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Title: Anne of Windy Poplars
Author: Montgomery, L. M. [Lucy Maud] (1874-1942)
Date of first publication: 1936
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Grosset & Dunlap, undated;
   probably published around 1971
   ["A Thrushwood Book"]
Date first posted: 11 June 2010
Date last updated: 11 June 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #551

This ebook was produced by: David Edwards, Anne Grieve
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




Transcriber's notes can be found at the end of the text.








                                  Anne

                                   of

                              Windy Poplars

                           By L. M. MONTGOMERY




                                  TO

                          The Friends of Anne
                              Everywhere




                               Contents


           PART I                                        PAGE

           THE FIRST YEAR                                   3


           PART II

           THE SECOND YEAR                                117


           PART III

           THE THIRD YEAR                                 187




                           _The First Year_




                                  1


(_Letter from Anne Shirley, B.A., Principal of Summerside High School,
  to Gilbert Blythe, medical student at Redmond College, Kingsport._)


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                    "S'side, P. E. I.,
                                              "Monday, September 12th.

    "DEAREST:

    "Isn't that an address! Did you ever hear anything so delicious?
    Windy Poplars is the name of my new home and I love it. I also love
    Spook's Lane, which has no legal existence. It should be Trent
    Street but it is never called Trent Street except on the rare
    occasions when it is mentioned in the _Weekly Courier_ . . . and
    then people look at each other and say, 'Where on earth is that?'
    Spook's Lane it is . . . although for what reason I cannot tell you.
    I have already asked Rebecca Dew about it, but all she can say is
    that it has always been Spook's Lane and there was some old yarn
    years ago of its being haunted. But _she_ has never seen anything
    worse-looking than herself in it.

    "However, I mustn't get ahead of my story. You don't know Rebecca
    Dew yet. But you will, oh, yes, you will. I foresee that Rebecca Dew
    will figure largely in my future correspondence.

    "It's dusk, dearest. (In passing, isn't 'dusk' a lovely word? I like
    it better than twilight. It sounds so velvety and shadowy and . . .
    and . . . _dusky_.) In daylight I belong to the world . . . in the
    night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I'm free from both and
    belong only to myself . . . and _you_. So I'm going to keep this
    hour sacred to writing to you. Though _this_ won't be a love letter.
    I have a scratchy pen and I can't write love letters with a scratchy
    pen . . . or a sharp pen . . . or a stub pen. So you'll only get
    _that_ kind of letter from me when I have exactly the right kind of
    pen. Meanwhile, I'll tell you about my new domicile and its
    inhabitants. Gilbert, they're such _dears_.

    "I came up yesterday to look for a boarding house. Mrs. Rachel Lynde
    came with me, ostensibly to do some shopping but really, I know, to
    choose a boarding house for me. In spite of my Arts course and my
    B.A., Mrs. Lynde still thinks I am an inexperienced young thing who
    must be guided and directed and overseen.

    "We came by train and oh, Gilbert, I had the funniest adventure. You
    know I've always been one to whom adventures came unsought. I just
    seem to attract them, as it were.

    "It happened just as the train was coming to a stop at the station.
    I got up and, stooping to pick up Mrs. Lynde's suitcase (she was
    planning to spend Sunday with a friend in Summerside), I leaned my
    knuckles heavily on what I thought was the shiny arm of a seat. In a
    second I received a violent crack across them that nearly made me
    howl. Gilbert, what I had taken for the arm of a seat was a man's
    bald head. He was glaring fiercely at me and had evidently just
    waked up. I apologized abjectly and got off the train as quickly as
    possible. The last I saw of him he was still glaring. Mrs. Lynde was
    horrified and my knuckles are sore yet!

    "I did not expect to have much trouble in finding a boarding house,
    for a certain Mrs. Tom Pringle has been boarding the various
    principals of the High School for the last fifteen years. But, for
    some unknown reason, she has grown suddenly tired of 'being
    bothered' and wouldn't take me. Several other desirable places had
    some polite excuse. Several other places _weren't_ desirable. We
    wandered about the town the whole afternoon and got hot and tired
    and blue and headachy . . . at least _I_ did. I was ready to give up
    in despair . . . and then, Spook's Lane just happened!

    "We had dropped in to see Mrs. Braddock, an old crony of Mrs.
    Lynde's. And Mrs. Braddock said she thought 'the widows' might take
    me in.

    "'I've heard they want a boarder to pay Rebecca Dew's wages. They
    can't afford to keep Rebecca any longer unless a little extra money
    comes in. And if Rebecca goes, _who_ is to milk that old red cow?'

    "Mrs. Braddock fixed me with a stern eye as if she thought _I_ ought
    to milk the red cow but wouldn't believe me on oath if I claimed I
    could.

    "'What widows are you talking about?' demanded Mrs. Lynde.

    "'Why, Aunt Kate and Aunt Chatty,' said Mrs. Braddock, as if
    everybody, even an ignorant B.A., ought to know that. 'Aunt Kate is
    Mrs. Amasa MacComber (she's the Captain's widow) and Aunt Chatty is
    Mrs. Lincoln MacLean, just a plain widow. But everyone calls them
    "aunt." They live at the end of Spook's Lane.'

    "Spook's Lane! That settled it. I knew I just had to board with the
    widows.

    "'Let's go and see them at once,' I implored Mrs. Lynde. It seemed
    to me if we lost a moment Spook's Lane would vanish back into
    fairyland.

    "'You can see them, but it'll be Rebecca who'll really decide
    whether they'll take you or not. Rebecca Dew rules the roost at
    Windy Poplars, I can tell you.'

    "Windy Poplars! It couldn't be true . . . no, it couldn't. I must
    be dreaming. And Mrs. Rachel Lynde was actually saying it was a
    funny name for a place.

    "'Oh, Captain MacComber called it that. It was his house, you know.
    He planted all the poplars round it and was mighty proud of it,
    though he was seldom home and never stayed long. Aunt Kate used to
    say that was inconvenient, but we never got it figured out whether
    she meant his staying such a little time or his coming back at all.
    Well, Miss Shirley, I hope you'll get there. Rebecca Dew's a good
    cook and a genius with cold potatoes. If she takes a notion to you
    you'll be in clover. If she doesn't . . . well, she won't, that's
    all. I hear there's a new banker in town looking for a boarding
    house and she may prefer him. It's kind of funny Mrs. Tom Pringle
    wouldn't take you. Summerside is full of Pringles and half Pringles.
    They're called "The Royal Family" and you'll have to get on their
    good side, Miss Shirley, or you'll never get along in Summerside
    High. They've always ruled the roost hereabouts . . . there's a
    street called after old Captain Abraham Pringle. There's a regular
    clan of them, but the two old ladies at Maplehurst boss the tribe. I
    did hear they were down on you.'

    "'Why should they be?' I exclaimed. 'I'm a total stranger to them.'

    "'Well, a third cousin of theirs applied for the Principalship and
    they all think he should have got it. When your application was
    accepted the whole kit and boodle of them threw back their heads and
    howled. Well, people are like that. We have to take them as we find
    them, you know. They'll be as smooth as cream to you but they'll
    work against you every time. I'm not wanting to discourage you, but
    forewarned is forearmed. I hope you'll make good just to spite them.
    If the widows take you, you won't mind eating with Rebecca Dew, will
    you? She isn't a _servant_, you know. She's a far-off cousin of the
    Captain's. She doesn't come to the table when there's company . . .
    she knows her place _then_ . . . but if you were boarding there she
    wouldn't consider you company, of course.'

    "I assured the anxious Mrs. Braddock that I'd love eating with
    Rebecca Dew and dragged Mrs. Lynde away. I _must_ get ahead of the
    banker.

    "Mrs. Braddock followed us to the door.

    "'And don't hurt Aunt Chatty's feelings, will you? Her feelings are
    so easily hurt. She's so sensitive, poor thing. You see, she hasn't
    _quite_ as much money as Aunt Kate . . . though Aunt Kate hasn't any
    too much either. And then Aunt Kate liked her husband real well . . .
    her own husband, I mean . . . but Aunt Chatty didn't . . . didn't like
    hers, I mean. Small wonder! Lincoln MacLean was an old crank . . .
    but she thinks people hold it against her. It's lucky this is
    Saturday. If it was Friday Aunt Chatty wouldn't even consider taking
    you. You'd think Aunt Kate would be the superstitious one, wouldn't
    you? Sailors are kind of like that. But it's Aunt Chatty . . .
    although _her_ husband was a carpenter. She was very pretty in her
    day, poor thing.'

    "I assured Mrs. Braddock that Aunt Chatty's feelings would be sacred
    to me, but she followed us down the walk.

    "'Kate and Chatty won't explore your belongings when you're out.
    They're very conscientious. Rebecca Dew may, but she won't tell on
    you. And I wouldn't go to the front door if I was you. They only use
    it for something real important. I don't think it's been opened
    since Amasa's funeral. Try the side door. They keep the key under
    the flowerpot on the window sill, so if nobody's home just unlock
    the door and go in and wait. And whatever you do, don't praise the
    cat, because Rebecca Dew doesn't like him.'

    "I promised I wouldn't praise the cat and we actually got away. Ere
    long we found ourselves in Spook's Lane. It is a very short side
    street, leading out to open country, and far away a blue hill makes
    a beautiful backdrop for it. On one side there are no houses at all
    and the land slopes down to the harbor. On the other side there are
    only three. The first one is just a house . . . nothing more to be
    said of it. The next one is a big imposing, gloomy mansion of
    stone-trimmed red brick, with a mansard roof warty with dormer
    windows, an iron railing around the flat top and so many spruces and
    firs crowding about it that you can hardly see the house. It must
    be frightfully dark inside. And the third and last is Windy Poplars,
    right on the corner, with the grass-grown street on the front and a
    real country road, beautiful with tree shadows, on the other side.

    "I fell in love with it at once. You know there are houses which
    impress themselves upon you at first sight for some reason you can
    hardly define. Windy Poplars is like that. I may describe it to you
    as a white frame house . . . very white . . . with green shutters
    . . . very green . . . with a 'tower' in the corner and a dormer
    window on either side, a low stone wall dividing it from the street,
    with aspen poplars growing at intervals along it, and a big garden
    at the back where flowers and vegetables are delightfully jumbled up
    together . . . but all this can't convey its charm to you. In short,
    it is a house with a delightful personality and has something of the
    flavor of Green Gables about it.

    "'This is the spot for me . . . it's been foreordained,' I said
    rapturously.

    "Mrs. Lynde looked as if she didn't quite trust foreordination.

    "'It'll be a long walk to school,' she said dubiously.

    "'I don't mind that. It will be good exercise. Oh, look at that
    lovely birch and maple grove across the road.'

    "Mrs. Lynde looked but all she said was, 'I hope you won't be
    pestered with mosquitoes.'

    "I hoped so, too. I detest mosquitoes. One mosquito can keep me
    'awaker' than a bad conscience.

    "I was glad we didn't have to go in by the front door. It looked so
    forbidding . . . a big, double-leaved, grained-wood affair, flanked
    by panels of red, flowered glass. It doesn't seem to belong to the
    house at all. The little green side door, which we reached by a
    darling path of thin, flat sandstones sunk at intervals in the
    grass, was much more friendly and inviting. The path was edged by
    very prim, well-ordered beds of ribbon grass and bleeding heart and
    tiger lilies and sweet William and southernwood and bride's bouquet
    and red-and-white daisies and what Mrs. Lynde calls 'pinies.' Of
    course they weren't all in bloom at this season, but you could see
    they had bloomed at the proper time and done it well. There was a
    rose plot in a far corner and between Windy Poplars and the gloomy
    house next a brick wall all overgrown with Virginia creeper, with an
    arched trellis above a faded green door in the middle of it. A vine
    ran right across it, so it was plain it hadn't been opened for some
    time. It was really only half a door, for its top half is merely an
    open oblong through which we could catch a glimpse of a jungly
    garden on the other side.

    "Just as we entered the gate of the garden of Windy Poplars I
    noticed a little clump of clover right by the path. Some impulse led
    me to stoop down and look at it. Would you believe it, Gilbert?
    There, right before my eyes were _three_ four-leafed clovers! Talk
    about omens! Even the Pringles can't contend against that. And I
    felt sure the banker hadn't an earthly chance.

    "The side door was open so it was evident somebody was at home and
    we didn't have to look under the flowerpot. We knocked and Rebecca
    Dew came to the door. We knew it was Rebecca Dew because it couldn't
    have been anyone else in the whole wide world. And she couldn't have
    had any other name.

    "Rebecca Dew is 'around forty' and if a tomato had black hair racing
    away from its forehead, little twinkling black eyes, a tiny nose
    with a knobby end, and a slit of a mouth, it would look exactly like
    her. Everything about her is a little too short . . . arms and legs
    and neck and nose . . . everything but her smile. It is long enough
    to reach from ear to ear.

    "But we didn't see her smile just then. She looked very grim when I
    asked if I could see Mrs. MacComber.

    "'You mean Mrs. _Captain_ MacComber?' she said rebukingly, as if
    there were at least a dozen Mrs. MacCombers in the house.

    "'Yes,' I said meekly. And we were forthwith ushered into the parlor
    and left there. It was rather a nice little room, a bit cluttered up
    with antimacassars but with a quiet, friendly atmosphere about it
    that I liked. Every bit of furniture had its own particular place
    which it had occupied for years. How that furniture shone! No bought
    polish ever produced that mirror-like gloss. I knew it was Rebecca
    Dew's elbow grease. There was a full-rigged ship in a bottle on the
    mantelpiece which interested Mrs. Lynde greatly. She couldn't
    imagine how it ever got into the bottle . . . but she thought it
    gave the room 'a nautical air.'

    "'The widows' came in. I liked them at once. Aunt Kate was tall and
    thin and gray, and a little austere . . . Marilla's type exactly:
    and Aunt Chatty was short and thin and gray, and a little wistful.
    She may have been very pretty once but nothing is now left of her
    beauty except her eyes. _They_ are lovely . . . soft and big and
    brown.

    "I explained my errand and the widows looked at each other.

    "'We must consult Rebecca Dew,' said Aunt Chatty.

    "'Undoubtedly,' said Aunt Kate.

    "Rebecca Dew was accordingly summoned from the kitchen. The cat came
    in with her . . . a big fluffy Maltese, with a white breast and a
    white collar. I should have liked to stroke him, but, remembering
    Mrs. Braddock's warning, I ignored him.

    "Rebecca gazed at me without the glimmer of a smile.

    "'Rebecca,' said Aunt Kate, who, I have discovered, does not waste
    words, 'Miss Shirley wishes to board here. I don't think we can take
    her.'

    "'Why not?' said Rebecca Dew.

    "'It would be too much trouble for you, I am afraid,' said Aunt
    Chatty.

    "'I'm well used to trouble,' said Rebecca Dew. You _can't_ separate
    those names, Gilbert. It's impossible . . . though the widows do it.
    They call her Rebecca when they speak to her. I don't know how they
    manage it.

    "'We are rather old to have young people coming and going,'
    persisted Aunt Chatty.

    "'Speak for yourself,' retorted Rebecca Dew. 'I'm only forty-five
    and I still have the use of my faculties. And _I_ think it would be
    nice to have a young person sleeping in the house. A girl would be
    better than a boy any time. _He'd_ be smoking day _and_ night . . .
    burn us in our beds. If you must take a boarder, _my_ advice would
    be to take _her_. But of course it's _your_ house.'

    "She said and vanished . . . as Homer was so fond of remarking. I
    knew the whole thing was settled, but Aunt Chatty said I must go up
    and see whether I was suited with my room.

    "'We will give you the tower room, dear. It's not quite as large as
    the spare room, but it has a stovepipe hole for a stove in winter
    and a much nicer view. You can see the old graveyard from it.'

    "I knew I would love the room . . . the very name, 'tower room,'
    thrilled me. I felt as if we were living in that old song we used to
    sing in Avonlea School about the maiden who 'dwelt in a high tower
    beside a gray sea.' It proved to be the dearest place. We ascended
    to it by a little flight of corner steps leading up from the stair
    landing. It was rather small . . . but not nearly as small as that
    dreadful hall bedroom I had my first year at Redmond. It had two
    windows, a dormer one looking west and a gable one looking north,
    and in the corner formed by the tower another three-sided window
    with casements opening outward and shelves underneath for my books.
    The floor was covered with round, braided rugs, the big bed had a
    canopy top and a 'wild-goose' quilt and looked so perfectly smooth
    and level that it seemed a shame to spoil it by sleeping in it. And,
    Gilbert, it is so high that I have to climb into it by a funny
    little movable set of steps which in daytime are stowed away under
    it. It seems Captain MacComber bought the whole contraption in some
    'foreign' place and brought it home.

    "There was a dear little corner cupboard with shelves trimmed with
    white scalloped paper and bouquets painted on its door. There was a
    round blue cushion on the window seat . . . a cushion with a button
    deep in the center, making it look like a fat blue doughnut. And
    there was a sweet washstand with two shelves . . . the top one just
    big enough for a basin and jug of robin's-egg blue and the under one
    for a soap dish and hot water pitcher. It had a little brass-handled
    drawer full of towels and on a shelf over it a white china lady sat,
    with pink shoes and gilt sash and a red china rose in her golden
    china hair.

    "The whole place was engoldened by the light that came through the
    corn-colored curtains and there was the rarest tapestry on the
    whitewashed walls where the shadow patterns of the aspens outside
    fell . . . living tapestry, always changing and quivering. Somehow,
    it seemed such a _happy_ room. I felt as if I were the richest girl
    in the world.

    "'You'll be safe there, that's what,' said Mrs. Lynde, as we went
    away.

    "'I expect I'll find some things a bit cramping after the freedom of
    Patty's Place,' I said, just to tease her.

    "'Freedom!' Mrs. Lynde sniffed. 'Freedom! Don't talk like a Yankee,
    Anne.'

    "I came up today, bag and baggage. Of course I hated to leave Green
    Gables. No matter how often and long I'm away from it, the minute a
    vacation comes I'm part of it again as if I had never been away, and
    my heart is torn over leaving it. But I know I'll like it here. And
    it likes me. I always know whether a house likes me or not.

    "The views from my windows are lovely . . . even the old graveyard,
    which is surrounded by a row of dark fir trees and reached by a
    winding, dyke-bordered lane. From my west window I can see all over
    the harbor to distant, misty shores, with the dear little sailboats
    I love and the ships outward bound 'for ports unknown' . . .
    fascinating phrase! Such 'scope for imagination' in it! From the
    north window I can see into the grove of birch and maple across the
    road. You know I've always been a tree worshiper. When we studied
    Tennyson in our English course at Redmond I was always sorrowfully
    at one with poor Enone, mourning her ravished pines.

    "Beyond the grove and the graveyard is a lovable valley with the
    glossy red ribbon of a road winding through it and white houses
    dotted along it. Some valleys _are_ lovable . . . you can't tell
    why. Just to look at them gives you pleasure. And beyond it again is
    my blue hill. I'm naming it Storm King . . . the ruling passion,
    etc.

    "I can be so _alone_ up here when I want to be. You know it's lovely
    to be alone once in a while. The winds will be my friends. They'll
    wail and sigh and croon around my tower . . . the white winds of
    winter . . . the green winds of spring . . . the blue winds of
    summer . . . the crimson winds of autumn . . . and the wild winds
    of all seasons . . . 'stormy wind fulfilling his word.' How I've
    always thrilled to that Bible verse . . . as if each and every wind
    had a message for me. I've always envied the boy who flew with the
    north wind in that lovely old story of George MacDonald's. Some
    night, Gilbert, I'll open my tower casement and just step into the
    arms of the wind . . . and Rebecca Dew will never know why my bed
    wasn't slept in that night.

    "I hope when we find our 'house of dreams,' dearest, that there will
    be winds around it. I wonder where it is . . . that unknown house.
    Shall I love it best by moonlight or dawn? That home of the future
    where we will have love and friendship and work . . . and a few
    funny adventures to bring laughter in our old age. Old age! Can we
    ever be old, Gilbert? It seems impossible.

    "From the left window in the tower I can see the roofs of the town
    . . . this place where I am to live for at least a year. People are
    living in those houses who will be my friends, though I don't know
    them yet. And perhaps my enemies. For the ilk of Pye are found
    everywhere, under all kinds of names, and I understand the Pringles
    are to be reckoned with. School begins tomorrow. I shall have to
    teach geometry! Surely that can't be any worse than learning it. I
    pray heaven there are no mathematical geniuses among the Pringles.

    "I've been here only for half a day, but I feel as if had known the
    widows and Rebecca Dew all my life. They've asked me to call them
    'aunt' already and I've asked them to call me Anne. I called Rebecca
    Dew 'Miss Dew' . . . once.

    "'Miss What?' quoth she.

    "'Dew,' I said meekly. 'Isn't that your name?'

    "'Well, yes, it is, but I ain't been called Miss Dew for so long it
    gave me quite a turn. You'd better not do it any more, Miss Shirley,
    me not being used to it.'

    "'I'll remember, Rebecca . . . Dew,' I said, trying my hardest to
    leave off the Dew but not succeeding.

    "Mrs. Braddock was quite right in saying Aunt Chatty was sensitive.
    I discovered that at suppertime. Aunt Kate had said something about
    'Chatty's sixty-sixth birthday.' Happening to glance at Aunt Chatty
    I saw that she had . . . no, not _burst_ into tears. That is
    entirely too explosive a term for her performance. She just
    overflowed. The tears welled up in her big brown eyes and brimmed
    over, effortlessly and silently.

    "'What's the matter now, Chatty?' asked Aunt Kate rather dourly.

    "'It . . . it was only my sixty-fifth birthday,' said Aunt Chatty.

    "'I beg your pardon, Charlotte,' said Aunt Kate . . . and all was
    sunshine again.

    "The cat is a lovely big Tommy-cat with golden eyes, an elegant coat
    of dusty Maltese and irreproachable linen. Aunts Kate and Chatty
    call him Dusty Miller, because that is his name, and Rebecca Dew
    calls him That Cat because she resents him and resents the fact that
    she has to give him a square inch of liver every morning and
    evening, clean his hairs off the parlor armchair seat with an old
    toothbrush whenever he has sneaked in, and hunt him up if he is out
    late at night.

    "'Rebecca Dew has always hated cats,' Aunt Chatty tells me, 'and she
    hates Dusty especially. Old Mrs. Campbell's dog . . . she kept a dog
    then . . . brought him here two years ago in his mouth. I suppose he
    thought it was no use to take him to Mrs. Campbell. Such a poor
    miserable little kitten, all wet and cold, with its poor little
    bones almost sticking through its skin. A heart of stone couldn't
    have refused it shelter. So Kate and I adopted it, but Rebecca Dew
    has never really forgiven us. We were not diplomatic that time. We
    should have refused to take it in. I don't know if you've noticed
    . . .' Aunt Chatty looked cautiously around at the door between the
    dining room and kitchen . . . 'how we manage Rebecca Dew.'

    "I _had_ noticed it . . . and it was beautiful to behold. Summerside
    and Rebecca Dew may think she rules the roost but the widows know
    differently.

    "'We didn't want to take the banker . . . a young man would have
    been _so_ unsettling and we would have had to worry so much if he
    didn't go to church regularly. But we pretended we did and Rebecca
    Dew simply wouldn't hear of it. I'm so glad we have you, dear. I
    feel sure you'll be a very nice person to cook for. I hope you'll
    like us all. Rebecca Dew has some very fine qualities. She was not
    so tidy when she came fifteen years ago as she is now. Once Kate had
    to write her name . . . "Rebecca Dew" . . . right across the parlor
    mirror to show the dust. But she never had to do it again. Rebecca
    Dew can take a hint. I hope you'll find your room comfortable, dear.
    You may have the window open at night. Kate does not approve of
    night air but she knows boarders must have privileges. She and I
    sleep together and we have arranged it so that one night the window
    is shut for her and the next it is open for me. One can always work
    out little problems like that, don't you think? Where there is a
    will there is always a way. Don't be alarmed if you hear Rebecca
    prowling a good deal in the night. She is always hearing noises and
    getting up to investigate them. I think that is why she didn't want
    the banker. She was afraid she might run into him in her nightgown.
    I hope you won't mind Kate not talking much. It's just her way. And
    she must have so many things to talk of . . . she was all over the
    world with Amasa MacComber in her young days. I wish I had the
    subjects for conversation she has, but I've never been off P. E.
    Island. I've often wondered why things should be arranged so . . .
    me loving to talk and with nothing to talk about and Kate with
    everything and hating to talk. But I suppose Providence knows best.'

    "Although Aunt Chatty is a talker all right, she didn't say all this
    without a break. I interjected remarks at suitable intervals, but
    they were of no importance.

    "They keep a cow which is pastured at Mr. James Hamilton's up the
    road and Rebecca Dew goes there to milk her. There is any amount of
    cream and every morning and evening I understand Rebecca Dew passes
    a glass of new milk through the opening in the wall gate to Mrs.
    Campbell's 'Woman.' It is for 'little Elizabeth,' who must have it
    under doctor's orders. Who the Woman is, or who little Elizabeth is,
    I have yet to discover. Mrs. Campbell is the inhabitant and owner
    of the fortress next door . . . which is called The Evergreens.

    "I don't expect to sleep tonight . . . I never do sleep my first
    night in a strange bed and _this_ is the very strangest bed I've
    ever seen. But I won't mind. I've always loved the night and I'll
    like lying awake and thinking over everything in life, past, present
    and to come. Especially _to come_.

    "This is a merciless letter, Gilbert. I won't inflict such a long
    one on you again. But I wanted to tell you everything, so that you
    could picture my new surroundings for yourself. It has come to an
    end now, for far up the harbor the moon is 'sinking into
    shadowland.' I must write a letter to Marilla yet. It will reach
    Green Gables the day after tomorrow and Davy will bring it home from
    the post office, and he and Dora will crowd around Marilla while she
    opens it and Mrs. Lynde will have both ears open. . . . Ow . . . w
    . . . w! That has made me homesick. Good night, dearest, from one who
    is now and ever will be,

                                                     "Fondestly yours,

                                                               "ANNE."


                                    2


      (_Extracts from various letters from the same to the same._)


                                                      "September 26th.

    "Do you know where I go to read your letters? Across the road into
    the grove. There is a little dell there where the sun dapples the
    ferns. A brook meanders through it; there is a twisted mossy tree
    trunk on which I sit, and the most delightful row of young sister
    birches. After this, when I have a dream of a certain kind . . . a
    golden-green, crimson-veined dream . . . a very dream of dreams
    . . . I shall please my fancy with the belief that it came from my
    secret dell of birches and was born of some mystic union between the
    slenderest, airiest of the sisters and the crooning brook. I love to
    sit there and listen to the silence of the grove. Have you ever
    noticed how many different silences there are, Gilbert? The silence
    of the woods . . . of the shore . . . of the meadows . . . of the
    night . . . of the summer afternoon. All different because all the
    undertones that thread them are different. I'm sure if I were
    totally blind and insensitive to heat and cold I could easily tell
    just where I was by the quality of the silence about me.

    "School has been 'keeping' for two weeks now and I've got things
    pretty well organized. But Mrs. Braddock was right . . . the
    Pringles are my problem. And as yet I don't see exactly how I'm
    going to solve it in spite of my lucky clovers. As Mrs. Braddock
    says, they are as smooth as cream . . . and as slippery.

    "The Pringles are a kind of clan who keep tabs on each other and
    fight a good bit among themselves but stand shoulder to shoulder in
    regard to any outsider. I have come to the conclusion that there are
    just two kinds of people in Summerside . . . those who are Pringles
    and those who aren't.

    "My room is full of Pringles and a good many students who bear
    another name have Pringle blood in them. The ringleader of them
    seems to be Jen Pringle, a green-eyed bantling who looks as _Becky
    Sharp_ must have looked at fourteen. I believe she is deliberately
    organizing a subtle campaign of insubordination and disrespect, with
    which I am going to find it hard to cope. She has a knack of making
    irresistibly comic faces and when I hear a smothered ripple of
    laughter running over the room behind my back I know perfectly well
    what has caused it, but so far I haven't been able to catch her out
    in it. She has brains, too . . . the little wretch! . . . can write
    compositions that are fourth cousins to literature and is quite
    brilliant in mathematics . . . woe is me! There is a certain
    _sparkle_ in everything she says or does and she has a sense of
    humorous situations which would be a bond of kinship between us if
    she hadn't started out by hating me. As it is, I fear it will be a
    long time before Jen and I can laugh _together_ over anything.

    "Myra Pringle, Jen's cousin, is the beauty of the school . . . and
    apparently stupid. She does perpetrate some amusing howlers . . .
    as, for instance, when she said today in history class that the
    Indians thought Champlain and his men were gods or 'something
    inhuman.'

    "Socially the Pringles are what Rebecca Dew calls 'the e-light' of
    Summerside. Already I have been invited to two Pringle homes for
    supper . . . because it is the proper thing to invite a new teacher
    to supper and the Pringles are not going to omit the required
    gestures. Last night I was at James Pringle's . . . the father of
    the aforesaid Jen. He looks like a college professor but is in
    reality stupid and ignorant. He talked a great deal about
    'dis_cip_line,' tapping the tablecloth with a finger the nail of
    which was not impeccable and occasionally doing dreadful things to
    grammar. The Summerside High had always required a firm hand . . .
    an experienced teacher, male preferred. He was afraid I was a
    _leetle_ too young . . . 'a fault which time will cure all too
    soon,' he said sorrowfully. I didn't say anything because if I had
    said anything I might have said too much. So I was as smooth and
    creamy as any Pringle of them all could have been and contented
    myself with looking limpidly at him and saying inside of myself,
    'You cantankerous, prejudiced old creature!'

    "Jen must have got her brains from her mother . . . whom I found
    myself liking. Jen, in her parents' presence, was a model of
    decorum. But though her words were polite her tone was insolent.
    Every time she said 'Miss Shirley' she contrived to make it sound
    like an insult. And every time she looked at my hair I felt that it
    was just plain carroty red. No Pringle, I am certain, would ever
    admit it was auburn.

    "I liked the Morton Pringles much better . . . though Morton Pringle
    never really listens to anything you say. He says something to you
    and then, while you're replying, he is busy thinking out his next
    remark.

    "Mrs. Stephen Pringle . . . the Widow Pringle . . . Summerside
    abounds in widows . . . wrote me a letter yesterday . . . a nice,
    polite, poisonous letter. Millie has too much home work . . . Millie
    is a delicate child and must not be overworked. Mr. Bell _never_
    gave her home work. She is a sensitive child that must be
    _understood_. Mr. Bell understood her so well! Mrs. Stephen is sure
    I will, too, if I try!

    "I do not doubt Mrs. Stephen thinks I made Adam Pringle's nose bleed
    in class today by reason of which he had to go home. And I woke up
    last night and couldn't go to sleep again because I remembered an
    _i_ I hadn't dotted in a question I wrote on the board. I'm certain
    Jen Pringle would notice it and a whisper will go around the clan
    about it.

    "Rebecca Dew says that all the Pringles will invite me to supper,
    except the old ladies at Maplehurst, and then ignore me forever
    afterwards. As they are the 'e-light,' this may mean that socially I
    may be banned in Summerside. Well, we'll see. The battle is on but
    is not yet either won or lost. Still, I feel rather unhappy over it
    all. You can't reason with prejudice. I'm still just as I used to be
    in my childhood . . . I can't bear to have people not liking me. It
    isn't pleasant to think that the families of half my pupils hate me.
    And for no fault of my own. It is the _injustice_ that stings me.
    There go more italics! But a few italics really do relieve your
    feelings.

    "Apart from the Pringles I like my pupils very much. There are some
    clever, ambitious, hard-working ones who are really interested in
    getting an education. Lewis Allen is paying for his board by doing
    _housework_ at his boarding house and isn't a bit ashamed of it. And
    Sophy Sinclair rides bareback on her father's old gray mare six
    miles in and six miles out every day. There's pluck for you! If I
    can help a girl like that, am I to mind the Pringles?

    "The trouble is . . . if I can't win the Pringles I won't have much
    chance of helping anybody.

    "But I love Windy Poplars. It isn't a boarding house . . . it's a
    home! And they like me . . . even Dusty Miller likes me, though he
    sometimes disapproves of me and shows it by deliberately sitting
    with his back turned towards me, occasionally cocking a golden eye
    over his shoulder at me to see how I'm taking it. I don't pet him
    much when Rebecca Dew is around because it really does irritate her.
    By day he is a homely, comfortable, meditative animal . . . but he
    is decidedly a weird creature at night. Rebecca says it is because
    he is never allowed to stay out after dark. She hates to stand in
    the back yard and call him. She says the neighbors will all be
    laughing at her. She calls in such fierce, stentorian tones that she
    really can be heard all over the town on a still night shouting for
    'Puss . . . _puss_ . . . PUSS!' The widows would have a conniption
    if Dusty Miller wasn't in when they went to bed. 'Nobody knows what
    I've gone through on account of That Cat . . . _nobody_,' Rebecca
    has assured me.

    "The widows are going to wear well. Every day I like them better.
    Aunt Kate doesn't believe in reading novels, but informs me that she
    does not propose to censor my reading matter. Aunt Chatty loves
    novels. She has a 'hidy-hole' where she keeps them . . . she
    smuggles them in from the town library . . . together with a pack of
    cards for solitaire and anything else she doesn't want Aunt Kate to
    see. It is in a chair seat which nobody but Aunt Chatty knows is
    more then a chair seat. She has shared the secret with me, because,
    I strongly suspect, she wants me to aid and abet her in the
    aforesaid smuggling. There shouldn't really be any need for
    hidy-holes at Windy Poplars, for I never saw a house with so many
    mysterious cupboards. Though to be sure, Rebecca Dew won't let them
    _be_ mysterious. She is always cleaning them out ferociously. 'A
    house can't keep itself clean,' she says sorrowfully when either of
    the widows protests. I am sure she would make short work of a novel
    or a pack of cards if she found them. They are both a horror to her
    orthodox soul. Rebecca Dew says cards are the devil's books and
    novels even worse. The only things Rebecca ever reads, apart from
    her Bible, are the society columns of the Montreal _Guardian_. She
    loves to pore over the houses and furniture and doings of
    millionaires.

    "'Just fancy soaking in a golden bathtub, Miss Shirley,' she said
    wistfully.

    "But she's really an old duck. She has produced from somewhere a
    comfortable old wing chair of faded brocade that just fits my kinks
    and says, 'This is _your_ chair. We'll keep it for _you_.' And she
    won't let Dusty Miller sleep on it lest I get hairs on my school
    skirt and give the Pringles something to talk about.

    "The whole three are very much interested in my circlet of pearls
    . . . and what it signifies. Aunt Kate showed me her engagement ring
    (she can't wear it because it has grown too small) set with
    turquoises. But poor Aunt Chatty owned to me with tears in her eyes
    that she had never had an engagement ring . . . her husband thought
    it 'an unnecessary expenditure.' She was in my room at the time,
    giving her face a bath in buttermilk. She does it every night to
    preserve her complexion, and has sworn me to secrecy because she
    doesn't want Aunt Kate to know it.

    "'She would think it ridiculous vanity in a woman of my age. And I
    am sure Rebecca Dew thinks that no Christian woman should try to be
    beautiful. I used to slip down to the kitchen to do it after Kate
    had gone to sleep but I was always afraid of Rebecca Dew coming
    down. She has ears like a cat's even when she is asleep. If I could
    just slip in here every night and do it . . . oh, thank you, my
    dear.'

    "I have found out a little about our neighbors at The Evergreens.
    Mrs. Campbell (who was a Pringle!) is eighty. I haven't seen her but
    from what I can gather she is a very grim old lady. She has a maid,
    Martha Monkman, almost as ancient and grim as herself, who is
    generally referred to as 'Mrs. Campbell's Woman.' And she has her
    great-granddaughter, little Elizabeth Grayson, living with her.
    Elizabeth . . . on whom I have never laid eyes in spite of my two
    weeks' sojourn . . . is eight years old and goes to the public
    school by 'the back way' . . . a short cut through the back yards
    . . . so I never encounter her, going or coming. Her mother, who is
    dead, was a granddaughter of Mrs. Campbell, who brought her up also
    . . . _her_ parents being dead. She married a certain Pierce
    Grayson, a 'Yankee,' as Mrs. Rachel Lynde would say. She died when
    Elizabeth was born and as Pierce Grayson had to leave America at
    once to take charge of a branch of his firm's business in Paris, the
    baby was sent home to old Mrs. Campbell. The story goes that he
    'couldn't bear the sight of her' because she had cost her mother's
    life, and has never taken any notice of her. This of course may be
    sheer gossip because neither Mrs. Campbell nor the Woman ever opens
    her lips about him.

    "Rebecca Dew says they are far too strict with little Elizabeth and
    she hasn't much of a time of it with them.

    "'She isn't like other children . . . far too old for eight years.
    The things that she says sometimes! "Rebecca," she sez to me one
    day, "suppose just as you were ready to get into bed you felt your
    ankle _nipped_?" No wonder she's afraid to go to bed in the dark.
    And they make her do it. Mrs. Campbell says there are to be no
    cowards in _her_ house. They watch her like two cats watching a
    mouse, and boss her within an inch of her life. If she makes a speck
    of noise they nearly pass out. It's "hush, hush" all the time. I
    tell you that child is being hush-hushed to death. And what is to be
    done about it?'

    "What, indeed?

    "I feel that I'd like to see her. She seems to me a bit pathetic.
    Aunt Kate says she is well looked after from a physical point of
    view . . . what Aunt Kate really said was, 'They feed and dress her
    well' . . . but a child can't live by bread alone. I can never
    forget what my own life was before I came to Green Gables.

    "I'm going home next Friday evening to spend two beautiful days in
    Avonlea. The only drawback will be that everybody I see will ask me
    how I like teaching in Summerside.

    "But think of Green Gables now, Gilbert . . . the Lake of Shining
    Waters with a blue mist on it . . . the maples across the brook
    beginning to turn scarlet . . . the ferns golden brown in the
    Haunted Wood . . . and the sunset shadows in Lover's Lane, darling
    spot. I find it in my heart to wish I were there now with . . . with
    . . . guess whom?

    "Do you know, Gilbert, there are times when I strongly suspect that
    I love you!"


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                              "S'side,
                                                        "October 10th.

    "HONORED AND RESPECTED SIR:

    "That is how a love letter of Aunt Chatty's grandmother began.
    Isn't it delicious? What a thrill of superiority it must have given
    the grandfather! Wouldn't you really prefer it to 'Gilbert darling,
    etc.'? But, on the whole, I think I'm glad you're not the
    grandfather . . . or _a_ grandfather. It's wonderful to think we're
    young and have our whole lives before us . . . _together_ . . .
    isn't it?"


(_Several pages omitted, Anne's pen being evidently neither sharp, stub
nor rusty._)


    "I'm sitting on the window seat in the tower looking out into the
    trees waving against an amber sky and beyond them to the harbor.
    Last night I had such a lovely walk with myself. I really had to go
    somewhere for it was just a trifle dismal at Windy Poplars. Aunt
    Chatty was crying in the sitting room because her feelings had been
    hurt and Aunt Kate was crying in her bedroom because it was the
    anniversary of Captain Amasa's death and Rebecca Dew was crying in
    the kitchen for no reason that I could discover. I've never seen
    Rebecca Dew cry before. But when I tried tactfully to find out what
    was wrong she pettishly wanted to know if a body couldn't enjoy a
    cry when she felt like it. So I folded my tent and stole away,
    leaving her to her enjoyment.

    "I went out and down the harbor road. There was such a nice frosty,
    Octobery smell in the air, blended with the delightful odor of newly
    plowed fields. I walked on and on until twilight had deepened into a
    moonlit autumn night. I was alone but not lonely. I held a series of
    imaginary conversations with imaginary comrades and thought out so
    many epigrams that I was agreeably surprised at myself. I couldn't
    help enjoying myself in spite of my Pringle worries.

    "The spirit moves me to utter a few yowls regarding the Pringles. I
    hate to admit it but things are not going any too well in Summerside
    High. There is no doubt that a cabal has been organized against me.

    "For one thing, home work is never done by any of the Pringles or
    half Pringles. And there is no use in appealing to the parents.
    They are suave, polite, evasive. I know all the pupils who are not
    Pringles like me but the Pringle virus of disobedience is
    undermining the morale of the whole room. One morning I found my
    desk turned inside out and upside down. Nobody knew who did it, of
    course. And no one could or would tell who left on it another day
    the box out of which popped an artificial snake when I opened it.
    But every Pringle in the school screamed with laughter over my face.
    I suppose I did look wildly startled.

    "Jen Pringle comes late for school half the time, always with some
    perfectly watertight excuse, delivered politely, with an insolent
    tilt to her mouth. She passes notes in class under my very nose. I
    found a peeled onion in the pocket of my coat when I put it on
    today. I should love to lock that girl up on bread and water until
    she learned how to behave herself.

    "The worst thing to date was the caricature of myself I found on the
    blackboard one morning . . . done in white chalk with _scarlet_
    hair. Everybody denied doing it, Jen among the rest, but I knew Jen
    was the only pupil in the room who could draw like that. It _was_
    done well. My nose . . . which, as you know, has always been my one
    pride and joy . . . was humpbacked and my mouth was the mouth of a
    vinegary spinster who had been teaching a school full of Pringles
    for thirty years. But it was _me_. I woke up at three o'clock that
    night and writhed over the recollection. Isn't it queer that the
    things we writhe over at night are seldom wicked things? Just
    humiliating ones.

    "All sorts of things are being said. I am accused of 'marking down'
    Hattie Pringle's examination papers just because she is a Pringle. I
    am said to 'laugh when the children make mistakes.' (Well, I _did_
    laugh when Fred Pringle defined a centurion as 'a man who had lived
    a hundred years.' I couldn't help it.)

    "James Pringle is saying, 'There is no dis_cip_line in the school
    . . . no dis_cip_line whatever.' And a report is being circulated
    that I am a 'foundling.'

    "I am beginning to encounter the Pringle antagonism in other
    quarters. Socially as well as educationally, Summerside seems to be
    under the Pringle thumb. No wonder they are called the Royal
    Family. I wasn't invited to Alice Pringle's walking party last
    Friday. And when Mrs. Frank Pringle got up a tea in aid of a church
    project (Rebecca Dew informs me that the ladies are going to 'build'
    the new spire!), I was the only girl in the Presbyterian church who
    was not asked to take a table. I have heard that the minister's
    wife, who is a newcomer in Summerside, suggested asking me to sing
    in the choir and was informed that all the Pringles would drop out
    of it if she did. That would leave such a skeleton that the choir
    simply couldn't carry on.

    "Of course I'm not the only one of the teachers who has trouble with
    pupils. When the other teachers send theirs up to me to be
    'disciplined' . . . how I hate that word! . . . half of them are
    Pringles. But there is never any complaint made about _them_.

    "Two evenings ago I kept Jen in after school to do some work she had
    deliberately left undone. Ten minutes later the carriage from
    Maplehurst drew up before the schoolhouse and Miss Ellen was at the
    door . . . a beautifully dressed, sweetly smiling old lady, with
    elegant black lace mitts and a fine hawklike nose, looking as if she
    had just stepped out of an 1840 bandbox. She was so sorry but could
    she have Jen? She was going to visit friends in Lowvale and had
    promised to take Jen. Jen went off triumphantly and I realized
    afresh the forces arrayed against me.

    "In my pessimistic moods I think the Pringles are a compound of
    Sloanes and Pyes. But I know they're not. I feel that I could like
    them if they were not my enemies. They are, for the most part, a
    frank, jolly, loyal set. I could even like Miss Ellen. I've never
    seen Miss Sarah. Miss Sarah has not left Maplehurst for ten years.

    "'Too delicate . . . or thinks she is,' says Rebecca Dew with a
    sniff. 'But there ain't anything the matter with her pride. All the
    Pringles are proud but those two old girls pass everything. You
    should hear them talk about their ancestors. Well, their old father,
    Captain Abraham Pringle, _was_ a fine old fellow. His brother Myrom
    wasn't quite so fine, but you don't hear the Pringles talking much
    about _him_. But I'm desprit afraid you're going to have a hard time
    with them all. When they make up their mind about anything or
    anybody they've never been known to change it. But keep your chin
    up, Miss Shirley . . . keep your chin up.'

    "'I wish I could get Miss Ellen's recipe for pound cake,' sighed
    Aunt Chatty. 'She's promised it to me time and again but it never
    comes. It's an old English family recipe. They're _so_ exclusive
    about their recipes.'

    "In wild fantastic dreams I see myself compelling Miss Ellen to hand
    that recipe over to Aunt Chatty on bended knee and make Jen mind her
    p's and q's. The maddening thing is that I could easily make Jen do
    it myself if her whole clan weren't backing her up in her deviltry."


(_Two pages omitted._)


                                               "Your obedient servant,

                                                        "ANNE SHIRLEY.

    "P.S. That was how Aunt Chatty's grandmother signed her love
    letters."


                                                        "October 15th.

    "We heard today that there had been a burglary at the other end of
    the town last night. A house was entered and some money and a dozen
    silver spoons stolen. So Rebecca Dew has gone up to Mr. Hamilton's
    to see if she can borrow a dog. She will tie him on the back veranda
    and she advises me to lock up my engagement ring!

    "By the way, I found out why Rebecca Dew cried. It seems there had
    been a domestic convulsion. Dusty Miller had 'misbehaved again' and
    Rebecca Dew told Aunt Kate she would really have to do something
    about That Cat. He was wearing her to a fiddle string. It was the
    third time in a year and she knew he did it on purpose. And Aunt
    Kate said that if Rebecca Dew would always let the cat out when he
    meowed there would be no danger of his misbehaving.

    "'Well, this _is_ the last straw,' said Rebecca Dew.

    "Consequently, tears!

    "The Pringle situation grows a little more acute every week.
    Something very impertinent was written across one of my books
    yesterday and Homer Pringle turned handsprings all the way down the
    aisle when leaving school. Also, I got an anonymous letter recently
    full of nasty innuendoes. Somehow, I don't blame Jen for either the
    book or the letter. Imp as she is, there are things she wouldn't
    stoop to. Rebecca Dew is furious and I shudder to think what she
    would do to the Pringles if she had them in her power. Nero's wish
    isn't to be compared to it. I really don't blame her, for there are
    times when I feel myself that I could cheerfully hand any and all of
    the Pringles a poisoned philter of Borgia brewing.

    "I don't think I've told you much about the other teachers. There
    are two, you know . . . the Vice-principal, Katherine Brooke of the
    Junior Room, and George MacKay of the Prep. Of George I have little
    to say. He is a shy, good-natured lad of twenty, with a slight,
    delicious Highland accent suggestive of low shielings and misty
    islands . . . his grandfather 'was Isle of Skye' . . . and does very
    well with the Preps. So far as I know him I like him. But I'm afraid
    I'm going to have a hard time liking Katherine Brooke.

    "Katherine is a girl of, I think, about twenty-eight, though she
    looks thirty-five. I have been told she cherished hopes of promotion
    to the Principalship and I suppose she resents my getting it,
    especially when I am considerably her junior. She is a good teacher
    . . . a bit of a martinet . . . but she is not popular with anyone.
    And doesn't worry over it! She doesn't seem to have any friends or
    relations and boards in a gloomy-looking house on grubby little
    Temple Street. She dresses very dowdily, never goes out socially and
    is said to be 'mean.' She is very sarcastic and her pupils dread her
    biting remarks. I am told that her way of raising her thick black
    eyebrows and drawling at them reduces them to a pulp. I wish I could
    work it on the Pringles. But I really shouldn't like to govern by
    fear as she does. I want my pupils to love me.

    "In spite of the fact that she has apparently no trouble in making
    them toe the line she is constantly sending some of them up to me
    . . . especially Pringles. I know she does it purposely and I feel
    miserably certain that she exults in my difficulties and would be
    glad to see me worsted.

    "Rebecca Dew says that no one can make friends with her. The widows
    have invited her several times to Sunday supper . . . the dear souls
    are always doing that for lonely people, and always have the most
    delicious chicken salad for them . . . but she never came. So they
    have given it up because, as Aunt Kate says, 'there are limits.'

    "There are rumors that she is very clever and can sing and recite
    . . . 'elocute,' _ la_ Rebecca Dew . . . but will not do either.
    Aunt Chatty once asked her to recite at a church supper.

    "'We thought she refused very ungraciously,' said Aunt Kate.

    "'Just growled,' said Rebecca Dew.

    "Katherine has a deep throaty voice . . . almost a man's voice . . .
    and it does sound like a growl when she isn't in good humor.

    "She isn't pretty but she might make more of herself. She is dark
    and swarthy, with magnificent black hair always dragged back from
    her high forehead and coiled in a clumsy knot at the base of her
    neck. Her eyes don't match her hair, being a clear, light amber
    under her black brows. She has ears she needn't be ashamed to show
    and the most beautiful hands I've ever seen. Also, she has a
    well-cut mouth. But she dresses terribly. Seems to have a positive
    genius for getting the colors and lines she should not wear. Dull
    dark greens and drab grays, when she is too sallow for greens and
    grays, and stripes which make her tall, lean figure even taller and
    leaner. And her clothes always look as if she'd slept in them.

    "Her manner is very repellent . . . as Rebecca Dew would say, she
    always has a chip on her shoulder. Every time I pass her on the
    stairs I feel that she is thinking horrid things about me. Every
    time I speak to her she makes me feel I've said the wrong thing. And
    yet I'm very sorry for her . . . though I know she would resent my
    pity furiously. And I can't do anything to help her because she
    doesn't want to be helped. She is really hateful to me. One day,
    when we three teachers were all in the staff room, I did something
    which, it seems, transgressed one of the unwritten laws of the
    school, and Katherine said cuttingly, 'Perhaps you think _you_ are
    above rules, Miss Shirley.' At another time, when I was suggesting
    some changes which I thought would be for the good of the school,
    she said with a scornful smile, 'I'm not interested in fairy tales.'
    Once, when I said some nice things about her work and methods, she
    said, 'And what is to be the pill in all this jam?'

    "But the thing that annoyed me most . . . well, one day when I
    happened to pick up a book of hers in the staff room and glanced at
    the flyleaf I said,

    "'I'm glad you spell your name with a K. Katherine is so much more
    alluring than Catherine, just as K is ever so much gypsier a letter
    than smug C.'

    "She made no response, but the next note she sent up was signed
    'Catherine Brooke'!

    "I sneezed all the way home.

    "I really would give up trying to be friends with her if I hadn't a
    queer, unaccountable feeling that under all her bruskness and
    aloofness she is actually starved for companionship.

    "Altogether, what with Katherine's antagonism and the Pringle
    attitude, I don't know just what I'd do if it wasn't for dear
    Rebecca Dew and your letters . . . and little Elizabeth.

    "Because I've got acquainted with little Elizabeth. And she is a
    darling.

    "Three nights ago I took the glass of milk to the wall door and
    little Elizabeth herself was there to get it instead of the Woman,
    her head just coming above the solid part of the door, so that her
    face was framed in the ivy. She is small, pale, golden and wistful.
    Her eyes, looking at me through the autumn twilight, were large and
    golden-hazel. Her silver-gold hair was parted in the middle, sleeked
    plainly down over her head with a circular comb, and fell in waves
    on her shoulders. She wore a pale blue gingham dress and the
    expression of a princess of elf-land. She had what Rebecca Dew
    calls 'a delicate air,' and gave me the impression of a child who
    was more or less undernourished . . . not in body, but in soul. More
    of a moonbeam than a sunbeam.

    "'And this is Elizabeth?' I said.

    "'Not tonight,' she answered gravely. 'This is my night for being
    Betty because I love everything in the world tonight. I was
    Elizabeth last night and tomorrow night I'll prob'ly be Beth. It all
    depends on how I feel.'

    "There was the touch of the kindred spirit for you. I thrilled to it
    at once.

    "'How very nice to have a name you can change so easily and still
    feel it's your own.'

    "Little Elizabeth nodded.

    "'I can make so many names out of it. Elsie and Betty and Bess and
    Elisa and Lisbeth and Beth . . . but not Lizzie. I never can feel
    like Lizzie.'

    "'Who could?' I said.

    "'Do you think it silly of me, Miss Shirley? Grandmother and the
    Woman do.'

    "'Not silly at all . . . very wise and very delightful,' I said.

    "Little Elizabeth made saucer eyes at me over the rim of her glass.
    I felt that I was being weighed in some secret spiritual balance and
    presently I realized thankfully that I had not been found wanting.
    For little Elizabeth asked a favor of me . . . and little Elizabeth
    does not ask favors of people she does not like.

    "'Would you mind lifting up the cat and letting me pat him?' she
    asked shyly.

    "Dusty Miller was rubbing against my legs. I lifted him and little
    Elizabeth put out a tiny hand and stroked his head delightedly.

    "'I like kittens better than babies,' she said, looking at me with
    an odd little air of defiance, as if she knew I would be shocked but
    tell the truth she must.

    "'I suppose you've never had much to do with babies, so you don't
    know how sweet they are,' I said, smiling. 'Have you a kitten of
    your own?'

    "Elizabeth shook her head.

    "'Oh, no; Grandmother doesn't like cats. And the Woman hates them.
    The Woman is out tonight, so that is why I could come for the milk.
    I love coming for the milk because Rebecca Dew is such an agree'ble
    person.'

    "'Are you sorry she didn't come tonight?' I laughed.

    "Little Elizabeth shook her head.

    "'No. You are very agree'ble, too. I've been wanting to get
    'quainted with you, but I was afraid it mightn't happen before
    Tomorrow comes.'

    "We stood there and talked while Elizabeth sipped her milk daintily
    and she told me all about Tomorrow. The Woman had told her that
    Tomorrow never comes, but Elizabeth knows better. It _will_ come
    sometime. Some beautiful morning she will just wake up and find it
    is Tomorrow. Not Today but Tomorrow. And then things will happen . . .
    wonderful things. She may even have a day to do exactly as she likes
    in, with nobody watching her . . . though I think Elizabeth feels
    _that_ is too good to happen even in Tomorrow. Or she may find out
    what is at the end of the harbor road . . . that wandering, twisting
    road like a nice red snake, that leads, so Elizabeth thinks, to the
    end of the world. Perhaps the Island of Happiness is there. Elizabeth
    feels sure there is an Island of Happiness somewhere, where all the
    ships that never come back are anchored, and she will find it when
    Tomorrow comes.

    "'And when Tomorrow comes,' said Elizabeth, 'I will have a million
    dogs and forty-five cats. I told Grandmother that when she wouldn't
    let me have a kitten, Miss Shirley, and she was angry and said, "I'm
    not 'customed to be spoken to like that, Miss Impert'nence." I was
    sent to bed without supper . . . but I didn't mean to be impert'nent.
    And I couldn't sleep, Miss Shirley, because the Woman told me that
    she knew a child once that died in her sleep after being
    impert'nent.'

    "When Elizabeth had finished her milk there came a sharp tapping at
    some unseen window behind the spruces. I think we had been watched
    all the time. My elf-maiden ran, her golden head glimmering along
    the dark spruce aisle until she vanished.

    "'She's a fanciful little creature,' said Rebecca Dew when I told
    her of my adventure . . . really, it somehow had the quality of an
    adventure, Gilbert. 'One day she said to me, "Are you scared of
    lions, Rebecca Dew?" "I never met any so I can't tell you," sez I.
    "There will be any amount of lions in Tomorrow," sez she, "but they
    will be nice friendly lions." "Child, you'll turn into eyes if you
    look like that," sez I. She was looking clean through me at something
    she saw in that Tomorrow of hers. "I'm thinking deep thoughts,
    Rebecca Dew," she sez. The trouble with that child is she doesn't
    laugh enough.'

    "I remembered Elizabeth had never laughed once during our talk. I
    feel that she hasn't learned how. The great house is so still and
    lonely and laughterless. It looks dull and gloomy even now when the
    world is a riot of autumn color. Little Elizabeth is doing too much
    listening to lost whispers.

    "I think one of my missions in Summerside will be to teach her how
    to laugh.

                                "Your tenderest, most faithful friend,

                                                        "ANNE SHIRLEY.

    "P.S. More of Aunt Chatty's grandmother!"


                                    3


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                              "S'side,
                                                        "October 25th.

    "GILBERT DEAR:

    "What do you think? I've been to supper at Maplehurst!

    "Miss Ellen herself wrote the invitation. Rebecca Dew was really
    excited . . . she had never believed they would take any notice of
    me. And she was quite sure it was not out of friendliness.

    "'They have some sinister motive, that I'm certain of!' she
    exclaimed.

    "I really had some such feeling in my own mind.

    "'Be sure you put on your best,' ordered Rebecca Dew.

    "So I put on my pretty cream challis dress with the purple violets
    in it and did my hair the new way with the dip in the forehead. It's
    very becoming.

    "The ladies of Maplehurst are positively delightful in their own
    way, Gilbert. I could love them if they'd let me. Maplehurst is a
    proud, exclusive house which draws its trees around it and won't
    associate with common houses. It has a big, white, wooden woman off
    the bow of old Captain Abraham's famous ship, the _Go and Ask Her_,
    in the orchard and billows of southernwood about the front steps,
    which was brought out from the old country over a hundred years ago
    by the first emigrating Pringle. They have another ancestor who
    fought at the battle of Minden and his sword is hanging on the
    parlor wall beside Captain Abraham's portrait. Captain Abraham was
    their father and they are evidently tremendously proud of him.

    "They have stately mirrors over the old, black, fluted mantels, a
    glass case with wax flowers in it, pictures full of the beauty of
    the ships of long ago, a hair-wreath containing the hair of every
    known Pringle, big conch shells, and a quilt on the spare-room bed
    quilted in infinitesimal fans.

    "We sat in the parlor on mahogany Sheraton chairs. It was hung with
    silver-stripe wallpaper. Heavy brocade curtains at the windows.
    Marble-topped tables, one bearing a beautiful model of a ship with
    crimson hull and snow-white sails--the _Go and Ask Her_. An enormous
    chandelier, all glass and dingle-dangles, suspended from the
    ceiling. A round mirror with a clock in the center . . . something
    Captain Abraham had brought home from 'foreign parts.' It was
    wonderful. I'd like something like it in our house of dreams.

    "The very shadows were eloquent and traditional. Miss Ellen showed
    me millions . . . more or less . . . of Pringle photographs, many of
    them daguerreotypes in leather cases. A big tortoise-shell cat came
    in, jumped on my knee, and was at once whisked out to the kitchen by
    Miss Ellen. She apologized to me. But I expect she had previously
    apologized to the cat in the kitchen.

    "Miss Ellen did most of the talking. Miss Sarah, a tiny thing in a
    black silk dress and starched petticoat, with snow-white hair and
    eyes as black as her dress, thin, veined hands folded on her lap
    amid fine lace ruffles, sad, lovely, gentle, looked almost too
    fragile to talk. And yet I got the impression, Gilbert, that every
    Pringle of the clan, including Miss Ellen herself, danced to her
    piping.

    "We had a delicious supper. The water was cold, the linen beautiful,
    the dishes and glassware thin. We were waited on by a maid, quite as
    aloof and aristocratic as themselves. But Miss Sarah pretended to be
    a little deaf whenever I spoke to her and I thought every mouthful
    would choke me. All my courage oozed out of me. I felt just like a
    poor fly caught on fly-paper. Gilbert, I can never, never conquer or
    win the Royal Family. I can see myself resigning at New Year's. I
    haven't a chance against a clan like that.

    "And yet I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the old ladies
    as I looked around their house. It had once _lived_ . . . people had
    been born there . . . died there . . . exulted there . . . known
    sleep, despair, fear, joy, love, hope, hate. And now it has nothing
    but the memories by which they live . . . and their pride in them.

    "Aunt Chatty is much upset because when she unfolded clean sheets
    for my bed today she found a diamond-shaped crease in the center.
    She is sure it foretells a death in the household. Aunt Kate is very
    much disgusted with such superstition. But I believe I rather like
    superstitious people. They lend color to life. Wouldn't it be a
    rather drab world if everybody was wise and sensible . . . and
    _good_? What would we find to talk about?

    "We had a _cat_astrophe here two nights ago. Dusty Miller stayed out
    all night, in spite of Rebecca Dew's stentorian shouts of 'Puss' in
    the back yard. And when he turned up in the morning . . . oh, such a
    looking cat! One eye was closed completely and there was a lump as
    big as an egg on his jaw. His fur was stiff with mud and one paw was
    bitten through. But what a triumphant, unrepentant look he had in
    his one good eye! The widows were horrified but Rebecca Dew said
    exultantly, 'That Cat has never had a good fight in his life before.
    And I'll bet the other cat looks far worse than he does!'

    "A fog is creeping up the harbor tonight, blotting out the red road
    that little Elizabeth wants to explore. Weeds and leaves are burning
    in all the town gardens and the combination of smoke and fog is
    making Spook's Lane an eerie, fascinating, enchanted place. It is
    growing late and my bed says, 'I have sleep for you.' I've grown
    used to climbing a flight of steps into bed . . . and climbing down
    them. Oh, Gilbert, I've never told anyone this, but it's too funny
    to keep any longer. The first morning I woke up in Windy Poplars I
    forgot all about the steps and made a blithe morning-spring out of
    bed. I came down like a thousand of brick, as Rebecca Dew would say.
    Luckily I didn't break any bones, but I was black and blue for a
    week.

    "Little Elizabeth and I are very good friends by now. She comes
    every evening for her milk because the Woman is laid up with what
    Rebecca Dew calls 'brownkites.' I always find her at the wall gate,
    waiting for me, her big eyes full of twilight. We talk with the
    gate, which has never been opened for years, between us. Elizabeth
    sips the glass of milk as slowly as possible in order to spin our
    conversation out. Always, when the last drop is drained, comes the
    tap-tap on the window.

    "I have found that one of the things that is going to happen in
    Tomorrow is that she will get a letter from her father. She has
    never got one. I wonder what the man can be thinking of.

    "'You know, he couldn't bear the sight of me, Miss Shirley,' she
    told me, 'but he mightn't mind writing to me.'

    "'Who told you he couldn't bear the sight of you?' I asked
    indignantly.

    "'The Woman.' (Always when Elizabeth says 'the Woman,' I can see her
    like a great big forbidding 'W,' all angles and corners.) 'And it
    must be true or he would come to see me sometimes.'

    "She was Beth that night . . . it is only when she is Beth that she
    will talk of her father. When she is Betty she makes faces at her
    grandmother and the Woman behind their backs; but when she turns
    into Elsie she is sorry for it and thinks she ought to confess, but
    is scared to. Very rarely she is Elizabeth and then she has the face
    of one who listens to fairy music and knows what roses and clovers
    talk about. She's the quaintest thing, Gilbert . . . as sensitive as
    one of the leaves of the windy poplars, and I love her. It infuriates
    me to know that those two terrible old women make her go to bed in
    the dark.

    "'The Woman said I was big enough to sleep without a light. But I
    feel so small, Miss Shirley, because the night is so big and awful.
    And there is a stuffed crow in my room and I am afraid of it. The
    Woman told me it would pick my eyes out if I cried. Of course, Miss
    Shirley, I don't believe that, but still I'm scared. Things
    _whisper_ so to each other at night. But in Tomorrow I'll never be
    scared of anything . . . not even of being kidnaped!'

    "'But there is no danger of your being kidnaped, Elizabeth.'

    "'The Woman said there was if I went anywhere alone or talked to
    strange persons. But you're not a strange person, are you, Miss
    Shirley?'

    "'No, darling. We've always known each other in Tomorrow,' I said."


                                    4


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                              "S'side,
                                                       "November 10th.

    "DEAREST:

    "It used to be that the person I hated most in the world was the
    person who spoiled my pen-nib. But I can't hate Rebecca Dew in spite
    of her habit of using my pen to copy recipes when I'm in school.
    She's been doing it again and as a result you won't get a long or a
    loving letter this time. (Belovedest.)

    "The last cricket song has been sung. The evenings are so chilly now
    that I have a small chubby, oblong wood-stove in my room. Rebecca
    Dew put it up . . . I forgive her the pen for it. There's nothing
    that woman can't do; and she always has a fire lighted for me in it
    when I come home from school. It is the tiniest of stoves . . . I
    could pick it up in my hands. It looks just like a pert little black
    dog on its four bandy iron legs. But when you fill it with hardwood
    sticks it blooms rosy red and throws a wonderful heat and you can't
    think how cozy it is. I'm sitting before it now, with my feet on its
    tiny hearth, scribbling to you on my knee.

    "Everyone else in S'side . . . more or less . . . is at the Hardy
    Pringles' dance. _I_ was not invited. And Rebecca Dew is so cross
    about it that I'd hate to be Dusty Miller. But when I think of
    Hardy's daughter Myra, beautiful and brainless, trying to prove in
    an examination paper that the _angels_ at the base of an isosceles
    triangle are equal, I forgive the entire Pringle clan. And last week
    she included 'gallows tree' quite seriously in a list of trees! But,
    to be just, all the howlers don't originate with the Pringles. Blake
    Fenton defined an alligator recently as 'a large kind of insect.'
    Such are the highlights of a teacher's life!

    "It feels like snow tonight. I like an evening when it feels like
    snow. The wind is blowing 'in turret and tree' and making my cozy
    room seem even cozier. The last golden leaf will be blown from the
    aspens tonight.

    "I think I've been invited to supper everywhere by now. . . . I mean
    to the homes of all my pupils, both in town and country. And oh,
    Gilbert darling, I am _so_ sick of pumpkin preserves! Never, never
    let us have pumpkin preserves in our house of dreams.

    "Almost everywhere I've gone for the last month I've had P. P. for
    supper. The first time I had it I loved it . . . it was so golden
    that I felt I was eating preserved sunshine . . . and I incautiously
    raved about it. It got bruited about that I was very fond of P. P.
    and people had it on purpose for me. Last night I was going to Mr.
    Hamilton's and Rebecca Dew assured me that I wouldn't have to eat P.
    P. there because none of the Hamiltons liked it. But when we sat
    down to supper, there on the sideboard was the inevitable cut-glass
    bowl full of P. P.

    "'I hadn't any punkin preserves of my own,' said Mrs. Hamilton,
    ladling me out a generous dishful, 'but I heard you was terrible
    partial to it, so when I was to my cousin's in Lowvale last Sunday I
    sez to her, "I'm having Miss Shirley to supper this week and she's
    terrible partial to punkin preserves. I wish you'd lend me a jar for
    her." So she did and here it is and you can take home what's left.'

    "You should have seen Rebecca Dew's face when I arrived home from
    the Hamiltons' bearing a glass jar two-thirds full of P. P.! Nobody
    likes it here so we buried it darkly at dead of night in the garden.

    "'You won't put this in a story, will you?' she asked anxiously.
    Ever since Rebecca Dew discovered that I do an occasional bit of
    fiction for the magazines she has lived in the fear . . . or hope, I
    don't know which . . . that I'll put everything that happens at
    Windy Poplars into a story. She wants me to 'write up the Pringles
    and blister them.' But, alas, it's the Pringles that are doing the
    blistering and between them and my work in school I have scant time
    for writing fiction.

    "There are only withered leaves and frosted stems in the garden now.
    Rebecca Dew has done the standard roses up in straw and potato bags,
    and in the twilight they look exactly like a group of humped-back
    old men leaning on staffs.

    "I got a postcard from Davy today with ten kisses crossed on it and
    a letter from Priscilla written on some paper that 'a friend of hers
    in Japan' sent her . . . silky thin paper with dim cherry blossoms
    on it like ghosts. I'm beginning to have my suspicions about that
    friend of hers. But your big fat letter was the purple gift the day
    gave me. I read it four times over to get every bit of its savor
    . . . like a dog polishing off a plate! _That_ certainly isn't a
    romantic simile, but it's the one that just popped into my head.
    Still, letters, even the nicest, aren't _satisfactory_. I want to
    see _you_. I'm glad it's only five weeks to Christmas holidays."


                                    5


Anne, sitting at her tower window one late November evening, with her
pen at her lip and dreams in her eyes, looked out on a twilight world
and suddenly thought she would like a walk to the old graveyard. She had
never visited it yet, preferring the birch and maple grove or the harbor
road for her evening rambles. But there is always a November space after
the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude
on the woods . . . for their glory terrestrial had departed and their
glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon
them. So Anne betook herself to the graveyard instead. She was feeling
for the time so dispirited and hopeless that she thought a graveyard
would be a comparatively cheerful place. Besides, it was full of
Pringles, so Rebecca Dew said. They had buried there for generations,
keeping it up in preference to the new graveyard until "no more of them
could be squeezed in." Anne felt that it would be positively encouraging
to see how many Pringles were where they couldn't annoy anybody any
more.

In regard to the Pringles Anne felt that she was at the end of her
tether. More and more the whole situation was coming to seem like a
nightmare. The subtle campaign of insubordination and disrespect which
Jen Pringle had organized had at last come to a head. One day, a week
previously, she had asked the Seniors to write a composition on "The
Most Important Happenings of the Week." Jen Pringle had written a
brilliant one . . . the little imp _was_ clever . . . and had inserted
in it a sly insult to her teacher . . . one so pointed that it was
impossible to ignore it. Anne had sent her home, telling her that she
would have to apologize before she would be allowed to come back. The
fat was fairly in the fire. It was open warfare now between her and the
Pringles. And poor Anne had no doubt on whose banner victory would
perch. The school board would back the Pringles up and she would be
given her choice between letting Jen come back or being asked to resign.

She felt very bitter. She had done her best and she knew she could have
succeeded if she had had even a fighting chance.

"It's not my fault," she thought miserably. "Who _could_ succeed against
such a phalanx and such tactics?"

But to go home to Green Gables defeated! To endure Mrs. Lynde's
indignation and the Pyes' exultation! Even the sympathy of friends would
be an anguish. And with her Summerside failure bruited abroad she would
never be able to get another school.

But at least they had not got the better of her in the matter of the
play. Anne laughed a little wickedly and her eyes filled with
mischievous delight over the memory.

She had organized a High School Dramatic Club and directed it in a
little play hurriedly gotten up to provide some funds for one of her pet
schemes . . . buying some good engravings for the rooms. She had made
herself ask Katherine Brooke to help her because Katherine always seemed
so left out of everything. She could not help regretting it many times,
for Katherine was even more brusk and sarcastic than usual. She seldom
let a practice pass without some corrosive remark and she overworked her
eyebrows. Worse still, it was Katherine who had insisted on having Jen
Pringle take the part of Mary Queen of Scots.

"There's no one else in the school who can play it," she said
impatiently. "No one who has the necessary personality."

Anne was not so sure of this. She rather thought that Sophy Sinclair,
who was tall and had hazel eyes and rich chestnut hair, would make a far
better Queen Mary than Jen. But Sophy was not even a member of the club
and had never taken part in a play.

"We don't want absolute greenhorns in this. I'm not going to be
associated with anything that is not successful," Katherine had said
disagreeably, and Anne had yielded. She could not deny that Jen was very
good in the part. She had a natural flair for acting and she apparently
threw herself into it wholeheartedly. They practiced four evenings a
week and on the surface things went along very smoothly. Jen seemed to
be so interested in her part that she behaved herself as far as the play
was concerned. Anne did not meddle with her but left her to Katherine's
coaching. Once or twice, though, she surprised a certain look of sly
triumph on Jen's face that puzzled her. She could not guess just what it
meant.

One afternoon, soon after the practices had begun, Anne found Sophy
Sinclair in tears in a corner of the girls' coatroom. At first she had
blinked her hazel eyes vigorously and denied it . . . then broke down.

"I did so want to be in the play . . . to be Queen Mary," she sobbed.
"I've never had a chance . . . father wouldn't let me join the club
because there are dues to pay and every cent counts so much. And of
course I haven't had any experience. I've always loved Queen Mary . . .
her very name just thrills me to my fingertips. I don't believe . . . I
never will believe she had anything to do with murdering Darnley. It
would have been wonderful to fancy I was she for a little while!"

Afterwards Anne concluded that it was her guardian angel who prompted
her reply.

"I'll write the part out for you, Sophy, and coach you in it. It will be
good training for you. And, as we plan to give the play in other places
if it goes well here, it will be just as well to have an understudy in
case Jen shouldn't always be able to go. But we'll say nothing about it
to anyone."

Sophy had the part memorized by the next day. She went home to Windy
Poplars with Anne every afternoon when school came out and rehearsed it
in the tower. They had a lot of fun together, for Sophy was full of
quiet vivacity. The play was to be put on the last Friday in November in
the town hall; it was widely advertised and the reserved seats were sold
to the last one. Anne and Katherine spent two evenings decorating the
hall, the band was hired, and a noted soprano was coming up from
Charlottetown to sing between the acts. The dress rehearsal was a
success. Jen was really excellent and the whole cast played up to her.
Friday morning Jen was not in school; and in the afternoon her mother
sent word that Jen was ill with a very sore throat . . . they were
afraid it was tonsillitis. Everybody concerned was very sorry, but it
was out of the question that she should take part in the play that
night.

Katherine and Anne stared at each other, drawn together for once in
their common dismay.

"We'll have to put it off," said Katherine slowly. "And that means
failure. Once we're into December there's so much going on. Well, I
always thought it was foolish to try to get up a play this time of the
year."

"We are not going to postpone it," said Anne, her eyes as green as Jen's
own. She was not going to say it to Katherine Brooke, but she knew as
well as she had ever known anything in her life that Jen Pringle was in
no more danger of tonsillitis than she was. It was a deliberate device,
whether any of the other Pringles were a party to it or not, to ruin the
play because she, Anne Shirley, had sponsored it.

"Oh, if you feel that way about it!" said Katherine with a nasty shrug.
"But what do you intend to do? Get someone to read the part? That would
ruin it . . . Mary is the whole play."

"Sophy Sinclair can play the part as well as Jen. The costume will fit
her and, thanks be, you made it and have it, not Jen."

The play was put on that night before a packed audience. A delighted
Sophy played Mary . . . _was_ Mary, as Jen Pringle could never have been
. . . _looked_ Mary in her velvet robes and ruff and jewels. Students of
Summerside High, who had never seen Sophy in anything but her plain,
dowdy, dark serge dresses, shapeless coat and shabby hats, stared at her
in amazement. It was insisted on the spot that she become a permanent
member of the Dramatic Club--Anne herself paid the membership fee--and
from then on she was one of the pupils who "counted" in Summerside High.
But nobody knew or dreamed, Sophy herself least of all, that she had
taken the first step that night on a pathway that was to lead to the
stars. Twenty years later Sophy Sinclair was to be one of the leading
actresses in America. But probably no plaudits ever sounded so sweet in
her ears as the wild applause amid which the curtain fell that night in
Summerside town hall.

Mrs. James Pringle took a tale home to her daughter Jen which would have
turned that damsel's eyes green if they had not been already so. For
once, as Rebecca Dew said feelingly, Jen had got her come-uppance. And
the eventual result was the insult in the composition on Important
Happenings.

Anne went down to the old graveyard along a deep-rutted lane between
high, mossy stone dykes, tasseled with frosted ferns. Slim, pointed
Lombardies, from which November winds had not yet stripped all the
leaves, grew along it at intervals, coming out darkly against the
amethyst of the far hills; but the old graveyard, with half its
tombstones leaning at a drunken slant, was surrounded by a four-square
row of tall, somber fir trees. Anne had not expected to find anyone
there and was a little taken aback when she met Miss Valentine
Courtaloe, with her long delicate nose, her thin delicate mouth, her
sloping delicate shoulders, and her general air of invincible
lady-likeness, just inside the gate. She knew Miss Valentine, of course,
as did everyone in Summerside. She was "the" local dressmaker and what
she didn't know about people, living or dead, was not worth taking into
account. Anne had wanted to wander about by herself, read the odd old
epitaphs and puzzle out the names of forgotten lovers under the lichens
that were growing over them. But she could not escape when Miss
Valentine slipped an arm through hers and proceeded to do the honors of
the graveyard, where there were evidently as many Courtaloes buried as
Pringles. Miss Valentine had not a drop of Pringle blood in her and one
of Anne's favorite pupils was her nephew. So it was no great mental
strain to be nice to her, except that one must be very careful never to
hint that she "sewed for a living." Miss Valentine was said to be very
sensitive on that point.

"I'm glad I happened to be here this evening," said Miss Valentine. "I
can tell you all about everybody buried here. I always say you have to
know the ins and outs of the corpses to find a graveyard real enjoyable.
I like a walk here better than in the new. It's only the _old_ families
that are buried here but every Tom, Dick and Harry is being buried in
the new. The Courtaloes are buried in this corner. My, we've had a
terrible lot of funerals in our family."

"I suppose every old family has," said Anne, because Miss Valentine
evidently expected her to say something.

"Don't tell me _any_ family has ever had as many as ours," said Miss
Valentine jealously. "We're _very_ consumptive. Most of us died of a
cough. This is my Aunt Bessie's grave. She was a saint if ever there
was one. But there's no doubt her sister, Aunt Cecilia, was the more
interesting to talk to. The last time I ever saw her she said to me,
'Sit down, my dear, sit down. I'm going to die tonight at ten minutes
past eleven but that's no reason why we shouldn't have a real good
gossip for the last.' The strange thing, Miss Shirley, is that she did
die that night at ten minutes past eleven. Can you tell me how she knew
it?"

Anne couldn't.

"My Great-great-grandfather Courtaloe is buried _here_. He came out in
1760 and he made spinning wheels for a living. I've heard he made
fourteen hundred in the course of his life. When he died the minister
preached from the text, 'Their works do follow them,' and old Myrom
Pringle said in that case the road to heaven behind my
great-great-grandfather would be choked with spinning wheels. Do you
think such a remark was in good taste, Miss Shirley?"

Had anyone but a Pringle said it, Anne might not have remarked so
decidedly, "I certainly do not," looking at a gravestone adorned with a
skull and cross-bones as if she questioned the good taste of that also.

"My cousin Dora is buried _here_. She had three husbands but they all
died very rapidly. Poor Dora didn't seem to have any luck picking a
healthy man. Her last one was Benjamin Banning . . . _not_ buried here
. . . buried in Lowvale beside _his_ first wife . . . and he wasn't
reconciled to dying. Dora told him he was going to a better world.
'Mebbe, mebbe,' says poor Ben, 'but I'm sorter used to the imperfections
of this one.' He took sixty-one different kinds of medicine but in spite
of that he lingered for a good while. All Uncle David Courtaloe's family
are _here_. There's a cabbage rose planted at the foot of every grave
and, my, don't they bloom! I come here every summer and gather them for
my rose jar. It would be a pity to let them go to waste, don't you
think?"

"I . . . I suppose so."

"My poor young sister Harriet lies _here_," sighed Miss Valentine. "She
had magnificent hair . . . about the color of yours . . . not so red
perhaps. It reached to her knees. She was engaged when she died. They
tell me you're engaged. I never much wanted to be married but I think it
would have been nice to be engaged. Oh, I've had some chances of course
. . . perhaps I was too fastidious . . . but a Courtaloe couldn't marry
_everybody_, could she?"

It did not seem likely she could.

"Frank Digby . . . over in that corner under the sumacs . . . wanted me.
I _did_ feel a little regretful over refusing him . . . but a Digby, my
dear! He married Georgina Troop. She always went to church a little late
to show off her clothes. My, she was fond of clothes. She was buried in
such a pretty blue dress . . . I made it for her to wear to a wedding
but in the end she wore it to her own funeral. She had three darling
little children. They used to sit in front of me at church and I always
gave them candy. Do you think it wrong to give children candy in church,
Miss Shirley? Not peppermints . . . that would be all right . . .
there's something _religious_ about peppermints, don't you think? But
the poor things don't like them."

When the Courtaloe plots were exhausted Miss Valentine's reminiscences
became a bit spicier. It did not make so much difference if you weren't
a Courtaloe.

"Old Mrs. Russell Pringle is here. I often wonder if she's in heaven or
not."

"But why?" gasped a rather shocked Anne.

"Well, she always hated her sister, Mary Ann, who had died a few months
before. 'If Mary Ann is in heaven I won't stay there,' says she. And she
was a woman who always kept her word, my dear . . . Pringle-like. She
was born a Pringle and married her cousin Russell. This is Mrs. Dan
Pringle . . . Janetta Bird. Seventy to a day when she died. Folks say
she would have thought it wrong to die a day older than threescore and
ten because that is the Bible limit. People do say such funny things,
don't they? I've heard that dying was the only thing she ever dared do
without asking her husband. Do you know, my dear, what he did once when
she bought a hat he didn't like?"

"I can't imagine."

"He _et_ it," said Miss Valentine solemnly. "Of course it was only a
small hat . . . lace and flowers . . . no feathers. Still, it must have
been rather indigestible. I understand he had gnawing pains in his
stomach for quite a time. Of course I didn't _see_ him eat it, but I've
always been assured the story was true. Do you suppose it was?"

"I'd believe anything of a Pringle," said Anne bitterly.

Miss Valentine pressed her arm sympathetically.

"I feel for you . . . indeed I do. It's terrible the way they're
treating you. But Summerside isn't _all_ Pringle, Miss Shirley."

"Sometimes I think it is," said Anne with a rueful smile.

"No, it isn't. And there are plenty of people would like to see you get
the better of them. Don't you give in to them no matter what they do.
It's just the old Satan that's got into them. But they hang together so
and Miss Sarah did want that cousin of theirs to get the school.

"The Nathan Pringles are _here_. Nathan always believed his wife was
trying to poison him but he didn't seem to mind. He said it made life
kind of exciting. Once he kind of suspected she'd put arsenic in his
porridge. He went out and fed it to a pig. The pig died three weeks
afterwards. But he said maybe it was only a coincidence and anyway he
couldn't be sure it was the same pig. In the end she died before him and
he said she'd always been a real good wife to him except for that one
thing. I think it would be charitable to believe that he was mistaken
about _it_."

"'Sacred to the memory of _Miss Kinsey_,'" read Anne in amazement. "What
an extraordinary inscription! Had she no other name?"

"If she had, nobody ever knew it," said Miss Valentine. "She came from
Nova Scotia and worked for the George Pringles for forty years. She gave
her name as Miss Kinsey and everybody called her that. She died suddenly
and then it was discovered that nobody knew her first name and she had
no relations that anybody could find. So they put that on her stone
. . . the George Pringles buried her very nicely and paid for the
monument. She was a faithful, hard-working creature but if you'd ever
seen her you'd have thought she was _born_ Miss Kinsey. The James
Morleys are _here_. I was at their golden wedding. Such a to-do . . .
gifts and speeches and flowers . . . and their children all home . . .
and then smiling and bowing and just hating each other as hard as they
could."

"Hating each other?"

"Bitterly, my dear. Everyone knew it. They had for years and years . . .
almost all their married life in fact. They quarreled on the way home
from church after the wedding. I often wonder how they manage to lie
here so peaceably side by side."

Again Anne shivered. How terrible . . . sitting opposite each other at
table . . . lying down beside each other at night . . . going to church
with their babies to be christened . . . and hating each other through
it all! Yet they must have loved to begin with. Was it possible she and
Gilbert could ever . . . nonsense! The Pringles were getting on her
nerves.

"Handsome John MacTabb is buried here. He was always suspected of being
the reason why Annetta Kennedy drowned herself. The MacTabbs were all
handsome but you could never believe a word they said. There used to be
a stone here for his Uncle Samuel, who was reported drowned at sea fifty
years ago. When he turned up alive the family took the stone down. The
man they bought it from wouldn't take it back so Mrs. Samuel used it for
a baking board. Talk about a marble slab for mixing on! That old
tombstone was just fine, she said. The MacTabb children were always
bringing cookies to school with raised letters and figures on them . . .
scraps of the epitaph. They gave them away real generous, but I never
could bring myself to eat one. I'm peculiar that way. Mr. Harley Pringle
is _here_. He had to wheel Peter MacTabb down Main Street once, in a
wheelbarrow, wearing a bonnet, for an election bet. All Summerside
turned out to see it . . . except the Pringles, of course. _They_ nearly
died of shame. Milly Pringle is _here_. I was very fond of Milly, even
if she was a Pringle. She was so pretty and as lightfooted as a fairy.
Sometimes I think, my dear, on nights like this she must slip out of her
grave and dance like she used to do. But I suppose a Christian
shouldn't be harboring such thoughts. This is Herb Pringle's grave. He
was one of the jolly Pringles. He always made you laugh. He laughed
right out in church once . . . when the mouse dropped out of the flowers
on Meta Pringle's hat when she bowed in prayer. _I_ didn't feel much
like laughing. I didn't know where the mouse had gone. I pulled my
skirts tight about my ankles and held them there till church was out,
but it spoiled the sermon for me. Herb sat behind me and such a shout as
he gave. People who couldn't see the mouse thought he'd gone crazy. It
seemed to me that laugh of his _couldn't_ die. If _he_ was alive he'd
stand up for you, Sarah or no Sarah. _This_, of course, is Captain
Abraham Pringle's monument."

It dominated the whole graveyard. Four receding platforms of stone
formed a square pedestal on which rose a huge pillar of marble topped
with a ridiculous draped urn beneath which a fat cherub was blowing a
horn.

"How ugly!" said Anne candidly.

"Oh, do you think so?" Miss Valentine seemed rather shocked. "It was
thought very handsome when it was erected. That is supposed to be
Gabriel blowing his trumpet. I think it gives quite a touch of elegance
to the graveyard. It cost nine hundred dollars. Captain Abraham was a
very fine old man. It is a great pity he is dead. If he was living they
wouldn't be persecuting you the way they are. I don't wonder Sarah and
Ellen are proud of him, though I think they carry it a bit too far."

At the graveyard gate Anne turned and looked back. A strange, peaceful
hush lay over the windless land. Long fingers of moonlight were
beginning to pierce the darkling firs, touching a gravestone here and
there, and making strange shadows among them. But the graveyard wasn't a
sad place after all. Really, the people in it seemed alive after Miss
Valentine's tales.

"I've heard you write," said Miss Valentine anxiously, as they went down
the lane. "You won't put the things I've told you in your stories, will
you?"

"You may be sure I won't," promised Anne.

"Do you think it is really wrong . . . or dangerous . . . to speak ill
of the dead?" whispered Miss Valentine a bit anxiously.

"I don't suppose it's exactly either," said Anne. "Only . . . rather
unfair . . . like hitting those who can't defend themselves. But you
didn't say anything very dreadful of anybody, Miss Courtaloe."

"I told you Nathan Pringle thought his wife was trying to poison
him . . ."

"But you give her the benefit of the doubt . . ." and Miss Valentine
went her way reassured.


                                    6


    "I wended my way to the graveyard this evening," wrote Anne to
    Gilbert after she got home. "I think 'wend your way' is a lovely
    phrase and I work it in whenever I can. It sounds funny to say I
    enjoyed my stroll in the graveyard but I really did. Miss Courtaloe's
    stories were so funny. Comedy and tragedy are so mixed up in life,
    Gilbert. The only thing that haunts me is that tale of the two who
    lived together fifty years and hated each other all that time. I
    can't believe they really did. Somebody has said that 'hate is only
    love that has missed its way.' I feel sure that under the hatred
    they really loved each other . . . just as I really loved you all
    those years I thought I hated you . . . and I think death would show
    it to them. I'm glad _I_ found out in life. And I have found out
    there _are_ some decent Pringles . . . dead ones.

    "Last night when I went down late for a drink of water I found Aunt
    Kate buttermilking her face in the pantry. She asked me not to tell
    Chatty . . . she would think it so silly. I promised I wouldn't.

    "Elizabeth still comes for the milk, though the Woman is pretty well
    over her bronchitis. I wonder they let her, especially since old
    Mrs. Campbell is a Pringle. Last Saturday night Elizabeth . . . she
    was Betty that night I think . . . ran in singing when she left me
    and I distinctly heard the Woman say to her at the porch door,
    'It's too near the Sabbath for you to be singing _that_ song.' I am
    sure that Woman would prevent Elizabeth from singing on any day if
    she could!

    "Elizabeth had on a new dress that night, a dark wine color . . .
    they _do_ dress her nicely . . . and she said wistfully, 'I thought
    I looked a little bit pretty when I put it on tonight, Miss Shirley,
    and I wished father could see me. Of course he will see me in
    Tomorrow . . . but it sometimes seems so slow in coming. I wish we
    could hurry time a bit, Miss Shirley.'

    "Now, dearest, I must work out some geometrical exercises. Geometry
    exercises have taken the place of what Rebecca calls my 'literary
    efforts.' The specter that haunts my daily path now is the dread of
    an exercise popping up in class that I can't do. And what would the
    Pringles say then, oh, then . . . oh, what would the Pringles say
    then!

    "Meanwhile, as you love me and the cat tribe, pray for a poor
    broken-hearted, ill-used Thomas cat. A mouse ran over Rebecca Dew's
    foot in the pantry the other day and she has fumed ever since. 'That
    Cat does nothing but eat and sleep and let mice overrun everything.
    This _is_ the last straw.' So she chivies him from pillar to post,
    routs him off his favorite cushion and . . . I know, for I caught
    her at it . . . assists him none too gently with her foot when she
    lets him out."


                                    7


One Friday evening, at the end of a mild, sunny December day Anne went
out to Lowvale to attend a turkey supper. Wilfred Bryce's home was in
Lowvale, where he lived with an uncle, and he had asked her shyly if she
would go out with him after school, go to the turkey supper in the
church, and spend Saturday at his home. Anne agreed, hoping that she
might be able to influence the uncle to let Wilfred keep on going to
High School. Wilfred was afraid that he would not be able to go back
after New Year. He was a clever, ambitious boy and Anne felt a special
interest in him.

It could not be said that she enjoyed her visit overmuch, except in the
pleasure it gave Wilfred. His uncle and aunt were a rather odd and
uncouth pair. Saturday morning was windy and dark, with showers of snow,
and at first Anne wondered how she was going to put in the day. She felt
tired and sleepy after the late hours of the turkey supper; Wilfred had
to help thrash; and there was not even a book in sight. Then she thought
of the battered old seaman's chest she had seen in the back of the hall
upstairs and recalled Mrs. Stanton's request. Mrs. Stanton was writing a
history of Prince County and had asked Anne if she knew of, or could
find, any old diaries or documents that might be helpful.

"The Pringles, of course, have lots that I could use," she told Anne.
"But I can't ask _them_. You know the Pringles and Stantons have never
been friends."

"_I_ can't ask them either, unfortunately," said Anne.

"Oh, I'm not expecting you to. All I want is for you to keep your eyes
open when you are visiting round in other people's homes and if you find
or hear of any old diaries or maps or anything like that, try to get the
loan of them for me. You've no idea what interesting things I've found
in old diaries . . . little bits of real life that make the old pioneers
live again. I want to get things like that for my book as well as
statistics and genealogical tables."

Anne asked Mrs. Bryce if they had any such old records. Mrs. Bryce shook
her head.

"Not as I knows on. In course . . ." brightening up . . . "there's old
Uncle Andy's chist up there. There might be something in it. He used to
sail with old Captain Abraham Pringle. I'll go out and ask Duncan if ye
kin root in it."

Duncan sent word back that she could "root" in it all she liked and if
she found any "dockymints" she could have them. He'd been meaning to
burn the hull contents anyway and take the chest for a toolbox. Anne
accordingly rooted, but all she found was an old yellowed diary or "log"
which Andy Bryce seemed to have kept all through his years at sea. Anne
beguiled the stormy forenoon away by reading it with interest and
amusement. Andy was learned in sea lore and had gone on many voyages
with Captain Abraham Pringle, whom he evidently admired immensely. The
diary was full of ill-spelled, ungrammatical tributes to the Captain's
courage and resourcefulness, especially in one wild enterprise of
beating round the Horn. But his admiration had not, it seemed, extended
to Abraham's brother Myrom, who was also a captain but of a different
ship.

"Up to Myrom Pringle's tonight. His wife made him mad and he up and
throwed a glass of water in her face."

"Myrom is home. His ship was burned and they took to the boats. Nearly
starved. In the end they et up Jonas Selkirk, who had shot himself. They
lived on him till the _Mary G._ picked them up. Myrom told me this
himself. Seemed to think it a good joke."

Anne shivered over this last entry, which seemed all the more horrifying
for Andy's unimpassioned statement of the grim facts. Then she fell into
a reverie. There was nothing in the book that could be of any use to
Mrs. Stanton, but wouldn't Miss Sarah and Miss Ellen be interested in it
since it contained so much about their adored old father? Suppose she
sent it to them? Duncan Bryce had said she could do as she liked with
it.

No, she wouldn't. Why should she try to please them or cater to their
absurd pride, which was great enough now without any more food? They had
set themselves to drive her out of the school and they were succeeding.
They and their clan had beaten her.

Wilfred took her back to Windy Poplars that evening, both of them
feeling happy. Anne had talked Duncan Bryce into letting Wilfred finish
out his year in High School.

"Then I'll manage Queen's for a year and after that teach and educate
myself," said Wilfred. "How can I ever repay you, Miss Shirley? Uncle
wouldn't have listened to anyone else, but he likes you. He said to me
out in the barn, 'Redhaired women could always do what they liked with
me.' But I don't think it was your hair, Miss Shirley, although it is so
beautiful. It was just . . . _you_."

At two o'clock that night Anne woke up and decided that she would send
Andy Bryce's diary to Maplehurst. After all, she had a bit of liking
for the old ladies. And they had so little to make life warm . . . only
their pride in their father. At three she woke again and decided she
wouldn't. Miss Sarah pretending to be deaf, indeed! At four she was in
the swithers again. Finally she determined she would send it to them.
She wouldn't be petty. Anne had a horror of being petty . . . like the
Pyes.

Having settled this, Anne went to sleep for keeps, thinking how lovely
it was to wake up in the night and hear the first snowstorm of the
winter around your tower and then snuggle down in your blankets and
drift into dreamland again.

Monday morning she wrapped up the old diary carefully and sent it to
Miss Sarah with a little note.


    "DEAR MISS PRINGLE:

    "I wonder if you would be interested in this old diary. Mr. Bryce
    gave it to me for Mrs. Stanton, who is writing a history of the
    county, but I don't think it would be of any use to her and I
    thought you might like to have it.

                                                     "Yours sincerely,
                                                       "ANNE SHIRLEY."


"That's a horribly stiff note," thought Anne, "but I can't write
naturally to them. And I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they sent it
haughtily back to me."

In the fine blue of the early winter evening Rebecca Dew got the shock
of her life. The Maplehurst carriage drove along Spook's Lane, over the
powdery snow, and stopped at the front gate. Miss Ellen got out of it
and then . . . to everyone's amazement . . . Miss Sarah, who had not
left Maplehurst for ten years.

"They're coming to the front door," gasped Rebecca Dew, panic-stricken.

"Where else would a Pringle come to?" asked Aunt Kate.

"Of course . . . of course . . . but it sticks," said Rebecca
tragically. "It _does_ stick . . . you know it does. And it hasn't been
opened since we house-cleaned last spring. This _is_ the last straw."

The front door did stick . . . but Rebecca Dew wrenched it open with
desperate violence and showed the Maplehurst ladies into the parlor.

"Thank heaven, we've had a fire in it today," she thought, "and all I
hope is That Cat hasn't haired up the sofa. If Sarah Pringle got cat
hairs on her dress in our parlor . . ."

Rebecca Dew dared not imagine the consequences. She called Anne from the
tower room, Miss Sarah having asked if Miss Shirley were in, and then
betook herself to the kitchen, half mad with curiosity as to what on
earth was bringing the old Pringle girls to see Miss Shirley.

"If there's any more persecution in the wind . . ." said Rebecca Dew
darkly.

Anne herself descended with considerable trepidation. Had they come to
return the diary with icy scorn?

It was little, wrinkled, inflexible Miss Sarah who rose and spoke
without preamble when Anne entered the room.

"We have come to capitulate," she said bitterly. "We can do nothing else
. . . of course you knew that when you found that scandalous entry about
poor Uncle Myrom. It wasn't true . . . it _couldn't_ be true. Uncle
Myrom was just taking a rise out of Andy Bryce . . . Andy was _so_
credulous. But everybody outside of our family will be glad to believe
it. You knew it would make us all a laughing stock . . . and worse. Oh,
you are very clever. We admit _that_. Jen will apologize and behave
herself in future . . . I, Sarah Pringle, assure you of that. If you
will only promise not to tell Mrs. Stanton . . . not to tell anyone
. . . we will do anything . . . _anything_."

Miss Sarah wrung her fine lace handkerchief in her little blue-veined
hands. She was literally trembling.

Anne stared in amazement . . . and horror. The poor old darlings! They
thought she had been threatening them!

"Oh, you've misunderstood me dreadfully," she exclaimed, taking Miss
Sarah's poor, piteous hands. "I . . . I never dreamed you would think I
was trying to . . . oh, it was just because I thought you would like to
have all those interesting details about your splendid father. I never
dreamed of showing or telling that other little item to anyone. I
didn't think it was of the least importance. And I never will."

There was a moment's silence. Then Miss Sarah freed her hands gently,
put her handkerchief to her eyes and sat down, with a faint blush on her
fine wrinkled face.

"We . . . we _have_ misunderstood you, my dear. And we've . . . we've
been abominable to you. Will you forgive us?"

Half an hour later . . . a half hour which nearly was the death of
Rebecca Dew . . . the Misses Pringle went away. It had been a half hour
of friendly chat and discussion about the non-combustible items of
Andy's diary. At the front door Miss Sarah . . . who had not had the
least trouble with her hearing during the interview . . . turned back
for a moment and took a bit of paper, covered with very fine, sharp
writing, from her reticule.

"I had almost forgotten . . . we promised Mrs. MacLean our recipe for
pound cake some time ago. Perhaps you won't mind handing it to her? And
tell her the sweating process is very important . . . quite
indispensable, indeed. Ellen, your bonnet is slightly over one ear. You
had better adjust it before we leave. We . . . we were somewhat agitated
while dressing."

Anne told the widows and Rebecca Dew that she had given Andy Bryce's old
diary to the ladies of Maplehurst and that they had come to thank her
for it. With this explanation they had to be contented, although Rebecca
Dew always felt that there was more behind it than that . . . much more.
Gratitude for an old faded, tobacco-stained diary would never have
brought Sarah Pringle to the front door of Windy Poplars. Miss Shirley
was deep . . . very deep!

"I'm going to open that front door once a day after this," vowed
Rebecca. "Just to keep it in practice. I all but went over flat when it
_did_ give way. Well, we've got the recipe for the pound cake anyway.
Thirty-six eggs! If you'd dispose of That Cat and let me keep hens we
might be able to afford it once."

Whereupon Rebecca Dew marched to the kitchen and got square with fate by
giving That Cat milk when she knew he wanted liver.

The Shirley-Pringle feud was over. Nobody outside of the Pringles ever
knew why, but Summerside people understood that Miss Shirley,
single-handed, had, in some mysterious way, routed the whole clan, who
ate out of her hand from then on. Jen came back to school the next day
and apologized meekly to Anne before the whole room. She was a model
pupil thereafter and every Pringle student followed her lead. As for the
adult Pringles, their antagonism vanished like mist before the sun.
There were no more complaints regarding "dis_cip_line" or home work. No
more of the fine, subtle snubs characteristic of the ilk. They fairly
fell over one another trying to be nice to Anne. No dance or skating
party was complete without her. For, although the fatal diary had been
committed to the flames by Miss Sarah herself, memory was memory and
Miss Shirley had a tale to tell if she chose to tell it. It would never
do to have that nosey Mrs. Stanton know that Captain Myrom Pringle had
been a cannibal!


                                    8


                 (_Extract from letter to Gilbert_)


    "I am in my tower and Rebecca Dew is caroling _Could I but Climb?_
    in the kitchen. Which reminds me that the minister's wife has asked
    me to sing in the choir! Of course the Pringles have told her to do
    it. I may do it on the Sundays I don't spend at Green Gables. The
    Pringles have held out the right hand of fellowship with a vengeance
    . . . accepted me lock, stock and barrel. What a clan!

    "I've been to three Pringle parties. I set nothing down in malice
    but I think all the Pringle girls are imitating my style of
    hairdressing. Well, 'imitation is the sincerest flattery.' And,
    Gilbert, I'm really liking them . . . as I always knew I would if
    they would give me a chance. I'm even beginning to suspect that
    sooner or later I'll find myself liking Jen. She can be charming
    when she wants to be and it is very evident she wants to be.

    "Last night I bearded the lion in his den . . . in other words, I
    went boldly up the front steps of The Evergreens to the square
    porch with the four whitewashed iron urns in its corners, and rang
    the bell. When Miss Monkman came to the door I asked her if she
    would lend little Elizabeth to me for a walk. I expected a refusal,
    but after the Woman had gone in and conferred with Mrs. Campbell,
    she came back and said dourly that Elizabeth could go but, please, I
    wasn't to keep her out late. I wonder if even Mrs. Campbell has got
    her orders from Miss Sarah.

    "Elizabeth came dancing down the dark stairway, looking like a pixy
    in a red coat and little green cap, and almost speechless for joy.

    "'I feel all squirmy and excited, Miss Shirley,' she whispered as
    soon as we got away. 'I'm Betty . . . I'm always Betty when I feel
    like that.'

    "We went as far down the Road That Leads to the End of the World as
    we dared and then back. Tonight the harbor, lying dark under a
    crimson sunset, seemed full of implications of 'fairylands forlorn'
    and mysterious isles in uncharted seas. I thrilled to it and so did
    the mite I held by the hand.

    "'If we ran hard, Miss Shirley, could we get into the sunset?' she
    wanted to know. I remembered Paul and his fancies about the 'sunset
    land.'

    "'We must wait for Tomorrow before we can do that,' I said. 'Look,
    Elizabeth, at that golden island of cloud just over the harbor
    mouth. Let's pretend that's your island of Happiness.'

    "'There is an island down there somewhere,' said Elizabeth dreamily.
    'Its name is Flying Cloud. Isn't that a lovely name . . . a name
    just out of Tomorrow? I can see it from the garret windows. It
    belongs to a gentleman from Boston and he has a summer home there.
    But I pretend it's mine.'

    "At the door I stooped and kissed Elizabeth's cheek before she went
    in. I shall never forget her eyes. Gilbert, that child is just
    starved for love.

    "Tonight, when she came over for her milk, I saw that she had been
    crying.

    "'They . . . they made me wash your kiss off, Miss Shirley,' she
    sobbed. 'I didn't want ever to wash my face again. I _vowed_ I
    wouldn't. Because, you see, I didn't want to wash your kiss off. I
    got away to school this morning without doing it, but tonight the
    Woman just took me and _scrubbed_ it off.'

    "I kept a straight face.

    "'You couldn't go through life without washing your face
    occasionally, darling. But never mind about the kiss. I'll kiss you
    every night when you come for the milk and then it won't matter if
    it is washed off the next morning.'

    "'You are the only person who loves me in the world,' said
    Elizabeth. 'When you talk to me I smell violets.'

    "Was anybody ever paid a prettier compliment? But I couldn't quite
    let the first sentence pass.

    "'Your grandmother loves you, Elizabeth.'

    "'She doesn't . . . she hates me.'

    "'You're just a wee bit foolish, darling. Your grandmother and Miss
    Monkman are both old people and old people are easily disturbed and
    worried. Of course you annoy them sometimes. And . . . of course
    . . . when _they_ were young, children were brought up much more
    strictly than they are now. They cling to the old way.'

    "But I felt I was not convincing Elizabeth. After all, they _don't_
    love her and she knows it. She looked carefully back at the house to
    see if the door was shut. Then she said deliberately:

    "'Grandmother and the Woman are just two old tyrants and when
    Tomorrow comes I'm going to escape them forever.'

    "I think she expected I'd die of horror. . . . I really suspect
    Elizabeth said it just to make a sensation. I merely laughed and
    kissed her. I hope Martha Monkman saw it from the kitchen window.

    "I can see over Summerside from the left window in the tower. Just
    now it is a huddle of friendly white roofs . . . friendly at last
    since the Pringles are my friends. Here and there a light is
    gleaming in gable and dormer. Here and there is a suggestion of
    gray-ghost smoke. Thick stars are low over it all. It is 'a dreaming
    town.' Isn't that a lovely phrase? You remember . . . 'Galahad
    through dreaming towns did go'?

    "I feel so happy, Gilbert. I won't have to go home to Green Gables
    at Christmas, defeated and discredited. Life is good . . . good!

    "So is Miss Sarah's pound cake. Rebecca Dew made one and 'sweated'
    it according to directions . . . which simply means that she wrapped
    it in several thicknesses of brown paper and several more towels and
    left it for three days. I can recommend it.

    "(Are there, or are there not, two 'c's' in 'recommend'? In spite of
    the fact that I am a B.A. I can never be certain. Fancy if the
    Pringles had discovered that before I found Andy's diary!)"


                                    9


Trix Taylor was curled up in the tower one night in February, while
little flurries of snow hissed against the windows and that absurdly
tiny stove purred like a red-hot black cat. Trix was pouring out her
woes to Anne. Anne was beginning to find herself the recipient of
confidences on all sides. She was known to be engaged, so that none of
the Summerside girls feared her as a possible rival, and there was
something about her that made you feel it was safe to tell her secrets.

Trix had come up to ask Anne to dinner the next evening. She was a
jolly, plump little creature, with twinkling brown eyes and rosy cheeks,
and did not look as if life weighed too heavily on her twenty years. But
it appeared that she had troubles of her own.

"Dr. Lennox Carter is coming to dinner tomorrow night. That is why we
want you especially. He is the new Head of the Modern Languages
Department at Redmond and dreadfully clever, so we want somebody with
brains to talk to him. You know I haven't any to boast of, nor Pringle
either. As for Esme . . . well, you know, Anne, Esme is the sweetest
thing and she's really clever, but she's so shy and timid she can't even
make use of what brains she has when Dr. Carter is around. She's so
terribly in love with him. It's pitiful. _I'm_ very fond of Johnny . . .
but before I'd dissolve into such a liquid state for him!"

"Are Esme and Dr. Carter engaged?"

"Not yet" . . . significantly. "But, oh, Anne, she's hoping he means to
ask her this time. Would he come over to the Island to visit his cousin
right in the middle of the term if he didn't intend to? I hope he will
for Esme's sake, because she'll just die if he doesn't. But between you
and me and the bed-post I'm not terribly struck on him for a
brother-in-law. He's awfully fastidious, Esme says, and she's
desperately afraid he won't approve of _us_. If he doesn't, she thinks
he'll never ask her to marry him. So you can't imagine how she's hoping
everything will go well at the dinner tomorrow night. I don't see why it
shouldn't . . . Mamma is the most wonderful cook . . . and we have a
good maid and I've bribed Pringle with half my week's allowance to
behave himself. Of course he doesn't like Dr. Carter either . . . says
he's got swelled head . . . but he's fond of Esme. If only Papa won't
have a sulky fit on!"

"Have you any reason to fear it?" asked Anne. Everyone in Summerside
knew about Cyrus Taylor's sulky fits.

"You never can tell when he'll take one," said Trix dolefully. "He was
frightfully upset tonight because he couldn't find his new flannel
nightshirt. Esme had put it in the wrong drawer. He may be over it by
tomorrow night or he may not. If he's not, he'll disgrace us all and Dr.
Carter will conclude he can't marry into such a family. At least, that
is what Esme says and I'm afraid she may be right. I think, Anne, that
Lennox Carter is very fond of Esme . . . thinks she would make a 'very
suitable wife' for him . . . but doesn't want to do anything rash or
throw his wonderful self away. I've heard that he told his cousin a man
couldn't be too careful what kind of family he married into. He's just
at the point where he might be turned either way by a trifle. And, if it
comes to that, one of Papa's sulky fits isn't any trifle."

"Doesn't he like Dr. Carter?"

"Oh, he does. He thinks it would be a wonderful match for Esme. But when
Father has one of his spells on, _nothing_ has any influence over him
while it lasts. That's the Pringle for you, Anne. Grandmother Taylor was
a Pringle, you know. You just can't imagine what we've gone through as
a family. He never goes into rages, you know . . . like Uncle George.
Uncle George's family don't mind his rages. When he goes into a temper
he blows off . . . you can hear him roaring three blocks away . . . and
then he's like a lamb and brings everyone a new dress for a
peace-offering. But Father just sulks and glowers, and won't say a word
to _anybody_ at meal times. Esme says that, after all, that's better
than cousin Richard Taylor, who is always saying sarcastic things at the
table and insulting his wife; but it seems to me _nothing_ could be
worse than those awful silences of Papa's. They rattle us and we're
terrified to open our mouths. It wouldn't be so bad, of course, if it
was only when we are alone. But it's just as apt to be when we have
company. Esme and I are simply tired of trying to explain away Papa's
insulting silences. She's just sick with fear that he won't have got
over the nightshirt before tomorrow night . . . and what will Lennox
think? And she wants you to wear your blue dress. Her new dress is blue,
because Lennox likes blue. But Papa hates it. Yours may reconcile him to
hers."

"Wouldn't it be better for her to wear something else?"

"She hasn't anything else fit to wear at a company dinner except the
green poplin Father gave her at Christmas. It's a lovely dress in itself
. . . Father likes us to have pretty dresses . . . but you can't think
of anything as awful as Esme in green. Pringle says it makes her look as
if she was in the last stages of consumption. And Lennox Carter's cousin
told Esme he would never marry a delicate person. I'm more than glad
Johnny isn't 'so fastidious.'"

"Have you told your father about your engagement to Johnny yet?" asked
Anne, who knew all about Trix's love affair.

"No," poor Trix groaned. "I can't summon up the courage, Anne. I know
he'll make a frightful scene. Papa has always been so down on Johnny
because he's poor. Papa forgets that he was poorer than Johnny when he
started out in the hardware business. Of course he'll have to be told
soon . . . but I want to wait until Esme's affair is settled. I know
Papa won't speak to _any_ of us for weeks after I tell him, and Mamma
will worry so . . . she can't _bear_ Father's sulky fits. We're all
such cowards before Papa. Of course, Mamma and Esme are naturally timid
with everyone, but Pringle and I have lots of ginger. It's only Papa who
can cow us. Sometimes I think if we had anyone to back us up . . . but
we haven't, and we just feel paralyzed. You can't imagine, Anne darling,
what a company dinner is like at our place when Papa is sulking. But if
he only behaves tomorrow night I'll forgive him for everything. He _can_
be very agreeable when he wants to be . . . Papa is really just like
Longfellow's little girl . . . 'when he's good he's very, very good and
when he's bad he's horrid.' I've seen him the life of the party."

"He was very nice the night I had dinner with you last month."

"Oh, he likes you, as I've said. That's one of the reasons why we want
you so much. It may have a good influence on him. We're not neglecting
_anything_ that may please him. But when he has a really bad fit of
sulks on he seems to hate everything and everybody. Anyhow, we've got a
bang-up dinner planned, with an elegant orange-custard dessert. Mamma
wanted pie because she says every man in the world but Papa likes pie
for dessert better than anything else . . . even Professors of Modern
Languages. But Papa doesn't, so it would never do to take a chance on it
tomorrow night, when so much depends on it. Orange custard is Papa's
favorite dessert. As for poor Johnny and me, I suppose I'll just have to
elope with him some day and Papa will never forgive me."

"I believe if you'd just get up enough spunk to tell him and endure his
resulting sulks you'd find he'd come round to it beautifully and you'd
be saved months of anguish."

"You don't know Papa," said Trix darkly.

"Perhaps I know him better than you do. You've lost your perspective."

"Lost my . . . what? Anne darling, remember I'm not a B.A. I only went
through the High. I'd have loved to go to college, but Papa doesn't
believe in the Higher Education of women."

"I only meant that you're too close to him to understand him. A
stranger could very well see him more clearly . . . understand him
better."

"I understand that nothing can induce Papa to speak if he has made up
his mind not to . . . _nothing_. He prides himself on that."

"Then why don't the rest of you just go on and talk as if nothing was
the matter?"

"We _can't_ . . . I've told you he paralyzes us. You'll find it out for
yourself tomorrow night if he hasn't got over the nightshirt. I don't
know how he does it but he does. I don't believe we'd mind so much how
cranky he was if he would only talk. Its the silence that shatters us.
I'll never forgive Papa if he acts up tomorrow night when so much is at
stake."

"Let's hope for the best, dear."

"I'm trying to. And I know it will help to have you there. Mamma thought
we ought to have Katherine Brooke too, but I knew it wouldn't have a
good effect on Papa. He hates her. I don't blame him for _that_, I must
say. I haven't any use for her myself. I don't see how you can be as
nice to her as you are."

"I'm sorry for her, Trix."

"Sorry for her! But it's all her own fault she isn't liked. Oh, well, it
takes all kinds of people to make a world . . . but Summerside could
spare Katherine Brooke . . . glum old cat!"

"She's an excellent teacher, Trix. . . ."

"Oh, do I know it? I was in her class. She _did_ hammer things into my
head . . . and flayed the flesh off my bones with sarcasm as well. And
the way she dresses! Papa can't bear to see a woman badly dressed. He
says he has no use for dowds and he's sure God hasn't either. Mamma
would be horrified if she knew I told you that, Anne. She excused it in
Papa because he is a man. If that was all we had to excuse in him! And
poor Johnny hardly daring to come to the house now because Papa is so
rude to him. I slip out on fine nights and we walk round and round the
square and get half frozen."

Anne drew what was something like a breath of relief when Trix had
gone, and slipped down to coax a snack out of Rebecca Dew.

"Going to the Taylors for dinner, are you? Well, I hope old Cyrus will
be decent. If his family weren't all so afraid of him in his sulky fits
he wouldn't indulge in them so often, of that I feel certain. I tell
you, Miss Shirley, he _enjoys_ his sulks. And now I suppose I must warm
That Cat's milk. Pampered animal!"


                                   10


When Anne arrived at the Cyrus Taylor house the next evening she felt
the chill in the atmosphere as soon as she entered the door. A trim maid
showed her up to the guest room but as Anne went up the stairs she
caught sight of Mrs. Cyrus Taylor scuttling from the dining room to the
kitchen and Mrs. Cyrus was wiping tears away from her pale, careworn,
but still rather sweet face. It was all too clear that Cyrus had not yet
"got over" the nightshirt.

This was confirmed by a distressed Trix creeping into the room and
whispering nervously,

"Oh, Anne, he's in a dreadful humor. He seemed pretty amiable this
morning and our hopes rose. But Hugh Pringle beat him at a game of
checkers this afternoon and Papa can't _bear_ to lose a checker game.
And it had to happen today, of course. He found Esme 'admiring herself
in the mirror,' as he put it, and just walked her out of her room and
locked the door. The poor darling was only wondering if she looked nice
enough to please Lennox Carter, Ph.D. She hadn't even a chance to put
her pearl string on. And look at me. I didn't dare curl my hair . . .
Papa doesn't like curls that are not natural . . . and I look like a
fright. Not that it matters about me . . . only it just shows you. Papa
threw out the flowers Mamma put on the dining-room table and she feels
it so . . . she took such trouble with them . . . and he wouldn't let
her put on her garnet earrings. He hasn't had such a bad spell since he
came home from the west last spring and found Mamma had put red curtains
in the sitting room, when he preferred mulberry. Oh, Anne, do talk as
hard as you can at dinner, if he won't. If you don't, it will be _too_
dreadful."

"I'll do my best," promised Anne, who certainly had never found herself
at a loss for something to say. But then never had she found herself in
such a situation as presently confronted her.

They were all gathered around the table . . . a very pretty and well
appointed table in spite of the missing flowers. Timid Mrs. Cyrus, in a
gray silk dress, had a face that was grayer than her dress. Esme, the
beauty of the family . . . a very pale beauty, pale gold hair, pale pink
lips, pale forget-me-not eyes . . . was so much paler than usual that
she looked as if she were going to faint. Pringle, ordinarily a fat,
cheerful urchin of fourteen, with round eyes and glasses and hair so
fair it looked almost white, looked like a tied dog, and Trix had the
air of a terrified schoolgirl.

Dr. Carter, who was indeniably handsome and distinguished-looking, with
crisp dark hair, brilliant dark eyes and silver-rimmed glasses, but whom
Anne, in the days of his Assistant Professorship at Redmond, had thought
a rather pompous young bore, looked ill at ease. Evidently he felt that
something was wrong somewhere . . . a reasonable conclusion when your
host simply stalks to the head of the table and drops into his chair
without a word to you or anybody.

Cyrus would not say grace. Mrs. Cyrus, blushing beet-red, murmured
almost inaudibly, "For what we are about to receive the Lord make us
truly thankful." The meal started badly by nervous Esme dropping her
fork on the floor. Everybody except Cyrus jumped, because their nerves
were likewise keyed up to the highest pitch. Cyrus glared at Esme out of
his bulging blue eyes in a kind of enraged stillness. Then he glared at
everybody and froze them into dumbness. He glared at poor Mrs. Cyrus,
when she took a helping of horseradish sauce, with a glare that reminded
her of her weak stomach. She couldn't eat any of it after that . . . and
she was so fond of it. She didn't believe it would hurt her. But for
that matter she couldn't eat anything, nor could Esme. They only
pretended. The meal proceeded in a ghastly silence, broken by spasmodic
speeches about the weather from Trix and Anne. Trix implored Anne with
her eyes to talk, but Anne found herself for once in her life with
absolutely nothing to say. She felt desperately that she _must_ talk,
but only the most idiotic things came into her head . . . things it
would be impossible to utter aloud. Was everyone bewitched? It was
curious, the effect one sulky, stubborn man had on you. Anne couldn't
have believed it possible. And there was no doubt that he was really
quite happy in the knowledge that he had made everybody at his table
horribly uncomfortable. What on earth was going on in his mind? Would he
jump if anyone stuck a pin in him? Anne wanted to slap him . . . rap his
knuckles . . . stand him in a corner . . . treat him like the spoiled
child he really was, in spite of his spiky gray hair and truculent
mustache.

Above all she wanted to make him _speak_. She felt instinctively that
nothing in the world would punish him so much as to be tricked into
speaking when he was determined not to.

Suppose she got up and deliberately smashed that huge, hideous,
old-fashioned vase on the table in the corner . . . an ornate thing
covered with wreaths of roses and leaves which it was most difficult to
dust but which must be kept immaculately clean. Anne knew that the whole
family hated it, but Cyrus Taylor would not hear of having it banished
to the attic, because it had been his mother's. Anne thought she would
do it fearlessly if she really believed that it would make Cyrus explode
into vocal anger.

Why didn't Lennox Carter talk? If he would, she, Anne, could talk, too,
and perhaps Trix and Pringle would escape from the spell that bound them
and some kind of conversation would be possible. But he simply sat there
and ate. Perhaps he thought it was really the best thing to do . . .
perhaps he was afraid of saying something that would still further
enrage the evidently already enraged parent of his lady.

"Will you please start the pickles, Miss Shirley?" said Mrs. Taylor
faintly.

Something wicked stirred in Anne. She started the pickles . . . and
something else. Without letting herself stop to think she bent forward,
her great, gray-green eyes glimmering limpidly, and said gently,

"Perhaps you would be surprised to hear, Dr. Carter, that Mr. Taylor
went deaf very suddenly last week?"

Anne sat back, having thrown her bomb. She could not tell precisely what
she expected or hoped. If Dr. Carter got the impression that his host
was deaf instead of in a towering rage of silence, it might loosen his
tongue. She had _not_ told a falsehood . . . she had _not_ said Cyrus
Taylor _was_ deaf. As for Cyrus Taylor, if she had hoped to make him
speak she had failed. He merely glared at her, still in silence.

But Anne's remark had an effect on Trix and Pringle that she had never
dreamed of. Trix was in a silent rage herself. She had, the moment
before Anne had hurled her rhetorical question, seen Esme furtively wipe
away a tear that had escaped from one of her despairing blue eyes.
Everything was hopeless . . . Lennox Carter would never ask Esme to
marry him now . . . it didn't matter any more what anyone said or did.
Trix was suddenly possessed with a burning desire to get square with her
brutal father. Anne's speech gave her a weird inspiration, and Pringle,
a volcano of suppressed impishness, blinked his white eyelashes for a
dazed moment and then promptly followed her lead. Never, as long as they
might live, would Anne, Esme or Mrs. Cyrus forget the dreadful quarter
of an hour that followed.

"Such an affliction for poor Papa," said Trix, addressing Dr. Carter
across the table. "And him only sixty-eight."

Two little white dents appeared at the corners of Cyrus Taylor's
nostrils when he heard his age advanced six years. But he remained
silent.

"It's such a treat to have a decent meal," said Pringle, clearly and
distinctly. "What would you think, Dr. Carter, of a man who makes his
family live on fruit and eggs . . . nothing but fruit and eggs . . .
just for a fad?"

"Does your father . . . ?" began Dr. Carter bewilderedly.

"What would you think of a husband who bit his wife when she put up
curtains he didn't like . . . deliberately bit her?" demanded Trix.

"Till the blood came," added Pringle solemnly.

"Do you mean to say your father . . . ?"

"What would you think of a man who would cut up a silk dress of his
wife's just because the way it was made didn't suit him?" said Trix.

"What would you think," said Pringle, "of a man who refuses to let his
wife have a dog?"

"When she would so love to have one," sighed Trix.

"What would you think of a man," continued Pringle, who was beginning to
enjoy himself hugely, "who would give his wife a pair of goloshes for a
Christmas present . . . nothing but a pair of goloshes?"

"Goloshes don't exactly warm the heart," admitted Dr. Carter. His eyes
met Anne's and he smiled. Anne reflected that she had never seen him
smile before. It changed his face wonderfully for the better. What _was_
Trix saying? Who would have thought she could be such a demon?

"Have you ever wondered, Dr. Carter, how awful it must be to live with a
man who thinks nothing . . . _nothing_--of picking up the roast, if it
isn't perfectly done, and hurling it at the maid?"

Dr. Carter glanced apprehensively at Cyrus Taylor, as if he feared Cyrus
might throw the skeletons of the chickens at somebody. Then he seemed to
remember comfortingly that his host was deaf.

"What would you think of a man who believed the earth was flat?" asked
Pringle.

Anne thought Cyrus _would_ speak then. A tremor seemed to pass over his
rubicund face, but no words came. Still, she was sure his mustaches were
a little less defiant.

"What would you think of a man who let his aunt . . . his only aunt
. . . go to the poorhouse?" asked Trix.

"And pastured his cow in the graveyard?" said Pringle. "Summerside
hasn't got over that sight yet."

"What would you think of a man who would write down in his diary every
day what he had for dinner?" asked Trix.

"The great Pepys did that," said Dr. Carter with another smile. His
voice sounded as if he would like to laugh. Perhaps after all he was not
pompous, thought Anne . . . only young and shy and overserious. But she
was feeling positively aghast. She had never meant things to go as far
as this. She was finding out that it is much easier to start things than
finish them. Trix and Pringle were being diabolically clever. They had
not said that their father did a single one of these things. Anne could
fancy Pringle saying, his round eyes rounder still with pretended
innocence, "I just asked those questions of Dr. Carter for
_information_."

"What would you think," kept on Trix, "of a man who opens and reads his
wife's letters?"

"What would you think of a man who would go to a funeral . . . his
father's funeral . . . in overalls?" asked Pringle.

What _would_ they think of next? Mrs. Cyrus was crying openly and Esme
was quite calm with despair. Nothing mattered any more. She turned and
looked squarely at Dr. Carter, whom she had lost forever. For once in
her life she was stung into saying a really clever thing.

"What," she asked quietly, "would you think of a man who spent a whole
day hunting for the kittens of a poor cat who had been shot, because he
couldn't bear to think of them starving to death?"

A strange silence descended on the room. Trix and Pringle looked
suddenly ashamed of themselves. And then Mrs. Cyrus piped up, feeling it
her wifely duty to back up Esme's unexpected defense of her father.

"And he can crochet so beautifully . . . he made the loveliest
centerpiece for the parlor table last winter when he was laid up with
lumbago."

Everyone has some limit of endurance and Cyrus Taylor had reached his.
He gave his chair such a furious backward push that it shot instantly
across the polished floor and struck the table on which the vase stood.
The table went over and the vase broke in the traditional thousand
pieces. Cyrus, his bushy white eyebrows fairly bristling with wrath,
stood up and exploded at last.

"I don't crochet, woman! Is one contemptible doily going to blast a
man's reputation forever? I was so bad with that blamed lumbago I didn't
know what I was doing. And I'm deaf, am I, Miss Shirley? I'm deaf?"

"She didn't _say_ you were, Papa," cried Trix, who was never afraid of
her father when his temper was vocal.

"Oh, no, she didn't say it. None of you said anything! _You_ didn't say
I was sixty-eight when I'm only sixty-two, did you? _You_ didn't say I
wouldn't let your mother have a dog! Good Lord, woman, you can have
forty thousand dogs if you want to and you know it! When did I ever deny
you anything you wanted . . . when?"

"Never, Poppa, never," sobbed Mrs. Cyrus brokenly. "And I never wanted a
dog. I never even _thought_ of wanting a dog, Poppa."

"When did I open your letters? When have I ever kept a diary? A diary!
When did I ever wear overalls to anybody's funeral? When did I pasture a
cow in the graveyard? What aunt of mine is in the poorhouse? Did I ever
throw a roast at anybody? Did I ever make you live on fruit and eggs?"

"Never, Poppa, never," wept Mrs. Cyrus. "You've always been a good
provider . . . the best."

"Didn't you tell me you _wanted_ goloshes last Christmas?"

"Yes, oh, yes; of course I did, Poppa. And my feet have been so nice and
warm all winter."

"Well, then!" Cyrus threw a triumphant glance around the room. His eyes
encountered Anne's. Suddenly the unexpected happened. Cyrus chuckled.
His cheeks actually dimpled. Those dimples worked a miracle with his
whole expression. He brought his chair back to the table and sat down.

"I've got a very bad habit of sulking, Dr. Carter. Everyone has some bad
habit . . . that's mine. The only one. Come, come, Momma, stop crying. I
admit I deserved all I got except that crack of yours about the
crocheting. Esme, my girl, I won't forget that you were the only one
who stood up for me. Tell Maggie to come and clear up that mess . . . I
know you're all glad the darn thing is smashed . . . and bring on the
pudding."

Anne could never have believed that an evening which began so terrible
could end up so pleasantly. Nobody could have been more genial or better
company than Cyrus: and there was evidently no aftermath of reckoning,
for when Trix came down a few evenings later it was to tell Anne that
she had at last scraped up enough courage to tell her father about
Johnny.

"Was he very dreadful, Trix?"

"He . . . he wasn't dreadful at all," admitted Trix sheepishly. "He just
snorted and said it was about time Johnny came to the point after
hanging around for two years and keeping everyone else away. I think he
felt he couldn't go into another spell of sulks so soon after the last
one. And you know, Anne, between sulks Papa really is an old duck."

"I think he is a great deal better father to you than you deserve," said
Anne, quite in Rebecca Dew's manner. "You were simply outrageous at that
dinner, Trix."

"Well, you know you started it," said Trix. "And good old Pringle helped
a bit. All's well that ends well . . . and thank goodness I'll never
have to dust that vase again."


                                   11


              (_Extract from letter to Gilbert two weeks later._)


    "Esme Taylor's engagement to Dr. Lennox Carter is announced. By all
    I can gather from various bits of local gossip I think he decided
    that fatal Friday night that he wanted to protect her, and save her
    from her father and her family . . . and perhaps from her friends!
    Her plight evidently appealed to his sense of chivalry. Trix persists
    in thinking I was the means of bringing it about and perhaps I did
    take a hand, but I don't think I'll ever try an experiment like that
    again. It's too much like picking up a lightning flash by the tail.

    "I really don't know what got into me, Gilbert. It must have been a
    hangover from my old detestation of anything savoring of Pringleism.
    It _does_ seem old now. I've almost forgotten it. But other folks
    are still wondering. I hear Miss Valentine Courtaloe says she isn't
    at all surprised I have won the Pringles over, because I have 'such
    a way with me'; and the minister's wife thinks it is an answer to
    the prayer she put up. Well, who knows but that it was?

    "Jen Pringle and I walked part of the way home from school yesterday
    and talked of 'ships and shoes and sealing wax' . . . of almost
    everything but geometry. We avoid that subject. Jen knows I don't
    know too much about geometry, but my one wee bit of knowledge about
    Captain Myrom balances that. I lent Jen my Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_.
    I hate to lend a book I _love_ . . . it never seems quite the same
    when it comes back to me . . . but I love Foxe's _Martyrs_ only
    because dear Mrs. Allan gave it to me for a Sunday-school prize
    years ago. I don't like reading about martyrs because they always
    make me feel petty and ashamed . . . ashamed to admit I hate to get
    out of bed on frosty mornings and shrink from a visit to the
    dentist!

    "Well, I'm glad Esme and Trix are both happy. Since my own little
    romance is in flower I am all the more interested in other people's.
    A _nice_ interest, you know. Not curious or malicious but just glad
    there's such a lot of happiness spread about.

    "It's still February and 'on the convent roof the snows are
    sparkling to the moon' . . . only it isn't a convent . . . just the
    roof of Mr. Hamilton's barn. But I'm beginning to think, 'Only a few
    more weeks till spring . . . and a few more weeks then till summer
    . . . and holidays . . . and Green Gables . . . and golden sunlight
    on Avonlea meadows . . . and a gulf that will be silver at dawn and
    sapphire at noon and crimson at sunset . . . and _you_.'

    "Little Elizabeth and I have no end of plans for spring. We are such
    good friends. I take her milk every evening and once in so long she
    is allowed to go for a walk with me. We have discovered that our
    birthdays are on the same day and Elizabeth flushed 'divinest rosy
    red' with the excitement of it. She is so sweet when she blushes.
    Ordinarily she is far too pale and doesn't get any pinker because of
    the new milk. Only when we come back from our twilight trysts with
    evening winds does she have a lovely rose color in her little
    cheeks. Once she asked me gravely, 'Will I have a lovely creamy skin
    like yours when I grow up, Miss Shirley, if I put buttermilk on my
    face every night?' Buttermilk seems to be the preferred cosmetic in
    Spook's Lane. I have discovered that Rebecca Dew uses it. She has
    bound me over to keep it secret from the widows because they would
    think it too frivolous for her age. The number of secrets I have to
    keep at Windy Poplars is aging me before my time. I wonder if I
    buttermilked my nose if it would banish those seven freckles. By the
    way, did it ever occur to you, sir, that I had a 'lovely creamy
    skin'? If it did, you never told me so. And have you realized to the
    full that I am 'comparatively beautiful'? Because I have discovered
    that I am.

    "'What is it like to be beautiful, Miss Shirley?' asked Rebecca Dew
    gravely the other day . . . when I was wearing my new
    biscuit-colored voile.

    "'I've often wondered,' said I.

    "'But you _are_ beautiful,' said Rebecca Dew.

    "'I never thought you could be sarcastic, Rebecca,' I said
    reproachfully.

    "'I did not mean to be sarcastic, Miss Shirley. You are beautiful
    . . . comparatively.'

    "'Oh! Comparatively!' said I.

    "'Look in the sideboard glass,' said Rebecca Dew, pointing.
    'Compared to _me_, you are.'

    "Well, I was!

    "But I hadn't finished with Elizabeth. One stormy evening when the
    wind was howling along Spook's Lane, we couldn't go for a walk, so
    we came up to my room and drew a map of fairyland. Elizabeth sat on
    my blue doughnut cushion to make her higher, and looked like a
    serious little gnome as she bent over the map. (By the way, no
    phonetic spelling for me! 'Gnome' is far eerier and fairy-er than
    'nome.')

    "Our map isn't completed yet . . . every day we think of something
    more to go in it. Last night we located the house of the Witch of
    the Snow and drew a triple hill, covered completely with wild cherry
    trees in bloom, behind it. (By the way, I want some wild cherry
    trees near our house of dreams, Gilbert.) Of course we have a
    Tomorrow on the map . . . located east of Today and west of
    Yesterday . . . and we have no end of 'times' in fairyland.
    Springtime, long time, short time, new-moon time, good-night time,
    next time . . . but no last time, because that is too sad a time for
    fairyland; old time, young time . . . because if there is an old
    time there ought to be a young time, too; mountain time . . .
    because that has such a fascinating sound; nighttime and daytime
    . . . but no bed-time or school-time; Christmastime; no only time,
    because that also is too sad . . . but lost time, because it is so
    nice to find it; sometime, good time, fast time, slow time,
    half-past kissing-time, going-home time, and time immemorial . . .
    which is one of the most beautiful phrases in the world. And we have
    cunning little red arrows everywhere, pointing to the different
    'times.' I know Rebecca Dew thinks I'm quite childish. But, oh,
    Gilbert, don't let's ever grow too old and wise . . . no, not too
    old and _silly_ for fairyland.

    "Rebecca Dew, I feel sure, is not quite certain that I am an
    influence for good in Elizabeth's life. She thinks I encourage her
    in being 'fanciful.' One evening when I was away Rebecca Dew took
    the milk to her and found her already at the gate, looking at the
    sky so intently that she never heard Rebecca's (anything but) fairy
    footfalls.

    "'I was _listening_, Rebecca,' she explained.

    "'You do too much listening,' said Rebecca disapprovingly.

    "Elizabeth smiled, remotely, austerely. (Rebecca Dew didn't use
    those words but I know exactly how Elizabeth smiled.)

    "'You would be surprised, Rebecca, if you knew what I hear
    sometimes,' she said, in a way that made Rebecca Dew's flesh creep
    on her bones . . . or so she avers.

    "But Elizabeth is always touched with faery and what can be done
    about it?

                                              "Your Very Anne-est ANNE

    "P.S. 1. Never, never, never shall I forget Cyrus Taylor's face when
    his wife accused him of crocheting. But I shall always like him
    because he hunted for those kittens. And I like Esme for standing up
    for her father under the supposed wreck of all her hopes.

    "P.S. 2. I have put in a new pen. And I love you because you aren't
    pompous like Dr. Carter . . . and I love you because you haven't got
    sticky-out ears like Johnny. And . . . the very best reason of all
    . . . I love you for just being Gilbert!"


                                   12


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                            "May 30th.

    "DEAREST-AND-THEN-MORE-DEAR:

    "It's spring!

    "Perhaps you, up to your eyes in a welter of exams in Kingsport,
    don't know it. But I am aware of it from the crown of my head to the
    tips of my toes. Summerside is aware of it. Even the most unlovely
    streets are transfigured by arms of bloom reaching over old board
    fences and a ribbon of dandelions in the grass that borders the
    sidewalks. Even the china lady on my shelf is aware of it and I know
    if I could only wake up suddenly enough some night I'd catch her
    dancing a _pas seul_ in her pink, gilt-heeled shoes.

    "Everything is calling 'spring' to me . . . the little laughing
    brooks, the blue hazes on the Storm King, the maples in the grove
    when I go to read your letters, the white cherry trees along Spook's
    Lane, the sleek and saucy robins hopping defiance to Dusty Miller in
    the back yard, the creeper hanging greenly down over the half-door
    to which little Elizabeth comes for milk, the fir trees preening in
    new tassel tips around the old graveyard . . . even the old
    graveyard itself, where all sorts of flowers planted at the heads of
    the graves are budding into leaf and bloom, as if to say, 'Even here
    life is triumphant over death.' I had a really lovely prowl about
    the graveyard the other night. (I'm sure Rebecca Dew thinks my taste
    in walks frightfully morbid. 'I can't think why you have such a
    hankering after that unchancy place,' she says.) I roamed over it in
    the scented green cat's light and wondered if Nathan Pringle's wife
    really had tried to poison him. Her grave looked so innocent with
    its new grass and its June lilies that I concluded she had been
    entirely maligned.

    "Just another month and I'll be home for vacation! I keep thinking
    of the old orchard at Green Gables with its trees now in full snow
    . . . the old bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters . . . the murmur
    of the sea in your ears . . . a summer afternoon in Lover's Lane
    . . . and _you_!

    "I have just the right kind of pen tonight, Gilbert, and so . . .


(_Two pages omitted._)


    "I was around at the Gibsons' this evening for a call. Marilla asked
    me some time ago to look them up because she once knew them when
    they lived in White Sands. Accordingly I looked them up and have
    been looking them up weekly ever since because Pauline seems to
    enjoy my visits and I'm so sorry for her. She is simply a slave to
    her mother . . . who is a terrible old woman.

    "Mrs. Adoniram Gibson is eighty and spends her days in a wheelchair.
    They moved to Summerside fifteen years ago. Pauline, who is
    forty-five, is the youngest of the family, all her brothers and
    sisters being married and all of them determined not to have Mrs.
    Adoniram in their homes. She keeps the house and waits on her mother
    hand and foot. She is a little pale, fawn-eyed thing with
    golden-brown hair that is still glossy and pretty. They are quite
    comfortably off and if it were not for her mother Pauline could have
    a very pleasant easy life. She just loves church work and would be
    perfectly happy attending Ladies' Aids and Missionary Societies,
    planning for church suppers and Welcome socials, not to speak of
    exulting proudly in being the possessor of the finest wandering-jew
    in town. But she can hardly ever get away from the house, even to go
    to church on Sundays. I can't see any way of escape for her, for old
    Mrs. Gibson will probably live to be a hundred. And, while she may
    not have the use of her legs, there is certainly nothing the matter
    with her tongue. It always fills me with helpless rage to sit there
    and hear her making poor Pauline the target for her sarcasm. And yet
    Pauline has told me that her mother 'thinks quite highly' of me and
    is much nicer to her when I am around. If this be so I shiver to
    think what she must be when I am not around.

    "Pauline dares not do _anything_ without asking her mother. She
    can't even buy her own clothes . . . not so much as a pair of
    stockings. Everything has to be sent up for Mrs. Gibson's approval;
    everything has to be worn until it has been turned twice. Pauline
    has worn the same hat for four years.

    "Mrs. Gibson can't bear any noise in the house or a breath of fresh
    air. It is said she never smiled in her life. . . . I've never
    caught her at it, anyway, and when I look at her I find myself
    wondering what would happen to her face if she did smile. Pauline
    can't even have a room to herself. She has to sleep in the same room
    with her mother and be up almost every hour of the night rubbing
    Mrs. Gibson's back or giving her a pill or getting a hot-water
    bottle for her . . . _hot_, not lukewarm! . . . or changing her
    pillows or seeing what that mysterious noise is in the back yard.
    Mrs. Gibson does her sleeping in the afternoons and spends her
    nights devising tasks for Pauline.

    "Yet nothing has ever made Pauline bitter. She is sweet and
    unselfish and patient and I am glad she has a dog to love. The only
    thing she has ever had her own way about is keeping that dog . . .
    and then only because there was a burglary somewhere in town and
    Mrs. Gibson thought it would be a protection. Pauline never dares to
    let her mother see how much she loves the dog. Mrs. Gibson hates him
    and complains of his bringing bones in but she never actually says
    he must go, for her own selfish reason.

    "But at last I have a chance to give Pauline something and I'm going
    to do it. I'm going to give her a _day_, thought it will mean giving
    up my next week end at Green Gables.

    "Tonight when I went in I could see that Pauline had been crying.
    Mrs. Gibson did not long leave me in doubt why. 'Pauline wants to go
    and leave me, Miss Shirley,' she said. 'Nice, grateful daughter I've
    got, haven't I?'

    "'Only for a day, Ma,' said Pauline, swallowing a sob and trying to
    smile.

    "'Only for a day,' says she! 'Well, _you_ know what my days are
    like, Miss Shirley . . . everyone knows what my days are like. But
    you don't know . . . _yet_ . . . Miss Shirley, and I hope you never
    will, how long a day can be when you are suffering.'

    "I knew Mrs. Gibson didn't suffer at all now, so I didn't try to be
    sympathetic.

    "'I'd get someone to stay with you, of course, Ma,' said Pauline.
    'You see,' she explained to me, 'my cousin Louisa is going to
    celebrate her silver wedding at White Sands next Saturday week and
    she wants me to go. I was her bridesmaid when she was married to
    Maurice Hilton. I _would_ like to go so much if Ma would give her
    consent.'

    "'If I must die alone I must,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'I leave it to your
    conscience, Pauline.'

    "I knew Pauline's battle was lost the moment Mrs. Gibson left it to
    her conscience. Mrs. Gibson has got her way all her life by leaving
    things to people's consciences. I've heard that years ago somebody
    wanted to marry Pauline and Mrs. Gibson prevented it by leaving it
    to her conscience.

    "Pauline wiped her eyes, summoned up a piteous smile and picked up a
    dress she was making over . . . a hideous green and black plaid.

    "'Now don't sulk, Pauline,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'I can't abide people
    who sulk. And mind you put a collar on that dress. Would you believe
    it, Miss Shirley, she actually wanted to make the dress without a
    collar? She'd wear a low-necked dress, that one, if I'd let her.'

    "I looked at poor Pauline with her slender little throat . . . which
    is rather plump and pretty yet . . . enclosed in a high, stiff-boned
    net collar.

    "'Collarless dresses are coming in,' I said.

    "'Collarless dresses,' said Mrs. Gibson, 'are indecent.'

    "(Item:--I was wearing a collarless dress.)

    "'Moreover,' went on Mrs. Gibson, as if it were all of a piece. 'I
    never liked Maurice Hilton. His mother was a Crockett. He never had
    any sense of decorum . . . always kissing his wife in the most
    unsuitable places!'

    "(Are you sure you kiss me in suitable places, Gilbert? I'm afraid
    Mrs. Gibson would think the nape of the neck, for instance, most
    unsuitable.)

    "'But, Ma, you know that was the day she hardly escaped being
    trampled by Harvey Wither's horse running amuck on the church green.
    It was only natural Maurice should feel a little excited.'

    "'Pauline, please don't contradict me. I _still_ think the church
    steps were an unsuitable place for anyone to be kissed. But of
    course _my_ opinions don't matter to _any one_ any longer. Of course
    everyone wishes I was dead. Well, there'll be room for me in the
    grave. I know what a burden I am to you. I might as well die. Nobody
    wants me.'

    "'Don't say that, Ma,' begged Pauline.

    "'I _will_ say it. Here you are, determined to go to that silver
    wedding although you know I'm not willing.'

    "'Ma dear, I'm not going. . . . I'd never think of going if you
    weren't willing. Don't excite yourself so. . . .'

    "'Oh, I can't even have a little excitement, can't I, to brighten my
    dull life? Surely you're not going so soon, Miss Shirley?'

    "I felt that if I stayed any longer I'd either go crazy or slap Mrs.
    Gibson's nutcracker face. So I said I had exam papers to correct.

    "'Ah well, I suppose two old women like us are very poor company for
    a young girl,' sighed Mrs. Gibson. 'Pauline isn't very cheerful . . .
    are you, Pauline? Not very cheerful. I don't wonder Miss Shirley
    doesn't want to stay long.'

    "Pauline came out to the porch with me. The moon was shining down on
    her little garden and sparkling on the harbor. A soft, delightful
    wind was talking to a white apple tree. It was spring . . . spring
    . . . spring! Even Mrs. Gibson can't stop plum trees from blooming.
    And Pauline's soft gray-blue eyes were full of tears.

    "'I _would_ like to go to Louie's silver wedding so much,' she said,
    with a long sigh of despairing resignation.

    "'You are going,' I said.

    "'Oh, no, dear, I can't go. Poor Ma will never consent. I'll just
    put it out of my mind. Isn't the moon beautiful tonight?' she added,
    in a loud, cheerful tone.

    "'I've never heard of any good that came from moon gazing,' called
    out Mrs. Gibson from the sitting room. 'Stop chirruping there,
    Pauline, and come in and get my red bedroom slippers with the fur
    round the tops for me. These shoes pinch my feet something terrible.
    But nobody cares how I suffer.'

    "I felt that _I_ didn't care how much she suffered. Poor darling
    Pauline! But a day off is certainly coming to Pauline and she is
    going to have her silver wedding. I, Anne Shirley, have spoken it.

    "I told Rebecca Dew and the widows all about it when I came home and
    we had such fun, thinking up all the lovely, insulting things I
    might have said to Mrs. Gibson. Aunt Kate does not think I will
    succeed in getting Mrs. Gibson to let Pauline go but Rebecca Dew has
    faith in me. 'Anyhow, if _you_ can't, nobody can,' she said.

    "I was at supper recently with Mrs. Tom Pringle, who wouldn't take
    me to board. (Rebecca says I am the best paying boarder she ever
    heard of because I am invited out to supper so often.) I'm very glad
    she didn't. She's nice and purry and her pies praise her in the
    gates, but her home isn't Windy Poplars and she doesn't live in
    Spook's Lane and she isn't Aunt Kate and Aunt Chatty and Rebecca
    Dew. I love them all three and I'm going to board here next year and
    the year after. My chair is always called 'Miss Shirley's chair' and
    Aunt Chatty tells me that when I'm not here Rebecca Dew sets my
    place at the table just the same, 'so it won't seem so lonesome.'
    Sometimes Aunt Chatty's feelings have complicated matters a bit but
    she says she understands me now and knows I would never hurt her
    intentionally.

    "Little Elizabeth and I go out for a walk twice a week now. Mrs.
    Campbell has agreed to that, but it must not be oftener and _never_
    on Sundays. Things are better for little Elizabeth in spring. Some
    sunshine gets into even that grim old house and outwardly it is even
    beautiful because of the dancing shadows of treetops. Still,
    Elizabeth likes to escape from it whenever she can. Once in a while
    we go uptown so that Elizabeth can see the lighted shop-windows. But
    mostly we go as far as we dare down the Road that Leads to the End
    of the World, rounding every corner adventurously and expectantly,
    as if we were going to find Tomorrow behind it, while all the little
    green evening hills neatly nestle together in the distance. One of
    the things Elizabeth is going to do in Tomorrow is 'go to
    Philadelphia and see the angel in the church.' I haven't told her
    . . . I never will tell her . . . that the Philadelphia St. John was
    writing about was _not_ Phila., Pa. We lose our illusions soon
    enough. And anyhow, if we _could_ get into Tomorrow, who knows what
    we might find there? Angels everywhere, perhaps.

    "Sometimes we watch the ships coming up the harbor before a fair
    wind, over a glistening pathway, through the transparent spring air,
    and Elizabeth wonders if her father may be on board one of them. She
    clings to the hope that he may come some day. I can't imagine why he
    doesn't. I'm sure he would if he knew what a darling little daughter
    he has here longing for him. I suppose he never realizes she is
    quite a girl now. . . . I suppose he still thinks of her as the
    little baby who cost his wife her life.

    "I'll soon have finished my first year in Summerside High. The first
    term was a nightmare, but the last two have been very pleasant. The
    Pringles are _delightful people_. How could I ever have compared
    them to the Pyes? Sid Pringle brought me a bunch of trilliums today.
    Jen is going to lead her class and Miss Ellen is reported to have
    said that I am the only teacher who ever _really understood_ the
    child! The only fly in my ointment is Katherine Brooke, who
    continues unfriendly and distant. I'm going to give up trying to be
    friends with her. After all, as Rebecca Dew says, there _are_
    limits.

    "Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. . . . Sally Nelson has asked me to
    be one of her bridesmaids. She is going to be married the last of
    June at Bonnyview, Dr. Nelson's summer home down at the jumping-off
    place. She is marrying Gordon Hill. Then Nora Nelson will be the
    only one of Dr. Nelson's six girls left unmarried. Jim Wilcox has
    been going with her for years . . . 'off and on' as Rebecca Dew says
    . . . but it never seems to come to anything and nobody thinks it
    will now. I'm very fond of Sally, but I've never made much headway
    getting acquainted with Nora. She's a good deal older than I am, of
    course, and rather reserved and proud. Yet I'd like to be friends
    with her. She isn't pretty or clever or charming but somehow she's
    got a _tang_. I've a feeling she'd be worth while.

    "Speaking of weddings, Esme Taylor was married to her Ph.D. last
    month. As it was on Wednesday afternoon I couldn't go to the church
    to see her, but everyone says she looked very beautiful and happy
    and Lennox looked as if he knew he had done the right thing and had
    the approval of his conscience. Cyrus Taylor and I are great
    friends. He often refers to the dinner which he has come to consider
    a great joke on everybody. 'I've never dared sulk since,' he told
    me. 'Momma might accuse me of sewing patchwork next time.' And then
    he tells me to be sure and give his love to 'the widows.' Gilbert,
    people are delicious and life is delicious and I am

                                                          "Forevermore
                                                             "_Yours!_

    "P.S. Our old red cow down at Mr. Hamilton's has a spotted calf.
    We've been buying our milk for three months from Lew Hunt. Rebecca
    says we'll have cream again now . . . and that she has always heard
    the Hunt well was inexhaustible and now she believes it. Rebecca
    didn't want that calf to be born at all. Aunt Kate had to get Mr.
    Hamilton to tell her that the cow was really too old to have a calf
    before she would consent."


                                   13


"Ah, when you've been old and bed-rid as long as me you'll have more
sympathy," whined Mrs. Gibson.

"Please don't think I'm lacking in sympathy, Mrs. Gibson," said Anne,
who, after half an hour's vain effort, felt like wringing Mrs. Gibson's
neck. Nothing but poor Pauline's pleading eyes in the background kept
her from giving up in despair and going home. "I assure you, you won't
be lonely and neglected. I will be here all day and see that you lack
nothing in any way."

"Oh, I know I'm of no use to anyone," said Mrs. Gibson, apropos of
nothing that had been said. "You don't need to rub that in, Miss
Shirley. I'm ready to go any time . . . any time. Pauline can gad round
all she wants to then. I won't be here to feel neglected. None of the
young people of today have any sense. Giddy . . . very giddy."

Anne didn't know whether it was Pauline or herself who was the giddy
young person without sense, but she tried the last shot in her locker.

"Well, you know, Mrs. Gibson, people _will_ talk so terribly if Pauline
doesn't go to her cousin's silver wedding."

"Talk!" said Mrs. Gibson sharply. "What will they talk about?"

"Dear Mrs. Gibson . . ." ('May I be forgiven the adjective!' thought
Anne) "in your long life you have learned, I know, just what idle
tongues can say."

"You needn't be casting my age up to me," snapped Mrs. Gibson. "And I
don't need to be told it's a censorious world. Too well . . . too well I
know it. And I don't need to be told that this town is full of tattling
toads neither. But I dunno's I fancy them jabbering about me . . .
saying, I s'pose, that I'm an old tyrant. _I_ ain't stopping Pauline
from going. Didn't I leave it to her conscience?"

"So few people will believe that," said Anne, carefully sorrowful.

Mrs. Gibson sucked a peppermint lozenge fiercely for a minute or two.
Then she said,

"I hear there's mumps at White Sands."

"Ma, dear, you know I've had the mumps."

"There's folks as takes them twice. You'd be just the one to take them
twice, Pauline. You always took everything that come round. The nights
I've set up with you, not expecting you'd see the morning! Ah me, a
mother's sacrifices ain't long remembered. Besides, how would you get to
White Sands? You ain't been on a train for years. And there ain't any
train back Saturday night."

"She could go on the Saturday morning train," said Anne. "And I'm sure
Mr. James Gregor will bring her back."

"I never liked Jim Gregor. His mother was a Tarbush."

"He is taking his double-seated buggy and going down Friday, or else he
would take her down, too. But she'll be quite safe on the train, Mrs.
Gibson. Just step on at Summerside . . . step off at White Sands . . .
no changing."

"There's something behind all this," said Mrs. Gibson suspiciously. "Why
are you so set on her going, Miss Shirley? Just tell me that."

Anne smiled into the beady-eyed face.

"Because I think Pauline is a good, kind daughter to you, Mrs. Gibson,
and needs a day off now and then, just as everybody does."

Most people found it hard to resist Anne's smile. Either that, or the
fear of gossip vanquished Mrs. Gibson.

"I s'pose it never occurs to anyone _I'd_ like a day off from this
wheelchair if I could get it. But I can't . . . I just have to bear my
affliction patiently. Well, if she must go she must. She's always been
one to get her own way. If she catches mumps or gets poisoned by strange
mosquitoes, don't blame me for it. I'll have to get along as best I can.
Oh, I s'pose you'll be here, but you ain't used to my ways as Pauline
is. I s'pose I can stand it for one day. If I can't . . . well, I've
been living on borrowed time many's the year now so what's the
difference?" Not a gracious assent by any means but still an assent.
Anne in her relief and gratitude found herself doing something she could
never have imagined herself doing . . . she bent over and kissed Mrs.
Gibson's leathery cheek. "Thank you," she said.

"Never mind your wheedling ways," said Mrs. Gibson. "Have a peppermint."

"How can I ever thank you, Miss Shirley?" said Pauline, as she went a
little way down the street with Anne.

"By going to White Sands with a light heart and enjoying every minute of
the time."

"Oh, I'll do that. You don't know what this means to me, Miss Shirley.
It's not only Louisa I want to see. The old Luckley place next to her
home is going to be sold and I did so want to see it once more before it
passed into the hands of strangers. Mary Luckley . . . she's Mrs. Howard
Flemming now and lives out West . . . was my dearest friend when I was a
girl. We were like sisters. I used to be at the Luckley place so much
and I loved it so. I've often dreamed of going back. Ma says I'm getting
too old to dream. Do you think I am, Miss Shirley?"

"Nobody is ever too old to dream. And dreams never grow old."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that. Oh, Miss Shirley, to think of seeing
the gulf again. I haven't seen it for fifteen years. The harbor is
beautiful, but it isn't the gulf. I feel as if I was walking on air. And
I owe it all to you. It was just because Ma likes you she let me go.
You've made me happy . . . you are always making people happy. Why,
whenever you come into a room, Miss Shirley, the people in it feel
happier."

"That's the very nicest compliment I've ever had paid me, Pauline."

"There's just one thing, Miss Shirley . . . I've nothing to wear but my
old black taffeta. It's too gloomy for a wedding, isn't it? And it's too
big for me since I got thin. You see it's six years since I got it."

"We must try to induce your mother to let you have a new dress," said
Anne hopefully.

But that proved to be beyond her powers. Mrs. Gibson was adamant.
Pauline's black taffeta was plenty good for Louisa Hilton's wedding.

"I paid two dollars a yard for it six years ago and three to Jane Sharp
for making it. Jane was a good dressmaker. Her mother was a Smiley. The
idea of you wanting something 'light,' Pauline Gibson! She'd go dressed
in scarlet from head to foot, that one, if she was let, Miss Shirley.
She's just waiting till I'm dead to do it. Ah, well, you'll soon be shet
of all the trouble I am to you, Pauline. Then you can dress as gay and
giddy as you like, but as long as I'm alive you'll be decent. And what's
the matter with your hat? It's time you wore a bonnet, anyhow."

Poor Pauline had a lively horror of having to wear a bonnet. She would
wear her old hat for the rest of her life before she would do that.

"I'm just going to be glad inside and forget all about my clothes," she
told Anne, when they went out to the garden to pick a bouquet of June
lilies and bleeding heart for the widows.

"I've a plan," said Anne, with a cautious glance to make sure Mrs.
Gibson couldn't hear her, though she was watching from the sitting-room
window. "You know that silver-gray poplin of mine? I'm going to lend you
that for the wedding."

Pauline dropped the basket of flowers in her agitation, making a pool of
pink and white sweetness at Anne's feet.

"Oh, my dear, I couldn't . . . Ma wouldn't let me."

"She won't know a thing about it. Listen. Saturday morning you'll put it
on under your black taffeta. I know it will fit you. It's a little long,
but I'll run some tucks in it tomorrow . . . tucks are fashionable now.
It's collarless, with elbow sleeves so no one will suspect. As soon as
you get to Gull Cove, take off the taffeta. When the day is over you can
leave the poplin at Gull Cove and I can get it the next week end I'm
home."

"But wouldn't it be too young for me?"

"Not a bit of it. Any age can wear gray."

"Do you think it would be . . . right . . . to deceive Ma?" faltered
Pauline.

"In this case entirely right," said Anne shamelessly. "You know,
Pauline, it would never do to wear a black dress to a wedding. It might
bring the bride bad luck."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that for anything. And of course it won't hurt Ma. I
do hope she'll get through Saturday all right. I'm afraid she won't eat
a bite when I'm away . . . she didn't the time I went to Cousin
Matilda's funeral. Miss Prouty told me she didn't. . . . Miss Prouty
stayed with her. She was so provoked at Cousin Matilda for dying . . .
Ma was, I mean."

"She'll eat . . . I'll see to that."

"I know you've a great knack of managing her," conceded Pauline. "And
you won't forget to give her her medicine at the regular times, will
you, dear? Oh, perhaps I oughtn't to go after all."

"You've been out there long enough to pick forty bokays," called Mrs.
Gibson irately. "I dunno what the widows want of your flowers. They've
plenty of their own. I'd go a long time without flowers if I waited for
Rebecca Dew to send me any. I'm dying for a drink of water. But then I'm
of no consequence."

Friday night Pauline telephoned Anne in terrible agitation. She had a
sore throat and did Miss Shirley think it could possibly be the mumps?
Anne ran down to reassure her, taking the gray poplin in a brown paper
parcel. She hid it in the lilac bush and late that night Pauline, in a
cold perspiration, managed to smuggle it upstairs to the little room
where she kept her clothes and dressed, though she was never permitted
to sleep there. Pauline was not quite easy about the dress. Perhaps her
sore throat was a judgment on her for deception. But she couldn't go to
Louisa's silver wedding in that dreadful old black taffeta . . . she
simply couldn't.

Saturday morning Anne was at the Gibson house bright and early. Anne
always looked her best on a sparkling summer morning such as this. She
seemed to sparkle with it and she moved through the golden air like a
slender figure on a Grecian urn. The dullest room sparkled, too . . .
_lived_ . . . when she came into it.

"Walking as if you owned the earth," commented Mrs. Gibson
sarcastically.

"So I do," said Anne gaily.

"Ah, you're very young," said Mrs. Gibson maddeningly.

"'I withhold not my heart from any joy,'" quoted Anne. "That is Bible
authority for you, Mrs. Gibson."

"'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.' That's in the Bible,
too," retorted Mrs. Gibson. The fact that she had so neatly countered
Miss Shirley, B.A., put her in comparatively good humor. "I never was
one to flatter, Miss Shirley, but that chip hat of yours with the blue
flower kind of sets you. Your hair don't look so red under it, seems to
me. Don't you admire a fresh young girl like this, Pauline? Wouldn't you
like to be a fresh young girl yourself, Pauline?"

Pauline was too happy and excited to want to be anyone but herself just
then. Anne went to the upstairs room with her to help her dress.

"It's so lovely to think of all the pleasant things that must happen
today, Miss Shirley. My throat is quite well and Ma is in such a good
humor. You mightn't think so, but I know she is because she is talking,
even if she is sarcastic. If she was mad or riled she'd be sulking. I've
peeled the potatoes and the steak is in the icebox and Ma's blanc mange
is down cellar. There's canned chicken for supper and a sponge cake in
the pantry. I'm just on tenterhooks Ma'll change her mind yet. I
couldn't bear it if she did. Oh, Miss Shirley, do you think I'd better
wear that gray dress . . . really?"

"Put it on," said Anne in her best school-teacherish manner.

Pauline obeyed and emerged a transformed Pauline. The gray dress fitted
her beautifully. It was collarless and had dainty lace ruffles in the
elbow sleeves. When Anne had done her hair Pauline hardly knew herself.

"I hate to cover it up with that horrid old black taffeta, Miss
Shirley."

But it had to be. The taffeta covered it very securely. The old hat went
on . . . but it would be taken off, too, when she got to Louisa's . . .
and Pauline had a new pair of shoes. Mrs. Gibson had actually allowed
her to get a new pair of shoes, though she thought the heels "scandalous
high." "I'll make quite a sensation going away on the train _alone_. I
hope people won't think it's a death. I wouldn't want Louisa's silver
wedding to be connected in any way with the thought of death. Oh,
perfume, Miss Shirley! Apple-blossom! Isn't that lovely? Just a whiff
. . . so ladylike, I always think. Ma won't let me buy any. Oh, Miss
Shirley, you won't forget to feed my dog, will you? I've left his bones
in the pantry in the covered dish. I do hope" . . . dropping her voice
to a shamed whisper . . . "that he won't . . . misbehave . . . in the
house while you're here."

Pauline had to pass her mother's inspection before leaving. Excitement
over her outing and guilt in regard to the hidden poplin combined to
give her a very unusual flush. Mrs. Gibson gazed at her discontentedly.

"Oh me, oh my! Going to London to look at the Queen, are we? You've got
too much color. People will think you're painted. Are you sure you
ain't?"

"Oh, no, Ma . . . _no_," in shocked tones.

"Mind your manners now and when you set down, cross your ankles
decently. Mind you don't set in a draft or talk too much."

"I won't, Ma," promised Pauline earnestly, with a nervous glance at the
clock.

"I'm sending Louisa a bottle of my sarsaparilla wine to drink the toasts
in. I never cared for Louisa, but her mother was a Tackaberry. Mind you
bring back the bottle and don't let her give you a kitten. Louisa's
always giving people kittens."

"I won't, Ma."

"You're sure you didn't leave the soap in the water?"

"Quite sure, Ma," with another anguished glance at the clock.

"Are your shoe-laces tied?"

"Yes, Ma."

"You don't smell respectable . . . drenched with scent."

"Oh, no, Ma dear . . . just a little . . . the tiniest bit . . ."

"I said drenched and I mean drenched. There isn't a rip under your arm,
is there?"

"Oh, no, Ma."

"Let me see . . ." inexorably.

Pauline quaked. Suppose the skirt of the gray dress showed when she
lifted her arms!

"Well, go, then." With a long sigh. "If I ain't here when you come back,
remember that I want to be laid out in my lace shawl and my black satin
slippers. And see that my hair is crimped."

"Do you feel any worse, Ma?" The poplin dress had made Pauline's
conscience very sensitive. "If you do . . . I'll not go . . ."

"And waste the money for them shoes! Course you're going. And mind you
don't slide down the banister."

But at this the worm turned.

"Ma! Do you think I would?"

"You did at Nancy Parker's wedding."

"Thirty-five years ago! Do you think I would do it now?"

"It's time you were off. What are you jabbering here for? Do you want to
miss your train?"

Pauline hurried away and Anne sighed with relief. She had been afraid
that old Mrs. Gibson had, at the last moment, been taken with a fiendish
impulse to detain Pauline until the train was gone.

"Now for a little peace," said Mrs. Gibson. "This house is in an awful
condition of untidiness, Miss Shirley. I hope you realize it ain't
always so. Pauline hasn't known which end of her was up these last few
days. Will you please set that vase an inch to the left? No, move it
back again. That lamp shade is crooked. Well, that's a _little_
straighter. But that blind is an inch lower than the other. I wish you'd
fix it."

Anne unluckily gave the blind too energetic a twist; it escaped her
fingers and went whizzing to the top.

"Ah, now you see," said Mrs. Gibson.

Anne didn't see but she adjusted the blind meticulously.

"And now wouldn't you like me to make you a nice cup of tea, Mrs.
Gibson?"

"I _do_ need something. . . . I'm clean wore out with all this worry and
fuss. My stomach seems to be dropping out of me," said Mrs. Gibson
pathetically. "Kin you make a decent cup of tea? I'd as soon drink mud
as the tea some folks make."

"Marilla Cuthbert taught me how to make tea. You'll see. First I'm going
to wheel you out to the porch so that you can enjoy the sunshine."

"I ain't been out on the porch for years," objected Mrs. Gibson.

"Oh, it's so lovely today, it can't hurt you. I want you to see the crab
tree in bloom. You can't see it unless you go out. And the wind is south
today, so you'll get the clover scent from Norman Johnson's field. I'll
bring you your tea and we'll drink it together and then I'll get my
embroidery and we'll sit there and criticize everybody who passes."

"I don't hold with criticizing people," said Mrs. Gibson virtuously. "It
ain't Christian. Would you mind telling me if that is all your own
hair?"

"Every bit," laughed Anne.

"Pity it's red. Though red hair seems to be gitting popular now. I sort
of like your laugh. That nervous giggle of poor Pauline's always gits on
my nerves. Well, if I've got to git out, I s'pose I've got to. I'll
likely ketch my death of cold, but the responsibility is yours, Miss
Shirley. Remember I'm eighty . . . every day of it, though I hear old
Davy Ackham has been telling all around Summerside I'm only
seventy-nine. His mother was a Watt. The Watts were always jealous."

Anne moved the wheelchair deftly out and proved that she had a knack of
arranging pillows. Soon after she brought out the tea and Mrs. Gibson
deigned approval.

"Yes, this is drinkable, Miss Shirley. Ah me, for one year I had to live
entirely on liquids. They never thought I'd pull through. I often think
it might have been better if I hadn't. Is that the crab tree you was
raving about?"

"Yes . . . isn't it lovely . . . so white against that deep blue sky?"

"I ain't poetical," was Mrs. Gibson's sole comment. But she became
rather mellow after two cups of tea and the forenoon wore away until it
was time to think of dinner.

"I'll go and get it ready and then I'll bring it out here on a little
table."

"No, you won't, miss. No crazy monkey-shines like that for me! People
would think it awful queer, us eating out here in public. I ain't
denying it's kind of nice out here . . . though the smell of clover
always makes me kind of squalmish . . . and the forenoon's passed awful
quick to what it mostly does, but I ain't eating my dinner out-of-doors
for anyone. I ain't a gypsy. Mind you wash your hands clean before you
cook the dinner. My, Mrs. Storey must be expecting more company. She's
got all the spare-room bedclothes airing on the line. It ain't real
hospitality . . . just a desire for sensation. Her mother was a Carey."

The dinner Anne produced pleased even Mrs. Gibson.

"I didn't think anyone who wrote for the papers could cook. But of
course Marilla Cuthbert brought you up. Her mother was a Johnson. I
s'pose Pauline will eat herself sick at that wedding. She don't know
when she's had enough . . . just like her father. I've seen him gorge on
strawberries when he knew he'd be doubled up with pain an hour
afterwards. Did I ever show you his picture, Miss Shirley? Well, go to
the spare room and bring it down. You'll find it under the bed. Mind you
don't go prying into the drawers while you're up there. But take a peep
and see if there's any dust curls under the bureau. I don't trust
Pauline. . . . Ah, yes, that's him. His mother was a Walker. There's no
men like that nowadays. This is a degenerate age, Miss Shirley."

"Homer said the same thing eight hundred years, B.C.," smiled Anne.

"Some of them Old Testament writers was always croaking," said Mrs.
Gibson. "I daresay you're shocked to hear me say so, Miss Shirley, but
my husband was very broad in his views. I hear you're engaged . . . to a
medical student. Medical students mostly drink, I believe . . . have to,
to stand the dissecting-room. Never marry a man who drinks, Miss
Shirley. Nor one who ain't a good provider. Thistledown and moonshine
ain't much to live on, I kin tell you. Mind you clean the sink and rinse
the dish towels. I can't abide greasy dish towels. I s'pose you'll have
to feed the dog. He's too fat now, but Pauline just stuffs him.
Sometimes I think I'll have to get rid of him."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, Mrs. Gibson. There are always burglaries, you
know . . . and your house is lonely, off here by itself. You really do
need protection."

"Oh, well, have it your own way. I'd rather do anything than argue with
people, 'specially when I've such a queer throbbing in the back of my
neck. I s'pose it means I'm going to have a stroke."

"You need your nap. When you've had it you'll feel better. I'll tuck you
up and lower your chair. Would you like to go out on the porch for your
nap?"

"Sleeping in public! That'd be worse than eating. You do have the
queerest ideas. You just fix me up right here in the sitting room and
draw the blinds down and shut the door to keep the flies out. I daresay
you'd like a quiet spell yourself . . . your tongue's been going pretty
steady."

Mrs. Gibson had a good long nap, but woke up in a bad humor. She would
not let Anne wheel her out to the porch again.

"Want me to ketch my death in the night air, I s'pose," she grumbled,
although it was only five o'clock. Nothing suited her. The drink Anne
brought her was too cold . . . the next one wasn't cold enough . . .
of course _anything_ would do for _her_. Where was the dog? Misbehaving,
no doubt. Her back ached . . . her knees ached . . . her head ached . . .
her breastbone ached. Nobody sympathized with her . . . nobody knew what
she went through. Her chair was too high . . . her chair was too low. . . .
She wanted a shawl for her shoulders and an afghan for her knees and a
cushion for her feet. And _would_ Miss Shirley see where that awful draft
was coming from? She could do with a cup of tea, but she didn't want to
be a trouble to anyone and she would soon be at rest in her grave. Maybe
they might appreciate her when she was gone.

"Be the day short or be the day long, at last it weareth to evening
song." There were moments when Anne thought it never would, but it did.
Sunset came and Mrs. Gibson began to wonder why Pauline wasn't coming.
Twilight came . . . still no Pauline. Night and moonshine and no
Pauline.

"I knew it," said Mrs. Gibson cryptically.

"You know she can't come till Mr. Gregor comes and he's generally the
last dog hung," soothed Anne. "Won't you let me put you to bed, Mrs.
Gibson? You're tired . . . I know it's a bit of a strain having a
stranger round instead of someone you're accustomed to."

The little puckery lines about Mrs. Gibson's mouth deepened obstinately.

"I'm not going to bed till that girl comes home. But if you're so
anxious to be gone, _go_. _I_ can stay alone . . . or die alone."

At half past nine Mrs. Gibson decided that Jim Gregor was not coming
home till Monday.

"Nobody could ever depend on Jim Gregor to stay in the same mind
twenty-four hours. And he thinks it's wrong to travel on Sunday even to
come home. He's on your school board, ain't he? What do you really think
of him and his opinions on eddication?"

Anne went wicked. After all, she had endured a good deal at Mrs.
Gibson's hands that day.

"I think he's a psychological anachronism," she answered gravely.

Mrs. Gibson did not bat an eyelash.

"I agree with you," she said. But she pretended to go to sleep after
that.


                                   14


It was ten o'clock when Pauline came at last . . . a flushed,
starry-eyed Pauline, looking ten years younger, in spite of the resumed
taffeta and the old hat, and carrying a beautiful bouquet which she
hurriedly presented to the grim lady in the wheelchair.

"The bride sent you her bouquet, Ma. Isn't it lovely?"

"Cat's hindfoot! I don't s'pose anyone thought of sending me a crumb of
wedding cake. People nowadays don't seem to have any family feeling. Ah,
well, I've seen the day . . ."

"But they did. I've a great big piece here in my bag. And everybody
asked about you and sent you their love, Ma."

"Did you have a nice time?" asked Anne.

Pauline sat down on a hard chair because she knew her mother would
resent it if she sat on a soft one.

"Very nice," she said cautiously. "We had a lovely wedding dinner and
Mr. Freeman, the Gull Cove minister, married Louisa and Maurice over
again. . . ."

"I call that sacrilegious. . . ."

"And then the photographer took all our pictures. The flowers were
simply wonderful. The parlor was a bower . . ."

"Like a funeral I s'pose . . ."

"And, oh, Ma, Mary Luckley was there from the West . . . Mrs. Flemming,
you know. You remember what friends she and I always were. We used to
call each other Polly and Molly. . . ."

"Very silly names . . ."

"And it was so nice to see her again and have a long talk over old
times. Her sister Em was there, too, with such a delicious baby."

"You talk as if it was something to eat," grunted Mrs. Gibson. "Babies
are common enough."

"Oh, no, babies are never common," said Anne, bringing a bowl of water
for Mrs. Gibson's roses. "Every one is a separate miracle."

"Well, I had ten and I never saw much that was miraculous about any of
them. Pauline, do sit still if you kin. You fidget me. I notice you
ain't asking how _I_ got along. But I s'pose I couldn't expect it."

"I can tell how you got along without asking, Ma . . . you look so
bright and cheerful." Pauline was still so uplifted by the day that she
could be a little arch even with her mother. "I'm sure you and Miss
Shirley had a nice time together."

"We got on well enough. I just let her have her own way. I admit it's
the first time in years I've heard some interesting conversation. I
ain't so near the grave as some people would like to make out. Thank
heaven I've never got deaf or childish. Well, I s'pose the next thing
you'll be off to the moon. And I s'pose they didn't care for my
sarsaparilla wine by any chance?"

"Oh, they did. They thought it delicious."

"You've taken your own time telling me that. Did you bring back the
bottle . . . or would it be too much to expect you'd remember that?"

"The . . . the bottle got broke," faltered Pauline. "Someone knocked it
over in the pantry. But Louisa gave me another just exactly the same,
Ma, so you needn't worry."

"I've had that bottle ever since I started housekeeping. Louisa's can't
be exactly the same. They don't make such bottles nowadays. I wish you'd
bring me another shawl. I'm sneezing . . . I expect I've got a terrible
cold. You can't either of you seem to remember not to let the night air
git at me. Likely it'll bring my neuritis back."

An old neighbor up the street dropped in at this juncture and Pauline
snatched at the chance to go a little way with Anne.

"Good night, Miss Shirley," said Mrs. Gibson quite graciously. "I'm much
obliged to you. If there was more people like you in this town, it would
be the better for it." She grinned toothlessly and pulled Anne down to
her. "I don't care what people say . . . I think you're real
nice-looking," she whispered.

Pauline and Anne walked along the street, through the cool, green night,
and Pauline let herself go, as she had not dared do before her mother.

"Oh, Miss Shirley, it was heavenly. How can I ever repay you? I've never
spent such a wonderful day . . . I'll live on it for years. It was such
fun being a bridesmaid again. And Captain Isaac Kent was groomsman.
He . . . he used to be an old beau of mine . . . well, no, hardly a
beau. . . . I don't think he ever had any real intentions but we drove
round together . . . and he paid me two compliments. He said, 'I remember
how pretty you looked at Louisa's wedding in that wine-colored dress.'
Wasn't it wonderful his remembering the dress? And he said, 'Your hair
looks just as much like molasses taffy as it ever did.' There wasn't
anything improper in his saying that, was there, Miss Shirley?"

"Nothing whatever."

"Lou and Molly and I had such a nice supper together after everybody had
gone. I was so hungry . . . I don't think I've been so hungry for years.
It was nice to eat just what I wanted and nobody to warn me about things
that wouldn't agree with my stomach. After supper Mary and I went over
to her old home and wandered around the garden, talking over old times.
We saw the lilac bushes we planted years ago. We had some beautiful
summers together when we were girls. Then when it came sunset we went
down to the dear old shore and sat there on a rock in silence. There was
a bell ringing down at the harbor and it was lovely to feel the wind
from the sea again and see the stars trembling in the water. I had
forgotten night on the gulf could be so beautiful. When it got quite
dark we went back and Mr. Gregor was ready to start . . . and so,"
concluded Pauline with a laugh, "The Old Woman Got Home That Night."

"I wish . . . I wish you didn't have such a hard time at home,
Pauline. . . ."

"Oh, dear Miss Shirley, I won't mind it now," said Pauline quickly.
"After all, poor Ma needs me. And it's nice to be needed, my dear."

Yes, it was nice to be needed. Anne thought of this in her tower room,
where Dusty Miller, having evaded both Rebecca Dew and the widows, was
curled up on her bed. She thought of Pauline trotting back to her
bondage but companied by "the immortal spirit of one happy day."

"I hope someone will always need me," said Anne to Dusty Miller. "And
it's wonderful, Dusty Miller, to be able to give happiness to somebody.
It has made me feel so rich, giving Pauline this day. But, oh, Dusty
Miller, you don't think I'll ever be like Mrs. Adoniram Gibson, even if
I live to be eighty? Do you, Dusty Miller?"

Dusty Miller, with rich, throaty purrs, assured her he didn't.


                                   15


Anne went down to Bonnieview on the Friday night before the wedding. The
Nelsons were giving a dinner for some family friends and wedding guests
arriving by the boat train. The big, rambling house which was Dr.
Nelson's "summer home" was built among spruces on a long point with the
bay on both sides and a stretch of golden-breasted dunes beyond that
knew all there was to be known about winds.

Anne liked it the moment she saw it. An old stone house always looks
reposeful and dignified. It fears not what rain or wind or changing
fashion can do. And on this June evening it was bubbling over with young
life and excitement, the laughter of girls, the greetings of old
friends, buggies coming and going, children running everywhere, gifts
arriving, every one in the delightful turmoil of a wedding, while Dr.
Nelson's two black cats, who rejoiced in the names of Barnabas and Saul,
sat on the railing of the veranda and watched everything like two
imperturbable sable sphinxes.

Sally detached herself from a mob and whisked Anne upstairs.

"We've saved the north gable room for you. Of course you'll have to
share it with at least three others. There's a perfect riot here.
Father's having a tent put up for the boys down among the spruces and
later on we can have cots in the glassed-in porch at the back. And we
can pack most of the children in the hayloft of course. Oh, Anne, I'm so
excited. It's really no end of fun getting married. My wedding dress
just came from Montreal today. It's a _dream_ . . . cream corded silk
with a lace bertha and pearl embroidery. The loveliest gifts have come.
This is your bed. Mamie Gray and Dot Fraser and Sis Palmer have the
others. Mother wanted to put Amy Steward here but I wouldn't let her.
Amy hates you because she wanted to be my bridesmaid. But I couldn't
have anyone so fat and dumpy, could I now? Besides, she looks like
somebody seasick in Nile green. Oh, Anne, Aunt Mouser is here. She came
just a few minutes ago and we're simply horror-stricken. Of course we
had to invite her, but we never thought of her coming before tomorrow."

"Who in the world is Aunt Mouser?"

"Dad's aunt, Mrs. James Kennedy. Oh, of course she's really Aunt Grace,
but Tommy nicknamed her Aunt Mouser because she's always mousing round
pouncing on things we don't want her to find out. There's no escaping
her. She even gets up early in the morning for fear of missing something
and she's the last to go to bed at night. But that isn't the worst. If
there's a wrong thing to say she's certain to say it and she's never
learned that there are questions that mustn't be asked. Dad calls her
speeches 'Aunt Mouser's felicities.' I know she'll spoil the dinner."

The door opened and Aunt Mouser came in . . . a fat, brown, pop-eyed
little woman, moving in an atmosphere of moth-balls and wearing a
chronically worried expression. Except for the expression she really did
look a good deal like a hunting pussycat.

"So you're the Miss Shirley I've always heard so much of. You ain't a
bit like a Miss Shirley I once knew. _She_ had such beautiful eyes.
Well, Sally, so you're to be married at last. Poor Nora is the only one
left. Well, your mother is lucky to be rid of five of you. Eight years
ago I said to her, 'Jane,' sez I, 'do you think you'll _ever_ get all
those girls married off?' Well, a man is nothing but trouble as I sees
it and of all the uncertain things marriage is the uncertainest, but
what else is there for a woman in this world? That's what I've just been
saying to poor Nora. 'Mark my words, Nora,' I said to her, 'there isn't
much fun in being an old maid. What's Jim Wilcox thinking of?' I said to
her."

"Oh, Aunt Grace, I wish you hadn't! Jim and Nora had some sort of a
quarrel last January and he's never been round since."

"I believe in saying what I think. Things is better said. I'd heard of
that quarrel. That's why I asked her about him. 'It's only right,' I
told her, 'that you should know they say he's driving Eleanor Pringle.'
She got red and mad and flounced off. What's Vera Johnson doing here?
She ain't any relation."

"Vera's always been a great friend of mine, Aunt Grace. She's going to
play the Wedding March."

"Oh, she is, is she? Well, all I hope is she won't make a mistake and
play the Dead March like Mrs. Tom Scott did at Dora Best's wedding. Such
a bad omen. I don't know where you're going to put the mob you've got
here for the night. Some of us will have to sleep on the clothesline I
reckon."

"Oh, we'll find a place for everyone, Aunt Grace."

"Well, Sally, all I hope is you won't change your mind at the last
moment like Helen Summers did. It clutters things up so. Your father is
in terrible high spirits. I never was one to go looking for trouble but
all I hope is it ain't the forerunner of a stroke. I've seen it happen
that way."

"Oh, Dad's fine, Aunt Mouser. He's just a bit excited."

"Ah, you're too young, Sally, to know all that can happen. Your mother
tells me the ceremony is at high noon tomorrow. The fashions in weddings
are changing like everything else and not for the better. When _I_ was
married it was in the evening and my father laid in twenty gallons of
liquor for the wedding. Ah, dear me, times ain't what they used to be.
What's the matter with Mercy Daniels? I met her on the stairs and her
complexion has got terrible muddy."

"'The quality of mercy is not strained,'" giggled Sally, wriggling into
her dinner dress.

"Don't quote the Bible flippantly," rebuked Aunt Mouser. "You must
excuse her, Miss Shirley. She just ain't used to getting married. Well,
all I hope is the groom won't have a hunted look like so many of them
do. I s'pose they do feel that way, but they needn't show it so plain.
And I hope he won't forget the ring. Upton Hardy did. Him and Flora had
to be married with a ring off one of the curtain poles. Well, I'll be
taking another look at the wedding presents. You've got a lot of nice
things, Sally. All I hope is it won't be as hard to keep the handles of
them spoons polished as I think likely."

Dinner that night in the big, glassed-in porch was a gay affair. Chinese
lanterns had been hung all about it, shedding mellow-tinted lights on
the pretty dresses and glossy hair and white, unlined brows of girls.
Barnabas and Saul sat like ebony statues on the broad arms of the
Doctor's chair, where he fed them tidbits alternately.

"Just about as bad as Parker Pringle," said Aunt Mouser. "_He_ has his
dog sit at the table with a chair and napkin of his own. Well, sooner or
later there'll be a judgment."

It was a large party, for all the married Nelson girls and their
husbands were there, besides ushers and bridesmaids; and it was a merry
one, in spite of Aunt Mouser's "felicities" . . . or perhaps because of
them. Nobody took Aunt Mouser very seriously; she was evidently a joke
among the young fry. When she said, on being introduced to Gordon Hill,
"Well, well, you ain't a bit like I expected. I always thought Sally
would pick out a tall, handsome man," ripples of laughter ran through
the porch. Gordon Hill, who was on the short side and called no more
than "pleasant-faced" by his best friends, knew he would never hear the
last of it. When she said to Dot Fraser, "Well, well, a new dress every
time I see you! All I hope is your father's purse will be able to stand
it for a few years yet," Dot could of course have boiled her in oil but
some of the other girls found it amusing. And when Aunt Mouser
mournfully remarked, apropos of the preparations for the wedding dinner,
"All I hope is everybody will get her teaspoons afterwards. Five were
missing after Gertie Paul's wedding. They never turned up," Mrs. Nelson
who had borrowed the three dozen and the sisters-in-law she had borrowed
them from all looked harried. But Dr. Nelson haw-hawed cheerfully.

"We'll make everyone turn out their pockets before they go, Aunt Grace."

"Ah, you may laugh, Samuel. It is no joking matter to have anything like
that happen in the family. _Someone_ must have those teaspoons. I never
go anywhere but I keep my eyes open for them. I'd know them wherever I
saw them, though it was twenty-eight years ago. Poor Nora was just a
baby then. You remember you had her there, Jane, in a little white
embroidered dress? Twenty-eight years! Ah, Nora, you're getting on,
though in this light you don't show your age so much."

Nora did not join in the laugh that followed. She looked as if she
might flash lightning at any moment. In spite of her daffodil-hued dress
and the pearls in her dark hair, she made Anne think of a black moth. In
direct contrast with Sally, who was a cool, snowy blonde, Nora Nelson
had magnificent black hair, dusky eyes, heavy black brows and velvety
red cheeks. Her nose was beginning to look a trifle hawklike and she had
never been accounted pretty, but Anne felt an odd attraction to her in
spite of her sulky, smoldering expression. She felt that she would
prefer Nora as a friend to the popular Sally.

They had a dance after dinner and music and laughter came tumbling out
of the broad low windows of the old stone house in a flood. At ten Nora
had disappeared. Anne was a little tired of the noise and merriment. She
slipped through the hall to a back door that opened almost on the bay,
and flitted down a flight of rocky steps to the shore, past a little
grove of pointed firs. How divine the cool salt air was after the sultry
evening! How exquisite the silver patterns of moonlight on the bay! How
dreamlike that ship which had sailed at the rising of the moon and was
now approaching the harbor bar! It was a night when you might expect to
stray into a dance of mermaids.

Nora was hunched up in the grim black shadow of a rock by the water's
edge, looking more like a thunderstorm than ever.

"May I sit with you for a while?" asked Anne. "I'm a little tired of
dancing and it's a shame to miss this wonderful night. I envy you with
the whole harbor for a back yard like this."

"What would you feel like at a time like this if you had no beau?" asked
Nora abruptly and sullenly. "Or any likelihood of one," she added still
more sullenly.

"I think it must be your own fault if you haven't," said Anne, sitting
down beside her. Nora found herself telling Anne her troubles. There was
always something about Anne that made people tell her their troubles.

"You're saying that to be polite of course. You needn't. You know as
well as I do that I'm not a girl men are likely to fall in love with
. . . I'm 'the plain Miss Nelson.' It _isn't_ my fault that I haven't
anybody. I couldn't stand it in there any longer. I had to come down
here and just let myself be unhappy. I'm tired of smiling and being
agreeable to everyone and pretending not to care when they give me digs
about not being married. I'm not going to pretend any longer. I _do_
care . . . I care horribly. I'm the only one of the Nelson girls left.
Five of us are married or will be tomorrow. You heard Aunt Mouser
casting my age up to me at the dinnertable. And I heard her telling
Mother before dinner that I had 'aged quite a bit' since last summer. Of
course I have. I'm twenty-eight. In twelve more years I'll be forty. How
will I endure life at forty, Anne, if I haven't got any roots of my own
by that time?"

"I wouldn't mind what a foolish old woman said."

"Oh, wouldn't you? You haven't a nose like mine. I'll be as beaky as
Father in ten more years. And I suppose you wouldn't care, either, if
you'd waited years for a man to propose . . . and he just wouldn't?"

"Oh, yes, I think I would care about _that_."

"Well, that's my predicament exactly. Oh, I know you've heard of Jim
Wilcox and me. It's such an old story. He's been hanging around me for
years . . . but he's never said anything about getting married."

"Do you care for him?"

"Of course I care. I've always pretended I didn't but, as I've told you,
I'm through with pretending. And he's never been near me since last
January. We had a fight . . . but we've had hundreds of fights. He
always came back before . . . but he hasn't come this time . . . and he
never will. He doesn't want to. Look at his house across the bay,
shining in the moonlight. I suppose he's there . . . and I'm here . . .
and all the harbor between us. That's the way it always will be. It
. . . it's terrible! And I can't do a thing."

"If you sent for him, wouldn't he come back?"

"Send for him! Do you think I'd do _that_? I'd die first. If he wants to
come, there's nothing to prevent him coming. If he doesn't, _I_ don't
want him to. Yes, I do . . . I do! I love Jim . . . and I want to get
married. I want to have a home of my own and be 'Mrs.' and shut Aunt
Mouser's mouth. Oh, I wish I could be Barnabas or Saul for a few moments
just to swear at her! If she calls me 'poor Nora' again I'll throw a
scuttle at her. But after all, she only says what everybody thinks.
Mother has despaired long ago of my ever marrying, so she leaves me
alone, but the rest rag me. I hate Sally . . . of course I'm dreadful
. . . but I hate her. She's getting a nice husband and a lovely home. It
isn't fair she should have everything and I nothing. She isn't better or
cleverer or much prettier than me . . . only luckier. I suppose you
think I'm awful . . . not that I care what you think."

"I think you're very, very tired, after all these weeks of preparation
and strain, and that things which were always hard have become _too_
hard all at once."

"You understand . . . oh, yes, I always knew you would. I've wanted to
be friends with you, Anne Shirley. I like the way you laugh. I've always
wished I could laugh like that. I'm not as sulky as I look . . . it's
these eyebrows. I really think they're what scare the men away. I never
had a real girl friend in my life. But of course I always had Jim. We've
been . . . friends . . . ever since we were kids. Why, I used to put a
light up in that little window in the attic whenever I wanted him over
particularly and he'd sail across at once. We went everywhere together.
No other boy ever had a chance . . . not that anyone wanted it, I
suppose. And now it's all over. He was just tired of me and was glad of
the excuse of a quarrel to get free. Oh, won't I hate you tomorrow
because I've told you this!"

"Why?"

"We always hate people who surprise our secrets, I suppose," said Nora
drearily. "But there's something gets into you at a wedding . . . and I
just don't care . . . I don't care for anything. Oh, Anne Shirley, I'm
so miserable! Just let me have a good cry on your shoulder. I've _got_
to smile and look happy all day tomorrow. Sally thinks it's because I'm
superstitious that I wouldn't be her bridesmaid. . . . 'Three times a
bridesmaid, never a bride,' you know. 'Tisn't! I just couldn't endure to
stand there and hear her saying, 'I will,' and know I'd never have a
chance to say it for Jim. I'd have flung back my head and howled. I want
to be a bride . . . and have a trousseau . . . and monogrammed linen
. . . and lovely presents. Even Aunt Mouser's silver butter dish. She
always gives a butter dish to every bride . . . awful things with tops
like the dome of St. Peter's. We could have had it on the breakfast
table just for Jim to make fun of. Anne, I think I'm going crazy."

The dance was over when the girls went back to the house, hand in hand.
People were being stowed away for the night. Tommy Nelson was taking
Barnabas and Saul to the barn. Aunt Mouser was still sitting on a sofa,
thinking of all the dreadful things she hoped wouldn't happen on the
morrow.

"I hope nobody will get up and give a reason why they shouldn't be
joined together. _That_ happened at Tillie Hatfield's wedding."

"No such good luck for Gordon as that," said the groomsman. Aunt Mouser
fixed him with a stony brown eye.

"Young man, marriage isn't exactly a joke."

"You bet it isn't," said the unrepentant. "Hello, Nora, when are we
going to have a chance to dance at your wedding?"

Nora did not answer in words. She went closer up to him and deliberately
slapped him, first on one side of his face and then on the other. The
slaps were not make-believe ones. Then she went upstairs without looking
behind her.

"That girl," said Aunt Mouser, "is overwrought."


                                   16


The forenoon of Saturday passed in a whirl of last-minute things. Anne,
shrouded in one of Mrs. Nelson's aprons, spent it in the kitchen helping
Nora with the salads. Nora was all prickles, evidently repenting, as she
had foretold, her confidences of the night before.

"We'll be all tired out for a month," she snapped, "and Father can't
really afford all this splurge. But Sally was set on having what she
calls a 'pretty wedding' and Father gave in. He's always spoiled her."

"Spite and jealousy," said Aunt Mouser, suddenly popping her head out of
the pantry, where she was driving Mrs. Nelson frantic with her hopings
against hope.

"She's right," said Nora bitterly to Anne. "Quite right. I _am_ spiteful
and jealous . . . I hate the very look of happy people. But all the same
I'm not sorry I slapped Jud Taylor's face last night. I'm only sorry I
didn't tweak his nose into the bargain. Well, that finishes the salads.
They do look pretty. I love fussing things up when I'm normal. Oh, after
all, I hope everything will go off nicely for Sally's sake. I suppose I
do love her underneath everything, though just now I feel as if I hated
everyone and Jim Wilcox worst of all."

"Well, all I hope is the groom won't be missing just before the
ceremony," floated out from the pantry in Aunt Mouser's lugubrious
tones. "Austin Creed was. He just forgot he was to be married that day.
The Creeds were always forgetful, but I call that carrying things too
far."

The two girls looked at each other and laughed. Nora's whole face
changed when she laughed . . . lightened . . . glowed . . . rippled. And
then someone came out to tell her that Barnabas had been sick on the
stairs . . . too many chicken livers probably. Nora rushed off to repair
the damage and Aunt Mouser came out of the pantry to hope that the
wedding cake wouldn't disappear as had happened at Alma Clark's wedding
ten years before.

By noon everything was in immaculate readiness . . . the table laid, the
beds beautifully dressed, baskets of flowers everywhere; and in the big
north room upstairs Sally and her three bridesmaids were in quivering
splendor. Anne, in her Nile green dress and hat, looked at herself in
the mirror, and wished that Gilbert could see her.

"You're wonderful," said Nora half enviously.

"You're looking wonderful yourself, Nora. That smoke-blue chiffon and
that picture hat bring out the gloss of your hair and the blue of your
eyes."

"There's nobody to care how I look," said Nora bitterly. "Well, watch me
grin, Anne. I mustn't be the death's head at the feast, I suppose. I
have to play the Wedding March after all . . . Vera's got a terrible
headache. I feel more like playing the Dead March, as Aunt Mouser
foreboded."

Aunt Mouser, who had wandered round all the morning, getting in
everybody's way, in a none too clean old kimono and a wilted "boudoir
cap," now appeared resplendent in maroon grosgrain and told Sally one of
her sleeves didn't fit and she hoped nobody's petticoat would show below
her dress as had happened at Annie Crewson's wedding. Mrs. Nelson came
in and cried because Sally looked so lovely in her wedding dress.

"Now, now, don't be sentimental, Jane," soothed Aunt Mouser. "You've
still got one daughter left . . . and likely to have her by all
accounts. Tears ain't lucky at weddings. Well, all I hope is nobody'll
drop dead like old Uncle Cromwell at Roberta Pringle's wedding, right in
the middle of the ceremony. The bride spent two weeks in bed from
shock."

With this inspiring send-off the bridal party went downstairs, to the
strains of Nora's wedding march somewhat stormily played, and Sally and
Gordon were married without anybody dropping dead or forgetting the
ring. It _was_ a pretty wedding group and even Aunt Mouser gave up
worrying about the universe for a few moments. "After all," she told
Sally hopefully later on, "even if you ain't very happy married, it's
likely you'd be more unhappy not." Nora alone continued to glower from
the piano stool, but she went up to Sally and gave her a fierce hug,
wedding veil and all.

"So that's finished," said Nora drearily, when the dinner was over and
the bridal party and most of the guests had gone. She glanced around at
the room which looked as forlorn and disheveled as rooms always do in
the aftermath . . . a faded, trampled corsage lying on the floor . . .
chairs awry . . . a torn piece of lace . . . two dropped handkerchiefs
. . . crumbs the children had scattered . . . a dark stain on the
ceiling where the water from a jug Aunt Mouser had overturned in a
guestroom had seeped through.

"I must clear up this mess," went on Nora savagely. "There's a lot of
young fry waiting for the boat train and some staying over Sunday.
They're going to wind up with a bonfire on the shore and a moonlit rock
dance. You can imagine how much I feel like moonlight dancing. _I_ want
to go to bed and cry."

"A house after a wedding is over does seem a rather forsaken place,"
said Anne. "But I'll help you clear up and then we'll have a cup of
tea."

"Anne Shirley, do you think a cup of tea is a panacea for everything?
It's you who ought to be the old maid, not me. Never mind. I don't want
to be horrid, but I suppose it's my native disposition. I hate the
thought of this shore dance more than the wedding. Jim always used to be
at our shore dances. Anne, I've made up my mind to go and train for a
nurse. I know I'll hate it . . . and heaven help my future patients
. . . but I'm not going to hang around Summerside and be teased about
being on the shelf any longer. Well, let's tackle this pile of greasy
plates and look as if we liked it."

"I do like it . . . I've always liked washing dishes. It's fun to make
dirty things clean and shining again."

"Oh, you ought to be in a museum," snapped Nora.

By moonrise everything was ready for the shore dance. The boys had a
huge bonfire of driftwood ablaze on the point, and the waters of the
harbor were creaming and shimmering in the moonlight. Anne was expecting
to enjoy herself hugely, but a glimpse of Nora's face, as the latter
went down the steps carrying a basket of sandwiches, gave her pause.

"She's so unhappy. If there was anything I could do!"

An idea popped into Anne's head. She had always been a prey to impulse.
Darting into the kitchen, she snatched up a little hand-lamp alight
there, sped up the back stairs and up another flight to the attic. She
set the light in the dormer window that looked out across the harbor.
The trees hid it from the dancers.

"He may see it and come. I suppose Nora will be furious with me, but
that won't matter if he only comes. And now to wrap up a bit of wedding
cake for Rebecca Dew."

Jim Wilcox did not come. Anne gave up looking for him after a while and
forgot him in the merriment of the evening. Nora had disappeared and
Aunt Mouser had for a wonder gone to bed. It was eleven o'clock when the
revelry ceased and the tired moonlighters yawned their way upstairs.
Anne was so sleepy, she never thought of the light in the attic. But at
two o'clock Aunt Mouser crept into the room and flashed a candle in the
girls' faces.

"Goodness, what's the matter?" gasped Dot Fraser, sitting up in bed.

"S-s-s-sh," warned Aunt Mouser, her eyes nearly popping out of her head,
"I think there's someone in the house . . . I _know_ there is. What is
that noise?"

"Sounds like a cat mewing or a dog barking," giggled Dot.

"Nothing of the sort," said Aunt Mouser severely. "I know there's a dog
barking in the barn, but that is not what wakened me. It was a bump
. . . a loud, distinct bump."

"'From ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that go
bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us,'" murmured Anne.

"Miss Shirley, this ain't any laughing matter. There's burglars in this
house. I'm going to call Samuel."

Aunt Mouser disappeared and the girls looked at each other.

"Do you suppose . . . all the wedding presents are down in the library
. . ." said Anne.

"I'm going to get up, anyhow," said Mamie. "Anne, did you ever see
anything like Aunt Mouser's face when she held the candle low and the
shadows fell upward . . . and all those wisps of hair hanging about it?
Talk of the Witch of Endor!"

Four girls in kimonos slipped out into the hall. Aunt Mouser was coming
along it, followed by Dr. Nelson in dressing gown and slippers. Mrs.
Nelson, who couldn't find her kimono, was sticking a terrified face out
of her door.

"Oh, Samuel . . . don't take any risks . . . if it's burglars . . ."

"Nonsense! I don't believe there's anything," said the Doctor.

"I tell you I heard a bump," quavered Aunt Mouser.

A couple of boys joined the party. They crept cautiously down the stairs
with the Doctor at the head and Aunt Mouser, candle in one hand and
poker in the other, bringing up the rear.

There were undoubtedly noises in the library. The Doctor opened the door
and walked in.

Barnabas, who had contrived to be overlooked in the library when Saul
had been taken to the barn, was sitting on the back of the chesterfield,
blinking amused eyes. Nora and a young man were standing in the middle
of the room, which was dimly lighted by another flickering candle. The
young man had his arms around Nora and was holding a large white
handkerchief to her face.

"He's chloroforming her!" shrieked Aunt Mouser, letting the poker fall
with a tremendous crash.

The young man turned, dropped the handkerchief and looked foolish. Yet
he was a rather nice-looking young man, with crinkly russet eyes and
crinkly red-brown hair, not to mention a chin that gave the world
assurance of a chin.

Nora snatched the handkerchief up and applied it to her face.

"Jim Wilcox, what does this mean?" said the Doctor, with exceeding
sternness.

"_I_ don't know what it means," said Jim Wilcox rather sulkily. "All I
know is Nora signaled for me. I didn't see the light till I got home at
one from a Masonic banquet in Summerside. And I sailed right over."

"I didn't signal for you," stormed Nora. "For pity's sake don't look
like that, Father. I wasn't asleep . . . I was sitting at my window
. . . I hadn't undressed . . . and I saw a man coming up from the shore.
When he got near the house I knew it was Jim, so I ran down. And I . . .
I ran into the library door and made my nose bleed. He's just been
trying to stop it."

"I jumped in at the window and knocked over that bench. . . ."

"I told you I heard a bump," said Aunt Mouser.

". . . and now Nora says she didn't signal for me, so I'll just relieve
you of my unwelcome presence, with apologies to all concerned."

"It's really too bad to have disturbed your night's rest and brought you
all the way over the bay on a wild-goose chase," said Nora as icily as
possible, consistent with hunting for a bloodless spot on Jim's
handkerchief.

"Wild-_goose_ chase is right," said the Doctor.

"You'd better try a door-key down your back," said Aunt Mouser.

"It was I who put the light in the window," said Anne shamefacedly, "and
then I forgot . . ."

"You dared!" cried Nora. "I'll never forgive you . . ."

"Have you all gone crazy?" said the Doctor irritably. "What's all this
fuss about, anyhow? For heaven's sake put that window down, Jim . . .
there's a wind blowing in fit to chill you to the bone. Nora, hang your
head back and your nose will be all right."

Nora was shedding tears of rage and shame. Mingled with the blood on her
face they made her a fearsome sight. Jim Wilcox looked as if he wished
the floor would open and gently drop him in the cellar.

"Well," said Aunt Mouser belligerently, "all you can do now is marry
her, Jim Wilcox. She'll never get a husband if it gets round that she
was found here with you at two o'clock at night."

"Marry her!" cried Jim in exasperation. "What have I wanted all my life
but to marry her . . . never wanted anything else!"

"Then why didn't you say so long ago?" demanded Nora, whirling about to
face him.

"Say so? You've snubbed and frozen and jeered at me for years. You've
gone out of your way times without number to show me how you despised
me. I didn't think it was the least use to ask you. And last January you
said . . ."

"You goaded me into saying it . . ."

"_I_ goaded you! I like that! You picked a quarrel with me just to get
rid of me. . . ."

"I didn't . . . I . . ."

"And yet I was fool enough to tear over here in the dead of night
because I thought you'd put our old signal in the window and wanted me!
Ask you to marry me! Well, I'll ask you now and have done with it and
you can have the fun of turning me down before all this gang. Nora Edith
Nelson, will you marry me?"

"Oh, won't I . . . won't I!" cried Nora so shamelessly that even
Barnabas blushed for her.

Jim gave her one incredulous look . . . then sprang at her. Perhaps her
nose had stopped bleeding . . . perhaps it hadn't. It didn't matter.

"I think you've all forgotten that this is the Sabbath morn," said Aunt
Mouser, who had just remembered it herself. "I could do with a cup of
tea if anyone would make it. I ain't used to demonstrations like this.
All I hope is poor Nora has really landed him at last. At least, she has
witnesses."

They went to the kitchen and Mrs. Nelson came down and made tea for them
. . . all except Jim and Nora, who remained closeted in the library with
Barnabas for chaperon. Anne did not see Nora until the morning . . .
such a different Nora, ten years younger, flushed with happiness.

"I owe this to you, Anne. If you hadn't set the light . . . though just
for two and a half minutes last night I could have chewed your ears
off!"

"And to think I slept through it all," moaned Tommy Nelson
heartbrokenly.

But the last word was with Aunt Mouser.

"Well, all I hope is it won't be a case of marrying in haste and
repenting at leisure."


                                   17


                  (_Extract from letter to Gilbert._)


    "School closed today. Two months of Green Gables and dew-wet, spicy
    ferns ankle-deep along the brook and lazy, dappling shadows in
    Lover's Lane and wild strawberries in Mr. Bell's pasture and the
    dark loveliness of firs in the Haunted Wood! My very soul has
    wings.

    "Jen Pringle brought me a bouquet of lilies of the valley and wished
    me a happy vacation. She's coming down to spend a week end with me
    some time. Talk of miracles!

    "But little Elizabeth is heartbroken. I wanted her for a visit, too,
    but Mrs. Campbell did not 'deem it advisable.' Luckily, I hadn't
    said anything to Elizabeth about it, so she was spared that
    disappointment.

    "'I believe I'll be Lizzie all the time you're away, Miss Shirley,'
    she told me. 'I'll _feel_ like Lizzie anyway.'

    "'But think of the fun we'll have when I come back,' I said. 'Of
    course you won't be Lizzie. There's no such person as Lizzie in you.
    And I'll write you every week, little Elizabeth.'

    "'Oh, Miss Shirley, will you! I've never had a letter in my life.
    Won't it be fun! And I'll write you if they'll let me have a stamp.
    If they don't, you'll know I'm thinking of you just the same. I've
    called the chipmunk in the back yard after you . . . Shirley. You
    don't mind, do you? I thought at first of calling it Anne Shirley
    . . . but then I thought that mightn't be respectful . . . and,
    anyway, Anne doesn't sound chipmunky. Besides, it might be a
    gentleman chipmunk. Chipmunks are such darling things, aren't they?
    But the Woman says they eat the rosebush roots.'

    "'She would!' I said.

    "I asked Katherine Brooke where she was going to spend the summer
    and she briefly answered, 'Here. Where did you suppose?'

    "I felt as if I ought to ask her to Green Gables, but I just
    couldn't. Of course I don't suppose she'd have come, anyway. And
    she's such a killjoy. She'd spoil everything. But when I think of
    her alone in that cheap boarding house all summer, my conscience
    gives me unpleasant jabs.

    "Dusty Miller brought in a live snake the other day and dropped it
    on the floor of the kitchen. If Rebecca Dew could have turned pale
    she would have. 'This _is_ really the last straw!' she said. But
    Rebecca Dew is just a little peevish these days because she has to
    spend all her spare time picking big gray-green beetles off the rose
    trees and dropping them in a can of kerosene. She thinks there are
    entirely too many insects in the world.

    "'It's just going to be eaten up by them some day,' she predicts
    mournfully.

    "Nora Nelson is to be married to Jim Wilcox in September. Very
    quietly . . . no fuss, no guests, no bridesmaids. Nora told me that
    was the only way to escape Aunt Mouser, and she will _not_ have Aunt
    Mouser to see her married. I'm to be present, however, sort of
    unofficially. Nora says Jim would never have come back if I hadn't
    set that light in the window. He was going to sell his store and go
    west. Well, when I think of all the matches I'm supposed to have
    made . . .

    "Sally says they'll fight most of their time but that they'll be
    happier fighting with each other than agreeing with anybody else.
    But I don't think they'll fight . . . much. I think it is just
    misunderstanding that makes most of the trouble in the world. You
    and I for so long, now . . .

    "Good night, belovedest. Your sleep will be sweet if there is any
    influence in the wishes of

                                                              "YOUR OWN.

    "P.S. The above sentence is quoted verbatim from a letter of Aunt
    Chatty's grandmother."




                           _The Second Year_




                                   1


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                      "September 14th.

    "I can hardly reconcile myself to the fact that our beautiful two
    months are over. They _were_ beautiful, weren't they, dearest? And
    now it will be only two years before . . .


(_Several paragraphs omitted._)


    "But there has been a good deal of pleasure in coming back to Windy
    Poplars . . . to my own private tower and my own special chair and
    my own lofty bed . . . and even Dusty Miller basking on the kitchen
    window sill.

    "The widows were glad to see me and Rebecca Dew said frankly, 'It's
    good to have you back.' Little Elizabeth felt the same way. We had a
    rapturous meeting at the green gate.

    "'I was a little afraid you might have got into Tomorrow before me,'
    said little Elizabeth.

    "'Isn't this a lovely evening?' I said.

    "'Where you are it's always a lovely evening, Miss Shirley,' said
    little Elizabeth.

    "Talk of compliments!

    "'How have you put in the summer, darling?' I asked.

    "'Thinking,' said little Elizabeth softly, 'of all the lovely things
    that will happen in Tomorrow.'

    "Then we went up to the tower room and read a story about elephants.
    Little Elizabeth is very much interested in elephants at present.

    "'There is something bewitching about the very name of elephant,
    isn't there?' she said gravely, holding her chin in her small hands
    after a fashion she has. 'I expect to meet lots of elephants in
    Tomorrow.'

    "We put an elephant park in our map of fairyland. It is no use
    looking superior and disdainful, my Gilbert, as I know you will be
    looking when you read this. Not a bit of use. The world always
    _will_ have fairies. It can't get along without them. And somebody
    has to supply them.

    "It's rather nice to be back in school, too. Katherine Brooke isn't
    any more companionable, but my pupils seemed glad to see me and Jen
    Pringle wants me to help her make the tin halos for the angels'
    heads in a Sunday-school concert.

    "I think the course of study this year will be much more interesting
    than last year. Canadian History has been added to the curriculum. I
    have to give a little 'lecturette' tomorrow on the War of 1812. It
    seems so strange to read over the stories of those old wars . . .
    things that can never happen again. I don't suppose any of us will
    ever have more than an academic interest in 'battles long ago.' It's
    impossible to think of Canada ever being at war again. I am so
    thankful that phase of history is over.

    "We are going to reorganize the Dramatic Club at once and canvass
    every family connected with the school for a subscription. Lewis
    Allen and I are going to take the Dawlish Road as our territory and
    canvass it next Saturday afternoon. Lewis will try to kill two birds
    with one stone, as he is competing for a prize offered by _Country
    Homes_ for the best photograph of an attractive farmhouse. The prize
    is twenty-five dollars and that will mean a badly needed new suit
    and overcoat for Lewis. He worked on a farm all summer and is doing
    housework and waiting on the table at his boarding house again this
    year. He must hate it, but he never says a word about it. I do like
    Lewis . . . he is so plucky and ambitious, with a charming grin in
    place of a smile. And he really isn't over-strong. I was afraid last
    year he would break down. But his summer on the farm seems to have
    built him up a bit. This is his last year in High and then he hopes
    to achieve a year at Queen's. The widows are going to ask him to
    Sunday-night supper as often as possible this winter. Aunt Kate and
    I have had a conference on ways and means and I persuaded her to let
    me put up the extras. Of course we didn't try to persuade Rebecca
    Dew. I merely asked Aunt Kate in Rebecca's hearing if I could have
    Lewis Allen in on Sunday nights at least twice a month. Aunt Kate
    said coldly she was afraid they couldn't afford it, in addition to
    their usual lonely girl.

    "Rebecca Dew uttered a cry of anguish.

    "'This _is_ the last straw. Getting so poor we can't afford a bite
    now and again to a poor, hard-working, sober boy who is trying to
    get an education! You pay more for liver for That Cat and him ready
    to burst. Well, take a dollar off my wages and have him.'

    "The gospel according to Rebecca was accepted. Lewis Allen is coming
    and neither Dusty Miller's liver nor Rebecca Dew's wages will be
    less. Dear Rebecca Dew!

    "Aunt Chatty crept into my room last night to tell me she wanted to
    get a beaded cape but that Aunt Kate thought she was too old for it
    and her feelings had been hurt.

    "'Do you think I am, Miss Shirley? I don't want to be undignified
    . . . but I've always wanted a beaded cape so much. I always thought
    they were what you might call jaunty . . . and now they're in
    again.'

    "'Too old! Of course you're not too old, dearest,' I assured her.
    'Nobody is ever too old to wear just what she wants to wear. You
    wouldn't _want_ to wear it if you were too old.' 'I shall get it
    and defy Kate,' said Aunt Chatty, anything but defiantly. But I
    think she will . . . and I think I know how to reconcile Aunt Kate.

    "I'm alone in my tower. Outside there is a still, still night and
    the silence is velvety. Not even the poplars are stirring. I have
    just leaned out of my window and blown a kiss in the direction of
    somebody not a hundred miles away from Kingsport."


                                    2


The Dawlish Road was a meandering sort of road, and the afternoon was
made for wanderers . . . or so Anne and Lewis thought as they prowled
along it, now and then pausing to enjoy a sudden sapphire glimpse of the
strait through the trees or to snap a particularly lovely bit of scenery
or picturesque little house in a leafy hollow. It was not, perhaps,
quite so pleasant to call at the houses themselves and ask for
subscriptions for the benefit of the Dramatic Club, but Anne and Lewis
took turns doing the talking . . . he taking on the women while Anne
manipulated the men.

"Take the men if you're going in that dress and hat," Rebecca Dew had
advised. "I've had a good bit of experience in canvassing in my day and
it all went to show that the better-dressed and better-looking you are
the more money . . . or promise of it . . . you'll get, if it's the men
you have to tackle. But if it's the women, put on the oldest and ugliest
things you have."

"Isn't a road an interesting thing, Lewis?" said Anne dreamily. "Not a
straight road, but one with ends and kinks around which anything of
beauty and surprise may be lurking. I've always loved bends in roads."

"Where does this Dawlish Road go to?" asked Lewis practically . . .
though at the same moment he was reflecting that Miss Shirley's voice
always made him think of spring.

"I might be horrid and school-teacherish, Lewis, and say that it doesn't
go anywhere . . . it stays right here. But I won't. As to where it goes
or where it leads to . . . who cares? To the end of the world and back,
perhaps. Remember what Emerson says . . . 'Oh, what have I to do with
time?' That's our motto for today. I expect the universe will muddle on
if we let it alone for a while. Look at those cloud shadows . . . and
that tranquillity of green valleys . . . and that house with an apple
tree at each of its corners. Imagine it in spring. This is one of the
days people _feel_ alive and every wind of the world is a sister. I'm
glad there are so many clumps of spice ferns along this road . . . spice
ferns with gossamer webs on them. It brings back the days when I
pretended . . . or believed . . . I think I really did believe . . .
that gossamer webs were fairies' tablecloths."

They found a wayside spring in a golden hollow and sat down on a moss
that seemed made of tiny ferns, to drink from a cup that Lewis twisted
out of birch bark.

"You never know the real joy of drinking till you're dry with thirst and
find water," he said. "That summer I worked out west on the railroad
they were building, I got lost on the prairie one hot day and wandered
for hours. I thought I'd die of thirst and then I came to a settler's
shack, and he had a little spring like this in a clump of willows. How I
drank! I've understood the Bible and its love of good water better ever
since."

"We're going to get some water from another quarter," said Anne rather
anxiously. "There's a shower coming up and . . . Lewis, I love showers,
but I've got on my best hat and my second-best dress. And there isn't a
house within half a mile."

"There's an old deserted blacksmith's forge over there," said Lewis,
"but we'll have to run for it."

Run they did and from its shelter enjoyed the shower as they had enjoyed
everything else on that carefree, gypsying afternoon. A veiled hush had
fallen over the world. All the young breezes that had been whispering
and rustling so importantly along the Dawlish Road had folded their
wings and become motionless and soundless. Not a leaf stirred, not a
shadow flickered. The maple leaves at the bend of the road turned wrong
side out until the trees looked as if they were turning pale from fear.
A huge cool shadow seemed to engulf them like a green wave . . . the
cloud had reached them. Then the rain, with a rush and sweep of wind.
The shower pattered sharply down on the leaves, danced along the smoking
red road and pelted the roof of the old forge right merrily.

"If this lasts . . ." said Lewis.

But it didn't. As suddenly as it had come up, it was over and the sun
was shining on the wet, glistening trees. Dazzling glimpses of blue sky
appeared between the torn white clouds. Far away they could see a hill
still dim with rain, but below them the cup of the valley seemed to brim
over with peach-tinted mists. The woods around were pranked out with a
sparkle and glitter as of springtime, and a bird began to sing in the
big maple over the forge as if he were cheated into believing it really
was springtime, so amazingly fresh and sweet did the world seem all at
once.

"Let's explore this," said Anne, when they resumed their tramp, looking
along a little side road running between old rail fences smothered in
goldenrod.

"I don't think there's anybody living along that road," said Lewis
doubtfully. "I think it's only a road running down to the harbor."

"Never mind . . . let's go along it. I've always had a weakness for side
roads . . . something off the beaten track, lost and green and lonely.
Smell the wet grass, Lewis. Besides, I feel in my bones that there _is_
a house on it . . . a certain kind of house . . . a very snappable
house."

Anne's bones did not deceive her. Soon there was a house . . . and a
snappable house to boot. It was a quaint, old-fashioned one, low in the
eaves, with square, small-paned windows. Big willows stretched
patriarchal arms over it and an apparent wilderness of perennials and
shrubs crowded all about it. It was weather-gray and shabby, but the big
barns beyond it were snug and prosperous-looking, up-to-date in every
respect. "I've always heard, Miss Shirley, that when a man's barns are
better than his house, it's a sign that his income exceeds his
expenditure," said Lewis, as they sauntered up the deep-rutted grassy
lane.

"I should think it was a sign that he thought more of his horses than
of his family," laughed Anne. "I'm not expecting a subscription to our
club here, but that's the most likely house for a prize contest we've
encountered yet. Its grayness won't matter in a photograph."

"This lane doesn't look as if it were much traveled," said Lewis with a
shrug. "Evidently the folks who live here aren't strongly sociable. I'm
afraid we'll find they don't even know what a dramatic club is. Anyhow,
I'm going to secure my picture before we rouse any of them from their
lair."

The house seemed deserted, but after the picture was taken they opened a
little white gate, crossed the yard and knocked on a faded blue kitchen
door, the front door evidently being like that of Windy Poplars, more
for show than for use . . . if a door literally hidden in Virginia
creeper could be said to be for show.

They expected at least the civility which they had hitherto met in their
calls, whether backed up with generosity or not. Consequently they were
decidedly taken aback when the door was jerked open and on the threshold
appeared, not the smiling farmer's wife or daughter they had expected to
see, but a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty, with grizzled hair and
bushy eyebrows, who demanded unceremoniously,

"What do you want?"

"We have called, hoping to interest you in our High School Dramatic
Club," began Anne, rather lamely. But she was spared further effort.

"Never heard of it. Don't want to hear about it. Nothing to do with it,"
was the uncompromising interruption, and the door was promptly shut in
their faces.

"I believe we've been snubbed," said Anne as they walked away.

"Nice amiable gentleman, that," grinned Lewis. "I'm sorry for his wife,
if he has one."

"I don't think he can have, or she would civilize him a trifle," said
Anne, trying to recover her shattered poise. "I wish Rebecca Dew had the
handling of him. But we've got his house, at least, and I've a
premonition that it's going to win the prize. Bother! I've just got a
pebble in my shoe and I'm going to sit down on my gentleman's stone
dyke, with or without his permission, and remove it."

"Luckily it's out of sight of the house," said Lewis.

Anne had just retied her shoelace when they heard something pushing
softly through the jungle of shrubbery on their right. Then a small boy
about eight years of age came into view and stood surveying them
bashfully, with a big apple turnover clasped tightly in his chubby
hands. He was a pretty child, with glossy brown curls, big trustful
brown eyes and delicately modeled features. There was an air of
refinement about him, in spite of the fact that he was bareheaded and
barelegged, with only a faded blue cotton shirt and a pair of threadbare
velvet knickerbockers between head and legs. But he looked like a small
prince in disguise.

Just behind him was a big black Newfoundland dog whose head was almost
on a level with the lad's shoulder.

Anne looked at him with a smile that always won children's hearts.

"Hello, sonny," said Lewis. "Who belongs to you?"

The boy came forward with an answering smile, holding out his turnover.

"This is for you to eat," he said shyly. "Dad made it for me, but I'd
rather give it to you. I've lots to eat."

Lewis, rather tactlessly, was on the point of refusing to take the
little chap's snack, but Anne gave him a quick nudge. Taking the hint,
he accepted it gravely and handed it to Anne, who, quite as gravely,
broke it in two and gave half of it back to him. They knew they must eat
it and they had painful doubts as to "dad's" ability in the cooking
line, but the first mouthful reassured them. "Dad" might not be strong
on courtesy but he could certainly make turnovers.

"This is delicious," said Anne. "What is your name, dear?"

"Teddy Armstrong," said the small benefactor. "But Dad always calls me
Little Fellow. I'm all he has, you know. Dad is awful fond of me and I'm
awful fond of Dad. I'm afraid you think my dad is impolite 'cause he
shut that door so quick, but he doesn't mean to be. I heard you asking
for something to eat." ("We didn't, but it doesn't matter," thought
Anne.)

"I was in the garden behind the hollyhocks, so I just thought I'd bring
you my turnover 'cause I'm always so sorry for poor people who haven't
plenty to eat. I have, always. My dad is a splendid cook. You ought to
see the rice puddings he can make."

"Does he put raisins in them?" asked Lewis with a twinkle.

"Lots and lots. There's nothing mean about my dad."

"Haven't you any mother, darling?" asked Anne.

"No. My mother is dead. Mrs. Merrill told me once she'd gone to heaven,
but my dad says there's no such place and I guess he ought to know. My
dad is an awful wise man. He's read thousands of books. I mean to be
just 'zackly like him when I grow up . . . only I'll always give people
things to eat when they want them. My dad isn't very fond of people, you
know, but he's awful good to me."

"Do you go to school?" asked Lewis.

"No. My dad teaches me at home. The trustees told him I'd have to go
next year, though. I think I'd like to go to school and have some other
boys to play with. Course I've got Carlo and Dad himself is splendid to
play with when he has time. My dad is pretty busy, you know. He has to
run the farm and keep the house clean, too. That's why he can't be
bothered having people around, you see. When I get bigger I'll be able
to help him lots and then he'll have more time to be polite to folks."

"That turnover was just about right, Little Fellow," said Lewis,
swallowing the last crumb.

The Little Fellow's eyes beamed.

"I'm so glad you liked it," he said.

"Would you like to have your picture taken?" said Anne, feeling that it
would never do to offer this generous small soul money. "If you would,
Lewis will take it."

"Oh, wouldn't I!" said the Little Fellow eagerly. "Carlo, too?"

"Certainly Carlo, too."

Anne posed the two prettily before a background of shrubs, the little
lad standing with his arm about his big, curly playmate's neck, both dog
and boy seeming equally well pleased, and Lewis took the picture with
his last remaining plate.

"If it comes out well I'll send you one by mail," he promised. "How
shall I address it?"

"Teddy Armstrong, care of Mr. James Armstrong, Glencove Road," said the
Little Fellow. "Oh, won't it be fun to have something coming to me
mineself through the post office! I tell you I'll feel awful proud. I
won't say a word to Dad about it so that it'll be a splendid surprise
for him."

"Well, look out for your parcel in two or three weeks," said Lewis, as
they bade him good-by. But Anne suddenly stooped and kissed the little
sunburned face. There was something about it that tugged at her heart.
He was so sweet . . . so gallant . . . so motherless!

They looked back at him before a curve in the lane and saw him standing
on the dyke, with his dog, waving his hand to them.

Of course Rebecca Dew knew all about the Armstrongs.

"James Armstrong has never got over his wife's death five years ago,"
she said. "He wasn't so bad before that . . . agreeable enough, though a
bit of a hermit. Kind of built that way. He was just wrapped up in his
bit of a wife . . . she was twenty years younger than he was. Her death
was an awful shock to him I've heard . . . just seemed to change his
nature completely. He got sour and cranky. Wouldn't even get a
housekeeper . . . looked after his house and child himself. He kept
bachelor's hall for years before he was married, so he ain't a bad hand
at it."

"But it's no life for the child," said Aunt Chatty. "His father never
takes him to church or anywhere he'd see people."

"He worships the boy, I've heard," said Aunt Kate.

"'Thou shalt have no other gods before me,'" quoted Rebecca Dew
suddenly.


                                    3


It was almost three weeks before Lewis found time to develop his
pictures. He brought them up to Windy Poplars the first Sunday night he
came to supper. Both the house and the Little Fellow came out
splendidly. The Little Fellow smiled up from the picture "as real as
life," said Rebecca Dew.

"Why, he looks like you, Lewis!" exclaimed Anne.

"He does that," agreed Rebecca Dew, squinting at it judicially. "The
minute I saw it, his face reminded me of somebody but I couldn't think
who."

"Why, the eyes . . . the forehead . . . the whole expression . . . are
yours, Lewis," said Anne.

"It's hard to believe I was ever such a good-looking little chap,"
shrugged Lewis. "I've got a picture of myself somewhere, taken when I
was eight. I must hunt it out and compare it. You'd laugh to see it,
Miss Shirley. I'm the most sober-eyed kid, with long curls and a lace
collar, looking stiff as a ramrod. I suppose I had my head clamped in
one of those three-clawed contraptions they used to use. If this picture
really resembles me, it must be only a coincidence. The Little Fellow
can't be any relation of mine. I haven't any relative on the Island
. . . now."

"Where were you born?" asked Aunt Kate.

"N. B. Father and Mother died when I was ten and I came over here to
live with a cousin of mother's . . . I called her Aunt Ida. She died
too, you know . . . three years ago."

"Jim Armstrong came from New Brunswick," said Rebecca Dew. "_He_ ain't a
real islander . . . wouldn't be such a crank if he was. We have our
peculiarities but we're _civilized_."

"I'm not sure that I want to discover a relation in the amiable Mr.
Armstrong," grinned Lewis, attacking Aunt Chatty's cinnamon toast.
"However, I think when I get the photograph finished and mounted I'll
take it out to Glencove Road myself and investigate a little. He may be
a distant cousin or something. I really know nothing about my mother's
people, if she had any living. I've always been under the impression
that she hadn't. Father hadn't, I know."

"If you take the picture out in person, won't the Little Fellow be a bit
disappointed over losing his thrill of getting something through the
post office?" said Anne.

"I'll make it up to him. . . . I'll send him something else."

The next Saturday afternoon Lewis came driving along Spook's Lane in an
antiquated buggy behind a still more antiquated mare.

"I'm going out to Glencove to take little Teddy Armstrong his picture,
Miss Shirley. If my dashing turn-out doesn't give you heart failure I'd
like to have you come, too. I don't _think_ any of the wheels will fall
off."

"Where on earth did you pick up that relic, Lewis?" demanded Rebecca
Dew.

"Don't poke fun at my gallant steed, Miss Dew. Have some respect for
age. Mr. Bender lent me both mare and buggy on condition I'd do an
errand for him along the Dawlish Road. I hadn't time to walk out to
Glencove today and back."

"Time!" said Rebecca Dew. "I could walk there and back myself faster
than that animal."

"And carry a bag of potatoes back for Mr. Bender? You wonderful woman!"

Rebecca Dew's red cheeks grew even redder.

"It ain't nice to make fun of your elders," she said rebukingly. Then,
by way of coals of fire . . . "Could you do with a few doughnuts afore
you start out?"

The white mare, however, developed surprising powers of locomotion when
they were once more out in the open. Anne giggled to herself as they
jogged along the road. What would Mrs. Gardiner or even Aunt Jamesina
say if they could see her now? Well, she didn't care. It was a wonderful
day for a drive through a land that was keeping its old lovely ritual of
autumn, and Lewis was a good companion. Lewis would attain his
ambitions. Nobody else of her acquaintance, she reflected, would dream
of asking her to go driving in the Bender buggy behind the Bender mare.
But it never occurred to Lewis that there was anything odd about it.
What difference _how_ you traveled as long as you got there? The calm
rims of the upland hills were as blue, the roads as red, the maples as
gorgeous, no matter what vehicle you rode in. Lewis was a philosopher
and cared as little what people might say as he did when some of the
High School pupils called him "sissy" because he did housework for his
board. Let them call! Some day the laugh would be on the other side.
His pockets might be empty but his head wasn't. Meanwhile the afternoon
was an idyl and they were going to see the Little Fellow again. They
told Mr. Bender's brother-in-law about their errand when he put the bag
of potatoes in the back of the buggy.

"Do you mean to say you've got a photo of little Teddy Armstrong?"
exclaimed Mr. Merrill.

"That I have and a good one." Lewis unwrapped it and held it proudly
out. "I don't believe a professional photographer could have taken a
better."

Mr. Merrill slapped his leg resoundingly.

"Well, if that don't beat all! Why, little Teddy Armstrong is dead . . ."

"Dead!" exclaimed Anne in horror. "Oh, Mr. Merrill . . . no . . . don't
tell me . . . that dear little boy . . ."

"Sorry, miss, but it's a fact. And his father is just about wild and all
the worse that he hasn't got any kind of a picture of him at all. And
now you've got a good one. Well, well!"

"It . . . it seems impossible," said Anne, her eyes full of tears. She
was seeing the slender little figure waving his farewell from the dyke.

"Sorry to say it's only too true. He died nearly three weeks ago.
Pneumonia. Suffered awful but he was just as brave and patient as anyone
could be, they say. I dunno what'll become of Jim Armstrong now. They
say he's like a crazy man--just moping and muttering to himself all the
time. 'If I only had a picture of my Little Fellow,' he keeps saying."

"I'm sorry for that man," said Mrs. Merrill suddenly. She had not
hitherto spoken, standing by her husband, a gaunt, square-built gray
woman in wind-whipped calico and check apron. "He's well-to-do and I've
always felt he looked down on us because we were poor. But we have our
boy . . . and it don't never matter how poor you are as long as you've
got something to love."

Anne looked at Mrs. Merrill with a new respect. Mrs. Merrill was not
beautiful, but as her sunken gray eyes met Anne's, something of spirit
kinship was acknowledged between them. Anne had never seen Mrs. Merrill
before and never saw her again, but she always remembered her as a woman
who had attained to the ultimate secret of life. You were never poor as
long as you had something to love.

The golden day was spoiled for Anne. Somehow, the Little Fellow had won
her heart in their brief meeting. She and Lewis drove in silence down
the Glencove Road and up the grassy lane. Carlo was lying on the stone
before the blue door. He got up and came down over to them, as they
descended from the buggy, licking Anne's hand and looking up at her with
big wistful eyes as if asking for news of his little playmate. The door
was open and in the dim room beyond they saw a man with his head bowed
on the table.

At Anne's knock he started up and came to the door. She was shocked at
the change in him. He was hollow-cheeked, haggard, and unshaven, and his
deep-set eyes flashed with a fitful fire.

She expected a repulse at first, but he seemed to recognize her, for he
said listlessly,

"So you're back? The Little Fellow said you talked to him and kissed
him. He liked you. I was sorry I'd been so churlish to you. What is it
you want?"

"We want to show you something," said Anne gently.

"Will you come in and sit down?" he said drearily.

Without a word Lewis took the Little Fellow's picture from its wrappings
and held it out to him. He snatched it up, gave it one amazed, hungry
look, then dropped on his chair and burst into tears and sobs. Anne had
never seen a man weep so before. She and Lewis stood in mute sympathy
until he had regained his self-control.

"Oh, you don't know what this means to me," he said brokenly at last. "I
hadn't any picture of him. And I'm not like other folks . . . I can't
recall a face . . . I can't see faces as most folks can in their mind.
It's been awful since the Little Fellow died. . . . I couldn't even
remember what he looked like. And now you've brought me this . . . after
I was so rude to you. Sit down . . . sit down. I wish I could express my
thanks in some way. I guess you've saved my reason . . . maybe my life.
Oh, miss, isn't it like him? You'd think he was going to speak. My dear
Little Fellow! How am I going to live without him? I've nothing to live
for now. First his mother . . . now him."

"He was a dear little lad," said Anne tenderly.

"That he was. Little Teddy . . . Theodore, his mother named him . . .
her 'gift of God' she said he was. And he was so patient and never
complained. Once he smiled up in my face and said, 'Dad, I think you've
been mistaken in one thing . . . just one. I guess there is a heaven,
isn't there? Isn't there, Dad?' I said to him, yes, there was. . . . God
forgive me for ever trying to teach him anything else. He smiled again,
contented like, and said, 'Well, Dad, I'm going there and Mother and God
are there, so I'll be pretty well off. But I'm worried about you, Dad.
You'll be so awful lonesome without me. But just do the best you can and
be polite to folks and come to us by and by.' He made me promise I'd
try, but when he was gone I couldn't stand the blankness of it. I'd have
gone mad if you hadn't brought me this. It won't be so hard now."

He talked about his Little Fellow for some time, as if he found relief
and pleasure in it. His reserve and gruffness seemed to have fallen from
him like a garment. Finally Lewis produced the small faded photograph of
himself and showed it to him.

"Have you ever seen anybody who looked like that, Mr. Armstrong?" asked
Anne.

Mr. Armstrong peered at it in perplexity.

"It's awful like the Little Fellow," he said at last. "Whose might it
be?"

"Mine," said Lewis, "when I was eight years old. It was because of the
strange resemblance to Teddy that Miss Shirley made me bring it to show
you. I thought it possible that you and I or the Little Fellow might be
some distant relation. My name is Lewis Allen and my father was George
Allen. I was born in New Brunswick."

James Armstrong shook his head. Then he said,

"What was your mother's name?"

"Mary Gardiner."

James Armstrong looked at him for a moment in silence.

"She was my half-sister," he said at last. "I hardly knew her . . .
never saw her but once. I was brought up in an uncle's family after my
father's death. My mother married again and moved away. She came to see
me once and brought her little daughter. She died soon after and I never
saw my half-sister again. When I came over to the Island to live, I lost
all trace of her. You are my nephew and the Little Fellow's cousin."

This was surprising news to a lad who had fancied himself alone in the
world. Lewis and Anne spent the whole evening with Mr. Armstrong and
found him to be a well-read and intelligent man. Somehow, they both took
a liking to him. His former inhospitable reception was quite forgotten
and they saw only the real worth of the character and temperament below
the unpromising shell that had hitherto concealed them.

"Of course the Little Fellow couldn't have loved his father so much if
it hadn't been so," said Anne, as she and Lewis drove back to Windy
Poplars through the sunset.

When Lewis Allen went the next week end to see his uncle, the latter
said to him,

"Lad, come and live with me. You are my nephew and I can do well for you
. . . what I'd have done for my Little Fellow if he'd lived. You're
alone in the world and so am I. I need you. I'll grow hard and bitter
again if I live here alone. I want you to help me keep my promise to the
Little Fellow. His place is empty. Come you and fill it."

"Thank you, Uncle; I'll try," said Lewis, holding out his hand.

"And bring that teacher of yours here once in a while. I like that girl.
The Little Fellow liked her. 'Dad,' he said to me, 'I didn't think I'd
ever like anybody but you to kiss me, but I liked it when she did. There
was something in her eyes, Dad.'"


                                    4


"The old porch thermometer says it's zero and the new side-door one says
it's ten above," remarked Anne, one frosty December night. "So I don't
know whether to take my muff or not."

"Better go by the old thermometer," said Rebecca Dew cautiously. "It's
probably more used to our climate. Where are you going this cold night,
anyway?"

"I'm going round to Temple Street to ask Katherine Brooke to spend the
Christmas holidays with me at Green Gables."

"You'll spoil your holidays, then," said Rebecca Dew solemnly. "She'd go
about snubbing the angels, that one . . . that is, if she ever
condescended to enter heaven. And the worst of it is, she's proud of her
bad manners . . . thinks it shows her strength of mind no doubt!"

"My brain agrees with every word you say but my heart simply won't,"
said Anne. "I feel, in spite of everything, that Katherine Brooke is
only a shy, unhappy girl under her disagreeable rind. I can never make
any headway with her in Summerside, but if I can get her to Green Gables
I believe it will thaw her out."

"You won't get her. She won't go," predicted Rebecca Dew. "Probably
she'll take it as an insult to be asked . . . think you're offering her
charity. _We_ asked her here once to Christmas dinner . . . the year
afore you came . . . you remember, Mrs. MacComber, the year we had two
turkeys give us and didn't know how we was to get 'em et . . . and all
she said was, 'No, thank you. If there's anything I hate, it's the word
Christmas!'"

"But that is so dreadful . . . hating Christmas! Something _has_ to be
done, Rebecca Dew. I'm going to ask her and I've a queer feeling in my
thumbs that tells me she will come."

"Somehow," said Rebecca Dew reluctantly, "when you say a thing is going
to happen, a body believes it will. You haven't got a second sight, have
you? Captain MacComber's mother had it. Useter give me the creeps."

"I don't think I have anything that need give you creeps. It's only just
. . . I've had a feeling for some time that Katherine Brooke is almost
crazy with loneliness under her bitter outside and that my invitation
will come pat to the psychological moment, Rebecca Dew."

"I am not a B.A.," said Rebecca with awful humility, "and I do not deny
your right to use words I cannot always understand. Neither do I deny
that you can wind people round your little finger. Look how you managed
the Pringles. But I do say I pity you if you take that iceberg and
nutmeg grater combined home with you for Christmas."

Anne was by no means as confident as she pretended to be during her walk
to Temple Street. Katherine Brooke had really been unbearable of late.
Again and again Anne, rebuffed, had said, as grimly as Poe's raven,
"Nevermore." Only yesterday Katherine had been positively insulting at a
staff meeting. But in an unguarded moment Anne had seen something
looking out of the older girl's eyes . . . a passionate, half-frantic
something like a caged creature mad with discontent. Anne spent the
first half of the night trying to decide whether to invite Katherine
Brooke to Green Gables or not. Finally she fell asleep with her mind
irrevocably made up.

Katherine's landlady showed Anne into the parlor and shrugged a fat
shoulder when she asked for Miss Brooke.

"I'll tell her you're here but I dunno if she'll come down. She's
sulking. I told her at dinner tonight that Mrs. Rawlins says its
scandalous the way she dresses, for a teacher in Summerside High, and
she took it high and mighty as usual."

"I don't think you should have told Miss Brooke that," said Anne
reproachfully.

"But I thought she ought to know," said Mrs. Dennis somewhat waspishly.

"Did you also think she ought to know that the Inspector said she was
one of the best teachers in the Maritimes?" asked Anne. "Or didn't you
know it?"

"Oh, I heard it. But she's stuck-up enough now without making her any
worse. Proud's no name for it . . . though what she's got to be proud
of, _I_ dunno. Of course she was mad anyhow tonight because I'd said she
couldn't have a dog. She's took a notion into her head she'd like to
have a dog. Said she'd pay for his rations and see he was no bother. But
what'd I do with him when she was in school? I put my foot down. 'I'm
boarding no dogs,' sez I."

"Oh, Mrs. Dennis, won't you let her have a dog? He wouldn't bother you
. . . much. You could keep him in the basement while she was in school.
And a dog really is such a protection at night. I wish you would . . .
_please_."

There was always something about Anne Shirley's eyes when she said
"please" that people found hard to resist. Mrs. Dennis, in spite of fat
shoulders and a meddlesome tongue, was not unkind at heart. Katherine
Brooke simply got under her skin at times with her ungracious ways.

"I dunno why you should worry as to her having a dog or not. I didn't
know you were such friends. She hasn't _any_ friends. I never had such
an unsociable boarder."

"I think that is why she wants a dog, Mrs. Dennis. None of us can live
without some kind of companionship."

"Well, it's the first human thing I've noticed about her," said Mrs.
Dennis. "I dunno's I have any awful objection to a dog, but she sort of
vexed me with her sarcastic way of asking . . . 'I s'pose you wouldn't
consent if I asked you if I might have a dog, Mrs. Dennis,' she sez,
haughty like. Set her up with it! 'You're s'posing right,' sez I, as
haughty as herself. I don't like eating my words any more than most
people, but you can tell her she can have a dog if she'll guarantee he
won't misbehave in the parlor."

Anne did not think the parlor could be much worse if the dog did
misbehave. She eyed the dingy lace curtains and the hideous purple roses
on the carpet with a shiver.

"I'm sorry for anyone who has to spend Christmas in a boarding house
like this," she thought. "I don't wonder Katherine hates the word. I'd
like to give this place a good airing . . . it smells of a thousand
meals. _Why_ does Katherine go on boarding here when she has a good
salary?"

"She says you can come up," was the message Mrs. Dennis brought back,
rather dubiously, for Miss Brooke had run true to form.

The narrow, steep stair was repellent. It didn't want you. Nobody would
go up who didn't have to. The linoleum in the hall was worn to shreds.
The little back hall-bedroom where Anne presently found herself was even
more cheerless than the parlor. It was lighted by one glaring unshaded
gas jet. There was an iron bed with a valley in the middle of it and a
narrow, sparsely draped window looking out on a backyard garden where a
large crop of tin cans flourished. But beyond it was a marvelous sky and
a row of Lombardies standing out against long, purple, distant hills.

"Oh, Miss Brooke, look at that sunset," said Anne rapturously from the
squeaky, cushionless rocker to which Katherine had ungraciously pointed
her.

"I've seen a good many sunsets," said the latter coldly, without moving.
("Condescending to me with your sunsets!" she thought bitterly.)

"You haven't seen this one. No two sunsets are alike. Just sit down here
and let us let it sink into our souls," _said_ Anne. _Thought_ Anne, "Do
you _ever_ say anything pleasant?"

"Don't be ridiculous, please."

The most insulting words in the world! With an added edge of insult in
Katherine's contemptuous tones. Anne turned from her sunset and looked
at Katherine, much more than half inclined to get up and walk out. But
Katherine's eyes looked a trifle strange. _Had_ she been crying? Surely
not . . . you couldn't imagine Katherine Brooke crying.

"You don't make me feel very welcome," Anne said slowly.

"I can't pretend things. I haven't _your_ notable gift for doing the
queen act . . . saying exactly the right thing to everyone. You're _not_
welcome. What sort of room is this to welcome anyone to?"

Katherine made a scornful gesture at the faded walls, the shabby bare
chairs and the wobbly dressing table with its petticoat of limp muslin.

"It isn't a nice room, but why do you stay here if you don't like it?"

"Oh . . . why . . . Why? _You_ wouldn't understand. It doesn't matter. I
don't care what anybody thinks. What brought you here tonight? I don't
suppose you came just to soak in the sunset."

"I came to ask if you would spend the Christmas holidays with me at
Green Gables."

("Now," thought Anne, "for another broadside of sarcasm! I do wish she'd
sit down at least. She just stands there as if waiting for me to go.")

But there was silence for a moment. Then Katherine said slowly,

"Why do you ask me? It isn't because you like me . . . even you couldn't
pretend _that_."

"It's because I can't bear to think of any human being spending
Christmas in a place like _this_," said Anne candidly.

The sarcasm came then.

"Oh, I see. A seasonable outburst of charity. I'm hardly a candidate for
that _yet_, Miss Shirley."

Anne got up. She was out of patience with this strange, aloof creature.
She walked across the room and looked Katherine squarely in the eye.
"Katherine Brooke, whether you know it or not, what _you_ want is a good
spanking."

They gazed at each other for a moment.

"It must have relieved you to say that," said Katherine. But somehow the
insulting tone had gone out of her voice. There was even a faint twitch
at the corner of her mouth.

"It has," said Anne. "I've been wanting to tell you just that for some
time. I didn't ask you to Green Gables out of charity . . . you know
that perfectly well. I told you my true reason. _Nobody_ ought to spend
Christmas here . . . the very idea is indecent."

"You asked me to Green Gables just because you are sorry for me."

"I _am_ sorry for you. Because you've shut out life . . . and now life
is shutting you out. Stop it, Katherine. Open your doors to life . . .
and life will come in."

"The Anne Shirley version of the old bromide, 'If you bring a smiling
visage to the glass you meet a smile,'" said Katherine.

"Like all bromides, that's absolutely true. Now, are you coming to Green
Gables or are you not?"

"What would you say if I accepted . . . to yourself, not to me?"

"I'd say you were showing the first faint glimmer of common sense I'd
ever detected in you," retorted Anne.

Katherine laughed . . . surprisingly. She walked across to the window,
scowled at the fiery streak which was all that was left of the scorned
sunset, and then turned.

"Very well . . . I'll go. Now you can go through the motions of telling
me you're delighted and that we'll have a jolly time."

"I _am_ delighted. But I don't know if you'll have a jolly time or not.
That will depend a good deal on yourself, Miss Brooke."

"Oh, I'll behave myself decently. You'll be surprised. You won't find me
a very exhilarating guest, I suppose, but I promise you I won't eat with
my knife or insult people when they tell me it's a fine day. I tell you
frankly that the only reason I'm going is because even I can't stick the
thought of spending the holidays here alone. Mrs. Dennis is going to
spend Christmas week with her daughter in Charlottetown. It's a bore to
think of getting my own meals. I'm a rotten cook. So much for the
triumph of matter over mind. But will you give me your word of honor
that you won't wish me a merry Christmas? I just don't want to be merry
at Christmas."

"I won't. But I can't answer for the twins."

"I'm not going to ask you to sit down here . . . you'd freeze . . . but
I see that there's a very fine moon in place of your sunset and I'll
walk home with you and help you to admire it if you like."

"I do like," said Anne, "but I want to impress on your mind that we have
_much_ finer moons in Avonlea."

"So she's going?" said Rebecca Dew as she filled Anne's hot-water
bottle. "Well, Miss Shirley, I hope you'll never try to induce me to
turn Mohammedan . . . because you'd likely succeed. Where _is_ That Cat?
Out frisking round Summerside and the weather at zero."

"Not by the new thermometer. And Dusty Miller is curled up on the
rocking chair by my stove in the tower, snoring with happiness."

"Ah well," said Rebecca Dew with a little shiver as she shut the kitchen
door, "I wish everyone in the world was as warm and sheltered as we are
tonight."


                                    5


Anne did not know that a wistful little Elizabeth was watching out of
one of the mansard windows of The Evergreens as she drove away from
Windy Poplars . . . an Elizabeth with tears in her eyes who felt as if
everything that made life worth living had gone out of her life for the
time being and that she was the very Lizziest of Lizzies. But when the
livery sleigh vanished from her sight around the corner of Spook's Lane
Elizabeth went and knelt down by her bed.

"Dear God," she whispered, "I know it isn't any use to ask You for a
merry Christmas for me because Grandmother and The Woman couldn't be
merry, but please let my dear Miss Shirley have a merry, merry Christmas
and bring her back safe to me when it's over.

"Now," said Elizabeth, getting up from her knees, "I've done all that I
can."

Anne was already tasting Christmas happiness. She fairly sparkled as the
train left the station. The ugly streets slipped past her . . . she was
going home . . . home to Green Gables. Out in the open country the world
was all golden-white and pale violet, woven here and there with the dark
magic of spruces and the leafless delicacy of birches. The low sun
behind the bare woods seemed rushing through the trees like a splendid
god, as the train sped on. Katherine was silent but did not seem
ungracious.

"Don't expect me to talk," she had warned Anne curtly.

"I won't. I hope you don't think I'm one of those terrible people who
make you feel that you _have_ to talk to them all the time. We'll just
talk when we feel like it. I admit I'm likely to feel like it a good
part of the time, but you're under no obligation to take any notice of
what I'm saying."

Davy met them at Bright River with a big two-seated sleigh full of furry
robes . . . and a bear hug for Anne. The two girls snuggled down in the
back seat. The drive from the station to Green Gables had always been a
very pleasant part of Anne's week ends home. She always recalled her
first drive home from Bright River with Matthew. That had been in spring
and this was December, but everything along the road kept saying to her,
"Do you remember?" The snow crisped under the runners; the music of the
bells tinkled through the ranks of tall pointed firs, snow-laden. The
White Way of Delight had little festoons of stars tangled in the trees.
And on the last hill but one they saw the great gulf, white and mystical
under the moon but not yet icebound.

"There's just one spot on this road where I always feel suddenly . . .
'I'm _home_,'" said Anne. "It's the top of the next hill, where we'll
see the lights of Green Gables. I'm just thinking of the supper Marilla
will have ready for us. I believe I can smell it here. Oh, it's good
. . . good . . . good to be home again!"

At Green Gables every tree in the yard seemed to welcome her back . . .
every lighted window was beckoning. And how good Marilla's kitchen
smelled as they opened the door. There were hugs and exclamations and
laughter. Even Katherine seemed somehow no outsider, but one of them.
Mrs. Rachel Lynde had set her cherished parlor lamp on the supper table
and lighted it. It was really a hideous thing with a hideous red globe,
but what a warm rosy becoming light it cast over everything! How warm
and friendly were the shadows! How pretty Dora was growing! And Davy
really seemed almost a man.

There was news to tell. Diana had a small daughter . . . Josie Pye
actually had a young man . . . and Charlie Sloane was said to be
engaged. It was all just as exciting as news of empire could have been.
Mrs. Lynde's new patchwork quilt, just completed, containing five
thousand pieces, was on display and received its meed of praise.

"When you come home, Anne," said Davy, "everything seems to come alive."

"Ah, this is how life should be," purred Dora's kitten.

"I've always found it hard to resist the lure of a moonlight night,"
said Anne after supper. "How about a snowshoe tramp, Miss Brooke? I
think that I've heard that you snowshoe."

"Yes . . . it's the only thing I _can_ do . . . but I haven't done it
for six years," said Katherine with a shrug.

Anne rooted out her snowshoes from the garret and Davy shot over to
Orchard Slope to borrow an old pair of Diana's for Katherine. They went
through Lover's Lane, full of lovely tree shadows, and across fields
where little fir trees fringed the fences and through woods which were
full of secrets they seemed always on the point of whispering to you but
never did . . . and through open glades that were like pools of silver.

They did not talk or want to talk. It was as if they were afraid to talk
for fear of spoiling something beautiful. But Anne had never felt so
_near_ Katherine Brooke before. By some magic of its own the winter
night had brought them together . . . _almost_ together but not quite.

When they came out to the main road and a sleigh flashed by, bells
ringing, laughter tinkling, both girls gave an involuntary sigh. It
seemed to both that they were leaving behind a world that had nothing in
common with the one to which they were returning . . . a world where
time was not . . . which was young with immortal youth . . . where souls
communed with each other in some medium that needed nothing so crude as
words.

"It's been wonderful," said Katherine so obviously to herself that Anne
made no response.

They went down the road and up the long Green Gables lane but just
before they reached the yard gate, they both paused as by a common
impulse and stood in silence, leaning against the old mossy fence and
looked at the brooding, motherly old house seen dimly through its veil
of trees. How beautiful Green Gables was on a winter night!

Below it the Lake of Shining Waters was locked in ice, patterned around
its edges with tree shadows. Silence was everywhere, save for the
staccato clip of a horse trotting over the bridge. Anne smiled to recall
how often she had heard that sound as she lay in her gable room and
pretended to herself that it was the gallop of fairy horses passing in
the night.

Suddenly another sound broke the stillness.

"Katherine . . . you're . . . why, you're not crying!"

Somehow, it seemed impossible to think of Katherine crying. But she was.
And her tears suddenly humanized her. Anne no longer felt afraid of her.

"Katherine . . . dear Katherine . . . what is the matter? Can I help?"

"Oh . . . you can't understand!" gasped Katherine. "Things have always
been made easy for _you_. You . . . you seem to live in a little
enchanted circle of beauty and romance. 'I wonder what delightful
discovery I'll make today' . . . that seems to be your attitude to life,
Anne. As for me, I've forgotten how to live . . . no, I never knew how.
I'm . . . I'm like a creature caught in a trap. I can never get out . . .
and it seems to me that somebody is always poking sticks at me through
the bars. And you . . . you have more happiness than you know what to do
with . . . friends everywhere, a lover! Not that I want a lover . . . I
hate men . . . but if I died tonight, not one living soul would miss me.
How would you like to be absolutely friendless in the world?"

Katherine's voice broke in another sob.

"Katherine, you say you like frankness. I'm going to be frank. If you
are as friendless as you say, it is your own fault. I've wanted to be
friends with you. But you've been all prickles and stings."

"Oh, I know . . . I know. How I hated you when you came first! Flaunting
your circlet of pearls. . . ."

"Katherine, I didn't 'flaunt' it!"

"Oh, I suppose not. That's just my natural hatefulness. But it seemed to
flaunt itself . . . not that I envied you your beau . . . I've never
wanted to be married . . . I saw enough of _that_ with father and mother
. . . but I hated your being over me when you were younger than I . . .
I was glad when the Pringles made trouble for you. You seemed to have
everything I hadn't . . . charm . . . friendship . . . youth. Youth! I
never had anything but starved youth. You know nothing about it. You
don't know . . . you haven't the least idea what it is like not to be
wanted by anyone . . . anyone!"

"Oh, haven't I?" cried Anne.

In a few poignant sentences she sketched her childhood before coming to
Green Gables.

"I wish I'd known that," said Katherine. "It would have made a
difference. To me you seemed one of the favorites of fortune. I've been
eating my heart out with envy of you. You got the position I wanted . . .
oh, I know you're better qualified than I am, but there it was. You're
pretty . . . at least you make people believe you're pretty. _My_
earliest recollection is of someone saying, 'What an ugly child!' You
come into a room delightfully . . . oh, I remember how you came into
school that first morning. But I think the real reason I've hated you so
is that you always seemed to have some secret delight . . . as if every
day of life was an adventure. In spite of my hatred there were times
when I acknowledged to myself that you might just have come from some
far-off star."

"Really, Katherine, you take my breath with all these compliments. But
you don't hate me any longer, do you? We can be friends now."

"I don't know . . . I've never had a friend of any kind, much less one
of anything like my own age. I don't belong anywhere . . . never have
belonged. I don't think I know how to _be_ a friend. No, I don't hate
you any longer . . . I don't know how I feel about you . . . oh, I
suppose it's your noted charm beginning to work on me. I only know that
I feel I'd like to tell you what my life has been like. I could never
have told you if you hadn't told me about your life before you came to
Green Gables. I want you to understand what has made me as I am. I don't
know why I should want you to understand . . . but I do."

"Tell me, Katherine dear. I do want to understand you."

"You _do_ know what it is like not to be wanted, I admit . . . but not
what it is like to know that your father and mother don't want you. Mine
didn't. They hated me from the moment I was born . . . and before . . .
and they hated each other. Yes, they did. They quarreled continually
. . . just mean, nagging, petty quarrels. My childhood was a nightmare.
They died when I was seven and I went to live with Uncle Henry's family.
_They_ didn't want me either. They all looked down on me because I was
'living on their charity.' I remember all the snubs I got . . . every
one. I can't remember a single kind word. I had to wear my cousins'
castoff clothes. I remember one hat in particular . . . it made me look
like a mushroom. And they made fun of me whenever I put it on. One day I
tore it off and threw it on the fire. I had to wear the most awful old
tam to church all the rest of the winter. I never even had a dog . . .
and I wanted one so. I had some brains . . . I longed so for a B.A.
course . . . but naturally I might just as well have yearned for the
moon. However, Uncle Henry agreed to put me through Queen's if I would
pay him back when I got a school. He paid my board in a miserable
third-rate boarding house where I had a room over the kitchen that was
ice cold in winter and boiling hot in summer, and full of stale cooking
smells in all seasons. And the clothes I had to wear to Queen's! But I
got my license and I got the second room in Summerside High . . . the
only bit of luck I've ever had. Ever since then I've been pinching and
scrimping to pay Uncle Henry . . . not only what he spent putting me
through Queen's, but what my board through all the years I lived there
cost him. I was determined I would not owe him one cent. That is why
I've boarded with Mrs. Dennis and dressed shabbily. And I've just
finished paying him. For the first time in my life I feel _free_. But
meanwhile I've developed the wrong way. I know I'm unsocial . . . I know
I can never think of the right thing to say. I know it's my own fault
that I'm always neglected and overlooked at social functions. I know
I've made being disagreeable into a fine art. I know I'm sarcastic. I
know I'm regarded as a tyrant by my pupils. I know they hate me. Do you
think it doesn't hurt me to know it? They always look afraid of me . . .
I hate people who look as if they were afraid of me. Oh, Anne . . .
hate's got to be a disease with me. I do want to be like other people
. . . and I never can now. _That_ is what makes me so bitter."

"Oh, but you can!" Anne put her arm about Katherine. "You can put hate
out of your mind . . . cure yourself of it. Life is only beginning for
you now . . . since at last you're quite free and independent. And you
never know what may be around the next bend in the road."

"I've heard you say that before . . . I've laughed at your 'bend in the
road.' But the trouble is there aren't any bends in my road. I can see
it stretching straight out before me to the skyline . . . endless
monotony. Oh, does life ever _frighten_ you, Anne, with its _blankness_
. . . its swarms of cold, uninteresting people? No, of course it
doesn't. _You_ don't have to go on teaching all the rest of your life.
And you seem to find _everybody_ interesting, even that little round red
being you call Rebecca Dew. The truth is, I hate teaching . . . and
there's nothing else I can do. A schoolteacher is simply a slave of
time. Oh, I know you like it . . . I don't see how you can. Anne, I want
to travel. It's the one thing I've always longed for. I remember the one
and only picture that hung on the wall of my attic room at Uncle Henry's
. . . a faded old print that had been discarded from the other rooms
with scorn. It was a picture of palms around a spring in the desert,
with a string of camels marching away in the distance. It literally
fascinated me. I've always wanted to go and find it . . . I want to see
the Southern Cross and the Taj Mahal and the pillars of Karnak. I want
to _know_ . . . not just _believe_ . . . that the world is round. And I
can never do it on a teacher's salary. I'll just have to go on forever,
prating of King Henry the Eighth's wives and the inexhaustible resources
of the Dominion."

Anne laughed. It was safe to laugh now, for the bitterness had gone out
of Katherine's voice. It sounded merely rueful and impatient.

"Anyhow, we're going to be friends . . . and we're going to have a jolly
ten days here to begin our friendship. I've always wanted to be friends
with you, Katherine . . . spelled with a K! I've always felt that
underneath all your prickles was something that would make you worth
while as a friend."

"So that is what you've really thought of me? I've often wondered. Well,
the leopard will have a go at changing its spots if it's at all
possible. Perhaps it is. I can believe almost anything at this Green
Gables of yours. It's the first place I've ever been in that felt like a
_home_. I should like to be more like other people . . . if it isn't too
late. I'll even practice a sunny smile for that Gilbert of yours when he
arrives tomorrow night. Of course I've forgotten how to talk to young
men . . . if I ever knew. He'll just think me an old-maid gooseberry. I
wonder if, when I go to bed tonight, I'll feel furious with myself for
pulling off my mask and letting you see into my shivering soul like
this."

"No, you won't. You'll think, 'I'm glad she's found out I'm human.'
We're going to snuggle down among the warm fluffy blankets, probably
with two hot-water bottles, for likely Marilla and Mrs. Lynde will each
put one in for us for fear the other has forgotten it. And you'll feel
deliciously sleepy after this walk in the frosty moonshine . . . and
first thing you'll know, it will be morning and you'll feel as if you
were the first person to discover that the sky is blue. And you'll grow
learned in lore of plum puddings because you're going to help me make
one for Tuesday . . . a great big plummy one."

Anne was amazed at Katherine's good looks when they went in. Her
complexion was radiant after her long walk in the keen air and color
made all the difference in the world to her.

"Why, Katherine would be handsome if she wore the right kind of hats and
dresses," reflected Anne, trying to imagine Katherine with a certain
dark, richly red velvet hat she had seen in a Summerside shop, on her
black hair and pulled over her amber eyes. "I've simply got to see what
can be done about it."


                                    6


Saturday and Monday were full of gay doings at Green Gables. The plum
pudding was concocted and the Christmas tree brought home. Katherine
and Anne and Davy and Dora went to the woods for it . . . a beautiful
little fir to whose cutting down Anne was only reconciled by the fact
that it was in a little clearing of Mr. Harrison's which was going to be
stumped and plowed in the spring anyhow.

They wandered about, gathering creeping spruce and ground pine for
wreaths . . . even some ferns that kept green in a certain deep hollow
of the woods all winter . . . until day smiled back at night over
white-bosomed hills and they came back to Green Gables in triumph . . .
to meet a tall young man with hazel eyes and the beginnings of a
mustache which made him look so much older and maturer that Anne had one
awful moment of wondering if it were really Gilbert or a stranger.

Katherine, with a little smile that tried to be sarcastic but couldn't
quite succeed, left them in the parlor and played games with the twins
in the kitchen all the evening. To her amazement she found she was
enjoying it. And what fun it was to go down cellar with Davy and find
that there were really such things as sweet apples still left in the
world.

Katherine had never been in a country cellar before and had no idea what
a delightful, spooky, shadowy place it could be by candlelight. Life
already seemed warmer. For the first time it came home to Katherine that
life might be beautiful, even for her.

Davy made enough noise to wake the Seven Sleepers, at an unearthly hour
Christmas morning, ringing an old cowbell up and down the stairs.
Marilla was horrified at his doing such a thing when there was a guest
in the house, but Katherine came down laughing. Somehow, an odd
camaraderie had sprung up between her and Davy. She told Anne candidly
that she had no use for the impeccable Dora but that Davy was somehow
tarred with her own brush.

They opened the parlor and distributed the gifts before breakfast
because the twins, even Dora, couldn't have eaten anything if they
hadn't. Katherine, who had not expected anything except, perhaps, a duty
gift from Anne, found herself getting presents from everyone. A gay,
crocheted afghan from Mrs. Lynde . . . a sachet of orris root from Dora
. . . a paper-knife from Davy . . . a basketful of tiny jars of jam and
jelly from Marilla . . . even a little bronze chessy cat for a
paperweight from Gilbert.

And, tied under the tree, curled up on a bit of warm and woolly blanket,
a dear little brown-eyed puppy, with alert, silken ears and an
ingratiating tail. A card tied to his neck bore the legend, "From Anne,
who dares, after all, to wish you a Merry Christmas."

Katherine gathered his wriggling little body up in her arms and spoke
shakily.

"Anne . . . he's a darling! But Mrs. Dennis won't let me keep him. I
asked her if I might get a dog and she refused."

"I've arranged it all with Mrs. Dennis. You'll find she won't object.
And, anyway, Katherine, you're not going to be there long. You _must_
find a decent place to live, now that you've paid off what you thought
were your obligations. Look at the lovely box of stationery Diana sent
me. Isn't it fascinating to look at the blank pages and wonder what will
be written on them?"

Mrs. Lynde was thankful it was a white Christmas . . . there would be no
fat graveyards when Christmas was white . . . but to Katherine it seemed
a purple and crimson and golden Christmas. And the week that followed
was just as beautiful. Katherine had often wondered bitterly just what
it would be like to be happy and now she found out. She bloomed out in
the most astonishing way. Anne found herself enjoying their
companionship.

"To think I was afraid she would spoil my Christmas holiday!" she
reflected in amazement.

"To think," said Katherine to herself, "that I was on the verge of
refusing to come here when Anne invited me!"

They went for long walks . . . through Lover's Lane and the Haunted
Wood, where the very silence seemed friendly . . . over hills where the
light snow whirled in a winter dance of goblins . . . through old
orchards full of violet shadows . . . through the glory of sunset woods.
There were no birds to chirp or sing, no brooks to gurgle, no squirrels
to gossip. But the wind made occasional music that had in quality what
it lacked in quantity.

"One can always find something lovely to look at or listen to," said
Anne.

They talked of "cabbages and kings," and hitched their wagons to stars,
and came home with appetites that taxed even the Green Gables pantry.
One day it stormed and they couldn't go out. The east wind was beating
around the eaves and the gray gulf was roaring. But even a storm at
Green Gables had charms of its own. It was cozy to sit by the stove and
dreamily watch the firelight flickering over the ceiling while you
munched apples and candy. How jolly supper was with the storm wailing
outside!

One night Gilbert took them to see Diana and her new baby daughter.

"I never held a baby in my life before," said Katherine as they drove
home. "For one thing, I didn't want to, and for another I'd have been
afraid of it going to pieces in my grasp. You can't imagine how I felt
. . . so big and clumsy with that tiny, exquisite thing in my arms. I
know Mrs. Wright thought I was going to drop it every minute. I could
see her striving heroically to conceal her terror. But it did something
to me . . . the baby I mean . . . I haven't decided just what."

"Babies are such fascinating creatures," said Anne dreamily. "They are
what I heard somebody at Redmond call, 'terrific bundles of
potentialities.' Think of it, Katherine . . . Homer must have been a
baby once . . . a baby with dimples and great eyes full of light . . .
he couldn't have been blind then, of course."

"What a pity his mother didn't know he was to be Homer," said Katherine.

"But I think I'm glad Judas' mother didn't know he was to be Judas,"
said Anne softly. "I hope she never did know."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a concert in the hall one night, with a party at Abner
Sloane's after it, and Anne persuaded Katherine to go to both.

"I want you to give us a reading for our program, Katherine. I've heard
you read beautifully."

"I used to recite . . . I think I rather liked doing it. But the summer
before last I recited at a shore concert which a party of summer
resorters got up . . . and I heard them laughing at me afterwards."

"How do you know they were laughing at you?"

"They must have been. There wasn't anything else to laugh at."

Anne hid a smile and persisted in asking for the reading.

"Give _Genevra_ for an encore. I'm told you do that splendidly. Mrs.
Stephen Pringle told me she never slept a wink the night after she heard
you give it."

"No; I've never liked _Genevra_. It's in the reading, so I try
occasionally to show the class how to read it. I really have no patience
with Genevra. Why didn't she scream when she found herself locked in?
When they were hunting everywhere for her, surely somebody would have
heard her."

Katherine finally promised the reading but was dubious about the party.
"I'll go, of course. But nobody will ask me to dance and I'll feel
sarcastic and prejudiced and ashamed. I'm always miserable at parties
. . . the few I've ever gone to. Nobody seems to think I can dance . . .
and you know I can fairly well, Anne. I picked it up at Uncle Henry's,
because a poor bit of a maid they had, wanted to learn, too, and she and
I used to dance together in the kitchen at night to the music that went
on in the parlor. I think I'd like it . . . with the right kind of
partner."

"You won't be miserable at this party, Katherine. You won't be outside
looking in. There's all the difference in the world, you know, between
being inside looking out and outside looking in. You have such lovely
hair, Katherine. Do you mind if I try a new way of doing it?"

Katherine shrugged.

"Oh, go ahead. I suppose my hair does look dreadful . . . but I've no
time to be always primping. I haven't a party dress. Will my green
taffeta do?"

"It will have to do . . . though green is the one color above all others
that you should never wear, my Katherine. But you're going to wear a
red, pin-tucked chiffon collar I've made for you. Yes, you are. You
ought to have a red dress, Katherine."

"I've always hated red. When I went to live with Uncle Henry, Aunt
Gertrude always made me wear aprons of bright turkey-red. The other
children in school used to call out 'Fire,' when I came in with one of
those aprons on. Anyway, I can't be bothered with clothes."

"Heaven grant me patience! Clothes are _very_ important," said Anne
severely, as she braided and coiled. Then she looked at her work and saw
that it was good. She put her arm about Katherine's shoulders and turned
her to the mirror.

"Don't you truly think we are a pair of quite good-looking girls?" she
laughed. "And isn't it really nice to think people will find some
pleasure in looking at us? There are so many homely people who would
actually look quite attractive if they took a little pains with
themselves. Three Sundays ago in church . . . you remember the day poor
old Mr. Milvain preached and had such a terrible cold in his head that
nobody could make out what he was saying? . . . well, I passed the time
making the people around me beautiful. I gave Mrs. Brent a new nose, I
waved Mary Addison's hair and gave Jane Marden's a lemon rinse . . . I
dressed Emma Dill in blue instead of brown . . . I dressed Charlotte
Blair in stripes instead of checks . . . I removed several moles . . .
and I shaved off Thomas Anderson's long, sandy Piccadilly weepers. You
couldn't have known them when I got through with them. And, except
perhaps for Mrs. Brent's nose, they could have done everything I did,
themselves. Why, Katherine, your eyes are just the color of tea . . .
amber tea. Now, live up to your name this evening . . . a brook should
be sparkling . . . limpid . . . merry."

"Everything I'm not."

"Everything you've been this past week. So you _can_ be it."

"That's only the magic of Green Gables. When I go back to Summerside,
twelve o'clock will have struck for Cinderella."

"You'll take the magic back with you. Look at yourself . . . looking for
once as you ought to look all the time."

Katherine gazed at her reflection in the mirror as if rather doubting
her identity.

"I do look years younger," she admitted. "You were right . . . clothes
_do_ do things to you. Oh, I know I've been looking older than my age. I
didn't care. Why should I? Nobody else cared. And I'm not like you,
Anne. Apparently you were born knowing how to live. And I don't know
anything about it . . . not even the A B C. I wonder if it's too late to
learn. I've been sarcastic so long, I don't know if I can be anything
else. Sarcasm seemed to me to be the only way I could make any
impression on people. And it seems to me, too, that I've always been
afraid when I was in the company of other people . . . afraid of saying
something stupid . . . afraid of being laughed at."

"Katherine Brooke, look at yourself in that mirror; carry that picture
of yourself with you . . . magnificent hair framing your face instead of
trying to pull it backward . . . eyes sparkling like dark stars . . . a
little flush of excitement on your cheeks . . . and you won't feel
afraid. Come, now. We're going to be late, but fortunately all the
performers have what I heard Dora referring to as 'preserved' seats."

Gilbert drove them to the hall. How like old times it was . . . only
Katherine was with her in place of Diana. Anne sighed. Diana had so many
other interests now. No more running round to concerts and parties for
her.

But what an evening it was! What silvery satin roads with a pale green
sky in the west after a light snowfall! Orion was treading his stately
march across the heavens, and hills and fields and woods lay around them
in a pearly silence.

Katherine's reading captured her audience from the first line, and at
the party she could not find dances for all her would-be partners. She
suddenly found herself laughing without bitterness. Then home to Green
Gables, warming their toes at the sitting-room fire by the light of two
friendly candles on the mantel; and Mrs. Lynde tiptoeing into their
room, late as it was, to ask them if they'd like another blanket and
assure Katherine that her little dog was snug and warm in a basket
behind the stove.

"I've got a new outlook on life," thought Katherine as she drifted off
to slumber. "I didn't know there were people like this."

"Come again," said Marilla when she left.

Marilla never said that to anyone unless she meant it.

"Of course she's coming again," said Anne. "For week ends . . . and for
_weeks_ in the summer. We'll build bonfires and hoe in the garden . . .
and pick apples and go for the cows . . . and row on the pond and get
lost in the woods. I want to show you Little Hester Gray's garden,
Katherine, and Echo Lodge and Violet Vale when it's full of violets."


                                    7


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                         "January 5th,
                               "The street where ghosts (should) walk.

    "MY ESTEEMED FRIEND:

    "That isn't anything Aunt Chatty's grandmother wrote. It's only
    something she would have written if she'd thought of it.

    "I've made a New Year resolution to write sensible love letters. Do
    you suppose such a thing is possible?

    "I have left dear Green Gables but I have returned to dear Windy
    Poplars. Rebecca Dew had a fire lighted in the tower room for me and
    a hot-water bottle in the bed.

    "I'm so glad I like Windy Poplars. It would be dreadful to live in a
    place I didn't like . . . that didn't seem friendly to me . . . that
    didn't say, 'I'm glad you're back.' Windy Poplars does. It's a bit
    old-fashioned and a bit prim, but it likes me.

    "And I was glad to see Aunt Kate and Aunt Chatty and Rebecca Dew
    again. I can't help seeing their funny sides but I love them well
    for all that.

    "Rebecca Dew said such a nice thing to me yesterday.

    "'Spook's Lane has been a different place since you came here, Miss
    Shirley.'

    "I'm glad you liked Katherine, Gilbert. She was surprisingly nice to
    you. It's amazing to find how nice she can be when she tries. And I
    think she is just as much amazed at it herself as anyone else. She
    had no idea it would be so easy.

    "It's going to make so much difference in school, having a Vice you
    can really work with. She is going to change her boarding house, and
    I have already persuaded her to get that velvet hat and have not yet
    given up hope of persuading her to sing in the choir.

    "Mr. Hamilton's dog came down yesterday and chivied Dusty Miller.
    'This _is_ the last straw,' said Rebecca Dew. And with her red
    cheeks redder still, her chubby back shaking with anger, and in such
    a hurry that she put her hat on hindside before and never knew it,
    she toddled up the road and gave Mr. Hamilton quite a large piece of
    her mind. I can just see his foolish, amiable face while he was
    listening to her.

    "'I do not like That Cat,' she told me, 'but he is OURS and no
    Hamilton dog is going to come here and give him impudence in his own
    back yard. "He only chased your cat in fun," said Jabez Hamilton.
    "The Hamilton ideas of fun are different from the MacComber ideas of
    fun or the MacLean ideas of fun or, if it comes to that, the Dew
    ideas of fun," I told him. "Tut, tut, you must have had cabbage for
    dinner, Miss Dew," said he. "No," I said, "but I _could_ have had.
    Mrs. Captain MacComber didn't sell all her cabbages last fall and
    leave her family without any because the price was so good. There
    are some people," sez I, "that can't hear anything because of the
    jingle in their pocket." And I left that to sink in. But what could
    you expect from a Hamilton? Low scum!'

    "There is a crimson star hanging low over the white Storm King. I
    wish you were here to watch it with me. If you were, I really think
    it would be more than a moment of esteem and friendship."


                                                        "January 12th.

    "Little Elizabeth came over two nights ago to find out if I could
    tell her what peculiar kind of terrible animals Papal bulls were,
    and to tell me tearfully that her teacher had asked her to sing at a
    concert the public school is getting up but that Mrs. Campbell put
    her foot down and said 'no' most decidedly. When Elizabeth attempted
    to plead, Mrs. Campbell said,

    "'Have the goodness not to talk back to me, Elizabeth, if you
    please.'

    "Little Elizabeth wept a few bitter tears in the tower room that
    night and said she felt it would make her Lizzie forever. She could
    never be any of her other names again.

    "'Last week I loved God, this week I don't,' she said defiantly.

    "All her class were taking part in the program and she felt 'like a
    leopard.' I think the sweet thing meant she felt like a leper and
    that was sufficiently dreadful. Darling Elizabeth must not feel like
    a leper.

    "So I manufactured an errand to The Evergreens next evening. The
    Woman . . . who might really have lived before the flood, she looks
    so ancient . . . gazed at me coldly out of great gray,
    expressionless eyes, showed me grimly into the drawing room and went
    to tell Mrs. Campbell that I had asked for her.

    "I don't think there has been any sunshine in that drawing room
    since the house was built. There was a piano, but I'm sure it could
    never have been played on. Stiff chairs, covered with silk brocade,
    stood against the wall . . . _all_ the furniture stood against the
    wall except a central marble-topped table, and none of it seemed to
    be acquainted with the rest.

    "Mrs. Campbell came in. I had never seen her before. She has a fine,
    sculptured old face that might have been a man's, with black eyes
    and black bushy brows under frosty hair. She has not quite eschewed
    _all_ vain adornment of the body, for she wore large black onyx
    earrings that reached to her shoulders. She was painfully polite to
    me and I was painlessly polite to her. We sat and exchanged
    civilities about the weather for a few moments . . . both, as
    Tacitus remarked a few thousand years ago, 'with countenances
    adjusted to the occasion.' I told her, truthfully, that I had come
    to see if she would lend me the Rev. James Wallace Campbell's
    _Memoirs_ for a short time, because I understood there was a good
    deal about the early history of Prince County in them which I wished
    to make use of in school.

    "Mrs. Campbell thawed quite markedly and summoning Elizabeth, told
    her to go up to her room and bring down the _Memoirs_. Elizabeth's
    face showed signs of tears and Mrs. Campbell condescended to explain
    that it was because little Elizabeth's teacher had sent another note
    begging that she be allowed to sing at the concert, and that she,
    Mrs. Campbell, had written a very stinging reply which little
    Elizabeth would have to carry to her teacher the next morning.

    "'I do not approve of children of Elizabeth's age singing in public,'
    said Mrs. Campbell. 'It tends to make them bold and forward.'

    "As if anything could make little Elizabeth bold and forward!

    "'I think perhaps you are wise, Mrs. Campbell,' I remarked in my
    most patronizing tone. 'In any event Mabel Phillips is going to
    sing, and I am told that her voice is really so wonderful that she
    will make all the others seem as nothing. No doubt it is _much_
    better that Elizabeth should not appear in competition with her.'

    "Mrs. Campbell's face was a study. She may be Campbell outside but
    she is Pringle at the core. She said nothing, however, and I knew
    the psychological moment for stopping. I thanked her for the
    _Memoirs_ and came away.

    "The next evening when little Elizabeth came to the garden gate for
    her milk, her pale, flower-like face was literally a-star. She told
    me that Mrs. Campbell had told her she might sing after all, if she
    were careful not to let herself get puffed up about it.

    "You see, Rebecca Dew had told me that the Phillips and the Campbell
    clans have always been rivals in the matter of good voices!

    "I gave Elizabeth a bit of a picture for Christmas to hang above her
    bed . . . just a light-dappled woodland path leading up a hill to a
    quaint little house among some trees. Little Elizabeth says she is
    not so frightened now to go to sleep in the dark, because as soon as
    she gets into bed she pretends that she is walking up the path to
    the house and that she goes inside and it is all lighted and her
    father is there.

    "Poor darling! I can't help detesting that father of hers!"


                                                        "January 19th.

    "There was a dance at Carry Pringle's last night. Katherine was
    there in a dark red silk with the new side flounces and her hair had
    been done by a hairdresser. Would you believe it, people who had
    known her ever since she came to teach in Summerside actually asked
    one another who she was when she came into the room. But I think it
    was less the dress and hair that made the difference than some
    indefinable change in herself.

    "Always before, when she was out with people, her attitude seemed to
    be, 'These people bore me. I expect I bore them and I hope I do.'
    But last night it was as if she had set lighted candles in all the
    windows of her house of life.

    "I've had a hard time winning Katherine's friendship. But nothing
    worth while is ever easy come by and I have always felt that her
    friendship would be worth while.

    "Aunt Chatty has been in bed for two days with a feverish cold and
    thinks she may have the doctor tomorrow, in case she is taking
    penumonia. So Rebecca Dew, her head tied up in a towel, has been
    cleaning the house madly all day to get it in perfect order before
    the doctor's possible visit. Now she is in the kitchen ironing Aunt
    Chatty's white cotton nighty with the crochet yoke, so that it will
    be ready for her to slip over her flannel one. It was spotlessly
    clean before, but Rebecca Dew thought it was not quite a good color
    from lying in the bureau drawer."


                                                        "January 28th.

    "January so far has been a month of cold gray days, with an
    occasional storm whirling across the harbor and filling Spook's Lane
    with drifts. But last night we had a silver thaw and today the sun
    shone. My maple grove was a place of unimaginable splendors. Even
    the commonplaces had been made lovely. Every bit of wire fencing was
    a wonder of crystal lace.

    "Rebecca Dew has been poring this evening over one of my magazines
    containing an article on 'Types of Fair Women,' illustrated by
    photographs.

    "'Wouldn't it be lovely, Miss Shirley, if someone could just wave a
    wand and make everybody beautiful?' she said wistfully. 'Just fancy
    my feelings, Miss Shirley, if I suddenly found myself beautiful! But
    then' . . . with a sigh . . . 'if we were all beauties who would do
    the work?'"


                                    8


"I'm so tired," sighed Cousin Ernestine Bugle, dropping into her chair
at the Windy Poplars supper table. "I'm afraid sometimes to sit down for
fear I'll never be able to git up again."

Cousin Ernestine, a cousin three times removed of the late Captain
MacComber, but still, as Aunt Kate used to reflect, much too close, had
walked in from Lowvale that afternoon for a visit to Windy Poplars. It
cannot be said that either of the widows had welcomed her very heartily,
in spite of the sacred ties of family. Cousin Ernestine was not an
exhilarating person, being one of those unfortunates who are constantly
worrying not only about their own affairs but everybody else's as well
and will not give themselves or others any rest at all. The very look of
her, Rebecca Dew declared, made you feel that life was a vale of tears.

Certainly Cousin Ernestine was not beautiful and it was extremely
doubtful if she ever had been. She had a dry, pinched little face,
faded, pale blue eyes, several badly placed moles, and a whining voice.
She wore a rusty black dress and a decrepit neckpiece of Hudson seal
which she would not remove even at the table, because she was afraid of
drafts.

Rebecca Dew might have sat at the table with them had she wished, for
the widows did not regard Cousin Ernestine as any particular "company."
But Rebecca always declared she couldn't "savor her victuals" in that
old killjoy's society. She preferred to "eat her morsel" in the kitchen,
but that did not prevent her from saying her say as she waited on the
table.

"Likely it's the spring getting into your bones," she remarked
unsympathetically.

"Ah, I hope it's only that, Miss Dew. But I'm afraid I'm like poor Mrs.
Oliver Gage. She et mushrooms last summer but there must-a been a
toadstool among them, for she's never felt the same since."

"But you can't have been eating mushrooms as early as this," said Aunt
Chatty.

"No, but I'm afraid I've et something else. Don't try to cheer me up,
Charlotte. You mean well, but it ain't no use. I've been through too
much. Are you sure there ain't a spider in that cream jug, Kate? I'm
afraid I saw one when you poured my cup."

"We never have spiders in _our_ cream jugs," said Rebecca Dew ominously,
and slammed the kitchen door.

"Mebbe it was only a shadder," said Cousin Ernestine meekly. "My eyes
ain't what they were. I'm afraid I'll soon be blind. That reminds me
. . . I dropped in to see Martha MacKay this afternoon and she was
feeling feverish and all out in some kind of a rash. 'Looks to me as
though you had the measles,' I told her. 'Likely they'll leave you
almost blind. Your family all have weak eyes.' I thought she ought to be
prepared. Her mother isn't well either. The doctor says it's indigestion,
but I'm afraid it's a growth. 'And if you have to have an operation and
take chloroform,' I told her, 'I'm afraid you'll never come out of it.
Remember you're a Hillis and the Hillises all had weak hearts. Your
father died of heart failure, you know.'"

"At eighty-seven!" said Rebecca Dew, whisking away a plate.

"And you know three score and ten is the Bible limit," said Aunt Chatty
cheerfully.

Cousin Ernestine helped herself to a third teaspoonful of sugar and
stirred her tea sadly.

"So King David said, Charlotte, but I'm afraid David wasn't a very nice
man in some respects."

Anne caught Aunt Chatty's eye and laughed before she could help herself.

Cousin Ernestine looked at her disapprovingly.

"I've heerd you was a great girl to laugh. Well, I hope it'll last, but
I'm afraid it won't. I'm afraid you'll find out all too soon that life's
a melancholy business. Ah well, I was young myself once."

"Was you really?" inquired Rebecca Dew sarcastically, bringing in the
muffins. "Seems to me you must always have been afraid to be young. It
takes courage, I can tell you that, Miss Bugle."

"Rebecca Dew has such an odd way of putting things," complained Cousin
Ernestine. "Not that I mind her of course. And it's well to laugh when
you can, Miss Shirley, but I'm afraid you're tempting Providence by
being so happy. You're awful like our last minister's wife's aunt . . .
she was always laughing and she died of a parralattic stroke. The third
one kills you. I'm afraid our new minister out at Lowvale is inclined to
be frivolous. The minute I saw him I sez to Louisy, 'I'm afraid a man
with legs like that must be addicted to dancing.' I s'pose he's give it
up since he turned minister, but I'm afraid the strain will come out in
his family. He's got a young wife and they say she's scandalously in
love with him. I can't seem to git over the thought of anyone marrying a
minister for love. I'm afraid it's awful irreverent. He preaches pretty
fair sermons, but I'm afraid from what he said of Elijah the Tidbit last
Sunday that he's far too liberal in his views of the Bible."

"I see by the papers that Peter Ellis and Fanny Bugle were married last
week," said Aunt Chatty.

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid that'll be a case of marrying in haste and
repenting at leisure. They've only known each other three years. I'm
afraid Peter'll find out that fine feathers don't always make fine
birds. I'm afraid Fanny's very shiftless. She irons her table napkins on
the right side first and only. Not much like her sainted mother. Ah,
_she_ was a thorough woman if ever there was one. When she was in
mourning she always wore black nightgowns. Said she felt as bad in the
night as in the day. I was down at Andy Bugle's, helping them with the
cooking, and when I come downstairs on the wedding morning if there
wasn't Fanny eating an egg for her breakfast . . . and her gitting
married that day. I don't s'pose you'll believe that . . . I wouldn't
if I hadn't a-seen it with my own eyes. My poor dead sister never et a
thing for three days afore she was married. And after her husband died
we was all afraid she was never going to eat again. There are times when
I feel I can't understand the Bugles any longer. There was a time when
you knew where you was with your own connection, but it ain't that way
now."

"Is it true that Jean Young is going to be married again?" asked Aunt
Kate.

"I'm afraid it is. Of course Fred Young is supposed to be dead, but I'm
dreadful afraid he'll turn up yet. You could never trust that man. She's
going to marry Ira Roberts. I'm afraid he's only marrying her to make
her happy. His Uncle Philip once wanted to marry me, but I sez to him,
sez I, 'Bugle I was born and Bugle I will die. Marriage is a leap in the
dark,' sez I, 'and I ain't going to be drug into it.' There's been an
awful lot of weddings in Lowvale this winter. I'm afraid there'll be
funerals all summer to make up for it. Annie Edwards and Chris Hunter
were married last month. I'm afraid they won't be as fond of each other
in a few years' time as they are now. I'm afraid she was just swept off
her feet by his dashing ways. His Uncle Hiram was crazy . . . he belieft
he was a dog for years."

"If he did his own barking nobody need have grudged him the fun of it,"
said Rebecca Dew, bringing in the pear preserves and the layer cake.

"I never heerd that he barked," said Cousin Ernestine. "He just gnawed
bones and buried them when nobody was looking. His wife felt it."

"Where is Mrs. Lily Hunter this winter?" asked Aunt Chatty.

"She's been spending it with her son in San Francisco and I'm awful
afraid there'll be another earthquake afore she gits out of it. If she
does, she'll likely try to smuggle and have trouble at the border. If it
ain't one thing, it's another when you're traveling. But folks seem to
be crazy for it. My cousin Jim Bugle spent the winter in Florida. I'm
afraid he's gitting rich and worldy. I said to him afore he went, sez I
. . . I remember it was the night afore the Colemans' dog died . . . or
was it? . . . yes, it was . . . 'Pride goeth afore destruction and a
haughty spirit afore a fall,' sez I. His daughter is teaching over in
the Bugle Road school and she can't make up her mind which of her beaus
to take. 'There's one thing I can assure you of, Mary Annetta,' sez I,
'and that is you'll never git the one you love best. So you'd better
take the one as loves you . . . if you kin be sure he does.' I hope
she'll make a better choice than Jessie Chipman did. I'm afraid _she's_
just going to marry Oscar Green because he was always round. 'Is _that_
what you've picked out?' I sez to her. His brother died of galloping
consumption. 'And don't be married in May,' sez I, 'for May's awful
unlucky for a wedding.'"

"How encouraging you always are!" said Rebecca Dew, bringing in a plate
of macaroons.

"Can you tell me," said Cousin Ernestine, ignoring Rebecca Dew and
taking a second helping of pears, "if a calceolaria is a flower or a
disease?"

"A flower," said Aunt Chatty.

Cousin Ernestine looked a little disappointed.

"Well, whatever it is, Sandy Bugle's widow's got it. I heerd her telling
her sister in church last Sunday that she had a calceolaria at last.
Your geraniums are dreadful scraggy, Charlotte. I'm afraid you don't
fertilize them properly. Mrs. Sandy's gone out of mourning and poor
Sandy only dead four years. Ah well, the dead are soon forgot nowadays.
My sister wore crape for her husband twenty-five years."

"Did you know your placket was open?" said Rebecca, setting a coconut
pie before Aunt Kate.

"I haven't time to be always staring at my face in the glass," said
Cousin Ernestine acidly. "What if my placket is open? I've got three
petticoats on, haven't I? They tell me the girls nowadays only wear one.
I'm afraid the world is gitting dreadful gay and giddy. I wonder if they
ever think of the judgment day."

"Do you s'pose they'll ask us at the judgment day how many petticoats
we've got on?" asked Rebecca Dew, escaping to the kitchen before anyone
could register horror. Even Aunt Chatty thought Rebecca Dew really had
gone a little too far.

"I s'pose you saw old Alec Crowdy's death last week in the paper,"
sighed Cousin Ernestine. "His wife died two years ago, lit'rally harried
into her grave, poor creetur. They say he's been awful lonely since she
died, but I'm afraid that's too good to be true. And I'm afraid they're
not through with their troubles with him yet, even if he is buried. I
hear he wouldn't make a will and I'm afraid there'll be awful ructions
over the estate. They say Annabel Crowdy is going to marry a
jack-of-all-trades. Her mother's first husband was one, so mebbe it's
heredit'ry. Annabel's had a hard life of it, but I'm afraid she'll find
it's out of the frying pan into the fire, even if it don't turn out he's
got a wife already."

"What is Jane Goldwin doing with herself this winter?" asked Aunt Kate.
"She hasn't been in to town for a long time."

"Ah, poor Jane! She's just pining away mysteriously. They don't know
what's the matter with her, but I'm afraid it'll turn out to be an
alibi. What is Rebecca Dew laughing like a hyenus out in the kitchen
for? I'm afraid you'll have her on your hands yet. There's an awful lot
of weak minds among the Dews."

"I see Thyra Cooper has a baby," said Aunt Chatty.

"Ah, yes, poor little soul. Only one, thank mercy. I was afraid it would
be twins. Twins run so in the Coopers."

"Thyra and Ned are such a nice young couple," said Aunt Kate, as if
determined to salvage something from the wreck of the universe.

But Cousin Ernestine would not admit that there was any balm in Gilead
much less in Lowvale.

"Ah, she was real thankful to git him at last. There was a time she was
afraid he wouldn't come back from the West. I warned her. 'You may be
sure he'll disappoint you,' I told her. 'He's always disappointed
people. Everyone expected him to die afore he was a year old, but you
see he's alive yet.' When he bought the Holly place I warned her again.
'I'm afraid that well is full of typhoid,' I told her. 'The Holly hired
man died of typhoid there five years ago.' They can't blame _me_ if
anything happens. Joseph Holly has some misery in his back. He calls it
lumbago, but I'm afraid it's the beginning of spinal menginitis."

"Old Uncle Joseph Holly is one of the best men in the world," said
Rebecca Dew, bringing in a replenished teapot.

"Ah, he's good," said Cousin Ernestine lugubriously. "Too good! I'm
afraid his sons will all go to the bad. You see it like that so often.
Seems as if an average has to be struck. No, thank you, Kate, I won't
have any more tea . . . well, mebbe a macaroon. They don't lie heavy on
the stomach, but I'm afraid I've et far too much. I must be taking
French leave, for I'm afraid it'll be dark afore I git home. I don't
want to git my feet wet; I'm so afraid of ammonia. I've had something
traveling from my arm to my lower limbs all winter. Night after night
I've laid awake with it. Ah, nobody knows what I've gone through, but I
ain't one of the complaining sort. I was determined I'd git up to see
you once more, for I may not be here another spring. But you've both
failed terrible, so you may go afore me yet. Ah well, it's best to go
while there's someone of your own left to lay you out. Dear me, how the
wind is gitting up! I'm afraid our barn roof will blow off if it comes
to a gale. We've had so much wind this spring I'm afraid the climate is
changing. Thank you, Miss Shirley . . ." as Anne helped her into her
coat . . . "Be careful of yourself. You look awful washed out. I'm
afraid people with red hair never have real strong constitutions."

"I think my constitution is all right," smiled Anne, handing Cousin
Ernestine an indescribable bit of millinery with a stringy ostrich
feather dripping from its back. "I have a touch of sore throat tonight,
Miss Bugle, that's all."

"Ah!" Another of Cousin Ernestine's dark forebodings came to her. "You
want to watch a sore throat. The symptoms of diptheria and tonsillitis
are exactly the same till the third day. But there's one consolation
. . . you'll be spared an awful lot of trouble if you die young."


                                    9


                                                          "Tower Room,
                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                          "April 20th.

    "POOR DEAR GILBERT:

    "'I said of laughter, it is mad, and of mirth, what doeth it?' I'm
    afraid I'll turn gray young . . . I'm afraid I'll end up in the
    poorhouse . . . I'm afraid none of my pupils will pass their finals
    . . . Mr. Hamilton's dog barked at me Saturday night and I'm afraid
    I'll have hydrophobia . . . I'm afraid my umbrella will turn inside
    out when I keep a tryst with Katherine tonight . . . I'm afraid
    Katherine likes me so much now that she can't always like me as much
    . . . I'm afraid my hair isn't auburn after all . . . I'm afraid
    I'll have a mole on the end of my nose when I'm fifty . . . I'm
    afraid my school is a firetrap . . . I'm afraid I'll find a mouse in
    my bed tonight . . . I'm afraid you got engaged to me just because I
    was always around . . . I'm afraid I'll soon be picking at the
    counterpane.

    "No, dearest, I'm not crazy . . . not yet. It's only that Cousin
    Ernestine Bugle is catching.

    "I know now why Rebecca Dew has always called her 'Miss
    Much-afraid.' The poor soul has borrowed so much trouble, she must
    be hopelessly in debt to fate.

    "There are so many Bugles in the world . . . not many quite so far
    gone in Buglism as Cousin Ernestine, perhaps, but so many killjoys,
    afraid to enjoy today because of what tomorrow will bring.

    "Gilbert darling, don't let's ever be afraid of things. It's such
    dreadful slavery. Let's be daring and adventurous and expectant.
    Let's dance to meet life and all it can bring to us, even if it
    brings scads of trouble and typhoid and twins!

    "Today has been a day dropped out of June into April. The snow is
    all gone and the fawn meadows and golden hills just sing of spring.
    I know I heard Pan piping in the little green hollow in my maple
    bush and my Storm King was bannered with the airiest of purple
    hazes. We've had a great deal of rain lately and I've loved sitting
    in my tower in the still, wet hours of the spring twilights. But
    tonight is a gusty, hurrying night . . . even the clouds racing over
    the sky are in a hurry and the moonlight that gushes out between
    them is in a hurry to flood the world.

    "Suppose, Gilbert, we were walking hand in hand down one of the long
    roads in Avonlea tonight!

    "Gilbert, I'm afraid I'm scandalously in love with you. You don't
    think it's irreverent, do you? But then, you're not a minister."


                                   10


"I'm _so_ different," sighed Hazel.

It was really dreadful to be so different from other people . . . and
yet rather wonderful, too, as if you were a being strayed from another
star. Hazel would not have been one of the common herd for _anything_
. . . no matter what she suffered by reason of her differentness.

"Everybody is different," said Anne amusedly.

"You are smiling." Hazel clasped a pair of very white, very dimpled
hands and gazed adoringly at Anne. She emphasized at least one syllable
in every word she uttered. "You have such a fascinating smile . . . such
a _haunting_ smile. I knew the moment I first saw you that you would
understand _everything_. We are on the _same plane_. Sometimes I think I
must be _psychic_, Miss Shirley. I always know so _instinctively_ the
moment I meet anyone whether I'm going to like them or not. I felt at
once that you were sympathetic . . . that you would _understand_. It's
so sweet to be understood. Nobody understands me, Miss Shirley . . .
_nobody_. But when I saw you, some inner voice whispered to me, '_She_
will understand . . . with her you can be your _real self_.' Oh, Miss
Shirley, let's be _real_ . . . let's _always_ be real. Oh, Miss Shirley,
do you love me the leastest, tiniest bit?"

"I think you're a dear," said Anne, laughing a little and ruffling
Hazel's golden curls with her slender fingers. It was quite easy to be
fond of Hazel.

Hazel had been pouring out her soul to Anne in the tower room, from
which they could see a young moon hanging over the harbor and the
twilight of a late May evening filling the crimson cups of the tulips
below the windows.

"Don't let's have any light yet," Hazel had begged, and Anne had
responded,

"No . . . it's lovely here when the dark is your friend, isn't it? When
you turn on the light, it makes the dark your enemy . . . and it glowers
in at you resentfully."

"I can _think_ things like that but I can never express them so
beautifully," moaned Hazel in an anguish of rapture. "You talk in the
language of the violets, Miss Shirley."

Hazel couldn't have explained in the least what she meant by that, but
it didn't matter. It sounded _so_ poetic.

The tower room was the only peaceful room in the house. Rebecca Dew had
said that morning, with a hunted look, "We _must_ get the parlor and
spare room papered before the Ladies' Aid meets here," and had forthwith
removed all the furniture from both to make way for a paper hanger who
then refused to come until the next day. Windy Poplars was a wilderness
of confusion, with one sole oasis in the tower room.

Hazel Marr had a notorious "crush" on Anne. The Marrs were newcomers in
Summerside, having moved there from Charlottetown during the winter.
Hazel was an "October blonde," as she liked to describe herself, with
hair of golden bronze and brown eyes, and, so Rebecca Dew declared, had
never been much good in the world since she found out she was pretty.
But Hazel was popular, especially among the boys, who found her eyes and
curls a quite irresistible combination.

Anne liked her. Earlier in the evening she had been tired and a trifle
pessimistic, with the fag that comes with late afternoon in a
schoolroom, but she felt rested now; whether as a result of the May
breeze, sweet with apple blossom, blowing in at the window, or of
Hazel's chatter, she could not have told. Perhaps both. Somehow, to
Anne, Hazel recalled her own early youth, with all its raptures and
ideals and romantic visions.

Hazel caught Anne's hand and pressed her lips to it reverently.

"I _hate_ all the people you have loved before me, Miss Shirley. I hate
all the other people you love _now_. I want to possess you
_exclusively_."

"Aren't you a bit unreasonable, honey? _You_ love other people besides
me. How about Terry, for example?"

"Oh, Miss Shirley! It's that I want to talk to you about. I can't endure
it in silence any longer . . . I _cannot_. I _must_ talk to someone
about it . . . someone who _understands_. I went out the night before
last and walked round and round the pond all night . . . well, nearly
. . . till twelve, anyhow. I've suffered everything . . . _everything_."

Hazel looked as tragic as a round, pink-and-white face, long-lashed
eyes, and a halo of curls would let her.

"Why, Hazel dear, I thought you and Terry were so happy . . . that
everything was settled."

Anne could not be blamed for thinking so. During the preceding three
weeks, Hazel had raved to her about Terry Garland, for Hazel's attitude
was, what was the use of having a beau if you couldn't talk to someone
about him?

"_Everybody_ thinks that," retorted Hazel with great bitterness. "Oh,
Miss Shirley, life seems so full of perplexing problems. I feel
sometimes as if I wanted to lie down somewhere . . . _anywhere_ . . .
and fold my hands and never _think_ again."

"My dear girl, what has gone wrong?"

"Nothing . . . and _everything_. Oh, Miss Shirley, _can_ I tell you all
about it . . . _can_ I pour out my whole soul to you?"

"Of course, dear."

"I have really no place to pour out my soul," said Hazel pathetically.
"Except in my journal, of course. Will you let me show you my journal
some day, Miss Shirley? It is a self-revelation. And yet I cannot write
out what burns in my soul. It . . . it _stifles_ me!"

Hazel clutched dramatically at her throat.

"Of course I'd like to see it if you want me to. But what is this
trouble between you and Terry?"

"Oh, Terry!! Miss Shirley, will you believe me when I tell you that
Terry seems like a _stranger_ to me? A stranger! Someone I'd never seen
before," added Hazel, so that there might be no mistake.

"But, Hazel . . . I thought you loved him . . . you said . . ."

"Oh, I know. I _thought_ I loved him, too. But now I know it was all a
terrible mistake. Oh, Miss Shirley, you can't dream how _difficult_ my
life is . . . how _impossible_."

"I know something about it," said Anne sympathetically, remembering Roy
Gardiner.

"Oh, Miss Shirley, I'm sure I don't love him enough to marry him. I
realize that now . . . now that it is too late. I was just moonlighted
into thinking I loved him. If it hadn't been for the moon I'm sure I
would have asked for time to think it over. But I was swept off my feet
. . . I can see that now. Oh, I'll run away . . . I'll do something
desperate!"

"But, Hazel dear, if you feel you've made a mistake, why not just tell
him . . ."

"Oh, Miss Shirley, I couldn't! It would kill him. He simply adores me.
There isn't any way out of it really. And Terry's beginning to talk of
getting married. Think of it . . . a child like me . . . I'm only
eighteen. All the friends I've told about my engagement as a secret are
congratulating me . . . and it's such a farce. They think Terry is a
great catch because he comes into ten thousand dollars when he is
twenty-five. His grandmother left it to him. As if I cared about such a
sordid thing as _money_! Oh, Miss Shirley, _why_ is it such a mercenary
world . . . _why_?"

"I suppose it is mercenary in some respects, but not in all, Hazel. And
if you feel like this about Terry . . . we all make mistakes . . . it's
very hard to know our own minds sometimes. . . ."

"Oh, isn't it? I _knew_ you'd understand. I _did_ think I cared for him,
Miss Shirley. The first time I saw him I just sat and gazed at him the
whole evening. _Waves_ went over me when I met his eyes. He was _so_
handsome . . . though I thought even then that his hair was _too_ curly
and his eyelashes too white. _That_ should have warned me. But I always
put my soul into everything, you know . . . I'm so intense. I felt
little shivers of ecstasy whenever he came near me. And now I feel
nothing . . . _nothing_! Oh, I've grown old these past few weeks, Miss
Shirley . . . _old_! I've hardly eaten anything since I got engaged.
Mother could tell you. I'm _sure_ I don't love him enough to marry him.
Whatever else I may be in doubt about, I know _that_."

"Then you shouldn't . . ."

"Even that moonlight night he proposed to me, I was thinking of what
dress I'd wear to Joan Pringle's fancy dress party. I thought it would
be lovely to go as Queen of the May in pale green, with a sash of darker
green and a cluster of pale pink roses in my hair. And a Maypole decked
with tiny roses and hung with pink and green ribbons. Wouldn't it have
been fetching? And then Joan's uncle had to go and die and Joan couldn't
have the party after all, so it all went for nothing. But the point is
. . . I really couldn't have loved him when my thoughts were wandering
like that, could I?"

"I don't know . . . our thoughts play us curious tricks sometimes."

"I really don't think I ever want to get married at all, Miss Shirley.
Do you happen to have an orangewood stick handy? Thanks. My half-moons
are getting ragged. I might as well do them while I'm talking. Isn't it
just lovely to be exchanging confidences like this? It's so seldom one
gets the opportunity . . . the world intrudes itself so. Well, what was
I talking of . . . oh, yes, Terry. What am I to do, Miss Shirley? I want
your advice. Oh, I feel like a trapped creature!"

"But, Hazel, it's so very simple . . ."

"Oh, it isn't simple at all, Miss Shirley! It's dreadfully complicated.
Mamma is so outrageously pleased, but Aunt Jean isn't. _She_ doesn't
like Terry, and everybody says she has such good judgment. I don't want
to marry anybody. I'm ambitious . . . I want a career. Sometimes I think
I'd like to be a nun. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be the bride of
heaven? I think the Catholic church is _so_ picturesque, don't you? But
of course I'm not a Catholic . . . and anyway, I suppose you could
hardly call it a career. I've always felt I'd love to be a nurse. It's
such a romantic profession, don't you think? Smoothing fevered brows and
all that . . . and some handsome millionaire patient falling in love
with you and carrying you off to spend a honeymoon in a villa on the
Riviera, facing the morning sun and the blue Mediterranean. I've _seen_
myself in it. Foolish dreams, perhaps, but, oh, so sweet. I _can't_ give
them up for the prosaic reality of marrying Terry Garland and settling
down in _Summerside_!"

Hazel shivered at the very idea and scrutinized a half-moon critically.

"I suppose . . ." began Anne.

"We haven't _anything_ in common, you know, Miss Shirley. He doesn't
care for poetry and romance, and they're my very _life_. Sometimes I
think I must be a reincarnation of Cleopatra . . . or would it be Helen
of Troy? . . . one of those languorous, seductive creatures, anyhow. I
have such _wonderful_ thoughts and feelings . . . I don't know where I
get them if that isn't the explanation. And Terry is so terribly
matter-of-fact . . . he can't be a reincarnation of anybody. What he
said when I told him about Vera Fry's quill pen proves that, doesn't
it?"

"But I never heard of Vera Fry's quill pen," said Anne patiently.

"Oh, haven't you? I thought I'd told you. I've told you so much. Vera's
fianc gave her a quill pen he'd made out of a feather he'd picked up
that had fallen from a crow's wing. He said to her, 'Let your spirit
soar to heaven with it whenever you use it, like the bird who once bore
it.' Wasn't that just _wonderful_? But Terry said the pen would wear out
very soon, especially if Vera wrote as much as she talked, and anyway he
didn't think crows ever soared to heaven. He just missed the meaning of
the whole thing completely . . . its very essence."

"What _was_ its meaning?"

"Oh . . . why . . . why . . . _soaring_, you know . . . getting away
from the clods of earth. Did you notice Vera's ring? A sapphire. I think
sapphires are too dark for engagement rings. I'd rather have your dear,
romantic little hoop of pearls. Terry wanted to give me my ring right
away . . . but I said not yet awhile . . . it would seem like a fetter
. . . so _irrevocable_, you know. I wouldn't have felt like that if I'd
really loved him, would I?"

"No, I'm afraid not . . ."

"It's been so _wonderful_ to tell somebody what I really feel like. Oh,
Miss Shirley, if I could only find myself free again . . . free to seek
the deeper meaning of life! Terry wouldn't understand what I meant if I
said _that_ to him. And I know he has a temper . . . all the Garlands
have. Oh, Miss Shirley . . . if you would just talk to him . . . tell
him what I feel like . . . he thinks you're _wonderful_ . . . he'd be
guided by what you say."

"Hazel, my dear little girl, how could I do that?"

"I don't see why not." Hazel finished the last new moon and laid the
orangewood stick down tragically. "If you can't, there isn't any help
_anywhere_. But I can never, _never_, NEVER marry Terry Garland."

"If you don't love Terry, you ought to go to him and tell him so . . .
no matter how badly it will make him feel. Some day you'll meet someone
you can really love, Hazel dear . . . you won't have any doubts then
. . . you'll _know_."

"I shall never love _anybody_ again," said Hazel, stonily calm. "Love
brings only sorrow. Young as I am I have learned _that_. This would make
a wonderful plot for one of your stories, wouldn't it, Miss Shirley? I
must be going . . . I'd no idea it was so late. I feel _so_ much better
since I've confided in you . . . 'touched your soul in shadowland,' as
Shakespeare says."

"I think it was Pauline Johnson," said Anne gently.

"Well, I knew it was somebody . . . somebody who had _lived_. I think I
shall sleep tonight, Miss Shirley. I've hardly slept since I found
myself engaged to Terry, without the _least_ notion how it had all come
about."

Hazel fluffed out her hair and put on her hat, a hat with a rosy lining
to its brim and rosy blossoms around it. She looked so distractingly
pretty in it that Anne kissed her impulsively. "You're the prettiest
thing, darling," she said admiringly.

Hazel stood very still.

Then she lifted her eyes and stared clear through the ceiling of the
tower room, clear through the attic above it, and sought the stars.

"I shall never, _never_ forget this _wonderful_ moment, Miss Shirley,"
she murmured rapturously. "I feel that my beauty . . . if I have any
. . . has been _consecrated_. Oh, Miss Shirley, you don't know how
really terrible it is to have a reputation for beauty and to be always
afraid that when people meet you they will not think you as pretty as
you were reported to be. It's _torture_. Sometimes I just _die_ of
mortification because I fancy I can see they're disappointed. Perhaps
it's only my imagination . . . I'm _so_ imaginative . . . too much so
for my own good, I fear. I _imagined_ I was in love with Terry, you see.
Oh, Miss Shirley, _can_ you smell the apple-blossom fragrance?"

Having a nose, Anne could.

"Isn't it just _divine_? I hope heaven will be _all_ flowers. One could
be good if one lived in a lily, couldn't one?"

"I'm afraid it might be a little confining," said Anne perversely.

"Oh, Miss Shirley, don't . . . _don't_ be sarcastic with your little
adorer. Sarcasm just _shrivels_ me up like a leaf."

"I see she hasn't talked you quite to death," said Rebecca Dew, when
Anne had come back after seeing Hazel to the end of Spook's Lane. "I
don't see how you put up with her."

"I like her, Rebecca, I really do. _I_ was a dreadful little chatterbox
when I was a child. I wonder if I sounded as silly to the people who had
to listen to me as Hazel does sometimes."

"I didn't know you when you was a child but I'm sure you didn't," said
Rebecca. "Because you would _mean_ what you said no matter how you
expressed it and Hazel Marr doesn't. She's nothing but skim milk
pretending to be cream."

"Oh, of course she dramatizes herself a bit as most girls do, but I
think she means some of the things she says," said Anne, thinking of
Terry. Perhaps it was because she had a rather poor opinion of the said
Terry that she believed Hazel was quite in earnest in all she said about
him. Anne thought Hazel was throwing herself away on Terry in spite of
the ten thousand he was "coming into." Anne considered Terry a
good-looking, rather weak youth who would fall in love with the first
pretty girl who made eyes at him and would, with equal facility, fall in
love with the next one if Number One turned him down or left him alone
too long.

Anne had seen a good deal of Terry that spring, for Hazel had insisted
on her playing gooseberry frequently; and she was destined to see more
of him, for Hazel went to visit friends in Kingsport and during her
absence Terry rather attached himself to Anne, taking her out for rides
and "seeing her home" from places. They called each other "Anne" and
"Terry," for they were about the same age, although Anne felt quite
motherly towards him. Terry felt immensely flattered that "the clever
Miss Shirley" seemed to like his companionship and he became so
sentimental the night of May Connelly's party, in a moonlit garden,
where the shadows of the acacias blew crazily about, that Anne amusedly
reminded him of the absent Hazel.

"Oh, Hazel!" said Terry. "That child!"

"You're engaged to 'that child,' aren't you?" said Anne severely.

"Not really engaged . . . nothing but some boy-and-girl nonsense. I
. . . I guess I was just swept off my feet by the moonlight."

Anne did a bit of rapid thinking. If Terry really cared so little for
Hazel as this, the child was far better freed from him. Perhaps this was
a heaven-sent opportunity to extricate them both from the silly tangle
they had got themselves into and from which neither of them, taking
things with all the deadly seriousness of youth, knew how to escape.

"Of course," went on Terry, misinterpreting her silence, "I'm in a bit
of a predicament, I'll own. I'm afraid Hazel has taken me a little bit
too seriously, and I don't just know the best way to open her eyes to
her mistake."

Impulsive Anne assumed her most maternal look.

"Terry, you are a couple of children playing at being grown up. Hazel
doesn't really care anything more for you than you do for her.
Apparently the moonlight affected both of you. _She_ wants to be free
but is afraid to tell you so for fear of hurting your feelings. She's
just a bewildered, romantic girl and you're a boy in love with love, and
some day you'll both have a good laugh at yourselves."

("I think I've put that very nicely," thought Anne complacently.)

Terry drew a long breath.

"You've taken a weight off my mind, Anne. Hazel's a sweet little thing,
of course. I hated to think of hurting her, but I've realized my . . .
our . . . mistake for some weeks. When one meets a _woman_ . . . _the_
woman . . . you're not going in yet, Anne? Is all this good moonlight to
be wasted? You look like a white rose in the moonlight . . . Anne. . . ."

But Anne had flown.


                                   11


Anne, correcting examination papers in the tower room one mid-June
evening, paused to wipe her nose. She had wiped it so often that evening
that it was rosy-red and rather painful. The truth was that Anne was the
victim of a very severe and very unromantic cold in the head. It would
not allow her to enjoy the soft green sky behind the hemlocks of The
Evergreens, the silver-white moon hanging over the Storm King, the
haunting perfume of the lilacs below her window, or the frosty,
blue-penciled irises in the vase on her table. It darkened all her past
and overshadowed all her future.

"A cold in the head in June is an immoral thing," she told Dusty Miller,
who was meditating on the window sill. "But in two weeks from today I'll
be in dear Green Gables instead of stewing here over examination papers
full of howlers and wiping a worn-out nose. Think of it, Dusty Miller."

Apparently Dusty Miller thought of it. He may also have thought that the
young lady who was hurrying along Spook's Lane and down the road and
along the perennial path looked angry and disturbed and un-June-like. It
was Hazel Marr, only a day back from Kingsport, and evidently a much
disturbed Hazel Marr, who, a few minutes later, burst stormily into the
tower room without waiting for a reply to her sharp knock.

"Why, Hazel dear . . ." (_Kershoo!_) . . . "are you back from Kingsport
already? I didn't expect you till next week."

"No, I suppose you didn't," said Hazel sarcastically. "Yes, Miss
Shirley, I _am_ back. And what do I find? That you have been doing your
best to lure Terry away from me . . . and all but succeeding."

"Hazel!" (_Kershoo!_)

"Oh, I know it all! You told Terry I didn't love him . . . that I wanted
to break our engagement . . . our _sacred_ engagement!"

"Hazel . . . child!" (_Kershoo!_)

"Oh, yes, sneer at me . . . sneer at everything. But don't try to deny
it. You did it . . . and you did it _deliberately_."

"Of course I did. You asked me to."

"I . . . asked . . . you . . . to!"

"Here, in this very room. You told me you didn't love him and could
never marry him."

"Oh, just a mood, I suppose. I never dreamed you'd take me seriously. I
thought _you_ would understand the artistic temperament. You're ages
older than I am, of course, but even _you_ can't have forgotten the
crazy way girls talk . . . feel. _You_ who pretended to be my friend!"

"This must be a nightmare," thought poor Anne, wiping her nose. "Sit
down, Hazel . . . do."

"Sit down!" Hazel flew wildly up and down the room. "How can I sit down
. . . how can _anybody_ sit down when her life is in ruins all about
her? Oh, if that is what being old does to you . . . jealous of younger
people's happiness and determined to wreck it . . . I shall pray never
to grow old."

Anne's hand suddenly tingled to box Hazel's ears with a strange horrible
primitive tingle of desire. She slew it so instantly that she would
never believe afterwards that she had really felt it. But she did think
a little gentle chastisement was indicated.

"If you can't sit down and talk sensibly, Hazel, I wish you would go
away." (A very violent _kershoo_.) "I have work to do." (Sniff . . .
sniff . . . snuffle!)

"I am not going away till I have told you just what I think of you. Oh,
I know I've only myself to blame . . . I should have known . . . I _did_
know. I felt instinctively the first time I saw you that you were
_dangerous_. That red hair and those green eyes! But I never _dreamed_
you'd go so far as to make trouble between me and Terry. I thought you
were a _Christian_ at least. I never _heard_ of anyone doing such a
thing. Well, you've broken my heart, if that is any satisfaction to
you."

"You little goose . . ."

"I won't talk to you! Oh, Terry and I were so happy before you spoiled
everything. _I_ was so happy . . . the first girl of my set to be
engaged. I even had my wedding all planned out . . . four bridesmaids in
lovely pale blue silk dresses with black velvet ribbon on the flounces.
So chic! Oh, I don't know if I hate you the most or pity you the most!
Oh, how _could_ you treat me like this . . . after I've _loved_ you so
. . . _trusted_ you so . . . _believed_ in you so!"

Hazel's voice broke . . . her eyes filled with tears . . . she collapsed
on a rocking chair.

"You can't have many exclamation points left," thought Anne, "but no
doubt the supply of italics is inexhaustible."

"This will just about kill poor Momma," sobbed Hazel. "She was so
pleased . . . _everybody_ was so pleased . . . they all thought it an
_ideal_ match. Oh, can _anything_ ever again be like it used to be?"

"Wait till the next moonlight night and try," said Anne gently.

"Oh, yes, laugh, Miss Shirley . . . laugh at my suffering. I have not
the least doubt that you find it all very amusing . . . very amusing
indeed! _You_ don't know what suffering is! It is terrible . . .
_terrible_!"

Anne looked at the clock and sneezed.

"Then don't suffer," she said unpityingly.

"I _will_ suffer. My feelings are _very_ deep. Of course a _shallow_
soul wouldn't suffer. But I am thankful I am _not_ shallow whatever else
I am. Have you _any_ idea what it means to be in love, Miss Shirley?
Really, terribly deeply, _wonderfully_ in love? And then to trust and be
deceived? I went to Kingsport _so_ happy . . . loving all the world! I
told Terry to be good to you while I was away . . . not to let you be
lonesome. I came home last night _so_ happy. And he told me he didn't
love me any longer . . . that it was all a mistake . . . a _mistake_!
. . . and that _you_ had told him I didn't care for him any longer, and
wanted to be free!"

"My intentions were honorable," said Anne, laughing. Her impish sense of
humor had come to her rescue and she was laughing as much at herself as
at Hazel.

"Oh, _how_ did I live through the night?" said Hazel wildly. "I just
walked the floor. And you don't know . . . you can't even _imagine_ what
I've gone through today. I've had to sit and listen . . . actually
_listen_ . . . to people talking about Terry's infatuation for _you_.
Oh, people have been watching you! _They_ know what you've been doing.
And why . . . _why_! That is what I _cannot_ understand. You had your
own lover . . . why couldn't you have left me mine? What had you against
me? What had I ever _done_ to you?"

"I think," said Anne, thoroughly exasperated, "that you and Terry both
need a good spanking. If you weren't too angry to listen to reason . . ."

"Oh, I'm not _angry_, Miss Shirley . . . only _hurt_ . . . terribly
hurt," said Hazel in a voice positively foggy with tears. "I feel that I
have been betrayed in _everything_ . . . in friendship as well as in
love. Well, they say after your heart is broken you never suffer any
more. I hope it's true, but I fear it isn't."

"What has become of your ambition, Hazel? And what about the millionaire
patient and the honeymoon villa on the blue Mediterranean?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Shirley. I'm not
a bit ambitious . . . I'm not one of those dreadful new women. _My_
highest ambition was to be a happy wife and make a happy home for my
husband. _Was_ . . . was! To think it should be in the past tense!
Well, it doesn't do to trust _anyone_. I've learned _that_. A bitter,
bitter lesson!"

Hazel wiped her eyes and Anne wiped her nose, and Dusty Miller glared at
the evening star with the expression of a misanthrope.

"You'd better go, I think, Hazel. I'm really very busy and I can't see
that there is anything to be gained by prolonging this interview."

Hazel walked to the door with the air of Mary Queen of Scots advancing
to the scaffold, and turned there dramatically.

"Farewell, Miss Shirley. I leave you to your conscience."

Anne, left alone with her conscience, laid down her pen, sneezed three
times and gave herself a plain talking-to.

"You may be a B.A., Anne Shirley, but you have a few things to learn yet
. . . things that even Rebecca Dew could have told you . . . _did_ tell
you. Be honest with yourself, my dear girl, and take your medicine like
a gallant lady. Admit that you were carried off your feet by flattery.
Admit that you really liked Hazel's professed adoration for you. Admit
you found it pleasant to be worshiped. Admit that you liked the idea of
being a sort of _dea ex machina_ . . . saving people from their own
folly when they didn't in the least want to be saved from it. And having
admitted all this and feeling wiser and sadder and a few thousand years
older, pick up your pen and proceed with your examination papers,
pausing to note in passing that Myra Pringle thinks a seraph is 'an
animal that abounds in Africa.'"


                                   12


A week later a letter came for Anne, written on pale blue paper edged
with silver.


    "DEAR MISS SHIRLEY:

    "I am writing this to tell you that _all misunderstanding_ is
    cleared away between Terry and me and we are so deeply, intensely,
    _wonderfully_ happy that we have decided we can forgive you. Terry
    says he was just moonlighted into making love to you but that his
    heart never _really_ swerved in its allegiance to me. He says he
    really likes _sweet, simple_ girls . . . that _all men_ do . . . and
    has no use for _intriguing, designing ones_. We don't understand why
    you behaved to us as you did . . . we never will understand. Perhaps
    you just wanted material for a story and thought you could find it
    in tampering with the first sweet, tremulous love of a girl. But we
    thank you for _revealing us to ourselves_. Terry says he never
    realized the deeper meaning of life before. So really it was all for
    the best. We are _so_ sympathetic . . . we can _feel_ each other's
    thoughts. Nobody understands him but me and I want to be a _source
    of inspiration to him forever_. _I_ am not clever like _you_ but I
    feel I can be _that_, for we are _soul-mates_ and have vowed eternal
    _truth and constancy_ to each other, no matter how many _jealous
    people_ and _false friends_ may try to make trouble between us.

    "We are going to be married as soon as I have my trousseau ready. I
    am going up to Boston to get it. There really isn't _anything_ in
    Summerside. My dress is to be _white moire_ and my traveling suit
    will be dove gray with hat, gloves and blouse of _delphinium blue_.
    Of course I'm very young, but I want to be married when I _am_
    young, before the _bloom_ goes off life.

    "Terry is all that my _wildest dreams_ could picture and every
    _thought_ of my heart is for him alone. I _know_ we are going to be
    _rapturously happy. Once_ I believed all my friends would _rejoice_
    with me in my happiness, but I have learned a _bitter lesson_ in
    _worldly wisdom_ since then.

                                                       "Yours _Truly_,

                                                          "HAZEL MARR.

    "P.S. 1. You told me Terry had _such a temper_. Why, he's a perfect
    lamb, his sister says.

                                                                "H. M.

    "P.S. 2. I've heard that _lemon juice_ will bleach freckles. You
    might try it on your nose.

                                                                "H. M."


"To quote Rebecca Dew," remarked Anne to Dusty Miller, "postscript
Number Two _is_ the last straw."


                                   13


Anne went home for her second Summerside vacation with mixed feelings.
Gilbert was not to be in Avonlea that summer. He had gone west to work
on a new railroad that was being built. But Green Gables was still Green
Gables and Avonlea was still Avonlea. The Lake of Shining Waters shone
and sparkled as of old. The ferns still grew as thickly over the Dryad's
Bubble, and the log bridge, though it was a little crumblier and mossier
every year, still led up to the shadows and silences and wind-songs of
the Haunted Wood.

And Anne had prevailed on Mrs. Campbell to let little Elizabeth go home
with her for a fortnight . . . no more. But Elizabeth, looking forward
to two whole weeks with Miss Shirley, asked no more of life.

"I feel like _Miss_ Elizabeth today," she told Anne with a sigh of
delightful excitement, as they drove away from Windy Poplars. "Will you
please call me 'Miss Elizabeth' when you introduce me to your friends at
Green Gables? It would make me feel so grown up."

"I will," promised Anne gravely, remembering a small, red-headed damsel
who had once begged to be called Cordelia.

Elizabeth's drive from Blight River to Green Gables, over a road which
only Prince Edward Island in June can show, was almost as ecstatic a
thing for her as it had been for Anne that memorable spring evening so
many years ago. The world was beautiful, with wind-rippled meadows on
every hand and surprises lurking around every corner. She was with her
beloved Miss Shirley; she would be free from The Woman for two whole
weeks; she had a new pink gingham dress and a pair of lovely new brown
boots. It was almost as if Tomorrow were already there . . . with
fourteen Tomorrows to follow. Elizabeth's eyes were shining with dreams
when they turned into the Green Gables lane where the pink wild roses
grew.

Things seemed to change magically for Elizabeth the moment she got to
Green Gables. For two weeks she lived in a world of romance. You
couldn't step outside the door without stepping into something romantic.
Things were just bound to happen in Avonlea . . . if not today, then
tomorrow. Elizabeth knew she hadn't _quite_ got into Tomorrow yet, but
she knew she was on the very fringes of it.

Everything in and about Green Gables seemed to be acquainted with her.
Even Marilla's pink rosebud tea set was like an old friend. The rooms
looked at her as if she had always known and loved them; the very grass
was greener than grass anywhere else; and the people who lived at Green
Gables were the kind of people who lived in Tomorrow. She loved them and
was beloved by them. Davy and Dora adored her and spoiled her; Marilla
and Mrs. Lynde approved of her. She was neat, she was ladylike, she was
polite to her elders. They knew Anne did not like Mrs. Campbell's
methods, but it was plain to be seen that she had trained her
great-granddaughter properly.

"Oh, I don't want to sleep, Miss Shirley," Elizabeth whispered when they
were in bed in the little porch gable, after a rapturous evening. "I
don't want to sleep away a single minute of these wonderful two weeks. I
wish I could get along without any sleep while I'm here."

For a while she didn't sleep. It was heavenly to lie there and listen to
the splendid low thunder Miss Shirley had told her was the sound of the
sea. Elizabeth loved it and the sigh of the wind around the eaves as
well. Elizabeth had always been "afraid of the night." Who knew what
queer thing might jump at you out of it? But now she was afraid no
longer. For the first time in her life the night seemed like a friend to
her.

They would go to the shore tomorrow, Miss Shirley had promised, and have
a dip in those silver-tipped waves they had seen breaking beyond the
green dunes of Avonlea when they drove over the last hill. Elizabeth
could see them coming in, one after the other. One of them was a great
dark wave of sleep . . . it rolled right over her . . . Elizabeth
drowned in it with a delicious sigh of surrender.

"It's . . . so . . . easy . . . to . . . love . . . God . . . here," was
her last conscious thought.

But she lay awake for a while every night of her stay at Green Gables,
long after Miss Shirley had gone to sleep, thinking over things. Why
couldn't life at The Evergreens be like life at Green Gables?

Elizabeth had never lived where she could make a noise if she wanted to.
Everybody at The Evergreens had to move softly . . . speak softly . . .
even, so Elizabeth felt, _think_ softly. There were times when Elizabeth
desired perversely to yell loud and long.

"You may make all the noise you want to here," Anne had told her. But it
was strange . . . she no longer wanted to yell, now that there was
nothing to prevent her. She liked to go quietly, stepping gently among
all the lovely things around her. But Elizabeth learned to laugh during
that sojourn at Green Gables. And when she went back to Summerside she
carried delightful memories with her and left equally delightful ones
behind her. To the Green Gables folks Green Gables seemed for months
full of memories of little Elizabeth. For "little Elizabeth" she was to
them in spite of the fact that Anne had solemnly introduced her as "Miss
Elizabeth." She was so tiny, so golden, so elf-like, that they couldn't
think of her as anything but little Elizabeth . . . little Elizabeth
dancing in a twilight garden among the white June lilies . . . coiled up
on a bough of the big Duchess apple tree reading fairy tales, unlet and
unhindered . . . little Elizabeth half drowned in a field of buttercups
where her golden head seemed just a larger buttercup . . . chasing
silver-green moths or trying to count the fireflies in Lover's Lane . . .
listening to the bumblebees zooming in the Canterbury bells . . .
being fed strawberries and cream by Dora in the pantry or eating red
currants with her in the yard . . . "Red currants are such beautiful
things, aren't they, Dora? It's just like eating jewels, isn't it?" . . .
little Elizabeth singing to herself in the haunted dusk of the firs . . .
with fingers sweet from gathering the big, fat, pink "cabbage roses"
. . . gazing at the great moon hanging over the brook valley . . . "I
think the moon has _worried eyes_, don't you, Mrs. Lynde?" . . . crying
bitterly because a chapter in the serial story in Davy's magazine left
the hero in a sad predicament . . . "Oh, Miss Shirley, I'm sure he can
never live through it!" . . . little Elizabeth curled up, all flushed
and sweet like a wild rose, for an afternoon nap on the kitchen sofa
with Dora's kittens cuddled about her . . . shrieking with laughter to
see the wind blowing the dignified old hens' tails over their backs . . .
_could_ it be little Elizabeth laughing like that? . . . helping Anne
frost cupcakes, Mrs. Lynde cut the patches for a new "double Irish
chain" quilt, and Dora rub the old brass candlesticks till they could
see their faces in them . . . cutting out tiny biscuits with a thimble
under Marilla's tutelage. Why, the Green Gables folks could hardly look
at a place or thing without being reminded of little Elizabeth.

"I wonder if I'll ever have such a happy fortnight again," thought
little Elizabeth, as she drove away from Green Gables. The road to the
station was just as beautiful as it had been two weeks before, but
little Elizabeth couldn't see it for tears.

"I couldn't have believed I'd miss a child so much," said Mrs. Lynde.

When little Elizabeth went, Katherine Brooke and her dog came for the
rest of the summer. Katherine had resigned from the staff of the High
School at the close of the year and meant to go to Redmond in the fall
to take a secretarial course at Redmond University. Anne had advised
this.

"I know you'd like it and you've never liked teaching," said the latter,
as they sat one evening in a ferny corner of a clover field and watched
the glories of a sunset sky.

"Life owes me something more than it has paid me and I'm going out to
collect it," said Katherine decidedly. "I feel so much younger than I
did this time last year," she added with a laugh.

"I'm sure it's the best thing for you to do, but I hate to think of
Summerside and the High without you. What will the tower room be like
next year without our evenings of confab and argument, and our hours of
foolishness, when we turned everybody and everything into a joke?"




                            _The Third Year_




                                    1


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                       "September 8th.

    "DEAREST:

    "The summer is over . . . the summer in which I have seen you only
    that week end in May. And I am back at Windy Poplars for my third
    and last year in Summerside High. Katherine and I had a delightful
    time together at Green Gables and I'm going to miss her dreadfully
    this year. The new Junior teacher is a jolly little personage,
    chubby and rosy and friendly as a puppy . . . but somehow, there's
    nothing more to her than that. She has sparkling shallow blue eyes
    with no thought behind them. I like her . . . I'll always like her
    . . . neither more nor less . . . there's nothing to _discover_ in
    her. There was so much to discover in Katherine, when you once got
    past her guard.

    "There is no change at Windy Poplars . . . yes, there is. The old
    red cow has gone to her long home, so Rebecca Dew sadly informed me
    when I came down to supper Monday night. The widows have decided
    not to bother with another one but to get milk and cream from Mr.
    Cherry. This means that little Elizabeth will come no more to the
    garden gate for her new milk. But Mrs. Campbell seems to have grown
    reconciled to her coming over here when she wants to, so that does
    not make so much difference now.

    "And another change is brewing. Aunt Kate told me, much to my
    sorrow, that they have decided to give Dusty Miller away as soon as
    they can find a suitable home for him. When I protested, she said
    they were really driven to it for peace' sake. Rebecca Dew has been
    constantly complaining about him all summer and there seems to be no
    other way of satisfying her. Poor Dusty Miller . . . and he is such
    a nice, prowly, purry darling!

    "Tomorrow, being Saturday, I'm going to look after Mrs. Raymond's
    twins while she goes to Charlottetown to the funeral of some
    relative. Mrs. Raymond is a widow who came to our town last winter.
    Rebecca Dew and the Windy Poplars widows . . . really, Summerside is
    a great place for widows . . . think her a 'little too grand' for
    Summerside, but she was really a wonderful help to Katherine and me
    in our Dramatic Club activities. One good turn deserves another.

    "Gerald and Geraldine are eight and are a pair of angelic-looking
    youngsters, but Rebecca Dew 'pulled a mouth,' to use one of her own
    expressions, when I told her what I was going to do.

    "'But I love children, Rebecca.'

    "'Children, yes, but them's holy terrors, Miss Shirley. Mrs. Raymond
    doesn't believe in punishing children no matter what they do. She
    says she's determined they'll have a "natural" life. They take
    people in by that saintly look of theirs, but I've heard what her
    neighbors have to say of them. The minister's wife called one
    afternoon . . . well, Mrs. Raymond was sweet as sugar pie to her,
    but when she was leaving a shower of Spanish onions came flying down
    the stairs and one of them knocked her hat off. "Children always
    behave so abominably when you 'specially want them to be good," was
    all Mrs. Raymond said . . . kinder as if she was rather proud of
    them being so unmanageable. They're from the States, you know' . . .
    as if that explained everything. Rebecca has about as much use for
    'Yankees' as Mrs. Lynde has."


                                    2


Saturday forenoon Anne betook herself to the pretty, old-fashioned
cottage on a street that straggled out into the country, where Mrs.
Raymond and her famous twins lived. Mrs. Raymond was all ready to depart
. . . rather gaily dressed for a funeral, perhaps . . . especially with
regard to the beflowered hat perched on top of the smooth brown waves of
hair that flowed around her head . . . but looking very beautiful. The
eight-year-old twins, who had inherited her beauty, were sitting on the
stairs, their delicate faces wreathed with a quite cherubic expression.
They had complexions of pink and white, large China-blue eyes, and
aureoles of fine, fluffy, pale yellow hair.

They smiled with engaging sweetness when their mother introduced them to
Anne and told them that dear Miss Shirley had been so kind as to come
and take care of them while Mother was away at dear Aunty Ella's
funeral, and of course they would be good and not give her one
teeny-weeny bit of trouble, wouldn't they, darlings?

The darlings nodded gravely and contrived, though it hadn't seemed
possible, to look more angelic than ever.

Mrs. Raymond took Anne down the walk to the gate with her.

"They're all I've got . . . now," she said pathetically. "Perhaps I may
have spoiled them a little . . . I know people say I have . . . people
always know so much better how you ought to bring up your children than
you know yourself, haven't you noticed, Miss Shirley? But _I_ think
loving is better than spanking any day, don't you, Miss Shirley? I'm
sure _you_ will have no trouble with them. Children always _know_ whom
they can play on and whom they can't, don't you think? That poor old
Miss Prouty up the street . . . I had her to stay with them one day, but
the poor darlings couldn't bear her. So of course they teased her a
good bit . . . _you_ know what children are. She has revenged herself by
telling the most ridiculous tales about them all over town. But they'll
just love you and I know they'll be angels. Of course, they have high
spirits . . . but children should have, don't you think? It's so pitiful
to see children with that cowed appearance, isn't it? I like them to be
natural, don't you? Too good children don't seem natural, _do_ they?
Don't let them sail their boats in the bathtub or go wading in the pond,
will you? I'm _so_ afraid of them catching cold . . . their father died
of penumonia."

Mrs. Raymond's large blue eyes looked as if they were going to overflow,
but she gallantly blinked the tears away.

"Don't worry if they quarrel a little--children always _do_ quarrel,
don't you think? But if any outsider attacks them . . . my dear!! They
really just worship each other, you know. I could have taken _one_ of
them to the funeral, but they simply wouldn't hear of it. They've never
been separated a day in their lives. And I _couldn't_ look after twins
at a funeral, could I now?"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Raymond," said Anne kindly. "I'm sure Gerald and
Geraldine and I will have a beautiful day together. I love children."

"I know it. I felt sure the minute I saw you that you loved children.
One can always tell, don't you think? There's _something_ about a person
who loves children. Poor old Miss Prouty detests them. She looks for the
worst in children and so of course she finds it. You can't conceive what
a comfort it is to me to reflect that my darlings are under the care of
one who loves and understands children. I'm sure I'll quite enjoy the
day."

"You might take _us_ to the funeral," shrieked Gerald, suddenly sticking
his head out of an upstairs window. "We never have any fun like that."

"Oh, they're in the bathroom!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond tragically. "Dear
Miss Shirley, please go and take them out. Gerald darling, you know
mother couldn't take you _both_ to the funeral. Oh, Miss Shirley, he's
got that coyote skin from the parlor floor tied round his neck by the
paws again. He'll ruin it. Please make him take it off at once. I
_must_ hurry or I'll miss the train."

Mrs. Raymond sailed elegantly away and Anne ran upstairs to find that
the angelic Geraldine had grasped her brother by the legs and was
apparently trying to hurl him bodily out of the window.

"Miss Shirley, make Gerald stop putting out his tongue at me," she
demanded fiercely.

"Does it hurt you?" asked Anne smilingly.

"Well, he's not going to put out his tongue at _me_," retorted
Geraldine, darting a baleful look at Gerald, who returned it with
interest.

"My tongue's my own and _you_ can't stop me from putting it out when I
like . . . can she, Miss Shirley?"

Anne ignored the question.

"Twins dear, it's just an hour till lunchtime. Shall we go and sit in
the garden and play games and tell stories? And, Gerald, won't you put
that coyote skin back on the floor?"

"But I want to play wolf," said Gerald.

"He wants to play wolf," cried Geraldine, suddenly aligning herself on
her brother's side.

"We want to play wolf," they both cried together.

A peal from the doorbell cut the knot of Anne's dilemma.

"Come on and see who it is," cried Geraldine. They flew to the stairs
and by reason of sliding down the banisters, got to the front door much
quicker than Anne, the coyote skin coming unloosed and drifting away in
the process.

"We never buy anything from peddlers," Gerald told the lady standing on
the door-stone.

"Can I see your mother?" asked the caller.

"No, you can't. Mother's gone to Aunt Ella's funeral. Miss Shirley's
looking after us. That's her coming down the stairs. _She'll_ make you
scat."

Anne _did_ feel rather like making the caller "scat" when she saw who it
was. Miss Pamela Drake was not a popular caller in Summerside. She was
always "canvassing" for something and it was generally quite impossible
to get rid of her unless you bought it, since she was utterly
impervious to snubs and hints and had apparently all the time in the
world at her command.

This time she was "taking orders" for an encyclopedia . . . something no
schoolteacher could afford to be without. Vainly Anne protested that she
did not need an encyclopedia . . . the High School already possessed a
very good one.

"Ten years out of date," said Miss Pamela firmly. "We'll just sit down
here on this rustic bench, Miss Shirley, and I'll show you my
prospectus."

"I'm afraid I haven't time, Miss Drake. I have the children to look
after."

"It won't take but a few minutes. I've been meaning to call on you, Miss
Shirley, and I call it real fortunate to find you here. Run away and
play, children, while Miss Shirley and I skim over this beautiful
prospectus."

"Mother's hired Miss Shirley to look after us," said Geraldine, with a
toss of her aerial curls. But Gerald had tugged her backward and they
slammed the door shut.

"You see, Miss Shirley, what this encyclopedia _means_. Look at the
beautiful paper . . . _feel_ it . . . the splendid engravings . . . no
other encyclopedia on the market has half the number of engravings . . .
the wonderful print--a blind man could read it--and all for eighty
dollars . . . eight dollars down and eight dollars a month till it's all
paid. You'll never have such another chance . . . we're just doing this
to introduce it . . . next year it will be a hundred and twenty."

"But I don't want an encyclopedia, Miss Drake," said Anne desperately.

"Of course you want an encyclopedia . . . _everyone_ wants an
encyclopedia . . . a _National_ encyclopedia. _I_ don't know how I lived
before I became acquainted with the _National_ encyclopedia. _Live!_ I
didn't live . . . I merely existed. _Look_ at that engraving of the
cassowary, Miss Shirley. Did you ever really _see_ a cassowary before?"

"But, Miss Drake, I . . ."

"If you think the terms a little too onerous I feel sure I can make a
special arrangement for you, being a schoolteacher . . . six a month
instead of eight. You simply can't refuse an offer like that, Miss
Shirley."

Anne almost felt she couldn't. Wouldn't it be worth six dollars a month
to get rid of this terrible woman who had so evidently made up her mind
not to go until she had got an order? Besides, _what_ were the twins
doing? They were alarmingly quiet. Suppose they were sailing their boats
in the bathtub. Or had sneaked out of the back door and gone wading in
the pond.

She made one more pitiful effort to escape.

"I'll think this over, Miss Drake, and let you know . . ."

"There's no time like the present," said Miss Drake, briskly getting out
her fountain pen. "You _know_ you're going to take the _National_, so
you might just as well sign for it now as any other time. Nothing is
ever gained by putting things off. The price may go up any moment and
then you'd have to pay a hundred and twenty. Sign here, Miss Shirley."

Anne felt the fountain pen being forced into her hand . . . another
moment . . . and then there was such a blood-curdling shriek from Miss
Drake that Anne dropped the fountain pen under the clump of golden glow
that flanked the rustic seat, and gazed in amazed horror at her
companion.

Was _that_ Miss Drake . . . that indescribable object, hatless,
spectacleless, almost hairless? Hat, spectacles, false front, were
floating in the air above her head halfway up to the bathroom window,
out of which two golden heads were hanging. Gerald was grasping a
fishing rod to which were tied two cords ending in fishhooks. By what
magic he had contrived to make a triple catch, only he could have told.
Probably it was sheer luck.

Anne flew into the house and upstairs. By the time she reached the
bathroom the twins had fled. Gerald had dropped the fishing rod and a
peep from the window revealed a furious Miss Drake retrieving her
belongings, including the fountain pen, and marching to the gate. For
once in her life Miss Pamela Drake had failed to land her order.

Anne discovered the twins seraphically eating apples on the back porch.
It was hard to know what to do. Certainly, such behavior could not be
allowed to pass without a rebuke . . . but Gerald had undoubtedly
rescued her from a difficult position and Miss Drake _was_ an odious
creature who needed a lesson. Still . . .

"You've et a great big worm!" shrieked Gerald. "I saw it disappear down
your throat."

Geraldine laid down her apple and promptly turned sick . . . very sick.
Anne had her hands full for some time. And when Geraldine was better, it
was lunch hour and Anne suddenly decided to let Gerald off with a very
mild reproof. After all, no lasting harm had been done Miss Drake, who
would probably hold her tongue religiously about the incident for her
own sake.

"Do you think, Gerald," she said gently, "that what you did was a
gentlemanly action?"

"Nope," said Gerald, "but it was good fun. Gee, I'm some fisherman,
ain't I?"

The lunch was excellent. Mrs. Raymond had prepared it before she left
and whatever her shortcomings as a disciplinarian might be, she was a
good cook. Gerald and Geraldine, being occupied with gorging, did not
quarrel or display worse table manners than the general run of children.
After lunch Anne washed the dishes, getting Geraldine to help dry them
and Gerald to put them carefully away in the cupboard. They were both
quite knacky at it and Anne reflected complacently that all they needed
was wise training and a little firmness.


                                    3


At two o'clock Mr. James Grand called. Mr. Grand was the chairman of the
High School board of trustees and had matters of importance to talk of,
which he wished to discuss fully before he left on Monday to attend an
educational conference in Kingsport. Could he come to Windy Poplars in
the evening? asked Anne. Unfortunately, he couldn't.

Mr. Grand was a good sort of man in his own fashion, but Anne had long
ago found out that he must be handled with gloves. Moreover, Anne was
very anxious to get him on her side in a battle royal over new equipment
that was looming up. She went out to the twins.

"Darlings, will you play nicely out in the back yard while I have a
little talk with Mr. Grand? I won't be very long . . . and then we'll
have an afternoon-tea picnic on the banks of the pond . . . and I'll
teach you to blow soap-bubbles with red dye in them . . . the loveliest
things!"

"Will you give us a quarter apiece if we behave?" demanded Gerald.

"No, Gerald dear," said Anne firmly, "I'm not going to bribe you. I know
you are going to be good, just because I ask you, as a gentleman
should."

"We'll be good, Miss Shirley," promised Gerald solemnly.

"Awful good," echoed Geraldine, with equal solemnity.

It is possible they would have kept their promise if Ivy Trent had not
arrived almost as soon as Anne was closeted with Mr. Grand in the
parlor. But Ivy Trent did arrive and the Raymond twins hated Ivy Trent
. . . the impeccable Ivy Trent who never did anything wrong and always
looked as if she had just stepped out of a bandbox.

On this particular afternoon there was no doubt that Ivy Trent had come
over to show off her beautiful new brown boots and her sash and shoulder
bows and hair bows of scarlet ribbon. Mrs. Raymond, whatever she lacked
in some respects, had fairly sensible ideas about dressing children. Her
charitable neighbors said she put so much money on herself that she had
none to spend on the twins . . . and Geraldine never had a chance to
parade the street in the style of Ivy Trent, who had a dress for every
afternoon in the week. Mrs. Trent always arrayed her in "spotless
white." At least, Ivy was always spotless when she left home. If she
were not quite so spotless when she returned that, of course, was the
fault of the "jealous" children with whom the neighborhood abounded.

Geraldine _was_ jealous. She longed for scarlet sash and shoulder bows
and white embroidered dresses. What would she not have given for
buttoned brown boots like those?

"How do you like my new sash and shoulder bows?" asked Ivy proudly.

"How do you like my new sash and shoulder bows?" mimicked Geraldine
tauntingly.

"But you haven't got shoulder bows," said Ivy grandly.

"But you haven't got shoulder bows," squeaked Geraldine.

Ivy looked puzzled.

"I have so. Can't you see them?"

"I have so. Can't you see them?" mocked Geraldine, very happy in this
brilliant idea of repeating everything Ivy said scornfully.

"They ain't paid for," said Gerald.

Ivy Trent had a temper. It showed itself in her face, which grew as red
as her shoulder bows.

"They are, too. _My_ mother always pays her bills."

"_My_ mother always pays her bills," chanted Geraldine.

Ivy was uncomfortable. She didn't know exactly how to cope with this. So
she turned to Gerald, who was undoubtedly the handsomest boy on the
street. Ivy had made up her mind about him.

"I came over to tell you I'm going to have you for my beau," she said,
looking eloquently at him out of a pair of brown eyes that, even at
seven, Ivy had learned had a devastating effect on most of the small
boys of her acquaintance.

Gerald turned crimson.

"I won't be your beau," he said.

"But you've got to be," said Ivy serenely.

"But you've got to be," said Geraldine, wagging her head at him.

"I won't be," shouted Gerald furiously. "And don't you give me any more
of your lip, Ivy Trent."

"You have to be," said Ivy stubbornly.

"You have to be," said Geraldine.

Ivy glared at her.

"You just shut up, Geraldine Raymond!"

"I guess I can talk in my own yard," said Geraldine.

"Course she can," said Gerald. "And if _you_ don't shut up, Ivy Trent,
I'll just go over to your place and dig the eyes out of your doll."

"My mother would spank you if you did," cried Ivy.

"Oh, she would, would she? Well, do you know what _my_ mother would do
to her if she did? She'd just sock her on the nose."

"Well, anyway, you've got to be my beau," said Ivy, returning calmly to
the vital subject.

"I'll . . . I'll duck your head in the rain barrel," yelled the maddened
Gerald . . . "I'll rub your face in an ant's nest . . . I'll . . . I'll
tear them bows and sash off you . . ." triumphantly, for this at least,
was feasible.

"Let's do it," squealed Geraldine.

They pounced like furies on the unfortunate Ivy, who kicked and shrieked
and tried to bite but was no match for the two of them. Together they
hauled her across the yard and into the woodshed, where her howls could
not be heard.

"Hurry," gasped Geraldine, "'fore Miss Shirley comes out."

No time was to be lost. Gerald held Ivy's legs while Geraldine held her
wrists with one hand and tore off her hair bow and shoulder bows and
sash with the other.

"Let's paint her legs," shouted Gerald, his eyes falling on a couple of
cans of paint left there by some workmen the previous week. "I'll hold
her and you paint her."

Ivy shrieked vainly in despair. Her stockings were pulled down and in a
few moments her legs were adorned with wide stripes of red and green
paint. In the process a good deal of the paint got spattered over her
embroidered dress and new boots. As a finishing touch they filled her
curls with burrs.

She was a pitiful sight when they finally released her. The twins howled
mirthfully as they looked at her. Long weeks of airs and condescensions
from Ivy had been avenged.

"Now you go home," said Gerald. "This'll teach you to go 'round telling
people they have to be your beaus."

"I'll tell my mother," wept Ivy. "I'll go straight home and tell my
mother on you, you horrid, horrid, hateful, _ugly_ boy!"

"Don't you call my brother ugly, you stuck-up thing," cried Geraldine.
"You and your shoulder bows! Here, take them with you. _We_ don't want
them cluttering up _our_ woodshed."

Ivy, pursued by the bows, which Geraldine pelted after her, ran sobbing
out of the yard and down the street.

"Quick . . . let's sneak up the back stairs to the bathroom and clean up
'fore Miss Shirley sees us," gasped Geraldine.


                                    4


Mr. Grand had talked himself out and bowed himself away. Anne stood for
a moment on the door-stone, wondering uneasily where her charges were.
Up the street and in at the gate came a wrathful lady, leading a forlorn
and still sobbing atom of humanity by the hand.

"Miss Shirley, where is Mrs. Raymond?" demanded Mrs. Trent.

"Mrs. Raymond is . . ."

"I insist on seeing Mrs. Raymond. She shall see with her own eyes what
_her_ children have done to poor, helpless, innocent Ivy. Look at her,
Miss Shirley . . . just _look_ at her!"

"Oh, Mrs. Trent . . . I'm so sorry! It is all my fault. Mrs. Raymond is
away . . . and I promised to look after them . . . but Mr. Grand
came . . ."

"No, it isn't your fault, Miss Shirley. I don't blame _you_. No one can
cope with those diabolical children. The whole street knows them. If
Mrs. Raymond isn't here, there is no point in my remaining. I shall take
my poor child home. But Mrs. Raymond shall hear of this . . . indeed she
shall. Listen to _that_, Miss Shirley. Are they tearing each other limb
from limb?"

"That" was a chorus of shrieks, howls, and yells that came echoing down
the stairs. Anne ran upwards. On the hall floor was a twisting,
writhing, biting, tearing, scratching mass. Anne separated the furious
twins with difficulty and, holding each firmly by a squirming shoulder,
demanded the meaning of such behavior.

"She says I've got to be Ivy Trent's beau," snarled Gerald.

"So he has got to be," screamed Geraldine.

"I won't be!"

"You've got to be!"

"Children!" said Anne. Something in her tone quelled them. They looked
at her and saw a Miss Shirley they had not seen before. For the first
time in their young lives they felt the force of authority.

"You, Geraldine," said Anne quietly, "will go to bed for two hours. You,
Gerald, will spend the same length of time in the hall closet. Not a
word. You have behaved abominably and you must take your punishment.
Your mother left you in my charge and you will obey me."

"Then punish us _together_," said Geraldine, beginning to cry.

"Yes . . . you've no right to sep'rate us . . . we've never been
sep'rated," muttered Gerald.

"You will be now." Anne was still very quiet. Meekly Geraldine took off
her clothes and got into one of the cots in their room. Meekly Gerald
entered the hall closet. It was a large airy closet with a window and a
chair and nobody could have called the punishment an unduly severe one.
Anne locked the door and sat down with a book by the hall window. At
least, for two hours she would know a little peace of mind.

A peep at Geraldine a few minutes later showed her to be sound asleep,
looking so lovely in her sleep that Anne almost repented her sternness.
Well, a nap would be good for her, anyway. When she wakened she should
be permitted to get up, even if the two hours had not expired.

At the end of an hour Geraldine was still sleeping. Gerald had been so
quiet that Anne decided that he had taken his punishment like a man and
might be forgiven. After all, Ivy Trent was a vain little monkey and had
probably been very irritating.

Anne unlocked the closet door and opened it.

There was no Gerald in the closet. The window was open and the roof of
the side porch was just beneath it. Anne's lips tightened. She went
downstairs and out into the yard. No sign of Gerald. She explored the
woodshed and looked up and down the street. Still no sign.

She ran through the garden and through the gate into the lane that led
through a patch of scrub woodland to the little pond in Mr. Robert
Creedmore's field. Gerald was happily poling himself about on it in the
small flat Mr. Creedmore kept there. Just as Anne broke through the
trees Gerald's pole, which he had stuck rather deep in the mud, came
away with unexpected ease at his third tug and Gerald promptly shot
heels over head backward into the water.

Anne gave an involuntary shriek of dismay, but there was no real cause
for alarm. The pond at its deepest would not come up to Gerald's
shoulders and where he had gone over, it was little deeper than his
waist. He had somehow got on his feet and was standing there rather
foolishly, with his aureole plastered drippingly down on his head, when
Anne's shriek was re-echoed behind her and Geraldine, in her nightgown,
tore through the trees and out to the edge of the little wooden platform
to which the flat was commonly moored.

With a despairing shriek of "Gerald!" she took a flying leap that landed
her with a tremendous splash by Gerald's side and almost gave him
another ducking.

"Gerald, are you drowned?" cried Geraldine. "Are you drowned, darling?"

"No . . . no . . . darling," Gerald assured her through his chattering
teeth.

They embraced and kissed passionately.

"Children, come in here this minute," said Anne.

They waded to the shore. The September day, warm in the morning, had
turned cold and windy in the late afternoon. They shivered terribly . . .
their faces were blue. Anne, without a word of censure, hurried them
home, got off their wet clothes, and got them into Mrs. Raymond's bed,
with hot-water bottles at their feet. They still continued to shiver.
Had they got a chill? Were they headed for pneumonia?

"You should have taken better care of us, Miss Shirley," said Gerald,
still chattering.

"Course you should," said Geraldine.

A distracted Anne flew downstairs and telephoned for the doctor. By the
time he came the twins had got warm, and he assured Anne that they were
in no danger. If they stayed in bed till tomorrow they would be all
right.

He met Mrs. Raymond coming up from the station on the way back, and it
was a pale, almost hysterical lady who presently rushed in.

"Oh, Miss Shirley, how _could_ you have let my little treasures get into
such danger!"

"That's just what we told her, Mother," chorused the twins.

"I trusted you . . . I told you . . ."

"I hardly see how I was to blame, Mrs. Raymond," said Anne, with eyes as
cold as gray mist. "You will realize this, I think, when you are calmer.
The children are quite all right . . . I simply sent for the doctor as a
precautionary measure. If Gerald and Geraldine had obeyed me, this would
not have happened."

"I thought a _teacher_ would have a little authority over children,"
said Mrs. Raymond bitterly.

"Over children perhaps . . . but not young demons," thought Anne. She
said only,

"Since you are here, Mrs. Raymond, I think I will go home. I don't think
I can be of any further service and I have some school work to do this
evening."

As one child the twins hurled themselves out of bed and flung their arms
around her.

"I hope there'll be a funeral every week," cried Gerald. "'Cause I like
you, Miss Shirley, and I hope you'll come and look after us every time
Mother goes away."

"So do I," said Geraldine.

"I like you ever so much better than Miss Prouty."

"Oh, ever so much," said Geraldine.

"Will you put us in a story?" demanded Gerald.

"Oh, do," said Geraldine.

"I'm sure you _meant_ well," said Mrs. Raymond tremulously.

"Thank you," said Anne icily, trying to detach the twins' clinging arms.

"Oh, don't let's quarrel about it," begged Mrs. Raymond, her enormous
eyes filling with tears. "I _can't_ endure quarreling with anybody."

"Certainly not." Anne was at her stateliest and Anne _could_ be very
stately. "I don't think there is the slightest necessity for quarreling.
I think Gerald and Geraldine have quite enjoyed the day, though I don't
suppose poor little Ivy Trent did."

Anne went home feeling years older.

"To think I ever thought Davy was mischievous," she reflected.

She found Rebecca in the twilight garden gathering late pansies.

"Rebecca Dew, I used to think the adage, 'Children should be seen and
not heard,' entirely too harsh. But I see its points now."

"My poor darling. I'll get you a nice supper," said Rebecca Dew. And did
_not_ say, "I told you so."


                                    5


                   (_Extract from letter to Gilbert._)


    "Mrs. Raymond came down last night and, with tears in her eyes,
    begged me to forgive her for her 'hasty behavior.' 'If you knew a
    mother's heart, Miss Shirley, you would not find it hard to
    forgive.'

    "I didn't find it hard to forgive as it was . . . there is really
    something about Mrs. Raymond I can't help liking and she was a duck
    about the Dramatic Club. Just the same I did _not_ say, 'Any
    Saturday you want to be away, I'll look after your offspring.' One
    learns by experience . . . even a person so incorrigibly optimistic
    and trustful as myself.

    "I find that a certain section of Summerside society is at present
    very much exercised over the loves of Jarvis Morrow and Dovie
    Westcott . . . who, as Rebecca Dew says, have been engaged for over
    a year but can't get any 'forrader.' Aunt Kate, who is a distant
    aunt of Dovie's . . . to be exact, I think she's the aunt of a
    second cousin of Dovie's on the mother's side . . . is deeply
    interested in the affair because she thinks Jarvis is such an
    excellent match for Dovie . . . and also, I suspect, because she
    hates Franklin Westcott and would like to see him routed, horse,
    foot, and artillery. Not that Aunt Kate would admit she 'hated'
    anybody, but Mrs. Franklin Westcott was a very dear girlhood friend
    of hers and Aunt Kate solemnly avers that he murdered her.

    "_I_ am interested in it, partly because I'm very fond of Jarvis and
    moderately fond of Dovie and partly, I begin to suspect, because I
    am an inveterate meddler in other people's business . . . always
    with excellent intentions, of course.

    "The situation is briefly this:--Franklin Westcott is a tall,
    somber, hard-bitten merchant, close and unsociable. He lives in a
    big, old-fashioned house called Elmcroft just outside the town on
    the upper harbor road. I have met him once or twice but really know
    very little about him, except that he has an uncanny habit of saying
    something and then going off into a long chuckle of soundless
    laughter. He has never gone to church since hymns came in and he
    insists on having all his windows open even in winter storms. I
    confess to a sneaking sympathy with him in this, but I am probably
    the only person in Summerside who would. He has got into the habit
    of being a leading citizen and nothing municipal dares to be done
    without his approval.

    "His wife is dead. It is common report that she was a slave, unable
    to call her soul her own. Franklin told her, it is said, when he
    brought her home that he would be master.

    "Dovie, whose real name is Sibyl, is his only child . . . a very
    pretty, plump, lovable girl of nineteen, with a red mouth always
    falling a little open over her small white teeth, glints of chestnut
    in her brown hair, alluring blue eyes, and sooty lashes so long you
    wonder if they can be real. Jen Pringle says it is her eyes Jarvis
    is really in love with. Jen and I have actually talked the affair
    over. Jarvis is her favorite cousin.

    "(In passing, you wouldn't believe how fond Jen is of me . . . and I
    of Jen. She's really the cutest thing.)

    "Franklin Westcott has never allowed Dovie to have any beaus and
    when Jarvis Morrow began to 'pay her attention,' he forbade him the
    house and told Dovie there was to be no more 'running round with
    that fellow.' But the mischief had been done. Dovie and Jarvis were
    already fathoms deep in love.

    "Everybody in town is in sympathy with the lovers. Franklin Westcott
    is really unreasonable. Jarvis is a successful young lawyer, of good
    family, with good prospects, and a very nice, decent lad in himself.

    "'Nothing could be more suitable,' declares Rebecca Dew. 'Jarvis
    Morrow could have _any_ girl he wanted in Summerside. Franklin
    Westcott has just made up his mind that Dovie is to be an old maid.
    He wants to be sure of a housekeeper when Aunt Maggie dies.'

    "'Isn't there anyone who has any influence with him?' I asked.

    "'Nobody can argue with Franklin Westcott. He's too sarcastical. And
    if you get the better of him he throws a tantrum. I've never seen
    him in one of his tantrums but I've heard Miss Prouty describe how
    he acted one time she was there sewing. He got mad over something
    . . . nobody knew what. He just grabbed everything in sight and flung
    it out of the window. Milton's poems went flying clean over the
    fence into George Clarke's lily pond. He's always kind of had a
    grudge at life. Miss Prouty says her mother told her that the yelps
    of him when he was born passed anything she ever heard. I suppose
    God has some reason for making men like that, but you'd wonder. No,
    I can't see any chance for Jarvis and Dovie unless they elope. It's
    a kind of low-down thing to do, though there's been a terrible lot
    of romantic nonsense talked about eloping. But this is a case where
    anybody would excuse it.'

    "I don't know what to do but I must do something. I simply can't
    sit still and see people make a mess of their lives under my very
    nose, no matter how many tantrums Franklin Westcott takes. Jarvis
    Morrow is not going to wait forever . . . rumor has it that he is
    getting out of patience already and has been seen savagely cutting
    Dovie's name out of a tree on which he had cut it. There is an
    attractive Palmer girl who is reported to be throwing herself at his
    head, and his sister is said to have said that his mother has said
    that _her_ son has no need to dangle for years at any girl's apron
    string.

    "Really, Gilbert, I'm quite unhappy about it.

    "It's moonlight tonight, beloved . . . moonlight on the poplars of
    the yard . . . moonlit dimples all over the harbor where a phantom
    ship is drifting outwards . . . moonlight on the old graveyard . . .
    on my own private valley . . . on the Storm King. And it will be
    moonlight in Lover's Lane and on the Lake of Shining Waters and the
    old Haunted Wood and Violet Vale. There should be fairy dances on
    the hills tonight. But, Gilbert dear, moonlight with no one to share
    it is just . . . just _moonshine_.

    "I wish I could take little Elizabeth for a walk. She loves a
    moonlight walk. We had some delightful ones when she was at Green
    Gables. But at home Elizabeth never sees moonlight except from the
    window.

    "I am beginning to be a little worried about her, too. She is going
    on ten now and those two old ladies haven't the least idea what she
    needs, spiritually and emotionally. As long as she has good food and
    good clothes, they cannot imagine her needing anything more. And it
    will be worse with every succeeding year. What kind of girlhood will
    the poor child have?"


                                    6


Jarvis Morrow walked home from the High School Commencement with Anne
and told her his woes.

"You'll have to run away with her, Jarvis. Everybody says so. As a rule
I don't approve of elopements" ("I said that like a teacher of forty
years' experience," thought Anne with an unseen grin) "but there are
exceptions to all rules."

"It takes two to make a bargain, Anne. I can't elope alone. Dovie is so
frightened of her father, I can't get her to agree. And it wouldn't be
an elopement . . . really. She'd just come to my sister Julia's . . .
Mrs. Stevens, you know . . . some evening. I'd have the minister there
and we could be married respectably enough to please anybody and go over
to spend our honeymoon with Aunt Bertha in Kingsport. Simple as that.
But I can't get Dovie to chance it. The poor darling has been giving in
to her father's whims and crotchets so long, she hasn't any will power
left."

"You'll simply have to make her do it, Jarvis."

"Great Peter, you don't suppose I haven't tried, do you, Anne? I've
begged till I was black in the face. When she's with me she'll almost
promise it, but the minute she's home again she sends me word she can't.
It seems odd, Anne, but the poor child is really fond of her father and
she can't bear the thought of his never forgiving her."

"You must tell her she has to choose between her father and you."

"And suppose she chooses him?"

"I don't think there's any danger of that."

"You can never tell," said Jarvis gloomily. "But something has to be
decided soon. I can't go on like this forever. I'm crazy about Dovie
. . . everybody in Summerside knows that. She's like a little red rose
just out of reach . . . I _must_ reach her, Anne."

"Poetry is a very good thing in its place, but it won't get you anywhere
in this instance, Jarvis," said Anne coolly. "That sounds like a remark
Rebecca Dew would make, but it's quite true. What you need in this
affair is plain, hard common sense. Tell Dovie you're tired of
shilly-shallying and that she must take you or leave you. If she doesn't
care enough for you to leave her father for you, it's just as well for
you to realize it."

Jarvis groaned.

"You haven't been under the thumb of Franklin Westcott all your life,
Anne. You haven't any realization of what he's like. Well, I'll make a
last and final effort. As you say, if Dovie really cares for me she'll
come to me . . . and if she doesn't, I might as well know the worst. I'm
beginning to feel I've made myself rather ridiculous."

"If you're beginning to feel like that," thought Anne, "Dovie would
better watch out."

Dovie herself slipped into Windy Poplars a few evenings later to consult
Anne.

"What shall I do, Anne? What _can_ I do? Jarvis wants me to elope . . .
practically. Father is to be in Charlottetown one night next week
attending a Masonic banquet . . . and it _would_ be a good chance. Aunt
Maggie would never suspect. Jarvis wants me to go to Mrs. Stevens' and
be married there."

"And why don't you, Dovie?"

"Oh, Anne, do you really think I ought to?" Dovie lifted a sweet,
coaxing face. "Please, _please_ make up my mind for me. I'm just
distracted." Dovie's voice broke on a tearful note. "Oh, Anne, you don't
know Father. He just hates Jarvis . . . I can't imagine why . . . can
you? How can _anybody_ hate Jarvis? When he called on me the first time,
Father forbade him the house and told him he'd set the dog on him if he
ever came again . . . our big bull. You know they never let go once they
take hold. And he'll never forgive me if I run away with Jarvis."

"You must choose between them, Dovie."

"That's just what Jarvis said," wept Dovie. "Oh, he was so stern . . . I
never saw him like that before. And I can't . . . I _can't_ li . . i . .
i . . ve without him, Anne."

"Then live with him, my dear girl. And don't call it eloping. Just
coming into Summerside and being married among his friends isn't
eloping."

"Father will call it so," said Dovie, swallowing a sob. "But I'm going
to take your advice, Anne. I'm sure _you_ wouldn't advise me to take any
step that was wrong. I'll tell Jarvis to go ahead and get the license
and I'll come to his sister's the night Father is in Charlottetown."

Jarvis told Anne triumphantly that Dovie had yielded at last.

"I'm to meet her at the end of the lane next Tuesday night . . . she
won't have me go down to the house for fear Aunt Maggie might see me
. . . and we'll just step up to Julia's and be married in a brace of
shakes. All my folks will be there, so it will make the poor darling
quite comfortable. Franklin Westcott said I should never get his
daughter. I'll show him he was mistaken."


                                    7


Tuesday was a gloomy day in late November. Occasional cold, gusty
showers drifted over the hills. The world seemed a dreary outlived
place, seen through a gray drizzle.

"Poor Dovie hasn't a very nice day for her wedding," thought Anne.
"Suppose . . . suppose . . ." she quaked and shivered . . . "suppose it
doesn't turn out well, after all. It will be my fault. Dovie would never
have agreed to it if I hadn't advised her to. And suppose Franklin
Westcott never forgives her. Anne Shirley, stop this! The weather is all
that's the matter with you."

By night the rain had ceased but the air was cold and raw and the sky
lowering. Anne was in her tower room, correcting school papers, with
Dusty Miller coiled up under her stove. There came a thunderous knock at
the front door.

Anne ran down. Rebecca Dew poked an alarmed head out of her bedroom
door. Anne motioned her back.

"It's someone at the _front door!_" said Rebecca hollowly.

"It's all right, Rebecca dear. At least, I'm afraid it's all wrong . . .
but, anyway, it's only Jarvis Morrow. I saw him from the side tower
window and I know he wants to see me."

"Jarvis Morrow!" Rebecca went back and shut her door. "This _is_ the
last straw."

"Jarvis, whatever is the matter?"

"Dovie hasn't come," said Jarvis wildly. "We've waited _hours_ . . . the
minister's there . . . and my friends . . . and Julia has supper ready
. . . and Dovie hasn't come. I waited for her at the end of the lane till
I was half crazy. I didn't dare go down to the house because I didn't
know what had happened. That old brute of a Franklin Westcott may have
come back. Aunt Maggie may have locked her up. But I've got to _know_.
Anne, you must go to Elmcroft and find out why she hasn't come."

"Me?" said Anne incredulously and ungrammatically.

"Yes, you. There's no one else I can trust . . . no one else who knows.
Oh, Anne, don't fail me now. You've backed us up right along. Dovie says
you are the only real friend she has. It isn't late . . . only nine. Do
go."

"And be chewed up by the bulldog?" said Anne sarcastically.

"That old dog!" said Jarvis contemptuously. "He wouldn't say boo to a
tramp. You don't suppose I was afraid of the dog, do you? Besides, he's
always shut up at night. I simply don't want to make any trouble for
Dovie at home if they've found out. Anne, please!"

"I suppose I'm in for it," said Anne with a shrug of despair.

Jarvis drove her to the long lane of Elmcroft, but she would not let him
come farther.

"As you say, it might complicate matters for Dovie in case her father
has come home."

Anne hurried down the long, tree-bordered lane. The moon occasionally
broke through the windy clouds, but for the most part it was gruesomely
dark and she was dubious about the dog.

There seemed to be only one light in Elmcroft . . . shining from the
kitchen window. Aunt Maggie herself opened the side door to Anne. Aunt
Maggie was a very old sister of Franklin Westcott's, a little bent,
wrinkled woman who had never been considered very bright mentally,
though she was an excellent housekeeper.

"Aunt Maggie, is Dovie home?"

"Dovie's in bed," said Aunt Maggie stolidly.

"In bed? Is she sick?"

"Not as I knows on. She seemed to be in a dither all day. After supper
she says she was tired and ups and goes to bed."

"I must see her for a moment, Aunt Maggie. I . . . I just want a little
important information."

"Better go up to her room then. It's the one on the right side as you go
up."

Aunt Maggie gestured to the stairs and waddled out to the kitchen.

Dovie sat up as Anne walked in, rather unceremoniously, after a hurried
rap. As could be seen by the light of a tiny candle, Dovie was in tears,
but her tears only exasperated Anne.

"Dovie Westcott, did you forget that you promised to marry Jarvis Morrow
tonight . . . _tonight_?"

"No . . . no . . ." whimpered Dovie. "Oh, Anne, I'm so unhappy . . .
I've put in such a dreadful day. You can never, never know what I've
gone through."

"I know what poor Jarvis has gone through, waiting for two hours at that
lane in the cold and drizzle," said Anne mercilessly.

"Is he . . . is he very angry, Anne?"

"Just what you could notice" . . . bitingly.

"Oh, Anne, I just got frightened. I never slept one wink last night. I
couldn't go through with it . . . I couldn't. I . . . there's really
something disgraceful about eloping, Anne. And I wouldn't get any nice
presents . . . well, not many, anyhow. I've always wanted to be m . . .
m . . . arried in church . . . with lovely decorations . . . and a white
veil and dress . . . and s . . . s . . . ilver slippers!"

"Dovie Westcott, get right out of that bed . . . _at once_ . . . and get
dressed . . . and come with me."

"Anne . . . it's too late now."

"It isn't too late. And it's now or never . . . you must know that,
Dovie, if you've a grain of sense. You must know Jarvis Morrow will
never speak to you again if you make a fool of him like this."

"Oh, Anne, he'll forgive me when he knows . . ."

"He won't. I know Jarvis Morrow. He isn't going to let you play
indefinitely with his life. Dovie, do you want me to drag you bodily out
of bed?"

Dovie shuddered and sighed.

"I haven't any suitable dress . . ."

"You've half-a-dozen pretty dresses. Put on your rose taffeta."

"And I haven't _any_ trousseau. The Morrows will always cast that up to
me. . . ."

"You can get one afterwards. Dovie, didn't you weigh all these things in
the balance before?"

"No . . . no . . . that's just the trouble. I only began to think of
them last night. And Father . . . you don't know Father, Anne. . . ."

"Dovie, I'll give you just ten minutes to get dressed!"

Dovie was dressed in the specified time.

"This dress is g . . . g . . . getting too tight for me," she sobbed as
Anne hooked her up. "If I get much fatter I don't suppose Jarvis will
l . . . l . . . love me. I wish I was tall and slim and pale, like you,
Anne. Oh, Anne, what if Aunt Maggie hears us!"

"She won't. She's shut in the kitchen and you know she's a little deaf.
Here's your hat and coat and I've tumbled a few things into this bag."

"Oh, my heart is fluttering so. Do I look terrible, Anne?"

"You look lovely," said Anne sincerely. Dovie's satin skin was rose and
cream and all her tears hadn't spoiled her eyes. But Jarvis couldn't see
her eyes in the dark and he was just a little annoyed with his adored
fair one and rather cool during the drive to town.

"For heaven's sake, Dovie, don't look so scared over having to marry
me," he said impatiently as she came down the stairs of the Stevens
house. "And don't cry . . . it will make your nose swell. It's nearly
ten o'clock and we've got to catch the eleven o'clock train."

Dovie was quite all right as soon as she found herself irrevocably
married to Jarvis. What Anne rather cattishly described in a letter to
Gilbert as "the honeymoon look" was already on her face.

"Anne, darling, we owe it all to you. We'll never forget it, will we,
Jarvis? And, oh, Anne darling, will you do just one more thing for me?
Please break the news to Father. He'll be home early tomorrow evening
. . . and _somebody_ has got to tell him. You can smooth him over if
anybody can. Please do your best to get him to forgive me."

Anne felt she rather needed some smoothing-over herself just then; but
she also felt rather uneasily responsible for the outcome of the affair,
so she gave the required promise.

"Of course he'll be terrible . . . simply terrible, Anne . . . but he
can't kill you," said Dovie comfortingly. "Oh, Anne, you don't know . . .
you can't realize . . . how _safe_ I feel with Jarvis."

When Anne got home Rebecca Dew had reached the point where she had to
satisfy her curiosity or go mad. She followed Anne to the tower room in
her nightdress, with a square of flannel wrapped round her head, and
heard the whole story.

"Well, I suppose this is what you might call 'life,'" she said
sarcastically. "But I'm real glad Franklin Westcott has got his
come-uppance at last, and so will Mrs. Captain MacComber be. But I don't
envy you the job of breaking the news to him. He'll rage and utter vain
things. If I was in your shoes, Miss Shirley, I wouldn't sleep one
blessed wink tonight."

"I feel that it won't be a very pleasant experience," agreed Anne
ruefully.


                                    8


Anne betook herself to Elmcroft the next evening, walking through the
dreamlike landscape of a November fog with a rather sinking sensation
pervading her being. It was not exactly a delightful errand. As Dovie
had said, of course Franklin Westcott wouldn't kill her. Anne did not
fear physical violence . . . though if all the tales told of him were
true, he might throw something at her. Would he gibber with rage? Anne
had never seen a man gibbering with rage and she imagined it must be a
rather unpleasant sight. But he would probably exercise his noted gift
for unpleasant sarcasm, and sarcasm, in man or woman, was the one
weapon Anne dreaded. It always hurt her . . . raised blisters on her
soul that smarted for months.

"Aunt Jamesina used to say, 'Never, if you can help it, be the bringer
of ill news,'" reflected Anne. "She was as wise in that as in everything
else. Well, here I am."

Elmcroft was an old-fashioned house with towers at every corner and a
bulbous cupola on the roof. And at the top of the flight of front steps
sat the dog.

"'If they take hold they never let go,'" remembered Anne. Should she try
going round to the side door? Then the thought that Franklin Westcott
might be watching her from the window braced her up. Never would she
give him the satisfaction of seeing that she was afraid of his dog.
Resolutely, her head held high, she marched up the steps, past the dog,
and rang the bell. The dog had not stirred. When Anne glanced at him
over her shoulder he was apparently asleep.

Franklin Westcott, it transpired, was not at home but was expected every
minute, as the Charlottetown train was due. Aunt Maggie convoyed Anne
into what she called the "liberry" and left her there. The dog had got
up and followed them in. He came and arranged himself at Anne's feet.

Anne found herself liking the "liberry." It was a cheerful, shabby room,
with a fire glowing cozily in the grate, and bearskin rugs on the worn
red carpet of the floor. Franklin Westcott evidently did himself well in
regard to books and pipes.

Presently she heard him come in. He hung up his hat and coat in the
hall: he stood in the library doorway with a very decided scowl on his
brow. Anne recalled that her impression of him the first time she had
seen him was that of a rather gentlemanly pirate, and she felt a
repetition of it.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said rather gruffly. "Well, and what do you
want?"

He had not even offered to shake hands with her. Of the two, Anne
thought the dog had decidedly the better manners.

"Mr. Westcott, please hear me through patiently before . . ."

"I am patient . . . very patient. Proceed!"

Anne decided that there was no use beating about the bush with a man
like Franklin Westcott.

"I have come to tell you," she steadily, "that Dovie has married Jarvis
Morrow."

Then she waited for the earthquake. None came. Not a muscle of Franklin
Westcott's lean brown face changed. He came in and sat down in the
bandy-legged leather chair opposite Anne.

"When?" he said.

"Last night . . . at his sister's," said Anne.

Franklin Westcott looked at her for a moment out of yellowish brown eyes
deeply set under penthouses of grizzled eyebrow. Anne had a moment of
wondering what he had looked like when he was a baby. Then he threw back
his head and went into one of his spasms of soundless laughter.

"You mustn't blame Dovie, Mr. Westcott," said Anne earnestly, recovering
her powers of speech now that the awful revelation was over. "It wasn't
her fault. . . ."

"I'll bet it wasn't," said Franklin Westcott.

_Was_ he trying to be sarcastic?

"No, it was all mine," said Anne, simply and bravely. "I advised her to
elo . . . to be married. . . . I _made_ her do it. So please forgive
her, Mr. Westcott."

Franklin Westcott coolly picked up a pipe and began to fill it.

"If you've managed to make Sibyl elope with Jarvis Morrow, Miss Shirley,
you've accomplished more than I ever thought anybody could. I was
beginning to be afraid she'd never have backbone enough to do it. And
then I'd have had to back down . . . and Lord, how we Westcotts hate
backing down! You've saved my face, Miss Shirley, and I'm profoundly
grateful to you."

There was a very loud silence while Franklin Westcott tamped his tobacco
down and looked with an amused twinkle at Anne's face. Anne was so much
at sea she didn't know what to say.

"I suppose," he said, "that you came here in fear and trembling to break
the terrible news to me?"

"Yes," said Anne, a trifle shortly.

Franklin Westcott chuckled soundlessly.

"You needn't have. You couldn't have brought me more welcome news. Why,
I picked Jarvis Morrow out for Sibyl when they were kids. Soon as the
other boys began taking notice of her, I shooed them off. That gave
Jarvis his first notion of her. He'd show the old man! But he was so
popular with the girls that I could hardly believe the incredible luck
when he did really take a genuine fancy to her. Then I laid out my plan
of campaign. I knew the Morrows root and branch. You don't. They're a
good family, but the men don't want things they can get easily. And
they're determined to get a thing when they're told they can't. They
always go by contraries. Jarvis' father broke three girls' hearts
because their families threw them at his head. In Jarvis' case I knew he
wouldn't keep on wanting her if she was too easy to get. So I forbade
him to come near the place and forbade Sibyl to have a word to say to
him and generally played the heavy parent to perfection. Talk about the
charm of the uncaught! It's nothing to the charm of the uncatchable. It
all worked out according to schedule, but I struck a snag in Sibyl's
spinelessness. She's a nice child but she _is_ spineless. I've been
thinking she'd never have the pluck to marry him in my teeth. Now, if
you've got your breath back, my dear young lady, unbosom yourself of the
whole story."

Anne's sense of humor had again come to her rescue. She could never
refuse an opportunity for a good laugh, even when it was on herself. And
she suddenly felt very well acquainted with Franklin Westcott.

He listened to the tale, taking quiet, enjoyable whiffs of his pipe.
When Anne had finished he nodded comfortably.

"I see I'm more in your debt even than I thought. She'd never have got
up the courage to do it if it hadn't been for you. And Jarvis Morrow
wouldn't have risked being made a fool of twice . . . not if I know the
breed. Gosh, but I've had a narrow escape! I'm yours to command for
life. You're a real brick to come here as you did, believing all the
yarns gossip told you. You've been told a-plenty, haven't you now?"

Anne nodded. The bulldog had got his head on her lap and was snoring
blissfully.

"Everyone agreed that you were cranky, crabbed and crusty," she said
candidly.

"And I suppose they told you I was a tyrant and made my poor wife's life
miserable and ruled my family with a rod of iron?"

"Yes; but I really did take all that with a grain of salt, Mr. Westcott.
I felt that Dovie couldn't be as fond of you as she was if you were as
dreadful as gossip painted you."

"Sensible gal! My wife was a happy woman, Miss Shirley. And when Mrs.
Captain MacComber tells you I bullied her to death, tick her off for me.
Excuse my common way. Mollie was pretty . . . prettier than Sibyl. Such
a pink-and-white skin . . . such golden-brown hair . . . such dewy blue
eyes! She was the prettiest woman in Summerside. Had to be. I couldn't
have stood it if a man had walked into church with a handsomer wife than
me. I ruled my household as a man should but _not_ tyrannically. Oh, of
course, I had a spell of temper now and then, but Mollie didn't mind
them after she got used to them. A man has a right to have a row with
his wife now and then, hasn't he? Women get tired of monotonous
husbands. Besides, I always gave her a ring or a necklace or some such
gaud after I calmed down. There wasn't a woman in Summerside had more
nice jewelry. I must get it out and give it to Sibyl."

Anne went wicked.

"What about Milton's poems?"

"Milton's poems? Oh, that! It wasn't Milton's poems . . . it was
Tennyson's. I reverence Milton but I can't abide Alfred. He's too sickly
sweet. Those last two lines of _Enoch Arden_ made me so mad one night, I
did fire the book through the window. But I picked it up the next day
for the sake of the _Bugle Song_. I'd forgive anybody anything for that.
It _didn't_ go into George Clarke's lily pond--that was old Prouty's
embroidery. You're not going? Stay and have a bite of supper with a
lonely old fellow robbed of his only whelp."

"I'm really sorry I can't, Mr. Westcott, but I have to attend a meeting
of the staff tonight."

"Well, I'll be seeing you when Sibyl comes back. I'll have to fling a
party for them, no doubt. Good gosh, what a relief this has been to my
mind. You've no idea how I'd have hated to have to back down and say,
'Take her.' _Now_ all I have to do is to pretend to be heartbroken and
resigned and forgive her sadly for the sake of her poor mother. I'll do
it beautifully . . . Jarvis must never suspect. Don't _you_ give the
show away."

"I won't," promised Anne.

Franklin Westcott saw her courteously to the door. The bulldog sat up on
his haunches and cried after her.

Franklin Westcott took his pipe out of his mouth at the door and tapped
her on the shoulder with it.

"Always remember," he said solemnly, "there's more than one way to skin
a cat. It can be done so that the animal'll never know he's lost his
hide. Give my love to Rebecca Dew. A nice old puss, if you stroke her
the right way. And thank you . . . thank you."

Anne betook herself home, through the soft, calm evening. The fog had
cleared, the wind had shifted and there was a look of frost in the pale
green sky.

"People told me I didn't know Franklin Westcott," reflected Anne. "They
were right . . . I didn't. And neither did they."

"How did he take it?" Rebecca Dew was keen to know. She had been on
tenterhooks during Anne's absence.

"Not so badly after all," said Anne confidentially. "I _think_ he'll
forgive Dovie in time."

"I never did see the beat of you, Miss Shirley, for talking people
round," said Rebecca Dew admiringly. "You have certainly got a way with
you."

"'Something attempted, something done has earned a night's repose,'"
quoted Anne wearily as she climbed the three steps into her bed that
night. "But just wait till the next person asks my advice about
eloping!"


                                    9


                   (_Extract from letter to Gilbert._)


    "I am invited to have supper tomorrow night with a lady of
    Summerside. I know you won't believe me, Gilbert, when I tell you
    her name is Tomgallon . . . Miss Minerva Tomgallon. You'll say I've
    been reading Dickens too long and too late.

    "Dearest, aren't you glad your name is Blythe? I am sure I could
    never marry you if it were Tomgallon. Fancy . . . Anne Tomgallon!
    No, you can't fancy it.

    "This is the ultimate honor Summerside has to bestow . . . an
    invitation to Tomgallon House. It has no other name. No nonsense
    about Elms or Chestnuts or Crofts for the Tomgallons.

    "I understand they were the 'Royal Family' in old days. The Pringles
    are mushrooms compared to them. And now there is left of them all
    only Miss Minerva, the sole survivor of six generations of Tomgallons.
    She lives alone in a huge house on Queen Street . . . a house with
    great chimneys, green shutters, and the only stained-glass window in
    a private house in town. It is big enough for four families and is
    occupied only by Miss Minerva, a cook and a maid. It is very well
    kept up, but somehow whenever I walk past it I feel that it is a
    place which life has forgotten.

    "Miss Minerva goes out very little, excepting to the Anglican
    church, and I had never met her until a few weeks ago, when she came
    to a meeting of staff and trustees to make a formal gift of her
    father's valuable library to the school. She looks exactly as you
    would expect a Minerva Tomgallon to look . . . tall and thin, with a
    long, narrow white face, a long thin nose and a long thin mouth.
    That doesn't sound very attractive, yet Miss Minerva is quite
    handsome in a stately, aristocratic style and is always dressed with
    great, though somewhat old-fashioned, elegance. She was quite a
    beauty when she was young, Rebecca Dew tells me, and her large black
    eyes are still full of fire and dark luster. She suffers from no
    lack of words, and I don't think I ever heard anyone enjoy making a
    presentation speech more.

    "Miss Minerva was especially nice to me, and yesterday I received a
    formal little note inviting me to have supper with her. When I told
    Rebecca Dew, she opened her eyes as widely as if I had been invited
    to Buckingham Palace.

    "'It's a great honor to be asked to Tomgallon House,' she said in a
    rather awed tone. 'I never heard of Miss Minerva asking any of the
    principals there before. To be sure, they were all men, so I suppose
    it would hardly have been proper. Well, I hope she won't talk you to
    death, Miss Shirley. The Tomgallons could all talk the hind leg off
    a cat. And they liked to be in the front of things. Some folks think
    the reason Miss Minerva lives so retired is because now that she's
    old she can't take the lead as she used to do and she won't play
    second fiddle to anyone. What are you going to wear, Miss Shirley?
    I'd like to see you wear your cream silk gauze with your black
    velvet bows. It's so dressy.'

    "'I'm afraid it would be rather too "dressy" for a quiet evening
    out,' I said.

    "'Miss Minerva would like it, I think. The Tomgallons all liked
    their company to be nicely arrayed. They say Miss Minerva's
    grandfather once shut the door in the face of a woman who had been
    asked there to a ball, because she came in her second-best dress. He
    told her her best was none too good for the Tomgallons.'

    "Nevertheless, I think I'll wear my green voile, and the ghosts of
    the Tomgallons must make the best of it.

    "I'm going to confess something I did last week, Gilbert. I suppose
    you'll think I'm meddling again in other folks' business. But I
    _had_ to do something. I'll not be in Summerside next year and I
    can't bear the thought of leaving little Elizabeth to the mercy of
    those two unloving old women who are growing bitterer and narrower
    every year. What kind of a girlhood will she have with them in that
    gloomy old place?

    "'I wonder,' she said to me wistfully, not long ago, 'what it would
    be like to have a grandmother you weren't afraid of.'

    "This is what I did: _I wrote to her father_. He lives in Paris and
    I didn't know his address, but Rebecca Dew had heard and remembered
    the name of the firm whose branch he runs there, so I took a chance
    and addressed him in care of it. I wrote as diplomatic a letter as I
    could, but I told him plainly that he ought to take Elizabeth. I
    told him how she longs for and dreams about him and that Mrs.
    Campbell was really too severe and strict with her. Perhaps nothing
    will come of it, but if I hadn't written I would be forever haunted
    by the conviction that I ought to have done it.

    "What made me think of it was Elizabeth telling me very seriously
    one day that she had 'written a letter to God,' asking Him to bring
    her father back to her and make him love her. She said she had
    stopped on the way home from school, in the middle of a vacant lot,
    and read it, looking up at the sky. I knew she had done something
    odd, because Miss Prouty had seen the performance and told me about
    it when she came to sew for the widows next day. She thought
    Elizabeth was getting 'queer' . . . 'talking to the sky like that.'

    "I asked Elizabeth about it and she told me.

    "'I thought God might pay more attention to a letter than a prayer,'
    she said. 'I've prayed so long. He must get so many prayers.'

    "That night I wrote to her father.

    "Before I close I must tell you about Dusty Miller. Some time ago
    Aunt Kate told me that she felt she must find another home for him
    because Rebecca Dew kept complaining about him so that she felt she
    really could not endure it any longer. One evening last week when I
    came home from school there was no Dusty Miller. Aunt Chatty said
    they had given him to Mrs. Edmonds, who lives on the other side of
    Summerside from Windy Poplars. I felt sorry, for Dusty Miller and I
    have been excellent friends. 'But, at least,' I thought, 'Rebecca
    Dew will be a happy woman.'

    "Rebecca was away for the day, having gone to the country to help a
    relative hook rugs. When she returned at dusk nothing was said, but
    at bedtime when she was calling Dusty Miller from the back porch
    Aunt Kate said quietly:

    "'You needn't call Dusty Miller, Rebecca. He is not here. We have
    found a home for him elsewhere. You will not be bothered with him
    any more.'

    "If Rebecca Dew could have turned pale she would have done so.

    "'Not here? Found a home for him? Good grief! Isn't this his home?'

    "'We have given him to Mrs. Edmonds. She has been very lonely since
    her daughter married and thought a nice cat would be company.'

    "Rebecca Dew came in and shut the door. She looked very wild.

    "'This _is_ the last straw,' she said. And indeed it seemed to be.
    I've never seen Rebecca Dew's eyes emit such sparkles of rage. 'I'll
    be leaving at the end of the month, Mrs. MacComber, and sooner if
    you can be suited.'

    "'But, Rebecca,' said Aunt Kate in bewilderment, 'I don't
    understand. You've always disliked Dusty Miller. Only last week you
    said . . .'

    "'That's right,' said Rebecca bitterly. 'Cast things up to me! Don't
    have any regard for my feelings! That poor dear Cat! I've waited
    on him and pampered him and got up nights to let him in. And now
    he's been spirited away behind my back without so much as a
    by-your-leave. And to Jane Edmonds, who wouldn't buy a bit of liver
    for the poor creature if he was dying for it! The only company I had
    in the kitchen!'

    "'But, Rebecca, you've always . . .'

    "'Oh, keep on . . . keep on! Don't let _me_ get a word in edgewise,
    Mrs. MacComber. I've raised that cat from a kitten . . . I've looked
    after his health and his morals . . . and what for? That Jane
    Edmonds should have a well-trained cat for company. Well, I hope
    she'll stand out in the frost at nights, as I've done, calling that
    cat for _hours_ rather than leave him out to freeze, but I doubt it
    . . . I seriously doubt it. Well, Mrs. MacComber, all I hope is that
    your conscience won't trouble you the next time it's ten below zero.
    _I_ won't sleep a wink when it happens, but of course _that_ doesn't
    matter an old shoe to anyone.'

    "'Rebecca, if you would only . . .'

    "'Mrs. MacComber, I am not a worm, neither am I a doormat. Well,
    this has been a lesson for me . . . a valuable lesson! Never again
    will I allow my affections to twine themselves around an animal of
    any kind or description. And if you'd done it open and aboveboard
    . . . but behind my back . . . taking advantage of me like that! I
    never heard of anything so dirt mean! But who am I that I should
    expect _my_ feelings to be considered!'

    "'Rebecca,' said Aunt Kate desperately, 'if you want Dusty Miller
    back we can get him back.'

    "'Why didn't you say so before then?' demanded Rebecca Dew. 'And I
    doubt it. Jane Edmonds has got her claws in him. Is it likely she'll
    give him up?'

    "'I think she will,' said Aunt Kate, who had apparently reverted to
    jelly. 'And if he comes back you won't leave us, will you, Rebecca?'

    "'I may think it over,' said Rebecca, with the air of one making a
    tremendous concession.

    "Next day, Aunt Chatty brought Dusty Miller home in a covered
    basket. I caught a glance exchanged between her and Aunt Kate after
    Rebecca had carried Dusty Miller out to the kitchen and shut the
    door. I wonder! Was it all a deep-laid plot on the part of the
    widows, aided and abetted by Jane Edmonds?

    "Rebecca has never uttered a word of complaint about Dusty Miller
    since and there is a veritable clang of victory in her voice when
    she shouts for him at bedtime. It sounds as if she wanted all
    Summerside to know that Dusty Miller is back where he belongs and
    that she has once more got the better of the widows!"


                                   10


It was on a dark, windy March evening, when even the clouds scudding
over the sky seemed in a hurry, that Anne skimmed up the triple flight
of broad, shallow steps flanked by stone urns and stonier lions, that
led to the massive front door of Tomgallon House. Usually, when she had
passed it after dark it was somber and grim, with a dim twinkle of light
in one or two windows. But now it blazed forth brilliantly, even the
wings on either side being lighted up, as if Miss Minerva were
entertaining the whole town. Such an illumination in her honor rather
overcame Anne. She almost wished she had put on her cream gauze.

Nevertheless she looked very charming in her green voile and perhaps
Miss Minerva, meeting her in the hall, thought so, for her face and
voice were very cordial. Miss Minerva herself was regal in black velvet,
a diamond comb in the heavy coils of her iron-gray hair, and a massive
cameo brooch surrounded by a braid of some departed Tomgallon's hair.
The whole costume was a little outmoded, but Miss Minerva wore it with
such a grand air that it seemed as timeless as royalty's.

"Welcome to Tomgallon House, my dear," she said, giving Anne a bony
hand, likewise well sprinkled with diamonds. "I am very glad to have you
here as my guest."

"I am . . ."

"Tomgallon House was always the resort of beauty and youth in the old
days. We used to have a great many parties and entertained all the
visiting celebrities," said Miss Minerva, leading Anne to the big
staircase over a carpet of faded red velvet. "But all is changed now. I
entertain very little. I am the last of the Tomgallons. Perhaps it is as
well. Our family, my dear, are _under a curse_."

Miss Minerva infused such a gruesome tinge of mystery and horror into
her tones that Anne almost shivered. The Curse of the Tomgallons! What a
title for a story!

"This is the stair down which my Great-grandfather Tomgallon fell and
broke his neck the night of his housewarming given to celebrate the
completion of his new home. This house was consecrated by human blood.
He fell _there_ . . ." Miss Minerva pointed a long white finger so
dramatically at a tigerskin rug in the hall that Anne could almost see
the departed Tomgallon dying on it. She really did not know what to say,
so said inanely, "Oh!"

Miss Minerva ushered her along a hall, hung with portraits and
photographs of faded loveliness, with the famous stained-glass window at
its end, into a large, high-ceilinged, very stately guest room. The high
walnut bed, with its huge headboard, was covered with so gorgeous a
silken quilt that Anne felt it was a desecration to lay her coat and hat
on it.

"You have very beautiful hair, my dear," said Miss Minerva admiringly.
"I always liked red hair. My Aunt Lydia had it . . . she was the only
red-haired Tomgallon. One night when she was brushing it in the north
room it caught fire from her candle and she ran shrieking down the hall
wrapped in flames. All part of the Curse, my dear . . . all part of the
Curse."

"Was she . . ."

"No, she wasn't burned to death, but she lost all her beauty. She was
very handsome and vain. She never went out of the house from that night
to the day of her death and she left directions that her coffin was to
be shut so that no one might see her scarred face. Won't you sit down to
remove your rubbers, my dear? This is a very comfortable chair. My
sister died in it from a stroke. She was a widow and came back home to
live after her husband's death. Her little girl was scalded in our
kitchen with a pot of boiling water. Wasn't that a tragic way for a
child to die?"

"Oh, how . . ."

"But at least we knew _how_ it died. My half-aunt Eliza . . . at least,
she would have been my half-aunt if she had lived . . . just
_disappeared_ when she was six years old. Nobody ever knew what became
of her."

"But surely . . ."

"_Every_ search was made but nothing was ever discovered. It was said
that her mother . . . my step-grandmother . . . had been very cruel to
an orphan niece of my grandfather's who was being brought up here. She
locked it up in the closet at the head of the stairs, one hot summer
day, for punishment and when she went to let it out she found it . . .
_dead_. Some people thought it was a judgment on her when her own child
vanished. But I think it was just Our Curse."

"Who put . . . ?"

"What a high instep you have, my dear! My instep used to be admired too.
It was said a stream of water could run under it . . . the test of an
aristocrat."

Miss Minerva modestly poked a slipper from under her velvet skirt and
revealed what was undoubtedly a very handsome foot.

"It certainly . . ."

"Would you like to see over the house, my dear, before we have supper?
It used to be the Pride of Summerside. I suppose everything is very
old-fashioned now, but perhaps there are a few things of interest. That
sword hanging by the head of the stairs belonged to my
great-great-grandfather who was an officer in the British Army and
received a grant of land in Prince Edward Island for his services. He
never lived in this house, but my great-great-grandmother did for a few
weeks. She did not long survive her son's tragic death."

Miss Minerva marched Anne ruthlessly over the whole huge house, full of
great square rooms . . . ballroom, conservatory, billiard room, three
drawing rooms, breakfast room, no end of bedrooms and an enormous attic.
They were all splendid and dismal.

"Those were my Uncle Ronald and My Uncle Reuben," said Miss Minerva,
indicating two worthies who seemed to be scowling at each other from the
opposite sides of a fireplace. "They were twins and they hated each
other bitterly from birth. The house rang with their quarrels. It
darkened their mother's whole life. And during their final quarrel in
this very room, while a thunderstorm was going on, Reuben was killed by
a flash of lightning. Ronald never got over it. He was a _haunted man_
from that day. His wife," Miss Minerva added reminiscently, "swallowed
her wedding ring."

"What an ex . . ."

"Ronald thought it was very careless and wouldn't have anything done. A
prompt emetic might have . . . but it was never heard of again. It
spoiled her life. She always felt so _un_married without a wedding
ring."

"What a beautiful . . ."

"Oh, yes, that was my Aunt Emilia . . . not my aunt really, of course.
Just the wife of Uncle Alexander. She was noted for her spiritual look,
but she poisoned her husband with a stew of mushrooms . . . toadstools
really. We always pretended it was an accident, because a murder is such
a messy thing to have in a family, but we all knew the truth. Of course
she married him against her will. She was a gay young thing and he was
far too old for her. December and May, my dear. Still, that did not
really justify toadstools. She went into a decline soon afterwards. They
are buried together in Charlottetown . . . all the Tomgallons bury in
Charlottetown. This was my Aunt Louise. She drank laudanum. The doctor
pumped it out and saved her, but we all felt we could never trust her
again. It was really rather a relief when she died respectably of
pneumonia. Of course, some of us didn't blame her much. You see, my
dear, her husband had spanked her."

"Spanked . . ."

"Exactly. There are really some things no gentleman should do, my dear,
and one of them is spank his wife. Knock her down . . . possibly . . .
but spank her, never! I would like," said Miss Minerva, very
majestically, "to see the man who would dare to spank _me_."

Anne felt she would like to see him also. She realized that there are
limits to the imagination after all. By no stretch of hers could she
imagine a husband spanking Miss Minerva Tomgallon.

"This is the ballroom. Of course it is never used now. But there have
been any number of balls here. The Tomgallon balls were famous. People
came from all over the Island to them. That chandelier cost my father
five hundred dollars. My Great-aunt Patience dropped dead while dancing
here one night . . . right there in that corner. She had fretted a great
deal over a man who had disappointed her. I cannot imagine any girl
breaking her heart over a man. Men," said Miss Minerva, staring at a
photograph of her father . . . a person with bristling side-whiskers and
hawklike nose . . . "have always seemed to me such _trivial_ creatures."


                                   11


The dining room was in keeping with the rest of the house. There was
another ornate chandelier, an equally ornate, gilt-framed mirror over
the mantel piece, and a table beautifully set with silver and crystal
and old Crown Derby. The supper, served by a rather grim and ancient
maid, was bountiful and exceedingly good, and Anne's healthy young
appetite did full justice to it. Miss Minerva kept silence for a time
and Anne dared say nothing for fear of starting another avalanche of
tragedies. Once a large, sleek black cat came into the room and sat down
by Miss Minerva with a hoarse meow. Miss Minerva poured a saucer of
cream and set it down before him. She seemed so much more human after
this that Anne lost a good deal of her awe of the last of the
Tomgallons.

"Do have some more of the peaches, my dear. You've eaten nothing . . .
positively nothing."

"Oh, Miss Tomgallon, I've enjoyed. . ."

"The Tomgallons always set a good table," said Miss Minerva
complacently. "My Aunt Sophia made the best sponge cake I ever tasted. I
think the only person my father ever really hated to see come to our
house was his sister Mary, because she had such a poor appetite. She
just minced and tasted. He took it as a personal insult. Father was a
very unrelenting man. He never forgave my brother Richard for marrying
against his will. He ordered him out of the house and he was never
allowed to enter it again. Father always repeated the Lord's Prayer at
family worship every morning, but after Richard flouted him he always
left out the sentence, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those
who trespass against us.' I can see him," said Miss Minerva dreamily,
"kneeling there leaving it out."

After supper they went to the smallest of the three drawing rooms . . .
which was still rather big and grim . . . and spent the evening before
the huge fire . . . a pleasant, friendly enough fire. Anne crocheted at
a set of intricate doilies and Miss Minerva knitted away at an afghan
and kept up what was practically a monologue composed in great part of
colorful and gruesome Tomgallon history.

"This is a house of tragical memories, my dear."

"Miss Tomgallon, didn't _any_ pleasant thing ever happen in this house?"
asked Anne, achieving a complete sentence by a mere fluke. Miss Minerva
had had to stop talking long enough to blow her nose.

"Oh, I suppose so," said Miss Minerva, as if she hated to admit it.
"Yes, of course, we used to have gay times here when I was a girl. They
tell me you're writing a book about everyone in Summerside, my dear."

"I'm not . . . there isn't a word of truth . . ."

"Oh!" Miss Minerva was plainly a little disappointed. "Well, if ever you
do you are at liberty to use any of our stories you like, perhaps with
the names disguised. And now what do you say to a game of parchesi?"

"I'm afraid it is time I was going. . . ."

"Oh, my dear, you can't go home tonight. It's pouring cats and dogs . . .
and listen to the wind. I don't keep a carriage now . . . I have so
little use for one . . . and you can't walk half a mile in that deluge.
You must be my guest for the night."

Anne was not sure she wanted to spend a night in Tomgallon House. But
neither did she want to walk to Windy Poplars in a March tempest. So
they had their game of parchesi . . . in which Miss Minerva was so
interested that she forgot to talk about horrors . . . and then a
"bedtime snack." They ate cinnamon toast and drank cocoa out of old
Tomgallon cups of marvelous thinness and beauty.

Finally Miss Minerva took her up to a guest room which Anne at first was
glad to see was not the one where Miss Minerva's sister had died of a
stroke.

"This is Aunt Annabella's room," said Miss Minerva, lighting the candles
in the silver candlesticks on a rather pretty green dressing table and
turning out the gas. Matthew Tomgallon had blown out the gas one night
. . . whereupon exit Matthew Tomgallon. "She was the handsomest of all
the Tomgallons. That's her picture above the mirror. Do you notice what a
proud mouth she had? She made that crazy quilt on the bed. I hope you'll
be comfortable, my dear. Mary has aired the bed and put two hot bricks
in it. And she has aired this nightdress for you . . ." pointing to an
ample flannel garment hanging over a chair and smelling strongly of moth
balls. "I hope it will fit you. It hasn't been worn since poor Mother
died in it. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you . . ." Miss Minerva turned
back at the door . . . "this is the room Oscar Tomgallon came back to
life in--after being thought dead for two days. They _didn't want him
to_, you know--_that_ was the tragedy. I hope you'll sleep well, my
dear."

Anne did not know if she could sleep at all or not. Suddenly there
seemed something strange and alien in the room . . . something a little
hostile. But is there not something strange about any room that has been
occupied through generations? Death has lurked in it . . . love has been
rosy red in it . . . births have been here . . . all the passions . . .
all the hopes. It is full of wraiths.

But this was really rather a terrible old house, full of the ghosts of
dead hatreds and heartbreaks, crowded with dark deeds that had never
been dragged into light and were still festering in its corners and
hidy-holes. Too many women must have wept here. The wind wailed very
eerily in the spruces by the window. For a moment Anne felt like running
out, storm or no storm.

Then she took herself resolutely in hand and commanded common sense. If
tragic and dreadful things had happened here, many shadowy years agone,
amusing and lovely things must have happened, too. Gay and pretty girls
had danced here and talked over their charming secrets; dimpled babies
had been born here; there had been weddings and balls and music and
laughter. The spongecake lady must have been a comfortable creature and
the unforgiven Richard a gallant lover.

"I'll think on these things and go to bed. What a quilt to sleep under!
I wonder if I'll be as crazy as it by morning. And this is a spare room!
I've never forgotten what a thrill it used to give me to sleep in
anyone's spare room."

Anne uncoiled and brushed her hair under the very nose of Annabella
Tomgallon, who stared down at her with a face in which there were pride
and vanity, and something of the insolence of great beauty. Anne felt a
little creepy as she looked in the mirror. Who knew what faces might
look out of it at her? All the tragic and haunted ladies who had ever
looked into it, perhaps. She bravely opened the closet door, half
expecting any number of skeletons to tumble out, and hung up her dress.
She sat down calmly on a rigid chair, which looked as if it would be
insulted if anybody sat on it, and took off her shoes. Then she put on
the flannel nightgown, blew out the candles, and got into the bed,
pleasantly warm from Mary's bricks. For a little while the rain
streaming on the panes and the shriek of the wind around the old eaves
prevented her from sleeping. Then she forgot all the Tomgallon tragedies
in dreamless slumber until she found herself looking at dark fir boughs
against a red sunrise.

"I've enjoyed having you so much, my dear," said Miss Minerva when Anne
left after breakfast. "We've had a real cheerful visit, haven't we?
Though I've lived so long alone I've almost forgotten how to talk. And I
need not say what a delight it is to meet a really charming and
unspoiled young girl in this frivolous age. I didn't tell you yesterday
but it was my birthday, and it was very pleasant to have a bit of youth
in the house. There is nobody to remember my birthday now . . ." Miss
Minerva gave a faint sigh . . . "and once there were so many."

"Well, I suppose you heard a pretty grim chronicle," said Aunt Chatty
that night.

"Did all those things Miss Minerva told me really happen, Aunt Chatty?"

"Well, the queer thing is, they did," said Aunt Chatty. "It's a curious
thing, Miss Shirley, but a lot of awful things did happen to the
Tomgallons."

"I don't know that there were many more than happen in any large family
in the course of six generations," said Aunt Kate.

"Oh, I think there were. They really did seem under a curse. So many of
them died sudden or violent deaths. Of course there is a streak of
insanity in them . . . everyone knows that. That was curse enough . . .
but I've heard an old story . . . I can't recall the details . . . of
the carpenter who built the house cursing it. Something about the
contract . . . old Paul Tomgallon held him to it and it ruined him, it
cost so much more than he had figured."

"Miss Minerva seems rather proud of the curse," said Anne.

"Poor old thing, it's all she has," said Rebecca Dew.

Anne smiled to think of the stately Miss Minerva being referred to as a
poor old thing. But she went to the tower room and wrote to Gilbert:

"I thought Tomgallon House was a sleepy old place where nothing ever
happened. Well, perhaps things don't happen now but evidently they
_did_. Little Elizabeth is always talking of Tomorrow. But the old
Tomgallon house is Yesterday. I'm glad I don't live in Yesterday . . .
that Tomorrow is still a friend.

"Of course I think Miss Minerva has all the Tomgallon liking for the
spotlight and gets no end of satisfaction out of her tragedies. They are
to her what husband and children are to other women. But, oh, Gilbert,
no matter how old we get in years to come, don't let's ever see life as
_all_ tragedy and revel in it. I think I'd hate a house one hundred and
twenty years old. I hope when we get our house of dreams it will either
be new, ghostless and traditionless, or, if that can't be, at least have
been occupied by reasonably happy people. I shall never forget my night
at Tomgallon House. And for once in my life I've met a person who could
talk me down."


                                   12


Little Elizabeth Grayson had been born expecting things to happen. That
they seldom happened under the watchful eyes of Grandmother and the
Woman never blighted her expectations in the least. Things were just
bound to happen some time . . . if not today, then tomorrow.

When Miss Shirley came to live at Windy Poplars Elizabeth felt that
Tomorrow must be very close at hand and her visit to Green Gables was
like a foretaste of it. But now in the June of Miss Shirley's third and
last year in Summerside High, little Elizabeth's heart had descended
into the nice buttoned boots Grandmother always got for her to wear.
Many children at the school where she went envied little Elizabeth those
beautiful buttoned kid boots. But little Elizabeth cared nothing about
buttoned boots when she could not tread the way to freedom in them. And
now her adored Miss Shirley was going away from her forever. At the end
of June she would be leaving Summerside and going back to that beautiful
Green Gables. Little Elizabeth simply could not bear the thought of it.
It was of no use for Miss Shirley to promise that she would have her
down to Green Gables in the summer before she was married. Little
Elizabeth knew somehow that Grandmother would not let her go again.
Little Elizabeth knew Grandmother had never really approved of her
intimacy with Miss Shirley.

"It will be the end of everything, Miss Shirley," she sobbed.

"Let's hope, darling, that it is only a new beginning," said Anne
cheerfully. But she felt downcast herself. No word had ever come from
little Elizabeth's father. Either her letter had never reached him or he
did not care. And, if he did not care, what was to become of Elizabeth?
It was bad enough now in her childhood, but what would it be later on?

"Those two old dames will boss her to death," Rebecca Dew had said. Anne
felt that there was more truth than elegance in her remark.

Elizabeth knew that she was "bossed." And she especially resented being
bossed by the Woman. She did not like it in Grandmother, of course, but
one conceded reluctantly that perhaps a grandmother had a certain right
to boss you. But what right had the Woman? Elizabeth always wanted to
ask her that right out. She _would_ do it some time . . . when Tomorrow
came. And oh, how she would enjoy the look on the Woman's face!

Grandmother would never let little Elizabeth go out walking by herself
. . . for fear, she said, that she might be kidnaped by gypsies. A child
had been once, forty years before. It was very seldom gypsies came to
the Island now, and little Elizabeth felt that it was only an excuse.
But why should Grandmother care whether she were kidnaped or not?
Elizabeth knew that Grandmother and the Woman didn't love her at all.
Why, they never even spoke of her by her name if they could help it. It
was always "the child." How Elizabeth hated to be called "the child"
just as they might have spoken of "the dog" or "the cat" if there had
been one. But when Elizabeth had ventured a protest, Grandmother's face
had grown dark and angry and little Elizabeth had been punished for
impertinence, while the Woman looked on, well content. Little Elizabeth
often wondered just why the Woman hated her. Why should anyone hate you
when you were so small? Could you be worth hating? Little Elizabeth did
not know that the mother whose life she had cost had been that bitter
old woman's darling and, if she had known, could not have understood
what perverted shapes thwarted love can take.

Little Elizabeth hated the gloomy, splendid Evergreens, where everything
seemed unacquainted with her although she had lived in it all her life.
But after Miss Shirley had come to Windy Poplars everything had changed
magically. Little Elizabeth lived in a world of romance after Miss
Shirley's coming. There was beauty wherever you looked. Fortunately
Grandmother and the Woman couldn't prevent you from looking, though
Elizabeth had no doubt they would if they could. The short walks along
the red magic of the harbor road, which she was all too rarely permitted
to share with Miss Shirley, were the highlights in her shadowy life. She
loved everything she saw . . . the far-away lighthouse painted in odd
red and white rings . . . the far, dim blue shores . . . the little
silvery blue waves . . . the range lights that gleamed through the
violet dusks . . . all gave her so much delight that it hurt. And the
harbor with its smoky islands and glowing sunsets! Elizabeth always went
up to a window in the mansard roof to watch them through the treetops
. . . and the ships that sailed at the rising of the moon. Ships that
came back . . . ships that never came back. Elizabeth longed to go in
one of them . . . on a voyage to the Island of Happiness. The ships that
never came back stayed there, where it was always Tomorrow.

That mysterious red road ran on and on and her feet itched to follow it.
Where did it lead to? Sometimes Elizabeth thought she would burst if she
didn't find out. When Tomorrow really came she would fare forth on it
and perhaps find an island all her own where she and Miss Shirley could
live alone and Grandmother and the Woman could never come. They both
hated water and would not put foot in a boat for anything. Little
Elizabeth liked to picture herself standing on her island and mocking
them, as they stood vainly glowering on the mainland shore.

"This is Tomorrow," she would taunt them. "You can't catch me any more.
You're only in Today."

What fun it would be! How she would enjoy the look on the Woman's face!

Then one evening in late June an amazing thing happened. Miss Shirley
had told Mrs. Campbell that she had an errand next day at Flying Cloud,
to see a certain Mrs. Thompson, who was convener of the refreshment
committee of the Ladies' Aid, and might she take Elizabeth with her?
Grandmother had agreed with her usual dourness . . . Elizabeth could
never understand why she agreed at all, being completely ignorant of the
Pringle horror of a certain bit of information Miss Shirley possessed
. . . but she had agreed.

"We'll go right down to the harbor mouth," whispered Anne, "after I've
done my errand at Flying Cloud."

Little Elizabeth went to bed in such excitement that she didn't expect
to sleep a wink. At last she was going to answer the lure of the road
that had called so long. In spite of her excitement, she conscientiously
went through her little ritual of retiring. She folded her clothes and
cleaned her teeth and brushed her golden hair. She thought she had
rather pretty hair, though of course it wasn't like Miss Shirley's
lovely red-gold with the ripples in it and the little love-locks that
curled around her ears. Little Elizabeth would have given anything to
have had hair like Miss Shirley's.

Before she got into bed little Elizabeth opened one of the drawers in
the high, black, polished old bureau and took a carefully hidden picture
from under a pile of hankies . . . a picture of Miss Shirley which she
had cut out of a special edition of the _Weekly Courier_ that had
reproduced a photograph of the High School staff.

"Good night, dearest Miss Shirley." She kissed the picture and returned
it to its hiding place. Then she climbed into bed and cuddled down
under the blankets . . . for the June night was cool and the breeze of
the harbor searching. Indeed, it was more than a breeze tonight. It
whistled and banged and shook and thumped, and Elizabeth knew the harbor
would be a tossing expanse of waves under the moonlight. What fun it
would be to steal down close to it under the moon! But it was only in
Tomorrow one could do that.

Where was Flying Cloud? What a name! Out of Tomorrow again. It was
maddening to be so near Tomorrow and not be able to get into it. But
suppose the wind blew up rain for tomorrow! Elizabeth knew she would
never be allowed to go anywhere in rain.

She sat up in bed and clasped her hands.

"Dear God," she said, "I don't like to meddle, but _could_ You see that
it is fine tomorrow? _Please_, dear God."

The next afternoon was glorious. Little Elizabeth felt as if she had
slipped from some invisible shackles when she and Miss Shirley walked
away from that house of gloom. She took a huge gulp of freedom, even if
the Woman was scowling after them through the red glass of the big front
door. How heavenly to be walking through the lovely world with Miss
Shirley! It was always so wonderful to be alone with Miss Shirley. What
would she do when Miss Shirley had gone? But little Elizabeth put the
thought firmly away. She wouldn't spoil the day by thinking it. Perhaps
. . . a great perhaps . . . she and Miss Shirley would get into Tomorrow
this afternoon and then they would never be separated. Little Elizabeth
just wanted to walk quietly on towards that blueness at the end of the
world, drinking in the beauty around her. Every turn and kink of the
road revealed new loveliness . . . and it turned and kinked
interminably, following the windings of a tiny river that seemed to have
appeared from nowhere.

On every side were fields of buttercups and clover where bees buzzed.
Now and then they walked through a milky way of daisies. Far out the
strait laughed at them in silver-tipped waves. The harbor was like
watered silk. Little Elizabeth liked it better that way than when it
was like pale blue satin. They drank the wind in. It was a very gentle
wind. It purred about them and seemed to coax them on.

"Isn't it nice, walking with the wind like this?" said little Elizabeth.

"A nice, friendly, perfumed wind," said Anne, more to herself than
Elizabeth. "Such a wind as I used to think a _mistral_ was. Mistral
_sounds_ like that. What a disappointment when I found out it was a
rough, disagreeable wind!"

Elizabeth didn't quite understand . . . she had never heard of the
mistral . . . but the music of her beloved's voice was enough for her.
The very sky was glad. A sailor with gold rings in his ears . . . the
very kind of person one would meet in Tomorrow . . . smiled as he passed
them. Elizabeth thought of a verse she had learned in Sunday school . . .
"The little hills rejoice on every side." Had the man who wrote that
ever seen hills like those blue ones over the harbor?

"I think this road leads right to God," she said dreamily.

"Perhaps," said Anne. "Perhaps all roads do, little Elizabeth. We turn
off here just now. We must go over to that island . . . that's Flying
Cloud."

Flying Cloud was a long, slender islet, lying about a quarter of a mile
from the shore. There were trees on it and a house. Little Elizabeth had
always wished she might have an island of her own, with a little bay of
silver sand in it.

"How do we get to it?"

"We'll row out in this flat," said Miss Shirley, picking up the oars in
a small boat tied to a leaning tree.

Miss Shirley could row. Was there anything Miss Shirley couldn't do?
When they reached the island, it proved to be a fascinating place where
anything might happen. Of course it was in Tomorrow. Islands like this
didn't happen except in Tomorrow. They had no part or lot in humdrum
Today.

A little maid who met them at the door of the house told Anne she would
find Mrs. Thompson on the far end of the island, picking wild
strawberries. Fancy an island where strawberries grew!

Anne went to hunt Mrs. Thompson up, but first she asked if little
Elizabeth might wait in the living room. Anne was thinking that little
Elizabeth looked rather tired after her unaccustomedly long walk and
needed a rest. Little Elizabeth didn't think she did, but Miss Shirley's
lightest wish was law.

It was a beautiful room, with flowers everywhere and wild sea breezes
blowing in. Elizabeth liked the mirror over the mantel which reflected
the room so beautifully and, through the open window, a glimpse of
harbor and hill and strait.

All at once a man came through the door. Elizabeth felt a moment of
dismay and terror. Was he a gypsy? He didn't look like her idea of a
gypsy but of course she had never seen one. He might be one . . . and
then in a swift flash of intuition Elizabeth decided she didn't care if
he did kidnap her. She liked his crinkly hazel eyes and his crinkly
brown hair and his square chin and his smile. For he was smiling.

"Now, who are you?" he asked.

"I'm . . . I'm me," faltered Elizabeth, still a little flustered.

"Oh, to be sure . . . you. Popped out of the sea, I suppose . . . come
up from the dunes . . . no name known among mortals."

Elizabeth felt that she was being made fun of a little. But she didn't
mind. In fact she rather liked it. But she answered a bit primly.

"My name is Elizabeth Grayson."

There was a silence . . . a very queer silence. The man looked at her
for a moment without saying anything. Then he politely asked her to sit
down.

"I'm waiting for Miss Shirley," she explained. "She's gone to see Mrs.
Thompson about the Ladies' Aid Supper. When she comes back we are going
down to the end of the world."

Now, if you have any notion of kidnaping me, Mr. Man!

"Of course. But meanwhile you might as well be comfortable. And I must
do the honors. What would you like in the way of light refreshment? Mrs.
Thompson's cat has probably brought something in."

Elizabeth sat down. She felt oddly happy and at home.

"Can I have just what I like?"

"Certainly."

"Then," said Elizabeth triumphantly, "I'd like some ice cream with
strawberry jam on it."

The man rang a bell and gave an order. Yes, this must be Tomorrow . . .
no doubt about it. Ice cream and strawberry jam didn't appear in this
magical manner in Today, cats or no cats.

"We'll set a share aside for your Miss Shirley," said the man.

They were good friends right away. The man didn't talk a great deal, but
he looked at Elizabeth very often. There was a tenderness in his face
. . . a tenderness she had never seen before in anybody's face, not even
Miss Shirley's. She felt that he liked her. And she knew that she liked
him.

Finally he glanced out of the window and stood up.

"I think I must go now," he said. "I see your Miss Shirley coming up the
walk, so you'll not be alone."

"Won't you wait and see Miss Shirley?" asked Elizabeth, licking her
spoon to get the last vestige of the jam. Grandmother and the Woman
would have died of horror had they seen her.

"Not this time," said the man.

Elizabeth knew he hadn't the slightest notion of kidnaping her, and she
felt the strangest, most unaccountable sensation of disappointment.

"Good-bye and thank you," she said politely. "It is very nice here in
Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"This is Tomorrow," explained Elizabeth. "I've always wanted to get into
Tomorrow and now I have."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to say I don't care much about Tomorrow. _I_
would like to get back into Yesterday."

Little Elizabeth was sorry for him. But how could he be unhappy? How
could anyone living in Tomorrow be unhappy?

Elizabeth looked longingly back to Flying Cloud as they rowed away. Just
as they pushed through the scrub spruces that fringed the shore to the
road, she turned for another farewell look at it. A flying team of
horses attached to a truck wagon whirled around the bend, evidently
quite beyond their driver's control.

Elizabeth heard Miss Shirley shriek. . . .


                                   13


The room went around oddly. The furniture nodded and jiggled. The bed
. . . how came she to be in bed? Somebody with a white cap on was just
going out of the door. What door? How funny one's head felt! There were
voices somewhere . . . low voices. She could not see who was talking,
but somehow she knew it was Miss Shirley and the man.

What were they saying? Elizabeth heard sentences here and there, bobbing
out of a confusion of murmuring.

"Are you really . . . ?" Miss Shirley's voice sounded so excited.

"Yes . . . your letter . . . see for myself . . . before approaching
Mrs. Campbell . . . Flying Cloud is the summer home of our General
Manager. . . ."

If that room would only stay put! Really, things behaved rather queerly
in Tomorrow. If she could only turn her head and see the talkers . . .
Elizabeth gave a long sigh.

Then they came over to her bed . . . Miss Shirley and the man. Miss
Shirley all tall and white, like a lily, looking as if she had been
through some terrible experience but with some inner radiance shining
behind it all . . . a radiance that seemed part of the golden sunset
light which suddenly flooded the room. The man was smiling down at her.
Elizabeth felt that he loved her very much and that there was some
secret, tender and dear, between them which she would learn as soon as
she had learned the language spoken in Tomorrow.

"Are you feeling better, darling?" said Miss Shirley.

"Have I been sick?"

"You were knocked down by a team of runaway horses on the mainland
road," said Miss Shirley. "I . . . I wasn't quick enough. I thought you
were killed. I brought you right back here in the flat and your . . .
this gentleman telephoned for a doctor and nurse."

"Will I die?" said little Elizabeth.

"No, indeed, darling. You were only stunned and you will be all right
soon. And, Elizabeth darling, this is your father."

"Father is in France. Am I in France, too?" Elizabeth would not have
been surprised at it. Wasn't this Tomorrow? Besides, things were still a
bit wobbly.

"Father is very much here, my sweet." He had such a delightful voice
. . . you loved him for his voice. He bent and kissed her. "I've come
for you. We'll never be separated any more."

The woman in the white cap was coming in again. Somehow, Elizabeth knew
whatever she had to say must be said before she got quite in.

"Will we live together?"

"Always," said Father.

"And will Grandmother and the Woman live with us?"

"They will not," said Father.

The sunset gold was fading and the nurse was looking her disapproval.
But Elizabeth didn't care.

"I've found Tomorrow," she said, as the nurse looked Father and Miss
Shirley out.

"I've found a treasure I didn't know I possessed," said Father, as the
nurse shut the door on him. "And I can never thank you enough for that
letter, Miss Shirley."

"And so," wrote Anne to Gilbert that night, "little Elizabeth's road of
mystery has led on to happiness and the end of her old world."


                                   14


                                                       "Windy Poplars,
                                                        "Spook's Lane,
                                                 "(For the last time),
                                                           "June 27th.

    "DEAREST:

    "I've come to another bend in the road. I've written you a good
    many letters in this old tower room these past three years. I
    suppose this is the last one I will write you for a long, long time.
    Because after this there won't be any need of letters. In just a
    few weeks now we'll belong to each other forever . . . we'll be
    together. Just think of it . . . being together . . . talking,
    walking, eating, dreaming, planning together . . . sharing each
    other's wonderful moments . . . making a home out of our house of
    dreams. _Our_ house! doesn't that sound 'mystic and wonderful,'
    Gilbert? I've been building dream houses all my life and now one of
    them is going to come true. As to whom I really want to share my
    house of dreams with . . . well, I'll tell you that at four o'clock
    next year.

    "Three years sounded endless at the beginning, Gilbert. And now they
    are gone like a watch in the night. They have been very happy years
    . . . except for those first few months with the Pringles. After
    that, life has seemed to flow by like a pleasant golden river. And
    my old feud with the Pringles seems like a dream. They like me now
    for myself . . . they have forgotten they ever hated me. Cora
    Pringle, one of the Widow Pringle's brood, brought me a bouquet of
    roses yesterday and twisted round the stems was a bit of paper
    bearing the legend, 'To the sweetest teacher in the whole world.'
    Fancy that for a Pringle!

    "Jen is brokenhearted because I am leaving. I shall watch Jen's
    career with interest. She is brilliant and rather unpredictable. One
    thing is certain . . . she will have no commonplace existence. She
    can't look so much like Becky Sharp for nothing.

    "Lewis Allen is going to McGill. Sophy Sinclair is going to Queen's.
    Then she means to teach until she has saved up enough money to go to
    the School of Dramatic Expression in Kingsport. Myra Pringle is
    going to 'enter society' in the fall. She is so pretty that it won't
    matter a bit that she wouldn't know a past perfect participle if she
    met it on the street.

    "And there is no longer a small neighbor on the other side of the
    vine-hung gate. Little Elizabeth has gone forever from that
    sunshineless house . . . gone into her Tomorrow. If I were staying
    on in Summerside I should break my heart, missing her. But as it
    is, I'm glad. Pierce Grayson took her away with him. He is not going
    back to Paris but will be living in Boston. Elizabeth cried bitterly
    at our parting but she is so happy with her father that I feel sure
    her tears will soon be dried. Mrs. Campbell and the Woman were very
    dour over the whole affair and put all the blame on me . . . which I
    accept cheerfully and unrepentantly.

    "'She has had a good home here,' said Mrs. Campbell majestically.

    "'Where she never heard a single word of affection,' I thought but
    did not say.

    "'I think I'll be Betty all the time now, darling Miss Shirley,'
    were Elizabeth's last words. 'Except,' she called back, 'when I'm
    lonesome for you, and then I'll be Lizzie.'

    "'Don't you ever dare to be Lizzie, no matter what happens,' I said.

    "We threw kisses to each other as long as we could see, and I came
    up to my tower room with tears in my eyes. She's been so sweet, the
    dear little golden thing. She always seemed to me like a little
    Aeolian harp, so responsive to the tiniest breath of affection that
    blew her way. It's been an adventure to be her friend. I hope Pierce
    Grayson realizes what a daughter he has . . . and I think he does.
    He sounded very grateful and repentant.

    "'I didn't realize she was no longer a baby,' he said, 'nor how
    unsympathetic her environment was. Thank you a thousand times for
    all you have done for her.'

    "I had our map of fairyland framed and gave it to little Elizabeth
    for a farewell keepsake.

    "I'm sorry to leave Windy Poplars. Of course, I'm really a bit tired
    of living in a trunk, but I've loved it here . . . loved my cool
    morning hours at my window . . . loved my bed into which I have
    veritably climbed every night . . . loved my blue doughnut cushion
    . . . loved all the winds that blew. I'm afraid I'll never be quite so
    chummy with the winds again as I've been here. And shall I ever have
    a room again from which I can see both the rising and the setting
    sun?

    "I've finished with Windy Poplars and the years that have been
    linked with it. And I've kept the faith. I've never betrayed Aunt
    Chatty's hidy-hole to Aunt Kate or the buttermilk secret of each to
    either of the others.

    "I think they are all sorry to see me go . . . and I'm glad of it.
    It would be terrible to think they were glad I am going . . . or
    that they would not miss me a little when I'm gone. Rebecca Dew has
    been making all my favorite dishes for a week now . . . she even
    devoted ten eggs to angelcake _twice_ . . . and using the 'company'
    china. And Aunt Chatty's soft brown eyes brim over whenever I mention
    my departure. Even Dusty Miller seems to gaze at me reproachfully as
    he sits about on his little haunches.

    "I had a long letter from Katherine last week. She has a gift for
    writing letters. She has got a position as private secretary to a
    globe-trotting M. P. What a fascinating phrase 'globe-trotting' is!
    A person who would say, 'Let's go to Egypt,' as one might say,
    'Let's go to Charlottetown' . . . and _go_! That life will just suit
    Katherine.

    "She persists in ascribing all her changed outlook and prospects to
    me. 'I wish I could tell you what you've brought into my life,' she
    wrote. I suppose I did help. And it wasn't easy at first. She seldom
    said anything without a sting in it, and listened to any suggestion
    I made in regard to the school work with an air of disdainfully
    humoring a lunatic. But somehow, I've forgotten it all. It was just
    born of her secret bitterness against life.

    "Everybody has been inviting me to supper . . . even Pauline Gibson.
    Old Mrs. Gibson died a few months ago, so Pauline dared do it. And
    I've been to Tomgallon House for another supper with Miss Minerva of
    that ilk and another onesided conversation. But I had a very good
    time, eating the delicious meal Miss Minerva provided, and she had a
    good time airing a few more tragedies. She couldn't quite hide the
    fact that she was sorry for anyone who was not a Tomgallon, but she
    paid me several nice compliments and gave me a lovely ring set with
    an aquamarine . . . a moonlight blend of blue and green . . . that
    her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday . . . 'When I
    was young and handsome, dear . . . _quite_ handsome. I may say that
    _now_, I suppose.' I was glad it belonged to Miss Minerva and not
    to the wife of Uncle Alexander. I'm sure I could never have worn it
    if it had. It is very beautiful. There is a mysterious charm about
    the jewels of the sea.

    "Tomgallon House is certainly very splendid, especially now when its
    grounds are all a-leaf and a-flower. But I wouldn't give my as yet
    unfound house of dreams for Tomgallon House and grounds with the
    ghosts thrown in.

    "Not but what a ghost might be a nice, aristocratic sort of thing to
    have around. My only quarrel with Spook's Lane is that there are no
    spooks.

    "I went to my old graveyard yesterday evening for a last prowl . . .
    walked all round it and wondered if Herbert Pringle occasionally
    chuckled to himself in his grave. And I'm saying good-by tonight to
    the old Storm King, with the sunset on its brow, and my little
    winding valley full of dusk.

    "I'm a wee bit tired after a month of exams and farewells and 'last
    things.' For a week after I get back to Green Gables I'm going to be
    lazy . . . do absolutely nothing but run free in a green world of
    summer loveliness. I'll dream by the Dryad's Bubble in the twilight.
    I'll drift on the Lake of Shining Waters in a shallop shaped from a
    moonbeam . . . or in Mr. Barry's flat, if moonbeam shallops are not
    in season. I'll gather starflowers and June bells in the Haunted
    Wood. I'll find plots of wild strawberries in Mr. Harrison's hill
    pasture. I'll join the dance of fireflies in Lover's Lane and visit
    Hester Gray's old, forgotten garden . . . and sit out on the back
    doorstep under the stars and listen to the sea calling in its sleep.

    "And when the week is ended _you_ will be home . . . and I won't
    want anything else."

       *       *       *       *       *

When the time came the next day for Anne to say good-by to the folks at
Windy Poplars, Rebecca Dew was not on hand. Instead, Aunt Kate gravely
handed Anne a letter.

    "Dear Miss Shirley," wrote Rebecca Dew, "I am writing this to bid
    my farewell because I cannot trust myself to say it. For three years
    you have sojourned under our roof. The fortunate possessor of a
    cheerful spirit and a natural taste for the gaieties of youth, you
    have never surrendered yourself to the vain pleasures of the giddy
    and fickle crowd. You have conducted yourself on all occasions and
    to everyone, especially the one who pens these lines, with the most
    refined delicacy. You have always been most considerate of my
    feelings and I find a heavy gloom on my spirits at the thought of
    your departure. But we must not repine at what Providence has
    ordained. (First Samuel, 29th and 18th.)

    "You will be lamented by all in Summerside who had the privilege of
    knowing you, and the homage of one faithful though humble heart will
    ever be yours, and my prayer will ever be for your happiness and
    welfare in this world and your eternal felicity in that which is to
    come.

    "Something whispers to me that you will not be long 'Miss Shirley'
    but that you will ere long be linked together in a union of souls
    with the choice of your heart, who, I understand from what I have
    heard, is a very exceptional young man. The writer, possessed of but
    few personal charms and beginning to feel her age (not but what I'm
    good for a good few years yet), has never permitted herself to
    cherish any matrimonial aspirations. But she does not deny herself
    the pleasure of an interest in the nuptials of her friends and may I
    express a fervent wish that your married life will be one of
    continued and uninterrupted Bliss? (Only do not expect too much of a
    man.)

    "My esteem and, may I say, my affection for you will never lessen,
    and once in a while when you have nothing better to do will you
    kindly remember that there is such a person as

                                               "Your obedient servant,

                                                         "REBECCA DEW.

    "P.S. God bless you."


Anne's eyes were misty as she folded the letter up. Though she strongly
suspected Rebecca Dew had got most of her phrases out of her favorite
"Book of Deportment and Etiquette," that did not make them any the less
sincere, and the P.S. certainly came straight from Rebecca Dew's
affectionate heart.

"Tell dear Rebecca Dew I'll never forget her and that I'm coming back to
see you all every summer."

"We have memories of you that nothing can take away," sobbed Aunt
Chatty.

"Nothing," said Aunt Kate, emphatically.

But as Anne drove away from Windy Poplars the last message from it was a
large white bath towel fluttering frantically from the tower window.
Rebecca Dew was waving it.




       *       *       *       *       *



  +--------------------------------------------------------------------+
  |                      Transcriber's Notes.                          |
  |                                                                    |
  | Italics are indicated by underscores, _like this_.                 |
  |                                                                    |
  | In this text:                                                      |
  | both sitting-room and sitting room are used                        |
  | both bed-time and bedtime are used                                 |
  | both broken-hearted and brokenhearted are used                     |
  | both faery and fairy are used                                      |
  | both guest room and guestroom are used                             |
  |                                                                    |
  | The word pneumonia is twice spelled as penumonia, but this has     |
  | been taken to be deliberate and not changed.                       |
  |                                                                    |
  | Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.                    |
  |                                                                    |
  | The following spelling corrections have been made:                 |
  | p. 25 the ladies are gong -> the ladies are going                  |
  | p. 76 when they lived in White sands. -> when they lived in White  |
  | Sands.                                                             |
  | p. 107 two dropped handerchiefs -> two dropped handkerchiefs       |
  | p. 173 I'm so imaginaative -> I'm so imaginative                   |
  | p. 216 I had a spell of temper now and ten -> I had a spell of     |
  | temper now and then                                                |
  | p. 223 so said innanely, -> so said inanely,                       |
  |                                                                    |
  | All other original spelling and punctuation has been retained, but |
  | please note that the text uses US spellings.                       |
  +--------------------------------------------------------------------+




[End of _Anne of Windy Poplars_ by L. M. Montgomery]
