But that Davy isa limb.”Anne was fond of children and her heartyearned over the Keith twins. The remembranceof her own neglected childhood wasvery vivid with her still. She knew that Marilla’sonly vulnerable point was her stern devotionto what she believed to be her duty, andAnne skillfully marshalled her argumentsalong this line.“If Davy is naughty it’s all the more reasonwhy he should have good training, isn’t it,Marilla? If we don’t take them we don’t knowwho will, nor what kind of influences may surroundthem. Suppose Mrs. Keith’s next doorneighbors, the Sprotts, were to take them.Mrs. Lynde says Henry Sprott is the most profaneman that ever lived and you can’t believea word his children say. Wouldn’t it be dreadfulto have the twins learn anything like that?Or suppose they went to the Wiggins’. Mrs.Lynde says that Mr. Wiggins sells everything

The Pointing of Duty 85off the place that can be sold and brings hisfamily up on skim milk. You wouldn’t likeyour relations to be starved, even if they wereonly third cousins, would you? It seems to me,Marilla, that it is our duty to take them.”“I suppose it is,” assented Marilla gloomily.“I daresay I’ll tell Mary I’ll take them. Youneedn’t look so delighted, Anne. It will meana good deal of extra work for you. I can’t sewa stitch on account of my eyes, so you’ll haveto see to the making and mending of theirclothes. And you don’t like sewing.”“I hate it,” said Anne calmly, “but if youare willing to take those children from a senseof duty surely I can do their sewing from asense of duty. It does people good to have todo things they don’t like—in moderation.”

86 Anne of Avonlea

VIII. MarillaAdopts TwinsMrs. Rachel Lynde was sitting at her kitchenwindow, knitting a quilt, just as she had beensitting one evening several years previouslywhen Matthew Cuthbert had driven downover the hill with what Mrs. Rachel called“his imported orphan.” But that had been inspringtime; and this was late autumn, andall the woods were leafless and the fields sereand brown. The sun was just setting with agreat deal of purple and golden pomp behindthe dark woods west of Avonlea when a buggydrawn by a comfortable brown nag came downthe hill. Mrs. Rachel peered at it eagerly.“There’s Marilla getting home from the funeral,”she said to her husband, who was lyingon the kitchen lounge. Thomas Lynde laymore on the lounge nowadays than he hadbeen used to do, but Mrs. Rachel, who wasso sharp at noticing anything beyond her own87

88 Anne of Avonleahousehold, had not as yet noticed this. “Andshe’s got the twins with her,—yes, there’sDavy leaning over the dashboard grabbing atthe pony’s tail and Marilla jerking him back.Dora’s sitting up on the seat as prim as youplease. She always looks as if she’d just beenstarched and ironed. Well, poor Marilla is goingto have her hands full this winter and nomistake. Still, I don’t see that she could doanything less than take them, under the circumstances,and she’ll have Anne to help her.Anne’s tickled to death over the whole business,and she has a real knacky way with children,I must say. Dear me, it doesn’t seema day since poor Matthew brought Anne herselfhome and everybody laughed at the ideaof Marilla bringing up a child. And now shehas adopted twins. You’re never safe from beingsurprised till you’re dead.”The fat pony jogged over the bridge inLynde’s Hollow and along the Green Gableslane. Marilla’s face was rather grim. It wasten miles from East Grafton and Davy Keithseemed to be possessed with a passion for perpetualmotion. It was beyond Marilla’s powerto make him sit still and she had been in anagony the whole way lest he fall over the backof the wagon and break his neck, or tumbleover the dashboard under the pony’s heels.In despair she finally threatened to whip him

Marilla Adopts Twins 89soundly when she got him home. WhereuponDavy climbed into her lap, regardless of thereins, flung his chubby arms about her neckand gave her a bear-like hug.“I don’t believe you mean it,” he said,smacking her wrinkled cheek affectionately.“You don’t look like a lady who’d whip a littleboy just ’cause he couldn’t keep still. Didn’tyou find it awful hard to keep still when youwas only ’s old as me?”“No, I always kept still when I was told,”said Marilla, trying to speak sternly, albeitshe felt her heart waxing soft within her underDavy’s impulsive caresses.“Well, I s’pose that was ’cause you was agirl,” said Davy, squirming back to his placeafter another hug. “You was a girl once, Is’pose, though it’s awful funny to think of it.Dora can sit still—but there ain’t much fun init I don’t think. Seems to me it must be slowto be a girl. Here, Dora, let me liven you up abit.”Davy’s method of “livening up” was tograsp Dora’s curls in his fingers and give thema tug. Dora shrieked and then cried.“How can you be such a naughty boy andyour poor mother just laid in her grave thisvery day?” demanded Marilla despairingly.“But she was glad to die,” said Davy confidentially.“I know, ’cause she told me so. She

90 Anne of Avonleawas awful tired of being sick. We’d a long talkthe night before she died. She told me you wasgoing to take me and Dora for the winter and Iwas to be a good boy. I’m going to be good, butcan’t you be good running round just as wellas sitting still? And she said I was always tobe kind to Dora and stand up for her, and I’mgoing to.”“Do you call pulling her hair being kind toher?”“Well, I ain’t going to let anybody else pullit,” said Davy, doubling up his fists and frowning.“They’d just better try it. I didn’t hurt hermuch—she just cried ’cause she’s a girl. I’mglad I’m a boy but I’m sorry I’m a twin. WhenJimmy Sprott’s sister conterdicks him he justsays, ‘I’m oldern you, so of course I know better,’and that settles her. But I can’t tell Dorathat, and she just goes on thinking diffruntfrom me. You might let me drive the gee-geefor a spell, since I’m a man.”Altogether, Marilla was a thankful womanwhen she drove into her own yard, wherethe wind of the autumn night was dancingwith the brown leaves. Anne was at the gateto meet them and lift the twins out. Dorasubmitted calmly to be kissed, but Davy respondedto Anne’s welcome with one of hishearty hugs and the cheerful announcement,“I’m Mr. Davy Keith.”

Marilla Adopts Twins 91At the supper table Dora behaved like a littlelady, but Davy’s manners left much to bedesired.“I’m so hungry I ain’t got time to eatp’litely,” he said when Marilla reproved him.“Dora ain’t half as hungry as I am. Look atall the ex’cise I took on the road here. Thatcake’s awful nice and plummy. We haven’thad any cake at home for ever’n ever so long,’cause mother was too sick to make it and Mrs.Sprott said it was as much as she could doto bake our bread for us. And Mrs. Wigginsnever puts any plums in her cakes. Catch her!Can I have another piece?”Marilla would have refused but Anne cut agenerous second slice. However, she remindedDavy that he ought to say “Thank you” for it.Davy merely grinned at her and took a hugebite. When he had finished the slice he said,“If you’ll give me another piece I’ll saythank you for it.”“No, you have had plenty of cake,” saidMarilla in a tone which Anne knew and Davywas to learn to be final.Davy winked at Anne, and then, leaningover the table, snatched Dora’s first pieceof cake, from which she had just taken onedainty little bite, out of her very fingersand, opening his mouth to the fullest extent,crammed the whole slice in. Dora’s lip trem-

92 Anne of Avonleabled and Marilla was speechless with horror.Anne promptly exclaimed, with her best“schoolma’am” air,“Oh, Davy, gentlemen don’t do things likethat.”“I know they don’t,” said Davy, as soon ashe could speak, “but I ain’t a gemplum.”“But don’t you want to be?” said shockedAnne.“Course I do. But you can’t be a gemplumtill you grow up.”“Oh, indeed you can,” Anne hastened tosay, thinking she saw a chance to sow goodseed betimes. “You can begin to be a gentlemanwhen you are a little boy. And gentlemennever snatch things from ladies—or forget tosay thank you—or pull anybody’s hair.”“They don’t have much fun, that’s a fact,”said Davy frankly. “I guess I’ll wait till I’mgrown up to be one.”Marilla, with a resigned air, had cut anotherpiece of cake for Dora. She did not feelable to cope with Davy just then. It had beena hard day for her, what with the funeral andthe long drive. At that moment she lookedforward to the future with a pessimism thatwould have done credit to Eliza Andrews herself.The twins were not noticeably alike, althoughboth were fair. Dora had long sleek

Marilla Adopts Twins 93curls that never got out of order. Davy hada crop of fuzzy little yellow ringlets all overhis round head. Dora’s hazel eyes were gentleand mild; Davy’s were as roguish and dancingas an elf’s. Dora’s nose was straight, Davy’s apositive snub; Dora had a “prunes and prisms”mouth, Davy’s was all smiles; and besides, hehad a dimple in one cheek and none in theother, which gave him a dear, comical, lopsidedlook when he laughed. Mirth and mischieflurked in every corner of his little face.“They’d better go to bed,” said Marilla, whothought it was the easiest way to dispose ofthem. “Dora will sleep with me and you canput Davy in the west gable. You’re not afraidto sleep alone, are you, Davy?”“No; but I ain’t going to bed for ever so longyet,” said Davy comfortably.“Oh, yes, you are.” That was all the muchtriedMarilla said, but something in her tonesquelched even Davy. He trotted obedientlyupstairs with Anne.”“When I’m grown up the very first thingI’m going to do is stay up all night just to seewhat it would be like,” he told her confidentially.In after years Marilla never thought ofthat first week of the twins’ sojourn at GreenGables without a shiver. Not that it really wasso much worse than the weeks that followed

94 Anne of Avonleait; but it seemed so by reason of its novelty.There was seldom a waking minute of any daywhen Davy was not in mischief or devising it;but his first notable exploit occurred two daysafter his arrival, on Sunday morning—a fine,warm day, as hazy and mild as September.Anne dressed him for church while Marilla attendedto Dora. Davy at first objected stronglyto having his face washed.“Marilla washed it yesterday—and Mrs.Wiggins scoured me with hard soap the dayof the funeral. That’s enough for one week. Idon’t see the good of being so awful clean. It’slots more comfable being dirty.”“Paul Irving washes his face every day ofhis own accord,” said Anne astutely.Davy had been an inmate of Green Gablesfor little over forty-eight hours; but he alreadyworshipped Anne and hated Paul Irving,whom he had heard Anne praising enthusiasticallythe day after his arrival. If PaulIrving washed his face every day, that settledit. He, Davy Keith, would do it too, if it killedhim. The same consideration induced him tosubmit meekly to the other details of his toilet,and he was really a handsome little ladwhen all was done. Anne felt an almost maternalpride in him as she led him into the oldCuthbert pew.Davy behaved quite well at first, being oc-

Marilla Adopts Twins 95cupied in casting covert glances at all thesmall boys within view and wondering whichwas Paul Irving. The first two hymns and theScripture reading passed off uneventfully. Mr.Allan was praying when the sensation came.Lauretta White was sitting in front ofDavy, her head slightly bent and her fair hairhanging in two long braids, between which atempting expanse of white neck showed, encasedin a loose lace frill. Lauretta was afat, placid-looking child of eight, who had conductedherself irreproachably in church fromthe very first day her mother carried herthere, an infant of six months.Davy thrust his hand into his pocket andproduced . . . a caterpillar, a furry, squirmingcaterpillar. Marilla saw and clutched at himbut she was too late. Davy dropped the caterpillardown Lauretta’s neck.Right into the middle of Mr. Allan’s prayerburst a series of piercing shrieks. The ministerstopped appalled and opened his eyes. Everyhead in the congregation flew up. LaurettaWhite was dancing up and down in herpew, clutching frantically at the back of herdress.“Ow — mommer — mommer — ow — takeit off — ow — get it out — ow — that bad boyput it down my neck — ow — mommer — it’sgoing further down — ow — ow — ow —.”

96 Anne of AvonleaMrs. White rose and with a set face carriedthe hysterical, writhing Lauretta out ofchurch. Her shrieks died away in the distanceand Mr. Allan proceeded with the service. Buteverybody felt that it was a failure that day.For the first time in her life Marilla took nonotice of the text and Anne sat with scarletcheeks of mortification.When they got home Marilla put Davy tobed and made him stay there for the rest ofthe day. She would not give him any dinnerbut allowed him a plain tea of bread and milk.Anne carried it to him and sat sorrowfully byhim while he ate it with an unrepentant relish.But Anne’s mournful eyes troubled him.“I s’pose,” he said reflectively, “that PaulIrving wouldn’t have dropped a caterpillardown a girl’s neck in church, would he?”“Indeed he wouldn’t,” said Anne sadly.“Well, I’m kind of sorry I did it, then,”conceded Davy. “But it was such a jolly bigcaterpillar—I picked him up on the churchsteps just as we went in. It seemed a pity towaste him. And say, wasn’t it fun to hear thatgirl yell?”Tuesday afternoon the Aid Society metat Green Gables. Anne hurried home fromschool, for she knew that Marilla would needall the assistance she could give. Dora, neatand proper, in her nicely starched white dress

Marilla Adopts Twins 97and black sash, was sitting with the membersof the Aid in the parlor, speaking demurelywhen spoken to, keeping silence whennot, and in every way comporting herself as amodel child. Davy, blissfully dirty, was makingmud pies in the barnyard.“I told him he might,” said Marilla wearily.“I thought it would keep him out of worse mischief.He can only get dirty at that. We’ll haveour teas over before we call him to his. Doracan have hers with us, but I would never dareto let Davy sit down at the table with all theAids here.”When Anne went to call the Aids to tea shefound that Dora was not in the parlor. Mrs.Jasper Bell said Davy had come to the frontdoor and called her out. A hasty consultationwith Marilla in the pantry resulted in a decisionto let both children have their teas togetherlater on.Tea was half over when the dining roomwas invaded by a forlorn figure. Marilla andAnne stared in dismay, the Aids in amazement.Could that be Dora—that sobbing nondescriptin a drenched, dripping dress andhair from which the water was streaming onMarilla’s new coin-spot rug?“Dora, what has happened to you?” criedAnne, with a guilty glance at Mrs. Jasper Bell,whose family was said to be the only one in the

98 Anne of Avonleaworld in which accidents never occurred.“Davy made me walk the pigpen fence,”wailed Dora. “I didn’t want to but he calledme a fraid-cat. And I fell off into the pigpenand my dress got all dirty and the pig runnedright over me. My dress was just awful butDavy said if I’d stand under the pump he’dwash it clean, and I did and he pumped waterall over me but my dress ain’t a bit cleanerand my pretty sash and shoes is all spoiled.”Anne did the honors of the table alone forthe rest of the meal while Marilla went upstairsand redressed Dora in her old clothes.Davy was caught and sent to bed without anysupper. Anne went to his room at twilight andtalked to him seriously—a method in whichshe had great faith, not altogether unjustifiedby results. She told him she felt very badlyover his conduct.“I feel sorry now myself,” admitted Davy,“but the trouble is I never feel sorry for doingthings till after I’ve did them. Dora wouldn’thelp me make pies, cause she was afraid ofmessing her clo’es and that made me hoppingmad. I s’pose Paul Irving wouldn’t have madehis sister walk a pigpen fence if he knew she’dfall in?”“No, he would never dream of such a thing.Paul is a perfect little gentleman.”Davy screwed his eyes tight shut and

Marilla Adopts Twins 99seemed to meditate on this for a time. Thenhe crawled up and put his arms about Anne’sneck, snuggling his flushed little face down onher shoulder.“Anne, don’t you like me a little bit, even ifI ain’t a good boy like Paul?”“Indeed I do,” said Anne sincerely. Somehow,it was impossible to help liking Davy.“But I’d like you better still if you weren’t sonaughty.”“I—did something else today,” went onDavy in a muffled voice. “I’m sorry now butI’m awful scared to tell you. You won’t be verycross, will you? And you won’t tell Marilla,will you?”“I don’t know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to tellher. But I think I can promise you I won’tif you promise me that you will never do itagain, whatever it is.”“No, I never will. Anyhow, it’s not likely I’dfind any more of them this year. I found thisone on the cellar steps.”“Davy, what is it you’ve done?”“I put a toad in Marilla’s bed. You can goand take it out if you like. But say, Anne,wouldn’t it be fun to leave it there?”“Davy Keith!” Anne sprang from Davy’sclinging arms and flew across the hall to Marilla’sroom. The bed was slightly rumpled. Shethrew back the blankets in nervous haste and

100 Anne of Avonleathere in very truth was the toad, blinking ather from under a pillow.“How can I carry that awful thing out?”moaned Anne with a shudder. The fire shovelsuggested itself to her and she crept down toget it while Marilla was busy in the pantry.Anne had her own troubles carrying that toaddownstairs, for it hopped off the shovel threetimes and once she thought she had lost it inthe hall. When she finally deposited it in thecherry orchard she drew a long breath of relief.“If Marilla knew she’d never feel safe gettinginto bed again in her life. I’m so glad thatlittle sinner repented in time. There’s Dianasignaling to me from her window. I’m glad—Ireally feel the need of some diversion, for whatwith Anthony Pye in school and Davy Keith athome my nerves have had about all they canendure for one day.”

IX. A Question ofColor“That old nuisance of a Rachel Lynde was hereagain today, pestering me for a subscriptiontowards buying a carpet for the vestry room,”said Mr. Harrison wrathfully. “I detest thatwoman more than anybody I know. She canput a whole sermon, text, comment, and application,into six words, and throw it at youlike a brick.”Anne, who was perched on the edge of theveranda, enjoying the charm of a mild westwind blowing across a newly ploughed fieldon a gray November twilight and piping aquaint little melody among the twisted firs belowthe garden, turned her dreamy face overher shoulder.“The trouble is, you and Mrs. Lyndedon’t understand one another,” she explained.“That is always what is wrong when peopledon’t like each other. I didn’t like Mrs. Lynde101

102 Anne of Avonleaat first either; but as soon as I came to understandher I learned to.”“Mrs. Lynde may be an acquired taste withsome folks; but I didn’t keep on eating bananasbecause I was told I’d learn to like themif I did,” growled Mr. Harrison. “And as forunderstanding her, I understand that she is aconfirmed busybody and I told her so.”“Oh, that must have hurt her feelings verymuch,” said Anne reproachfully. “How couldyou say such a thing? I said some dreadfulthings to Mrs. Lynde long ago but it was whenI had lost my temper. I couldn’t say them deliberately.”“It was the truth and I believe in tellingthe truth to everybody.”“But you don’t tell the whole truth,” objectedAnne. “You only tell the disagreeablepart of the truth. Now, you’ve told me a dozentimes that my hair was red, but you’ve neveronce told me that I had a nice nose.”“I daresay you know it without anytelling,” chuckled Mr. Harrison.“I know I have red hair too—although it’smuch darker than it used to be—so there’s noneed of telling me that either.”“Well, well, I’ll try and not mention it againsince you’re so sensitive. You must excuse me,Anne. I’ve got a habit of being outspoken andfolks mustn’t mind it.”

A Question of Color 103“But they can’t help minding it. And I don’tthink it’s any help that it’s your habit. Whatwould you think of a person who went aboutsticking pins and needles into people and saying,‘Excuse me, you mustn’t mind it—it’s justa habit I’ve got.’ You’d think he was crazy,wouldn’t you? And as for Mrs. Lynde being abusybody, perhaps she is. But did you tell hershe had a very kind heart and always helpedthe poor, and never said a word when TimothyCotton stole a crock of butter out of her dairyand told his wife he’d bought it from her? Mrs.Cotton cast it up to her the next time they metthat it tasted of turnips and Mrs. Lynde justsaid she was sorry it had turned out so poorly.”“I suppose she has some good qualities,”conceded Mr. Harrison grudgingly. “Mostfolks have. I have some myself, though youmight never suspect it. But anyhow I ain’t goingto give anything to that carpet. Folks areeverlasting begging for money here, it seemsto me. How’s your project of painting the hallcoming on?”“Splendidly. We had a meeting of theA.V.I.S. last Friday night and found that wehad plenty of money subscribed to paint thehall and shingle the roof too. Most people gavevery liberally, Mr. Harrison.”Anne was a sweet-souled lass, but shecould instill some venom into innocent italics

104 Anne of Avonleawhen occasion required.“What color are you going to have it?”“We have decided on a very pretty green.The roof will be dark red, of course. Mr. RogerPye is going to get the paint in town today.”“Who’s got the job?”“Mr. Joshua Pye of Carmody. He hasnearly finished the shingling. We had to givehim the contract, for every one of the Pyes—and there are four families, you know—saidthey wouldn’t give a cent unless Joshua got it.They had subscribed twelve dollars betweenthem and we thought that was too much tolose, although some people think we shouldn’thave given in to the Pyes. Mrs. Lynde saysthey try to run everything.”“The main question is will this Joshua dohis work well. If he does I don’t see that itmatters whether his name is Pye or Pudding.”“He has the reputation of being a goodworkman, though they say he’s a very peculiarman. He hardly ever talks.”“He’s peculiar enough all right then,” saidMr. Harrison drily. “Or at least, folks here willcall him so. I never was much of a talker tillI came to Avonlea and then I had to begin inself-defense or Mrs. Lynde would have said Iwas dumb and started a subscription to haveme taught sign language. You’re not going yet,Anne?”

A Question of Color 105“I must. I have some sewing to do for Dorathis evening. Besides, Davy is probably breakingMarilla’s heart with some new mischiefby this time. This morning the first thing hesaid was, ‘Where does the dark go, Anne? Iwant to know.’ I told him it went around tothe other side of the world but after breakfasthe declared it didn’t—that it went downthe well. Marilla says she caught him hangingover the well-box four times today, tryingto reach down to the dark.”“He’s a limb,” declared Mr. Harrison. “Hecame over here yesterday and pulled six feathersout of Ginger’s tail before I could get infrom the barn. The poor bird has been mopingever since. Those children must be a sight oftrouble to you folks.”“Everything that’s worth having is sometrouble,” said Anne, secretly resolving to forgiveDavy’s next offence, whatever it might be,since he had avenged her on Ginger.Mr. Roger Pye brought the hall paint homethat night and Mr. Joshua Pye, a surly, taciturnman, began painting the next day. Hewas not disturbed in his task. The hall wassituated on what was called “the lower road.”In late autumn this road was always muddyand wet, and people going to Carmody traveledby the longer “upper” road. The hall wasso closely surrounded by fir woods that it was

106 Anne of Avonleainvisible unless you were near it. Mr. JoshuaPye painted away in the solitude and independencethat were so dear to his unsociableheart.Friday afternoon he finished his job andwent home to Carmody. Soon after his departureMrs. Rachel Lynde drove by, havingbraved the mud of the lower road out of curiosityto see what the hall looked like in its newcoat of paint. When she rounded the sprucecurve she saw.The sight affected Mrs. Lynde oddly. Shedropped the reins, held up her hands, and said“Gracious Providence!” She stared as if shecould not believe her eyes. Then she laughedalmost hysterically.“There must be some mistake—theremust. I knew those Pyes would make a messof things.”Mrs. Lynde drove home, meeting severalpeople on the road and stopping to tell themabout the hall. The news flew like wildfire.Gilbert Blythe, poring over a text book athome, heard it from his father’s hired boyat sunset, and rushed breathlessly to GreenGables, joined on the way by Fred Wright.They found Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, andAnne Shirley, despair personified, at the yardgate of Green Gables, under the big leaflesswillows.

A Question of Color 107“It isn’t true surely, Anne?” exclaimedGilbert.“It is true,” answered Anne, looking likethe muse of tragedy. “Mrs. Lynde called onher way from Carmody to tell me. Oh, it issimply dreadful! What is the use of trying toimprove anything?”“What is dreadful?” asked Oliver Sloane,arriving at this moment with a bandbox hehad brought from town for Marilla.“Haven’t you heard?” said Jane wrathfully.“Well, its simply this—Joshua Pye has goneand painted the hall blue instead of green—a deep, brilliant blue, the shade they use forpainting carts and wheelbarrows. And Mrs.Lynde says it is the most hideous color for abuilding, especially when combined with a redroof, that she ever saw or imagined. You couldsimply have knocked me down with a featherwhen I heard it. It’s heartbreaking, after allthe trouble we’ve had.”“How on earth could such a mistake havehappened?” wailed Diana.The blame of this unmerciful disaster waseventually narrowed down to the Pyes. TheImprovers had decided to use Morton-Harrispaints and the Morton-Harris paint cans werenumbered according to a color card. A purchaserchose his shade on the card and orderedby the accompanying number. Number

108 Anne of Avonlea147 was the shade of green desired and whenMr. Roger Pye sent word to the Improvers byhis son, John Andrew, that he was going totown and would get their paint for them, theImprovers told John Andrew to tell his fatherto get 147. John Andrew always averred thathe did so, but Mr. Roger Pye as stanchly declaredthat John Andrew told him 157; andthere the matter stands to this day.That night there was blank dismay in everyAvonlea house where an Improver lived.The gloom at Green Gables was so intensethat it quenched even Davy. Anne wept andwould not be comforted.“I must cry, even if I am almost seventeen,Marilla,” she sobbed. “It is so mortifying. Andit sounds the death knell of our society. We’llsimply be laughed out of existence.”In life, as in dreams, however, things oftengo by contraries. The Avonlea people did notlaugh; they were too angry. Their money hadgone to paint the hall and consequently theyfelt themselves bitterly aggrieved by the mistake.Public indignation centered on the Pyes.Roger Pye and John Andrew had bungled thematter between them; and as for Joshua Pye,he must be a born fool not to suspect there wassomething wrong when he opened the cansand saw the color of the paint. Joshua Pye,when thus animadverted upon, retorted that

A Question of Color 109the Avonlea taste in colors was no business ofhis, whatever his private opinion might be; hehad been hired to paint the hall, not to talkabout it; and he meant to have his money forit.The Improvers paid him his money in bitternessof spirit, after consulting Mr. PeterSloane, who was a magistrate.“You’ll have to pay it,” Peter told him. “Youcan’t hold him responsible for the mistake,since he claims he was never told what thecolor was supposed to be but just given thecans and told to go ahead. But it’s a burningshame and that hall certainly does lookawful.”The luckless Improvers expected thatAvonlea would be more prejudiced than everagainst them; but instead, public sympathyveered around in their favor. People thoughtthe eager, enthusiastic little band who hadworked so hard for their object had been badlyused. Mrs. Lynde told them to keep on andshow the Pyes that there really were peoplein the world who could do things without makinga muddle of them. Mr. Major Spencer sentthem word that he would clean out all thestumps along the road front of his farm andseed it down with grass at his own expense;and Mrs. Hiram Sloane called at the schoolone day and beckoned Anne mysteriously out

110 Anne of Avonleainto the porch to tell her that if the “Sassiety”wanted to make a geranium bed at the crossroadsin the spring they needn’t be afraid ofher cow, for she would see that the maraudinganimal was kept within safe bounds. EvenMr. Harrison chuckled, if he chuckled at all, inprivate, and was all sympathy outwardly.“Never mind, Anne. Most paints fadeuglier every year but that blue is as ugly asit can be to begin with, so it’s bound to fadeprettier. And the roof is shingled and paintedall right. Folks will be able to sit in the hallafter this without being leaked on. You’ve accomplishedso much anyhow.”“But Avonlea’s blue hall will be a bywordin all the neighboring settlements from thistime out,” said Anne bitterly.And it must be confessed that it was.

X. Davy in Searchof a SensationAnne, walking home from school through theBirch Path one November afternoon, felt convincedafresh that life was a very wonderfulthing. The day had been a good day; all hadgone well in her little kingdom. St. Clair Donnellhad not fought any of the other boys overthe question of his name; Prillie Rogerson’sface had been so puffed up from the effects oftoothache that she did not once try to coquettewith the boys in her vicinity. Barbara Shawhad met with only one accident—spilling adipper of water over the floor—and AnthonyPye had not been in school at all.“What a nice month this November hasbeen!” said Anne, who had never quite gotover her childish habit of talking to herself.“November is usually such a disagreeablemonth—as if the year had suddenly found outthat she was growing old and could do nothing111

112 Anne of Avonleabut weep and fret over it. This year is growingold gracefully—just like a stately old ladywho knows she can be charming even withgray hair and wrinkles. We’ve had lovely daysand delicious twilights. This last fortnight hasbeen so peaceful, and even Davy has been almostwell-behaved. I really think he is improvinga great deal. How quiet the woods aretoday—not a murmur except that soft windpurring in the treetops! It sounds like surfon a faraway shore. How dear the woods are!You beautiful trees! I love every one of you asa friend.”Anne paused to throw her arm about aslim young birch and kiss its cream-whitetrunk. Diana, rounding a curve in the path,saw her and laughed.“Anne Shirley, you’re only pretending to begrown up. I believe when you’re alone you’reas much a little girl as you ever were.”“Well, one can’t get over the habit of beinga little girl all at once,” said Anne gaily. “Yousee, I was little for fourteen years and I’veonly been grown-uppish for scarcely three. I’msure I shall always feel like a child in thewoods. These walks home from school arealmost the only time I have for dreaming—except the half-hour or so before I go to sleep.I’m so busy with teaching and studying andhelping Marilla with the twins that I haven’t

Davy in Search of a Sensation 113another moment for imagining things. Youdon’t know what splendid adventures I havefor a little while after I go to bed in theeast gable every night. I always imagineI’m something very brilliant and triumphantand splendid—a great prima donna or a RedCross nurse or a queen. Last night I was aqueen. It’s really splendid to imagine you area queen. You have all the fun of it withoutany of the inconveniences and you can stopbeing a queen whenever you want to, whichyou couldn’t in real life. But here in the woodsI like best to imagine quite different things—I’m a dryad living in an old pine, or a littlebrown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf.That white birch you caught me kissing is asister of mine. The only difference is, she’s atree and I’m a girl, but that’s no real difference.Where are you going, Diana?”“Down to the Dicksons. I promised to helpAlberta cut out her new dress. Can’t you walkdown in the evening, Anne, and come homewith me?”“I might—since Fred Wright is away intown,” said Anne with a rather too innocentface.Diana blushed, tossed her head, andwalked on. She did not look offended, however.Anne fully intended to go down to the Dick-

114 Anne of Avonleasons’ that evening, but she did not. Whenshe arrived at Green Gables she found a stateof affairs which banished every other thoughtfrom her mind. Marilla met her in the yard—a wild-eyed Marilla.“Anne, Dora is lost!”“Dora! Lost!” Anne looked at Davy, whowas swinging on the yard gate, and detectedmerriment in his eyes. “Davy, do you knowwhere she is?”“No, I don’t,” said Davy stoutly. “I haven’tseen her since dinner time, cross my heart.”“I’ve been away ever since one o’clock,” saidMarilla. “Thomas Lynde took sick all of a suddenand Rachel sent up for me to go at once.When I left here Dora was playing with herdoll in the kitchen and Davy was making mudpies behind the barn. I only got home half anhour ago—and no Dora to be seen. Davy declareshe never saw her since I left.”“Neither I did,” avowed Davy solemnly.“She must be somewhere around,” saidAnne. “She would never wander far awayalone—you know how timid she is. Perhapsshe has fallen asleep in one of the rooms.”Marilla shook her head.“I’ve hunted the whole house through. Butshe may be in some of the buildings.”A thorough search followed. Every cornerof house, yard, and outbuildings was ran-

Davy in Search of a Sensation 115sacked by those two distracted people. Anneroved the orchards and the Haunted Wood,calling Dora’s name. Marilla took a candleand explored the cellar. Davy accompaniedeach of them in turn, and was fertile in thinkingof places where Dora could possibly be. Finallythey met again in the yard.“It’s a most mysterious thing,” groanedMarilla.“Where can she be?” said Anne miserably“Maybe she’s tumbled into the well,” suggestedDavy cheerfully.Anne and Marilla looked fearfully intoeach other’s eyes. The thought had been withthem both through their entire search but neitherhad dared to put it into words.“She—she might have,” whispered Marilla.Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to thewellbox and peered over. The bucket sat onthe shelf inside. Far down below was a tinyglimmer of still water. The Cuthbert well wasthe deepest in Avonlea. If Dora—but Annecould not face the idea. She shuddered andturned away.“Run across for Mr. Harrison,” said Marilla,wringing her hands.“Mr. Harrison and John Henry are bothaway—they went to town today. I’ll go for Mr.Barry.”Mr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a

116 Anne of Avonleacoil of rope to which was attached a claw-likeinstrument that had been the business end ofa grubbing fork. Marilla and Anne stood by,cold and shaken with horror and dread, whileMr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy, astridethe gate, watched the group with a face indicativeof huge enjoyment.Finally Mr. Barry shook his head, with arelieved air.“She can’t be down there. It’s a mightycurious thing where she could have got to,though. Look here, young man, are you sureyou’ve no idea where your sister is?”“I’ve told you a dozen times that I haven’t,”said Davy, with an injured air. “Maybe atramp come and stole her.”“Nonsense,” said Marilla sharply, relievedfrom her horrible fear of the well. “Anne, doyou suppose she could have strayed over toMr. Harrison’s? She has always been talkingabout his parrot ever since that time you tookher over”“I can’t believe Dora would venture so faralone but I’ll go over and see,” said Anne.Nobody was looking at Davy just then orit would have been seen that a very decidedchange came over his face. He quietly slippedoff the gate and ran, as fast as his fat legscould carry him, to the barn.Anne hastened across the fields to the Har-

Davy in Search of a Sensation 117rison establishment in no very hopeful frameof mind. The house was locked, the windowshades were down, and there was no sign ofanything living about the place. She stood onthe veranda and called Dora loudly.Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shriekedand swore with sudden fierceness; but betweenhis outbursts Anne heard a plaintivecry from the little building in the yard whichserved Mr. Harrison as a toolhouse. Anneflew to the door, unhasped it, and caught up asmall mortal with a tearstained face who wassitting forlornly on an upturned nail keg.“Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you havegiven us! How came you to be here?”“Davy and I came over to see Ginger,”sobbed Dora, “but we couldn’t see him afterall, only Davy made him swear by kicking thedoor. And then Davy brought me here and runout and shut the door; and I couldn’t get out. Icried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I’mso hungry and cold; and I thought you’d nevercome, Anne.”“Davy?” But Anne could say no more. Shecarried Dora home with a heavy heart. Herjoy at finding the child safe and sound wasdrowned out in the pain caused by Davy’s behavior.The freak of shutting Dora up mighteasily have been pardoned. But Davy hadtold falsehoods—downright coldblooded false-

118 Anne of Avonleahoods about it. That was the ugly fact andAnne could not shut her eyes to it. Shecould have sat down and cried with sheer disappointment.She had grown to love Davydearly—how dearly she had not known untilthis minute—and it hurt her unbearably todiscover that he was guilty of deliberate falsehood.Marilla listened to Anne’s tale in a silencethat boded no good Davy-ward; Mr. Barrylaughed and advised that Davy be summarilydealt with. When he had gone home Annesoothed and warmed the sobbing, shiveringDora, got her her supper and put her to bed.Then she returned to the kitchen, just as Marillacame grimly in, leading, or rather pulling,the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she hadjust found hidden away in the darkest cornerof the stable.She jerked him to the mat on the middleof the floor and then went and sat down bythe east window. Anne was sitting limply bythe west window. Between them stood the culprit.His back was toward Marilla and it was ameek, subdued, frightened back; but his facewas toward Anne and although it was a littleshamefaced there was a gleam of comradeshipin Davy’s eyes, as if he knew he had donewrong and was going to be punished for it, butcould count on a laugh over it all with Anne

Davy in Search of a Sensation 119later on.But no half hidden smile answered him inAnne’s gray eyes, as there might have donehad it been only a question of mischief. Therewas something else—something ugly and repulsive.“How could you behave so, Davy?” sheasked sorrowfully.Davy squirmed uncomfortably.“I just did it for fun. Things have been soawful quiet here for so long that I thought itwould be fun to give you folks a big scare. Itwas, too.”In spite of fear and a little remorse Davygrinned over the recollection.“But you told a falsehood about it, Davy,”said Anne, more sorrowfully than ever.Davy looked puzzled.“What’s a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper?”“I mean a story that was not true.”“Course I did,” said Davy frankly. “If Ihadn’t you wouldn’t have been scared. I hadto tell it.”Anne was feeling the reaction from herfright and exertions.Davy’s impenitent attitude gave the finishingtouch.Two big tears brimmed up in her eyes.“Oh, Davy, how could you?” she said, with

120 Anne of Avonleaa quiver in her voice. “Don’t you know howwrong it was?”Davy was aghast. Anne crying—he hadmade Anne cry! A flood of real remorse rolledlike a wave over his warm little heart and engulfedit. He rushed to Anne, hurled himselfinto her lap, flung his arms around her neck,and burst into tears.“I didn’t know it was wrong to tell whoppers,”he sobbed. “How did you expect meto know it was wrong? All Mr. Sprott’s childrentold them regular every day, and crosstheir hearts too. I s’pose Paul Irving nevertells whoppers and here I’ve been trying awfulhard to be as good as him, but now I s’poseyou’ll never love me again. But I think youmight have told me it was wrong. I’m awfulsorry I’ve made you cry, Anne, and I’ll nevertell a whopper again.”Davy buried his face in Anne’s shoulderand cried stormily. Anne, in a sudden gladflash of understanding, held him tight andlooked over his curly thatch at Marilla.“He didn’t know it was wrong to tell falsehoods,Marilla. I think we must forgive himfor that part of it this time if he will promisenever to say what isn’t true again.”“I never will, now that I know it’s bad,”asseverated Davy between sobs. “If youever catch me telling a whopper again you

Davy in Search of a Sensation 121can—” Davy groped mentally for a suitablepenance—“you can skin me alive, Anne.”“Don’t say ‘whopper,’ Davy—say ‘falsehood,”’said the schoolma’am.“Why?” queried Davy, settling comfortablydown and looking up with a tearstained, investigatingface. “Why ain’t whopper as goodas falsehood? I want to know. It’s just as big aword.”“It’s slang; and it’s wrong for little boys touse slang.”“There’s an awful lot of things it’s wrong todo,” said Davy with a sigh. “I never s’posedthere was so many. I’m sorry it’s wrong to tellwhop—falsehoods, ’cause it’s awful handy, butsince it is I’m never going to tell any more.What are you going to do to me for tellingthem this time? I want to know.” Anne lookedbeseechingly at Marilla.“I don’t want to be too hard on the child,”said Marilla. “I daresay nobody ever did tellhim it was wrong to tell lies, and those Sprottchildren were no fit companions for him. PoorMary was too sick to train him properly andI presume you couldn’t expect a six-year-oldchild to know things like that by instinct. Isuppose we’ll just have to assume he doesn’tknow anything right and begin at the beginning.But he’ll have to be punished for shuttingDora up, and I can’t think of any way

122 Anne of Avonleaexcept to send him to bed without his supperand we’ve done that so often. Can’t yousuggest something else, Anne? I should thinkyou ought to be able to, with that imaginationyou’re always talking of.”“But punishments are so horrid and I liketo imagine only pleasant things,” said Anne,cuddling Davy. “There are so many unpleasantthings in the world already that there isno use in imagining any more.”In the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual,there to remain until noon next day. He evidentlydid some thinking, for when Anne wentup to her room a little later she heard himcalling her name softly. Going in, she foundhim sitting up in bed, with his elbows on hisknees and his chin propped on his hands.“Anne,” he said solemnly, “is it wrong foreverybody to tell whop—falsehoods? I want toknow”“Yes, indeed.”“Is it wrong for a grown-up person?”“Yes.”“Then,” said Davy decidedly, “Marilla isbad, for she tells them. And she’s worse’n me,for I didn’t know it was wrong but she does.”“Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story inher life,” said Anne indignantly.“She did so. She told me last Tuesdaythat something dreadful would happen to me

Davy in Search of a Sensation 123if I didn’t say my prayers every night. And Ihaven’t said them for over a week, just to seewhat would happen—and nothing has,” concludedDavy in an aggrieved tone.Anne choked back a mad desire to laughwith the conviction that it would be fatal, andthen earnestly set about saving Marilla’s reputation.“Why, Davy Keith,” she said solemnly,“something dreadful has happened to you thisvery day.”Davy looked sceptical.“I s’pose you mean being sent to bed withoutany supper,” he said scornfully, “but thatisn’t dreadful. Course, I don’t like it, but I’vebeen sent to bed so much since I come herethat I’m getting used to it. And you don’t saveanything by making me go without supper either,for I always eat twice as much for breakfast.”“I don’t mean your being sent to bed. Imean the fact that you told a falsehood today.And, Davy,”—Anne leaned over the footboardof the bed and shook her finger impressivelyat the culprit—“for a boy to tell what isn’t trueis almost the worst thing that could happen tohim—almost the very worst. So you see Marillatold you the truth.”“But I thought the something bad would beexciting,” protested Davy in an injured tone.

124 Anne of Avonlea“Marilla isn’t to blame for what youthought. Bad things aren’t always exciting.They’re very often just nasty and stupid.”“It was awful funny to see Marilla and youlooking down the well, though,” said Davy,hugging his knees.Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairsand then she collapsed on the sittingroom lounge and laughed until her sidesached.“I wish you’d tell me the joke,” said Marilla,a little grimly. “I haven’t seen much to laughat today.”“You’ll laugh when you hear this,” assuredAnne. And Marilla did laugh, which showedhow much her education had advanced sincethe adoption of Anne. But she sighed immediatelyafterwards.“I suppose I shouldn’t have told him that,although I heard a minister say it to a childonce. But he did aggravate me so. It was thatnight you were at the Carmody concert and Iwas putting him to bed. He said he didn’t seethe good of praying until he got big enoughto be of some importance to God. Anne, I donot know what we are going to do with thatchild. I never saw his beat. I’m feeling cleandiscouraged.”“Oh, don’t say that, Marilla. Rememberhow bad I was when I came here.”

Davy in Search of a Sensation 125“Anne, you never were bad— Never. I seethat now, when I’ve learned what real badnessis. You were always getting into terriblescrapes, I’ll admit, but your motive was alwaysgood. Davy is just bad from sheer love ofit.”“Oh, no, I don’t think it is real badnesswith him either,” pleaded Anne. “It’s just mischief.And it is rather quiet for him here, youknow. He has no other boys to play with andhis mind has to have something to occupy it.Dora is so prim and proper she is no good fora boy’s playmate. I really think it would bebetter to let them go to school, Marilla.”“No,” said Marilla resolutely, “my father alwayssaid that no child should be cooped up inthe four walls of a school until it was sevenyears old, and Mr. Allan says the same thing.The twins can have a few lessons at home butgo to school they shan’t till they’re seven.”“Well, we must try to reform Davy at homethen,” said Anne cheerfully. “With all hisfaults he’s really a dear little chap. I can’thelp loving him. Marilla, it may be a dreadfulthing to say, but honestly, I like Davy betterthan Dora, for all she’s so good.”“I don’t know but that I do, myself,” confessedMarilla, “and it isn’t fair, for Dora isn’ta bit of trouble. There couldn’t be a betterchild and you’d hardly know she was in the

126 Anne of Avonleahouse.”“Dora is too good,” said Anne. “She’d behavejust as well if there wasn’t a soul to tellher what to do. She was born already broughtup, so she doesn’t need us; and I think,” concludedAnne, hitting on a very vital truth,“that we always love best the people who needus. Davy needs us badly.”“He certainly needs something,” agreedMarilla. “Rachel Lynde would say it was agood spanking.”

XI. Facts andFancies“Teaching is really very interesting work,”wrote Anne to a Queen’s Academy chum.“Jane says she thinks it is monotonous butI don’t find it so. Something funny is almostsure to happen every day, and the childrensay such amusing things. Jane says shepunishes her pupils when they make funnyspeeches, which is probably why she findsteaching monotonous. This afternoon littleJimmy Andrews was trying to spell ‘speckled’and couldn’t manage it. ‘Well,’ he said finally,‘I can’t spell it but I know what it means.’“‘What?’ I asked.“‘St. Clair Donnell’s face, miss.’“St. Clair is certainly very much freckled,although I try to prevent the others from commentingon it—for I was freckled once andwell do I remember it. But I don’t think St.Clair minds. It was because Jimmy called him127

128 Anne of Avonlea‘St. Clair’ that St. Clair pounded him on theway home from school. I heard of the pounding,but not officially, so I don’t think I’ll takeany notice of it.“Yesterday I was trying to teach LottieWright to do addition. I said, ‘If you had threecandies in one hand and two in the other, howmany would you have altogether?’ ‘A mouthful,’said Lottie. And in the nature study class,when I asked them to give me a good reasonwhy toads shouldn’t be killed, Benjie Sloanegravely answered, ‘Because it would rain thenext day.’“It’s so hard not to laugh, Stella. I have tosave up all my amusement until I get home,and Marilla says it makes her nervous to hearwild shrieks of mirth proceeding from the eastgable without any apparent cause. She saysa man in Grafton went insane once and thatwas how it began.“Did you know that Thomas à Beckett wascanonized as a snake? Rose Bell says he was—also that William Tyndale wrote the New Testament.Claude White says a ‘glacier’ is a manwho puts in window frames!“I think the most difficult thing in teaching,as well as the most interesting, is to getthe children to tell you their real thoughtsabout things. One stormy day last week Igathered them around me at dinner hour and

Facts and Fancies 129tried to get them to talk to me just as if Iwere one of themselves. I asked them totell me the things they most wanted. Someof the answers were commonplace enough—dolls, ponies, and skates. Others were decidedlyoriginal. Hester Boulter wanted ‘towear her Sunday dress every day and eat inthe sitting room.’ Hannah Bell wanted ‘to begood without having to take any trouble aboutit.’ Marjory White, aged ten, wanted to be awidow. Questioned why, she gravely said thatif you weren’t married people called you an oldmaid, and if you were your husband bossedyou; but if you were a widow there’d be nodanger of either. The most remarkable wishwas Sally Bell’s. She wanted a ‘honeymoon.’I asked her if she knew what it was and shesaid she thought it was an extra nice kind ofbicycle because her cousin in Montreal wenton a honeymoon when he was married and hehad always had the very latest in bicycles!“Another day I asked them all to tell methe naughtiest thing they had ever done. Icouldn’t get the older ones to do so, but thethird class answered quite freely. Eliza Bellhad ‘set fire to her aunt’s carded rolls.’ Askedif she meant to do it she said, ‘not altogether.’She just tried a little end to see how it wouldburn and the whole bundle blazed up in a jiffy.Emerson Gillis had spent ten cents for candy

130 Anne of Avonleawhen he should have put it in his missionarybox. Annetta Bell’s worst crime was ‘eatingsome blueberries that grew in the graveyard.’Willie White had ‘slid down the sheephouseroof a lot of times with his Sunday trouserson.’ ‘But I was punished for it ’cause I had towear patched pants to Sunday School all summer,and when you’re punished for a thing youdon’t have to repent of it,’ declared Willie.“I wish you could see some of theircompositions—so much do I wish it that I’llsend you copies of some written recently. Lastweek I told the fourth class I wanted them towrite me letters about anything they pleased,adding by way of suggestion that they mighttell me of some place they had visited or someinteresting thing or person they had seen.They were to write the letters on real notepaper, seal them in an envelope, and addressthem to me, all without any assistance fromother people. Last Friday morning I found apile of letters on my desk and that evening Irealized afresh that teaching has its pleasuresas well as its pains. Those compositions wouldatone for much. Here is Ned Clay’s, address,spelling, and grammar as originally penned.

Facts and Fancies 131“‘Miss teacher ShiRleyGreen gabels.p.e. Island canbirds“‘Dear teacher I think I will writeyou a composition about birds.birds is very useful animals. mycat catches birds. His name isWilliam but pa calls him tom. heis oll striped and he got one of hisears froz of last winter. only forthat he would be a good-lookingcat. My unkle has adopted a cat.it come to his house one day andwoudent go away and unkle says ithas forgot more than most peopleever knowed. he lets it sleep on hisrocking chare and my aunt says hethinks more of it than he does ofhis children. that is not right. weought to be kind to cats and givethem new milk but we ought not bebetter to them than to our children.this is oll I can think of so no moreat present fromedward blake ClaY.”’“St. Clair Donnell’s is, as usual, short andto the point. St. Clair never wastes words.I do not think he chose his subject or addedthe postscript out of malice aforethought. It

132 Anne of Avonleais just that he has not a great deal of tact orimagination.“‘Dear Miss ShirleyYou told us to describe somethingstrange we have seen. I willdescribe the Avonlea Hall. It hastwo doors, an inside one and anoutside one. It has six windowsand a chimney. It has two endsand two sides. It is painted blue.That is what makes it strange. It isbuilt on the lower Carmody road. Itis the third most important buildingin Avonlea. The others are thechurch and the blacksmith shop.They hold debating clubs and lecturesin it and concerts.Yours truly,Jacob Donnell.P.S. The hall is a very bright blue.”’“Annetta Bell’s letter was quite long, whichsurprised me, for writing essays is not Annetta’sforte, and hers are generally as briefas St. Clair’s. Annetta is a quiet little pussand a model of good behavior, but there isn’ta shadow of orginality in her. Here is herletter.—“‘Dearest teacher,I think I will write you a letter

Facts and Fancies 133to tell you how much I love you. Ilove you with my whole heart andsoul and mind—with all there is ofme to love—and I want to serve youfor ever. It would be my highestprivilege. That is why I try so hardto be good in school and learn mylessuns.“‘You are so beautiful, myteacher. Your voice is like musicand your eyes are like pansieswhen the dew is on them. You arelike a tall stately queen. Your hairis like rippling gold. Anthony Pyesays it is red, but you needn’t payany attention to Anthony.“‘I have only known you for afew months but I cannot realizethat there was ever a time when Idid not know you—when you hadnot come into my life to bless andhallow it. I will always look backto this year as the most wonderfulin my life because it brought youto me. Besides, it’s the year wemoved to Avonlea from Newbridge.My love for you has made my lifevery rich and it has kept me frommuch of harm and evil. I owe thisall to you, my sweetest teacher.

134 Anne of Avonlea“‘I shall never forget how sweetyou looked the last time I saw youin that black dress with flowers inyour hair. I shall see you like thatfor ever, even when we are both oldand gray. You will always be youngand fair to me, dearest teacher. Iam thinking of you all the time—in the morning and at the noontideand at the twilight. I loveyou when you laugh and when yousigh—even when you look disdainful.I never saw you look crossthough Anthony Pye says you alwayslook so but I don’t wonder youlook cross at him for he deserves it.I love you in every dress—you seemmore adorable in each new dressthan the last.“‘Dearest teacher, good night.The sun has set and the stars areshining—stars that are as brightand beautiful as your eyes. I kissyour hands and face, my sweet.May God watch over you and protectyou from all harm.Your afecksionate pupilAnnetta Bell.”’“This extraordinary letter puzzled me nota little. I knew Annetta couldn’t have com-

Facts and Fancies 135posed it any more than she could fly. WhenI went to school the next day I took her for awalk down to the brook at recess and askedher to tell me the truth about the letter. Annettacried and ’fessed up freely. She said shehad never written a letter and she didn’t knowhow to, or what to say, but there was bundle oflove letters in her mother’s top bureau drawerwhich had been written to her by an old ‘beau.’“‘It wasn’t father,’ sobbed Annetta, ‘it wassomeone who was studying for a minister, andso he could write lovely letters, but ma didn’tmarry him after all. She said she couldn’tmake out what he was driving at half thetime. But I thought the letters were sweet andthat I’d just copy things out of them here andthere to write you. I put “teacher” where heput “lady” and I put in something of my ownwhen I could think of it and I changed somewords. I put “dress” in place of “mood.” I didn’tknow just what a “mood” was but I s’posed itwas something to wear. I didn’t s’pose you’dknow the difference. I don’t see how you foundout it wasn’t all mine. You must be awfulclever, teacher.’“I told Annetta it was very wrong to copyanother person’s letter and pass it off as herown. But I’m afraid that all Annetta repentedof was being found out.“‘And I do love you, teacher,’ she sobbed. ‘It

136 Anne of Avonleawas all true, even if the minister wrote it first.I do love you with all my heart.’“It’s very difficult to scold anybody properlyunder such circumstances.“Here is Barbara Shaw’s letter. I can’t reproducethe blots of the original.“‘Dear teacher,You said we might write abouta visit. I never visited but once. Itwas at my Aunt Mary’s last winter.My Aunt Mary is a very particularwoman and a great housekeeper.The first night I was therewe were at tea. I knocked overa jug and broke it. Aunt Marysaid she had had that jug eversince she was married and nobodyhad ever broken it before. Whenwe got up I stepped on her dressand all the gathers tore out of theskirt. The next morning when Igot up I hit the pitcher against thebasin and cracked them both andI upset a cup of tea on the tableclothat breakfast. When I washelping Aunt Mary with the dinnerdishes I dropped a china plateand it smashed. That evening I felldownstairs and sprained my ankleand had to stay in bed for a week. I

Facts and Fancies 137heard Aunt Mary tell Uncle Josephit was a mercy or I’d have brokeneverything in the house. When Igot better it was time to go home.I don’t like visiting very much. Ilike going to school better, especiallysince I came to Avonlea.Yours respectfully,Barbara. Shaw.”’“Willie White’s began,“‘Respected Miss,I want to tell you about my VeryBrave Aunt. She lives in Ontarioand one day she went out to thebarn and saw a dog in the yard.The dog had no business there soshe got a stick and whacked himhard and drove him into the barnand shut him up. Pretty soona man came looking for an inaginarylion’ (Query;—Did Williemean a menagerie lion?) ‘that hadrun away from a circus. And itturned out that the dog was a lionand my Very Brave Aunt had druvhim into the barn with a stick. Itwas a wonder she was not et up butshe was very brave. Emerson Gillissays if she thought it was a dog she

138 Anne of Avonleawasn’t any braver than if it reallywas a dog. But Emerson is jealousbecause he hasn’t got a Brave Aunthimself, nothing but uncles.”’“I have kept the best for the last. You laughat me because I think Paul is a genius but Iam sure his letter will convince you that heis a very uncommon child. Paul lives awaydown near the shore with his grandmotherand he has no playmates—no real playmates.You remember our School Management professortold us that we must not have ‘favorites’among our pupils, but I can’t help loving PaulIrving the best of all mine. I don’t think it doesany harm, though, for everybody loves Paul,even Mrs. Lynde, who says she could neverhave believed she’d get so fond of a Yankee.The other boys in school like him too. Thereis nothing weak or girlish about him in spiteof his dreams and fancies. He is very manlyand can hold his own in all games. He foughtSt. Clair Donnell recently because St. Clairsaid the Union Jack was away ahead of theStars and Stripes as a flag. The result was adrawn battle and a mutual agreement to respecteach other’s patriotism henceforth. St.Clair says he can hit the hardest but Paul canhit the oftenest.“Paul’s Letter.

Facts and Fancies 139“‘My dear teacher,You told us we might write youabout some interesting people weknew. I think the most interestingpeople I know are my rock peopleand I mean to tell you aboutthem. I have never told anybodyabout them except grandma and fatherbut I would like to have youknow about them because you understandthings. There are a greatmany people who do not understandthings so there is no use intelling them.My rock people live at the shore.I used to visit them almost everyevening before the winter came.Now I can’t go till spring, but theywill be there, for people like thatnever change—that is the splendidthing about them. Nora was thefirst one of them I got acquaintedwith and so I think I love her thebest. She lives in Andrews’ Coveand she has black hair and blackeyes, and she knows all about themermaids and the water kelpies.You ought to hear the stories shecan tell. Then there are the TwinSailors. They don’t live anywhere,

140 Anne of Avonleathey sail all the time, but they oftencome ashore to talk to me. They area pair of jolly tars and they haveseen everything in the world—andmore than what is in the world.Do you know what happened to theyoungest Twin Sailor once? He wassailing and he sailed right into amoonglade. A moonglade is thetrack the full moon makes on thewater when it is rising from thesea, you know, teacher. Well, theyoungest Twin Sailor sailed alongthe moonglade till he came right upto the moon, and there was a littlegolden door in the moon and heopened it and sailed right through.He had some wonderful adventuresin the moon but it would make thisletter too long to tell them.Then there is the Golden Ladyof the cave. One day I found a bigcave down on the shore and I wentaway in and after a while I foundthe Golden Lady. She has goldenhair right down to her feet and herdress is all glittering and glisteninglike gold that is alive. Andshe has a golden harp and playson it all day long—you can hear

Facts and Fancies 141the music any time along shore ifyou listen carefully but most peoplewould think it was only the windamong the rocks. I’ve never toldNora about the Golden Lady. I wasafraid it might hurt her feelings. Iteven hurt her feelings if I talkedtoo long with the Twin Sailors.I always met the Twin Sailorsat the Striped Rocks. The youngestTwin Sailor is very good-temperedbut the oldest Twin Sailor can lookdreadfully fierce at times. I havemy suspicions about that oldestTwin. I believe he’d be a pirateif he dared. There’s really somethingvery mysterious about him.He swore once and I told him ifhe ever did it again he needn’tcome ashore to talk to me becauseI’d promised grandmother I’d neverassociate with anybody that swore.He was pretty well scared, I cantell you, and he said if I wouldforgive him he would take me tothe sunset. So the next eveningwhen I was sitting on the StripedRocks the oldest Twin came sailingover the sea in an enchantedboat and I got in her. The boat

142 Anne of Avonleawas all pearly and rainbowy, likethe inside of the mussel shells, andher sail was like moonshine. Well,we sailed right across to the sunset.Think of that, teacher, I’vebeen in the sunset. And what doyou suppose it is? The sunset isa land all flowers. We sailed intoa great garden, and the clouds arebeds of flowers. We sailed into agreat harbor, all the color of gold,and I stepped right out of the boaton a big meadow all covered withbuttercups as big as roses. I stayedthere for ever so long. It seemednearly a year but the Oldest Twinsays it was only a few minutes. Yousee, in the sunset land the time isever so much longer than it is here.Your loving pupilPaul Irving.P. S. of course, this letter isn’t reallytrue, teacher.P.I.”’

XII. A Jonah DayIt really began the night before with a restless,wakeful vigil of grumbling toothache.When Anne arose in the dull, bitter wintermorning she felt that life was flat, stale, andunprofitable.She went to school in no angelic mood. Hercheek was swollen and her face ached. Theschoolroom was cold and smoky, for the fire refusedto burn and the children were huddledabout it in shivering groups. Anne sent themto their seats with a sharper tone than shehad ever used before. Anthony Pye struttedto his with his usual impertinent swagger andshe saw him whisper something to his seatmateand then glance at her with a grin.Never, so it seemed to Anne, had therebeen so many squeaky pencils as there werethat morning; and when Barbara Shaw cameup to the desk with a sum she tripped over thecoal scuttle with disastrous results. The coalrolled to every part of the room, her slate was143

144 Anne of Avonleabroken into fragments, and when she pickedherself up, her face, stained with coal dust,sent the boys into roars of laughter.Anne turned from the second reader classwhich she was hearing.“Really, Barbara,” she said icily, “if youcannot move without falling over somethingyou’d better remain in your seat. It is positivelydisgraceful for a girl of your age to be soawkward.”Poor Barbara stumbled back to her desk,her tears combining with the coal dust to producean effect truly grotesque. Never beforehad her beloved, sympathetic teacher spokento her in such a tone or fashion, and Barbarawas heartbroken. Anne herself felt a prick ofconscience but it only served to increase hermental irritation, and the second reader classremember that lesson yet, as well as the unmercifulinfliction of arithmetic that followed.Just as Anne was snapping the sums out St.Clair Donnell arrived breathlessly.“You are half an hour late, St. Clair,” Annereminded him frigidly. “Why is this?”“Please, miss, I had to help ma makea pudding for dinner ’cause we’re expectingcompany and Clarice Almira’s sick,” was St.Clair’s answer, given in a perfectly respectfulvoice but nevertheless provocative of greatmirth among his mates.

A Jonah Day 145“Take your seat and work out the six problemson page eighty-four of your arithmeticfor punishment,” said Anne. St. Clair lookedrather amazed at her tone but he went meeklyto his desk and took out his slate. Then hestealthily passed a small parcel to Joe Sloaneacross the aisle. Anne caught him in the actand jumped to a fatal conclusion about thatparcel.Old Mrs. Hiram Sloane had lately takento making and selling “nut cakes” by way ofadding to her scanty income. The cakes werespecially tempting to small boys and for severalweeks Anne had had not a little troublein regard to them. On their way to schoolthe boys would invest their spare cash at Mrs.Hiram’s, bring the cakes along with them toschool, and, if possible, eat them and treattheir mates during school hours. Anne hadwarned them that if they brought any morecakes to school they would be confiscated; andyet here was St. Clair Donnell coolly passinga parcel of them, wrapped up in the blue andwhite striped paper Mrs. Hiram used, underher very eyes.“Joseph,” said Anne quietly, “bring thatparcel here.”Joe, startled and abashed, obeyed. He wasa fat urchin who always blushed and stutteredwhen he was frightened. Never did anybody

146 Anne of Avonlealook more guilty than poor Joe at that moment.“Throw it into the fire,” said Anne.Joe looked very blank.“P–p–p–lease, m–m–miss,” he began.“Do as I tell you, Joseph, without anywords about it.”“B–b–but m–m–miss — th–th–they’re —”gasped Joe in desperation.“Joseph, are you going to obey me or areyou not?” said Anne.A bolder and more self-possessed lad thanJoe Sloane would have been overawed by hertone and the dangerous flash of her eyes. Thiswas a new Anne whom none of her pupilshad ever seen before. Joe, with an agonizedglance at St. Clair, went to the stove, openedthe big, square front door, and threw the blueand white parcel in, before St. Clair, who hadsprung to his feet, could utter a word. Thenhe dodged back just in time.For a few moments the terrified occupantsof Avonlea school did not know whether itwas an earthquake or a volcanic explosionthat had occurred. The innocent looking parcelwhich Anne had rashly supposed to containMrs. Hiram’s nut cakes really held anassortment of firecrackers and pinwheels forwhich Warren Sloane had sent to town bySt. Clair Donnell’s father the day before, in-

A Jonah Day 147tending to have a birthday celebration thatevening. The crackers went off in a thunderclapof noise and the pinwheels bursting out ofthe door spun madly around the room, hissingand spluttering. Anne dropped into her chairwhite with dismay and all the girls climbedshrieking upon their desks. Joe Sloane stoodas one transfixed in the midst of the commotionand St. Clair, helpless with laughter,rocked to and fro in the aisle. Prillie Rogersonfainted and Annetta Bell went into hysterics.It seemed a long time, although it was reallyonly a few minutes, before the last pinwheelsubsided. Anne, recovering herself,sprang to open doors and windows and letout the gas and smoke which filled the room.Then she helped the girls carry the unconsciousPrillie into the porch, where BarbaraShaw, in an agony of desire to be useful,poured a pailful of half frozen water over Prillie’sface and shoulders before anyone couldstop her.It was a full hour before quiet wasrestored—but it was a quiet that might befelt. Everybody realized that even the explosionhad not cleared the teacher’s mentalatmosphere. Nobody, except Anthony Pye,dared whisper a word. Ned Clay accidentallysqueaked his pencil while working a sum,caught Anne’s eye and wished the floor would

148 Anne of Avonleaopen and swallow him up. The geographyclass were whisked through a continent witha speed that made them dizzy. The grammarclass were parsed and analyzed within aninch of their lives. Chester Sloane, spelling“odoriferous” with two f’s, was made to feelthat he could never live down the disgraceof it, either in this world or that which is tocome.Anne knew that she had made herselfridiculous and that the incident would belaughed over that night at a score of teatables,but the knowledge only angered herfurther. In a calmer mood she could have carriedoff the situation with a laugh but nowthat was impossible; so she ignored it in icydisdain.When Anne returned to the school afterdinner all the children were as usualin their seats and every face was bent studiouslyover a desk except Anthony Pye’s. Hepeered across his book at Anne, his blackeyes sparkling with curiosity and mockery.Anne twitched open the drawer of her deskin search of chalk and under her very hand alively mouse sprang out of the drawer, scamperedover the desk, and leaped to the floor.Anne screamed and sprang back, as if ithad been a snake, and Anthony Pye laughedaloud.

A Jonah Day 149Then a silence fell—a very creepy, uncomfortablesilence. Annetta Bell was of twominds whether to go into hysterics again ornot, especially as she didn’t know just wherethe mouse had gone. But she decided not to.Who could take any comfort out of hystericswith a teacher so white-faced and so blazingeyedstanding before one?“Who put that mouse in my desk?” saidAnne. Her voice was quite low but it made ashiver go up and down Paul Irving’s spine. JoeSloane caught her eye, felt responsible fromthe crown of his head to the sole of his feet,but stuttered out wildly,“N–n–not m–m–me t–t–teacher, n–n–notm–m–me.”Anne paid no attention to the wretchedJoseph. She looked at Anthony Pye, andAnthony Pye looked back unabashed andunashamed.“Anthony, was it you?”“Yes, it was,” said Anthony insolently.Anne took her pointer from her desk. Itwas a long, heavy hardwood pointer.“Come here, Anthony.”It was far from being the most severe punishmentAnthony Pye had ever undergone.Anne, even the stormy-souled Anne she wasat that moment, could not have punished anychild cruelly. But the pointer nipped keenly

150 Anne of Avonleaand finally Anthony’s bravado failed him; hewinced and the tears came to his eyes.Anne, conscience-stricken, dropped thepointer and told Anthony to go to his seat.She sat down at her desk feeling ashamed,repentant, and bitterly mortified. Her quickanger was gone and she would have givenmuch to have been able to seek relief in tears.So all her boasts had come to this—she hadactually whipped one of her pupils. HowJane would triumph! And how Mr. Harrisonwould chuckle! But worse than this, bitterestthought of all, she had lost her last chance ofwinning Anthony Pye. Never would he likeher now.Anne, by what somebody has called “a Herculaneumeffort,” kept back her tears untilshe got home that night. Then she shut herselfin the east gable room and wept all hershame and remorse and disappointment intoher pillows—wept so long that Marilla grewalarmed, invaded the room, and insisted onknowing what the trouble was.“The trouble is, I’ve got things the matterwith my conscience,” sobbed Anne. “Oh,this has been such a Jonah day, Marilla. I’mso ashamed of myself. I lost my temper andwhipped Anthony Pye.”“I’m glad to hear it,” said Marilla with decision.“It’s what you should have done long

A Jonah Day 151ago.”“Oh, no, no, Marilla. And I don’t see how Ican ever look those children in the face again.I feel that I have humiliated myself to the verydust. You don’t know how cross and hatefuland horrid I was. I can’t forget the expressionin Paul Irving’s eyes—he looked so surprisedand disappointed. Oh, Marilla, I have triedso hard to be patient and to win Anthony’sliking—and now it has all gone for nothing.”Marilla passed her hard work-worn handover the girl’s glossy, tumbled hair with a wonderfultenderness. When Anne’s sobs grewquieter she said, very gently for her,“You take things too much to heart, Anne.We all make mistakes—but people forgetthem. And Jonah days come to everybody. Asfor Anthony Pye, why need you care if he doesdislike you? He is the only one.”“I can’t help it. I want everybody to loveme and it hurts me so when anybody doesn’t.And Anthony never will now. Oh, I just madean idiot of myself today, Marilla. I’ll tell youthe whole story.”Marilla listened to the whole story, and ifshe smiled at certain parts of it Anne neverknew. When the tale was ended she saidbriskly,“Well, never mind. This day’s done andthere’s a new one coming tomorrow, with no

152 Anne of Avonleamistakes in it yet, as you used to say yourself.Just come downstairs and have your supper.You’ll see if a good cup of tea and those plumpuffs I made today won’t hearten you up.”“Plum puffs won’t minister to a mind diseased,”said Anne disconsolately; but Marillathought it a good sign that she had recoveredsufficiently to adapt a quotation.The cheerful supper table, with the twins’bright faces, and Marilla’s matchless plumpuffs—of which Davy ate four—did “heartenher up” considerably after all. She had a goodsleep that night and and awakened in themorning to find herself and the world transformed.It had snowed softly and thickly allthrough the hours of darkness and the beautifulwhiteness, glittering in the frosty sunshine,looked like a mantle of charity cast overall the mistakes and humiliations of the past.“Every morn is a fresh beginning,Every morn is the world made new,”sang Anne, as she dressed.Owing to the snow she had to go aroundby the road to school and she thought it wascertainly an impish coincidence that AnthonyPye should come ploughing along just as sheleft the Green Gables lane. She felt as guiltyas if their positions were reversed; but toher unspeakable astonishment Anthony not

A Jonah Day 153only lifted his cap—which he had never donebefore—but said easily,“Kind of bad walking, ain’t it? Can I takethose books for you, teacher?”Anne surrendered her books and wonderedif she could possibly be awake. Anthonywalked on in silence to the school, butwhen Anne took her books she smiled downat him—not the stereotyped “kind” smile shehad so persistently assumed for his benefitbut a sudden outflashing of good comradeship.Anthony smiled—no, if the truth must be told,Anthony grinned back. A grin is not generallysupposed to be a respectful thing; yet Annesuddenly felt that if she had not yet won Anthony’sliking she had, somehow or other, wonhis respect.Mrs. Rachel Lynde came up the next Saturdayand confirmed this.“Well, Anne, I guess you’ve won over AnthonyPye, that’s what. He says he believesyou are some good after all, even if you area girl. Says that whipping you gave him was‘just as good as a man’s.”’“I never expected to win him by whippinghim, though,” said Anne, a little mournfully,feeling that her ideals had played her falsesomewhere. “It doesn’t seem right. I’m suremy theory of kindness can’t be wrong.”“No, but the Pyes are an exception to ev-

154 Anne of Avonleaery known rule, that’s what,” declared Mrs.Rachel with conviction.Mr. Harrison said, “Thought you’d come toit,” when he heard it, and Jane rubbed it inrather unmercifully.

XIII. A GoldenPicnicAnne, on her way to Orchard Slope, met Diana,bound for Green Gables, just where themossy old log bridge spanned the brook belowthe Haunted Wood, and they sat down bythe margin of the Dryad’s Bubble, where tinyferns were unrolling like curly-headed greenpixy folk wakening up from a nap.“I was just on my way over to invite you tohelp me celebrate my birthday on Saturday,”said Anne.“Your birthday? But your birthday was inMarch!”“That wasn’t my fault,” laughed Anne. “Ifmy parents had consulted me it would neverhave happened then. I should have chosento be born in spring, of course. It must bedelightful to come into the world with themayflowers and violets. You would always feelthat you were their foster sister. But since155

156 Anne of AvonleaI didn’t, the next best thing is to celebratemy birthday in the spring. Priscilla is comingover Saturday and Jane will be home. We’llall four start off to the woods and spend agolden day making the acquaintance of thespring. We none of us really know her yet,but we’ll meet her back there as we never cananywhere else. I want to explore all thosefields and lonely places anyhow. I have aconviction that there are scores of beautifulnooks there that have never really been seenalthough they may have been looked at. We’llmake friends with wind and sky and sun, andbring home the spring in our hearts.”“It sounds awfully nice,” said Diana, withsome inward distrust of Anne’s magic ofwords. “But won’t it be very damp in someplaces yet?”“Oh, we’ll wear rubbers,” was Anne’s concessionto practicalities. “And I want you tocome over early Saturday morning and helpme prepare lunch. I’m going to have the daintiestthings possible—things that will matchthe spring, you understand—little jelly tartsand lady fingers, and drop cookies frostedwith pink and yellow icing, and buttercupcake. And we must have sandwiches too,though they’re not very poetical.”Saturday proved an ideal day for a picnic—a day of breeze and blue, warm, sunny, with a

A Golden Picnic 157little rollicking wind blowing across meadowand orchard. Over every sunlit upland andfield was a delicate, flower-starred green.Mr. Harrison, harrowing at the back of hisfarm and feeling some of the spring witchworkeven in his sober, middle-aged blood,saw four girls, basket laden, tripping acrossthe end of his field where it joined a fringingwoodland of birch and fir. Their blithe voicesand laughter echoed down to him.“It’s so easy to be happy on a day like this,isn’t it?” Anne was saying, with true Anneishphilosophy. “Let’s try to make this a reallygolden day, girls, a day to which we can alwayslook back with delight. We’re to seek forbeauty and refuse to see anything else. ‘Begone,dull care!’ Jane, you are thinking ofsomething that went wrong in school yesterday.”“How do you know?” gasped Jane, amazed.“Oh, I know the expression—I’ve felt it oftenenough on my own face. But put it outof your mind, there’s a dear. It will keeptill Monday—or if it doesn’t so much the better.Oh, girls, girls, see that patch of violets!There’s something for memory’s picturegallery. When I’m eighty years old—if I everam—I shall shut my eyes and see those violetsjust as I see them now. That’s the firstgood gift our day has given us.”

158 Anne of Avonlea“If a kiss could be seen I think it would looklike a violet,” said Priscilla.Anne glowed.“I’m so glad you spoke that thought,Priscilla, instead of just thinking it and keepingit to yourself. This world would be a muchmore interesting place—although it is very interestinganyhow—if people spoke out theirreal thoughts.”“It would be too hot to hold some folks,”quoted Jane sagely.“I suppose it might be, but that would betheir own faults for thinking nasty things.Anyhow, we can tell all our thoughts today becausewe are going to have nothing but beautifulthoughts. Everybody can say just whatcomes into her head. That is conversation.Here’s a little path I never saw before. Let’sexplore it.”The path was a winding one, so narrowthat the girls walked in single file and eventhen the fir boughs brushed their faces. Underthe firs were velvety cushions of moss,and further on, where the trees were smallerand fewer, the ground was rich in a variety ofgreen growing things.“What a lot of elephant’s ears,” exclaimedDiana. “I’m going to pick a big bunch, they’reso pretty.”“How did such graceful feathery things

A Golden Picnic 159ever come to have such a dreadful name?”asked Priscilla.“Because the person who first named themeither had no imagination at all or else far toomuch,” said Anne, “Oh, girls, look at that!”“That” was a shallow woodland pool inthe center of a little open glade where thepath ended. Later on in the season it wouldbe dried up and its place filled with a rankgrowth of ferns; but now it was a glimmeringplacid sheet, round as a saucer and clear ascrystal. A ring of slender young birches encircledit and little ferns fringed its margin.“How sweet!” said Jane.“Let us dance around it like woodnymphs,”cried Anne, dropping her basket andextending her hands.But the dance was not a success for theground was boggy and Jane’s rubbers cameoff.“You can’t be a wood-nymph if you have towear rubbers,” was her decision.“Well, we must name this place before weleave it,” said Anne, yielding to the indisputablelogic of facts. “Everybody suggest aname and we’ll draw lots. Diana?”“Birch Pool,” suggested Diana promptly.“Crystal Lake,” said Jane.Anne, standing behind them, imploredPriscilla with her eyes not to perpetrate an-

160 Anne of Avonleaother such name and Priscilla rose to the occasionwith “Glimmer-glass.” Anne’s selectionwas “The Fairies’ Mirror.”The names were written on strips of birchbark with a pencil Schoolma’am Jane producedfrom her pocket, and placed in Anne’shat. Then Priscilla shut her eyes and drewone. “Crystal Lake,” read Jane triumphantly.Crystal Lake it was, and if Anne thought thatchance had played the pool a shabby trick shedid not say so.Pushing through the undergrowth beyond,the girls came out to the young green seclusionof Mr. Silas Sloane’s back pasture. Acrossit they found the entrance to a lane strikingup through the woods and voted to explore italso. It rewarded their quest with a successionof pretty surprises. First, skirting Mr.Sloane’s pasture, came an archway of wildcherry trees all in bloom. The girls swungtheir hats on their arms and wreathed theirhair with the creamy, fluffy blossoms. Thenthe lane turned at right angles and plungedinto a spruce wood so thick and dark that theywalked in a gloom as of twilight, with not aglimpse of sky or sunlight to be seen.“This is where the bad wood elves dwell,”whispered Anne. “They are impish and maliciousbut they can’t harm us, because theyare not allowed to do evil in the spring. There

A Golden Picnic 161was one peeping at us around that old twistedfir; and didn’t you see a group of them on thatbig freckly toadstool we just passed? The goodfairies always dwell in the sunshiny places.”“I wish there really were fairies,” saidJane. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have three wishesgranted you—or even only one? What wouldyou wish for, girls, if you could have a wishgranted? I’d wish to be rich and beautiful andclever.”“I’d wish to be tall and slender,” said Diana.“I would wish to be famous,” said Priscilla.Anne thought of her hair and then dismissedthe thought as unworthy.“I’d wish it might be spring all the timeand in everybody’s heart and all our lives,” shesaid.“But that,” said Priscilla, “would be justwishing this world were like heaven.”“Only like a part of heaven. In the otherparts there would be summer and autumn—yes, and a bit of winter, too. I think I want glitteringsnowy fields and white frosts in heavensometimes. Don’t you, Jane?”“I—I don’t know,” said Jane uncomfortably.Jane was a good girl, a member of the church,who tried conscientiously to live up to her professionand believed everything she had beentaught. But she never thought about heaven

162 Anne of Avonleaany more than she could help, for all that.“Minnie May asked me the other day ifwe would wear our best dresses every day inheaven,” laughed Diana.“And didn’t you tell her we would?” askedAnne.“Mercy, no! I told her we wouldn’t be thinkingof dresses at all there.”“Oh, I think we will—a little,” said Anneearnestly. “There’ll be plenty of time in alleternity for it without neglecting more importantthings. I believe we’ll all wear beautifuldresses—or I suppose raiment would be amore suitable way of speaking. I shall wantto wear pink for a few centuries at first—itwould take me that long to get tired of it, Ifeel sure. I do love pink so and I can neverwear it in this world.”Past the spruces the lane dipped down intoa sunny little open where a log bridge spanneda brook; and then came the glory of a sunlitbeechwood where the air was like transparentgolden wine, and the leaves fresh and green,and the wood floor a mosaic of tremulous sunshine.Then more wild cherries, and a littlevalley of lissome firs, and then a hill so steepthat the girls lost their breath climbing it; butwhen they reached the top and came out intothe open the prettiest surprise of all awaitedthem.

A Golden Picnic 163Beyond were the “back fields” of the farmsthat ran out to the upper Carmody road. Justbefore them, hemmed in by beeches and firsbut open to the south, was a little corner andin it a garden—or what had once been a garden.A tumbledown stone dyke, overgrownwith mosses and grass, surrounded it. Alongthe eastern side ran a row of garden cherrytrees, white as a snowdrift. There were tracesof old paths still and a double line of rosebushesthrough the middle; but all the restof the space was a sheet of yellow and whitenarcissi, in their airiest, most lavish, windswayedbloom above the lush green grasses.“Oh, how perfectly lovely!” three of thegirls cried. Anne only gazed in eloquent silence.“How in the world does it happen thatthere ever was a garden back here?” saidPriscilla in amazement.“It must be Hester Gray’s garden,” said Diana.“I’ve heard mother speak of it but I neversaw it before, and I wouldn’t have supposedthat it could be in existence still. You’ve heardthe story, Anne?”“No, but the name seems familiar to me.”“Oh, you’ve seen it in the graveyard. Sheis buried down there in the poplar corner. Youknow the little brown stone with the openinggates carved on it and ‘Sacred to the mem-

164 Anne of Avonleaory of Hester Gray, aged twenty-two.’ JordanGray is buried right beside her but there’s nostone to him. It’s a wonder Marilla never toldyou about it, Anne. To be sure, it happenedthirty years ago and everybody has forgotten.”“Well, if there’s a story we must have it,”said Anne. “Let’s sit right down here amongthe narcissi and Diana will tell it. Why, girls,there are hundreds of them—they’ve spreadover everything. It looks as if the garden werecarpeted with moonshine and sunshine combined.This is a discovery worth making. Tothink that I’ve lived within a mile of this placefor six years and have never seen it before!Now, Diana.”“Long ago,” began Diana, “this farm belongedto old Mr. David Gray. He didn’t live onit—he lived where Silas Sloane lives now. Hehad one son, Jordan, and he went up to Bostonone winter to work and while he was therehe fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray.She was working in a store and she hatedit. She’d been brought up in the country andshe always wanted to get back. When Jordanasked her to marry him she said she would ifhe’d take her away to some quiet spot whereshe’d see nothing but fields and trees. So hebrought her to Avonlea. Mrs. Lynde said hewas taking a fearful risk in marrying a Yankee,and it’s certain that Hester was very deli-

A Golden Picnic 165cate and a very poor housekeeper; but mothersays she was very pretty and sweet and Jordanjust worshipped the ground she walkedon. Well, Mr. Gray gave Jordan this farm andhe built a little house back here and Jordanand Hester lived in it for four years. She neverwent out much and hardly anybody went tosee her except mother and Mrs. Lynde. Jordanmade her this garden and she was crazy aboutit and spent most of her time in it. She wasn’tmuch of a housekeeper but she had a knackwith flowers. And then she got sick. Mothersays she thinks she was in consumption beforeshe ever came here. She never really laid upbut just grew weaker and weaker all the time.Jordan wouldn’t have anybody to wait on her.He did it all himself and mother says he wasas tender and gentle as a woman. Every dayhe’d wrap her in a shawl and carry her outto the garden and she’d lie there on a benchquite happy. They say she used to make Jordankneel down by her every night and morningand pray with her that she might die outin the garden when the time came. And herprayer was answered. One day Jordan carriedher out to the bench and then he pickedall the roses that were out and heaped themover her; and she just smiled up at him—andclosed her eyes—and that,” concluded Dianasoftly, “was the end.”

166 Anne of Avonlea“Oh, what a dear story,” sighed Anne, wipingaway her tears.“What became of Jordan?” asked Priscilla.“He sold the farm after Hester died andwent back to Boston. Mr. Jabez Sloane boughtthe farm and hauled the little house out to theroad. Jordan died about ten years after and hewas brought home and buried beside Hester.”“I can’t understand how she could havewanted to live back here, away from everything,”said Jane.“Oh, I can easily understand that,” saidAnne thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want it myselffor a steady thing, because, although I lovethe fields and woods, I love people too. ButI can understand it in Hester. She was tiredto death of the noise of the big city and thecrowds of people always coming and going andcaring nothing for her. She just wanted to escapefrom it all to some still, green, friendlyplace where she could rest. And she got justwhat she wanted, which is something veryfew people do, I believe. She had four beautifulyears before she died—four years of perfecthappiness, so I think she was to be enviedmore than pitied. And then to shut your eyesand fall asleep among roses, with the one youloved best on earth smiling down at you—oh,I think it was beautiful!”“She set out those cherry trees over there,”

A Golden Picnic 167said Diana. “She told mother she’d never liveto eat their fruit, but she wanted to think thatsomething she had planted would go on livingand helping to make the world beautiful aftershe was dead.”“I’m so glad we came this way,” said Anne,the shining-eyed. “This is my adopted birthday,you know, and this garden and its storyis the birthday gift it has given me. Did yourmother ever tell you what Hester Gray lookedlike, Diana?”“No—only just that she was pretty.”“I’m rather glad of that, because I canimagine what she looked like, without beinghampered by facts. I think she was very slightand small, with softly curling dark hair andbig, sweet, timid brown eyes, and a little wistful,pale face.”The girls left their baskets in Hester’s gardenand spent the rest of the afternoon ramblingin the woods and fields surroundingit, discovering many pretty nooks and lanes.When they got hungry they had lunch in theprettiest spot of all—on the steep bank of agurgling brook where white birches shot upout of long feathery grasses. The girls satdown by the roots and did full justice to Anne’sdainties, even the unpoetical sandwiches beinggreatly appreciated by hearty, unspoiledappetites sharpened by all the fresh air and

168 Anne of Avonleaexercise they had enjoyed. Anne had broughtglasses and lemonade for her guests, but forher own part drank cold brook water froma cup fashioned out of birch bark. The cupleaked, and the water tasted of earth, asbrook water is apt to do in spring; but Annethought it more appropriate to the occasionthan lemonade.“Look do you see that poem?” she said suddenly,pointing.“Where?” Jane and Diana stared, as if expectingto see Runic rhymes on the birchtrees.“There—down in the brook—that oldgreen, mossy log with the water flowing overit in those smooth ripples that look as if they’dbeen combed, and that single shaft of sunshinefalling right athwart it, far down intothe pool. Oh, it’s the most beautiful poem Iever saw.”“I should rather call it a picture,” saidJane. “A poem is lines and verses.”“Oh dear me, no.” Anne shook her headwith its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively.“The lines and verses are only the outwardgarments of the poem and are no more reallyit than your ruffles and flounces are you, Jane.The real poem is the soul within them—andthat beautiful bit is the soul of an unwrittenpoem. It is not every day one sees a soul—

A Golden Picnic 169even of a poem.”“I wonder what a soul—a person’s soul—would look like,” said Priscilla dreamily.“Like that, I should think,” answeredAnne, pointing to a radiance of sifted sunlightstreaming through a birch tree. “Only withshape and features of course. I like to fancysouls as being made of light. And some are allshot through with rosy stains and quivers—and some have a soft glitter like moonlight onthe sea—and some are pale and transparentlike mist at dawn.”“I read somewhere once that souls werelike flowers,” said Priscilla.“Then your soul is a golden narcissus,” saidAnne, “and Diana’s is like a red, red rose.Jane’s is an apple blossom, pink and wholesomeand sweet.”“And your own is a white violet, with purplestreaks in its heart,” finished Priscilla.Jane whispered to Diana that she reallycould not understand what they were talkingabout. Could she?The girls went home by the light of a calmgolden sunset, their baskets filled with narcissusblossoms from Hester’s garden, some ofwhich Anne carried to the cemetery next dayand laid upon Hester’s grave. Minstrel robinswere whistling in the firs and the frogs weresinging in the marshes. All the basins among

170 Anne of Avonleathe hills were brimmed with topaz and emeraldlight.“Well, we have had a lovely time after all,”said Diana, as if she had hardly expected tohave it when she set out.“It has been a truly golden day,” saidPriscilla.“I’m really awfully fond of the woods myself,”said Jane.Anne said nothing. She was looking afarinto the western sky and thinking of littleHester Gray.

XIV. A DangerAvertedAnne, walking home from the post office oneFriday evening, was joined by Mrs. Lynde,who was as usual cumbered with all the caresof church and state.“I’ve just been down to Timothy Cotton’s tosee if I could get Alice Louise to help me fora few days,” she said. “I had her last week,for, though she’s too slow to stop quick, she’sbetter than nobody. But she’s sick and can’tcome. Timothy’s sitting there, too, coughingand complaining. He’s been dying for tenyears and he’ll go on dying for ten years more.That kind can’t even die and have done withit—they can’t stick to anything, even to beingsick, long enough to finish it. They’re a terribleshiftless family and what is to becomeof them I don’t know, but perhaps Providencedoes.”Mrs. Lynde sighed as if she rather doubted171

172 Anne of Avonleathe extent of Providential knowledge on thesubject.“Marilla was in about her eyes again Tuesday,wasn’t she? What did the specialist thinkof them?” she continued.“He was much pleased,” said Annebrightly. “He says there is a great improvementin them and he thinks the danger ofher losing her sight completely is past. Buthe says she’ll never be able to read much ordo any fine hand-work again. How are yourpreparations for your bazaar coming on?”The Ladies’ Aid Society was preparing fora fair and supper, and Mrs. Lynde was thehead and front of the enterprise.“Pretty well—and that reminds me. Mrs.Allan thinks it would be nice to fix up a boothlike an old-time kitchen and serve a supperof baked beans, doughnuts, pie, and so on.We’re collecting old-fashioned fixings everywhere.Mrs. Simon Fletcher is going to lendus her mother’s braided rugs and Mrs. LeviBoulter some old chairs and Aunt Mary Shawwill lend us her cupboard with the glass doors.I suppose Marilla will let us have her brasscandlesticks? And we want all the old disheswe can get. Mrs. Allan is specially set on havinga real blue willow ware platter if we canfind one. But nobody seems to have one. Doyou know where we could get one?”

A Danger Averted 173“Miss Josephine Barry has one. I’ll writeand ask her if she’ll lend it for the occasion,”said Anne.“Well, I wish you would. I guess we’ll havethe supper in about a fortnight’s time. UncleAbe Andrews is prophesying rain and stormsfor about that time; and that’s a pretty suresign we’ll have fine weather.”The said “Uncle Abe,” it may be mentioned,was at least like other prophets in that hehad small honor in his own country. He was,in fact, considered in the light of a standingjoke, for few of his weather predictionswere ever fulfilled. Mr. Elisha Wright, wholabored under the impression that he was alocal wit, used to say that nobody in Avonleaever thought of looking in the Charlottetowndailies for weather probabilities. No; they justasked Uncle Abe what it was going to be tomorrowand expected the opposite. Nothingdaunted, Uncle Abe kept on prophesying.“We want to have the fair over before theelection comes off,” continued Mrs. Lynde, “forthe candidates will be sure to come and spendlots of money. The Tories are bribing right andleft, so they might as well be given a chance tospend their money honestly for once.”Anne was a red-hot Conservative, out ofloyalty to Matthew’s memory, but she saidnothing. She knew better than to get Mrs.

174 Anne of AvonleaLynde started on politics. She had a letter forMarilla, postmarked from a town in BritishColumbia.“It’s probably from the children’s uncle,”she said excitedly, when she got home. “Oh,Marilla, I wonder what he says about them.”“The best plan might be to open it and see,”said Marilla curtly. A close observer mighthave thought that she was excited also, butshe would rather have died than show it.Anne tore open the letter and glanced overthe somewhat untidy and poorly written contents.“He says he can’t take the children thisspring—he’s been sick most of the winter andhis wedding is put off. He wants to know ifwe can keep them till the fall and he’ll try andtake them then. We will, of course, won’t weMarilla?”“I don’t see that there is anything else forus to do,” said Marilla rather grimly, althoughshe felt a secret relief. “Anyhow they’re notso much trouble as they were—or else we’vegot used to them. Davy has improved a greatdeal.”“His manners are certainly much better,”said Anne cautiously, as if she were not preparedto say as much for his morals.Anne had come home from school the previousevening, to find Marilla away at an Aid

A Danger Averted 175meeting, Dora asleep on the kitchen sofa, andDavy in the sitting room closet, blissfully absorbingthe contents of a jar of Marilla’s famousyellow plum preserves—“company jam,”Davy called it—which he had been forbiddento touch. He looked very guilty when Annepounced on him and whisked him out of thecloset.“Davy Keith, don’t you know that it is verywrong of you to be eating that jam, when youwere told never to meddle with anything inthat closet?”“Yes, I knew it was wrong,” admitted Davyuncomfortably, “but plum jam is awful nice,Anne. I just peeped in and it looked so goodI thought I’d take just a weeny taste. I stuckmy finger in—” Anne groaned—“and licked itclean. And it was so much gooder than I’d everthought that I got a spoon and just sailed in.”Anne gave him such a serious lecture onthe sin of stealing plum jam that Davy becameconscience stricken and promised with repentantkisses never to do it again.“Anyhow, there’ll be plenty of jam inheaven, that’s one comfort,” he said complacently.Anne nipped a smile in the bud.“Perhaps there will—if we want it,” shesaid, “But what makes you think so?”“Why, it’s in the catechism,” said Davy.

176 Anne of Avonlea“Oh, no, there is nothing like that in thecatechism, Davy.”“But I tell you there is,” persisted Davy. “Itwas in that question Marilla taught me lastSunday. ‘Why should we love God?’ It says,‘Because He makes preserves, and redeemsus.’ Preserves is just a holy way of sayingjam.”“I must get a drink of water,” said Annehastily. When she came back it cost her sometime and trouble to explain to Davy that acertain comma in the said catechism questionmade a great deal of difference in the meaning.“Well, I thought it was too good to be true,”he said at last, with a sigh of disappointedconviction. “And besides, I didn’t see whenHe’d find time to make jam if it’s one endlessSabbath day, as the hymn says. I don’t believeI want to go to heaven. Won’t there ever beany Saturdays in heaven, Anne?”“Yes, Saturdays, and every other kind ofbeautiful days. And every day in heavenwill be more beautiful than the one beforeit, Davy,” assured Anne, who was rather gladthat Marilla was not by to be shocked. Marilla,it is needless to say, was bringing thetwins up in the good old ways of theology anddiscouraged all fanciful speculations thereupon.Davy and Dora were taught a hymn, a

A Danger Averted 177catechism question, and two Bible verses everySunday. Dora learned meekly and recitedlike a little machine, with perhaps as muchunderstanding or interest as if she were one.Davy, on the contrary, had a lively curiosity,and frequently asked questions which madeMarilla tremble for his fate.“Chester Sloane says we’ll do nothing allthe time in heaven but walk around in whitedresses and play on harps; and he says hehopes he won’t have to go till he’s an old man,’cause maybe he’ll like it better then. And hethinks it will be horrid to wear dresses andI think so too. Why can’t men angels weartrousers, Anne? Chester Sloane is interestedin those things, ’cause they’re going to makea minister of him. He’s got to be a minister’cause his grandmother left the money tosend him to college and he can’t have it unlesshe is a minister. She thought a ministerwas such a ’spectable thing to have in afamily. Chester says he doesn’t mind much—though he’d rather be a blacksmith—but he’sbound to have all the fun he can before he beginsto be a minister, ’cause he doesn’t expectto have much afterwards. I ain’t going to be aminister. I’m going to be a storekeeper, likeMr. Blair, and keep heaps of candy and bananas.But I’d rather like going to your kind ofa heaven if they’d let me play a mouth organ

178 Anne of Avonleainstead of a harp. Do you s’pose they would?”“Yes, I think they would if you wanted it,”was all Anne could trust herself to say.The A.V.I.S. met at Mr. Harmon Andrews’that evening and a full attendance had beenrequested, since important business was to bediscussed. The A.V.I.S. was in a flourishingcondition, and had already accomplished wonders.Early in the spring Mr. Major Spencerhad redeemed his promise and had stumped,graded, and seeded down all the road front ofhis farm. A dozen other men, some promptedby a determination not to let a Spencer getahead of them, others goaded into action byImprovers in their own households, had followedhis example. The result was thatthere were long strips of smooth velvet turfwhere once had been unsightly undergrowthor brush. The farm fronts that had not beendone looked so badly by contrast that theirowners were secretly shamed into resolving tosee what they could do another spring. Thetriangle of ground at the cross roads had alsobeen cleared and seeded down, and Anne’s bedof geraniums, unharmed by any maraudingcow, was already set out in the center.Altogether, the Improvers thought thatthey were getting on beautifully, even if Mr.Levi Boulter, tactfully approached by a carefullyselected committee in regard to the old

A Danger Averted 179house on his upper farm, did bluntly tell themthat he wasn’t going to have it meddled with.At this especial meeting they intended todraw up a petition to the school trustees,humbly praying that a fence be put aroundthe school grounds; and a plan was also tobe discussed for planting a few ornamentaltrees by the church, if the funds of the societywould permit of it—for, as Anne said, therewas no use in starting another subscriptionas long as the hall remained blue. The memberswere assembled in the Andrews’ parlorand Jane was already on her feet to move theappointment of a committee which should findout and report on the price of said trees, whenGertie Pye swept in, pompadoured and frilledwithin an inch of her life. Gertie had a habit ofbeing late—“to make her entrance more effective,”spiteful people said. Gertie’s entrancein this instance was certainly effective, for shepaused dramatically on the middle of the floor,threw up her hands, rolled her eyes, and exclaimed,“I’ve just heard something perfectlyawful. What do you think? Mr. Judson Parkeris going to rent all the road fence of his farmto a patent medicine company to paint advertisementson.”For once in her life Gertie Pye made allthe sensation she desired. If she had throwna bomb among the complacent Improvers she

180 Anne of Avonleacould hardly have made more.“It can’t be true,” said Anne blankly.“That’s just what I said when I heard itfirst, don’t you know,” said Gertie, who wasenjoying herself hugely. “I said it couldn’t betrue—that Judson Parker wouldn’t have theheart to do it, don’t you know. But father methim this afternoon and asked him about it andhe said it was true. Just fancy! His farm isside-on to the Newbridge road and how perfectlyawful it will look to see advertisementsof pills and plasters all along it, don’t youknow?”The Improvers did know, all too well. Eventhe least imaginative among them could picturethe grotesque effect of half a mile of boardfence adorned with such advertisements. Allthought of church and school grounds vanishedbefore this new danger. Parliamentaryrules and regulations were forgotten, andAnne, in despair, gave up trying to keep minutesat all. Everybody talked at once and fearfulwas the hubbub.“Oh, let us keep calm,” implored Anne, whowas the most excited of them all, “and try tothink of some way of preventing him.”“I don’t know how you’re going to preventhim,” exclaimed Jane bitterly. “Everybodyknows what Judson Parker is. He’d do anythingfor money. He hasn’t a spark of public

A Danger Averted 181spirit or any sense of the beautiful.”The prospect looked rather unpromising.Judson Parker and his sister were the onlyParkers in Avonlea, so that no leverage couldbe exerted by family connections. MarthaParker was a lady of all too certain age whodisapproved of young people in general andthe Improvers in particular. Judson wasa jovial, smooth-spoken man, so uniformlygoodnatured and bland that it was surprisinghow few friends he had. Perhaps hehad got the better in too many businesstransactions—which seldom makes for popularity.He was reputed to be very “sharp”and it was the general opinion that he “hadn’tmuch principle.”“If Judson Parker has a chance to ‘turn anhonest penny,’ as he says himself, he’ll neverlose it,” declared Fred Wright.“Is there nobody who has any influenceover him?” asked Anne despairingly.“He goes to see Louisa Spencer at WhiteSands,” suggested Carrie Sloane. “Perhapsshe could coax him not to rent his fences.”“Not she,” said Gilbert emphatically. “Iknow Louisa Spencer well. She doesn’t ‘believe’in Village Improvement Societies, butshe does believe in dollars and cents. She’dbe more likely to urge Judson on than to dissuadehim.”

182 Anne of Avonlea“The only thing to do is to appoint a committeeto wait on him and protest,” said JuliaBell, “and you must send girls, for he’d hardlybe civil to boys—but I won’t go, so nobody neednominate me.”“Better send Anne alone,” said OliverSloane. “She can talk Judson over if anybodycan.”Anne protested. She was willing to go anddo the talking; but she must have others withher “for moral support.” Diana and Jane weretherefore appointed to support her morallyand the Improvers broke up, buzzing like angrybees with indignation. Anne was so worriedthat she didn’t sleep until nearly morning,and then she dreamed that the trusteeshad put a fence around the school and painted“Try Purple Pills” all over it.The committee waited on Judson Parkerthe next afternoon. Anne pleaded eloquentlyagainst his nefarious design and Jane and Dianasupported her morally and valiantly. Judsonwas sleek, suave, flattering; paid themseveral compliments of the delicacy of sunflowers;felt real bad to refuse such charmingyoung ladies—but business was business;couldn’t afford to let sentiment stand in theway these hard times.“But I’ll tell what I will do,” he said, witha twinkle in his light, full eyes. “I’ll tell

A Danger Averted 183the agent he must use only handsome, tastycolors—red and yellow and so on. I’ll tell himhe mustn’t paint the ads blue on any account.”The vanquished committee retired, thinkingthings not lawful to be uttered.“We have done all we can do and must simplytrust the rest to Providence,” said Jane,with an unconscious imitation of Mrs. Lynde’stone and manner.“I wonder if Mr. Allan could do anything,”reflected Diana.Anne shook her head.“No, it’s no use to worry Mr. Allan, especiallynow when the baby’s so sick. Judsonwould slip away from him as smoothly as fromus, although he has taken to going to churchquite regularly just now. That is simply becauseLouisa Spencer’s father is an elder andvery particular about such things.”“Judson Parker is the only man in Avonleawho would dream of renting his fences,”said Jane indignantly. “Even Levi Boulteror Lorenzo White would never stoop to that,tightfisted as they are. They would have toomuch respect for public opinion.”Public opinion was certainly down on JudsonParker when the facts became known,but that did not help matters much. Judsonchuckled to himself and defied it, and the Improverswere trying to reconcile themselves

184 Anne of Avonleato the prospect of seeing the prettiest partof the Newbridge road defaced by advertisements,when Anne rose quietly at the president’scall for reports of committees on theoccasion of the next meeting of the Society,and announced that Mr. Judson Parker hadinstructed her to inform the Society that hewas not going to rent his fences to the PatentMedicine Company.Jane and Diana stared as if they found ithard to believe their ears. Parliamentary etiquette,which was generally very strictly enforcedin the A.V.I.S., forbade them giving instantvent to their curiosity, but after the Societyadjourned Anne was besieged for explanations.Anne had no explanation to give. JudsonParker had overtaken her on the road thepreceding evening and told her that he haddecided to humor the A.V.I.S. in its peculiarprejudice against patent medicine advertisements.That was all Anne would say, then orever afterwards, and it was the simple truth;but when Jane Andrews, on her way home,confided to Oliver Sloane her firm belief thatthere was more behind Judson Parker’s mysteriouschange of heart than Anne Shirley hadrevealed, she spoke the truth also.Anne had been down to old Mrs. Irving’son the shore road the preceding evening andhad come home by a short cut which led her

A Danger Averted 185first over the low-lying shore fields, and thenthrough the beech wood below Robert Dickson’s,by a little footpath that ran out to themain road just above the Lake of ShiningWaters—known to unimaginative people asBarry’s pond.Two men were sitting in their buggies,reined off to the side of the road, just at theentrance of the path. One was Judson Parker;the other was Jerry Corcoran, a Newbridgeman against whom, as Mrs. Lynde would havetold you in eloquent italics, nothing shady hadever been proved. He was an agent for agriculturalimplements and a prominent personagein matters political. He had a finger—some people said all his fingers—in every politicalpie that was cooked; and as Canada wason the eve of a general election Jerry Corcoranhad been a busy man for many weeks,canvassing the county in the interests of hisparty’s candidate. Just as Anne emergedfrom under the overhanging beech boughs sheheard Corcoran say, “If you’ll vote for Amesbury,Parker—well, I’ve a note for that pair ofharrows you’ve got in the spring. I supposeyou wouldn’t object to having it back, eh?”“We—ll, since you put it in that way,”drawled Judson with a grin, “I reckon I mightas well do it. A man must look out for his owninterests in these hard times.”

186 Anne of AvonleaBoth saw Anne at this moment and conversationabruptly ceased. Anne bowed frostilyand walked on, with her chin slightly moretilted than usual. Soon Judson Parker overtookher.“Have a lift, Anne?” he inquired genially.“Thank you, no,” said Anne politely, butwith a fine, needle-like disdain in her voicethat pierced even Judson Parker’s none toosensitive consciousness. His face reddenedand he twitched his reins angrily; butthe next second prudential considerationschecked him. He looked uneasily at Anne,as she walked steadily on, glancing neitherto the right nor to the left. Had she heardCorcoran’s unmistakable offer and his own tooplain acceptance of it? Confound Corcoran!If he couldn’t put his meaning into less dangerousphrases he’d get into trouble some ofthese long-come-shorts. And confound redheadedschool-ma’ams with a habit of poppingout of beechwoods where they had no businessto be. If Anne had heard, Judson Parker,measuring her corn in his own half bushel, asthe country saying went, and cheating himselfthereby, as such people generally do, believedthat she would tell it far and wide. Now, JudsonParker, as has been seen, was not overlyregardful of public opinion; but to be knownas having accepted a bribe would be a nasty

A Danger Averted 187thing; and if it ever reached Isaac Spencer’sears farewell forever to all hope of winningLouisa Jane with her comfortable prospectsas the heiress of a well-to-do farmer. JudsonParker knew that Mr. Spencer looked somewhataskance at him as it was; he could notafford to take any risks.“Ahem—Anne, I’ve been wanting to seeyou about that little matter we were discussingthe other day. I’ve decided not to letmy fences to that company after all. A societywith an aim like yours ought to be encouraged.”Anne thawed out the merest trifle.“Thank you,” she said.“And—and—you needn’t mention that littleconversation of mine with Jerry.”“I have no intention of mentioning it in anycase,” said Anne icily, for she would have seenevery fence in Avonlea painted with advertisementsbefore she would have stooped to bargainwith a man who would sell his vote.“Just so—just so,” agreed Judson, imaginingthat they understood each other beautifully.“I didn’t suppose you would. Of course,I was only stringing Jerry—he thinks he’s soall-fired cute and smart. I’ve no intentionof voting for Amesbury. I’m going to votefor Grant as I’ve always done—you’ll see thatwhen the election comes off. I just led Jerry

188 Anne of Avonleaon to see if he would commit himself. And it’sall right about the fence—you can tell the Improversthat.”“It takes all sorts of people to make aworld, as I’ve often heard, but I think thereare some who could be spared,” Anne told herreflection in the east gable mirror that night.“I wouldn’t have mentioned the disgracefulthing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience isclear on that score. I really don’t know who orwhat is to be thanked for this. I did nothingto bring it about, and it’s hard to believe thatProvidence ever works by means of the kindof politics men like Judson Parker and JerryCorcoran have.”

XV. The Beginningof VacationAnne locked the schoolhouse door on a still,yellow evening, when the winds were purringin the spruces around the playground, and theshadows were long and lazy by the edge of thewoods. She dropped the key into her pocketwith a sigh of satisfaction. The school yearwas ended, she had been reengaged for thenext, with many expressions of satisfaction—only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she oughtto use the strap oftener—and two delightfulmonths of a well-earned vacation beckonedher invitingly. Anne felt at peace with theworld and herself as she walked down thehill with her basket of flowers in her hand.Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had nevermissed her weekly pilgrimage to Matthew’sgrave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla,had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportantMatthew Cuthbert; but his memory189

190 Anne of Avonleawas still green in Anne’s heart and alwayswould be. She could never forget the kind oldman who had been the first to give her thelove and sympathy her starved childhood hadcraved.At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting onthe fence in the shadow of the spruces—a boywith big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitiveface. He swung down and joined Anne,smiling; but there were traces of tears on hischeeks.“I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, becauseI knew you were going to the graveyard,” hesaid, slipping his hand into hers. “I’m goingthere, too—I’m taking this bouquet of geraniumsto put on Grandpa Irving’s grave forgrandma. And look, teacher, I’m going to putthis bunch of white roses beside Grandpa’sgrave in memory of my little mother—becauseI can’t go to her grave to put it there. Butdon’t you think she’ll know all about it, justthe same?”“Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.”“You see, teacher, it’s just three years todaysince my little mother died. It’s such a long,long time but it hurts just as much as ever—and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimesit seems to me that I just can’t bear it,it hurts so.”Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled.

The Beginning of Vacation 191He looked down at his roses, hoping that histeacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.“And yet,” said Anne, very softly, “youwouldn’t want it to stop hurting—youwouldn’t want to forget your little mothereven if you could.”“No, indeed, I wouldn’t—that’s just theway I feel. You’re so good at understanding,teacher. Nobody else understands so well—not even grandma, although she’s so good tome. Father understood pretty well, but still Icouldn’t talk much to him about mother, becauseit made him feel so bad. When he puthis hand over his face I always knew it wastime to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfullylonesome without me; but you see he hasnobody but a housekeeper now and he thinkshousekeepers are no good to bring up littleboys, especially when he has to be away fromhome so much on business. Grandmothers arebetter, next to mothers. Someday, when I’mbrought up, I’ll go back to father and we’renever going to be parted again.”Paul had talked so much to Anne abouthis mother and father that she felt as if shehad known them. She thought his mothermust have been very like what he was himself,in temperament and disposition; and shehad an idea that Stephen Irving was a ratherreserved man with a deep and tender nature

192 Anne of Avonleawhich he kept hidden scrupulously from theworld.“Father’s not very easy to get acquaintedwith,” Paul had said once. “I never got reallyacquainted with him until after my littlemother died. But he’s splendid when youdo get to know him. I love him the best inall the world, and Grandma Irving next, andthen you, teacher. I’d love you next to father ifit wasn’t my duty to love Grandma Irving best,because she’s doing so much for me. You know,teacher. I wish she would leave the lamp inmy room till I go to sleep, though. She takesit right out as soon as she tucks me up becauseshe says I mustn’t be a coward. I’m notscared, but I’d rather have the light. My littlemother used always to sit beside me andhold my hand till I went to sleep. I expect shespoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know.”No, Anne did not know this, although shemight imagine it. She thought sadly of her“little mother,” the mother who had thoughther so “perfectly beautiful” and who had diedso long ago and was buried beside her boyishhusband in that unvisited grave far away.Anne could not remember her mother and forthis reason she almost envied Paul.“My birthday is next week,” said Paul, asthey walked up the long red hill, basking inthe June sunshine, “and father wrote me that

The Beginning of Vacation 193he is sending me something that he thinks I’lllike better than anything else he could send.I believe it has come already, for Grandmais keeping the bookcase drawer locked andthat is something new. And when I asked herwhy, she just looked mysterious and said littleboys mustn’t be too curious. It’s very excitingto have a birthday, isn’t it? I’ll be eleven.You’d never think it to look at me, wouldyou? Grandma says I’m very small for my ageand that it’s all because I don’t eat enoughporridge. I do my very best, but Grandmagives such generous platefuls—there’s nothingmean about Grandma, I can tell you.Ever since you and I had that talk aboutpraying going home from Sunday School thatday, teacher—when you said we ought to prayabout all our difficulties—I’ve prayed everynight that God would give me enough graceto enable me to eat every bit of my porridgein the mornings. But I’ve never been able todo it yet, and whether it’s because I have toolittle grace or too much porridge I really can’tdecide. Grandma says father was brought upon porridge, and it certainly did work well inhis case, for you ought to see the shoulders hehas. But sometimes,” concluded Paul with asigh and a meditative air “I really think porridgewill be the death of me.”Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul

194 Anne of Avonleawas not looking at her. All Avonlea knew thatold Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandsonup in accordance with the good, old-fashionedmethods of diet and morals.“Let us hope not, dear,” she said cheerfully.“How are your rock people coming on? Doesthe oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?”“He has to,” said Paul emphatically. “Heknows I won’t associate with him if he doesn’t.He is really full of wickedness, I think.”“And has Nora found out about the GoldenLady yet?”“No; but I think she suspects. I’m almostsure she watched me the last time I went tothe cave. I don’t mind if she finds out—it isonly for her sake I don’t want her to—so thather feelings won’t be hurt. But if she is determinedto have her feelings hurt it can’t behelped.”“If I were to go to the shore some nightwith you do you think I could see your rockpeople too?”Paul shook his head gravely.“No, I don’t think you could see my rockpeople. I’m the only person who can see them.But you could see rock people of your own.You’re one of the kind that can. We’re boththat kind. You know, teacher,” he added,squeezing her hand chummily. “Isn’t it splen-

The Beginning of Vacation 195did to be that kind, teacher?”“Splendid,” Anne agreed, gray shining eyeslooking down into blue shining ones. Anneand Paul both knew“How fair the realmImagination opens to the view,”and both knew the way to that happy land.There the rose of joy bloomed immortal bydale and stream; clouds never darkened thesunny sky; sweet bells never jangled out oftune; and kindred spirits abounded. Theknowledge of that land’s geography—“east o’the sun, west o’ the moon”—is priceless lore,not to be bought in any market place. It mustbe the gift of the good fairies at birth and theyears can never deface it or take it away. It isbetter to possess it, living in a garret, than tobe the inhabitant of palaces without it.The Avonlea graveyard was as yet thegrass-grown solitude it had always been. Tobe sure, the Improvers had an eye on it, andPriscilla Grant had read a paper on cemeteriesbefore the last meeting of the Society.At some future time the Improvers meant tohave the lichened, wayward old board fencereplaced by a neat wire railing, the grassmown and the leaning monuments straightenedup.Anne put on Matthew’s grave the flowersshe had brought for it, and then went over to

196 Anne of Avonleathe little poplar shaded corner where HesterGray slept. Ever since the day of the springpicnic Anne had put flowers on Hester’s gravewhen she visited Matthew’s. The evening beforeshe had made a pilgrimage back to the littledeserted garden in the woods and broughttherefrom some of Hester’s own white roses.“I thought you would like them better thanany others, dear,” she said softly.Anne was still sitting there when a shadowfell over the grass and she looked up to seeMrs. Allan. They walked home together.Mrs. Allan’s face was not the face of thegirlbride whom the minister had brought toAvonlea five years before. It had lost some ofits bloom and youthful curves, and there werefine, patient lines about eyes and mouth. Atiny grave in that very cemetery accounted forsome of them; and some new ones had comeduring the recent illness, now happily over, ofher little son. But Mrs. Allan’s dimples wereas sweet and sudden as ever, her eyes as clearand bright and true; and what her face lackedof girlish beauty was now more than atonedfor in added tenderness and strength.“I suppose you are looking forward to yourvacation, Anne?” she said, as they left thegraveyard.Anne nodded.“Yes.—I could roll the word as a sweet

The Beginning of Vacation 197morsel under my tongue. I think the summeris going to be lovely. For one thing, Mrs.Morgan is coming to the Island in July andPriscilla is going to bring her up. I feel one ofmy old ‘thrills’ at the mere thought.”“I hope you’ll have a good time, Anne.You’ve worked very hard this past year andyou have succeeded.”“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve come so far short inso many things. I haven’t done what I meantto do when I began to teach last fall. I haven’tlived up to my ideals.”“None of us ever do,” said Mrs. Allan witha sigh. “But then, Anne, you know what Lowellsays, ‘Not failure but low aim is crime.’ Wemust have ideals and try to live up to them,even if we never quite succeed. Life wouldbe a sorry business without them. With themit’s grand and great. Hold fast to your ideals,Anne.”“I shall try. But I have to let go most ofmy theories,” said Anne, laughing a little. “Ihad the most beautiful set of theories you everknew when I started out as a schoolma’am,but every one of them has failed me at somepinch or another.”“Even the theory on corporal punishment,”teased Mrs. Allan.But Anne flushed.“I shall never forgive myself for whipping

198 Anne of AvonleaAnthony.”“Nonsense, dear, he deserved it. And itagreed with him. You have had no troublewith him since and he has come to thinkthere’s nobody like you. Your kindness wonhis love after the idea that a ‘girl was no good’was rooted out of his stubborn mind.”“He may have deserved it, but that is notthe point. If I had calmly and deliberately decidedto whip him because I thought it a justpunishment for him I would not feel over itas I do. But the truth is, Mrs. Allan, that Ijust flew into a temper and whipped him becauseof that. I wasn’t thinking whether itwas just or unjust—even if he hadn’t deservedit I’d have done it just the same. That is whathumiliates me.”“Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so justput it behind you. We should regret our mistakesand learn from them, but never carrythem forward into the future with us. Theregoes Gilbert Blythe on his wheel—home forhis vacation too, I suppose. How are you andhe getting on with your studies?”“Pretty well. We plan to finish the Virgiltonight—there are only twenty lines to do.Then we are not going to study any more untilSeptember.”“Do you think you will ever get to college?”“Oh, I don’t know.” Anne looked dream-

The Beginning of Vacation 199ily afar to the opal-tinted horizon. “Marilla’seyes will never be much better than they arenow, although we are so thankful to think thatthey will not get worse. And then there arethe twins—somehow I don’t believe their unclewill ever really send for them. Perhaps collegemay be around the bend in the road, butI haven’t got to the bend yet and I don’t thinkmuch about it lest I might grow discontented.”“Well, I should like to see you go to college,Anne; but if you never do, don’t be discontentedabout it. We make our own lives whereverwe are, after all—college can only helpus to do it more easily. They are broad or narrowaccording to what we put into them, notwhat we get out. Life is rich and full here—everywhere—if we can only learn how to openour whole hearts to its richness and fulness.”“I think I understand what you mean,”said Anne thoughtfully, “and I know I haveso much to feel thankful for—oh, so much—my work, and Paul Irving, and the dear twins,and all my friends. Do you know, Mrs. Allan,I’m so thankful for friendship. It beautifieslife so much.”“True friendship is a very helpfulul thingindeed,” said Mrs. Allan, “and we should havea very high ideal of it, and never sully it byany failure in truth and sincerity. I fear thename of friendship is often degraded to a kind

200 Anne of Avonleaof intimacy that has nothing of real friendshipin it.”“Yes—like Gertie Pye’s and Julia Bell’s.They are very intimate and go everywheretogether; but Gertie is always saying nastythings of Julia behind her back and everybodythinks she is jealous of her because she is alwaysso pleased when anybody criticizes Julia.I think it is desecration to call that friendship.If we have friends we should look onlyfor the best in them and give them the bestthat is in us, don’t you think? Then friendshipwould be the most beautiful thing in theworld.”“Friendship is very beautiful,” smiled Mrs.Allan, “but some day—”Then she paused abruptly. In the delicate,white-browed face beside her, with its candideyes and mobile features, there was still farmore of the child than of the woman. Anne’sheart so far harbored only dreams of friendshipand ambition, and Mrs. Allan did notwish to brush the bloom from her sweet unconsciousness.So she left her sentence for thefuture years to finish.

XVI. The Substanceof Things HopedFor“Anne,” said Davy appealingly, scrambling upon the shiny, leather-covered sofa in the GreenGables kitchen, where Anne sat, reading a letter,“Anne, I’m awful hungry. You’ve no idea.”“I’ll get you a piece of bread and butter ina minute,” said Anne absently. Her letter evidentlycontained some exciting news, for hercheeks were as pink as the roses on the bigbush outside, and her eyes were as starry asonly Anne’s eyes could be.“But I ain’t bread and butter hungry,” saidDavy in a disgusted tone. “I’m plum cake hungry.”“Oh,” laughed Anne, laying down her letterand putting her arm about Davy to give hima squeeze, “that’s a kind of hunger that canbe endured very comfortably, Davy-boy. You201

202 Anne of Avonleaknow it’s one of Marilla’s rules that you can’thave anything but bread and butter betweenmeals.”“Well, gimme a piece then—please.”Davy had been at last taught to say“please,” but he generally tacked it on as anafterthought. He looked with approval at thegenerous slice Anne presently brought to him.“You always put such a nice lot of butter on it,Anne. Marilla spreads it pretty thin. It slipsdown a lot easier when there’s plenty of butter.”The slice “slipped down” with tolerableease, judging from its rapid disappearance.Davy slid head first off the sofa, turned a doublesomersault on the rug, and then sat up andannounced decidedly,“Anne, I’ve made up my mind aboutheaven. I don’t want to go there.”“Why not?” asked Anne gravely.“Cause heaven is in Simon Fletcher’s garret,and I don’t like Simon Fletcher.”“Heaven in—Simon Fletcher’s garret!” gaspedAnne, too amazed even to laugh. “DavyKeith, whatever put such an extraordinaryidea into your head?”“Milty Boulter says that’s where it is. Itwas last Sunday in Sunday School. The lessonwas about Elijah and Elisha, and I upand asked Miss Rogerson where heaven was.

The Substance of Things Hoped For 203Miss Rogerson looked awful offended. Shewas cross anyhow, because when she’d askedus what Elijah left Elisha when he went toheaven Milty Boulter said, ‘His old clo’es,’ andus fellows all laughed before we thought. Iwish you could think first and do things afterwards,’cause then you wouldn’t do them. ButMilty didn’t mean to be disrespeckful. He justcouldn’t think of the name of the thing. MissRogerson said heaven was where God was andI wasn’t to ask questions like that. Miltynudged me and said in a whisper, ‘Heaven’sin Uncle Simon’s garret and I’ll esplain aboutit on the road home.’ So when we was cominghome he esplained. Milty’s a great handat esplaining things. Even if he don’t knowanything about a thing he’ll make up a lot ofstuff and so you get it esplained all the same.His mother is Mrs. Simon’s sister and he wentwith her to the funeral when his cousin, JaneEllen, died. The minister said she’d gone toheaven, though Milty says she was lying rightbefore them in the coffin. But he s’posed theycarried the coffin to the garret afterwards.Well, when Milty and his mother went upstairsafter it was all over to get her bonnet heasked her where heaven was that Jane Ellenhad gone to, and she pointed right to the ceilingand said, ‘Up there.’ Milty knew therewasn’t anything but the garret over the ceil-

204 Anne of Avonleaing, so that’s how he found out. And he’s beenawful scared to go to his Uncle Simon’s eversince.”Anne took Davy on her knee and did herbest to straighten out this theological tanglealso. She was much better fitted for thetask than Marilla, for she remembered herown childhood and had an instinctive understandingof the curious ideas that seven-yearoldssometimes get about matters that are,of course, very plain and simple to grown uppeople. She had just succeeded in convincingDavy that heaven was not in Simon Fletcher’sgarret when Marilla came in from the garden,where she and Dora had been picking peas.Dora was an industrious little soul and neverhappier than when “helping” in various smalltasks suited to her chubby fingers. She fedchickens, picked up chips, wiped dishes, andran errands galore. She was neat, faithful andobservant; she never had to be told how to doa thing twice and never forgot any of her littleduties. Davy, on the other hand, was ratherheedless and forgetful; but he had the bornknack of winning love, and even yet Anne andMarilla liked him the better.While Dora proudly shelled the peas andDavy made boats of the pods, with masts ofmatches and sails of paper, Anne told Marillaabout the wonderful contents of her letter.

The Substance of Things Hoped For 205“Oh, Marilla, what do you think? I’ve hada letter from Priscilla and she says that Mrs.Morgan is on the Island, and that if it is fineThursday they are going to drive up to Avonleaand will reach here about twelve. Theywill spend the afternoon with us and go to thehotel at White Sands in the evening, becausesome of Mrs. Morgan’s American friends arestaying there. Oh, Marilla, isn’t it wonderful?I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming.”“I daresay Mrs. Morgan is a lot like otherpeople,” said Marilla drily, although she didfeel a trifle excited herself. Mrs. Morgan wasa famous woman and a visit from her was nocommonplace occurrence. “They’ll be here todinner, then?”“Yes; and oh, Marilla, may I cook every bitof the dinner myself? I want to feel that I cando something for the author of ‘The RosebudGarden,’ if it is only to cook a dinner for her.You won’t mind, will you?”“Goodness, I’m not so fond of stewing overa hot fire in July that it would vex me verymuch to have someone else do it. You’re quitewelcome to the job.”“Oh, thank you,” said Anne, as if Marillahad just conferred a tremendous favor, “I’llmake out the menu this very night.”“You’d better not try to put on too muchstyle,” warned Marilla, a little alarmed by the

206 Anne of Avonleahigh-flown sound of “menu.” You’ll likely cometo grief if you do.”“Oh, I’m not going to put on any ‘style,’if you mean trying to do or have things wedon’t usually have on festal occasions,” assuredAnne. “That would be affectation, and,although I know I haven’t as much senseand steadiness as a girl of seventeen and aschoolteacher ought to have, I’m not so sillyas that. But I want to have everything as niceand dainty as possible. Davy-boy, don’t leavethose peapods on the back stairs—someonemight slip on them. I’ll have a light soupto begin with—you know I can make lovelycream-of-onion soup—and then a couple ofroast fowls. I’ll have the two white roosters.I have real affection for those roostersand they’ve been pets ever since the gray henhatched out just the two of them—little ballsof yellow down. But I know they would haveto be sacrificed sometime, and surely therecouldn’t be a worthier occasion than this. Butoh, Marilla, I cannot kill them—not even forMrs. Morgan’s sake. I’ll have to ask JohnHenry Carter to come over and do it for me.”“I’ll do it,” volunteered Davy, “if Marilla’llhold them by the legs” cause I guess it’d takeboth my hands to manage the axe. It’s awfuljolly fun to see them hopping about after theirheads are cut off.”

The Substance of Things Hoped For 207“Then I’ll have peas and beans andcreamed potatoes and a lettuce salad, forvegetables,” resumed Anne, “and for dessert,lemon pie with whipped cream, and coffee andcheese and lady fingers. I’ll make the piesand lady fingers tomorrow and do up my whitemuslin dress. And I must tell Diana tonight,for she’ll want to do up hers. Mrs. Morgan’sheroines are nearly always dressed in whitemuslin, and Diana and I have always resolvedthat that was what we would wear if we evermet her. It will be such a delicate compliment,don’t you think? Davy, dear, you mustn’t pokepeapods into the cracks of the floor. I must askMr. and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy to dinner,too, for they’re all very anxious to meet Mrs.Morgan. It’s so fortunate she’s coming whileMiss Stacy is here. Davy dear, don’t sail thepeapods in the water bucket—go out to thetrough. Oh, I do hope it will be fine Thursday,and I think it will, for Uncle Abe said lastnight when he called at Mr. Harrison’s, that itwas going to rain most of this week.”“That’s a good sign,” agreed Marilla.Anne ran across to Orchard Slope thatevening to tell the news to Diana, who wasalso very much excited over it, and they discussedthe matter in the hammock swung underthe big willow in the Barry garden.“Oh, Anne, mayn’t I help you cook the din-

208 Anne of Avonleaner?” implored Diana. “You know I can makesplendid lettuce salad.”“Indeed you, may” said Anne unselfishly.“And I shall want you to help me decoratetoo. I mean to have the parlor simply a bowerof blossoms—and the dining table is to beadorned with wild roses. Oh, I do hope everythingwill go smoothly. Mrs. Morgan’s heroinesnever get into scrapes or are taken ata disadvantage, and they are always so selfpossessedand such good housekeepers. Theyseem to be born good housekeepers. Youremember that Gertrude in Edgewood Dayskept house for her father when she was onlyeight years old. When I was eight years old Ihardly knew how to do a thing except bring upchildren. Mrs. Morgan must be an authorityon girls when she has written so much aboutthem, and I do want her to have a good opinionof us. I’ve imagined it all out a dozen differentways—what she’ll look like, and whatshe’ll say, and what I’ll say. And I’m so anxiousabout my nose. There are seven freckleson it, as you can see. They came at theA.V.I.S. picnic, when I went around in thesun without my hat. I suppose it’s ungratefulof me to worry over them, when I should bethankful they’re not spread all over my faceas they once were; but I do wish they hadn’tcome—all Mrs. Morgan’s heroines have such

The Substance of Things Hoped For 209perfect complexions. I can’t recall a freckledone among them.”“Yours are not very noticeable,” comfortedDiana. “Try a little lemon juice on themtonight.”The next day Anne made her pies andlady fingers, did up her muslin dress, andswept and dusted every room in the house—a quite unnecessary proceeding, for GreenGables was, as usual, in the apple pie orderdear to Marilla’s heart. But Anne felt that afleck of dust would be a desecration in a housethat was to be honored by a visit from CharlotteE. Morgan. She even cleaned out the“catch-all” closet under the stairs, althoughthere was not the remotest possibility of Mrs.Morgan’s seeing its interior.“But I want to feel that it is in perfect order,even if she isn’t to see it,” Anne told Marilla.“You know, in her book Golden Keys, shemakes her two heroines Alice and Louisa takefor their motto that verse of Longfellow’s,‘In the elder days of artBuilders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part,For the gods see everywhere,’and so they always kept their cellar stairsscrubbed and never forgot to sweep under thebeds. I should have a guilty conscience if Ithought this closet was in disorder when Mrs.

210 Anne of AvonleaMorgan was in the house. Ever since we readGolden Keys, last April, Diana and I havetaken that verse for our motto too.”That night John Henry Carter and Davybetween them contrived to execute the twowhite roosters, and Anne dressed them, theusually distasteful task glorified in her eyesby the destination of the plump birds.“I don’t like picking fowls,” she told Marilla,“but isn’t it fortunate we don’t have to putour souls into what our hands may be doing?I’ve been picking chickens with my hands butin imagination I’ve been roaming the MilkyWay.”“I thought you’d scattered more feathersover the floor than usual,” remarked Marilla.Then Anne put Davy to bed and made himpromise that he would behave perfectly thenext day.“If I’m as good as good can be all day tomorrowwill you let me be just as bad as I likeall the next day?” asked Davy.“I couldn’t do that,” said Anne discreetly,“but I’ll take you and Dora for a row in theflat right to the bottom of the pond, and we’llgo ashore on the sandhills and have a picnic.”“It’s a bargain,” said Davy. “I’ll be good,you bet. I meant to go over to Mr. Harrison’sand fire peas from my new popgun at Gingerbut another day’ll do as well. I espect it will

The Substance of Things Hoped For 211be just like Sunday, but a picnic at the shore’llmake up for that.”

212 Anne of Avonlea

XVII. A Chapter ofAccidentsAnne woke three times in the night and madepilgrimages to her window to make sure thatUncle Abe’s prediction was not coming true.Finally the morning dawned pearly and lustrousin a sky full of silver sheen and radiance,and the wonderful day had arrived.Diana appeared soon after breakfast, witha basket of flowers over one arm and hermuslin dress over the other—for it would notdo to don it until all the dinner preparationswere completed. Meanwhile she wore her afternoonpink print and a lawn apron fearfullyand wonderfully ruffled and frilled; and veryneat and pretty and rosy she was.“You look simply sweet,” said Anne admiringly.Diana sighed.“But I’ve had to let out every one of mydresses again. I weigh four pounds more than213

214 Anne of AvonleaI did in July. Anne, where will this end? Mrs.Morgan’s heroines are all tall and slender.”“Well, let’s forget our troubles and thinkof our mercies,” said Anne gaily. “Mrs. Allansays that whenever we think of anything thatis a trial to us we should also think of somethingnice that we can set over against it. Ifyou are slightly too plump you’ve got the dearestdimples; and if I have a freckled nose theshape of it is all right. Do you think the lemonjuice did any good?”“Yes, I really think it did,” said Diana critically;and, much elated, Anne led the wayto the garden, which was full of airy shadowsand wavering golden lights.“We’ll decorate the parlor first. We haveplenty of time, for Priscilla said they’d be hereabout twelve or half past at the latest, so we’llhave dinner at one.”There may have been two happier andmore excited girls somewhere in Canada orthe United States at that moment, but I doubtit. Every snip of the scissors, as rose and peonyand bluebell fell, seemed to chirp, “Mrs.Morgan is coming today.” Anne wondered howMr. Harrison could go on placidly mowing hayin the field across the lane, just as if nothingwere going to happen.The parlor at Green Gables was a rathersevere and gloomy apartment, with rigid

A Chapter of Accidents 215horsehair furniture, stiff lace curtains, andwhite antimacassars that were always laidat a perfectly correct angle, except at suchtimes as they clung to unfortunate people’sbuttons. Even Anne had never been able toinfuse much grace into it, for Marilla wouldnot permit any alterations. But it is wonderfulwhat flowers can accomplish if you give thema fair chance; when Anne and Diana finishedwith the room you would not have recognizedit.A great blue bowlful of snowballs overflowedon the polished table. The shiningblack mantelpiece was heaped with roses andferns. Every shelf of the what-not held a sheafof bluebells; the dark corners on either sideof the grate were lighted up with jars fullof glowing crimson peonies, and the grate itselfwas aflame with yellow poppies. All thissplendor and color, mingled with the sunshinefalling through the honeysuckle vines at thewindows in a leafy riot of dancing shadowsover walls and floor, made of the usually dismallittle room the veritable “bower” of Anne’simagination, and even extorted a tribute ofadmiration from Marilla, who came in to criticizeand remained to praise.“Now, we must set the table,” said Anne, inthe tone of a priestess about to perform somesacred rite in honor of a divinity. “We’ll have

216 Anne of Avonleaa big vaseful of wild roses in the center andone single rose in front of everybody’s plate—and a special bouquet of rosebuds only by Mrs.Morgan’s—an allusion to The Rosebud Gardenyou know.”The table was set in the sitting room, withMarilla’s finest linen and the best china, glass,and silver. You may be perfectly certain thatevery article placed on it was polished orscoured to the highest possible perfection ofgloss and glitter.Then the girls tripped out to the kitchen,which was filled with appetizing odors emanatingfrom the oven, where the chickenswere already sizzling splendidly. Anne preparedthe potatoes and Diana got the peas andbeans ready. Then, while Diana shut herselfinto the pantry to compound the lettuce salad,Anne, whose cheeks were already beginningto glow crimson, as much with excitement asfrom the heat of the fire, prepared the breadsauce for the chickens, minced her onions forthe soup, and finally whipped the cream forher lemon pies.And what about Davy all this time? Washe redeeming his promise to be good? He was,indeed. To be sure, he insisted on remainingin the kitchen, for his curiosity wanted to seeall that went on. But as he sat quietly in acorner, busily engaged in untying the knots in

A Chapter of Accidents 217a piece of herring net he had brought homefrom his last trip to the shore, nobody objectedto this.At half past eleven the lettuce salad wasmade, the golden circles of the pies wereheaped with whipped cream, and everythingwas sizzling and bubbling that ought to sizzleand bubble.“We’d better go and dress now,” said Anne,“for they may be here by twelve. We musthave dinner at sharp one, for the soup mustbe served as soon as it’s done.”Serious indeed were the toilet ritespresently performed in the east gable. Annepeered anxiously at her nose and rejoiced tosee that its freckles were not at all prominent,thanks either to the lemon juice or to the unusualflush on her cheeks. When they wereready they looked quite as sweet and trim andgirlish as ever did any of “Mrs. Morgan’s heroines.”“I do hope I’ll be able to say something oncein a while, and not sit like a mute,” said Dianaanxiously. “All Mrs. Morgan’s heroinesconverse so beautifully. But I’m afraid I’ll betongue-tied and stupid. And I’ll be sure tosay ‘I seen.’ I haven’t often said it since MissStacy taught here; but in moments of excitementit’s sure to pop out. Anne, if I were to say‘I seen’ before Mrs. Morgan I’d die of mortifi-

218 Anne of Avonleacation. And it would be almost as bad to havenothing to say.”“I’m nervous about a good many things,”said Anne, “but I don’t think there is muchfear that I won’t be able to talk”And, to do her justice, there wasn’t.Anne shrouded her muslin glories in a bigapron and went down to concoct her soup.Marilla had dressed herself and the twins,and looked more excited than she had everbeen known to look before. At half past twelvethe Allans and Miss Stacy came. Everythingwas going well but Anne was beginning to feelnervous. It was surely time for Priscilla andMrs. Morgan to arrive. She made frequenttrips to the gate and looked as anxiously downthe lane as ever her namesake in the Bluebeardstory peered from the tower casement.“Suppose they don’t come at all?” she saidpiteously.“Don’t suppose it. It would be too mean,”said Diana, who, however, was beginning tohave uncomfortable misgivings on the subject.“Anne,” said Marilla, coming out from theparlor, “Miss Stacy wants to see Miss Barry’swillowware platter.”Anne hastened to the sitting room closet toget the platter. She had, in accordance withher promise to Mrs. Lynde, written to MissBarry of Charlottetown, asking for the loan of

A Chapter of Accidents 219it. Miss Barry was an old friend of Anne’s, andshe promply sent the platter out, with a letterexhorting Anne to be very careful of it, forshe had paid twenty dollars for it. The platterhad served its purpose at the Aid bazaar andhad then been returned to the Green Gablescloset, for Anne would not trust anybody butherself to take it back to town.She carried the platter carefully to thefront door where her guests were enjoyingthe cool breeze that blew up from the brook.It was examined and admired; then, just asAnne had taken it back into her own hands,a terrific crash and clatter sounded from thekitchen pantry. Marilla, Diana, and Anne fledout, the latter pausing only long enough to setthe precious platter hastily down on the secondstep of the stairs.When they reached the pantry a trulyharrowing spectacle met their eyes—a guiltylooking small boy scrambling down from thetable, with his clean print blouse liberallyplastered with yellow filling, and on the tablethe shattered remnants of what had been twobrave, becreamed lemon pies.Davy had finished ravelling out his herringnet and had wound the twine into a ball. Thenhe had gone into the pantry to put it up on theshelf above the table, where he already kept ascore or so of similar balls, which, so far as

220 Anne of Avonleacould be discovered, served no useful purposesave to yield the joy of possession. Davy had toclimb on the table and reach over to the shelfat a dangerous angle—something he had beenforbidden by Marilla to do, as he had cometo grief once before in the experiment. Theresult in this instance was disastrous. Davyslipped and came sprawling squarely downon the lemon pies. His clean blouse was ruinedfor that time and the pies for all time.It is, however, an ill wind that blows nobodygood, and the pig was eventually the gainerby Davy’s mischance.“Davy Keith,” said Marilla, shaking him bythe shoulder, “didn’t I forbid you to climb upon that table again? Didn’t I?”“I forgot,” whimpered Davy. “You’ve toldme not to do such an awful lot of things that Ican’t remember them all.”“Well, you march upstairs and stay theretill after dinner. Perhaps you’ll get themsorted out in your memory by that time. No,Anne, never you mind interceding for him. I’mnot punishing him because he spoiled yourpies—that was an accident. I’m punishinghim for his disobedience. Go, Davy, I say.”“Ain’t I to have any dinner?” wailed Davy.“You can come down after dinner is overand have yours in the kitchen.”“Oh, all right,” said Davy, somewhat com-

A Chapter of Accidents 221forted. “I know Anne’ll save some nice bonesfor me, won’t you, Anne? ’Cause you knowI didn’t mean to fall on the pies. Say, Anne,since they are spoiled can’t I take some of thepieces upstairs with me?”“No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy,”said Marilla, pushing him toward the hall.”“What shall we do for dessert?” askedAnne, looking regretfully at the wreck andruin.“Get out a crock of strawberry preserves,”said Marilla consolingly. “There’s plenty ofwhipped cream left in the bowl for it.”One o’clock came—but no Priscilla or Mrs.Morgan. Anne was in an agony. Everythingwas done to a turn and the soup was just whatsoup should be, but couldn’t be depended on toremain so for any length of time.“I don’t believe they’re coming after all,”said Marilla crossly.Anne and Diana sought comfort in eachother’s eyes.At half past one Marilla again emergedfrom the parlor.“Girls, we must have dinner. Everybodyis hungry and it’s no use waiting any longer.Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan are not coming,that’s plain, and nothing is being improved bywaiting.”Anne and Diana set about lifting the din-

222 Anne of Avonleaner, with all the zest gone out of the performance.“I don’t believe I’ll be able to eat a mouthful,”said Diana dolefully.“Nor I. But I hope everything will be nicefor Miss Stacy’s and Mr. and Mrs. Allan’ssakes,” said Anne listlessly.When Diana dished the peas she tastedthem and a very peculiar expression crossedher face.“Anne, did you put sugar in these peas?”“Yes,” said Anne, mashing the potatoeswith the air of one expected to do her duty.“I put a spoonful of sugar in. We always do.Don’t you like it?”“But I put a spoonful in too, when I setthem on the stove,” said Diana.Anne dropped her masher and tasted thepeas also. Then she made a grimace.“How awful! I never dreamed you had putsugar in, because I knew your mother neverdoes. I happened to think of it, for a wonder—I’m always forgetting it—so I popped a spoonfulin.”“It’s a case of too many cooks, I guess,”said Marilla, who had listened to this dialoguewith a rather guilty expression. “I didn’t thinkyou’d remember about the sugar, Anne, for I’mperfectly certain you never did before—so Iput in a spoonful.”

A Chapter of Accidents 223The guests in the parlor heard peal afterpeal of laughter from the kitchen, but theynever knew what the fun was about. Therewere no green peas on the dinner table thatday, however.“Well,” said Anne, sobering down againwith a sigh of recollection, “we have the saladanyhow and I don’t think anything has happenedto the beans. Let’s carry the things inand get it over.”It cannot be said that that dinner was anotable success socially. The Allans and MissStacy exerted themselves to save the situationand Marilla’s customary placidity was notnoticeably ruffled. But Anne and Diana, betweentheir disappointment and the reactionfrom their excitement of the forenoon, couldneither talk nor eat. Anne tried heroically tobear her part in the conversation for the sakeof her guests; but all the sparkle had beenquenched in her for the time being, and, inspite of her love for the Allans and Miss Stacy,she couldn’t help thinking how nice it wouldbe when everybody had gone home and shecould bury her weariness and disappointmentin the pillows of the east gable.There is an old proverb that really seemsat times to be inspired— “it never rains but itpours.” The measure of that day’s tribulationswas not yet full. Just as Mr. Allan had fin-

224 Anne of Avonleaished returning thanks there arose a strange,ominous sound on the stairs, as of some hard,heavy object bounding from step to step, finishingup with a grand smash at the bottom.Everybody ran out into the hall. Anne gave ashriek of dismay.At the bottom of the stairs lay a big pinkconch shell amid the fragments of what hadbeen Miss Barry’s platter; and at the top ofthe stairs knelt a terrified Davy, gazing downwith wide-open eyes at the havoc.“Davy,” said Marilla ominously, “did youthrow that conch down on purpose?”“No, I never did,” whimpered Davy. “I wasjust kneeling here, quiet as quiet, to watchyou folks through the bannisters, and my footstruck that old thing and pushed it off—andI’m awful hungry—and I do wish you’d lick afellow and have done with it, instead of alwayssending him upstairs to miss all the fun.”“Don’t blame Davy,” said Anne, gatheringup the fragments with trembling fingers. “Itwas my fault. I set that platter there and forgotall about it. I am properly punished formy carelessness; but oh, what will Miss Barrysay?”“Well, you know she only bought it, so itisn’t the same as if it was an heirloom,” saidDiana, trying to console.The guests went away soon after, feeling

A Chapter of Accidents 225that it was the most tactful thing to do, andAnne and Diana washed the dishes, talkingless than they had ever been known to do before.Then Diana went home with a headacheand Anne went with another to the east gable,where she stayed until Marilla came homefrom the post office at sunset, with a letterfrom Priscilla, written the day before. Mrs.Morgan had sprained her ankle so severelythat she could not leave her room.“And oh, Anne dear,” wrote Priscilla, “I’mso sorry, but I’m afraid we won’t get up toGreen Gables at all now, for by the timeAunty’s ankle is well she will have to go backto Toronto. She has to be there by a certaindate.”“Well,” sighed Anne, laying the letter downon the red sandstone step of the back porch,where she was sitting, while the twilightrained down out of a dappled sky, “I alwaysthought it was too good to be true that Mrs.Morgan should really come. But there—thatspeech sounds as pessimistic as Miss ElizaAndrews and I’m ashamed of making it. Afterall, it was not too good to be true—thingsjust as good and far better are coming true forme all the time. And I suppose the events oftoday have a funny side too. Perhaps whenDiana and I are old and gray we shall be ableto laugh over them. But I feel that I can’t ex-

226 Anne of Avonleapect to do it before then, for it has truly beena bitter disappointment.”“You’ll probably have a good many moreand worse disappointments than that beforeyou get through life,” said Marilla, who honestlythought she was making a comfortingspeech. “It seems to me, Anne, that you arenever going to outgrow your fashion of settingyour heart so on things and then crashingdown into despair because you don’t getthem.”“I know I’m too much inclined that way,”agreed Anne ruefully. “When I think somethingnice is going to happen I seem to flyright up on the wings of anticipation; and thenthe first thing I realize I drop down to earthwith a thud. But really, Marilla, the flyingpart is glorious as long as it lasts—it’s likesoaring through a sunset. I think it almostpays for the thud.”“Well, maybe it does,” admitted Marilla.“I’d rather walk calmly along and do withoutboth flying and thud. But everybody has herown way of living—I used to think there wasonly one right way—but since I’ve had you andthe twins to bring up I don’t feel so sure of it.What are you going to do about Miss Barry’splatter?”“Pay her back the twenty dollars she paidfor it, I suppose. I’m so thankful it wasn’t

A Chapter of Accidents 227a cherished heirloom because then no moneycould replace it.”“Maybe you could find one like it somewhereand buy it for her.”“I’m afraid not. Platters as old as that arevery scarce. Mrs. Lynde couldn’t find one anywherefor the supper. I only wish I could, forof course Miss Barry would just as soon haveone platter as another, if both were equallyold and genuine. Marilla, look at that big starover Mr. Harrison’s maple grove, with all thatholy hush of silvery sky about it. It gives mea feeling that is like a prayer. After all, whenone can see stars and skies like that, little disappointmentsand accidents can’t matter somuch, can they?”“Where’s Davy?” said Marilla, with an indifferentglance at the star.“In bed. I’ve promised to take him andDora to the shore for a picnic tomorrow. Ofcourse, the original agreement was that hemust be good. But he tried to be good—andI hadn’t the heart to disappoint him.”“You’ll drown yourself or the twins, rowingabout the pond in that flat,” grumbled Marilla.“I’ve lived here for sixty years and I’ve neverbeen on the pond yet.”“Well, it’s never too late to mend,” saidAnne roguishly. “Suppose you come with ustomorrow. We’ll shut Green Gables up and

228 Anne of Avonleaspend the whole day at the shore, daffing theworld aside.”“No, thank you,” said Marilla, with indignantemphasis. “I’d be a nice sight, wouldn’t I,rowing down the pond in a flat? I think I hearRachel pronouncing on it. There’s Mr. Harrisondriving away somewhere. Do you supposethere is any truth in the gossip that Mr. Harrisonis going to see Isabella Andrews?”“No, I’m sure there isn’t. He just calledthere one evening on business with Mr. HarmonAndrews and Mrs. Lynde saw him andsaid she knew he was courting because he hada white collar on. I don’t believe Mr. Harrisonwill ever marry. He seems to have a prejudiceagainst marriage.”“Well, you can never tell about those oldbachelors. And if he had a white collar on I’dagree with Rachel that it looks suspicious, forI’m sure he never was seen with one before.”“I think he only put it on because hewanted to conclude a business deal with HarmonAndrews,” said Anne. “I’ve heard him saythat’s the only time a man needs to be particularabout his appearance, because if he looksprosperous the party of the second part won’tbe so likely to try to cheat him. I really feelsorry for Mr. Harrison; I don’t believe he feelssatisfied with his life. It must be very lonelyto have no one to care about except a parrot,

A Chapter of Accidents 229don’t you think? But I notice Mr. Harrisondoesn’t like to be pitied. Nobody does, I imagine.”“There’s Gilbert coming up the lane,” saidMarilla. “If he wants you to go for a row on thepond mind you put on your coat and rubbers.There’s a heavy dew tonight.”

230 Anne of Avonlea

XVIII. AnAdventure on theTory Road“Anne,” said Davy, sitting up in bed and proppinghis chin on his hands, “Anne, where issleep? People go to sleep every night, and ofcourse I know it’s the place where I do thethings I dream, but I want to know where it isand how I get there and back without knowinganything about it—and in my nighty too.Where is it?”Anne was kneeling at the west gable windowwatching the sunset sky that was like agreat flower with petals of crocus and a heartof fiery yellow. She turned her head at Davy’squestion and answered dreamily,“‘Over the mountains of the moon,Down the valley of the shadow.”’Paul Irving would have known the meaningof this, or made a meaning out of it for231

232 Anne of Avonleahimself, if he didn’t; but practical Davy, who,as Anne often despairingly remarked, hadn’ta particle of imagination, was only puzzledand disgusted.“Anne, I believe you’re just talking nonsense.”“Of course, I was, dear boy. Don’t you knowthat it is only very foolish folk who talk senseall the time?”“Well, I think you might give a sensibleanswer when I ask a sensible question,” saidDavy in an injured tone.“Oh, you are too little to understand,” saidAnne. But she felt rather ashamed of sayingit; for had she not, in keen remembrance ofmany similar snubs administered in her ownearly years, solemnly vowed that she wouldnever tell any child it was too little to understand?Yet here she was doing it—so widesometimes is the gulf between theory andpractice.“Well, I’m doing my best to grow,” saidDavy, “but it’s a thing you can’t hurry much. IfMarilla wasn’t so stingy with her jam I believeI’d grow a lot faster.”“Marilla is not stingy, Davy,” said Anneseverely. “It is very ungrateful of you to saysuch a thing.”“There’s another word that means thesame thing and sounds a lot better, but I don’t

An Adventure on the Tory Road 233just remember it,” said Davy, frowning intently.“I heard Marilla say she was it, herself,the other day.”“If you mean economical, it’s a very differentthing from being stingy. It is an excellenttrait in a person if she is economical. If Marillahad been stingy she wouldn’t have takenyou and Dora when your mother died. Wouldyou have liked to live with Mrs. Wiggins?”“You just bet I wouldn’t!” Davy was emphaticon that point. “Nor I don’t want to goout to Uncle Richard neither. I’d far ratherlive here, even if Marilla is that long-tailedword when it comes to jam, ’cause you’re here,Anne. Say, Anne, won’t you tell me a story’fore I go to sleep? I don’t want a fairy story.They’re all right for girls, I s’pose, but I wantsomething exciting—lots of killing and shootingin it, and a house on fire, and in’trustingthings like that.”Fortunately for Anne, Marilla called out atthis moment from her room.“Anne, Diana’s signaling at a great rate.You’d better see what she wants.”Anne ran to the east gable and saw flashesof light coming through the twilight from Diana’swindow in groups of five, which meant,according to their old childish code, “Comeover at once for I have something importantto reveal.” Anne threw her white shawl over

234 Anne of Avonleaher head and hastened through the HauntedWood and across Mr. Bell’s pasture corner toOrchard Slope.“I’ve good news for you, Anne,” said Diana.“Mother and I have just got home from Carmody,and I saw Mary Sentner from Spencervalein Mr. Blair’s store. She says the oldCopp girls on the Tory Road have a willowwareplatter and she thinks it’s exactly likethe one we had at the supper. She says they’lllikely sell it, for Martha Copp has never beenknown to keep anything she could sell; but ifthey won’t there’s a platter at Wesley Keyson’sat Spencervale and she knows they’d sell it,but she isn’t sure it’s just the same kind asAunt Josephine’s.”“I’ll go right over to Spencervale after it tomorrow,”said Anne resolutely, “and you mustcome with me. It will be such a weight offmy mind, for I have to go to town day aftertomorrow and how can I face your AuntJosephine without a willow-ware platter? Itwould be even worse than the time I had toconfess about jumping on the spare room bed.”Both girls laughed over the old memory—concerning which, if any of my readers areignorant and curious, I must refer them toAnne’s earlier history.The next afternoon the girls fared forth ontheir platter hunting expedition. It was ten

An Adventure on the Tory Road 235miles to Spencervale and the day was not especiallypleasant for traveling. It was verywarm and windless, and the dust on the roadwas such as might have been expected aftersix weeks of dry weather.“Oh, I do wish it would rain soon,” sighedAnne. “Everything is so parched up. The poorfields just seem pitiful to me and the treesseem to be stretching out their hands pleadingfor rain. As for my garden, it hurts meevery time I go into it. I suppose I shouldn’tcomplain about a garden when the farmers’crops are suffering so. Mr. Harrison says hispastures are so scorched up that his poor cowscan hardly get a bite to eat and he feels guiltyof cruelty to animals every time he meetstheir eyes.”After a wearisome drive the girls reachedSpencervale and turned down the “Tory”Road—a green, solitary highway where thestrips of grass between the wheel tracks boreevidence to lack of travel. Along most ofits extent it was lined with thick-set youngspruces crowding down to the roadway, withhere and there a break where the back fieldof a Spencervale farm came out to the fenceor an expanse of stumps was aflame with fireweedand goldenrod.“Why is it called the Tory Road?” askedAnne.

236 Anne of Avonlea“Mr. Allan says it is on the principle ofcalling a place a grove because there are notrees in it,” said Diana, “for nobody lives alongthe road except the Copp girls and old MartinBovyer at the further end, who is a Liberal.The Tory government ran the road throughwhen they were in power just to show theywere doing something.”Diana’s father was a Liberal, for whichreason she and Anne never discussed politics.Green Gables folk had always been Conservatives.Finally the girls came to the old Copphomestead—a place of such exceeding externalneatness that even Green Gables wouldhave suffered by contrast. The house was avery old-fashioned one, situated on a slope,which fact had necessitated the building of astone basement under one end. The house andout-buildings were all whitewashed to a conditionof blinding perfection and not a weedwas visible in the prim kitchen garden surroundedby its white paling.“The shades are all down,” said Diana ruefully.“I believe that nobody is home.”This proved to be the case. The girls lookedat each other in perplexity.“I don’t know what to do,” said Anne. “IfI were sure the platter was the right kind Iwould not mind waiting until they came home.

An Adventure on the Tory Road 237But if it isn’t it may be too late to go to WesleyKeyson’s afterward.”Diana looked at a certain little square windowover the basement.“That is the pantry window, I feel sure,”she said, “because this house is just like UncleCharles’ at Newbridge, and that is theirpantry window. The shade isn’t down, so if weclimbed up on the roof of that little house wecould look into the pantry and might be ableto see the platter. Do you think it would beany harm?”“No, I don’t think so,” decided Anne, afterdue reflection, “since our motive is not idle curiosity.”This important point of ethics being settled,Anne prepared to mount the aforesaid“little house,” a construction of lathes, with apeaked roof, which had in times past servedas a habitation for ducks. The Copp girls hadgiven up keeping ducks— “because they weresuch untidy birds”—and the house had notbeen in use for some years, save as an abode ofcorrection for setting hens. Although scrupulouslywhitewashed it had become somewhatshaky, and Anne felt rather dubious as shescrambled up from the vantage point of a kegplaced on a box.“I’m afraid it won’t bear my weight,” shesaid as she gingerly stepped on the roof.

238 Anne of Avonlea“Lean on the window sill,” advised Diana,and Anne accordingly leaned. Much to her delight,she saw, as she peered through the pane,a willow-ware platter, exactly such as she wasin quest of, on the shelf in front of the window.So much she saw before the catastrophecame. In her joy Anne forgot the precariousnature of her footing, incautiously ceased tolean on the window sill, gave an impulsivelittle hop of pleasure—and the next momentshe had crashed through the roof up to herarmpits, and there she hung, quite unable toextricate herself. Diana dashed into the duckhouse and, seizing her unfortunate friend bythe waist, tried to draw her down.“Ow—don’t,” shrieked poor Anne. “Thereare some long splinters sticking into me. Seeif you can put something under my feet—thenperhaps I can draw myself up.”Diana hastily dragged in the previouslymentioned keg and Anne found that it wasjust sufficiently high to furnish a secure restingplace for her feet. But she could not releaseherself.“Could I pull you out if I crawled up?” suggestedDiana.Anne shook her head hopelessly.“No—the splinters hurt too badly. If youcan find an axe you might chop me out,though. Oh dear, I do really begin to believe

An Adventure on the Tory Road 239that I was born under an ill-omened star.”Diana searched faithfully but no axe wasto be found.“I’ll have to go for help,” she said, returningto the prisoner.“No, indeed, you won’t,” said Anne vehemently.“If you do the story of this will getout everywhere and I shall be ashamed toshow my face. No, we must just wait untilthe Copp girls come home and bind them tosecrecy. They’ll know where the axe is andget me out. I’m not uncomfortable, as longas I keep perfectly still—not uncomfortable inbody I mean. I wonder what the Copp girlsvalue this house at. I shall have to pay for thedamage I’ve done, but I wouldn’t mind that ifI were only sure they would understand mymotive in peeping in at their pantry window.My sole comfort is that the platter is just thekind I want and if Miss Copp will only sell it tome I shall be resigned to what has happened.”“What if the Copp girls don’t come homeuntil after night—or till tomorrow?” suggestedDiana.“If they’re not back by sunset you’ll haveto go for other assistance, I suppose,” saidAnne reluctantly, “but you mustn’t go untilyou really have to. Oh dear, this is a dreadfulpredicament. I wouldn’t mind my misfortunesso much if they were romantic, as

240 Anne of AvonleaMrs. Morgan’s heroines’ always are, but theyare always just simply ridiculous. Fancy whatthe Copp girls will think when they drive intotheir yard and see a girl’s head and shoulderssticking out of the roof of one of their outhouses.Listen—is that a wagon? No, Diana, Ibelieve it is thunder.”Thunder it was undoubtedly, and Diana,having made a hasty pilgrimage around thehouse, returned to announce that a very blackcloud was rising rapidly in the northwest.“I believe we’re going to have a heavythunder-shower,” she exclaimed in dismay,“Oh, Anne, what will we do?”“We must prepare for it,” said Anne tranquilly.A thunderstorm seemed a trifle incomparison with what had already happened.“You’d better drive the horse and buggy intothat open shed. Fortunately my parasol is inthe buggy. Here—take my hat with you. Marillatold me I was a goose to put on my best hatto come to the Tory Road and she was right, asshe always is.”Diana untied the pony and drove into theshed, just as the first heavy drops of rainfell. There she sat and watched the resultingdownpour, which was so thick and heavy thatshe could hardly see Anne through it, holdingthe parasol bravely over her bare head.There was not a great deal of thunder, but for

An Adventure on the Tory Road 241the best part of an hour the rain came merrilydown. Occasionally Anne slanted backher parasol and waved an encouraging handto her friend; But conversation at that distancewas quite out of the question. Finallythe rain ceased, the sun came out, and Dianaventured across the puddles of the yard.“Did you get very wet?” she asked anxiously.“Oh, no,” returned Anne cheerfully. “Myhead and shoulders are quite dry and myskirt is only a little damp where the rain beatthrough the lathes. Don’t pity me, Diana, forI haven’t minded it at all. I kept thinking howmuch good the rain will do and how glad mygarden must be for it, and imagining what theflowers and buds would think when the dropsbegan to fall. I imagined out a most interestingdialogue between the asters and the sweetpeas and the wild canaries in the lilac bushand the guardian spirit of the garden. WhenI go home I mean to write it down. I wish Ihad a pencil and paper to do it now, because Idaresay I’ll forget the best parts before I reachhome.”Diana the faithful had a pencil and discovereda sheet of wrapping paper in the boxof the buggy. Anne folded up her drippingparasol, put on her hat, spread the wrappingpaper on a shingle Diana handed up,

242 Anne of Avonleaand wrote out her garden idyl under conditionsthat could hardly be considered as favorableto literature. Nevertheless, the resultwas quite pretty, and Diana was “enraptured”when Anne read it to her.“Oh, Anne, it’s sweet—just sweet. Do sendit to the Canadian Woman.”Anne shook her head.“Oh, no, it wouldn’t be suitable at all.There is no plot in it, you see. It’s just astring of fancies. I like writing such things,but of course nothing of the sort would everdo for publication, for editors insist on plots,so Priscilla says. Oh, there’s Miss Sarah Coppnow. Please, Diana, go and explain.”Miss Sarah Copp was a small person,garbed in shabby black, with a hat chosenless for vain adornment than for qualitiesthat would wear well. She looked as amazedas might be expected on seeing the curioustableau in her yard, but when she heard Diana’sexplanation she was all sympathy. Shehurriedly unlocked the back door, producedthe axe, and with a few skillfull blows setAnne free. The latter, somewhat tired andstiff, ducked down into the interior of herprison and thankfully emerged into libertyonce more.“Miss Copp,” she said earnestly. “I assureyou I looked into your pantry window only to

An Adventure on the Tory Road 243discover if you had a willow-ware platter. Ididn’t see anything else—I didn’t look for anythingelse.”“Bless you, that’s all right,” said MissSarah amiably. “You needn’t worry—there’sno harm done. Thank goodness, we Coppskeep our pantries presentable at all timesand don’t care who sees into them. As forthat old duckhouse, I’m glad it’s smashed, formaybe now Martha will agree to having ittaken down. She never would before for fearit might come in handy sometime and I’ve hadto whitewash it every spring. But you mightas well argue with a post as with Martha. Shewent to town today—I drove her to the station.And you want to buy my platter. Well,what will you give for it?”“Twenty dollars,” said Anne, who wasnever meant to match business wits with aCopp, or she would not have offered her priceat the start.“Well, I’ll see,” said Miss Sarah cautiously.“That platter is mine fortunately, or I’d neverdare to sell it when Martha wasn’t here. Asit is, I daresay she’ll raise a fuss. Martha’sthe boss of this establishment I can tell you.I’m getting awful tired of living under anotherwoman’s thumb. But come in, come in. Youmust be real tired and hungry. I’ll do the bestI can for you in the way of tea but I warn you

244 Anne of Avonleanot to expect anything but bread and butterand some cowcumbers. Martha locked up allthe cake and cheese and preserves afore shewent. She always does, because she says I’mtoo extravagant with them if company comes.”The girls were hungry enough to do justiceto any fare, and they enjoyed Miss Sarah’sexcellent bread and butter and “cowcumbers”thoroughly. When the meal was over MissSarah said,“I don’t know as I mind selling the platter.But it’s worth twenty-five dollars. It’s a veryold platter.”Diana gave Anne’s foot a gentle kick underthe table, meaning, “Don’t agree—she’ll let itgo for twenty if you hold out.” But Anne wasnot minded to take any chances in regard tothat precious platter. She promptly agreed togive twenty-five and Miss Sarah looked as ifshe felt sorry she hadn’t asked for thirty.“Well, I guess you may have it. I want allthe money I can scare up just now. The factis—” Miss Sarah threw up her head importantly,with a proud flush on her thin cheeks—“I’m going to be married—to Luther Wallace.He wanted me twenty years ago. I liked himreal well but he was poor then and fatherpacked him off. I s’pose I shouldn’t have lethim go so meek but I was timid and frightenedof father. Besides, I didn’t know men were so

An Adventure on the Tory Road 245skurse.”When the girls were safely away, Dianadriving and Anne holding the coveted plattercarefully on her lap, the green, rain-freshenedsolitudes of the Tory Road were enlivened byripples of girlish laughter.“I’ll amuse your Aunt Josephine with the‘strange eventful history’ of this afternoonwhen I go to town tomorrow. We’ve had arather trying time but it’s over now. I’ve gotthe platter, and that rain has laid the dustbeautifully. So ‘all’s well that ends well.”’“We’re not home yet,” said Diana ratherpessimistically, “and there’s no telling whatmay happen before we are. You’re such a girlto have adventures, Anne.”“Having adventures comes natural to somepeople,” said Anne serenely. “You just have agift for them or you haven’t.”

246 Anne of Avonlea

XIX. Just a HappyDay“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once,“I believe the nicest and sweetest days arenot those on which anything very splendid orwonderful or exciting happens but just thosethat bring simple little pleasures, followingone another softly, like pearls slipping off astring.”Life at Green Gables was full of just suchdays, for Anne’s adventures and misadventures,like those of other people, did not allhappen at once, but were sprinkled over theyear, with long stretches of harmless, happydays between, filled with work and dreamsand laughter and lessons. Such a day camelate in August. In the forenoon Anne and Dianarowed the delighted twins down the pondto the sandshore to pick “sweet grass” andpaddle in the surf, over which the wind washarping an old lyric learned when the world247

248 Anne of Avonleawas young.In the afternoon Anne walked down to theold Irving place to see Paul. She found himstretched out on the grassy bank beside thethick fir grove that sheltered the house on thenorth, absorbed in a book of fairy tales. Hesprang up radiantly at sight of her.“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, teacher,” hesaid eagerly, “because Grandma’s away. You’llstay and have tea with me, won’t you? It’s solonesome to have tea all by oneself. You know,teacher. I’ve had serious thoughts of askingYoung Mary Joe to sit down and eat her teawith me, but I expect Grandma wouldn’t approve.She says the French have to be keptin their place. And anyhow, it’s difficult totalk with Young Mary Joe. She just laughsand says, ‘Well, yous do beat all de kids I everknowed.’ That isn’t my idea of conversation.”“Of course I’ll stay to tea,” said Anne gaily.“I was dying to be asked. My mouth has beenwatering for some more of your grandma’s deliciousshortbread ever since I had tea here before.”Paul looked very sober.“If it depended on me, teacher,” he said,standing before Anne with his hands in hispockets and his beautiful little face shadowedwith sudden care, “You should have shortbreadwith a right good will. But it depends on

Just a Happy Day 249Mary Joe. I heard Grandma tell her before sheleft that she wasn’t to give me any shortcakebecause it was too rich for little boys’ stomachs.But maybe Mary Joe will cut some foryou if I promise I won’t eat any. Let us hopefor the best.”“Yes, let us,” agreed Anne, whom thischeerful philosophy suited exactly, “and ifMary Joe proves hard-hearted and won’t giveme any shortbread it doesn’t matter in theleast, so you are not to worry over that.”“You’re sure you won’t mind if she doesn’t?”said Paul anxiously.“Perfectly sure, dear heart.”“Then I won’t worry,” said Paul, with along breath of relief, “especially as I reallythink Mary Joe will listen to reason. She’snot a naturally unreasonable person, but shehas learned by experience that it doesn’t doto disobey Grandma’s orders. Grandma is anexcellent woman but people must do as shetells them. She was very much pleased withme this morning because I managed at lastto eat all my plateful of porridge. It was agreat effort but I succeeded. Grandma saysshe thinks she’ll make a man of me yet. But,teacher, I want to ask you a very importantquestion. You will answer it truthfully, won’tyou?”“I’ll try,” promised Anne.

250 Anne of Avonlea“Do you think I’m wrong in my upperstory?” asked Paul, as if his very existence dependedon her reply.“Goodness, no, Paul,” exclaimed Anne inamazement. “Certainly you’re not. What putsuch an idea into your head?”“Mary Joe—but she didn’t know I heardher. Mrs. Peter Sloane’s hired girl, Veronica,came to see Mary Joe last evening and I heardthem talking in the kitchen as I was goingthrough the hall. I heard Mary Joe say, ‘DatPaul, he is de queeres’ leetle boy. He talks datqueer. I tink dere’s someting wrong in his upperstory.’ I couldn’t sleep last night for everso long, thinking of it, and wondering if MaryJoe was right. I couldn’t bear to ask Grandmaabout it somehow, but I made up my mind I’dask you. I’m so glad you think I’m all right inmy upper story.”“Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorantgirl, and you are never to worry aboutanything she says,” said Anne indignantly, secretlyresolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreethint as to the advisability of restraining MaryJoe’s tongue.“Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” saidPaul. “I’m perfectly happy now, teacher,thanks to you. It wouldn’t be nice to havesomething wrong in your upper story, wouldit, teacher? I suppose the reason Mary Joe

Just a Happy Day 251imagines I have is because I tell her what Ithink about things sometimes.”“It is a rather dangerous practice,” admittedAnne, out of the depths of her own experience.“Well, by and by I’ll tell you the thoughtsI told Mary Joe and you can see for yourselfif there’s anything queer in them,” said Paul,“but I’ll wait till it begins to get dark. Thatis the time I ache to tell people things, andwhen nobody else is handy I just have to tellMary Joe. But after this I won’t, if it makesher imagine I’m wrong in my upper story. I’lljust ache and bear it.”“And if the ache gets too bad you cancome up to Green Gables and tell me yourthoughts,” suggested Anne, with all the gravitythat endeared her to children, who sodearly love to be taken seriously.“Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won’t be therewhen I go because he makes faces at me. Idon’t mind very much because he is such alittle boy and I am quite a big one, but stillit is not pleasant to have faces made at you.And Davy makes such terrible ones. SometimesI am frightened he will never get hisface straightened out again. He makes themat me in church when I ought to be thinkingof sacred things. Dora likes me though, and Ilike her, but not so well as I did before she told

252 Anne of AvonleaMinnie May Barry that she meant to marryme when I grew up. I may marry somebodywhen I grow up but I’m far too young to bethinking of it yet, don’t you think, teacher?”“Rather young,” agreed teacher.“Speaking of marrying, reminds me ofanother thing that has been troubling meof late,” continued Paul. “Mrs. Lynde wasdown here one day last week having tea withGrandma, and Grandma made me show hermy little mother’s picture—the one fathersent me for my birthday present. I didn’t exactlywant to show it to Mrs. Lynde. Mrs.Lynde is a good, kind woman, but she isn’t thesort of person you want to show your mother’spicture to. You know, teacher. But of courseI obeyed Grandma. Mrs. Lynde said she wasvery pretty but kind of actressy looking, andmust have been an awful lot younger than father.Then she said, ‘Some of these days yourpa will be marrying again likely. How will youlike to have a new ma, Master Paul?’ Well, theidea almost took my breath away, teacher, butI wasn’t going to let Mrs. Lynde see that. I justlooked her straight in the face—like this—andI said, ‘Mrs. Lynde, father made a pretty goodjob of picking out my first mother and I couldtrust him to pick out just as good a one thesecond time.’ And I can trust him, teacher.But still, I hope, if he ever does give me a new

Just a Happy Day 253mother, he’ll ask my opinion about her beforeit’s too late. There’s Mary Joe coming to callus to tea. I’ll go and consult with her aboutthe shortbread.”As a result of the “consultation,” MaryJoe cut the shortbread and added a dish ofpreserves to the bill of fare. Anne pouredthe tea and she and Paul had a very merrymeal in the dim old sitting room whose windowswere open to the gulf breezes, and theytalked so much “nonsense” that Mary Joe wasquite scandalized and told Veronica the nextevening that “de school mees” was as queer asPaul. After tea Paul took Anne up to his roomto show her his mother’s picture, which hadbeen the mysterious birthday present kept byMrs. Irving in the bookcase. Paul’s little lowceilingedroom was a soft whirl of ruddy lightfrom the sun that was setting over the sea andswinging shadows from the fir trees that grewclose to the square, deep-set window. Fromout this soft glow and glamor shone a sweet,girlish face, with tender mother eyes, that washanging on the wall at the foot of the bed.“That’s my little mother,” said Paul withloving pride. “I got Grandma to hang it therewhere I’d see it as soon as I opened my eyesin the morning. I never mind not having thelight when I go to bed now, because it justseems as if my little mother was right here

254 Anne of Avonleawith me. Father knew just what I wouldlike for a birthday present, although he neverasked me. Isn’t it wonderful how much fathersdo know?”“Your mother was very lovely, Paul, andyou look a little like her. But her eyes andhair are darker than yours.”“My eyes are the same color as father’s,”said Paul, flying about the room to heap allavailable cushions on the window seat, “butfather’s hair is gray. He has lots of it, but itis gray. You see, father is nearly fifty. That’sripe old age, isn’t it? But it’s only outside he’sold. Inside he’s just as young as anybody. Now,teacher, please sit here; and I’ll sit at yourfeet. May I lay my head against your knee?That’s the way my little mother and I used tosit. Oh, this is real splendid, I think.”“Now, I want to hear those thoughtswhich Mary Joe pronounces so queer,” saidAnne, patting the mop of curls at her side.Paul never needed any coaxing to tell histhoughts—at least, to congenial souls.“I thought them out in the fir grove onenight,” he said dreamily. “Of course I didn’tbelieve them but I thought them. You know,teacher. And then I wanted to tell them tosomebody and there was nobody but Mary Joe.Mary Joe was in the pantry setting bread andI sat down on the bench beside her and I said,

Just a Happy Day 255‘Mary Joe, do you know what I think? I thinkthe evening star is a lighthouse on the landwhere the fairies dwell.’ And Mary Joe said,‘Well, yous are de queer one. Dare ain’t nosuch ting as fairies.’ I was very much provoked.Of course, I knew there are no fairies;but that needn’t prevent my thinking there is.You know, teacher. But I tried again quite patiently.I said, ‘Well then, Mary Joe, do youknow what I think? I think an angel walksover the world after the sun sets—a great,tall, white angel, with silvery folded wings—and sings the flowers and birds to sleep. Childrencan hear him if they know how to listen.’Then Mary Joe held up her hands allover flour and said, ‘Well, yous are de queerleetle boy. Yous make me feel scare.’ And shereally did looked scared. I went out then andwhispered the rest of my thoughts to the garden.There was a little birch tree in the gardenand it died. Grandma says the salt spraykilled it; but I think the dryad belonging to itwas a foolish dryad who wandered away to seethe world and got lost. And the little tree wasso lonely it died of a broken heart.”“And when the poor, foolish little dryadgets tired of the world and comes back to hertree her heart will break,” said Anne.“Yes; but if dryads are foolish they musttake the consequences, just as if they were

256 Anne of Avonleareal people,” said Paul gravely. “Do you knowwhat I think about the new moon, teacher? Ithink it is a little golden boat full of dreams.”“And when it tips on a cloud some of themspill out and fall into your sleep.”“Exactly, teacher. Oh, you do know. And Ithink the violets are little snips of the sky thatfell down when the angels cut out holes for thestars to shine through. And the buttercupsare made out of old sunshine; and I think thesweet peas will be butterflies when they go toheaven. Now, teacher, do you see anything sovery queer about those thoughts?”“No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all;they are strange and beautiful thoughts for alittle boy to think, and so people who couldn’tthink anything of the sort themselves, if theytried for a hundred years, think them queer.But keep on thinking them, Paul—some dayyou are going to be a poet, I believe.”When Anne reached home she found a verydifferent type of boyhood waiting to be put tobed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressedhim he bounced into bed and buriedhis face in the pillow.“Davy, you have forgotten to say yourprayers,” said Anne rebukingly.“No, I didn’t forget,” said Davy defiantly,“but I ain’t going to say my prayers any more.I’m going to give up trying to be good, ’cause

Just a Happy Day 257no matter how good I am you’d like Paul Irvingbetter. So I might as well be bad and havethe fun of it.”“I don’t like Paul Irving better,” said Anneseriously. “I like you just as well, only in adifferent way.”“But I want you to like me the same way,”pouted Davy.“You can’t like different people the sameway. You don’t like Dora and me the same way,do you?”Davy sat up and reflected.“No—o—o,” he admitted at last, “I likeDora because she’s my sister but I like you becauseyou’re you.”“And I like Paul because he is Paul andDavy because he is Davy,” said Anne gaily.“Well, I kind of wish I’d said my prayersthen,” said Davy, convinced by this logic. “Butit’s too much bother getting out now to saythem. I’ll say them twice over in the morning,Anne. Won’t that do as well?”No, Anne was positive it would not do aswell. So Davy scrambled out and knelt downat her knee. When he had finished his devotionshe leaned back on his little, bare, brownheels and looked up at her.“Anne, I’m gooder than I used to be.”“Yes, indeed you are, Davy,” said Anne,who never hesitated to give credit where

258 Anne of Avonleacredit was due.“I know I’m gooder,” said Davy confidently,“and I’ll tell you how I know it. Today Marillagive me two pieces of bread and jam, one forme and one for Dora. One was a good dealbigger than the other and Marilla didn’t saywhich was mine. But I give the biggest pieceto Dora. That was good of me, wasn’t it?”“Very good, and very manly, Davy.”“Of course,” admitted Davy, “Dora wasn’tvery hungry and she only et half her slice andthen she give the rest to me. But I didn’t knowshe was going to do that when I give it to her,so I was good, Anne.”In the twilight Anne sauntered down to theDryad’s Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe comingdown through the dusky Haunted Wood.She had a sudden realization that Gilbertwas a schoolboy no longer. And how manlyhe looked—the tall, frank-faced fellow, withthe clear, straightforward eyes and the broadshoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a veryhandsome lad, even though he didn’t look atall like her ideal man. She and Diana had longago decided what kind of a man they admiredand their tastes seemed exactly similar. Hemust be very tall and distinguished looking,with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting,sympathetic voice. There was nothingeither melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert’s

Just a Happy Day 259physiognomy, but of course that didn’t matterin friendship!Gilbert stretched himself out on the fernsbeside the Bubble and looked approvinglyat Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describehis ideal woman the description wouldhave answered point for point to Anne, evento those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxiouspresence still continued to vex her soul.Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; buta boy has his dreams as have others, and inGilbert’s future there was always a girl withbig, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine anddelicate as a flower. He had made up his mind,also, that his future must be worthy of its goddess.Even in quiet Avonlea there were temptationsto be met and faced. White Sandsyouth were a rather “fast” set, and Gilbertwas popular wherever he went. But he meantto keep himself worthy of Anne’s friendshipand perhaps some distant day her love; andhe watched over word and thought and deedas jealously as if her clear eyes were to passin judgment on it. She held over him the unconsciousinfluence that every girl, whose idealsare high and pure, wields over her friends;an influence which would endure as long asshe was faithful to those ideals and whichshe would as certainly lose if she were everfalse to them. In Gilbert’s eyes Anne’s great-

260 Anne of Avonleaest charm was the fact that she never stoopedto the petty practices of so many of the Avonleagirls—the small jealousies, the little deceitsand rivalries, the palpable bids for favor.Anne held herself apart from all this, notconsciously or of design, but simply becauseanything of the sort was utterly foreign to hertransparent, impulsive nature, crystal clearin its motives and aspirations.But Gilbert did not attempt to put histhoughts into words, for he had already toogood reason to know that Anne would mercilesslyand frostily nip all attempts at sentimentin the bud—or laugh at him, which wasten times worse.“You look like a real dryad under that birchtree,” he said teasingly.“I love birch trees,” said Anne, laying hercheek against the creamy satin of the slimbole, with one of the pretty, caressing gesturesthat came so natural to her.“Then you’ll be glad to hear that Mr. MajorSpencer has decided to set out a row of whitebirches all along the road front of his farm, byway of encouraging the A.V.I.S.,” said Gilbert.“He was talking to me about it today. MajorSpencer is the most progressive and publicspiritedman in Avonlea. And Mr. WilliamBell is going to set out a spruce hedge alonghis road front and up his lane. Our Society is

Just a Happy Day 261getting on splendidly, Anne. It is past the experimentalstage and is an accepted fact. Theolder folks are beginning to take an interestin it and the White Sands people are talkingof starting one too. Even Elisha Wright hascome around since that day the Americansfrom the hotel had the picnic at the shore.They praised our roadsides so highly and saidthey were so much prettier than in any otherpart of the Island. And when, in due time, theother farmers follow Mr. Spencer’s good exampleand plant ornamental trees and hedgesalong their road fronts Avonlea will be theprettiest settlement in the province.”“The Aids are talking of taking up thegraveyard,” said Anne, “and I hope they will,because there will have to be a subscriptionfor that, and it would be no use for the Societyto try it after the hall affair. But the Aidswould never have stirred in the matter if theSociety hadn’t put it into their thoughts unofficially.Those trees we planted on the churchgrounds are flourishing, and the trustees havepromised me that they will fence in the schoolgrounds next year. If they do I’ll have an arborday and every scholar shall plant a tree; andwe’ll have a garden in the corner by the road.”“We’ve succeeded in almost all our plansso far, except in getting the old Boulter houseremoved,” said Gilbert, “and I’ve given that up

262 Anne of Avonleain despair. Levi won’t have it taken down justto vex us. There’s a contrary streak in all theBoulters and it’s strongly developed in him.”“Julia Bell wants to send another committeeto him, but I think the better way willjust be to leave him severely alone,” said Annesagely.“And trust to Providence, as Mrs. Lyndesays,” smiled Gilbert. “Certainly, no morecommittees. They only aggravate him. JuliaBell thinks you can do anything, if youonly have a committee to attempt it. Nextspring, Anne, we must start an agitation fornice lawns and grounds. We’ll sow good seedbetimes this winter. I’ve a treatise here onlawns and lawnmaking and I’m going to preparea paper on the subject soon. Well, I supposeour vacation is almost over. School opensMonday. Has Ruby Gillis got the Carmodyschool?”“Yes; Priscilla wrote that she had takenher own home school, so the Carmody trusteesgave it to Ruby. I’m sorry Priscilla is not comingback, but since she can’t I’m glad Ruby hasgot the school. She will be home for Saturdaysand it will seem like old times, to have herand Jane and Diana and myself all togetheragain.”Marilla, just home from Mrs. Lynde’s, wassitting on the back porch step when Anne re-

Just a Happy Day 263turned to the house.“Rachel and I have decided to have ourcruise to town tomorrow,” she said. “Mr.Lynde is feeling better this week and Rachelwants to go before he has another sick spell.”“I intend to get up extra early tomorrowmorning, for I’ve ever so much to do,” saidAnne virtuously. “For one thing, I’m goingto shift the feathers from my old bedtick tothe new one. I ought to have done it longago but I’ve just kept putting it off—it’s sucha detestable task. It’s a very bad habit toput off disagreeable things, and I never meanto again, or else I can’t comfortably tell mypupils not to do it. That would be inconsistent.Then I want to make a cake for Mr.Harrison and finish my paper on gardens forthe A.V.I.S., and write Stella, and wash andstarch my muslin dress, and make Dora’s newapron.”“You won’t get half done,” said Marilla pessimistically.“I never yet planned to do a lotof things but something happened to preventme.”

264 Anne of Avonlea

XX. The Way ItOften HappensAnne rose betimes the next morning andblithely greeted the fresh day, when the bannersof the sunrise were shaken triumphantlyacross the pearly skies. Green Gables lay ina pool of sunshine, flecked with the dancingshadows of poplar and willow. Beyond theland was Mr. Harrison’s wheatfield, a great,windrippled expanse of pale gold. The worldwas so beautiful that Anne spent ten blissfulminutes hanging idly over the garden gatedrinking the loveliness in.After breakfast Marilla made ready for herjourney. Dora was to go with her, having beenlong promised this treat.“Now, Davy, you try to be a good boy anddon’t bother Anne,” she straitly charged him.“If you are good I’ll bring you a striped candycane from town.”For alas, Marilla had stooped to the evil265

266 Anne of Avonleahabit of bribing people to be good!“I won’t be bad on purpose, but s’posen I’mbad zacksidentally?” Davy wanted to know.“You’ll have to guard against accidents,”admonished Marilla. “Anne, if Mr. Shearercomes today get a nice roast and some steak.If he doesn’t you’ll have to kill a fowl for dinnertomorrow.”Anne nodded.“I’m not going to bother cooking any dinnerfor just Davy and myself today,” she said.“That cold ham bone will do for noon lunchand I’ll have some steak fried for you whenyou come home at night.”“I’m going to help Mr. Harrison haul dulsethis morning,” announced Davy. “He asked meto, and I guess he’ll ask me to dinner too. Mr.Harrison is an awful kind man. He’s a realsociable man. I hope I’ll be like him whenI grow up. I mean behave like him—I don’twant to look like him. But I guess there’s nodanger, for Mrs. Lynde says I’m a very handsomechild. Do you s’pose it’ll last, Anne? Iwant to know”“I daresay it will,” said Anne gravely. “Youare a handsome boy, Davy,”—Marilla lookedvolumes of disapproval— “but you must liveup to it and be just as nice and gentlemanlyas you look to be.”“And you told Minnie May Barry the other

The Way It Often Happens 267day, when you found her crying ’cause someone said she was ugly, that if she was niceand kind and loving people wouldn’t mind herlooks,” said Davy discontentedly. “Seems tome you can’t get out of being good in this worldfor some reason or ’nother. You just have tobehave.”“Don’t you want to be good?” asked Marilla,who had learned a great deal but had notyet learned the futility of asking such questions.“Yes, I want to be good but not too good,”said Davy cautiously. “You don’t have to bevery good to be a Sunday School superintendent.Mr. Bell’s that, and he’s a real bad man.”“Indeed he’s not,” said Marila indignantly.“He is—he says he is himself,” asseveratedDavy. “He said it when he prayed in SundaySchool last Sunday. He said he was a vileworm and a miserable sinner and guilty of theblackest ’niquity. What did he do that was sobad, Marilla? Did he kill anybody? Or stealthe collection cents? I want to know.”Fortunately Mrs. Lynde came driving upthe lane at this moment and Marilla made off,feeling that she had escaped from the snare ofthe fowler, and wishing devoutly that Mr. Bellwere not quite so highly figurative in his publicpetitions, especially in the hearing of smallboys who were always “wanting to know.”

268 Anne of AvonleaAnne, left alone in her glory, worked with awill. The floor was swept, the beds made, thehens fed, the muslin dress washed and hungout on the line. Then Anne prepared for thetransfer of feathers. She mounted to the garretand donned the first old dress that cameto hand—a navy blue cashmere she had wornat fourteen. It was decidedly on the short sideand as “skimpy” as the notable wincey Annehad worn upon the occasion of her debut atGreen Gables; but at least it would not be materiallyinjured by down and feathers. Annecompleted her toilet by tying a big red andwhite spotted handkerchief that had belongedto Matthew over her head, and, thus accoutred,betook herself to the kitchen chamber,whither Marilla, before her departure, hadhelped her carry the feather bed.A cracked mirror hung by the chamberwindow and in an unlucky moment Annelooked into it. There were those seven freckleson her nose, more rampant than ever, orso it seemed in the glare of light from the unshadedwindow.“Oh, I forgot to rub that lotion on lastnight,” she thought. “I’d better run down tothe pantry and do it now.”Anne had already suffered many thingstrying to remove those freckles. On one occasionthe entire skin had peeled off her nose

The Way It Often Happens 269but the freckles remained. A few days previouslyshe had found a recipe for a frecklelotion in a magazine and, as the ingredientswere within her reach, she straightway compoundedit, much to the disgust of Marilla,who thought that if Providence had placedfreckles on your nose it was your boundenduty to leave them there.Anne scurried down to the pantry, which,always dim from the big willow growing closeto the window, was now almost dark by reasonof the shade drawn to exclude flies. Annecaught the bottle containing the lotion fromthe shelf and copiously anointed her nosetherewith by means of a little sponge sacredto the purpose. This important duty done,she returned to her work. Any one who hasever shifted feathers from one tick to anotherwill not need to be told that when Anne finishedshe was a sight to behold. Her dresswas white with down and fluff, and her fronthair, escaping from under the handkerchief,was adorned with a veritable halo of feathers.At this auspicious moment a knock soundedat the kitchen door.“That must be Mr. Shearer,” thought Anne.“I’m in a dreadful mess but I’ll have to rundown as I am, for he’s always in a hurry.”Down flew Anne to the kitchen door. Ifever a charitable floor did open to swallow

270 Anne of Avonleaup a miserable, befeathered damsel the GreenGables porch floor should promptly have engulfedAnne at that moment. On the doorstepwere standing Priscilla Grant, golden and fairin silk attire, a short, stout gray-haired ladyin a tweed suit, and another lady, tall stately,wonderfully gowned, with a beautiful, highbredface and large, black-lashed violet eyes,whom Anne “instinctively felt,” as she wouldhave said in her earlier days, to be Mrs. CharlotteE. Morgan.In the dismay of the moment one thoughtstood out from the confusion of Anne’s mindand she grasped at it as at the proverbialstraw. All Mrs. Morgan’s heroines were notedfor “rising to the occasion.” No matter whattheir troubles were, they invariably rose tothe occasion and showed their superiorityover all ills of time, space, and quantity.Anne therefore felt it was her duty to riseto the occasion and she did it, so perfectlythat Priscilla afterward declared she neveradmired Anne Shirley more than at that moment.No matter what her outraged feelingswere she did not show them. She greetedPriscilla and was introduced to her companionsas calmly and composedly as if she hadbeen arrayed in purple and fine linen. To besure, it was somewhat of a shock to find thatthe lady she had instinctively felt to be Mrs.

The Way It Often Happens 271Morgan was not Mrs. Morgan at all, but anunknown Mrs. Pendexter, while the stout littlegray-haired woman was Mrs. Morgan; butin the greater shock the lesser lost its power.Anne ushered her guests to the spare roomand thence into the parlor, where she leftthem while she hastened out to help Priscillaunharness her horse.“It’s dreadful to come upon you so unexpectedlyas this,” apologized Priscilla, “but Idid not know till last night that we were coming.Aunt Charlotte is going away Mondayand she had promised to spend today with afriend in town. But last night her friend telephonedto her not to come because they werequarantined for scarlet fever. So I suggestedwe come here instead, for I knew you werelonging to see her. We called at the WhiteSands Hotel and brought Mrs. Pendexter withus. She is a friend of aunt’s and lives in NewYork and her husband is a millionaire. Wecan’t stay very long, for Mrs. Pendexter hasto be back at the hotel by five o’clock.”Several times while they were puttingaway the horse Anne caught Priscilla lookingat her in a furtive, puzzled way.“She needn’t stare at me so,” Anne thoughta little resentfully. “If she doesn’t know whatit is to change a feather bed she might imagineit.”

272 Anne of AvonleaWhen Priscilla had gone to the parlor,and before Anne could escape upstairs, Dianawalked into the kitchen. Anne caught her astonishedfriend by the arm.“Diana Barry, who do you suppose is inthat parlor at this very moment? Mrs. CharlotteE. Morgan—and a New York millionaire’swife—and here I am like this—and nota thing in the house for dinner but a cold hambone, Diana!”By this time Anne had become aware thatDiana was staring at her in precisely the samebewildered fashion as Priscilla had done. Itwas really too much.“Oh, Diana, don’t look at me so,” she implored.“You, at least, must know that theneatest person in the world couldn’t emptyfeathers from one tick into another and remainneat in the process.”“It—it—isn’t the feathers,” hesitated Diana.“It’s—it’s—your nose, Anne.”“My nose? Oh, Diana, surely nothing hasgone wrong with it!”Anne rushed to the little looking glass overthe sink. One glance revealed the fatal truth.Her nose was a brilliant scarlet!Anne sat down on the sofa, her dauntlessspirit subdued at last.“What is the matter with it?” asked Diana,curiosity overcoming delicacy.

The Way It Often Happens 273“I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotionon it, but I must have used that red dye Marillahas for marking the pattern on her rugs,”was the despairing response. “What shall Ido?”“Wash it off,” said Diana practically.“Perhaps it won’t wash off. First I dye myhair; then I dye my nose. Marilla cut myhair off when I dyed it but that remedy wouldhardly be practicable in this case. Well, this isanother punishment for vanity and I supposeI deserve it—though there’s not much comfortin that. It is really almost enough to makeone believe in ill-luck, though Mrs. Lynde saysthere is no such thing, because everything isforeordained.”Fortunately the dye washed off easilyand Anne, somewhat consoled, betook herselfto the east gable while Diana ran home.Presently Anne came down again, clothed andin her right mind. The muslin dress shehad fondly hoped to wear was bobbing merrilyabout on the line outside, so she was forced tocontent herself with her black lawn. She hadthe fire on and the tea steeping when Dianareturned; the latter wore her muslin, at least,and carried a covered platter in her hand.“Mother sent you this,” she said, liftingthe cover and displaying a nicely carved andjointed chicken to Anne’s grateful eyes.

274 Anne of AvonleaThe chicken was supplemented by lightnew bread, excellent butter and cheese, Marilla’sfruit cake and a dish of preserved plums,floating in their golden syrup as in congealedsummer sunshine. There was a big bowlful ofpink-and-white asters also, by way of decoration;yet the spread seemed very meager besidethe elaborate one formerly prepared forMrs. Morgan.Anne’s hungry guests, however, did notseem to think anything was lacking and theyate the simple viands with apparent enjoyment.But after the first few moments Annethought no more of what was or was not on herbill of fare. Mrs. Morgan’s appearance mightbe somewhat disappointing, as even her loyalworshippers had been forced to admit to eachother; but she proved to be a delightful conversationalist.She had traveled extensivelyand was an excellent storyteller. She had seenmuch of men and women, and crystalized herexperiences into witty little sentences and epigramswhich made her hearers feel as if theywere listening to one of the people in cleverbooks. But under all her sparkle there wasa strongly felt undercurrent of true, womanlysympathy and kindheartedness which won affectionas easily as her brilliancy won admiration.Nor did she monopolize the conversation.She could draw others out as skill-

The Way It Often Happens 275fully and fully as she could talk herself, andAnne and Diana found themselves chatteringfreely to her. Mrs. Pendexter said little; shemerely smiled with her lovely eyes and lips,and ate chicken and fruit cake and preserveswith such exquisite grace that she conveyedthe impression of dining on ambrosia and honeydew.But then, as Anne said to Diana lateron, anybody so divinely beautiful as Mrs. Pendexterdidn’t need to talk; it was enough forher just to look.After dinner they all had a walk throughLover’s Lane and Violet Vale and the BirchPath, then back through the Haunted Woodto the Dryad’s Bubble, where they sat downand talked for a delightful last half hour. Mrs.Morgan wanted to know how the HauntedWood came by its name, and laughed untilshe cried when she heard the story and Anne’sdramatic account of a certain memorable walkthrough it at the witching hour of twilight.“It has indeed been a feast of reason andflow of soul, hasn’t it?” said Anne, when herguests had gone and she and Diana werealone again. “I don’t know which I enjoyedmore—listening to Mrs. Morgan or gazing atMrs. Pendexter. I believe we had a nicer timethan if we’d known they were coming andbeen cumbered with much serving. You muststay to tea with me, Diana, and we’ll talk it all

276 Anne of Avonleaover.”“Priscilla says Mrs. Pendexter’s husband’ssister is married to an English earl; and yetshe took a second helping of the plum preserves,”said Diana, as if the two facts weresomehow incompatible.“I daresay even the English earl himselfwouldn’t have turned up his aristocraticnose at Marilla’s plum preserves,” said Anneproudly.Anne did not mention the misfortunewhich had befallen her nose when she relatedthe day’s history to Marilla that evening. Butshe took the bottle of freckle lotion and emptiedit out of the window.“I shall never try any beautifying messesagain,” she said, darkly resolute. “They maydo for careful, deliberate people; but for anyoneso hopelessly given over to making mistakesas I seem to be it’s tempting fate to meddlewith them.”

XXI. Sweet MissLavendarSchool opened and Anne returned to her work,with fewer theories but considerably more experience.She had several new pupils, six- andseven-year-olds just venturing, round-eyed,into a world of wonder. Among them wereDavy and Dora. Davy sat with Milty Boulter,who had been going to school for a yearand was therefore quite a man of the world.Dora had made a compact at Sunday Schoolthe previous Sunday to sit with Lily Sloane;but Lily Sloane not coming the first day, shewas temporarily assigned to Mirabel Cotton,who was ten years old and therefore, in Dora’seyes, one of the “big girls.”“I think school is great fun,” Davy toldMarilla when he got home that night. “Yousaid I’d find it hard to sit still and I did—youmostly do tell the truth, I notice—but you canwriggle your legs about under the desk and277

278 Anne of Avonleathat helps a lot. It’s splendid to have so manyboys to play with. I sit with Milty Boulterand he’s fine. He’s longer than me but I’mwider. It’s nicer to sit in the back seats but youcan’t sit there till your legs grow long enoughto touch the floor. Milty drawed a picture ofAnne on his slate and it was awful ugly andI told him if he made pictures of Anne likethat I’d lick him at recess. I thought first I’ddraw one of him and put horns and a tail onit, but I was afraid it would hurt his feelings,and Anne says you should never hurt anyone’sfeelings. It seems it’s dreadful to have yourfeelings hurt. It’s better to knock a boy downthan hurt his feelings if you must do something.Milty said he wasn’t scared of me buthe’d just as soon call it somebody else to ’bligeme, so he rubbed out Anne’s name and printedBarbara Shaw’s under it. Milty doesn’t likeBarbara ’cause she calls him a sweet little boyand once she patted him on his head.”Dora said primly that she liked school; butshe was very quiet, even for her; and when attwilight Marilla bade her go upstairs to bedshe hesitated and began to cry.“I’m—I’m frightened,” she sobbed. “I—Idon’t want to go upstairs alone in the dark.”“What notion have you got into your headnow?” demanded Marilla. “I’m sure you’vegone to bed alone all summer and never been

Sweet Miss Lavendar 279frightened before.”Dora still continued to cry, so Anne pickedher up, cuddled her sympathetically, andwhispered,“Tell Anne all about it, sweetheart. Whatare you frightened of?”“Of—of Mirabel Cotton’s uncle,” sobbedDora. “Mirabel Cotton told me all about herfamily today in school. Nearly everybody inher family has died—all her grandfathers andgrandmothers and ever so many uncles andaunts. They have a habit of dying, Mirabelsays. Mirabel’s awful proud of having so manydead relations, and she told me what they alldied of, and what they said, and how theylooked in their coffins. And Mirabel says oneof her uncles was seen walking around thehouse after he was buried. Her mother sawhim. I don’t mind the rest so much but I can’thelp thinking about that uncle.”Anne went upstairs with Dora and satby her until she fell asleep. The next dayMirabel Cotton was kept in at recess and “gentlybut firmly” given to understand that whenyou were so unfortunate as to possess an unclewho persisted in walking about housesafter he had been decently interred it wasnot in good taste to talk about that eccentricgentleman to your deskmate of tender years.Mirabel thought this very harsh. The Cottons

280 Anne of Avonleahad not much to boast of. How was she to keepup her prestige among her schoolmates if shewere forbidden to make capital out of the familyghost?September slipped by into a gold and crimsongraciousness of October. One Fridayevening Diana came over.“I’d a letter from Ella Kimball today, Anne,and she wants us to go over to tea tomorrowafternoon to meet her cousin, Irene Trent,from town. But we can’t get one of our horsesto go, for they’ll all be in use tomorrow, andyour pony is lame—so I suppose we can’t go.”“Why can’t we walk?” suggested Anne. “Ifwe go straight back through the woods we’llstrike the West Grafton road not far from theKimball place. I was through that way lastwinter and I know the road. It’s no more thanfour miles and we won’t have to walk home,for Oliver Kimball will be sure to drive us.He’ll be only too glad of the excuse, for he goesto see Carrie Sloane and they say his fatherwill hardly ever let him have a horse.”It was accordingly arranged that theyshould walk, and the following afternoon theyset out, going by way of Lover’s Lane to theback of the Cuthbert farm, where they founda road leading into the heart of acres of glimmeringbeech and maple woods, which wereall in a wondrous glow of flame and gold, ly-

Sweet Miss Lavendar 281ing in a great purple stillness and peace.“It’s as if the year were kneeling to pray ina vast cathedral full of mellow stained light,isn’t it?” said Anne dreamily. “It doesn’t seemright to hurry through it, does it? It seemsirreverent, like running in a church.”“We must hurry though,” said Diana,glancing at her watch. “We’ve left ourselveslittle enough time as it is.”“Well, I’ll walk fast but don’t ask me totalk,” said Anne, quickening her pace. “I justwant to drink the day’s loveliness in—I feel asif she were holding it out to my lips like a cupof airy wine and I’ll take a sip at every step.”Perhaps it was because she was so absorbedin “drinking it in” that Anne took theleft turning when they came to a fork in theroad. She should have taken the right, butever afterward she counted it the most fortunatemistake of her life. They came out finallyto a lonely, grassy road, with nothing in sightalong it but ranks of spruce saplings.“Why, where are we?” exclaimed Diana inbewilderment. “This isn’t the West Graftonroad.”“No, it’s the base line road in MiddleGrafton,” said Anne, rather shamefacedly. “Imust have taken the wrong turning at thefork. I don’t know where we are exactly, butwe must be all of three miles from Kimballs’

282 Anne of Avonleastill.”“Then we can’t get there by five, for it’s halfpast four now,” said Diana, with a despairinglook at her watch. “We’ll arrive after theyhave had their tea, and they’ll have all thebother of getting ours over again.”“We’d better turn back and go home,” suggestedAnne humbly. But Diana, after consideration,vetoed this.“No, we may as well go and spend theevening, since we have come this far.”A few yards further on the girls came to aplace where the road forked again.“Which of these do we take?” asked Dianadubiously.Anne shook her head.“I don’t know and we can’t afford to makeany more mistakes. Here is a gate and a laneleading right into the wood. There must be ahouse at the other side. Let us go down andinquire.”“What a romantic old lane this it,” saidDiana, as they walked along its twists andturns. It ran under patriarchal old firs whosebranches met above, creating a perpetualgloom in which nothing except moss couldgrow. On either hand were brown wood floors,crossed here and there by fallen lances of sunlight.All was very still and remote, as ifthe world and the cares of the world were far

Sweet Miss Lavendar 283away.“I feel as if we were walking through an enchantedforest,” said Anne in a hushed tone.“Do you suppose we’ll ever find our way backto the real world again, Diana? We shallpresently come to a palace with a spellboundprincess in it, I think.”Around the next turn they came in sight,not indeed of a palace, but of a little housealmost as surprising as a palace would havebeen in this province of conventional woodenfarmhouses, all as much alike in general characteristicsas if they had grown from the sameseed. Anne stopped short in rapture and Dianaexclaimed, “Oh, I know where we arenow. That is the little stone house where MissLavendar Lewis lives—Echo Lodge, she callsit, I think. I’ve often heard of it but I’ve neverseen it before. Isn’t it a romantic spot?”“It’s the sweetest, prettiest place I eversaw or imagined,” said Anne delightedly. “Itlooks like a bit out of a story book or a dream.”The house was a low-eaved structure builtof undressed blocks of red Island sandstone,with a little peaked roof out of which peeredtwo dormer windows, with quaint woodenhoods over them, and two great chimneys.The whole house was covered with a luxuriantgrowth of ivy, finding easy foothold on therough stonework and turned by autumn frosts

284 Anne of Avonleato most beautiful bronze and wine-red tints.Before the house was an oblong gardeninto which the lane gate where the girls werestanding opened. The house bounded it onone side; on the three others it was enclosedby an old stone dyke, so overgrown with mossand grass and ferns that it looked like a high,green bank. On the right and left the tall,dark spruces spread their palm-like branchesover it; but below it was a little meadow, greenwith clover aftermath, sloping down to theblue loop of the Grafton River. No other houseor clearing was in sight—nothing but hills andvalleys covered with feathery young firs.“I wonder what sort of a person Miss Lewisis,” speculated Diana as they opened the gateinto the garden. “They say she is very peculiar.”“She’ll be interesting then,” said Anne decidedly.“Peculiar people are always that atleast, whatever else they are or are not. Didn’tI tell you we would come to an enchantedpalace? I knew the elves hadn’t woven magicover that lane for nothing.”“But Miss Lavendar Lewis is hardly aspellbound princess,” laughed Diana. “She’san old maid—she’s forty-five and quite gray,I’ve heard.”“Oh, that’s only part of the spell,” assertedAnne confidently. “At heart she’s young and

Sweet Miss Lavendar 285beautiful still—and if we only knew how tounloose the spell she would step forth radiantand fair again. But we don’t know how—it’salways and only the prince who knows that—and Miss Lavendar’s prince hasn’t come yet.Perhaps some fatal mischance has befallenhim—though that’s against the law of all fairytales.”“I’m afraid he came long ago and wentaway again,” said Diana. “They say sheused to be engaged to Stephan Irving—Paul’sfather—when they were young. But theyquarreled and parted.”“Hush,” warned Anne. “The door is open.”The girls paused in the porch under thetendrils of ivy and knocked at the open door.There was a patter of steps inside and a ratherodd little personage presented herself—a girlof about fourteen, with a freckled face, a snubnose, a mouth so wide that it did really seemas if it stretched “from ear to ear,” and twolong braids of fair hair tied with two enormousbows of blue ribbon.“Is Miss Lewis at home?” asked Diana.“Yes, ma’am. Come in, ma’am. I’ll tell MissLavendar you’re here, ma’am. She’s upstairs,ma’am.”With this the small handmaiden whiskedout of sight and the girls, left alone, lookedabout them with delighted eyes. The interior

286 Anne of Avonleaof this wonderful little house was quite as interestingas its exterior.The room had a low ceiling and two square,small-paned windows, curtained with muslinfrills. All the furnishings were old-fashioned,but so well and daintily kept that the effectwas delicious. But it must be candidly admittedthat the most attractive feature, totwo healthy girls who had just tramped fourmiles through autumn air, was a table, set outwith pale blue china and laden with delicacies,while little golden-hued ferns scatteredover the cloth gave it what Anne would havetermed “a festal air.”“Miss Lavendar must be expecting companyto tea,” she whispered. “There are sixplaces set. But what a funny little girl shehas. She looked like a messenger from pixyland. I suppose she could have told us theroad, but I was curious to see Miss Lavendar.S–s–sh, she’s coming.”And with that Miss Lavendar Lewis wasstanding in the doorway. The girls were sosurprised that they forgot good manners andsimply stared. They had unconsciously beenexpecting to see the usual type of elderly spinsteras known to their experience—a ratherangular personage, with prim gray hair andspectacles. Nothing more unlike Miss Lavendarcould possibly be imagined.

Sweet Miss Lavendar 287She was a little lady with snow-white hairbeautifully wavy and thick, and carefully arrangedin becoming puffs and coils. Beneathit was an almost girlish face, pink cheekedand sweet lipped, with big soft brown eyesand dimples—actually dimples. She wore avery dainty gown of cream muslin with palehuedroses on it—a gown which would haveseemed ridiculously juvenile on most womenof her age, but which suited Miss Lavendar soperfectly that you never thought about it atall.“Charlotta the Fourth says that youwished to see me,” she said, in a voice thatmatched her appearance.“We wanted to ask the right road to WestGrafton,” said Diana. “We are invited to teaat Mr. Kimball’s, but we took the wrong pathcoming through the woods and came out to thebase line instead of the West Grafton road. Dowe take the right or left turning at your gate?”“The left,” said Miss Lavendar, with a hesitatingglance at her tea table. Then she exclaimed,as if in a sudden little burst of resolution,“But oh, won’t you stay and have tea withme? Please, do. Mr. Kimball’s will have teaover before you get there. And Charlotta theFourth and I will be so glad to have you.”Diana looked mute inquiry at Anne.

288 Anne of Avonlea“We’d like to stay,” said Anne promptly, forshe had made up her mind that she wanted toknow more of this surprising Miss Lavendar,“if it won’t inconvenience you. But you are expectingother guests, aren’t you?”Miss Lavendar looked at her tea tableagain, and blushed.“I know you’ll think me dreadfully foolish,”she said. “I am foolish—and I’m ashamedof it when I’m found out, but never unless Iam found out. I’m not expecting anybody—Iwas just pretending I was. You see, I was solonely. I love company—that is, the right kindof company—but so few people ever come herebecause it is so far out of the way. Charlottathe Fourth was lonely too. So I just pretendedI was going to have a tea party. I cookedfor it—and decorated the table for it—andset it with my mother’s wedding china—andI dressed up for it.” Diana secretly thoughtMiss Lavendar quite as peculiar as report hadpictured her. The idea of a woman of forty-fiveplaying at having a tea party, just as if shewere a little girl! But Anne of the shining eyesexclaimed joyfuly, “Oh, do you imagine thingstoo?”That “too” revealed a kindred spirit to MissLavendar.“Yes, I do,” she confessed, boldly. “Of courseit’s silly in anybody as old as I am. But what

Sweet Miss Lavendar 289is the use of being an independent old maid ifyou can’t be silly when you want to, and whenit doesn’t hurt anybody? A person must havesome compensations. I don’t believe I couldlive at times if I didn’t pretend things. I’m notoften caught at it though, and Charlotta theFourth never tells. But I’m glad to be caughttoday, for you have really come and I have teaall ready for you. Will you go up to the spareroom and take off your hats? It’s the whitedoor at the head of the stairs. I must runout to the kitchen and see that Charlotta theFourth isn’t letting the tea boil. Charlotta theFourth is a very good girl but she will let thetea boil.”Miss Lavendar tripped off to the kitchen onhospitable thoughts intent and the girls foundtheir way up to the spare room, an apartmentas white as its door, lighted by the ivy-hungdormer window and looking, as Anne said,like the place where happy dreams grew.“This is quite an adventure, isn’t it?” saidDiana. “And isn’t Miss Lavendar sweet, if sheis a little odd? She doesn’t look a bit like anold maid.”“She looks just as music sounds, I think,”answered Anne.When they went down Miss Lavendar wascarrying in the teapot, and behind her, lookingvastly pleased, was Charlotta the Fourth,

290 Anne of Avonleawith a plate of hot biscuits.“Now, you must tell me your names,” saidMiss Lavendar. “I’m so glad you are younggirls. I love young girls. It’s so easy to pretendI’m a girl myself when I’m with them. I dohate”—with a little grimace—“to believe I’mold. Now, who are you—just for convenience’sake? Diana Barry? And Anne Shirley? MayI pretend that I’ve known you for a hundredyears and call you Anne and Diana rightaway?”“You, may,” the girls said both together.“Then just let’s sit comfily down and eat everything,”said Miss Lavendar happily. “Charlotta,you sit at the foot and help with thechicken. It is so fortunate that I made thesponge cake and doughnuts. Of course, itwas foolish to do it for imaginary guests—Iknow Charlotta the Fourth thought so, didn’tyou, Charlotta? But you see how well it hasturned out. Of course they wouldn’t have beenwasted, for Charlotta the Fourth and I couldhave eaten them through time. But spongecake is not a thing that improves with time.”That was a merry and memorable meal;and when it was over they all went out to thegarden, lying in the glamor of sunset.“I do think you have the loveliest placehere,” said Diana, looking round her admiringly.

Sweet Miss Lavendar 291“Why do you call it Echo Lodge?” askedAnne.“Charlotta,” said Miss Lavendar, “go intothe house and bring out the little tin horn thatis hanging over the clock shelf.”Charlotta the Fourth skipped off and returnedwith the horn.“Blow it, Charlotta,” commanded MissLavendar.Charlotta accordingly blew, a rather raucous,strident blast. There was moment’sstillness—and then from the woods over theriver came a multitude of fairy echoes, sweet,elusive, silvery, as if all the “horns of elfland”were blowing against the sunset. Anne andDiana exclaimed in delight.“Now laugh, Charlotta—laugh loudly.”Charlotta, who would probably haveobeyed if Miss Lavendar had told her to standon her head, climbed upon the stone benchand laughed loud and heartily. Back came theechoes, as if a host of pixy people were mimickingher laughter in the purple woodlandsand along the fir-fringed points.“People always admire my echoes verymuch,” said Miss Lavendar, as if the echoeswere her personal property. “I love them myself.They are very good company—with a littlepretending. On calm evenings Charlottathe Fourth and I often sit out here and amuse

292 Anne of Avonleaourselves with them. Charlotta, take back thehorn and hang it carefully in its place.”“Why do you call her Charlotta theFourth?” asked Diana, who was bursting withcuriosity on this point.“Just to keep her from getting mixed upwith other Charlottas in my thoughts,” saidMiss Lavendar seriously. “They all look somuch alike there’s no telling them apart. Hername isn’t really Charlotta at all. It is—letme see—what is it? I think it’s Leonora—yes,it is Leonora. You see, it is this way. Whenmother died ten years ago I couldn’t stay herealone—and I couldn’t afford to pay the wagesof a grown-up girl. So I got little CharlottaBowman to come and stay with me for boardand clothes. Her name really was Charlotta—she was Charlotta the First. She was just thirteen.She stayed with me till she was sixteenand then she went away to Boston, becauseshe could do better there. Her sistercame to stay with me then. Her name wasJulietta—Mrs. Bowman had a weakness forfancy names I think—but she looked so likeCharlotta that I kept calling her that all thetime—and she didn’t mind. So I just gaveup trying to remember her right name. Shewas Charlotta the Second, and when she wentaway Evelina came and she was Charlotta theThird. Now I have Charlotta the Fourth; but

Sweet Miss Lavendar 293when she is sixteen—she’s fourteen now—shewill want to go to Boston too, and what I shalldo then I really do not know. Charlotta theFourth is the last of the Bowman girls, andthe best. The other Charlottas always let mesee that they thought it silly of me to pretendthings but Charlotta the Fourth never does,no matter what she may really think. I don’tcare what people think about me if they don’tlet me see it.”“Well,” said Diana looking regretfully atthe setting sun. “I suppose we must go ifwe want to get to Mr. Kimball’s before dark.We’ve had a lovely time, Miss Lewis.”“Won’t you come again to see me?” pleadedMiss Lavendar.Tall Anne put her arm about the little lady.“Indeed we shall,” she promised. “Nowthat we have discovered you we’ll wear out ourwelcome coming to see you. Yes, we must go—‘we must tear ourselves away,’ as Paul Irvingsays every time he comes to Green Gables.”“Paul Irving?” There was a subtle changein Miss Lavendar’s voice. “Who is he? Ididn’t think there was anybody of that namein Avonlea.”Anne felt vexed at her own heedlessness.She had forgotten about Miss Lavendar’s oldromance when Paul’s name slipped out.“He is a little pupil of mine,” she explained

294 Anne of Avonleaslowly. “He came from Boston last year to livewith his grandmother, Mrs. Irving of the shoreroad.”“Is he Stephen Irving’s son?” Miss Lavendarasked, bending over her namesake borderso that her face was hidden.“Yes.”“I’m going to give you girls a bunch oflavendar apiece,” said Miss Lavendar brightly,as if she had not heard the answer to her question.“It’s very sweet, don’t you think? Motheralways loved it. She planted these borderslong ago. Father named me Lavendar becausehe was so fond of it. The very first time hesaw mother was when he visited her home inEast Grafton with her brother. He fell in lovewith her at first sight; and they put him inthe spare room bed to sleep and the sheetswere scented with lavendar and he lay awakeall night and thought of her. He always lovedthe scent of lavendar after that—and that waswhy he gave me the name. Don’t forget tocome back soon, girls dear. We’ll be lookingfor you, Charlotta the Fourth and I.”She opened the gate under the firs for themto pass through. She looked suddenly old andtired; the glow and radiance had faded fromher face; her parting smile was as sweet withineradicable youth as ever, but when the girlslooked back from the first curve in the lane

Sweet Miss Lavendar 295they saw her sitting on the old stone benchunder the silver poplar in the middle of thegarden with her head leaning wearily on herhand.“She does look lonely,” said Diana softly.“We must come often to see her.”“I think her parents gave her the only rightand fitting name that could possibly be givenher,” said Anne. “If they had been so blindas to name her Elizabeth or Nellie or Murielshe must have been called Lavendar just thesame, I think. It’s so suggestive of sweetnessand old-fashioned graces and ‘silk attire.’Now, my name just smacks of bread and butter,patchwork and chores.”“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Diana. “Anneseems to me real stately and like a queen. ButI’d like Kerrenhappuch if it happened to beyour name. I think people make their namesnice or ugly just by what they are themselves.I can’t bear Josie or Gertie for names now butbefore I knew the Pye girls I thought themreal pretty.”“That’s a lovely idea, Diana,” said Anne enthusiastically.“Living so that you beautifyyour name, even if it wasn’t beautiful to beginwith—making it stand in people’s thoughtsfor something so lovely and pleasant that theynever think of it by itself. Thank you, Diana.”

296 Anne of Avonlea

XXII. Odds andEnds“So you had tea at the stone house withLavendar Lewis?” said Marilla at the breakfasttable next morning. “What is she likenow? It’s over fifteen years since I saw herlast—it was one Sunday in Grafton church. Isuppose she has changed a great deal. DavyKeith, when you want something you can’treach, ask to have it passed and don’t spreadyourself over the table in that fashion. Didyou ever see Paul Irving doing that when hewas here to meals?”“But Paul’s arms are longer’n mine,” grumbledDavy. “They’ve had eleven years to growand mine’ve only had seven. ’Sides, I did ask,but you and Anne was so busy talking youdidn’t pay any ’tention. ’Sides, Paul’s neverbeen here to any meal escept tea, and it’s easierto be p’lite at tea than at breakfast. Youain’t half as hungry. It’s an awful long while297

298 Anne of Avonleabetween supper and breakfast. Now, Anne,that spoonful ain’t any bigger than it was lastyear and I’m ever so much bigger.”“Of course, I don’t know what Miss Lavendarused to look like but I don’t fancy somehowthat she has changed a great deal,” saidAnne, after she had helped Davy to maplesyrup, giving him two spoonfuls to pacify him.“Her hair is snow-white but her face is freshand almost girlish, and she has the sweetestbrown eyes—such a pretty shade of woodbrownwith little golden glints in them—andher voice makes you think of white satin andtinkling water and fairy bells all mixed up together.”“She was reckoned a great beauty whenshe was a girl,” said Marilla. “I never knewher very well but I liked her as far as Idid know her. Some folks thought her peculiareven then. Davy, if ever I catch you atsuch a trick again you’ll be made to wait foryour meals till everyone else is done, like theFrench.”Most conversations between Anne andMarilla in the presence of the twins, werepunctuated by these rebukes Davy-ward. Inthis instance, Davy, sad to relate, not beingable to scoop up the last drops of his syrupwith his spoon, had solved the difficulty bylifting his plate in both hands and applying

Odds and Ends 299his small pink tongue to it. Anne looked athim with such horrified eyes that the littlesinner turned red and said, half shamefacedly,half defiantly,“There ain’t any wasted that way.”“People who are different from other peopleare always called peculiar,” said Anne.“And Miss Lavendar is certainly different,though it’s hard to say just where the differencecomes in. Perhaps it is because she isone of those people who never grow old.”“One might as well grow old when all yourgeneration do,” said Marilla, rather recklessof her pronouns. “If you don’t, you don’t fit inanywhere. Far as I can learn Lavendar Lewishas just dropped out of everything. She’s livedin that out of the way place until everybodyhas forgotten her. That stone house is one ofthe oldest on the Island. Old Mr. Lewis built iteighty years ago when he came out from England.Davy, stop joggling Dora’s elbow. Oh,I saw you! You needn’t try to look innocent.What does make you behave so this morning?”“Maybe I got out of the wrong side of thebed,” suggested Davy. “Milty Boulter says ifyou do that things are bound to go wrong withyou all day. His grandmother told him. Butwhich is the right side? And what are you todo when your bed’s against the wall? I wantto know.”

300 Anne of Avonlea“I’ve always wondered what went wrongbetween Stephen Irving and Lavendar Lewis,”continued Marilla, ignoring Davy. “They werecertainly engaged twenty-five years ago andthen all at once it was broken off. I don’t knowwhat the trouble was but it must have beensomething terrible, for he went away to theStates and never come home since.”“Perhaps it was nothing very dreadful afterall. I think the little things in life oftenmake more trouble than the big things,”said Anne, with one of those flashes of insightwhich experience could not have bettered.“Marilla, please don’t say anythingabout my being at Miss Lavendar’s to Mrs.Lynde. She’d be sure to ask a hundred questionsand somehow I wouldn’t like it—norMiss Lavendar either if she knew, I feel sure.”“I daresay Rachel would be curious,” admittedMarilla, “though she hasn’t as muchtime as she used to have for looking afterother people’s affairs. She’s tied home now onaccount of Thomas; and she’s feeling prettydownhearted, for I think she’s beginning tolose hope of his ever getting better. Rachelwill be left pretty lonely if anything happensto him, with all her children settled out west,except Eliza in town; and she doesn’t like herhusband.”Marilla’s pronouns slandered Eliza, who

Odds and Ends 301was very fond of her husband.“Rachel says if he’d only brace up and exerthis will power he’d get better. But what isthe use of asking a jellyfish to sit up straight?”continued Marilla. “Thomas Lynde never hadany will power to exert. His mother ruled himtill he married and then Rachel carried it on.It’s a wonder he dared to get sick without askingher permission. But there, I shouldn’t talkso. Rachel has been a good wife to him. He’dnever have amounted to anything without her,that’s certain. He was born to be ruled; andit’s well he fell into the hands of a clever, capablemanager like Rachel. He didn’t mindher way. It saved him the bother of ever makingup his own mind about anything. Davy, dostop squirming like an eel.”“I’ve nothing else to do,” protested Davy. “Ican’t eat any more, and it’s no fun watchingyou and Anne eat.”“Well, you and Dora go out and give thehens their wheat,” said Marilla. “And don’tyou try to pull any more feathers out of thewhite rooster’s tail either.”“I wanted some feathers for an Injun headdress,”said Davy sulkily. “Milty Boulter hasa dandy one, made out of the feathers hismother give him when she killed their oldwhite gobbler. You might let me have some.That rooster’s got ever so many more’n he

302 Anne of Avonleawants.”“You may have the old feather duster in thegarret,” said Anne, “and I’ll dye them greenand red and yellow for you.”“You do spoil that boy dreadfully,” saidMarilla, when Davy, with a radiant face, hadfollowed prim Dora out. Marilla’s educationhad made great strides in the past six years;but she had not yet been able to rid herselfof the idea that it was very bad for a child tohave too many of its wishes indulged.“All the boys of his class have Indian headdresses,and Davy wants one too,” said Anne.“I know how it feels—I’ll never forget how Iused to long for puffed sleeves when all theother girls had them. And Davy isn’t beingspoiled. He is improving every day. Thinkwhat a difference there is in him since hecame here a year ago.”“He certainly doesn’t get into as much mischiefsince he began to go to school,” acknowledgedMarilla. “I suppose he works off thetendency with the other boys. But it’s a wonderto me we haven’t heard from RichardKeith before this. Never a word since lastMay.”“I’ll be afraid to hear from him,” sighedAnne, beginning to clear away the dishes. “Ifa letter should come I’d dread opening it, forfear it would tell us to send the twins to him.”

Odds and Ends 303A month later a letter did come. But it wasnot from Richard Keith. A friend of his wroteto say that Richard Keith had died of consumptiona fortnight previously. The writerof the letter was the executor of his will andby that will the sum of two thousand dollarswas left to Miss Marilla Cuthbert in trust forDavid and Dora Keith until they came of ageor married. In the meantime the interest wasto be used for their maintenance.“It seems dreadful to be glad of anything inconnection with a death,” said Anne soberly.“I’m sorry for poor Mr. Keith; but I am gladthat we can keep the twins.”“It’s a very good thing about the money,”said Marilla practically. “I wanted to keepthem but I really didn’t see how I could affordto do it, especially when they grew older.The rent of the farm doesn’t do any more thankeep the house and I was bound that not acent of your money should be spent on them.You do far too much for them as it is. Doradidn’t need that new hat you bought her anymore than a cat needs two tails. But now theway is made clear and they are provided for.”Davy and Dora were delighted when theyheard that they were to live at Green Gables,“for good.” The death of an uncle whom theyhad never seen could not weigh a moment inthe balance against that. But Dora had one

304 Anne of Avonleamisgiving.“Was Uncle Richard buried?” she whisperedto Anne.“Yes, dear, of course.”“He—he—isn’t like Mirabel Cotton’s uncle,is he?” in a still more agitated whisper. “Hewon’t walk about houses after being buried,will he, Anne?”

XXIII. MissLavendar’sRomance“I think I’ll take a walk through to Echo Lodgethis evening,” said Anne, one Friday afternoonin December.“It looks like snow,” said Marilla dubiously.“I’ll be there before the snow comes and Imean to stay all night. Diana can’t go becauseshe has company, and I’m sure Miss Lavendarwill be looking for me tonight. It’s a wholefortnight since I was there.”Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodgesince that October day. Sometimes she andDiana drove around by the road; sometimesthey walked through the woods. When Dianacould not go Anne went alone. Betweenher and Miss Lavendar had sprung up oneof those fervent, helpful friendships possibleonly between a woman who has kept the305

306 Anne of Avonleafreshness of youth in her heart and soul, and agirl whose imagination and intuition suppliedthe place of experience. Anne had at last discovereda real “kindred spirit,” while into thelittle lady’s lonely, sequestered life of dreamsAnne and Diana came with the wholesome joyand exhilaration of the outer existence, whichMiss Lavendar, “the world forgetting, by theworld forgot,” had long ceased to share; theybrought an atmosphere of youth and realityto the little stone house. Charlotta the Fourthalways greeted them with her very widestsmile—and Charlotta’s smiles were fearfullywide—loving them for the sake of her adoredmistress as well as for their own. Never hadthere been such “high jinks” held in the littlestone house as were held there that beautiful,late-lingering autumn, when Novemberseemed October over again, and even Decemberaped the sunshine and hazes of summer.But on this particular day it seemed as ifDecember had remembered that it was timefor winter and had turned suddenly dull andbrooding, with a windless hush predictive ofcoming snow. Nevertheless, Anne keenly enjoyedher walk through the great gray maze ofthe beechlands; though alone she never foundit lonely; her imagination peopled her pathwith merry companions, and with these shecarried on a gay, pretended conversation that

Miss Lavendar’s Romance 307was wittier and more fascinating than conversationsare apt to be in real life, where peoplesometimes fail most lamentably to talk up tothe requirements. In a “make believe” assemblyof choice spirits everybody says just thething you want her to say and so gives youthe chance to say just what you want to say.Attended by this invisible company, Anne traversedthe woods and arrived at the fir lanejust as broad, feathery flakes began to flutterdown softly.At the first bend she came upon MissLavendar, standing under a big, broadbranchingfir. She wore a gown of warm,rich red, and her head and shoulders werewrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.“You look like the queen of the fir woodfairies,” called Anne merrily.“I thought you would come tonight, Anne,”said Miss Lavendar, running forward. “AndI’m doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth isaway. Her mother is sick and she had to gohome for the night. I should have been verylonely if you hadn’t come—even the dreamsand the echoes wouldn’t have been enoughcompany. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,” sheadded suddenly, looking up at the tall, slimgirl with the soft rose-flush of walking on herface. “How pretty and how young! It’s so delightfulto be seventeen, isn’t it? I do envy

308 Anne of Avonleayou,” concluded Miss Lavendar candidly.“But you are only seventeen at heart,”smiled Anne.“No, I’m old—or rather middle-aged, whichis far worse,” sighed Miss Lavendar. “SometimesI can pretend I’m not, but at other timesI realize it. And I can’t reconcile myself to itas most women seem to. I’m just as rebelliousas I was when I discovered my first gray hair.Now, Anne, don’t look as if you were trying tounderstand. Seventeen can’t understand. I’mgoing to pretend right away that I am seventeentoo, and I can do it, now that you’re here.You always bring youth in your hand like agift. We’re going to have a jolly evening. Teafirst—what do you want for tea? We’ll havewhatever you like. Do think of something niceand indigestible.”There were sounds of riot and mirth in thelittle stone house that night. What with cookingand feasting and making candy and laughingand “pretending,” it is quite true thatMiss Lavendar and Anne comported themselvesin a fashion entirely unsuited to thedignity of a spinster of forty-five and a sedateschoolma’am. Then, when they were tired,they sat down on the rug before the grate inthe parlor, lighted only by the soft fireshineand perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar’sopen rose-jar on the mantel. The wind had

Miss Lavendar’s Romance 309risen and was sighing and wailing aroundthe eaves and the snow was thudding softlyagainst the windows, as if a hundred stormsprites were tapping for entrance.“I’m so glad you’re here, Anne,” said MissLavendar, nibbling at her candy. “If youweren’t I should be blue—very blue—almostnavy blue. Dreams and make-believes are allvery well in the daytime and the sunshine, butwhen dark and storm come they fail to satisfy.One wants real things then. But you don’tknow this—seventeen never knows it. At seventeendreams do satisfy because you thinkthe realities are waiting for you further on.When I was seventeen, Anne, I didn’t thinkforty-five would find me a white-haired littleold maid with nothing but dreams to fill mylife.”“But you aren’t an old maid,” said Anne,smiling into Miss Lavendar’s wistful woodbrowneyes. “Old maids are born—they don’tbecome.”“Some are born old maids, some achieveold maidenhood, and some have old maidenhoodthrust upon them,” parodied MissLavendar whimsically.“You are one of those who have achievedit then,” laughed Anne, “and you’ve done itso beautifully that if every old maid were likeyou they would come into the fashion, I think.”

310 Anne of Avonlea“I always like to do things as well as possible,”said Miss Lavendar meditatively, “andsince an old maid I had to be I was determinedto be a very nice one. People say I’m odd; butit’s just because I follow my own way of beingan old maid and refuse to copy the traditionalpattern. Anne, did anyone ever tell you anythingabout Stephen Irving and me?”“Yes,” said Anne candidly, “I’ve heard thatyou and he were engaged once.”“So we were—twenty-five years ago—alifetime ago. And we were to have beenmarried the next spring. I had my weddingdress made, although nobody but mother andStephen ever knew that. We’d been engagedin a way almost all our lives, you might say.When Stephen was a little boy his motherwould bring him here when she came to seemy mother; and the second time he evercame—he was nine and I was six—he toldme out in the garden that he had pretty wellmade up his mind to marry me when he grewup. I remember that I said ‘Thank you’; andwhen he was gone I told mother very gravelythat there was a great weight off my mind,because I wasn’t frightened any more abouthaving to be an old maid. How poor motherlaughed!”“And what went wrong?” asked Annebreathlessly.

Miss Lavendar’s Romance 311“We had just a stupid, silly, commonplacequarrel. So commonplace that, if you’ll believeme, I don’t even remember just how itbegan. I hardly know who was the more toblame for it. Stephen did really begin it, butI suppose I provoked him by some foolishnessof mine. He had a rival or two, you see. I wasvain and coquettish and liked to tease him alittle. He was a very high-strung, sensitivefellow. Well, we parted in a temper on bothsides. But I thought it would all come right;and it would have if Stephen hadn’t come backtoo soon. Anne, my dear, I’m sorry to say”—Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if shewere about to confess a predilection for murderingpeople, “that I am a dreadfully sulkyperson. Oh, you needn’t smile,—it’s only tootrue. I do sulk; and Stephen came back beforeI had finished sulking. I wouldn’t listento him and I wouldn’t forgive him; and so hewent away for good. He was too proud to comeagain. And then I sulked because he didn’tcome. I might have sent for him perhaps, butI couldn’t humble myself to do that. I wasjust as proud as he was—pride and sulkinessmake a very bad combination, Anne. But Icould never care for anybody else and I didn’twant to. I knew I would rather be an oldmaid for a thousand years than marry anybodywho wasn’t Stephen Irving. Well, it all

312 Anne of Avonleaseems like a dream now, of course. How sympatheticyou look, Anne—as sympathetic asonly seventeen can look. But don’t overdo it.I’m really a very happy, contented little personin spite of my broken heart. My heart didbreak, if ever a heart did, when I realized thatStephen Irving was not coming back. But,Anne, a broken heart in real life isn’t half asdreadful as it is in books. It’s a good deal likea bad tooth—though you won’t think that avery romantic simile. It takes spells of achingand gives you a sleepless night now and then,but between times it lets you enjoy life anddreams and echoes and peanut candy as ifthere were nothing the matter with it. Andnow you’re looking disappointed. You don’tthink I’m half as interesting a person as youdid five minutes ago when you believed I wasalways the prey of a tragic memory bravelyhidden beneath external smiles. That’s theworst—or the best—of real life, Anne. Itwon’t let you be miserable. It keeps on tryingto make you comfortable—and succeeding—even when you’re determined to be unhappyand romantic. Isn’t this candy scrumptious?I’ve eaten far more than is good for me alreadybut I’m going to keep recklessly on.”After a little silence Miss Lavendar saidabruptly,“It gave me a shock to hear about

Miss Lavendar’s Romance 313Stephen’s son that first day you were here,Anne. I’ve never been able to mention him toyou since, but I’ve wanted to know all abouthim. What sort of a boy is he?”“He is the dearest, sweetest child Iever knew, Miss Lavendar—and he pretendsthings too, just as you and I do.”“I’d like to see him,” said Miss Lavendarsoftly, as if talking to herself. “I wonder if helooks anything like the little dream-boy wholives here with me—my little dream-boy.”“If you would like to see Paul I’ll bring himthrough with me sometime,” said Anne.“I would like it—but not too soon. I wantto get used to the thought. There might bemore pain than pleasure in it—if he lookedtoo much like Stephen—or if he didn’t lookenough like him. In a month’s time you maybring him.”Accordingly, a month later Anne and Paulwalked through the woods to the stone house,and met Miss Lavendar in the lane. She hadnot been expecting them just then and sheturned very pale.“So this is Stephen’s boy,” she said in a lowtone, taking Paul’s hand and looking at himas he stood, beautiful and boyish, in his smartlittle fur coat and cap. “He—he is very like hisfather.”“Everybody says I’m a chip off the old

314 Anne of Avonleablock,” remarked Paul, quite at his ease.Anne, who had been watching the littlescene, drew a relieved breath. She saw thatMiss Lavendar and Paul had “taken” to eachother, and that there would be no constraint orstiffness. Miss Lavendar was a very sensibleperson, in spite of her dreams and romance,and after that first little betrayal she tuckedher feelings out of sight and entertained Paulas brightly and naturally as if he were anybody’sson who had come to see her. They allhad a jolly afternoon together and such a feastof fat things by way of supper as would havemade old Mrs. Irving hold up her hands inhorror, believing that Paul’s digestion wouldbe ruined for ever.“Come again, laddie,” said Miss Lavendar,shaking hands with him at parting.“You may kiss me if you like,” said Paulgravely.Miss Lavendar stooped and kissed him.“How did you know I wanted to?” she whispered.“Because you looked at me just as my littlemother used to do when she wanted to kissme. As a rule, I don’t like to be kissed. Boysdon’t. You know, Miss Lewis. But I think Irather like to have you kiss me. And of courseI’ll come to see you again. I think I’d like tohave you for a particular friend of mine, if you

Miss Lavendar’s Romance 315don’t object.”“I—I don’t think I shall object,” said MissLavendar. She turned and went in veryquickly; but a moment later she was wavinga gay and smiling good-bye to them from thewindow.“I like Miss Lavendar,” announced Paul,as they walked through the beech woods. “Ilike the way she looked at me, and I like herstone house, and I like Charlotta the Fourth.I wish Grandma Irving had a Charlotta theFourth instead of a Mary Joe. I feel sure Charlottathe Fourth wouldn’t think I was wrong inmy upper story when I told her what I thinkabout things. Wasn’t that a splendid tea wehad, teacher? Grandma says a boy shouldn’tbe thinking about what he gets to eat, but hecan’t help it sometimes when he is real hungry.You know, teacher. I don’t think MissLavendar would make a boy eat porridge forbreakfast if he didn’t like it. She’d get thingsfor him he did like. But of course”—Paul wasnothing if not fair-minded—“that mightn’t bevery good for him. It’s very nice for a changethough, teacher. You know.”

316 Anne of Avonlea

XXIV. A Prophet inHis Own CountryOne May day Avonlea folks were mildly excitedover some “Avonlea Notes,” signed “Observer,”which appeared in the CharlottetownDaily Enterprise. Gossip ascribed the authorshipthereof to Charlie Sloane, partly becausethe said Charlie had indulged in similar literaryflights in times past, and partly becauseone of the notes seemed to embody a sneer atGilbert Blythe. Avonlea juvenile society persistedin regarding Gilbert Blythe and CharlieSloane as rivals in the good graces of a certaindamsel with gray eyes and an imagination.Gossip, as usual, was wrong. GilbertBlythe, aided and abetted by Anne, had writtenthe notes, putting in the one about himselfas a blind. Only two of the notes have anybearing on this history:“Rumor has it that there will bea wedding in our village ere the317

318 Anne of Avonleadaisies are in bloom. A new andhighly respected citizen will lead tothe hymeneal altar one of our mostpopular ladies.“Uncle Abe, our well-knownweather prophet, predicts a violentstorm of thunder and lightningfor the evening of the twentythirdof May, beginning at seveno’clock sharp. The area of the stormwill extend over the greater part ofthe Province. People traveling thatevening will do well to take umbrellasand mackintoshes with them.”“Uncle Abe really has predicted a storm forsometime this spring,” said Gilbert, “but doyou suppose Mr. Harrison really does go to seeIsabella Andrews?”“No,” said Anne, laughing, “I’m sure heonly goes to play checkers with Mr. HarrisonAndrews, but Mrs. Lynde says she knows IsabellaAndrews must be going to get married,she’s in such good spirits this spring.”Poor old Uncle Abe felt rather indignantover the notes. He suspected that “Observer”was making fun of him. He angrily deniedhaving assigned any particular date for hisstorm but nobody believed him.Life in Avonlea continued on the smoothand even tenor of its way. The “planting”

A Prophet in His Own Country 319was put in; the Improvers celebrated an ArborDay. Each Improver set out, or caused tobe set out, five ornamental trees. As the societynow numbered forty members, this meanta total of two hundred young trees. Early oatsgreened over the red fields; apple orchardsflung great blossoming arms about the farmhousesand the Snow Queen adorned itselfas a bride for her husband. Anne liked tosleep with her window open and let the cherryfragrance blow over her face all night. Shethought it very poetical. Marilla thought shewas risking her life.“Thanksgiving should be celebrated in thespring,” said Anne one evening to Marilla, asthey sat on the front door steps and listened tothe silver-sweet chorus of the frogs. “I thinkit would be ever so much better than havingit in November when everything is deador asleep. Then you have to remember to bethankful; but in May one simply can’t help beingthankful—that they are alive, if for nothingelse. I feel exactly as Eve must have felt inthe garden of Eden before the trouble began.Is that grass in the hollow green or golden? Itseems to me, Marilla, that a pearl of a day likethis, when the blossoms are out and the windsdon’t know where to blow from next for sheercrazy delight must be pretty near as good asheaven.”

320 Anne of AvonleaMarilla looked scandalized and glancedapprehensively around to make sure thetwins were not within earshot. They camearound the corner of the house just then.“Ain’t it an awful nice-smelling evening?”asked Davy, sniffing delightedly as he swunga hoe in his grimy hands. He had been workingin his garden. That spring Marilla, by wayof turning Davy’s passion for reveling in mudand clay into useful channels, had given himand Dora a small plot of ground for a garden.Both had eagerly gone to work in a characteristicfashion. Dora planted, weeded, andwatered carefully, systematically, and dispassionately.As a result, her plot was alreadygreen with prim, orderly little rows of vegetablesand annuals. Davy, however, worked withmore zeal than discretion; he dug and hoedand raked and watered and transplanted soenergetically that his seeds had no chance fortheir lives.“How is your garden coming on, Davyboy?”asked Anne.“Kind of slow,” said Davy with a sigh. “Idon’t know why the things don’t grow better.Milty Boulter says I must have planted themin the dark of the moon and that’s the wholetrouble. He says you must never sow seeds orkill pork or cut your hair or do any ’portantthing in the wrong time of the moon. Is that

A Prophet in His Own Country 321true, Anne? I want to know.”“Maybe if you didn’t pull your plants up bythe roots every other day to see how they’regetting on ‘at the other end,’ they’d do better,”said Marilla sarcastically.“I only pulled six of them up,” protestedDavy. “I wanted to see if there was grubs atthe roots. Milty Boulter said if it wasn’t themoon’s fault it must be grubs. But I only foundone grub. He was a great big juicy curly grub.I put him on a stone and got another stoneand smashed him flat. He made a jolly squishI tell you. I was sorry there wasn’t more ofthem. Dora’s garden was planted same time’smine and her things are growing all right. Itcan’t be the moon,” Davy concluded in a reflectivetone.“Marilla, look at that apple tree,” saidAnne.” Why, the thing is human. It is reachingout long arms to pick its own pink skirtsdaintily up and provoke us to admiration.”“Those Yellow Duchess trees always bearwell,” said Marilla complacently. “That tree’llbe loaded this year. I’m real glad—they’regreat for pies.”But neither Marilla nor Anne nor anybodyelse was fated to make pies out of YellowDuchess apples that year.The twenty-third of May came—an unseasonablywarm day, as none realized more

322 Anne of Avonleakeenly than Anne and her little beehive ofpupils, sweltering over fractions and syntax inthe Avonlea schoolroom. A hot breeze blew allthe forenoon; but after noon hour it died awayinto a heavy stillness. At half past three Anneheard a low rumble of thunder. She promptlydismissed school at once, so that the childrenmight get home before the storm came.As they went out to the playground Anneperceived a certain shadow and gloom overthe world in spite of the fact that the sun wasstill shining brightly. Annetta Bell caught herhand nervously.“Oh, teacher, look at that awful cloud!”Anne looked and gave an exclamation ofdismay. In the northwest a mass of cloud,such as she had never in all her life beheldbefore, was rapidly rolling up. It was deadblack, save where its curled and fringed edgesshowed a ghastly, livid white. There wassomething about it indescribably menacing asit gloomed up in the clear blue sky; now andagain a bolt of lightning shot across it, followedby a savage growl. It hung so low thatit almost seemed to be touching the tops of thewooded hills.Mr. Harmon Andrews came clattering upthe hill in his truck wagon, urging his team ofgrays to their utmost speed. He pulled themto a halt opposite the school.

A Prophet in His Own Country 323“Guess Uncle Abe’s hit it for once in hislife, Anne,” he shouted. “His storm’s cominga leetle ahead of time. Did ye ever see thelike of that cloud? Here, all you young ones,that are going my way, pile in, and those thatain’t scoot for the post office if ye’ve more’n aquarter of a mile to go, and stay there till theshower’s over.”Anne caught Davy and Dora by the handsand flew down the hill, along the Birch Path,and past Violet Vale and Willowmere, as fastas the twins’ fat legs could go. They reachedGreen Gables not a moment too soon and werejoined at the door by Marilla, who had beenhustling her ducks and chickens under shelter.As they dashed into the kitchen the lightseemed to vanish, as if blown out by somemighty breath; the awful cloud rolled over thesun and a darkness as of late twilight fellacross the world. At the same moment, with acrash of thunder and a blinding glare of lightning,the hail swooped down and blotted thelandscape out in one white fury.Through all the clamor of the storm camethe thud of torn branches striking the houseand the sharp crack of breaking glass. Inthree minutes every pane in the west andnorth windows was broken and the hailpoured in through the apertures covering thefloor with stones, the smallest of which was

324 Anne of Avonleaas big as a hen’s egg. For three quarters ofan hour the storm raged unabated and no onewho underwent it ever forgot it. Marilla, foronce in her life shaken out of her composureby sheer terror, knelt by her rocking chair ina corner of the kitchen, gasping and sobbingbetween the deafening thunder peals. Anne,white as paper, had dragged the sofa awayfrom the window and sat on it with a twinon either side. Davy at the first crash hadhowled, “Anne, Anne, is it the Judgment Day?Anne, Anne, I never meant to be naughty,”and then had buried his face in Anne’s lap andkept it there, his little body quivering. Dora,somewhat pale but quite composed, sat withher hand clasped in Anne’s, quiet and motionless.It is doubtful if an earthquake wouldhave disturbed Dora.Then, almost as suddenly as it began, thestorm ceased. The hail stopped, the thunderrolled and muttered away to the eastward,and the sun burst out merry and radiant overa world so changed that it seemed an absurdthing to think that a scant three quarters ofan hour could have effected such a transformation.Marilla rose from her knees, weak andtrembling, and dropped on her rocker. Herface was haggard and she looked ten yearsolder.

A Prophet in His Own Country 325“Have we all come out of that alive?” sheasked solemnly.“You bet we have,” piped Davy cheerfully,quite his own man again. “I wasn’t a bitscared either—only just at the first. It comeon a fellow so sudden. I made up my mindquick as a wink that I wouldn’t fight TeddySloane Monday as I’d promised; but nowmaybe I will. Say, Dora, was you scared?”“Yes, I was a little scared,” said Doraprimly, “but I held tight to Anne’s hand andsaid my prayers over and over again.”“Well, I’d have said my prayers too if I’dhave thought of it,” said Davy; “but,” he addedtriumphantly, “you see I came through just assafe as you for all I didn’t say them.”Anne got Marilla a glassful of her potentcurrant wine—how potent it was Anne, in herearlier days, had had all too good reason toknow—and then they went to the door to lookout on the strange scene.Far and wide was a white carpet, kneedeep, of hailstones; drifts of them were heapedup under the eaves and on the steps. When,three or four days later, those hailstonesmelted, the havoc they had wrought wasplainly seen, for every green growing thingin the field or garden was cut off. Not onlywas every blossom stripped from the appletrees but great boughs and branches were

326 Anne of Avonleawrenched away. And out of the two hundredtrees set out by the Improvers by far thegreater number were snapped off or torn toshreds.“Can it possibly be the same world it wasan hour ago?” asked Anne, dazedly. “It musthave taken longer than that to play suchhavoc.”“The like of this has never been known inPrince Edward Island,” said Marilla, “never. Iremember when I was a girl there was a badstorm, but it was nothing to this. We’ll hear ofterrible destruction, you may be sure.”“I do hope none of the children were caughtout in it,” murmured Anne anxiously. As itwas discovered later, none of the children hadbeen, since all those who had any distance togo had taken Mr. Andrews’ excellent adviceand sought refuge at the post office.“There comes John Henry Carter,” saidMarilla.John Henry came wading through the hailstoneswith a rather scared grin.“Oh, ain’t this awful, Miss Cuthbert? Mr.Harrison sent me over to see if yous had comeout all right.”“We’re none of us killed,” said Marillagrimly, “and none of the buildings was struck.I hope you got off equally well.”“Yas’m. Not quite so well, ma’am. We

A Prophet in His Own Country 327was struck. The lightning knocked over thekitchen chimbly and come down the flue andknocked over Ginger’s cage and tore a hole inthe floor and went into the sullar. Yas’m.”“Was Ginger hurt?” queried Anne.“Yas’m. He was hurt pretty bad. He waskilled.” Later on Anne went over to comfortMr. Harrison. She found him sitting by thetable, stroking Ginger’s gay dead body with atrembling hand.“Poor Ginger won’t call you any morenames, Anne,” he said mournfully.Anne could never have imagined herselfcrying on Ginger’s account, but the tears cameinto her eyes.“He was all the company I had, Anne—andnow he’s dead. Well, well, I’m an old fool tocare so much. I’ll let on I don’t care. I knowyou’re going to say something sympathetic assoon as I stop talking—but don’t. If you didI’d cry like a baby. Hasn’t this been a terriblestorm? I guess folks won’t laugh at UncleAbe’s predictions again. Seems as if all thestorms that he’s been prophesying all his lifethat never happened came all at once. Beatsall how he struck the very day though, don’tit? Look at the mess we have here. I musthustle round and get some boards to patch upthat hole in the floor.”Avonlea folks did nothing the next day but

328 Anne of Avonleavisit each other and compare damages. Theroads were impassable for wheels by reasonof the hailstones, so they walked or rode onhorseback. The mail came late with ill tidingsfrom all over the province. Houses had beenstruck, people killed and injured; the wholetelephone and telegraph system had been disorganized,and any number of young stock exposedin the fields had perished.Uncle Abe waded out to the blacksmith’sforge early in the morning and spent thewhole day there. It was Uncle Abe’s hour oftriumph and he enjoyed it to the full. It wouldbe doing Uncle Abe an injustice to say that hewas glad the storm had happened; but since ithad to be he was very glad he had predictedit—to the very day, too. Uncle Abe forgot thathe had ever denied setting the day. As forthe trifling discrepancy in the hour, that wasnothing.Gilbert arrived at Green Gables in theevening and found Marilla and Anne busilyengaged in nailing strips of oilcloth over thebroken windows.“Goodness only knows when we’ll get glassfor them,” said Marilla. “Mr. Barry went overto Carmody this afternoon but not a panecould he get for love or money. Lawson andBlair were cleaned out by the Carmody peopleby ten o’clock. Was the storm bad at White

A Prophet in His Own Country 329Sands, Gilbert?”“I should say so. I was caught in the schoolwith all the children and I thought some ofthem would go mad with fright. Three ofthem fainted, and two girls took hysterics,and Tommy Blewett did nothing but shriek atthe top of his voice the whole time.”“I only squealed once,” said Davy proudly.“My garden was all smashed flat,” he continuedmournfully, “but so was Dora’s,” he addedin a tone which indicated that there was yetbalm in Gilead.Anne came running down from the westgable.“Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news?Mr. Levi Boulter’s old house was struck andburned to the ground. It seems to me that I’mdreadfully wicked to feel glad over that, whenso much damage has been done. Mr. Boultersays he believes the A.V.I.S. magicked up thatstorm on purpose.”“Well, one thing is certain,” said Gilbert,laughing, “‘Observer’ has made Uncle Abe’sreputation as a weather prophet. ‘Uncle Abe’sstorm’ will go down in local history. It is amost extraordinary coincidence that it shouldhave come on the very day we selected. I actuallyhave a half guilty feeling, as if I really had‘magicked’ it up. We may as well rejoice overthe old house being removed, for there’s not

330 Anne of Avonleamuch to rejoice over where our young treesare concerned. Not ten of them have escaped.”“Ah, well, we’ll just have to plant them overagain next spring,” said Anne philosophically.“That is one good thing about this world—there are always sure to be more springs.”

XXV. An AvonleaScandalOne blithe June morning, a fortnight afterUncle Abe’s storm, Anne came slowly throughthe Green Gables yard from the garden, carryingin her hands two blighted stalks of whitenarcissus.“Look, Marilla,” she said sorrily, holdingup the flowers before the eyes of a grim lady,with her hair coifed in a green gingham apron,who was going into the house with a pluckedchicken, “these are the only buds the stormspared—and even they are imperfect. I’m sosorry—I wanted some for Matthew’s grave.He was always so fond of June lilies.”“I kind of miss them myself,” admittedMarilla, “though it doesn’t seem right tolament over them when so many worse thingshave happened—all the crops destroyed aswell as the fruit.”“But people have sown their oats over331

332 Anne of Avonleaagain,” said Anne comfortingly, “and Mr. Harrisonsays he thinks if we have a good summerthey will come out all right though late. Andmy annuals are all coming up again—but oh,nothing can replace the June lilies. Poor littleHester Gray will have none either. I wentall the way back to her garden last night butthere wasn’t one. I’m sure she’ll miss them.”“I don’t think it’s right for you to say suchthings, Anne, I really don’t,” said Marillaseverely. “Hester Gray has been dead forthirty years and her spirit is in heaven—Ihope.”“Yes, but I believe she loves and remembersher garden here still,” said Anne. “I’msure no matter how long I’d lived in heaven I’dlike to look down and see somebody puttingflowers on my grave. If I had had a gardenhere like Hester Gray’s it would take me morethan thirty years, even in heaven, to forget beinghomesick for it by spells.”“Well, don’t let the twins hear you talkinglike that,” was Marilla’s feeble protest, as shecarried her chicken into the house.Anne pinned her narcissi on her hair andwent to the lane gate, where she stood forawhile sunning herself in the June brightnessbefore going in to attend to her Saturdaymorning duties. The world was growing lovelyagain; old Mother Nature was doing her best

An Avonlea Scandal 333to remove the traces of the storm, and, thoughshe was not to succeed fully for many a moon,she was really accomplishing wonders.“I wish I could just be idle all day today,”Anne told a bluebird, who was singingand swinging on a willow bough, “but aschoolma’am, who is also helping to bring uptwins, can’t indulge in laziness, birdie. Howsweet you are singing, little bird. You are justputting the feelings of my heart into song everso much better than I could myself. Why, whois coming?”An express wagon was jolting up the lane,with two people on the front seat and a bigtrunk behind. When it drew near Anne recognizedthe driver as the son of the stationagent at Bright River; but his companionwas a stranger—a scrap of a woman whosprang nimbly down at the gate almost beforethe horse came to a standstill. Shewas a very pretty little person, evidentlynearer fifty than forty, but with rosy cheeks,sparkling black eyes, and shining black hair,surmounted by a wonderful beflowered andbeplumed bonnet. In spite of having driveneight miles over a dusty road she was as neatas if she had just stepped out of the proverbialbandbox.“Is this where Mr. James A. Harrisonlives?” she inquired briskly.

334 Anne of Avonlea“No, Mr. Harrison lives over there,” saidAnne, quite lost in astonishment.“Well, I did think this place seemed tootidy—much too tidy for James A. to be livinghere, unless he has greatly changed since Iknew him,” chirped the little lady. “Is it truethat James A. is going to be married to somewoman living in this settlement?”“No, oh no,” cried Anne, flushing so guiltilythat the stranger looked curiously at her, as ifshe half suspected her of matrimonial designson Mr. Harrison.“But I saw it in an Island paper,” persistedthe Fair Unknown. “A friend sent a markedcopy to me—friends are always so ready to dosuch things. James A.’s name was written inover ‘new citizen.”’“Oh, that note was only meant as a joke,”gasped Anne. “Mr. Harrison has no intentionof marrying anybody. I assure you he hasn’t.”“I’m very glad to hear it,” said the rosylady, climbing nimbly back to her seat in thewagon, “because he happens to be marriedalready. I am his wife. Oh, you may welllook surprised. I suppose he has been masqueradingas a bachelor and breaking heartsright and left. Well, well, James A.,” noddingvigorously over the fields at the long whitehouse, “your fun is over. I am here—thoughI wouldn’t have bothered coming if I hadn’t

An Avonlea Scandal 335thought you were up to some mischief. I suppose,”turning to Anne, “that parrot of his isas profane as ever?”“His parrot—is dead—I think,” gaspedpoor Anne, who couldn’t have felt sure of herown name at that precise moment.“Dead! Everything will be all right then,”cried the rosy lady jubilantly. “I can manageJames A. if that bird is out of the way.”With which cryptic utterance she went joyfullyon her way and Anne flew to the kitchendoor to meet Marilla.“Anne, who was that woman?”“Marilla,” said Anne solemnly, but withdancing eyes, “do I look as if I were crazy?”“Not more so than usual,” said Marilla,with no thought of being sarcastic.“Well then, do you think I am awake?”“Anne, what nonsense has got into you?Who was that woman, I say?”“Marilla, if I’m not crazy and not asleepshe can’t be such stuff as dreams are madeof—she must be real. Anyway, I’m sure Icouldn’t have imagined such a bonnet. Shesays she is Mr. Harrison’s wife, Marilla.”Marilla stared in her turn.“His wife! Anne Shirley! Then what hashe been passing himself off as an unmarriedman for?”“I don’t suppose he did, really,” said Anne,

336 Anne of Avonleatrying to be just. “He never said he wasn’tmarried. People simply took it for granted. OhMarilla, what will Mrs. Lynde say to this?”They found out what Mrs. Lynde had tosay when she came up that evening. Mrs.Lynde wasn’t surprised! Mrs. Lynde had alwaysexpected something of the sort! Mrs.Lynde had always known there was somethingabout Mr. Harrison!“To think of his deserting his wife!” shesaid indignantly. “It’s like something you’dread of in the States, but who would expectsuch a thing to happen right here in Avonlea?”“But we don’t know that he deserted her,”protested Anne, determined to believe herfriend innocent till he was proved guilty. “Wedon’t know the rights of it at all.”“Well, we soon will. I’m going straightover there,” said Mrs. Lynde, who had neverlearned that there was such a word as delicacyin the dictionary. “I’m not supposed to knowanything about her arrival, and Mr. Harrisonwas to bring some medicine for Thomas fromCarmody today, so that will be a good excuse.I’ll find out the whole story and come in andtell you on the way back.”Mrs. Lynde rushed in where Anne hadfeared to tread. Nothing would have inducedthe latter to go over to the Harrison place;but she had her natural and proper share of

An Avonlea Scandal 337curiosity and she felt secretly glad that Mrs.Lynde was going to solve the mystery. Sheand Marilla waited expectantly for that goodlady’s return, but waited in vain. Mrs. Lyndedid not revisit Green Gables that night. Davy,arriving home at nine o’clock from the Boulterplace, explained why.“I met Mrs. Lynde and some strangewoman in the Hollow,” he said, “and gracious,how they were talking both at once! Mrs.Lynde said to tell you she was sorry it was toolate to call tonight. Anne, I’m awful hungry.We had tea at Milty’s at four and I think Mrs.Boulter is real mean. She didn’t give us anypreserves or cake—and even the bread wasskurce.”“Davy, when you go visiting you mustnever criticize anything you are given to eat,”said Anne solemnly. “It is very bad manners.”“All right—I’ll only think it,” said Davycheerfully. “Do give a fellow some supper,Anne.”Anne looked at Marilla, who followed herinto the pantry and shut the door cautiously.“You can give him some jam on his bread, Iknow what tea at Levi Boulter’s is apt to be.”Davy took his slice of bread and jam witha sigh.“It’s a kind of disappointing world afterall,” he remarked. “Milty has a cat that takes

338 Anne of Avonleafits—she’s took a fit regular every day forthree weeks. Milty says it’s awful fun to watchher. I went down today on purpose to see herhave one but the mean old thing wouldn’t takea fit and just kept healthy as healthy, thoughMilty and me hung round all the afternoonand waited. But never mind”—Davy brightenedup as the insidious comfort of the plumjam stole into his soul—“maybe I’ll see her inone sometime yet. It doesn’t seem likely she’dstop having them all at once when she’s beenso in the habit of it, does it? This jam is awfulnice.”Davy had no sorrows that plum jam couldnot cure.Sunday proved so rainy that there was nostirring abroad; but by Monday everybody hadheard some version of the Harrison story. Theschool buzzed with it and Davy came home,full of information.“Marilla, Mr. Harrison has a new wife—well, not ezackly new, but they’ve stopped beingmarried for quite a spell, Milty says. Ialways s’posed people had to keep on beingmarried once they’d begun, but Milty says no,there’s ways of stopping if you can’t agree.Milty says one way is just to start off andleave your wife, and that’s what Mr. Harrisondid. Milty says Mr. Harrison left hiswife because she throwed things at him—

An Avonlea Scandal 339hard things—and Arty Sloane says it was becauseshe wouldn’t let him smoke, and NedClay says it was ’cause she never let up scoldinghim. I wouldn’t leave my wife for anythinglike that. I’d just put my foot down and say,‘Mrs. Davy, you’ve just got to do what’ll pleaseme ’cause I’m a man.’ That’d settle her prettyquick I guess. But Annetta Clay says she lefthim because he wouldn’t scrape his boots atthe door and she doesn’t blame her. I’m goingright over to Mr. Harrison’s this minute to seewhat she’s like.”Davy soon returned, somewhat cast down.“Mrs. Harrison was away—she’s gone toCarmody with Mrs. Rachel Lynde to get newpaper for the parlor. And Mr. Harrison saidto tell Anne to go over and see him ’cause hewants to have a talk with her. And say, thefloor is scrubbed, and Mr. Harrison is shaved,though there wasn’t any preaching yesterday.”The Harrison kitchen wore a very unfamiliarlook to Anne. The floor was indeedscrubbed to a wonderful pitch of purity andso was every article of furniture in the room;the stove was polished until she could see herface in it; the walls were whitewashed andthe window panes sparkled in the sunlight.By the table sat Mr. Harrison in his workingclothes, which on Friday had been noted forsundry rents and tatters but which were now

340 Anne of Avonleaneatly patched and brushed. He was sprucelyshaved and what little hair he had was carefullytrimmed.“Sit down, Anne, sit down,” said Mr. Harrisonin a tone but two degrees removed fromthat which Avonlea people used at funerals.“Emily’s gone over to Carmody with RachelLynde—she’s struck up a lifelong friendshipalready with Rachel Lynde. Beats all how contrarywomen are. Well, Anne, my easy timesare over—all over. It’s neatness and tidinessfor me for the rest of my natural life, I suppose.”Mr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully,but an irrepressible twinkle in his eyebetrayed him.“Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife iscome back,” cried Anne, shaking her finger athim. “You needn’t pretend you’re not, becauseI can see it plainly.”Mr. Harrison relaxed into a sheepish smile.“Well—well—I’m getting used to it,” heconceded. “I can’t say I was sorry to see Emily.A man really needs some protection in a communitylike this, where he can’t play a gameof checkers with a neighbor without being accusedof wanting to marry that neighbor’s sisterand having it put in the paper.”“Nobody would have supposed you went tosee Isabella Andrews if you hadn’t pretended

An Avonlea Scandal 341to be unmarried,” said Anne severely.“I didn’t pretend I was. If anybody’d haveasked me if I was married I’d have said I was.But they just took it for granted. I wasn’t anxiousto talk about the matter—I was feelingtoo sore over it. It would have been nuts forMrs. Rachel Lynde if she had known my wifehad left me, wouldn’t it now?”“But some people say that you left her.”“She started it, Anne, she started it.I’m going to tell you the whole story, for Idon’t want you to think worse of me than Ideserve—nor of Emily neither. But let’s go outon the veranda. Everything is so fearful neatin here that it kind of makes me homesick. Isuppose I’ll get used to it after awhile but iteases me up to look at the yard. Emily hasn’thad time to tidy it up yet.”As soon as they were comfortably seatedon the veranda Mr. Harrison began his tale ofwoe.“I lived in Scottsford, New Brunswick, beforeI came here, Anne. My sister kept housefor me and she suited me fine; she was justreasonably tidy and she let me alone andspoiled me—so Emily says. But three yearsago she died. Before she died she worried alot about what was to become of me and finallyshe got me to promise I’d get married.She advised me to take Emily Scott because

342 Anne of AvonleaEmily had money of her own and was a patternhousekeeper. I said, says I, ‘Emily Scottwouldn’t look at me.’ ‘You ask her and see,’says my sister; and just to ease her mind Ipromised her I would—and I did. And Emilysaid she’d have me. Never was so surprisedin my life, Anne—a smart pretty little womanlike her and an old fellow like me. I tell youI thought at first I was in luck. Well, wewere married and took a little wedding tripto St. John for a fortnight and then we wenthome. We got home at ten o’clock at night,and I give you my word, Anne, that in half anhour that woman was at work housecleaning.Oh, I know you’re thinking my house neededit—you’ve got a very expressive face, Anne;your thoughts just come out on it like print—but it didn’t, not that bad. It had got prettymixed up while I was keeping bachelor’s hall,I admit, but I’d got a woman to come in andclean it up before I was married and there’dbeen considerable painting and fixing done. Itell you if you took Emily into a brand newwhite marble palace she’d be into the scrubbingas soon as she could get an old dress on.Well, she cleaned house till one o’clock thatnight and at four she was up and at it again.And she kept on that way—far’s I could seeshe never stopped. It was scour and sweepand dust everlasting, except on Sundays, and

An Avonlea Scandal 343then she was just longing for Monday to beginagain. But it was her way of amusing herselfand I could have reconciled myself to itif she’d left me alone. But that she wouldn’tdo. She’d set out to make me over but shehadn’t caught me young enough. I wasn’t allowedto come into the house unless I changedmy boots for slippers at the door. I darsn’tsmoke a pipe for my life unless I went to thebarn. And I didn’t use good enough grammar.Emily’d been a schoolteacher in her early lifeand she’d never got over it. Then she hatedto see me eating with my knife. Well, there itwas, pick and nag everlasting. But I s’pose,Anne, to be fair, I was cantankerous too. Ididn’t try to improve as I might have done—I just got cranky and disagreeable when shefound fault. I told her one day she hadn’tcomplained of my grammar when I proposedto her. It wasn’t an overly tactful thing tosay. A woman would forgive a man for beatingher sooner than for hinting she was toomuch pleased to get him. Well, we bickeredalong like that and it wasn’t exactly pleasant,but we might have got used to each other aftera spell if it hadn’t been for Ginger. Gingerwas the rock we split on at last. Emilydidn’t like parrots and she couldn’t stand Ginger’sprofane habits of speech. I was attachedto the bird for my brother the sailor’s sake.

344 Anne of AvonleaMy brother the sailor was a pet of mine whenwe were little tads and he’d sent Ginger to mewhen he was dying. I didn’t see any sense ingetting worked up over his swearing. There’snothing I hate worse’n profanity in a humanbeing, but in a parrot, that’s just repeatingwhat it’s heard with no more understanding ofit than I’d have of Chinese, allowances mightbe made. But Emily couldn’t see it that way.Women ain’t logical. She tried to break Gingerof swearing but she hadn’t any better successthan she had in trying to make me stop saying‘I seen’ and ‘them things.’ Seemed as if themore she tried the worse Ginger got, same asme.“Well, things went on like this, both of usgetting raspier, till the climax came. Emilyinvited our minister and his wife to tea, andanother minister and his wife that was visitingthem. I’d promised to put Ginger awayin some safe place where nobody would hearhim—Emily wouldn’t touch his cage with aten-foot pole—and I meant to do it, for Ididn’t want the ministers to hear anythingunpleasant in my house. But it slipped mymind—Emily was worrying me so much aboutclean collars and grammar that it wasn’t anywonder—and I never thought of that poor parrottill we sat down to tea. Just as ministernumber one was in the very middle of say-

An Avonlea Scandal 345ing grace, Ginger, who was on the verandaoutside the dining room window, lifted up hisvoice. The gobbler had come into view in theyard and the sight of a gobbler always had anunwholesome effect on Ginger. He surpassedhimself that time. You can smile, Anne, andI don’t deny I’ve chuckled some over it sincemyself, but at the time I felt almost as muchmortified as Emily. I went out and carriedGinger to the barn. I can’t say I enjoyed themeal. I knew by the look of Emily that therewas trouble brewing for Ginger and James A.When the folks went away I started for thecow pasture and on the way I did some thinking.I felt sorry for Emily and kind of fanciedI hadn’t been so thoughtful of her as Imight; and besides, I wondered if the ministerswould think that Ginger had learned hisvocabulary from me. The long and short ofit was, I decided that Ginger would have tobe mercifully disposed of and when I’d druvthe cows home I went in to tell Emily so. Butthere was no Emily and there was a letter onthe table—just according to the rule in storybooks. Emily writ that I’d have to choose betweenher and Ginger; she’d gone back to herown house and there she would stay till I wentand told her I’d got rid of that parrot.“I was all riled up, Anne, and I said shemight stay till doomsday if she waited for

346 Anne of Avonleathat; and I stuck to it. I packed up her belongingsand sent them after her. It made anawful lot of talk—Scottsford was pretty nearas bad as Avonlea for gossip—and everybodysympathized with Emily. It kept me all crossand cantankerous and I saw I’d have to getout or I’d never have any peace. I concludedI’d come to the Island. I’d been here when Iwas a boy and I liked it; but Emily had alwayssaid she wouldn’t live in a place wherefolks were scared to walk out after dark forfear they’d fall off the edge. So, just to be contrary,I moved over here. And that’s all thereis to it. I hadn’t ever heard a word from orabout Emily till I come home from the backfield Saturday and found her scrubbing thefloor but with the first decent dinner I’d hadsince she left me all ready on the table. Shetold me to eat it first and then we’d talk—by which I concluded that Emily had learnedsome lessons about getting along with a man.So she’s here and she’s going to stay—seeingthat Ginger’s dead and the Island’s some biggerthan she thought. There’s Mrs. Lynde andher now. No, don’t go, Anne. Stay and getacquainted with Emily. She took quite a notionto you Saturday—wanted to know whothat handsome redhaired girl was at the nexthouse.”Mrs. Harrison welcomed Anne radiantly

An Avonlea Scandal 347and insisted on her staying to tea.“James A. has been telling me all aboutyou and how kind you’ve been, making cakesand things for him,” she said. “I want to getacquainted with all my new neighbors justas soon as possible. Mrs. Lynde is a lovelywoman, isn’t she? So friendly.”When Anne went home in the sweet Junedusk, Mrs. Harrison went with her across thefields where the fireflies were lighting theirstarry lamps.“I suppose,” said Mrs. Harrison confidentially,“that James A. has told you our story?”“Yes.”“Then I needn’t tell it, for James A. is a justman and he would tell the truth. The blamewas far from being all on his side. I can seethat now. I wasn’t back in my own house anhour before I wished I hadn’t been so hastybut I wouldn’t give in. I see now that I expectedtoo much of a man. And I was real foolishto mind his bad grammar. It doesn’t matterif a man does use bad grammar so longas he is a good provider and doesn’t go pokinground the pantry to see how much sugaryou’ve used in a week. I feel that James A.and I are going to be real happy now. I wish Iknew who ‘Observer’ is, so that I could thankhim. I owe him a real debt of gratitude.”Anne kept her own counsel and Mrs. Har-

348 Anne of Avonlearison never knew that her gratitude found itsway to its object. Anne felt rather bewilderedover the far-reaching consequences of thosefoolish “notes.” They had reconciled a man tohis wife and made the reputation of a prophet.Mrs. Lynde was in the Green Gableskitchen. She had been telling the whole storyto Marilla.“Well, and how do you like Mrs. Harrison?”she asked Anne.“Very much. I think she’s a real nice littlewoman.”“That’s exactly what she is,” said Mrs.Rachel with emphasis, “and as I’ve just beensayin’ to Marilla, I think we ought all to overlookMr. Harrison’s peculiarities for her sakeand try to make her feel at home here, that’swhat. Well, I must get back. Thomas’ll bewearying for me. I get out a little since Elizacame and he’s seemed a lot better these pastfew days, but I never like to be long away fromhim. I hear Gilbert Blythe has resigned fromWhite Sands. He’ll be off to college in the fall,I suppose.”Mrs. Rachel looked sharply at Anne, butAnne was bending over a sleepy Davy noddingon the sofa and nothing was to be read in herface. She carried Davy away, her oval girlishcheek pressed against his curly yellow head.As they went up the stairs Davy flung a tired

An Avonlea Scandal 349arm about Anne’s neck and gave her a warmhug and a sticky kiss.“You’re awful nice, Anne. Milty Boulterwrote on his slate today and showed it to JennieSloane,“‘Roses red and vi’lets blue,Sugar’s sweet, and so are you’and that ’spresses my feelings for you ezackly,Anne.”

350 Anne of Avonlea

XXVI. Around theBendThomas Lynde faded out of life as quietlyand unobtrusively as he had lived it. Hiswife was a tender, patient, unwearied nurse.Sometimes Rachel had been a little hard onher Thomas in health, when his slowness ormeekness had provoked her; but when he becameill no voice could be lower, no hand moregently skillful, no vigil more uncomplaining.“You’ve been a good wife to me, Rachel,” heonce said simply, when she was sitting by himin the dusk, holding his thin, blanched oldhand in her work-hardened one. “A good wife.I’m sorry I ain’t leaving you better off; but thechildren will look after you. They’re all smart,capable children, just like their mother. Agood mother—a good woman—.”He had fallen asleep then, and the nextmorning, just as the white dawn was creepingup over the pointed firs in the hollow, Marilla351

352 Anne of Avonleawent softly into the east gable and wakenedAnne.“Anne, Thomas Lynde is gone—their hiredboy just brought the word. I’m going rightdown to Rachel.”On the day after Thomas Lynde’s funeralMarilla went about Green Gables with astrangely preoccupied air. Occasionally shelooked at Anne, seemed on the point of sayingsomething, then shook her head and buttonedup her mouth. After tea she went down to seeMrs. Rachel; and when she returned she wentto the east gable, where Anne was correctingschool exercises.“How is Mrs. Lynde tonight?” asked thelatter.“She’s feeling calmer and more composed,”answered Marilla, sitting down on Anne’sbed—a proceeding which betokened some unusualmental excitement, for in Marilla’s codeof household ethics to sit on a bed after it wasmade up was an unpardonable offense. “Butshe’s very lonely. Eliza had to go home today—her son isn’t well and she felt she couldn’t stayany longer.”“When I’ve finished these exercises I’ll rundown and chat awhile with Mrs. Lynde,” saidAnne. “I had intended to study some Latincomposition tonight but it can wait.”“I suppose Gilbert Blythe is going to col-

Around the Bend 353lege in the fall,” said Marilla jerkily. “Howwould you like to go too, Anne?”Anne looked up in astonishment.“I would like it, of course, Marilla. But itisn’t possible.”“I guess it can be made possible. I’ve alwaysfelt that you should go. I’ve never felteasy to think you were giving it all up on myaccount.”“But Marilla, I’ve never been sorry for amoment that I stayed home. I’ve been sohappy— Oh, these past two years have justbeen delightful.”“Oh, yes, I know you’ve been contentedenough. But that isn’t the question exactly.You ought to go on with your education.You’ve saved enough to put you throughone year at Redmond and the money thestock brought in will do for another year—and there’s scholarships and things you mightwin.”“Yes, but I can’t go, Marilla. Your eyes arebetter, of course; but I can’t leave you alonewith the twins. They need so much lookingafter.”“I won’t be alone with them. That’s whatI meant to discuss with you. I had a longtalk with Rachel tonight. Anne, she’s feelingdreadful bad over a good many things. She’snot left very well off. It seems they mortgaged

354 Anne of Avonleathe farm eight years ago to give the youngestboy a start when he went west; and they’venever been able to pay much more than theinterest since. And then of course Thomas’illness has cost a good deal, one way or another.The farm will have to be sold andRachel thinks there’ll be hardly anything leftafter the bills are settled. She says she’ll haveto go and live with Eliza and it’s breaking herheart to think of leaving Avonlea. A womanof her age doesn’t make new friends and interestseasy. And, Anne, as she talked aboutit the thought came to me that I would askher to come and live with me, but I thoughtI ought to talk it over with you first before Isaid anything to her. If I had Rachel livingwith me you could go to college. How do youfeel about it?”“I feel . . . as if . . . somebody . . . hadhanded me . . . the moon . . . and I didn’t know. . . exactly . . . what to do . . . with it,” saidAnne dazedly. “But as for asking Mrs. Lyndeto come here, that is for you to decide, Marilla.Do you think—are you sure—you wouldlike it? Mrs. Lynde is a good woman and akind neighbor, but—but—”“But she’s got her faults, you mean to say?Well, she has, of course; but I think I’d ratherput up with far worse faults than see Rachelgo away from Avonlea. I’d miss her terrible.

Around the Bend 355She’s the only close friend I’ve got here andI’d be lost without her. We’ve been neighborsfor forty-five years and we’ve never had aquarrel—though we came rather near it thattime you flew at Mrs. Rachel for calling youhomely and redhaired. Do you remember,Anne?”“I should think I do,” said Anne ruefully.“People don’t forget things like that. How Ihated poor Mrs. Rachel at that moment!”“And then that ‘apology’ you made her.Well, you were a handful, in all conscience,Anne. I did feel so puzzled and bewilderedhow to manage you. Matthew understood youbetter.”“Matthew understood everything,” saidAnne softly, as she always spoke of him.“Well, I think it could be managed so thatRachel and I wouldn’t clash at all. It alwaysseemed to me that the reason two women can’tget along in one house is that they try to sharethe same kitchen and get in each other’s way.Now, if Rachel came here, she could have thenorth gable for her bedroom and the spareroom for a kitchen as well as not, for we don’treally need a spare room at all. She couldput her stove there and what furniture shewanted to keep, and be real comfortable andindependent. She’ll have enough to live on ofcourse—her children’ll see to that—so all I’d

356 Anne of Avonleabe giving her would be house room. Yes, Anne,far as I’m concerned I’d like it.”“Then ask her,” said Anne promptly. “I’d bevery sorry myself to see Mrs. Rachel go away.”“And if she comes,” continued Marilla, “Youcan go to college as well as not. She’ll be companyfor me and she’ll do for the twins what Ican’t do, so there’s no reason in the world whyyou shouldn’t go.”Anne had a long meditation at her windowthat night. Joy and regret struggled togetherin her heart. She had come at last—suddenlyand unexpectedly—to the bend in the road;and college was around it, with a hundredrainbow hopes and visions; but Anne realizedas well that when she rounded that curve shemust leave many sweet things behind—all thelittle simple duties and interests which hadgrown so dear to her in the last two yearsand which she had glorified into beauty anddelight by the enthusiasm she had put intothem. She must give up her school—andshe loved every one of her pupils, even thestupid and naughty ones. The mere thoughtof Paul Irving made her wonder if Redmondwere such a name to conjure with after all.“I’ve put out a lot of little roots these twoyears,” Anne told the moon, “and when I’mpulled up they’re going to hurt a great deal.But it’s best to go, I think, and, as Marilla

Around the Bend 357says, there’s no good reason why I shouldn’t. Imust get out all my ambitions and dust them.”Anne sent in her resignation the next day;and Mrs. Rachel, after a heart to heart talkwith Marilla, gratefully accepted the offer of ahome at Green Gables. She elected to remainin her own house for the summer, however;the farm was not to be sold until the fall andthere were many arrangements to be made.“I certainly never thought of living as faroff the road as Green Gables,” sighed Mrs.Rachel to herself. “But really, Green Gablesdoesn’t seem as out of the world as it used todo—Anne has lots of company and the twinsmake it real lively. And anyhow, I’d rather liveat the bottom of a well than leave Avonlea.”These two decisions being noised abroadspeedily ousted the arrival of Mrs. Harrison inpopular gossip. Sage heads were shaken overMarilla Cuthbert’s rash step in asking Mrs.Rachel to live with her. People opined thatthey wouldn’t get on together. They were both“too fond of their own way,” and many dolefulpredictions were made, none of which disturbedthe parties in question at all. They hadcome to a clear and distinct understanding ofthe respective duties and rights of their newarrangements and meant to abide by them.“I won’t meddle with you nor you with me,”Mrs. Rachel had said decidedly, “and as for the

358 Anne of Avonleatwins, I’ll be glad to do all I can for them; butI won’t undertake to answer Davy’s questions,that’s what. I’m not an encyclopedia, neitheram I a Philadelphia lawyer. You’ll miss Annefor that.”“Sometimes Anne’s answers were about asqueer as Davy’s questions,” said Marilla drily.“The twins will miss her and no mistake; buther future can’t be sacrificed to Davy’s thirstfor information. When he asks questions Ican’t answer I’ll just tell him children shouldbe seen and not heard. That was how I wasbrought up, and I don’t know but what it wasjust as good a way as all these new-fanglednotions for training children.”“Well, Anne’s methods seem to haveworked fairly well with Davy,” said Mrs.Lynde smilingly. “He is a reformed character,that’s what.”“He isn’t a bad little soul,” conceded Marilla.“I never expected to get as fond ofthose children as I have. Davy gets roundyou somehow—and Dora is a lovely child, althoughshe is—kind of—well, kind of—”“Monotonous? Exactly,” supplied Mrs. Rachel.“Like a book where every page is thesame, that’s what. Dora will make a good, reliablewoman but she’ll never set the pond onfire. Well, that sort of folks are comfortable tohave round, even if they’re not as interesting

Around the Bend 359as the other kind.”Gilbert Blythe was probably the only personto whom the news of Anne’s resignationbrought unmixed pleasure. Her pupils lookedupon it as a sheer catastrophe. Annetta Bellhad hysterics when she went home. AnthonyPye fought two pitched and unprovoked battleswith other boys by way of relieving hisfeelings. Barbara Shaw cried all night. PaulIrving defiantly told his grandmother that sheneedn’t expect him to eat any porridge for aweek.“I can’t do it, Grandma,” he said. “I don’treally know if I can eat anything. I feel as ifthere was a dreadful lump in my throat. I’dhave cried coming home from school if JakeDonnell hadn’t been watching me. I believeI will cry after I go to bed. It wouldn’t showon my eyes tomorrow, would it? And it wouldbe such a relief. But anyway, I can’t eat porridge.I’m going to need all my strength ofmind to bear up against this, Grandma, andI won’t have any left to grapple with porridge.Oh Grandma, I don’t know what I’ll do whenmy beautiful teacher goes away. Milty Boultersays he bets Jane Andrews will get the school.I suppose Miss Andrews is very nice. But Iknow she won’t understand things like MissShirley.”Diana also took a very pessimistic view of

360 Anne of Avonleaaffairs.“It will be horribly lonesome here nextwinter,” she mourned, one twilight when themoonlight was raining “airy silver” throughthe cherry boughs and filling the east gablewith a soft, dream-like radiance in which thetwo girls sat and talked, Anne on her lowrocker by the window, Diana sitting Turkfashionon the bed. “You and Gilbert will begone—and the Allans too. They are going tocall Mr. Allan to Charlottetown and of coursehe’ll accept. It’s too mean. We’ll be vacant allwinter, I suppose, and have to listen to a longstring of candidates—and half of them won’tbe any good.”“I hope they won’t call Mr. Baxter fromEast Grafton here, anyhow,” said Anne decidedly.“He wants the call but he does preachsuch gloomy sermons. Mr. Bell says he’s aminister of the old school, but Mrs. Lynde saysthere’s nothing whatever the matter with himbut indigestion. His wife isn’t a very goodcook, it seems, and Mrs. Lynde says that whena man has to eat sour bread two weeks out ofthree his theology is bound to get a kink in itsomewhere. Mrs. Allan feels very badly aboutgoing away. She says everybody has been sokind to her since she came here as a bridethat she feels as if she were leaving lifelongfriends. And then, there’s the baby’s grave,

Around the Bend 361you know. She says she doesn’t see how shecan go away and leave that—it was such alittle mite of a thing and only three monthsold, and she says she is afraid it will missits mother, although she knows better andwouldn’t say so to Mr. Allan for anything. Shesays she has slipped through the birch groveback of the manse nearly every night to thegraveyard and sung a little lullaby to it. Shetold me all about it last evening when I wasup putting some of those early wild roses onMatthew’s grave. I promised her that as longas I was in Avonlea I would put flowers on thebaby’s grave and when I was away I felt surethat—”“That I would do it,” supplied Dianaheartily. “Of course I will. And I’ll put themon Matthew’s grave too, for your sake, Anne.”“Oh, thank you. I meant to ask you to ifyou would. And on little Hester Gray’s too?Please don’t forget hers. Do you know, I’vethought and dreamed so much about littleHester Gray that she has become strangelyreal to me. I think of her, back there in herlittle garden in that cool, still, green corner;and I have a fancy that if I could steal backthere some spring evening, just at the magictime ’twixt light and dark, and tiptoe so softlyup the beech hill that my footsteps could notfrighten her, I would find the garden just as

362 Anne of Avonleait used to be, all sweet with June lilies andearly roses, with the tiny house beyond it allhung with vines; and little Hester Gray wouldbe there, with her soft eyes, and the wind rufflingher dark hair, wandering about, puttingher fingertips under the chins of the liliesand whispering secrets with the roses; and Iwould go forward, oh, so softly, and hold outmy hands and say to her, ‘Little Hester Gray,won’t you let me be your playmate, for I lovethe roses too?’ And we would sit down on theold bench and talk a little and dream a little,or just be beautifully silent together. And thenthe moon would rise and I would look aroundme—and there would be no Hester Gray andno little vine-hung house, and no roses—onlyan old waste garden starred with June liliesamid the grasses, and the wind sighing, oh, sosorrowfully in the cherry trees. And I wouldnot know whether it had been real or if I hadjust imagined it all.” Diana crawled up andgot her back against the headboard of the bed.When your companion of twilight hour saidsuch spooky things it was just as well not to beable to fancy there was anything behind you.“I’m afraid the Improvement Society willgo down when you and Gilbert are both gone,”she remarked dolefully.“Not a bit of fear of it,” said Anne briskly,coming back from dreamland to the affairs of

Around the Bend 363practical life. “It is too firmly established forthat, especially since the older people are becomingso enthusiastic about it. Look whatthey are doing this summer for their lawnsand lanes. Besides, I’ll be watching for hintsat Redmond and I’ll write a paper for it nextwinter and send it over. Don’t take sucha gloomy view of things, Diana. And don’tgrudge me my little hour of gladness and jubilationnow. Later on, when I have to go away,I’ll feel anything but glad.”“It’s all right for you to be glad—you’re goingto college and you’ll have a jolly time andmake heaps of lovely new friends.”“I hope I shall make new friends,” saidAnne thoughtfully. “The possibilities of makingnew friends help to make life very fascinating.But no matter how many friends Imake they’ll never be as dear to me as the oldones—especially a certain girl with black eyesand dimples. Can you guess who she is, Diana?”“But there’ll be so many clever girls atRedmond,” sighed Diana, “and I’m only astupid little country girl who says ‘I seen’sometimes—though I really know better whenI stop to think. Well, of course these past twoyears have really been too pleasant to last.I know somebody who is glad you are goingto Redmond anyhow. Anne, I’m going to ask

364 Anne of Avonleayou a question—a serious question. Don’t bevexed and do answer seriously. Do you careanything for Gilbert?”“Ever so much as a friend and not a bitin the way you mean,” said Anne calmly anddecidedly; she also thought she was speakingsincerely.Diana sighed. She wished, somehow, thatAnne had answered differently.“Don’t you mean ever to be married,Anne?”“Perhaps—some day—when I meet theright one,” said Anne, smiling dreamily up atthe moonlight.“But how can you be sure when you domeet the right one?” persisted Diana.“Oh, I should know him—something wouldtell me. You know what my ideal is, Diana.”“But people’s ideals change sometimes.”“Mine won’t. And I couldn’t care for anyman who didn’t fulfill it.”“What if you never meet him?”“Then I shall die an old maid,” was thecheerful response. “I daresay it isn’t the hardestdeath by any means.”“Oh, I suppose the dying would be easyenough; it’s the living an old maid I shouldn’tlike,” said Diana, with no intention of beinghumorous. “Although I wouldn’t mind beingan old maid very much if I could be one like

Around the Bend 365Miss Lavendar. But I never could be. WhenI’m forty-five I’ll be horribly fat. And whilethere might be some romance about a thin oldmaid there couldn’t possibly be any about a fatone. Oh, mind you, Nelson Atkins proposed toRuby Gillis three weeks ago. Ruby told me allabout it. She says she never had any intentionof taking him, because any one who marriedhim will have to go in with the old folks;but Ruby says that he made such a perfectlybeautiful and romantic proposal that it simplyswept her off her feet. But she didn’t wantto do anything rash so she asked for a weekto consider; and two days later she was at ameeting of the Sewing Circle at his mother’sand there was a book called The CompleteGuide to Etiquette, lying on the parlor table.Ruby said she simply couldn’t describeher feelings when in a section of it headed,‘The Deportment of Courtship and Marriage,’she found the very proposal Nelson had made,word for word. She went home and wrote hima perfectly scathing refusal; and she says hisfather and mother have taken turns watchinghim ever since for fear he’ll drown himselfin the river; but Ruby says they needn’t beafraid; for in the Deportment of Courtship andMarriage it told how a rejected lover shouldbehave and there’s nothing about drowning inthat. And she says Wilbur Blair is literally

366 Anne of Avonleapining away for her but she’s perfectly helplessin the matter.”Anne made an impatient movement.“I hate to say it—it seems so disloyal—but, well, I don’t like Ruby Gillis now. Iliked her when we went to school and Queen’stogether—though not so well as you and Janeof course. But this last year at Carmody sheseems so different—so—so—”“I know,” nodded Diana. “It’s the Gilliscoming out in her—she can’t help it. Mrs.Lynde says that if ever a Gillis girl thoughtabout anything but the boys she never showedit in her walk and conversation. She talksabout nothing but boys and what complimentsthey pay her, and how crazy they all are abouther at Carmody. And the strange thing is,they are, too—” Diana admitted this somewhatresentfully. “Last night when I saw herin Mr. Blair’s store she whispered to me thatshe’d just made a new ‘mash.’ I wouldn’t askher who it was, because I knew she was dyingto be asked. Well, it’s what Ruby alwayswanted, I suppose. You remember even whenshe was little she always said she meant tohave dozens of beaus when she grew up andhave the very gayest time she could before shesettled down. She’s so different from Jane,isn’t she? Jane is such a nice, sensible, ladylikegirl.”

Around the Bend 367“Dear old Jane is a jewel,” agreed Anne,“but,” she added, leaning forward to bestow atender pat on the plump, dimpled little handhanging over her pillow, “there’s nobody likemy own Diana after all. Do you rememberthat evening we first met, Diana, and ‘swore’eternal friendship in your garden? We’ve keptthat ‘oath,’ I think—we’ve never had a quarrelnor even a coolness. I shall never forget thethrill that went over me the day you told meyou loved me. I had had such a lonely, starvedheart all through my childhood. I’m just beginningto realize how starved and lonely itreally was. Nobody cared anything for meor wanted to be bothered with me. I shouldhave been miserable if it hadn’t been for thatstrange little dream-life of mine, wherein Iimagined all the friends and love I craved. Butwhen I came to Green Gables everything waschanged. And then I met you. You don’t knowwhat your friendship meant to me. I want tothank you here and now, dear, for the warmand true affection you’ve always given me.”“And always, always will,” sobbed Diana.“I shall never love anybody—any girl—half aswell as I love you. And if I ever do marry andhave a little girl of my own I’m going to nameher Anne.”

368 Anne of Avonlea

XXVII. AnAfternoon at theStone House“Where are you going, all dressed up, Anne?”Davy wanted to know. “You look bully in thatdress.”Anne had come down to dinner in a newdress of pale green muslin—the first color shehad worn since Matthew’s death. It becameher perfectly, bringing out all the delicate,flower-like tints of her face and the gloss andburnish of her hair.“Davy, how many times have I told youthat you mustn’t use that word,” she rebuked.“I’m going to Echo Lodge.”“Take me with you,” entreated Davy.“I would if I were driving. But I’m goingto walk and it’s too far for your eight-year-oldlegs. Besides, Paul is going with me and I fearyou don’t enjoy yourself in his company.”369

370 Anne of Avonlea“Oh, I like Paul lots better’n I did,” saidDavy, beginning to make fearful inroads intohis pudding. “Since I’ve got pretty good myselfI don’t mind his being gooder so much. If I cankeep on I’ll catch up with him some day, bothin legs and goodness. ’Sides, Paul’s real niceto us second primer boys in school. He won’tlet the other big boys meddle with us and heshows us lots of games.”“How came Paul to fall into the brook atnoon hour yesterday?” asked Anne. “I methim on the playground, such a dripping figurethat I sent him promptly home for clotheswithout waiting to find out what had happened.”“Well, it was partly a zacksident,” explainedDavy. “He stuck his head in on purposebut the rest of him fell in zacksidentally.We was all down at the brook and PrillieRogerson got mad at Paul about something—she’s awful mean and horrid anyway, if sheis pretty—and said that his grandmother puthis hair up in curl rags every night. Paulwouldn’t have minded what she said, I guess,but Gracie Andrews laughed, and Paul gotawful red, ’cause Gracie’s his girl, you know.He’s clean gone on her—brings her flowersand carries her books as far as the shore road.He got as red as a beet and said his grandmotherdidn’t do any such thing and his hair

An Afternoon at the Stone House 371was born curly. And then he laid down on thebank and stuck his head right into the springto show them. Oh, it wasn’t the spring wedrink out of—” seeing a horrified look on Marilla’sface— “it was the little one lower down.But the bank’s awful slippy and Paul wentright in. I tell you he made a bully splash.Oh, Anne, Anne, I didn’t mean to say that—itjust slipped out before I thought. He madea splendid splash. But he looked so funnywhen he crawled out, all wet and muddy. Thegirls laughed more’n ever, but Gracie didn’tlaugh. She looked sorry. Gracie’s a nice girlbut she’s got a snub nose. When I get bigenough to have a girl I won’t have one witha snub nose—I’ll pick one with a pretty noselike yours, Anne.”“A boy who makes such a mess of syrup allover his face when he is eating his puddingwill never get a girl to look at him,” said Marillaseverely.“But I’ll wash my face before I go courting,”protested Davy, trying to improve matters byrubbing the back of his hand over the smears.“And I’ll wash behind my ears too, without beingtold. I remembered to this morning, Marilla.I don’t forget half as often as I did. But—”and Davy sighed— “there’s so many cornersabout a fellow that it’s awful hard to rememberthem all. Well, if I can’t go to Miss Laven-

372 Anne of Avonleadar’s I’ll go over and see Mrs. Harrison. Mrs.Harrison’s an awful nice woman, I tell you.She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-purpose for little boys, and she always givesme the scrapings out of a pan she’s mixed upa plum cake in. A good many plums stick tothe sides, you see. Mr. Harrison was always anice man, but he’s twice as nice since he gotmarried over again. I guess getting marriedmakes folks nicer. Why don’t you get married,Marilla? I want to know.”Marilla’s state of single blessedness hadnever been a sore point with her, so she answeredamiably, with an exchange of significantlooks with Anne, that she supposed itwas because nobody would have her.“But maybe you never asked anybody tohave you,” protested Davy.“Oh, Davy,” said Dora primly, shocked intospeaking without being spoken to, “it’s themen that have to do the asking.”“I don’t know why they have to do it always,”grumbled Davy. “Seems to me everything’sput on the men in this world. Can Ihave some more pudding, Marilla?”“You’ve had as much as was good for you,”said Marilla; but she gave him a moderate secondhelping.“I wish people could live on pudding. Whycan’t they, Marilla? I want to know.”

An Afternoon at the Stone House 373“Because they’d soon get tired of it.”“I’d like to try that for myself,” said skepticalDavy. “But I guess it’s better to have puddingonly on fish and company days than noneat all. They never have any at Milty Boulter’s.Milty says when company comes his mothergives them cheese and cuts it herself—one littlebit apiece and one over for manners.”“If Milty Boulter talks like that about hismother at least you needn’t repeat it,” saidMarilla severely.“Bless my soul,”—Davy had picked this expressionup from Mr. Harrison and used itwith great gusto—“Milty meant it as a compelment.He’s awful proud of his mother,cause folks say she could scratch a living ona rock.”“I—I suppose them pesky hens are in mypansy bed again,” said Marilla, rising and goingout hurriedly.The slandered hens were nowhere near thepansy bed and Marilla did not even glance atit. Instead, she sat down on the cellar hatchand laughed until she was ashamed of herself.When Anne and Paul reached the stonehouse that afternoon they found Miss Lavendarand Charlotta the Fourth in the garden,weeding, raking, clipping, and trimming asif for dear life. Miss Lavendar herself, allgay and sweet in the frills and laces she

374 Anne of Avonlealoved, dropped her shears and ran joyously tomeet her guests, while Charlotta the Fourthgrinned cheerfully.“Welcome, Anne. I thought you’d come today.You belong to the afternoon so it broughtyou. Things that belong together are sureto come together. What a lot of trouble thatwould save some people if they only knewit. But they don’t—and so they waste beautifulenergy moving heaven and earth to bringthings together that don’t belong. And you,Paul—why, you’ve grown! You’re half a headtaller than when you were here before.”“Yes, I’ve begun to grow like pigweed in thenight, as Mrs. Lynde says,” said Paul, in frankdelight over the fact. “Grandma says it’s theporridge taking effect at last. Perhaps it is.Goodness knows—” Paul sighed deeply— “I’veeaten enough to make anyone grow. I do hope,now that I’ve begun, I’ll keep on till I’m astall as father. He is six feet, you know, MissLavendar.”Yes, Miss Lavendar did know; the flush onher pretty cheeks deepened a little; she tookPaul’s hand on one side and Anne’s on theother and walked to the house in silence.“Is it a good day for the echoes, MissLavendar?” queried Paul anxiously. The dayof his first visit had been too windy for echoesand Paul had been much disappointed.

An Afternoon at the Stone House 375“Yes, just the best kind of a day,” answeredMiss Lavendar, rousing herself fromher reverie. “But first we are all going tohave something to eat. I know you two folksdidn’t walk all the way back here throughthose beechwoods without getting hungry, andCharlotta the Fourth and I can eat any hourof the day—we have such obliging appetites.So we’ll just make a raid on the pantry. Fortunatelyit’s lovely and full. I had a presentimentthat I was going to have company todayand Charlotta the Fourth and I prepared.”“I think you are one of the people who alwayshave nice things in their pantry,” declaredPaul. “Grandma’s like that too. Butshe doesn’t approve of snacks between meals.I wonder,” he added meditatively, “if I oughtto eat them away from home when I know shedoesn’t approve.”“Oh, I don’t think she would disapprove afteryou have had a long walk. That makesa difference,” said Miss Lavendar, exchangingamused glances with Anne over Paul’sbrown curls. “I suppose that snacks are extremelyunwholesome. That is why we havethem so often at Echo Lodge. We—Charlottathe Fourth and I—live in defiance of everyknown law of diet. We eat all sorts of indigestiblethings whenever we happen to thinkof it, by day or night; and we flourish like

376 Anne of Avonleagreen bay trees. We are always intending toreform. When we read any article in a paperwarning us against something we like wecut it out and pin it up on the kitchen wallso that we’ll remember it. But we never cansomehow—until after we’ve gone and eatenthat very thing. Nothing has ever killed usyet; but Charlotta the Fourth has been knownto have bad dreams after we had eaten doughnutsand mince pie and fruit cake before wewent to bed.”“Grandma lets me have a glass of milkand a slice of bread and butter before I goto bed; and on Sunday nights she puts jamon the bread,” said Paul. “So I’m alwaysglad when it’s Sunday night—for more reasonsthan one. Sunday is a very long day onthe shore road. Grandma says it’s all too shortfor her and that father never found Sundaystiresome when he was a little boy. It wouldn’tseem so long if I could talk to my rock peoplebut I never do that because Grandma doesn’tapprove of it on Sundays. I think a gooddeal; but I’m afraid my thoughts are worldly.Grandma says we should never think anythingbut religious thoughts on Sundays. Butteacher here said once that every really beautifulthought was religious, no matter whatit was about, or what day we thought it on.But I feel sure Grandma thinks that sermons

An Afternoon at the Stone House 377and Sunday School lessons are the only thingsyou can think truly religious thoughts about.And when it comes to a difference of opinionbetween Grandma and teacher I don’t knowwhat to do. In my heart”—Paul laid his handon his breast and raised very serious blue eyesto Miss Lavendar’s immediately sympatheticface—“I agree with teacher. But then, you see,Grandma has brought father up her way andmade a brilliant success of him; and teacherhas never brought anybody up yet, thoughshe’s helping with Davy and Dora. But youcan’t tell how they’ll turn out till they aregrown up. So sometimes I feel as if it mightbe safer to go by Grandma’s opinions.”“I think it would,” agreed Anne solemnly.“Anyway, I daresay that if your Grandma andI both got down to what we really do mean,under our different ways of expressing it, we’dfind out we both meant much the same thing.You’d better go by her way of expressing it,since it’s been the result of experience. We’llhave to wait until we see how the twins doturn out before we can be sure that my wayis equally good.” After lunch they went backto the garden, where Paul made the acquaintanceof the echoes, to his wonder and delight,while Anne and Miss Lavendar sat onthe stone bench under the poplar and talked.“So you are going away in the fall?” said

378 Anne of AvonleaMiss Lavendar wistfully. “I ought to be gladfor your sake, Anne—but I’m horribly, selfishlysorry. I shall miss you so much. Oh,sometimes, I think it is of no use to makefriends. They only go out of your life afterawhile and leave a hurt that is worse than theemptiness before they came.”“That sounds like something Miss ElizaAndrews might say but never Miss Lavendar,”said Anne. “Nothing is worse than emptiness—andI’m not going out of your life.There are such things as letters and vacations.Dearest, I’m afraid you’re looking a littlepale and tired.”“Oh—hoo—hoo—hoo,” went Paul on thedyke, where he had been making noisesdiligently—not all of them melodious in themaking, but all coming back transmuted intothe very gold and silver of sound by the fairyalchemists over the river. Miss Lavendarmade an impatient movement with her prettyhands.“I’m just tired of everything—even of theechoes. There is nothing in my life butechoes—echoes of lost hopes and dreams andjoys. They’re beautiful and mocking. OhAnne, it’s horrid of me to talk like this whenI have company. It’s just that I’m getting oldand it doesn’t agree with me. I know I’ll befearfully cranky by the time I’m sixty. But per-

An Afternoon at the Stone House 379haps all I need is a course of blue pills.” At thismoment Charlotta the Fourth, who had disappearedafter lunch, returned, and announcedthat the northeast corner of Mr. John Kimball’spasture was red with early strawberries,and wouldn’t Miss Shirley like to go and picksome.“Early strawberries for tea!” exclaimedMiss Lavendar. “Oh, I’m not so old as Ithought—and I don’t need a single blue pill!Girls, when you come back with your strawberrieswe’ll have tea out here under the silverpoplar. I’ll have it all ready for you withhome-grown cream.”Anne and Charlotta the Fourth accordinglybetook themselves back to Mr. Kimball’spasture, a green remote place where the airwas as soft as velvet and fragrant as a bed ofviolets and golden as amber.“Oh, isn’t it sweet and fresh back here?”breathed Anne. “I just feel as if I were drinkingin the sunshine.”“Yes, ma’am, so do I. That’s just exactlyhow I feel too, ma’am,” agreed Charlotta theFourth, who would have said precisely thesame thing if Anne had remarked that shefelt like a pelican of the wilderness. Alwaysafter Anne had visited Echo Lodge Charlottathe Fourth mounted to her little room over thekitchen and tried before her looking glass to

380 Anne of Avonleaspeak and look and move like Anne. Charlottacould never flatter herself that she quite succeeded;but practice makes perfect, as Charlottahad learned at school, and she fondlyhoped that in time she might catch the trickof that dainty uplift of chin, that quick, starryoutflashing of eyes, that fashion of walkingas if you were a bough swaying in the wind.It seemed so easy when you watched Anne.Charlotta the Fourth admired Anne wholeheartedly.It was not that she thought herso very handsome. Diana Barry’s beauty ofcrimson cheek and black curls was much moreto Charlotta the Fourth’s taste than Anne’smoonshine charm of luminous gray eyes andthe pale, everchanging roses of her cheeks.“But I’d rather look like you than bepretty,” she told Anne sincerely.Anne laughed, sipped the honey from thetribute, and cast away the sting. She wasused to taking her compliments mixed. Publicopinion never agreed on Anne’s looks. Peoplewho had heard her called handsome mether and were disappointed. People who hadheard her called plain saw her and wonderedwhere other people’s eyes were. Anne herselfwould never believe that she had any claimto beauty. When she looked in the glass allshe saw was a little pale face with seven freckleson the nose thereof. Her mirror never re-

An Afternoon at the Stone House 381vealed to her the elusive, ever-varying play offeeling that came and went over her featureslike a rosy illuminating flame, or the charmof dream and laughter alternating in her bigeyes.While Anne was not beautiful in anystrictly defined sense of the word she possesseda certain evasive charm and distinctionof appearance that left beholders with apleasurable sense of satisfaction in that softlyrounded girlhood of hers, with all its stronglyfelt potentialities. Those who knew Anne bestfelt, without realizing that they felt it, thather greatest attraction was the aura of possibilitysurrounding her—the power of futuredevelopment that was in her. She seemed towalk in an atmosphere of things about to happen.As they picked, Charlotta the Fourth confidedto Anne her fears regarding Miss Lavendar.The warm-hearted little handmaiden washonestly worried over her adored mistress’condition.“Miss Lavendar isn’t well, Miss Shirley,ma’am. I’m sure she isn’t, though she nevercomplains. She hasn’t seemed like herself thislong while, ma’am—not since that day youand Paul were here together before. I feel sureshe caught cold that night, ma’am. After youand him had gone she went out and walked

382 Anne of Avonleain the garden for long after dark with nothingbut a little shawl on her. There was alot of snow on the walks and I feel sure shegot a chill, ma’am. Ever since then I’ve noticedher acting tired and lonesome like. Shedon’t seem to take an interest in anything,ma’am. She never pretends company’s coming,nor fixes up for it, nor nothing, ma’am.It’s only when you come she seems to chirk upa bit. And the worst sign of all, Miss Shirley,ma’am—” Charlotta the Fourth lowered hervoice as if she were about to tell some exceedinglyweird and awful symptom indeed—“isthat she never gets cross now when I breaksthings. Why, Miss Shirley, ma’am, yesterdayI bruk her green and yaller bowl that’s alwaysstood on the bookcase. Her grandmotherbrought it out from England and Miss Lavendarwas awful choice of it. I was dusting itjust as careful, Miss Shirley, ma’am, and itslipped out, so fashion, afore I could grab holtof it, and bruk into about forty millyun pieces.I tell you I was sorry and scared. I thoughtMiss Lavendar would scold me awful, ma’am;and I’d ruther she had than take it the wayshe did. She just come in and hardly looked atit and said, ‘It’s no matter, Charlotta. Takeup the pieces and throw them away.’ Justlike that, Miss Shirley, ma’am—‘take up thepieces and throw them away,’ as if it wasn’t

An Afternoon at the Stone House 383her grandmother’s bowl from England. Oh,she isn’t well and I feel awful bad about it.She’s got nobody to look after her but me.”Charlotta the Fourth’s eyes brimmed upwith tears. Anne patted the little brown pawholding the cracked pink cup sympathetically.“I think Miss Lavendar needs a change,Charlotta. She stays here alone too much.Can’t we induce her to go away for a littletrip?”Charlotta shook her head, with its rampantbows, disconsolately.“I don’t think so, Miss Shirley, ma’am.Miss Lavendar hates visiting. She’s only gotthree relations she ever visits and she saysshe just goes to see them as a family duty.Last time when she come home she said shewasn’t going to visit for family duty no more.‘I’ve come home in love with loneliness, Charlotta,’she says to me, ‘and I never want tostray from my own vine and fig tree again. Myrelations try so hard to make an old lady of meand it has a bad effect on me.’ Just like that,Miss Shirley, ma’am. ‘It has a very bad effecton me.’ So I don’t think it would do any goodto coax her to go visiting.”“We must see what can be done,” said Annedecidedly, as she put the last possible berry inher pink cup. “Just as soon as I have my vacationI’ll come through and spend a whole week

384 Anne of Avonleawith you. We’ll have a picnic every day andpretend all sorts of interesting things, and seeif we can’t cheer Miss Lavendar up.”“That will be the very thing, Miss Shirley,ma’am,” exclaimed Charlotta the Fourth inrapture. She was glad for Miss Lavendar’ssake and for her own too. With a whole weekin which to study Anne constantly she wouldsurely be able to learn how to move and behavelike her.When the girls got back to Echo Lodge theyfound that Miss Lavendar and Paul had carriedthe little square table out of the kitchento the garden and had everything ready fortea. Nothing ever tasted so delicious as thosestrawberries and cream, eaten under a greatblue sky all curdled over with fluffy littlewhite clouds, and in the long shadows of thewood with its lispings and its murmurings.After tea Anne helped Charlotta wash thedishes in the kitchen, while Miss Lavendarsat on the stone bench with Paul and heardall about his rock people. She was a good listener,this sweet Miss Lavendar, but just atthe last it struck Paul that she had suddenlylost interest in the Twin Sailors.“Miss Lavendar, why do you look at me likethat?” he asked gravely.“How do I look, Paul?”“Just as if you were looking through me

An Afternoon at the Stone House 385at somebody I put you in mind of,” said Paul,who had such occasional flashes of uncannyinsight that it wasn’t quite safe to have secretswhen he was about.“You do put me in mind of somebody I knewlong ago,” said Miss Lavendar dreamily.“When you were young?”“Yes, when I was young. Do I seem very oldto you, Paul?”“Do you know, I can’t make up my mindabout that,” said Paul confidentially. “Yourhair looks old—I never knew a young personwith white hair. But your eyes are as young asmy beautiful teacher’s when you laugh. I tellyou what, Miss Lavendar”—Paul’s voice andface were as solemn as a judge’s—“I think youwould make a splendid mother. You have justthe right look in your eyes—the look my littlemother always had. I think it’s a pity youhaven’t any boys of your own.”“I have a little dream boy, Paul.”“Oh, have you really? How old is he?”“About your age I think. He ought to beolder because I dreamed him long before youwere born. But I’ll never let him get any olderthan eleven or twelve; because if I did someday he might grow up altogether and then I’dlose him.”“I know,” nodded Paul. “That’s the beautyof dream-people—they stay any age you want

386 Anne of Avonleathem. You and my beautiful teacher and memyself are the only folks in the world that Iknow of that have dream-people. Isn’t it funnyand nice we should all know each other? ButI guess that kind of people always find eachother out. Grandma never has dream-peopleand Mary Joe thinks I’m wrong in the upperstory because I have them. But I think it’ssplendid to have them. You know, Miss Lavendar.Tell me all about your little dream-boy.”“He has blue eyes and curly hair. He stealsin and wakens me with a kiss every morning.Then all day he plays here in the garden—andI play with him. Such games as we have. Werun races and talk with the echoes; and I tellhim stories. And when twilight comes—”“I know,” interrupted Paul eagerly. “Hecomes and sits beside you—so—because ofcourse at twelve he’d be too big to climbinto your lap—and lays his head on yourshoulder—so—and you put your arms abouthim and hold him tight, tight, and rest yourcheek on his head—yes, that’s the very way.Oh, you do know, Miss Lavendar.”Anne found the two of them there whenshe came out of the stone house, and somethingin Miss Lavendar’s face made her hateto disturb them.“I’m afraid we must go, Paul, if we want toget home before dark. Miss Lavendar, I’m go-

An Afternoon at the Stone House 387ing to invite myself to Echo Lodge for a wholeweek pretty soon.”“If you come for a week I’ll keep you fortwo,” threatened Miss Lavendar.

388 Anne of Avonlea

XXVIII. The PrinceComes Back to theEnchanted PalaceThe last day of school came and went. Atriumphant “semi-annual examination” washeld and Anne’s pupils acquitted themselvessplendidly. At the close they gave her an addressand a writing desk. All the girls andladies present cried, and some of the boys hadit cast up to them later on that they cried too,although they always denied it.Mrs. Harmon Andrews, Mrs. Peter Sloane,and Mrs. William Bell walked home togetherand talked things over.“I do think it is such a pity Anne is leavingwhen the children seem so much attachedto her,” sighed Mrs. Peter Sloane, who had ahabit of sighing over everything and even finishedoff her jokes that way. “To be sure,” sheadded hastily, “we all know we’ll have a good389

390 Anne of Avonleateacher next year too.”“Jane will do her duty, I’ve no doubt,” saidMrs. Andrews rather stiffly. “I don’t supposeshe’ll tell the children quite so many fairytales or spend so much time roaming aboutthe woods with them. But she has her nameon the Inspector’s Roll of Honor and the Newbridgepeople are in a terrible state over herleaving.”“I’m real glad Anne is going to college,”said Mrs. Bell. “She has always wanted it andit will be a splendid thing for her.”“Well, I don’t know.” Mrs. Andrews was determinednot to agree fully with anybody thatday. “I don’t see that Anne needs any more education.She’ll probably be marrying GilbertBlythe, if his infatuation for her lasts till hegets through college, and what good will Latinand Greek do her then? If they taught you atcollege how to manage a man there might besome sense in her going.”Mrs. Harmon Andrews, so Avonlea gossipwhispered, had never learned how to manageher “man,” and as a result the Andrews householdwas not exactly a model of domestic happiness.“I see that the Charlottetown call to Mr.Allan is up before the Presbytery,” said Mrs.Bell. “That means we’ll be losing him soon, Isuppose.”

The Prince Comes Back 391“They’re not going before September,” saidMrs. Sloane. “It will be a great loss to thecommunity—though I always did think thatMrs. Allan dressed rather too gay for a minister’swife. But we are none of us perfect.Did you notice how neat and snug Mr. Harrisonlooked today? I never saw such a changedman. He goes to church every Sunday and hassubscribed to the salary.”“Hasn’t that Paul Irving grown to be a bigboy?” said Mrs. Andrews. “He was such a mitefor his age when he came here. I declare Ihardly knew him today. He’s getting to look alot like his father.”“He’s a smart boy,” said Mrs. Bell.“He’s smart enough, but”—Mrs. Andrewslowered her voice—“I believe he tells queerstories. Gracie came home from school oneday last week with the greatest rigmarole hehad told her about people who lived down atthe shore—stories there couldn’t be a word oftruth in, you know. I told Gracie not to believethem, and she said Paul didn’t intend her to.But if he didn’t what did he tell them to herfor?”“Anne says Paul is a genius,” said Mrs.Sloane.“He may be. You never know what to expectof them Americans,” said Mrs. Andrews.Mrs. Andrews’ only acquaintance with the

392 Anne of Avonleaword “genius” was derived from the colloquialfashion of calling any eccentric individual “aqueer genius.” She probably thought, withMary Joe, that it meant a person with somethingwrong in his upper story.Back in the schoolroom Anne was sittingalone at her desk, as she had sat on the firstday of school two years before, her face leaningon her hand, her dewy eyes looking wistfullyout of the window to the Lake of ShiningWaters. Her heart was so wrung over theparting with her pupils that for a moment collegehad lost all its charm. She still felt theclasp of Annetta Bell’s arms about her neckand heard the childish wail, “I’ll never loveany teacher as much as you, Miss Shirley,never, never.”For two years she had worked earnestlyand faithfully, making many mistakes andlearning from them. She had had her reward.She had taught her scholars something,but she felt that they had taught her muchmore—lessons of tenderness, self-control, innocentwisdom, lore of childish hearts. Perhapsshe had not succeeded in “inspiring” anywonderful ambitions in her pupils, but shehad taught them, more by her own sweet personalitythan by all her careful precepts, thatit was good and necessary in the years thatwere before them to live their lives finely and

The Prince Comes Back 393graciously, holding fast to truth and courtesyand kindness, keeping aloof from all that savoredof falsehood and meanness and vulgarity.They were, perhaps, all unconscious ofhaving learned such lessons; but they wouldremember and practice them long after theyhad forgotten the capital of Afghanistan andthe dates of the Wars of the Roses.“Another chapter in my life is closed,” saidAnne aloud, as she locked her desk. She reallyfelt very sad over it; but the romance in theidea of that “closed chapter” did comfort her alittle.Anne spent a fortnight at Echo Lodge earlyin her vacation and everybody concerned hada good time.She took Miss Lavendar on a shopping expeditionto town and persuaded her to buy anew organdy dress; then came the excitementof cutting and making it together, while thehappy Charlotta the Fourth basted and sweptup clippings. Miss Lavendar had complainedthat she could not feel much interest in anything,but the sparkle came back to her eyesover her pretty dress.“What a foolish, frivolous person I mustbe,” she sighed. “I’m wholesomely ashamed tothink that a new dress—even it is a forget-menotorgandy—should exhilarate me so, when agood conscience and an extra contribution to

394 Anne of AvonleaForeign Missions couldn’t do it.”Midway in her visit Anne went home toGreen Gables for a day to mend the twins’stockings and settle up Davy’s accumulatedstore of questions. In the evening she wentdown to the shore road to see Paul Irving. Asshe passed by the low, square window of theIrving sitting room she caught a glimpse ofPaul on somebody’s lap; but the next momenthe came flying through the hall.“Oh, Miss Shirley,” he cried excitedly, “youcan’t think what has happened! Something sosplendid. Father is here—just think of that!Father is here! Come right in. Father, this ismy beautiful teacher. You know, father.”Stephen Irving came forward to meet Annewith a smile. He was a tall, handsome manof middle age, with iron-gray hair, deep-set,dark blue eyes, and a strong, sad face, splendidlymodeled about chin and brow. Just theface for a hero of romance, Anne thought witha thrill of intense satisfaction. It was so disappointingto meet someone who ought to bea hero and find him bald or stooped, or otherwiselacking in manly beauty. Anne wouldhave thought it dreadful if the object of MissLavendar’s romance had not looked the part.“So this is my little son’s ‘beautiful teacher,’of whom I have heard so much,” said Mr. Irvingwith a hearty handshake. “Paul’s letters

The Prince Comes Back 395have been so full of you, Miss Shirley, that Ifeel as if I were pretty well acquainted withyou already. I want to thank you for what youhave done for Paul. I think that your influencehas been just what he needed. Mother isone of the best and dearest of women; but herrobust, matter-of-fact Scotch common sensecould not always understand a temperamentlike my laddie’s. What was lacking in her youhave supplied. Between you, I think Paul’straining in these two past years has been asnearly ideal as a motherless boy’s could be.”Everybody likes to be appreciated. UnderMr. Irving’s praise Anne’s face “burst flowerlike into rosy bloom,” and the busy, weary manof the world, looking at her, thought he hadnever seen a fairer, sweeter slip of girlhoodthan this little “down east” schoolteacher withher red hair and wonderful eyes.Paul sat between them blissfully happy.“I never dreamed father was coming,” hesaid radiantly. “Even Grandma didn’t know it.It was a great surprise. As a general thing—”Paul shook his brown curls gravely—“I don’tlike to be surprised. You lose all the fun of expectingthings when you’re surprised. But ina case like this it is all right. Father camelast night after I had gone to bed. And afterGrandma and Mary Joe had stopped beingsurprised he and Grandma came upstairs

396 Anne of Avonleato look at me, not meaning to wake me up tillmorning. But I woke right up and saw father.I tell you I just sprang at him.”“With a hug like a bear’s,” said Mr. Irving,putting his arms around Paul’s shoulder smilingly.“I hardly knew my boy, he had grown sobig and brown and sturdy.”“I don’t know which was the most pleasedto see father, Grandma or I,” continued Paul.“Grandma’s been in kitchen all day makingthe things father likes to eat. She wouldn’ttrust them to Mary Joe, she says. That’s herway of showing gladness. I like best just to sitand talk to father. But I’m going to leave youfor a little while now if you’ll excuse me. Imust get the cows for Mary Joe. That is one ofmy daily duties.”When Paul had scampered away to do his“daily duty” Mr. Irving talked to Anne of variousmatters. But Anne felt that he was thinkingof something else underneath all the time.Presently it came to the surface.“In Paul’s last letter he spoke of goingwith you to visit an old—friend of mine—MissLewis at the stone house in Grafton. Do youknow her well?”“Yes, indeed, she is a very dear friend ofmine,” was Anne’s demure reply, which gaveno hint of the sudden thrill that tingled overher from head to foot at Mr. Irving’s ques-

The Prince Comes Back 397tion. Anne “felt instinctively” that romancewas peeping at her around a corner.Mr. Irving rose and went to the window,looking out on a great, golden, billowing seawhere a wild wind was harping. For a fewmoments there was silence in the little darkwalledroom. Then he turned and looked downinto Anne’s sympathetic face with a smile,half-whimsical, half-tender.“I wonder how much you know,” he said.“I know all about it,” replied Annepromptly. “You see,” she explained hastily,“Miss Lavendar and I are very intimate. Shewouldn’t tell things of such a sacred nature toeverybody. We are kindred spirits.”“Yes, I believe you are. Well, I am going toask a favor of you. I would like to go and seeMiss Lavendar if she will let me. Will you askher if I may come?”Would she not? Oh, indeed she would! Yes,this was romance, the very, the real thing,with all the charm of rhyme and story anddream. It was a little belated, perhaps, likea rose blooming in October which should havebloomed in June; but none the less a rose, allsweetness and fragrance, with the gleam ofgold in its heart. Never did Anne’s feet bearher on a more willing errand than on thatwalk through the beechwoods to Grafton thenext morning. She found Miss Lavendar in

398 Anne of Avonleathe garden. Anne was fearfully excited. Herhands grew cold and her voice trembled.“Miss Lavendar, I have something to tellyou—something very important. Can youguess what it is?”Anne never supposed that Miss Lavendarcould guess; but Miss Lavendar’s face grewvery pale and Miss Lavendar said in a quiet,still voice, from which all the color and sparklethat Miss Lavendar’s voice usually suggestedhad faded.“Stephen Irving is home?”“How did you know? Who told you?” criedAnne disappointedly, vexed that her great revelationhad been anticipated.“Nobody. I knew that must be it, just fromthe way you spoke.”“He wants to come and see you,” said Anne.“May I send him word that he may?”“Yes, of course,” fluttered Miss Lavendar.“There is no reason why he shouldn’t. He isonly coming as any old friend might.”Anne had her own opinion about that asshe hastened into the house to write a note atMiss Lavendar’s desk.“Oh, it’s delightful to be living in a storybook,”she thought gaily. “It will come out allright of course—it must—and Paul will havea mother after his own heart and everybodywill be happy. But Mr. Irving will take Miss

The Prince Comes Back 399Lavendar away—and dear knows what willhappen to the little stone house—and so thereare two sides to it, as there seems to be to everythingin this world.” The important notewas written and Anne herself carried it tothe Grafton post office, where she waylaid themail carrier and asked him to leave it at theAvonlea office.“It’s so very important,” Anne assured himanxiously. The mail carrier was a rathergrumpy old personage who did not at all lookthe part of a messenger of Cupid; and Annewas none too certain that his memory was tobe trusted. But he said he would do his bestto remember and she had to be contented withthat.Charlotta the Fourth felt that somemystery pervaded the stone house thatafternoon—a mystery from which she was excluded.Miss Lavendar roamed about the gardenin a distracted fashion. Anne, too, seemedpossessed by a demon of unrest, and walkedto and fro and went up and down. Charlottathe Fourth endured it till patience ceased tobe a virtue; then she confronted Anne on theoccasion of that romantic young person’s thirdaimless peregrination through the kitchen.“Please, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” said Charlottathe Fourth, with an indignant toss of hervery blue bows, “it’s plain to be seen you and

400 Anne of AvonleaMiss Lavendar have got a secret and I think,begging your pardon if I’m too forward, MissShirley, ma’am, that it’s real mean not to tellme when we’ve all been such chums.”“Oh, Charlotta dear, I’d have told you allabout it if it were my secret—but it’s MissLavendar’s, you see. However, I’ll tell you thismuch—and if nothing comes of it you mustnever breathe a word about it to a living soul.You see, Prince Charming is coming tonight.He came long ago, but in a foolish momentwent away and wandered afar and forgot thesecret of the magic pathway to the enchantedcastle, where the princess was weeping herfaithful heart out for him. But at last he rememberedit again and the princess is waitingstill—because nobody but her own dear princecould carry her off.”“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, what is that inprose?” gasped the mystified Charlotta.Anne laughed.“In prose, an old friend of Miss Lavendar’sis coming to see her tonight.”“Do you mean an old beau of hers?” demandedthe literal Charlotta.“That is probably what I do mean—inprose,” answered Anne gravely. “It is Paul’sfather—Stephen Irving. And goodness knowswhat will come of it, but let us hope for thebest, Charlotta.”

The Prince Comes Back 401“I hope that he’ll marry Miss Lavendar,”was Charlotta’s unequivocal response. “Somewomen’s intended from the start to be oldmaids, and I’m afraid I’m one of them, MissShirley, ma’am, because I’ve awful little patiencewith the men. But Miss Lavendarnever was. And I’ve been awful worried,thinking what on earth she’d do when I gotso big I’d have to go to Boston. There ain’t anymore girls in our family and dear knows whatshe’d do if she got some stranger that mightlaugh at her pretendings and leave things lyinground out of their place and not be willingto be called Charlotta the Fifth. She might getsomeone who wouldn’t be as unlucky as mein breaking dishes but she’d never get anyonewho’d love her better.”And the faithful little handmaiden dashedto the oven door with a sniff.They went through the form of having teaas usual that night at Echo Lodge; but nobodyreally ate anything. After tea Miss Lavendarwent to her room and put on her new forgetme-notorgandy, while Anne did her hair forher. Both were dreadfully excited; but MissLavendar pretended to be very calm and indifferent.“I must really mend that rent in the curtaintomorrow,” she said anxiously, inspectingit as if it were the only thing of any im-

402 Anne of Avonleaportance just then. “Those curtains have notworn as well as they should, considering theprice I paid. Dear me, Charlotta has forgottento dust the stair railing again. I really mustspeak to her about it.”Anne was sitting on the porch steps whenStephen Irving came down the lane andacross the garden.“This is the one place where time standsstill,” he said, looking around him with delightedeyes. “There is nothing changed aboutthis house or garden since I was here twentyfiveyears ago. It makes me feel young again.”“You know time always does stand still inan enchanted palace,” said Anne seriously. “Itis only when the prince comes that things beginto happen.”Mr. Irving smiled a little sadly into heruplifted face, all astar with its youth andpromise.“Sometimes the prince comes too late,” hesaid. He did not ask Anne to translate herremark into prose. Like all kindred spirits he“understood.”“Oh, no, not if he is the real prince comingto the true princess,” said Anne, shaking herred head decidedly, as she opened the parlordoor. When he had gone in she shut it tightlybehind him and turned to confront Charlottathe Fourth, who was in the hall, all “nods and

The Prince Comes Back 403becks and wreathed smiles.”“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” she breathed,“I peeked from the kitchen window—and he’sawful handsome—and just the right age forMiss Lavendar. And oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,do you think it would be much harm to listenat the door?”“It would be dreadful, Charlotta,” saidAnne firmly, “so just you come away with meout of the reach of temptation.”“I can’t do anything, and it’s awful to hanground just waiting,” sighed Charlotta. “Whatif he don’t propose after all, Miss Shirley,ma’am? You can never be sure of them men.My older sister, Charlotta the First, thoughtshe was engaged to one once. But it turnedout he had a different opinion and she saysshe’ll never trust one of them again. And Iheard of another case where a man thoughthe wanted one girl awful bad when it was reallyher sister he wanted all the time. Whena man don’t know his own mind, Miss Shirley,ma’am, how’s a poor woman going to be sureof it?”“We’ll go to the kitchen and clean the silverspoons,” said Anne. “That’s a task whichwon’t require much thinking fortunately—forI couldn’t think tonight. And it will pass thetime.”It passed an hour. Then, just as Anne laid

404 Anne of Avonleadown the last shining spoon, they heard thefront door shut. Both sought comfort fearfullyin each other’s eyes.“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” gasped Charlotta,“if he’s going away this early there’snothing into it and never will be.” They flewto the window. Mr. Irving had no intentionof going away. He and Miss Lavendar werestrolling slowly down the middle path to thestone bench.“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, he’s got his armaround her waist,” whispered Charlotta theFourth delightedly. “He must have proposedto her or she’d never allow it.”Anne caught Charlotta the Fourth by herown plump waist and danced her around thekitchen until they were both out of breath.“Oh, Charlotta,” she cried gaily, “I’m neithera prophetess nor the daughter of aprophetess but I’m going to make a prediction.There’ll be a wedding in this old stone housebefore the maple leaves are red. Do you wantthat translated into prose, Charlotta?”“No, I can understand that,” said Charlotta.“A wedding ain’t poetry. Why, MissShirley, ma’am, you’re crying! What for?”“Oh, because it’s all so beautiful—andstory bookish—and romantic—and sad,” saidAnne, winking the tears out of her eyes. “It’sall perfectly lovely—but there’s a little sad-

The Prince Comes Back 405ness mixed up in it too, somehow.”“Oh, of course there’s a resk in marryinganybody,” conceded Charlotta the Fourth,“but, when all’s said and done, Miss Shirley,ma’am, there’s many a worse thing than ahusband.”

406 Anne of Avonlea

XXIX. Poetry andProseFor the next month Anne lived in what, forAvonlea, might be called a whirl of excitement.The preparation of her own modestoutfit for Redmond was of secondary importance.Miss Lavendar was getting ready to bemarried and the stone house was the scene ofendless consultations and plannings and discussions,with Charlotta the Fourth hoveringon the outskirts of things in agitated delightand wonder. Then the dressmaker came, andthere was the rapture and wretchedness ofchoosing fashions and being fitted. Anne andDiana spent half their time at Echo Lodge andthere were nights when Anne could not sleepfor wondering whether she had done rightin advising Miss Lavendar to select brownrather than navy blue for her traveling dress,and to have her gray silk made princess.Everybody concerned in Miss Lavendar’s407

408 Anne of Avonleastory was very happy. Paul Irving rushed toGreen Gables to talk the news over with Anneas soon as his father had told him.“I knew I could trust father to pick me outa nice little second mother,” he said proudly.“It’s a fine thing to have a father you can dependon, teacher. I just love Miss Lavendar.Grandma is pleased, too. She says she’s realglad father didn’t pick out an American for hissecond wife, because, although it turned outall right the first time, such a thing wouldn’tbe likely to happen twice. Mrs. Lynde says shethoroughly approves of the match and thinksits likely Miss Lavendar will give up her queernotions and be like other people, now thatshe’s going to be married. But I hope she won’tgive her queer notions up, teacher, because Ilike them. And I don’t want her to be likeother people. There are too many other peoplearound as it is. You know, teacher.”Charlotta the Fourth was another radiantperson.“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, it has all turnedout so beautiful. When Mr. Irving and MissLavendar come back from their tower I’m togo up to Boston and live with them—and meonly fifteen, and the other girls never went tillthey were sixteen. Ain’t Mr. Irving splendid?He just worships the ground she treads on andit makes me feel so queer sometimes to see

Poetry and Prose 409the look in his eyes when he’s watching her. Itbeggars description, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I’mawful thankful they’re so fond of each other.It’s the best way, when all’s said and done,though some folks can get along without it.I’ve got an aunt who has been married threetimes and says she married the first time forlove and the last two times for strictly business,and was happy with all three except atthe times of the funerals. But I think she tooka resk, Miss Shirley, ma’am.”“Oh, it’s all so romantic,” breathed Anneto Marilla that night. “If I hadn’t taken thewrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball’sI’d never have known Miss Lavendar; and ifI hadn’t met her I’d never have taken Paulthere—and he’d never have written to his fatherabout visiting Miss Lavendar just as Mr.Irving was starting for San Francisco. Mr. Irvingsays whenever he got that letter he madeup his mind to send his partner to San Franciscoand come here instead. He hadn’t heardanything of Miss Lavendar for fifteen years.Somebody had told him then that she was tobe married and he thought she was and neverasked anybody anything about her. And noweverything has come right. And I had a handin bringing it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lyndesays, everything is foreordained and it wasbound to happen anyway. But even so, it’s nice

410 Anne of Avonleato think one was an instrument used by predestination.Yes indeed, it’s very romantic.”“I can’t see that it’s so terribly romanticat all,” said Marilla rather crisply. Marillathought Anne was too worked up aboutit and had plenty to do with getting readyfor college without “traipsing” to Echo Lodgetwo days out of three helping Miss Lavendar.“In the first place two young fools quarreland turn sulky; then Steve Irving goesto the States and after a spell gets marriedup there and is perfectly happy from all accounts.Then his wife dies and after a decentinterval he thinks he’ll come home and see ifhis first fancy’ll have him. Meanwhile, she’sbeen living single, probably because nobodynice enough came along to want her, and theymeet and agree to be married after all. Now,where is the romance in all that?”“Oh, there isn’t any, when you put it thatway,” gasped Anne, rather as if somebody hadthrown cold water over her. “I suppose that’show it looks in prose. But it’s very different ifyou look at it through poetry—and I think it’snicer—” Anne recovered herself and her eyesshone and her cheeks flushed—“to look at itthrough poetry.”Marilla glanced at the radiant young faceand refrained from further sarcastic comments.Perhaps some realization came to her

Poetry and Prose 411that after all it was better to have, like Anne,“the vision and the faculty divine”—that giftwhich the world cannot bestow or take away,of looking at life through some transfiguring—or revealing?—medium, whereby everythingseemed apparelled in celestial light, wearinga glory and a freshness not visible to thosewho, like herself and Charlotta the Fourth,looked at things only through prose.“When’s the wedding to be?” she asked aftera pause.“The last Wednesday in August. They areto be married in the garden under the honeysuckletrellis—the very spot where Mr. Irvingproposed to her twenty-five years ago. Marilla,that is romantic, even in prose. There’s tobe nobody there except Mrs. Irving and Pauland Gilbert and Diana and I, and Miss Lavendar’scousins. And they will leave on the sixo’clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast.When they come back in the fall Paul andCharlotta the Fourth are to go up to Bostonto live with them. But Echo Lodge is to be leftjust as it is—only of course they’ll sell the hensand cow, and board up the windows—and everysummer they’re coming down to live in it.I’m so glad. It would have hurt me dreadfullynext winter at Redmond to think of that dearstone house all stripped and deserted, withempty rooms—or far worse still, with other

412 Anne of Avonleapeople living in it. But I can think of it now,just as I’ve always seen it, waiting happily forthe summer to bring life and laughter back toit again.”There was more romance in the world thanthat which had fallen to the share of themiddle-aged lovers of the stone house. Annestumbled suddenly on it one evening whenshe went over to Orchard Slope by the woodcut and came out into the Barry garden. DianaBarry and Fred Wright were standingtogether under the big willow. Diana wasleaning against the gray trunk, her lashescast down on very crimson cheeks. One handwas held by Fred, who stood with his facebent toward her, stammering something inlow earnest tones. There were no other peoplein the world except their two selves at thatmagic moment; so neither of them saw Anne,who, after one dazed glance of comprehension,turned and sped noiselessly back through thespruce wood, never stopping till she gainedher own gable room, where she sat breathlesslydown by her window and tried to collecther scattered wits.“Diana and Fred are in love with eachother,” she gasped. “Oh, it does seem so—so—so hopelessly grown up.”Anne, of late, had not been without hersuspicions that Diana was proving false to the

Poetry and Prose 413melancholy Byronic hero of her early dreams.But as “things seen are mightier than thingsheard,” or suspected, the realization that itwas actually so came to her with almost theshock of perfect surprise. This was succeededby a queer, little lonely feeling—as if, somehow,Diana had gone forward into a newworld, shutting a gate behind her, leavingAnne on the outside.“Things are changing so fast it almostfrightens me,” Anne thought, a little sadly.“And I’m afraid that this can’t help makingsome difference between Diana and me. I’msure I can’t tell her all my secrets after this—she might tell Fred. And what can she see inFred? He’s very nice and jolly—but he’s justFred Wright.”It is always a very puzzling question—what can somebody see in somebody else? Buthow fortunate after all that it is so, for if everybodysaw alike—well, in that case, as theold Indian said, “Everybody would want mysquaw.” It was plain that Diana did see somethingin Fred Wright, however Anne’s eyesmight be holden. Diana came to Green Gablesthe next evening, a pensive, shy young lady,and told Anne the whole story in the duskyseclusion of the east gable. Both girls criedand kissed and laughed.“I’m so happy,” said Diana, “but it does

414 Anne of Avonleaseem ridiculous to think of me being engaged.”“What is it really like to be engaged?”asked Anne curiously.“Well, that all depends on who you’re engagedto,” answered Diana, with that maddeningair of superior wisdom always assumedby those who are engaged over thosewho are not. “It’s perfectly lovely to be engagedto Fred—but I think it would be simplyhorrid to be engaged to anyone else.”“There’s not much comfort for the rest ofus in that, seeing that there is only one Fred,”laughed Anne.“Oh, Anne, you don’t understand,” said Dianain vexation. “I didn’t mean that—it’s sohard to explain. Never mind, you’ll understandsometime, when your own turn comes.”“Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understandnow. What is an imagination for if not to enableyou to peep at life through other people’seyes?”“You must be my bridesmaid, you know,Anne. Promise me that—wherever you maybe when I’m married.”“I’ll come from the ends of the earth if necessary,”promised Anne solemnly.“Of course, it won’t be for ever so long yet,”said Diana, blushing. “Three years at the veryleast—for I’m only eighteen and mother saysno daughter of hers shall be married before

Poetry and Prose 415she’s twenty-one. Besides, Fred’s father is goingto buy the Abraham Fletcher farm for himand he says he’s got to have it two thirds paidfor before he’ll give it to him in his own name.But three years isn’t any too much time to getready for housekeeping, for I haven’t a speckof fancy work made yet. But I’m going to begincrocheting doilies tomorrow. Myra Gillishad thirty-seven doilies when she was marriedand I’m determined I shall have as manyas she had.”“I suppose it would be perfectly impossibleto keep house with only thirty-six doilies,”conceded Anne, with a solemn face but dancingeyes.Diana looked hurt.“I didn’t think you’d make fun of me,Anne,” she said reproachfully.“Dearest, I wasn’t making fun of you,”cried Anne repentantly. “I was only teasingyou a bit. I think you’ll make the sweetest littlehousekeeper in the world. And I think it’sperfectly lovely of you to be planning alreadyfor your home o’dreams.”Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase,“home o’dreams,” than it captivated her fancyand she immediately began the erection of oneof her own. It was, of course, tenanted byan ideal master, dark, proud, and melancholy;but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in

416 Anne of Avonleahanging about too, helping her arrange pictures,lay out gardens, and accomplish sundryother tasks which a proud and melancholyhero evidently considered beneath his dignity.Anne tried to banish Gilbert’s image from hercastle in Spain but, somehow, he went on beingthere, so Anne, being in a hurry, gaveup the attempt and pursued her aerial architecturewith such success that her “homeo’dreams” was built and furnished before Dianaspoke again.“I suppose, Anne, you must think it’s funnyI should like Fred so well when he’s so differentfrom the kind of man I’ve always saidI would marry—the tall, slender kind? Butsomehow I wouldn’t want Fred to be tall andslender—because, don’t you see, he wouldn’tbe Fred then. Of course,” added Diana ratherdolefully, “we will be a dreadfully pudgy couple.But after all that’s better than one ofus being short and fat and the other tall andlean, like Morgan Sloane and his wife. Mrs.Lynde says it always makes her think of thelong and short of it when she sees them together.”“Well,” said Anne to herself that night, asshe brushed her hair before her gilt framedmirror, “I am glad Diana is so happy and satisfied.But when my turn comes—if it everdoes—I do hope there’ll be something a lit-

Poetry and Prose 417tle more thrilling about it. But then Dianathought so too, once. I’ve heard her say timeand again she’d never get engaged any pokycommonplace way—he’d have to do somethingsplendid to win her. But she has changed. PerhapsI’ll change too. But I won’t—and I’m determinedI won’t. Oh, I think these engagementsare dreadfully unsettling things whenthey happen to your intimate friends.”

418 Anne of Avonlea

XXX. A Wedding atthe Stone HouseThe last week in August came. Miss Lavendarwas to be married in it. Two weeks laterAnne and Gilbert would leave for RedmondCollege. In a week’s time Mrs. Rachel Lyndewould move to Green Gables and set up herlares and penates in the erstwhile spare room,which was already prepared for her coming.She had sold all her superfluous householdplenishings by auction and was at present revelingin the congenial occupation of helpingthe Allans pack up. Mr. Allan was to preachhis farewell sermon the next Sunday. The oldorder was changing rapidly to give place to thenew, as Anne felt with a little sadness threadingall her excitement and happiness.“Changes ain’t totally pleasant but they’reexcellent things,” said Mr. Harrison philosophically.“Two years is about long enoughfor things to stay exactly the same. If they419

420 Anne of Avonleastayed put any longer they might grow mossy.”Mr. Harrison was smoking on his veranda.His wife had self-sacrificingly told that hemight smoke in the house if he took care to sitby an open window. Mr. Harrison rewardedthis concession by going outdoors altogetherto smoke in fine weather, and so mutual goodwillreigned.Anne had come over to ask Mrs. Harrisonfor some of her yellow dahlias. She and Dianawere going through to Echo Lodge thatevening to help Miss Lavendar and Charlottathe Fourth with their final preparations forthe morrow’s bridal. Miss Lavendar herselfnever had dahlias; she did not like them andthey would not have suited the fine retirementof her old-fashioned garden. But flowers ofany kind were rather scarce in Avonlea andthe neighboring districts that summer, thanksto Uncle Abe’s storm; and Anne and Dianathought that a certain old cream-coloredstone jug, usually kept sacred to doughnuts,brimmed over with yellow dahlias, would bejust the thing to set in a dim angle of the stonehouse stairs, against the dark background ofred hall paper.“I s’pose you’ll be starting off for college ina fortnight’s time?” continued Mr. Harrison.“Well, we’re going to miss you an awful lot,Emily and me. To be sure, Mrs. Lynde’ll be

A Wedding at the Stone House 421over there in your place. There ain’t nobodybut a substitute can be found for them.”The irony of Mr. Harrison’s tone is quiteuntransferable to paper. In spite of his wife’sintimacy with Mrs. Lynde, the best that couldbe said of the relationship between her andMr. Harrison even under the new regime, wasthat they preserved an armed neutrality.“Yes, I’m going,” said Anne. “I’m very gladwith my head—and very sorry with my heart.”“I s’pose you’ll be scooping up all the honorsthat are lying round loose at Redmond.”“I may try for one or two of them,” confessedAnne, “but I don’t care so much forthings like that as I did two years ago. WhatI want to get out of my college course is someknowledge of the best way of living life and doingthe most and best with it. I want to learnto understand and help other people and myself.”Mr. Harrison nodded.“That’s the idea exactly. That’s what collegeought to be for, instead of for turning outa lot of B.A.’s, so chock full of book-learningand vanity that there ain’t room for anythingelse. You’re all right. College won’t be able todo you much harm, I reckon.”Diana and Anne drove over to Echo Lodgeafter tea, taking with them all the floweryspoil that several predatory expeditions in

422 Anne of Avonleatheir own and their neighbors’ gardens hadyielded. They found the stone house agog withexcitement. Charlotta the Fourth was flyingaround with such vim and briskness that herblue bows seemed really to possess the powerof being everywhere at once. Like the helmetof Navarre, Charlotta’s blue bows waved everin the thickest of the fray.“Praise be to goodness you’ve come,” shesaid devoutly, “for there’s heaps of thingsto do—and the frosting on that cake won’tharden—and there’s all the silver to berubbed up yet—and the horsehair trunk tobe packed—and the roosters for the chickensalad are running out there beyant the henhouseyet, crowing, Miss Shirley, ma’am. AndMiss Lavendar ain’t to be trusted to do athing. I was thankful when Mr. Irving camea few minutes ago and took her off for awalk in the woods. Courting’s all right inits place, Miss Shirley, ma’am, but if you tryto mix it up with cooking and scouring everything’sspoiled. That’s my opinion, MissShirley, ma’am.”Anne and Diana worked so heartily that byten o’clock even Charlotta the Fourth was satisfied.She braided her hair in innumerableplaits and took her weary little bones off tobed.“But I’m sure I shan’t sleep a blessed wink,

A Wedding at the Stone House 423Miss Shirley, ma’am, for fear that something’llgo wrong at the last minute—the cream won’twhip—or Mr. Irving’ll have a stroke and notbe able to come.”“He isn’t in the habit of having strokes,is he?” asked Diana, the dimpled corners ofher mouth twitching. To Diana, Charlotta theFourth was, if not exactly a thing of beauty,certainly a joy forever.“They’re not things that go by habit,” saidCharlotta the Fourth with dignity. “They justhappen—and there you are. Anybody canhave a stroke. You don’t have to learn how.Mr. Irving looks a lot like an uncle of minethat had one once just as he was sitting downto dinner one day. But maybe everything’ll goall right. In this world you’ve just got to hopefor the best and prepare for the worst and takewhatever God sends.”“The only thing I’m worried about is thatit won’t be fine tomorrow,” said Diana. “UncleAbe predicted rain for the middle of the week,and ever since the big storm I can’t help believingthere’s a good deal in what Uncle Abesays.”Anne, who knew better than Diana justhow much Uncle Abe had to do with the storm,was not much disturbed by this. She slept thesleep of the just and weary, and was roused atan unearthly hour by Charlotta the Fourth.

424 Anne of Avonlea“Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, it’s awful to callyou so early,” came wailing through the keyhole,“but there’s so much to do yet—and oh,Miss Shirley, ma’am, I’m skeered it’s going torain and I wish you’d get up and tell me youthink it ain’t.” Anne flew to the window, hopingagainst hope that Charlotta the Fourthwas saying this merely by way of rousing hereffectually. But alas, the morning did lookunpropitious. Below the window Miss Lavendar’sgarden, which should have been a gloryof pale virgin sunshine, lay dim and windless;and the sky over the firs was dark with moodyclouds.“Isn’t it too mean!” said Diana.“We must hope for the best,” said Anne determinedly.“If it only doesn’t actually rain, acool, pearly gray day like this would really benicer than hot sunshine.”“But it will rain,” mourned Charlotta,creeping into the room, a figure of fun, withher many braids wound about her head, theends, tied up with white thread, sticking outin all directions. “It’ll hold off till the lastminute and then pour cats and dogs. And allthe folks will get sopping—and track mud allover the house—and they won’t be able to bemarried under the honeysuckle—and it’s awfulunlucky for no sun to shine on a bride, saywhat you will, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I knew

A Wedding at the Stone House 425things were going too well to last.”Charlotta the Fourth seemed certainly tohave borrowed a leaf out of Miss Eliza Andrews’book.It did not rain, though it kept on lookingas if it meant to. By noon the rooms weredecorated, the table beautifully laid; and upstairswas waiting a bride, “adorned for herhusband.”“You do look sweet,” said Anne rapturously.“Lovely,” echoed Diana.“Everything’s ready, Miss Shirley, ma’am,and nothing dreadful has happened yet,” wasCharlotta’s cheerful statement as she betookherself to her little back room to dress. Outcame all the braids; the resultant rampantcrinkliness was plaited into two tails and tied,not with two bows alone, but with four, ofbrand-new ribbon, brightly blue. The twoupper bows rather gave the impression ofovergrown wings sprouting from Charlotta’sneck, somewhat after the fashion of Raphael’scherubs. But Charlotta the Fourth thoughtthem very beautiful, and after she had rustledinto a white dress, so stiffly starched thatit could stand alone, she surveyed herself inher glass with great satisfaction—a satisfactionwhich lasted until she went out in thehall and caught a glimpse through the spareroom door of a tall girl in some softly clinging

426 Anne of Avonleagown, pinning white, star-like flowers on thesmooth ripples of her ruddy hair.“Oh, I’ll never be able to look like MissShirley,” thought poor Charlotta despairingly.“You just have to be born so, I guess—don’tseem’s if any amount of practice could give youthat air.”By one o’clock the guests had come, includingMr. and Mrs. Allan, for Mr. Allan was toperform the ceremony in the absence of theGrafton minister on his vacation. There wasno formality about the marriage. Miss Lavendarcame down the stairs to meet her bridegroomat the foot, and as he took her hand shelifted her big brown eyes to his with a lookthat made Charlotta the Fourth, who interceptedit, feel queerer than ever. They wentout to the honeysuckle arbor, where Mr. Allanwas awaiting them. The guests groupedthemselves as they pleased. Anne and Dianastood by the old stone bench, with Charlottathe Fourth between them, desperately clutchingtheir hands in her cold, tremulous littlepaws.Mr. Allan opened his blue book and theceremony proceeded. Just as Miss Lavendarand Stephen Irving were pronounced man andwife a very beautiful and symbolic thing happened.The sun suddenly burst through thegray and poured a flood of radiance on the

A Wedding at the Stone House 427happy bride. Instantly the garden was alivewith dancing shadows and flickering lights.“What a lovely omen,” thought Anne, asshe ran to kiss the bride. Then the three girlsleft the rest of the guests laughing around thebridal pair while they flew into the house tosee that all was in readiness for the feast.“Thanks be to goodness, it’s over, MissShirley, ma’am,” breathed Charlotta theFourth, “and they’re married safe and sound,no matter what happens now. The bags of riceare in the pantry, ma’am, and the old shoesare behind the door, and the cream for whippingis on the sullar steps.”At half past two Mr. and Mrs. Irving left,and everybody went to Bright River to seethem off on the afternoon train. As MissLavendar—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Irving—stepped from the door of her old home Gilbertand the girls threw the rice and Charlotta theFourth hurled an old shoe with such excellentaim that she struck Mr. Allan squarely on thehead. But it was reserved for Paul to givethe prettiest send-off. He popped out of theporch ringing furiously a huge old brass dinnerbell which had adorned the dining roommantel. Paul’s only motive was to make ajoyful noise; but as the clangor died away,from point and curve and hill across the rivercame the chime of “fairy wedding bells,” ring-

428 Anne of Avonleaing clearly, sweetly, faintly and more faint, asif Miss Lavendar’s beloved echoes were biddingher greeting and farewell. And so, amidthis benediction of sweet sounds, Miss Lavendardrove away from the old life of dreams andmake-believes to a fuller life of realities in thebusy world beyond.Two hours later Anne and Charlotta theFourth came down the lane again. Gilbert hadgone to West Grafton on an errand and Dianahad to keep an engagement at home. Anneand Charlotta had come back to put thingsin order and lock up the little stone house.The garden was a pool of late golden sunshine,with butterflies hovering and bees booming;but the little house had already that indefinableair of desolation which always follows afestivity.“Oh dear me, don’t it look lonesome?”sniffed Charlotta the Fourth, who had beencrying all the way home from the station.“A wedding ain’t much cheerfuller than a funeralafter all, when it’s all over, Miss Shirley,ma’am.”A busy evening followed. The decorationshad to be removed, the dishes washed, the uneatendelicacies packed into a basket for thedelectation of Charlotta the Fourth’s youngbrothers at home. Anne would not rest untileverything was in apple-pie order; after Char-

A Wedding at the Stone House 429lotta had gone home with her plunder Annewent over the still rooms, feeling like one whotrod alone some banquet hall deserted, andclosed the blinds. Then she locked the doorand sat down under the silver poplar to waitfor Gilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedlythinking “long, long thoughts.”“What are you thinking of, Anne?” askedGilbert, coming down the walk. He had lefthis horse and buggy out at the road.“Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving,” answeredAnne dreamily. “Isn’t it beautiful tothink how everything has turned out—howthey have come together again after all theyears of separation and misunderstanding?”“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, lookingsteadily down into Anne’s uplifted face, “butwouldn’t it have been more beautiful still,Anne, if there had been no separation ormisunderstanding—if they had come hand inhand all the way through life, with no memoriesbehind them but those which belonged toeach other?”For a moment Anne’s heart flutteredqueerly and for the first time her eyes falteredunder Gilbert’s gaze and a rosy flushstained the paleness of her face. It was asif a veil that had hung before her inner consciousnesshad been lifted, giving to her viewa revelation of unsuspected feelings and real-

430 Anne of Avonleaities. Perhaps, after all, romance did not comeinto one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gayknight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’sside like an old friend through quiet ways;perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose,until some sudden shaft of illumination flungathwart its pages betrayed the rhythm andthe music, perhaps—perhaps—love unfoldednaturally out of a beautiful friendship, as agolden-hearted rose slipping from its greensheath.Then the veil dropped again; but the Annewho walked up the dark lane was not quitethe same Anne who had driven gaily down itthe evening before. The page of girlhood hadbeen turned, as by an unseen finger, and thepage of womanhood was before her with all itscharm and mystery, its pain and gladness.Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but inhis silence he read the history of the nextfour years in the light of Anne’s rememberedblush. Four years of earnest, happy work—and then the guerdon of a useful knowledgegained and a sweet heart won.Behind them in the garden the little stonehouse brooded among the shadows. It waslonely but not forsaken. It had not yet donewith dreams and laughter and the joy of life;there were to be future summers for the littlestone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And

A Wedding at the Stone House 431over the river in purple durance the echoesbided their time.