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Anne of 
Green Gables 


" The good stars met in your horoscope, 
Made you of spirit and fire and dew." 




By L. C. Page & Company 

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 

First Canadian Edition, April, 1942 
Reprinted, January, 1943 
Reprinted, July, 1944 
Reprinted, July, 1945 
Reprinted, November, 1946 




Mark Twain called Anne of Green Gables, "The 
sweetest creation of child life yet written." Its 
immense popularity is proof that many people, like 
Mark Twain, have fallen under the spell of Anne's 
charm. Over 760,000 copies of the book have 
already been sold. 

L. M. Montgomery (Mrs. Ewan Mac Donald) has 
almost a score of other books to her credit and these, 
like Anne of Green Gables, have grown out of her 
life. She was born November 20, 1874, at Clifton, 
Prince Edward Island. When she was a year old, 
her mother died and she was brought up by her 
grandparents at Cavendish, P.E.I. She early 
showed signs of literary ability, at twelve years of 
age winning a short story contest sponsored by the 
Montreal Star. In 1890, when she was sixteen, 
she spent a year at Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, 
with her father, who had married again. For one 
winter she attended Dalhousie University, where 
she was a student of Dr. Archibald MacMechan. 

While still in her teens, she taught school at Biddies- 
ford and Ellerslie in P.E.I. She returned to 
Cavendish, at twenty years of age, to live with her 
grandmother. Here she met and in 1911, married, 
the Reverend Ewan MacDonald, who was the 
Presbyterian minister. They moved to Leaskdale, 
Ontario, later to Norval, then to Toronto, where 
they lived from 1935 to 1942. Mrs. MacDonald 
died in April, 1942, just as the first Canadian 
edition of her books was coming off the presses. 

"Green Gables," together with the farm where Lucy 
Maud Montgomery grew up, has now been included 
in the National Park of Prince Edward Island. 
Many spots in the district, which her writings have 
made famous, have been preserved as they were 
described in her books. The "Avonlea" of her 
novels is the town of Cavendish, which she loved 
especially for the fact that it was close to the sea. 
She wrote, later, of her grandparents' farm that it 
was "twelve miles from a railroad station, twenty- 
four miles from the nearest town, but only one-half 
mile from the sea." It was here that her thoughts 
turned in later years, when she was living in far 
distant places. And it is here that she is buried, 
in the village of Cavendish, where she started her 
literary career. 


















TRAGIC RESULTS . . . .154 






































THE PASS LIST Is OUT .... 323 










MRS. RACHEL LYNDE lived just where the Avonlea 
main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed 
with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a 
brook that had its source away back in the woods of 
the old Cuthbert place ; it was reputed to be an intri- 
cate, headlong brook in its earlier course through 
those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; 
but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a 
quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a 
brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door with- 
out due regard for decency and decorum; it prob- 
ably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at 
her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that 
passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she 
noticed anything odd or out of place she would never 
rest until she had ferreted out the whys and where- 
fores thereof. 


There are plenty of people, in Avonlea and out of 
it, who can attend closely to their neighbours' busi- 
ness by dint of neglecting their own ; but Mrs. Rachel 
Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can 
manage their own concerns and those of other folks 
into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her 
work was always done and well done; she "ran" 
the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and 
was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society 
and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this 
Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at 
her kitchen window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts 
she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea 
housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices 
and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that 
crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill 
beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular 
peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St Lawrence, 
with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out 
of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and 
so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-see- 
ing eye. 

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. 
The sun was coming in at the window warm and 
bright; the orchard on the slope below the house 
was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed 
over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde a meek 
little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel 
Lynde's husband" was sowing his late turnip seed 
on the hill field beyond the barn ; and Matthew Cuth- 
bert ought to have been sowing his on the big red 
brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel 


knew that he ought because she had heard him tell 
Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. 
Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow 
his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked 
him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been 
known to volunteer information about anything in his 
whole life. 

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past 
three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving 
over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore 
a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was 
plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and 
he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which be- 
tokened that he was going a considerable distance. 
Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why 
was he going there ? 

Had it been any other man in Avonlea Mrs. 
Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might 
have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. 
But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must 
be something pressing and unusual which was taking 
him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have 
to go among strangers or to any place where he 
might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a 
white collar and driving in a buggy, was something 
that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she 
might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's 
enjoyment was spoiled. 

"I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and 
find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," 
the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't 
generally go to town this time of year and he never 


visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't 
dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he 
wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. 
Yet something must have happened since last night 
to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and 
I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience 
until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out 
of Avonlea to-day." 

Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she 
had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-em- 
bowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant 
quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. 
To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. 
Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his 
son after him, had got as far away as he possibly 
could from his fellow men without actually retreat- 
ing into the woods when he founded his homestead. 
Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his 
cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visi- 
ble from the main road along which all the other 
Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. 
Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place 
living at all. 

"It's just staying, that's what," she said as she 
stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered 
with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew 
and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back 
here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, 
though dear knows if they were there'd be enough 
of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they 
seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're 


used to it. A body can get used to anything, even 
to being hanged, as the Irishman said." 

With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into 
the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat 
and precise was that yard, set about on one side 
with great patriarchal willows and on the other with 
prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was 
to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would 'lave seen it if 
there had been. Privately she was of the opinion 
that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often 
as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal 
off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial 
peck of dirt. 

Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door 
and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen 
at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment or 
would have been cheerful if it had not been so pain- 
fully clean as to give it something of the appearance 
of an unused parlour. Its windows looked east and 
west; through the west one, looking out on the 
back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; 
but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the 
bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and 
nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the 
brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here 
sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always 
slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her 
too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world 
which was meant to be taken seriously; and here 
she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was 
laid for supper. 

Mrs, Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door. 


had taken mental note of everything that was on 
that table. There were three plates laid, so that 
Marilla must be expecting some one home with 
Matthew to tea; but the dishes were every-day 
dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and 
one kind of cake, so that the expected company 
could not be any particular company. Yet what of 
Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare ? Mrs. 
Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual 
mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables. 

"Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said briskly. 
"This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you 
sit down? How are all your folks?" 

Something that for lack of any other name might 
be called friendship existed and always had existed 
between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite 
of or perhaps because of their dissimilarity. 

Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and 
without curves; her dark hair showed some gray 
streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little 
knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck agres- 
sively through it . She looked like a woman of narrow 
experience and rigid conscience, which she was ; but 
there was a saving something about her mouth which, 
if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have 
been considered indicative of a sense of humour. 

"We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I 
was kind of afraid you weren't, though, when I saw 
Matthew starting off to-day. I thought maybe he 
was going to the doctor's." 

Manila's lips twitched understandingly. She had 
expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the 


sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably 
would be too much for her neighbour's curiosity. 

"Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad 
headache yesterday," she said. "Matthew went to 
Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an 
orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on 
the train to-night." 

If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to 
Bright River to meet a kangaroo trom Australia 
Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. 
She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It 
was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of 
her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. 

"Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded 
when voice returned to her. 

"Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys 
from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of 
the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avon- 
lea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. 

Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe 
mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A 
boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people 
adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, 
the world was certainly turning upside down! She 
would be surprised at nothing after this! Nothing! 

"What on earth put such a notion into your 
head ?" she demanded disapprovingly. 

This had been done without her advice being 
asked, and must perforce be disapproved. 

"Well, we've been thinking about it for some time 
all winter in fact," returned Marilla. "Mrs. 
Alexander Spencer was up here one day before 


Christmas and she said she was going to get a little 
girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. 
Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited 
her and knows all about it So Matthew and I have 
talked it over off and on ever since. We thought 
we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you 
know he's sixty and he isn't so spry as he once 
was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you 
know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired 
help. There's never anybody to be had but those 
stupid, half -grown little French boys; and as soon 
as you do get one broke into your ways and taught 
something he's up and off to the lobster canneries or 
the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a 
Home boy. But I said 'no' flat to that They 
may be all right I'm not saying they're not but 
no London street Arabs for me/ I said. 'Give me 
a native born at least. There'll be a risk, no matter 
who we get But I'll feel easier in my mind and 
sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.' 
So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick 
us out one when she went over to get her little girl. 
We heard last week she was going, so we sent her 
word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to 
bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. 
We decided that would be the best age old enough 
to be of some use in doing chores right off and young 
enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give 
him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram 
from Mrs. Alexander Spencer to-day the mail-man 
brought it from the station saying they were com- 
ing on the five- thirty train to-night So Matthew 


went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer 
will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to 
White Sands station herself." 

Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her 
mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having ad- 
justed her mental attitude to this amazing piece of 

"Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think 
you're doing a mighty foolish thing a risky thing, 
that's what. You don't know what you're getting. 
You're bringing a strange child into your house and 
home and you don't know a single thing about him 
nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of 
parents he had nor how he's likely to turn out. Why, 
it was only last week I read in the paper how a man 
and his wife up west of the Island took a boy out 
of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at 
night set it on purpose, Marilla and nearly 
burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know 
another case where an adopted boy used to suck the 
eggs they couldn't break him of it If you had 
asked my advice in the matter which you didn't 
do, Marilla I'd have said for mercy's sake not to 
think of such a thing, that's what." 

This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor 
alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on. 

"I don't deny there's something in what you say, 
Rachel. I've had some qualms myself. But Matthew 
was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave 
in. It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind on any- 
thing that when he does I always feel it's my duty 
to give in. And as for the risk, there's risks in 


pretty near everything a body does in this world. 
There's risks in people's having children of their 
own if it comes to that they don't always turn out 
well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the 
Island. It isn't as if we were getting him from 
England or the States. He can't be much different 
from ourselves." 

"Well, I hope it will turn out all right," said 
Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated her 
painful doubts. "Only don't say I didn't warn you 
if he burns Green Gables down or puts strychnine 
in the well I heard of a case over in New Bruns- 
wick where an orphan asylum child did that and 
the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only, it 
was a girl in that instance." 

"Well, we're not getting a girl," said Marilla, as 
if poisoning wells were a purely feminine accom- 
plishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a 
boy. "I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up. 
I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. 
But there, she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole 
orphan asylum if she took it into her head." 

Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Mat- 
thew came home with his imported orphan. But 
reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least 
before his arrival she concluded to go up the road 
to Robert Bell's and tell them the news. It would 
certainly make a sensation second to none, and Mrs. 
Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she 
took herself away, somewhat to Manila's relief, for 
the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the 
influence of Mrs. Rachel's pessimism. 


"Well, of all things that ever were or will be!" 
ejaculated Mrs. Rachel when she was safely out in 
the lane. "It does really seem as if I must be 
dreaming. Well, I'm sorry for that poor young 
one and no mistake. Matthew and Manila don't 
know anything about children and they'll expect him 
to be wiser and steadier than his own grandfather, 
if so be's he ever had a grandfather, which is doubt- 
ful. It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green 
Gables somehow; there's never been one there, for 
Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new 
house was built if they ever were children, which 
is hard to believe when one looks at them. I wouldn't 
be in that orphan's shoes for anything. My, but I 
pity him, that's what." 

So said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out 
of the fulness of her heart; but if she could have 
seen the child who was waiting patiently at the 
Bright River station at that very moment her pity 
would have been still deeper and more profound. 



MATTHEW CUTHBERT and the sorrel mare jogged 
comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River. 
It was a pretty road, running along between snug 
farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy 
fir wood to drive through or a hollow where wild 
plums hung out their filmy bloom. The air was 
sweet with the breath of many apple orchards and 
the meadows sloped away in the distance to horizon 
mists of pearl and purple ; while 

"The little birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all the year." 

Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, 
except during the moments when he met women and 
had to nod to them for in Prince Edward Island 
you are supposed to nod to all and sundry you meet 
on the road whether you know them or not. 

Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and 
Mrs. Rachel; he had an uncomfortable feeling that 
the mysterious creatures were secretly laughing at 
him. He may have been quite right in thinking so, 
for he was an odd-looking personage, with an un- 
gainly figure and long iron-gray hair that touched 
Ms stooping shoulders, and a full, soft brown beard 


which he had worn ever since he was twenty. In 
fact, he had looked at twenty very much as he looked 
at sixty, lacking a little of the grayness. 

When he reached Bright River there was no sign 
of any train; he thought he was too early, so he 
tied his horse in the yard of the small Bright River 
hotel and went over to the station-house. The long 
platform was almost deserted; the tnly living crea- 
ture in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile 
of shingles at the extreme end. Matthew, barely 
noting that it was a girl, sidled past her as quickly 
as possible without looking at her. Had he looked 
he could hardly have failed to notice the tense rigid- 
ity and expectation of her attitude and expression. 
She was sitting there waiting for something or some- 
body and, since sitting and waiting was the only 
thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her 
might and main. 

Matthew encountered the station-master locking up 
the ticket-office preparatory to going home for supper, 
and asked him if the five-thirty train would soon be 

"The five-thirty, train has been in and gone half 
an hour ago," answered that brisk official. "But 
there was a passenger dropped off for you a little 
girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I 
asked her to go into the ladies' waiting-room, but 
she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay 
outside. 'There was more scope for imagination/ 
she said. She's a case, I should say." 

"I'm not expecting a girl," said Matthew blankly. 
"It's a boy I've come for. He should be here. Mrs. 


Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova 
Scotia for me." 

The station-master whistled. 

"Guess there's some mistake," he said. "Mrs. 
Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her 
into my charge. Said you and your sister were 
adopting her from an orphan asylum and that you 
would be along for her presently. That's all / know 
about it and I haven't got any more orphans con- 
cealed hereabouts." 

"I don't understand," said Matthew helplessly, 
wishing that Manila was at hand to cope with the 

"Well, you'd better question the girl," said the 
station-master carelessly. "I dare say she'll be able 
to explain she's got a tongue of her own, that's 
certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand 
you wanted." 

He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the 
unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was 
harder for him than bearding a lion in its den 
walk up to a girl a strange girl an orphan girl 
and demand of her why she wasn't a boy. Mat- 
thew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuf- 
fled gently down the platform towards her. 

She had been watching him ever since he had 
passed her and she had her eyes on him now. Mat- 
thew was not looking at her and would not have 
seen what she was really like if he had been, but an 
ordinary observer would have seen this: 

A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, 
very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish gray wincey. 


She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the 
hat, extending down her back, were two braids of 
very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, 
white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was 
large and so were her eyes, that looked green in some 
lights and moods and gray in others. 

So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary 
observer might have seen that th^. chin was very 
pointed and pronounced; that the big eyes were full 
of spirit and vivacity; that the mouth was sweet- 
lipped and expressive; that the forehead was broad 
and full; in short, our discerning extraordinary ob- 
server might have concluded that no commonplace 
soul inhabited the body of this stray woman-child 
of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously 

Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speak- 
ing first, for as soon as she concluded that he was 
coming to her she stood up, grasping with one thin 
brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned 
carpet-bag; the other she held out to him. 

"I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of 
Green Gables?" she said in a peculiarly clear, sweet 
voice. "I'm very glad to see you. I was beginning 
to be afraid you weren't coming for me and I was 
imagining all the things that might have happened 
to prevent you. I had made up my mind that if you 
didn't come for me to-night I'd go down the track 
to that big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb 
up into it to stay all night. I wouldn't be a bit 
afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild 
cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, 


don't you think ? You could imagine you were dwell- 
ing in marble halls, couldn't you? And I was quite 
sure you would come for me in the morning, if you 
didn't to-night" 

Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awk- 
wardly in his; then and there he decided what to 
do. He could not tell this child with the glowing 
eyes that there had been a mistake; he would take 
her home and let Manila do that She couldn't be 
left at Bright River anyhow, no matter what mistake 
had been made, so all questions and explanations 
might as well be deferred until he was safely back 
at Green Gables. 

"I'm sorry I was late," he said shyly. "Come 
along. The horse is over in the yard. Give me your 

"Oh, I can carry it," the child responded cheer- 
fully. "It isn't heavy. I've got all my worldly 
goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn't carried 
in just a certain way the handle pulls out so I'd 
better keep it because I know the exact knack of it 
It's an extremely old carpet-bag. Oh, I'm very glad 
you've come, even if it would have been nice to sleep 
in a wild cherry-tree. We've got to drive a long 
piece, haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight 
miles. I'm glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems 
so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and 
belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody 
not really. But the asylum was the worst. I've only 
been in it four months, but that was enough. I don't 
suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so 
you can't, possibly understand what it is like. It's 


worse than anything you could imagine. Mrs. Spen- 
cer said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but 
I didn't mean to be wicked. It's so easy to be 
wicked without knowing it, isn't it? They were 
good, you know the asylum people. But there is 
so little scope for the imagination in an asylum 
only just in the other orphans. It was pretty inter- 
esting to imagine things about them to imagine 
that perhaps the girl who sat next to you was really 
the daughter of a belted earl, who had been stolen 
away from her parents in her infancy by a cruel 
nurse who died before she could confess. I used to 
lie awake at nights and imagine things like that, 
because I didn't have time in the day. I guess that's 
why I'm so thin I am dreadful thin, ain't I? 
There isn't a pick on my bones. I do love to imagine 
I'm nice and plump, with dimples in my elbows." 

With this Matthew's companion stopped talking, 
partly because she was out of breath and partly 
because they had reached the buggy. Not another 
word did she say until they had left the village and 
were driving down a steep little hill, the road part 
of which had been cut so deeply into the soft soil 
that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry- 
trees and slim white birches, were several feet above 
their heads. 

The child put out her hand and broke off a branch 
of wild plum that brushed against the side of the 

"Isn't that beautiful? What did that tree, leaning 
out from the bank, all white and lacy, make you think 
of?" she asked. 


"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew. 

"Why, a bride, of course a bride all in white 
with a lovely misty veil. I've never seen one, but 
I can imagine what she would look like. I don't ever 
expect to be a bride myself. I'm so homely nobody 
will ever want to marry me unless it might be a 
foreign missionary. I suppose a foreign missionary 
mightn't be very particular. But I do hope that 
some day I shall have a white dress. That is my 
highest ideal of earthly bliss. I just love pretty 
clothes. And I've never had a pretty dress in my 
life that I can remember but of course it's all the 
more to look forward to, isn't it? And then I can 
imagine that I'm dressed gorgeously. This morning 
when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I 
had to wear this horrid old wincey dress. All the 
orphans had to wear them, you know. A merchant 
in Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards 
of wincey to the asylum. Some people said it was 
because he couldn't sell it, but I'd rather believe that 
it was out of the kindness of his heart, wouldn't you? 
When we got on the train I felt as if everybody must 
be looking at me and pitying me. But I just went 
to work and imagined that I had on the most beau- 
tiful pale blue silk dress because when you are 
imagining you might as well imagine something 
worth while and a big hat all flowers and nodding 
plumes, and a gold watch, and kid gloves and boots. 
I felt cheered up right away and I enjoyed my trip 
to the Island with all my might. I wasn't a bit sick 
coming over in the boat. Neither was Mrs. Spencer, 
although she generally is. She said she hadn't time 


to get sick, watching to see that I didn't fall over- 
board. She said she never saw the beat of me for 
prowling about. But if it kept her from being sea- 
sick it's a mercy I did prowl, isn't it? And I wanted 
to see everything that was to be seen on that boat, 
because I didn't know whether I'd ever have another 
opportunity. Oh, there are a lot more cherry-trees 
all in bloom! This Island is the bloomiest place. I 
just love it already, and I'm so glad I'm going to 
live here. I've always heard that Prince Edward 
Island was the prettiest place in the world, and 1 
used to imagine I was living here, but I never really 
expected I would. It's delightful when your imagi- 
nations come true, isn't it? But those red roads are 
so funny. When we got into the train at Charlotte- 
town and the red roads began to flash past I asked 
Mrs. Spencer what made them red and she said she 
didn't know and for pity's sake not to ask her any 
more questions. She said I must have asked her a 
thousand already. I suppose I had, too, but how 
are you going to find out about things if you don't 
ask questions ? And what does make the roads red ?" 

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew. 

"Well, that is one of the things to find out some- 
time. Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there 
are to find out about ? It just makes me feel glad to 
be alive it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't 
be half so interesting if we knew all about every- 
thing, would it? There'd be no scope for imagina- 
tion then, would there? But am I talking too much? 
People are always telling me I do. Would you 
rather I didn't talk? If you say so I'll stop. I can 


stop when I make up my mind to it, although it's 

Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying 
himself. Like most quiet folks he liked talkative 
people when they were willing to do the talking them- 
selves and did not expect him to keep up his end 
of it. But he had never expected to enjoy the society 
of a little girl. Women were bad enough in all con- 
science, but little girls were worse. He detested the 
way they had of sidling past him timidly, with side- 
wise glances, as if they expected him to gobble them 
up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. 
This was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. 
But this freckled witch was very different, and 
although he found it rather difficult for his slower 
intelligence to keep up with her brisk mental proc- 
esses he thought that he "kind of liked her chatter." 
So he said as shyly as usual : 

"Oh, you' can talk as much as you like. I don't 
mind." ' 

"Oh, I'm so glad. I know you and I are going 
to get along together fine. It's such a relief to talk 
when one wants to and not be told that children 
should be seen and not heard. I've had that said 
to me a million times if I have once. And people 
laugh at me because I use big words. But if you 
have big ideas you have to use big words to express 
them, haven't you ?" 

"Well now, that seems reasonable," said Matthew. 

"Mrs. Spencer said that my tongue must be hung 
in the middle. But it isn't it's firmly fastened at 
one end. Mrs. Spencer said your place was named 


Green Gables. I asked her all about it. And she 
said there were trees all around it. I was gladder 
than ever. I just love trees. And there weren't any 
at all about the asylum, only a few poor weeny-teeny 
things out in front with little whitewashed cagey 
things about them. They just looked like orphans 
themselves, those trees did. It used to make me 
want to cry to look at them. I used to say to them, 
'Oh, you poor little things! If you were out in a 
great big woods with other trees all around you and 
little mosses and Junebells growing over your roots 
and a brook not far away and birds singing in your 
branches, you could grow, couldn't you? But you 
can't where you are. I know just exactly how you 
feel, little trees.' I felt sorry to leave them behind 
this morning. You do get so attached to things 
like that, don't you? Is there a brook anywhere 
near Green Gables ? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer 

"Well now, yes, there's one right below the 

"Fancy. It's always been one of my dreams to 
live near a brook. I never expected I would, though. 
Dreams don't often come true, do they? Wouldn't 
it be nice if they did? But just now I feel pretty 
nearly perfectly happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly 
happy because well, what colour would you call 

She twitched one of her long glossy braids over 
her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's 
eyes. Matthew was not used to deciding on the tints 


of ladies' tresses, but in this case there couldn't be 
much doubt. 

"It's red, ain't it?" he said. 

The girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that 
seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth 
all the sorrows of the ages. 

"Yes, it's red," she said resignedly. "Now you 
see why I can't be perfectly happy. Nobody could 
who had red hair. I don't mind the other things so 
much the freckles and the green eyes and my skin- 
niness. I can imagine them away. I can imagine 
that I have a beautiful rose-leaf complexion and 
lovely starry violet eyes. But I cannot imagine that 
red hair away. I do my best. I think to myself, 
'Now my hair is a glorious black, black as the 
raven's wing.' But all the time I know it is just 
plain red, and it breaks my heart. It will be my 
lifelong sorrow. I read of a girl once in a novel 
who had a lifelong sorrow, but it wasn't red hair. 
Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her ala- 
baster brow. What is an alabaster brow? I never 
could find out. Can you tell me ?" 

"Well now, I'm afraid I can't," said Matthew, 
who was getting a little dizzy. He felt as he had 
once felt in his rash youth when another boy had 
enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic. 

"Well, whatever it was it must have been some- 
thing nice because she was divinely beautiful. Have 
you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely 

"Well now, no, I haven't," confessed Matthew in- 


"I have, often. Which would you rather be if you 
had the choice divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever 
or angelically good?" 

"Well now, I I don't know exactly." 

"Neither do I. I can never decide. But it doesn't 
make much real difference for it isn't likely I'll ever 
be either. It's certain I'll never be angelically good. 
Mrs. Spencer says oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. 
Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!" 

That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said ; neither 
had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had 
Matthew done anything astonishing. They had sim- 
ply rounded a curve in the road and found them- 
selves in the "Avenue." 

The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, 
was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards 
long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spread- 
ing apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric 
old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of 
snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air 
was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse 
of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window 
at the end of a cathedral aisle. 

Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She 
leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped 
before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white 
splendour above. Even when they had passed out 
and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge 
she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she 
gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw 
visions trooping splendidly across that glowing back- 
ground. Through Newbridge, a bustling little vil- 


lage where dogs barked at them and small boys 
hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, 
they drove, still in silence. When three more miles 
had dropped away behind them the child had not 
spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as 
energetically as she could talk. 

"I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," 
Matthew ventured at last, accounting for her long 
visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could 
think of. "But we haven't very far to go now only 
another mile." 

She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and 
looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that 
had been wondering afar, star-led. 

"Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place 
we came through that white place what was 

"Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said 
Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. 
"It is a kind of pretty place." 

"Pretty? Oh, pretty doesn't seem the right word 
to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far 
enough. Oh, it was wonderful wonderful. It's 
the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved 
upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" 
she put one hand on her breast "it made a queer 
funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you 
ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" 

"Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had." 

"I have it lots of times whenever I see any- 
thing royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that 
lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in 


a name like that. They should call it let me see 
the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice 
imaginative name? When I don't like the name of 
a place or a person I always imagine a new one and 
always think of them so. There was a girl at the 
asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I 
always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other peo- 
ple may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always 
call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really 
only another mile to go before we get home? I'm 
glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has 
been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant 
things' end. Something 1 still pleasanter may come 
after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often 
the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my 
experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting 
home. You see, I've never had a real home since 
I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache 
again just to think of coming to a really truly home. 
Oh, isn't that pretty !" 

They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below 
them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long 
and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway 
And from there to its lower end, where an amber- 
hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue 
gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting 
hues the most spiritual shadings of crocus and 
rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings 
for which no name has ever been found. Above the 
bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir 
and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their 
wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum 


leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip- 
toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the 
head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet 
chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house 
peering around a white apple orchard on a slope 
beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a 
light was shining from one of its windows. 

"That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. 

"Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call 
it let me see the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, 
that is the right name for it I know because of the 
thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it 
gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill ?" 

Matthew ruminated. 

"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a 
thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in 
the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them." 

"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same 
kind of a thrill. Do you think it can ? There doesn't 
seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes 
of shining waters, does there? But why do other 
people call it Barry's pond?" 

"I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in 
that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. 
If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could 
see Green Gables from here. But we have to go 
over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near 
half a mile further." 

"Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so 
very little either about my size." 

"He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." 


"Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What 
a perfectly lovely name !" 

"Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful 
heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or 
Mary or some sensible name like that. But when 
Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding 
there and they gave him the naming of her and he 
called her Diana." 

"I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that 
around when / was born, then. Oh, here we are at 
the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight I'm 
always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imag- 
ining that perhaps, just as we get to the middle, 
they'll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So 
I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for 
all when I think we're getting near the middle. Be- 
cause, you see, if the bridge did crumple up I'd want 
to see it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes! 
I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid 
there are so many things to like in this world? 
There, we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, 
dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always say good 
night to the things I love, just as I would to people. 
I think they like it. That water looks as if it was 
smiling at me/' 

When they had driven up the further hill and 
around a corner Matthew said: 

"We're pretty near home now. That's Green 
Gables over " 

"Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted breathlessly, 
catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her 


eyes that she might not see his gesture. "Let me 
guess. I'm sure I'll guess right." 

She opened her eyes and looked about her. They 
were on the crest of a hill. The sun had set some 
time since, but the landscape was still clear in the 
mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church spire 
rose up against a marigold sky. Below was a little 
valley and beyond a long, gently-rising slope with 
snug farmsteads scattered along it. From one to 
another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. 
At last they lingered on one away to the left, far 
back from the road, dimly white with blossoming 
trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over 
it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white 
star was shining like a lamp of guidance and prom- 

"That's it, isn't it?" she said, pointing. 

Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrel's back de- 

"Well now, you've guessed it! But I reckon Mrs. 
Spencer described it so's you could tell." 

"No, she didn't really she didn't. All she said 
might just as well have been about most of those 
other places. I hadn't any real idea what it looked 
like. But just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. 
Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you 
know, my arm must be black and blue from the elbow 
up, for I've pinched myself so many times to-day. 
Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would 
come over me and I'd be so afraid it was all a dream. 
Then I'd pinch myself to see if it was real until 
suddenly I remembered that even supposing it was 

only a dream I'd better go on dreaming as long as 
I could; so I stopped pinching. But it is real and 
we're nearly home." 

With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. 
Matthew stirred uneasily. He felt glad that it would 
be Marilla and not he who would have to tell this 
waif of the world that the home she longed for was 
not to be hers after all. They drovo over Lynde's 
Hollow, where it was already quite dark, but not so 
dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see them from her 
window vantage, and up the hill and into the long 
lane of Green Gables. By the time they arrived at 
the house Matthew was shrinking from the approach- 
ing revelation with an energy he did not understand. 
It was not of Marilla or himself he was thinking or 
of the trouble this mistake was probably going to 
make for them, but of the child's disappointment. 
When he thought of that rapt light being quenched 
in her eyes he had an uncomfortable feeling that he 
was going to assist at murdering something much 
the same feeling that came over him when he had to 
kill a lamb or calf or any other innocent little crea- 

The yard was quite dark as they turned into it 
and the poplar leaves were ruetling silkily all round 

"Listen to the trees talking in their sleep," she 
whispered, as he lifted her to the ground. "What 
nice dreams they must have !" 

Then, holding tightly to the carpet-bag which con- 
tained "all her worldly goods," she followed him 
into the house. 



MARILLA came briskly forward as Matthew opened 
the door. But when her eyes fell on the odd little 
figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids 
of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped 
short in amazement. 

"Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she ejaculated. 
"Where is the boy?" 

"There wasn't any boy," said Matthew wretchedly. 
"There was only her." 

He nodded at the child, remembering that he had 
never even asked her name. 

"No boy! But there must have been a boy," in- 
sisted Marilla. "We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to 
bring a boy." 

"Well, she didn't She brought her. I asked the 
station-master. And I had to bring her home. She 
couldn't be left there, no matter where the mistake 
had come in." 

"Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejacu- 
lated Marilla. 

During this dialogue the child had remained silent, 
her eyes roving from one to the other, all the anima- 
tion fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to 
grasp the full meaning of what had been said. 



Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang for- 
ward a step and clasped her hands. 

"You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't 
want me because I'm not a boy! I might have ex- 
pected it Nobody ever did want me. I might have 
known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have 
known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall 
I do ? I'm going to burst into tears !" 

Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair 
by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and 
burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry 
stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other 
deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them 
knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped 
lamely into the breach. 

"Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." 

"Yes, there is need!" The child raised her head 
quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling 
lips. "You would cry, too, if you were an orphan 
and had come to a place you thought was going to be 
home and found that they didn't want you because 
you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most tragical 
thing that ever happened to me !" 

Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from 
long disuse, mellowed Manila's grim expression. 

"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to 
turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay 
here until we investigate this affair. What's your 
name ?" 

The child hesitated for a moment. 

"Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said 


"Call you Cordelia! Is that your name?" 

"No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would 
love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly ele- 
gant name." 

"I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cor- 
delia isn't your name, what is ?" 

"Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the 
owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me 
Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call 
me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can 
it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." 

"Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympa- 
thetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible 
name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." 

"Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, 
"only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined 
that my name was Cordelia at least, I always have 
of late years. When I was young I used to imagine 
it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. 
But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled 
with an e" 

"What difference does it make how it's spelled?" 
asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked 
up the teapot. 

"Oh, it makes such a difference. It looks so much 
nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you 
always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed 
out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e 
looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only 
call me Anne spelled with an e I shall try to recon- 
cile myself to not being called Cordelia." 

"Very well, then, Anne spelled with an e, can you 


tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent 
word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there 
no boys at the asylum?" 

"Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But 
Mrs. Spencer said distinctly that you wanted a girl 
about eleven years old. And the matron said she 
thought I would do. You don't know how delighted 
I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh," 
she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew, "why 
didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want 
me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White 
Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it 
wouldn't be so hard." 

"What on earth does she mean?" demanded Ma- 
rilla, staring at Matthew. 

"She she's just referring to some conversation 
we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm 
going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea 
ready when I come back." 

"Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides 
you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone 

"She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only 
five years old and she is very beautiful. She has 
nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had 
nut-brown hair would you keep me?" 

"No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the 
farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off 
your hat I'll lay it and your bag on the hall 

Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came 
back presently and they sat down to supper. But 


Anne could not eat In vain she nibbled at the bread 
and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out 
of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She 
did not really make any headway at all. 

"You're not eating anything," said Marilla 
sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. 
Anne sighed. 

"I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you 
eat when you are in the depths of despair?" 

"I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't 
say," responded Marilla. 

"Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to imag- 
ine you were in the depths of despair ?" 

"No, I didn't." 

"Then I don't think you can understand what it's 
like. It's a very uncomfortable feeling indeed. 
When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your 
throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if 
it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate 
caramel once two years ago and it was simply deli- 
cious. I've often dreamed since then that I had a 
lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just 
when I'm going to eat them. I do hope you won't 
be offended because I can't eat. Everything is ex- 
tremely nice, but still I cannot eat." 

"I guess she's tired," said Matthew, who hadn't 
spoken since his return from the barn. "Best put 
her to bed, Marilla." 

Marilla had been wondering where Anne should 
be put to bed. She had prepared a couch in the 
kitchen chamber for the desired and expected boy. 
But, although it was neat and clean, it did not seem 


quite the thing to put a girl there somehow. But 
the spare room was out of the question for such 
a stray waif, so there remained only the east gable 
room. Manila lighted a candle and told Anne to 
follow her, which Anne spiritlessly did, taking her 
hat and carpet-bag from the hall table as she passed. 
The hall was fearsomely clean; the little gable 
chamber in which she presently found herself seemed 
still cleaner. 

Marilla set the candle on a three-legged, three- 
cornered table and turned down the bedclothes. 

"I suppose you have a nightgown?" she ques- 

Anne nodded. 

"Yes, I have two. The matron of the asylum 
made them for me. They're fearfully skimpy. 
There is never enough to go around in an asylum, 
so things are always skimpy at least in a poor 
asylum like ours. I hate skimpy night-dresses. But 
one can dream just as well in them as in lovely trail- 
ing ones, with frills around the neck, that's one con- 

"Well, undress as quick as you can and go to 
bed. I'll come back in a few minutes for the candle. 
I daren't trust you to put it out yourself. You'd 
likely set the place on fire." 

When Marilla had gone Anne looked around her 
wistfully. The whitewashed walls were so painfully 
bare and staring that she thought they must ache 
over their own bareness. The floor was bare, too, 
except for a round braided mat in the middle such 
as Anne had never seen before. In one corner was 


the bed, a high, old-fashioned one, with four dark, 
low-turned posts. In the other corner was the afore- 
said three-cornered table adorned with a fat, red 
velvet pincushion hard enough to turn the point of 
the most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little 
six by eight mirror. Midway between table and bed 
was the window, with an icy white muslin frill over 
it, and opposite it was the wash-stand. The whole 
apartment was of a rigidity not to be described in 
words, but which sent a shiver to the very marrow of 
Anne's bones. With a sob she hastily discarded her 
garments, put on the skimpy nightgown and sprang 
into bed where she burrowed face downward into 
the pillow and pulled the clothes over her head. 
When Marilla came up for the light various skimpy 
articles of raiment scattered most untidily over the 
floor and a certain tempestuous appearance of the 
bed were the only indications of any presence save 
her own. 

She deliberately picked up Anne's clothes, placed 
them neatly on a prim yellow chair, and then, taking 
up the candle, went over to the bed. 

"Good night," she said, a little awkwardly, but 
not unkindly. 

Anne's white face and big eyes appeared over the 
bedclothes with a startling suddenness. 

"How can you call it a good night when you know 
it must be the very worst night I've ever had?" 
she said reproachfully. 

Then she dived down into invisibility again. 

Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen and pro- 
ceeded to wash the supper dishes, Matthew was 


smoking a sure sign of perturbation of mind. He 
seldom smoked, for Manila set her face against it 
as a filthy habit; but at certain times and seasons 
he felt driven to it and then Marilla winked at the 
practice, realizing that a mere man must have some 
vent for his emotions. 

"Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish," she said 
wrath fully. "This is what comes of sending word 
instead of going ourselves. Robert Spencer's folks 
have twisted that message somehow. One of us will 
have to drive over and see Mrs. Spencer to-morrow, 
that's certain. This girl will- have to be sent back 
to the asylum." 

"Yes, I suppose so," said Matthew reluctantly. 

"You suppose so ! Don't you know it ?" 

"Well now, she's a real nice little thing, Marilla. 
It's kind of a pity to send her back when she's so 
set on staying here." 

"Matthew Cuthbert, you don't mean to say you 
think we ought to keep her !" 

Manila's astonishment could not have been greater 
if Matthew had expressed a predilection for standing 
on his head. 

"Well now, no, I suppose not not exactly," 
stammered Matthew, uncomfortably driven into a 
corner for his precise meaning. "I suppose we 
could hardly be expected to keep her." 

"I should say not. What good would she be to 

"We might be some good to her," said Matthew 
suddenly and unexpectedly. 

"Matthew Cuthbert, I believe that child has be- 


witched you! I can see as plain as plain that you 
want to keep her." 

"Well now, she's a real interesting little thing," 
persisted Matthew. "You should have heard her 
talk coming from the station." 

"Oh, she can talk fast enough. I saw that at 
once. It's nothing in her favour, either. I don't 
like children who have so much to say. I don't 
want an orphan girl and if I did she isn't the style 
I'd pick out There's something I don't understand 
about her. No, she's got to be despatched straight- 
way back to where she came from." 

"I could hire a French boy to help me," said 
Matthew, "and she'd be company for you." 

"I'm not suffering for company," said Marilla 
shortly. "And I'm not going to keep her." 

"Well now, it's just as you say, of course, Ma- 
rilla," said Matthew rising and putting his pipe 
away. "I'm going to bed." 

To bed went Matthew. And to bed, when she had 
put her dishes away, went Marilla, frowning most 
resolutely. And up-stairs, in the east gable, a lonely, 
heart-hungry, friendless child cried herself to sleep. 


IT was broad daylight when Anne awoke and sat 
up in bed, staring confusedly at the window through 
which a flood of cheery sunshine was pouring and 
outside of which something white and feathery 
waved across glimpses of blue sky. 

For a moment she could not remember where she 
was. First came a delightful thrill, as of something 
very pleasant; then a horrible remembrance. This 
was Green Gables and they didn't want her because 
she wasn't a boy ! 

But it was morning and, yes, it was a cherry- 
tree in full bloom outside of her window. With a 
bound she was <sut of bed and across the floor. She 
pushed up the sash it went up stiffly and creakily, 
as if it hadn't been opened for a long time, which 
was the case; and it stuck so tight that nothing was 
needed to hold it up. 

Anne dropped on her knees and gazed out into 
the June morning, her eyes glistening with delight. 
Oh, wasn't it beautiful? Wasn't it a lovely place? 
Suppose she wasn't really going to stay here! She 
would imagine she was. There was scope for im- 
agination here. 

A huge cherry-tree grew outside, so close that its 


boughs tapped against the house, and it was so 
thick-set with blossoms that hardly a leaf was to 
be seen. On both sides of the house was a big or- 
chard, one of apple-trees and one of cherry-trees., 
also showered over with blossoms; and their grass 
was all sprinkled with dandelions. In the garden 
below were lilac-trees purple with flowers, and their 
dizzily sweet fragrance drifted up to the window 
on the morning wind. 

Below the garden a green field lush with clover 
sloped down to the hollow where the brook ran and 
where scores of white birches grew, upspringing air- 
ily out of an undergrowth suggestive of delightful 
possibilities in ferns and mosses and woodsy things 
generally. Beyond it was a hill, green and feathery 
with spruce and fir ; there was a gap in it where the 
gray gable end of the little house she had seen from 
the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters was 

Off to the left were the big barns and beyond 
them, away down over green, low-sloping fields, was 
a sparkling blue glimpse of sea. 

Anne's beauty-loving eyes lingered on it all, tak- 
ing everything greedily in; she had looked on so 
many unlovely places in her life, poor child; but 
this was as lovely as anything she had ever dreamed. 

She knelt there, lost to everything but the loveli- 
ness around her, until she was startled by a hand on 
her shoulder. Marilla had come in unheard by the 
small dreamer. 

"It's time you were dressed," she said curtly. 

Marilla really did not know how to talk to the 


child, and her uncomfortable ignorance made her 
crisp and curt when she did not mean to be. 

Anne stood up and drew a long breath. 

"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she said, waving her 
hand comprehensively at the good world outside. 

"It's a big tree," said Marilla, "and it blooms 
great, but the fruit don't amount to much never 
small and wormy." 

"Oh, I don't mean just the tree; of course it's 
lovely yes, it's radiantly lovely it blooms as if 
it meant it but I meant everything, the garden 
and the orchard and the brook and the woods, the 
whole big dear world. Don't you feel as if you just 
loved the world on a morning like this? And I can 
hear the brook laughing all the way up here. Have 
you ever noticed what cheerful things brooks are? 
They're always laughing. Even in winter-time I've 
heard them under the ice. I'm so glad there's a 
brook near Green Gables. Perhaps you think it 
doesn't make any difference to me when you're not 
going to keep me, but it does. I shall always like 
to remember that there is a brook at Green Gables 
even if I never see it again. If there wasn't a brook 
I'd be haunted by the uncomfortable feeling that 
there ought to be one. I'm not in the depths of 
despair this morning. I never can be in the morning. 
Isn't it a splendid thing that there are mornings? 
But I feel very sad. I've just been imagining that 
it was really me you wanted after all and that I was 
to stay here for ever and ever. It was a great com- 
fort while it lasted. But the worst of imagining 


things is that the time comes when you have to stop 
and that hurts." 

"You'd better get dressed and come down-stairs 
and never mind your imaginings," said Marilla as 
soon as she could get a word in edgewise. "Break- 
fast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. 
Leave the window up and turn your bedclothes 
back over the foot of the bed. Be as smart as you 

Anne could evidently be smart to some purpose 
for she was down-stairs in ten minutes' time, with 
her clothes neatly on, her hair brushed and braided, 
her face washed, and a comfortable consciousness 
pervading her soul that she had fulfilled all Manila's 
requirements. As a matter of fact, however, she had 
forgotten to turn back the bedclothes. 

"I'm pretty hungry this morning," she announced, 
as she slipped into the chair Marilla placed for her. 
"The world doesn't seem such a howling wilderness 
as it did last night. I'm so glad it's a sunshiny 
morning. But I like rainy mornings real well, too. 
All sorts of mornings are interesting, don't you 
think? You don't know what's going to happen 
through the day, and there's so much scope for imag- 
ination. But I'm glad it's not rainy to-day because 
it's easier to be cheerful and bear up under affliction 
on a sunshiny day. I feel that I have a good deal 
to bear up under. It's all very well to read about 
sorrows and imagine yourself living through them 
heroically, but it's not so nice when you really come 
to have them, is it?" 


"For pity's sake hold your tongue," said Marilla. 
8< You talk entirely too much for a little girl." 

Thereupon Anne held her tongue so obediently 
and thoroughly that her continued silence made Ma- 
rilla rather nervous, as if in the presence of some- 
thing not exactly natural. Matthew also held his 
tongue, but this at least was natural, so that the 
meal was a very silent one. 

As it progressed Anne became more and more ab- 
stracted, eating mechanically, with her big eyes fixed 
unswervingly and unseeingly on the sky outside the 
window. This made Marilla more nervous than 
ever; she had an uncomfortable feeling that while 
this odd child's body might be there at the table her 
spirit was far away in some remote airy cloudland, 
borne aloft on the wings of imagination. Who 
would want such a child about the place? 

Yet Matthew wished to keep her, of all unac- 
countable things! Marilla felt that he wanted it 
just as much this morning as he had the night before, 
and that he would go on wanting it. That was 
Matthew's way take a whim into his head and 
cling to it with the most amazing silent persistency 
a persistency ten times more potent and effectual 
in its very silence than if he had talked it out. 

When the meal was ended Anne came out of her 
reverie and offered to wash the dishes. 

"Can you wash dishes right?" asked Marilla 

"Pretty well. I'm better at looking after children, 
though, I've had so much experience at that. It's 


such a pity you haven't any here for me to look 

"I don't feel as if I wanted any more children 
to look after than I've got at present. You'rt prob- 
lem enough in all conscience. What's to be done 
with you I don't know. Matthew is a most ridicu- 
lous man." 

"I think he's lovely," said Anne reproachfully. 
"He is so very sympathetic. He didn't mind how 
much I talked he seemed to like it. I felt that he 
was a kindred spirit as soon as ever I saw him." 

"You're both queer enough, if that's what you 
mean by kindred spirits," said Marilla with a sniff. 
"Yes, you may wasji the dishes. Take plenty of 
hot water, and be sure you dry them well. I've got 
enough to attend to this morning for I'll have to 
drive over to White Sands in the afternoon and see 
Mrs. Spencer. You'll come with me and we'll settle 
what's to be done with you. After you've finished 
the dishes go up-stairs and make your bed." 

Anne washed the dishes deftly enough, as Ma- 
rilla, who kept a sharp eye on the process, discerned. 
Later on she made her bed less successfully, for she 
had never learned the art of wrestling with a feather 
tick. But it was done somehow and smoothed down ; 
and then Marilla, to get rid of her, told her she 
might go out-of-doors and amuse herself until dinner- 

Anne flew to the door, face alight, eyes glowing. 
On the very threshold she stopped short, wheeled 
about, came back and sat down by the table, light 


and glow as effectually blotted out as if some one 
had clapped an extinguisher on her. 

"What's the matter now?" demanded Manila. 

"I don't dare go out," said Anne, in the tone of 
a martyr relinquishing all earthly joys. "If I can't 
stay here there is no use in my loving Green Gables. 
And if I go out there and get acquainted with all 
those trees and flowers and the orchard and the 
brook I'll not be able to help loving it. It's hard 
enough now, so I won't make it any harder. I want 
to go out so much everything seems to be calling 
to me, 'Anne, Anne, come out to us. Anne, Anne, 
we want a playmate' but it's better not. There is 
no use in loving things if you have to be torn from 
them, is there? And it's so hard to keep from lov- 
ing things, isn't it? That was why I was so glad 
when I thought I was going to live here. I thought 
I'd have so many things to love and nothing to 
hinder me. But that brief dream is over. I am 
resigned to my fate now, so I don't think I'll go out 
for fear I'll get unresigned again. What is the name 
of that geranium on the window-sill, please ?" 

"That's the apple-scented geranium." 

"Oh, I don't mean that sort of a name. I mean 
just a name you gave it yourself. Didn't you give 
it a name? May I give it one then? May I call 
it let me see Bonny would do may I call it 
Bonny while I'm here ? Oh, do let me !" 

"Goodness, I don't care. But where on earth is 
the sense of naming a geranium ?" 

"Oh, I like things to have handles even if they 
are only geraniums. It makes them seem more like 


people. How do you know but that it hurts a gera- 
nium's feelings just to be called a geranium and noth- 
ing else? You wouldn't like to be called nothing 
but a woman all the time. Yes, I shall call it Bonny. 
I named that cherry-tree outside my bedroom window 
this morning. I called it Snow Queen because it was 
so white. Of course, it won't always be in blossom, 
but one can imagine that it is, can't one ?" 

"I never in all my life saw or heard anything to 
equal her," muttered Manila, beating a retreat down 
cellar after potatoes. "She is kind of interesting, 
as Matthew says. I can feel already that I'm won- 
dering what on earth she'll say next She'll be cast- 
ing a spell over me, too. She's cast it over Matthew. 
That look he gave me when he went out said every- 
thing he said or hinted last night over again. I wish 
he was like other men and would talk things out. 
A body could answer back then and argue him into 
reason. But what's to be done with a man who just 

Anne had relapsed into reverie, with her chin in 
her hands and her eyes on the sky, when Marilla 
returned from her cellar pilgrimage. There Marilla 
left her until the early dinner was on the table. 

"I suppose I can have the mare and buggy this 
afternoon, Matthew?" said Marilla. 

Matthew nodded and looked wistfully at Anne. 
Marilla intercepted the look and said grimly : 

"I'm going to drive over to White Sands and 
settle this thing. I'll take Anne with me and Mrs. 
Spencer will probably make arrangements to send 
her back to Nova Scotia at once. I'll set your tea 


out for you and I'll be home in time to milk the 

Still Matthew said nothing and Manila had a 
sense of having wasted words and breath. There is 
nothing more aggravating than a man who won't 
talk back unless it is a woman who won't. 

Matthew hitched the sorrel into the buggy in due 
time and Marilla and Anne set off. Matthew opened 
the yard gate for them, and as they drove slowly 
through, he said,, to nobody in particular as it 
seemed : 

"Little Jerry Buote from the Creek was here this 
morning, and I told him I guessed I'd hire him for 
the summer." 

Marilla made no reply, but she hit the unlucky 
sorrel such a vicious clip with the whip that the fat 
mare, unused to such treatment, whizzed indignantly 
down the lane at an alarming pace. Marilla looked 
back once as the buggy bounced along and saw that 
aggravating Matthew leaning over the gate, looking 
wistfully after them. 


"Do you know," said Anne confidentially, "I've 
made up my mind to enjoy this drive. It's been my 
experience that you can nearly always enjoy things 
if you make up your mind firmly that you will. Of 
course, you must make it up firmly. I am not going* 
to think about going back to the asylum while we're 
having our drive. I'm just going to think about the 
drive. Oh, look, there's one little early wild rose 
out! Isn't it lovely? Don't you think it must be 
glad to be a rose? Wouldn't it be nice if roses 
could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely 
things. And isn't pink the most bewitching colour 
in the world? I love it, but I can't wear it Red- 
headed people can't wear pink, not even in imagina- 
tion. Did you ever know of anybody whose hair 
was red when she was young, but got to be another 
Colour when she grew up ?" 

"No, I don't know as I ever did," said Marilla 
mercilessly, "and I shouldn't think it likely to happen 
in your case, either.'* 

Anne sighed. 

"Well, that is another hope gone. My life is a 
perfect graveyard of buried hopes. That's a sen- 
tence I read in a book once, and I say it over to 



comfort myself whenever I'm disappointed in any- 

"I don't see where the comforting comes in 
myself," said Marilla. 

"Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic, 
just as if I were a heroine in a book, you know. I 
am so fond of romantic things, and a graveyard full 
of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one 
can imagine, isn't it? I'm rather glad I have one. 
Are we going across the Lake of Shining Waters 

"We're not going over Barry's pond, if that's 
what you mean by your Lake of Shining Waters. 
We're going by the shore road." 

"Shore road sounds nice," said Anne dreamily. 
"Is it as nice as it sounds? Just when you said 
'shore road' I saw it in a picture in my mind, as 
quick as that! And White Sands is a pretty name, 
too ; but I don't like it as well as Avonlea. Avonlea 
is a lovely name. It just sounds like music. How 
far is it to White Sands ?" 

"It's five miles; and as you're evidently bent on 
talking you might as well talk to some purpose by 
telling me what you know about yourself." 

"Oh, what I know about myself isn't really worth 
telling," said Anne eagerly. "If you'll only let me 
tell you what I imagine about myself you'll think it 
ever so much more interesting." 

"No, I don't want any of your imaginings. Just 
you stick to- bald facts. Begin at the beginning. 
Where were you born and how old are you ?" 

"I was eleven last March," said Anne, resigning 


herself to bald facts with a little sigh. "And I was 
born in Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia. My father's 
name was Walter Shirley, and he was a teacher in 
the Bolingbroke High School. My mother's name 
was Bertha Shirley. Aren't Walter and Bertha 
lovely names? I'm so glad my parents had nice 
names. It would be a real disgrace to have a father 
named well, say Jedediah, wouldn't it?" 

"I guess it doesn't matter what a person's name 
is as long as he behaves himself," said Marilla, feel- 
ing herself called upon to inculcate a good and useful 

"Well, I don't know." Anne looked thoughtful. 
"I read in a book once that a rose by any other 
name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able 
to believe it I don't believe a rose would be as nice 
if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage. I sup- 
pose my father could have been a good man even if 
he had been called Jedediah; but I'm sure it would 
have been a cross. Well, my mother was a teacher 
in the High School, too, but when she married father 
she gave up teaching, of course. A husband was 
enough responsibility. Mrs. Thomas said that they 
were a pair of babies and as poor as church mice. 
They went to live in a weeny-teeny little yellow house 
in Bolingbroke. I've never seen that house, but I've 
imagined it thousands of times. I think it must 
have had honeysuckle over the parlour window and 
lilacs in the front yard and lilies of the valley just 
inside the gate. Yes, and muslin curtains in all the 
windows. Muslin curtains give a house such an air. 
I was born in that house. Mrs. Thomas said I was 


the homeliest baby she ever saw, I was so scrawny 
and tiny and nothing but eyes, but that mother 
thought I was perfectly beautiful. I should think 
a mother would be a better judge than a poor woman 
who came in to scrub, wouldn't you? I'm glad she 
was satisfied with me anyhow; I would feel so sad 
if I thought I was a disappointment to her because 
she didn't live very long after that, you see. She 
died of fever when I was just three months old. I 
do wish she'd lived long enough for me to remember 
calling her mother. I think it would be so sweet to 
say 'mother,' don't you? And father died four days 
afterwards from fever, too. That left me an orphan 
and folks were at their wits' end, so Mrs. Thomas 
said, what to do with me. You see, nobody wanted 
me even then. It seems to be my fate. Father and 
mother had both come from places far away and it 
was well known they hadn't any relatives living. 
Finally Mrs. Thomas said she'd take me, though she 
was poor and had a drunken husband. She brought 
me up by hand. Do you know if there is anything in 
being brought up by hand that ought to make people 
who are brought up that way better than other peo- 
ple? Because whenever I was naughty Mrs. Thomas 
would ask me how I could be such a bad girl when 
she had brought me up by hand reproach ful-like. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Boling- 
broke to Marysville, and I lived with them until I 
was eight years old. I helped look after the Thomas 
children there were four of them younger than 
me and I can tell you they took a lot of looking 
after. Then Mr. Thomas was killed falling under a 


train and his mother offered to take Mrs. Thomas 
and the children, but she didn't want me. Mrs. 
Thomas was at her wits' end, so she said, what to 
do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond from up the 
river came down and said she'd take me, seeing I was 
handy with children, and I went up the river to live 
with her in a little clearing among the stumps. It 
was a very lonesome place. I'm sure I could never 
have lived there if I hadn't had an imagination. Mr. 
Hammond worked a little saw-mill up there, and Mrs. 
Hammond had eight children. She had twins three 
times. I like babies in moderation, but twins three 
times in succession is too much. I told Mrs. Ham- 
mond so firmly, when the last pair came. I used 
to get so dreadfully tired carrying them about 

"I lived up river with Mrs. Hammond over two 
years, and then Mr. Hammond died and Mrs. Ham- 
mond broke up housekeeping. She divided her chil- 
dren among her relatives and went to the States. I 
had to go to the asylum at Hopeton, because nobody 
would take me. They didn't want me at the asylum, 
either; they said they were overcrowded as it was. 
But they had to take me and I was there four months 
until Mrs. Spencer came." 

Anne finished up with another sigh, of relief this 
time. Evidently she did not like talking about her 
experiences in a world that had not wanted her. 

"Did you ever go to school?" demanded Ma- 
rilla, turning the sorrel mare down the shore road. 

"Not a great deal. I went a little the last year 
I stayed with Mrs. Thomas. When I went up river 
we were so far from a school that I couldn't walk 


it in winter and there was vacation in summer, so 
I could only go in the spring and fall. But of course 
I went while I was at the asylum. I can read pretty 
well and I know ever so many pieces of poetry off 
by heart 'The Battle of Hohenlinden' and 'Edin- 
burgh after Flodden,' and 'Bingen on the Rhine/ and 
lots of the 'Lady of the Lake' and most of 'The 
Seasons/ by James Thompson. Don't you just love 
poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down 
your back? There is a piece in the Fifth Reader 
'The Downfall of Poland' that is just full of 
thrills. Of course, I wasn't in the Fifth Reader I 
was only in the Fourth but the big girls used to 
lend me theirs to read." 

"Were those women Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. 
Hammond good to you?" asked Marilla, looking 
at Anne out of the corner of her eye. 

"O-o-o-h," faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face 
suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on 
her brow. "Oh, they meant to be I know they 
meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And 
when people mean to be good to you, you don't mind 
very much when they're not quite always. They 
had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's very 
trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it 
must be very trying to have twins three times in suc- 
cession, don't you think ? But I feel sure they meant 
to be good to me." 

Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave her- 
self up to a silent rapture over the shore road and 
Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly while she pon- 
dered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her 


heart for the child. What a starved, unloved life 
she had had a life of drudgery and poverty and 
neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read 
between the lines of Anne's history and divine the 
truth. No wonder she had been so delighted at the 
prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be 
sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge 
Matthew's unaccountable whim and let her stay? He 
was set on it; and the child seemed a nice, teachable 
little thing. 

'"She's got too much to say," thought Marilla, 
"but she might be trained out of that And there's 
nothing rude or slangy in what she does say. She's 
ladylike. It's likely her people were nice folks." 

The shore road was "woodsy and wild and lone- 
some." On the right hand, scrub firs, their spirits 
quite unbroken by long years of tussle with the gulf 
winds, grew thickly. On the left were the steep red 
sandstone cliffs, so near the track in places that a 
mare of less steadiness than the sorrel might have 
tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down at 
the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks 
or little sandy coves inlaid with pebbles as with ocean 
jewels; beyond lay the sea, shimmering and blue, 
and over it soared the gulls, their pinions flashing 
silvery in the sunlight. 

"Isn't the sea wonderful?" said Anne, rousing 
from a long, wide-eyed silence. "Once, when I lived 
in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express-wagon 
and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten 
miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day, 
even if I had to look after the children all the time. 


I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this 
shore is nicer than the Marysville shore. Aren't 
those gulls splendid? Would you like to be a gull? 
I think I would that is, if I couldn't be a human 
girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at 
sunrise and swoop down over the water and away 
out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night 
to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine 
myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, 
please ?" 

"That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs 
it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps 
of Americans come there for the summer. They 
think this shore is just about right." 

"I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," 
said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. 
Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." 


GET there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. 
Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands 
Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and 
welcome mingled on her benevolent face. 

"Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last 
folks I was looking for to-day, but I'm real glad to 
see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are 
you, Anne?" 

"I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said 
Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended 
on her. 

"I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the 
mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd 
be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's 
been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over 
to see where it is. We sent word, Matthew and I, 
for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We 
told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a 
boy ten or eleven years old." 

"Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. 
Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent the word 
down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted 
a girl didn't she, Flora Jane?" appealing to her 
daughter who had come out to the steps. 



"She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated 
Flora Jane earnestly. 

"I'm dreadfully sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It is 
too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, 
Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought 
I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terri- 
ble flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well 
for her heedlessness." 

"It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly. 
"We should have come to you ourselves and not left 
an important message to be passed along by word 
of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has 
been made and the only thing to do now is to set it 
right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? 
I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?" 

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, 
"but I don't think it will be necessary to send her 
back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and 
she was saying to me how much she wished she'd 
sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter 
has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard 
to get help. Anne will be the very girl for her. I 
call it positively providential." 

Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence 
had much to do with the matter. Here was an un- 
expectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan 
off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for 

She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a 
small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of 
superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard 
of her. "A terrible worker and driver," Mrs. Peter 


was said to be; and discharged servant girls told 
fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her 
family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt 
a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne 
over to her tender mercies. 

"Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over," 
she said. 

"And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the 
lane this blessed minute!" exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, 
bustling her guests through the hall into the parlour, 
where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had 
been strained so long through dark green, closely 
drawn blinds that it had lost every particle of warmth 
it had ever possessed. "That is real lucky, for we 
can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, 
Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman 
and don't wriggle. Let me take your hats. Flora 
Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, 
Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate 
it was you happened along. Let me introduce you 
two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Please 
excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora 
Jane to take the buns out of the oven." 

Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the 
blinds. Anne, sitting mutely on the ottoman, with 
her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs. 
Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given 
into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed 
woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat 
and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning 
to be afraid she couldn't keep the tears back when 
Mrs. Spencer returned, flushed and beaming, quite 


capable of taking any and every difficulty, physical, 
mental or spiritual, into consideration and settling it 
out of hand. 

"It seems there's been a mistake about this little 
girl, Mrs. Blewett," she said. "I was under the 
impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a 
little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it 
seems it was a boy they wanted. !fo if you're still 
of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll 
be just the thing for you." 

Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne frorrt 
head to foot. 

"How old are you and what's your name?" she 

"Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not 
daring to make any stipulations regarding the spell- 
ing thereof, "and I'm eleven years old." 

"Humph! You don't look as if there was much to 
you. But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry 
ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll 
have to be a good girl, you know good and smart 
and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, 
and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might 
as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The 
baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out at- 
tending to him. If you like I can take her right 
home now." 

Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight oi 
the child's pale face with its look of mute misery - 
the misery of a helpless little creature who finds it- 
self once more caught in the trap from which it had 
escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction 


that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would 
haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did not 
fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "high- 
strung" child over to such a woman! No, she could 
not take the responsibility of doing that! 

"Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't 
say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that 
we wouldn't keep her. In fact, I may say that Mat- 
thew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find 
out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better 
take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. 
I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without 
consulting him. If we make up our mind not to 
keep her we'll bring or send her over to you to-mor- 
row night If we don't you may know that she is 
going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. 

"I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett un- 

During Manila's speech a sunrise had been dawn- 
ing on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded 
out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew 
deep and bright as morning stars. The child was 
quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. 
Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a 
recipe the latter had come to borrow, she sprang up 
and flew across the room to Marilla. 

"Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that per- 
haps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she 
said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud 
might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you 
really say it ? Or did I only imagine that you did ?/' 


"I think you'd better learn to control that imagina- 
tion of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between 
what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. 
"Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. 
It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to 
let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly 
needs you much more than I do." 

"I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live 
with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks ex- 
actly like a like a gimlet." 

Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction 
that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. 

"A little girl like you should be ashamed of talk- 
ing so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. 
"Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue 
and behave as a good girl should." 

"I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if 
you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to 
her ottoman. 

When they arrived back at Green Gables that eve- 
ning Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from 
afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his 
motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in 
his face when he saw that she had at least brought 
Anne back with her. But she said nothing to him, 
relative to the affair, until they were both out in the 
yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she 
briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the 
interview with Mrs. Spencer. 

"I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett 
jyoman," said Matthew with unusual vim. 

"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Manila* 


"but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. 
And, since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm will- 
ing or have to be. I've been thinking over the 
idea until I've got kind of used to it It seems a 
sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, espe- 
cially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess 
of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, 
Matthew, she may stay." 

Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. 

"Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in 
that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an inter- 
esting little thing." 

"It'd be more to the point if you could say she 
was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll 
make it my business to see she's trained to be that. 
And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering 
with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know 
much about bringing up a child, but I guess she 
knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave 
me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough 
to put your oar in." 

"There, there, Marilla, you can have your own 
way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good 
and kind to her as you can be without spoiling her. 
I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do any- 
thing with if you only get her to love you." 

Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Mat- 
thew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and 
walked off to the dairy with the pails. 

"I won't tell her to-night that she can stay," she 
reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. 
"She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. 


Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it Did you 
ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopt- 
ing an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not 
so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom 
of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal 
dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the 
experiment and goodness only knows what will come 
of it" 



WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night 
she said stiffly: 

"Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw 
your clothes all about the floor when you took them 
off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow 
it at all. As soon as you take off any article of 
clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I 
haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't 

"I was so harrowed up in my mind last night 
that I didn't think about my clothes at all," said 
Anne. "I'll fold them nicely to-night. They always 
made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, 
though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get 
into bed nice and quiet and imagine tilings." 

"You'll have to remember a little better if you 
stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks 
something like. Say your prayers now and get into 

"I never say any prayers," announced Anne. 

Marilla looked horrified astonishment. 

"Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you 
never taught to say your prayers ? God always wants 
little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who 
God is, Anne?" 



" 'God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchange- 
able, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, 
goodness, and truth/ " responded Anne promptly and 

Marilla looked rather relieved. 

"So you do know something then, thank good- 
ness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you 
learn that?" 

"Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made 
us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. 
There's something splendid about some of the words. 
'Infinite, eternal and unchangeable/ Isn't that 
grand? It has such a roll to it just like a big 
organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, 
I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" 

"We're not talking about poetry, Anne we are 
talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know 
it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers 
every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little 

"You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you 
had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People 
who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. 
Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red 
on purpose, and I've never cared about Him since. 
And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to 
bother saying prayers. People who have to look 
after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. 
Now, do you honestly think they can?" 

Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must 
be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be 


"You must say your prayers while you are under 
my roof, Anne." 

"Why, of course, if you want me to," assented 
Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. 
But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. 
After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer 
to say always. I believe that it will be quite interest- 
ing, now that I come to think of it." 

"You must kneel down," said Marilla in embar- 

Anne knelt at Manila's knee and looked up 

"Why must people kneel down to pray? If I 
really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd 
go out into a great big field all alone or into the 
deep, deep woods, and I'd look up into the sky 
up up up into that lovely blue sky that looks 
as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd 
just feel a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to 

Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had 
intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I 
lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told 
you, the glimmerings of a sense of humour which 
is simply another name for a sense of the fitness of 
things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that 
simple little prayer, sacred to a white-robed childhood 
lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to 
this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared 
nothing about God's love, since she had never had it 
translated to her through the medium of human love. 

"You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," 


she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings 
and ask Him humbly for the things you want." 

"Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying 
her face in Manila's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father 
that's the way the ministers say it in church, so 
I suppose it's all right in a private prayer, isn't it?" 
she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. 
"Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the 
White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining 
Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really 
extremely grateful for them. And that's all the 
blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. 
As for the things I want, they're so numerous that 
it would take a great deal of time to name them all, 
so I will only mention the two most important. 
Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let 
me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, 
"Yours respectfully, 


"There, did I do it all right?" she asked eagerly, 
getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery 
if I'd had a little more time to think it over." 

Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete 
collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, 
but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne 
that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. 
She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that 
she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and 
was leaving the room with the light when Anne called 
her back. 

"I've just thought of it now. I should have said 


'Amen' in place of 'yours respectfully,' shouldn't 
I? the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, 
but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, 
so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make 
any difference?" 

"I I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to 
sleep now like a good child. Good night" 

"I can say good night to-night with a clear con- 
science," said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among 
her pillows. 

Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle 
firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. 

"Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody 
adopted that child and taught her something. She's 
next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that 
she never said a prayer in her life till to-night? I'll 
send to the manse to-morrow and borrow the Peep 
of Day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go 
to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some 
suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall 
have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through 
this world without our share of trouble. I've had a 
pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come 
at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best 
of it" 


FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did 
not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables 
until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she 
kept the child busy with various tasks and watched 
over her with a keen eye while she did them. By 
noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and 
obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her 
most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency 
to fait into day-dreams in the middle of a task and 
forget all about it until such time as she was sharply 
recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. 

When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes 
she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and ex- 
pression of one desperately determined to learn the 
worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to 
foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they 
were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and 
said in an imploring voice : 

"Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if 
you are going to send me away or not? I've tried 
to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that 
I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dread- 
ful feeling. Please tell me." 

"You haven't scalded the dish-cloth in clean hot 



water as I told you to do," said Marilla immovably. 
"Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, 

Anne went and attended to the dish-cloth. Then 
she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes 
on the latter's face. 

"Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse 
for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose 
I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have de- 
cided to keep you that is, if you will try to be a 
good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, 
child, whatever is the matter?" 

"I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilder- 
ment "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can 
be. Oh, glad doesn't seem the right word at all. 
I was glad about the White Way and the cherry 
blossoms but this! Oh, it's something more than 
glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will 
be up-hill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often 
told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do 
my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" 

"I suppose it's because you're all excited and 
worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down 
on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid 
you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can 
stay here and we will try to do right by you. You 
must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vaca- 
tion so it isn't worth while for you to start before 
it opens again in September." 

"What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall 
I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt 


"No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not 
used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make 
me nervous." 

"It sounds awfully disrespectful to say just Ma- 
rilla," protested Anne. 

"I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if 
you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, 
young and old, in Avonlea calls me Manila except 
the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert when he 
thinks of it" 

"I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne 
wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation 
at all not even a grandmother. It would make 
me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call 
you Aunt Marilla?" 

"No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in 
calling people names that don't belong to them." 

"But we could imagine you were my aunt." 

"I couldn't," said Marilla grimly. 

"Do you never imagine things different from what 
they really are ?" asked Anne wide-eyed. 


"Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss 
Marilla, how much you miss !" 

"I don't believe in imagining things different from 
what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the 
Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't 
mean for us to imagine them away. And that re- 
minds me. Go into the sitting-room, Anne be 
sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in 
and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the 
mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll 


devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it 
off by heart There's to be no more of such praying 
as I heard last night." 

"I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apol- 
ogetically, ''but then, you see, I'd never had any 
practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray 
very well the first time she tried, could you? I 
thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, 
just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as 
long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you 
believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I 
woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be 
able to think out another one as good. Somehow, 
things never are so good when they're thought out a 
second time. Have you ever noticed that?" 

"Here is something for you to notice, Anne. 
When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey 
me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse 
about it Just you go and do as I bid you." 

Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across 
the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten 
minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched 
after her with a grim expression. She found Anne 
standing motionless before a picture hanging on the 
wall between the two windows, with her hands 
clasped behind her, her face uplifted, and her eyes 
astar with dreams. The white and green light 
strained through apple-trees and clustering vines out- 
side fell over the rapt little figure with a half-un- 
earthly radiance. 

"Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded 
Marilla sharply. 


'Anne came back to earth with a start. 

"That," she said, pointing to the picture a 
rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little 
Children" "and I was just imagining I was one 
of them that I was the little girl in the blue dress, 
standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn't 
belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and 
sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't any father 
or mother of her < n. But she wanted to be blessed, 
too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the 
crowd, hoping nobody would notice her except 
Him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her 
heart must have beat and her hands must have got 
cold, like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. 
She was afraid He mightn't notice her. But it's 
likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying to 
imagine it all out her edging a little nearer all the 
time until she was quite close to Him; and then He 
would look at her and put His hand on her hair and 
oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But 
I wish the artist hadn't painted Him so sorrowful- 
looking. !A11 His pictures are like that, if you've 
noticed. But I don't believe He could really have 
looked so sad or the children would have been afraid 
of Him/' 

"Anne," said Marilla, wondering why she had not 
broken into this speech long before, "you shouldn't 
talk that way. It's irreverent positively irrever- 

Anne's eyes marvelled. 

"Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm 
sure I didn't mean to be irreverent.'* 


"Well, I don't suppose you did but it doesn't 
sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. 
!And another thing, Anne, when I send you after 
something you're to bring it at once and not fall into 
mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember, 
that Take that card and come right to the kitchen. 
Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer 
off by heart" 

Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple 
blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner- 
table Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but 
had said nothing propped her chin on her hands, 
and fell to studying it intently for several silent 

"I like this," she announced at length. "It's beau- 
tiful. I've heard it before I heard the superin- 
tendent of the asylum Sunday-school say it over 
once. But I didn't like it then. He had such a 
cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I 
really felt sure he thought praying was a disagree- 
able duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel 
just the same way poetry does. 'Our Father who art 
in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.' That is just like 
a line of music. Oh, I'm so glad you thought of 
making me learn this, Miss Marilla." 

"Well, learn it and hold your tongue," said Ma- 
rilla shortly. 

Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough 
to bestow a soft kiss on a pink-cupped bud, and then 
studied diligently for some moments longer. 

"Marilla," she demanded presently, "do you think 
that I shall ever have a bosom friend in Avonlea?* 


"A a what kind of a friend?" 

"A bosom friend an intimate friend, you know 
a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my 
inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her all my life. 
I never really supposed I would, but so many of my 
loveliest dreams have come true all at once that per- 
haps this one will, too. Do you think it's possible?" 

"Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope and 
she's about your age. She's a very nice little girl, 
and perhaps she will be a playmate for you when 
she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at 
Carmody just now. You'll have to be careful how 
you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry is a very 
particular woman. She won't let Diana play with 
any little girl who isn't nice and good." 

Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, 
her eyes aglow with interest. 

"What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? 
Oh, I hope not. It's bad enough to have red hair 
myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a bosom 

"Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black 
eyes and hair and rosy cheeks. And she is good and 
smart, which is better than being pretty." 

Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in 
Wonderland, and was firmly convinced that one 
should be tacked on to every remark made to a child 
who was being brought up. 

But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside 
and seized only on the delightful possibilities before 

"Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being 


beautiful oneself and that's impossible in my case > 
it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend. 
When I lived with Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase 
in her sitting-room with glass doors. There weren't 
any books in it; Mrs. Thomas kept her best china 
and her preserves there when she had any pre- 
serves to keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. 
Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly 
intoxicated. But the other was whole and I used to 
pretend that my reflection in it was another little 
girl who lived in it. I called her Katie Maurice, and 
we were very intimate. I used to talk to her by the 
hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her everything. 
Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. 
We used to pretend that the bookcase was enchanted 
and that if I only knew the spell I could open the 
door and step right into the room where Katie Mau- 
rice lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of 
preserves and china. And then Katie Maurice would 
have taken me by the hand and led me out into a 
wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies, 
and we would have lived there happy for ever after. 
When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond it just 
broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it 
dreadfully, too, I know. she did, for she was crying 
when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase 
door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. 
But just up the river a little way from the house 
there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest 
echo lived there. It echoed back every word you 
said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imag- 
ined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we 


were great friends and I loved her almost as well 
as I loved Katie Maurice not quite, but almost, 
you know. The night before I went to the asylum 
I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye 
came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had 
become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to 
imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there 
had been any scope for imagination there." 

"I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Ma- 
rilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. 
You seem to half believe your own imaginations. 
It will be well for you to have a real live friend to 
put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let 
Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie 
Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell 

"Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to every- 
body their memories are too sacred for that But 
I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, 
look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple 
blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live in 
an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when 
the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl 
I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flow- 

"Yesterday you wanted to be a sea-gull," sniffed 
Marilla. "I think you are very fickle-minded. I 
told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it 
seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've 
got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to 
your room and learn it." 


"Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now all but just 
the last line." 

"Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your 
room and finish learning it well, and stay there until 
I call you down to help me get tea." 

"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for com- 
pany?" pleaded Anne. 

"No; you don't want your room cluttered up with 
flowers. You should have left them on the tree in 
the first place." 

"I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I 
kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by 
picking them I wouldn't want to be picked if I 
were an apple blossom. But the temptation was irre- 
sistible. What do you do when you meet with an 
irresistible temptation?" 

"Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your 
room ?" 

Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat 
down in a chair by the window. 

"There I know this prayer. I learned that 
last sentence coming up-stairs. Now I'm going to 
imagine things into this room so that they'll always 
stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white 
velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are 
pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are 
hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The 
furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, 
but it does sound so luxurious. This is a couch all 
heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue 
and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully 
on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big 


mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, 
clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl 
cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair 
is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory 
pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. 
No, it isn't I can't make that seem real." 

She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered 
into it Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray 
eyes peered back at her. 

"You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said 
earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking 
now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cor- 
delia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of 
Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, 
isn't it?" 

She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, 
and betook herself to the open window. 

"Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good 
afternoon, dear birches down in the hollow. And 
good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill. I 
wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope 
she will, and I shall love her very much. But I 
must never quite forget Katie Maurice and Violetta. 
They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd hate to hurt 
anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase girl's or a 
little echo girl's. I must be careful to remember them 
and send them a kiss every day." 

Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her finger- 
tips past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin 
in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of day- 



ANNE had been a fortnight at Green Gables before 
Mrs. Lynde arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to 
do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe 
and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that 
good lady to her house ever since the occasion of 
her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not 
often sick and had a well-defined contempt for peo- 
ple who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no 
other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as 
one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon 
as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out-of- 
doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with 
curiosity to see Matthew's and Manila's orphan, con- 
cerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had 
gone abroad in Avonlea. 

Anne had made good use of every waking mo- 
ment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted 
with every tree and shrub about the place. She had 
discovered that a lane opened out below the apple 
orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland ; and 
she had explored it to its furthest end in all its deli- 
cious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and 
wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branch- 
ing byways of maple and mountain ash. 



She had made friends with the spring down in the 
hollow that wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; 
it was set about with smooth red sandstones and 
rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; 
and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. 

That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a 
wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight 
reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and 
spruces ; the only flowers there were myriads of deli- 
cate "June- bells," those shyest and sweetest of wood- 
land blooms, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like 
the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glim- 
mered like threads of silver among the trees and the 
fir boughs and tassels seemed to utter friendly 

All these raptured voyages of exploration were 
made in the odd half-hours which she was allowed 
for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla half- 
deaf over her discoveries. Not that Matthew com- 
plained, to be sure ; he listened to it all with a word- 
less smile of enjoyment on his face; Marilla 
permitted the "chatter" until she found herself be- 
coming too interested in it, whereupon she always 
promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold 
her tongue. 

Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel 
came, wandering at her own sweet will through the 
lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy evening 
sunshine; so that good lady had an excellent chance 
to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache 
and pulse-beat with such evident enjoyment that 
Marilla thought even grippe must bring its compen* 


sations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel 
introduced the real reason of her call. 

"I've been hearing some surprising things about 
you and Matthew." 

"I don't suppose you are any more surprised than 
I am myself," said Marilla. "I'm getting over my 
surprise now." 

"It was too bad there was such a mistake," said 
Mrs. Rachel sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent 
her back?" 

"I suppose we could, but we decided not to. 
Matthew took a fancy to her. And I must say I 
like her myself although I admit she has her faults. 
The house seems a different place already. She's a 
real bright little thing." 

Marilla said more than she had intended to say when 
she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's 

"It's a great responsibility you've taken on your- 
self," said that lady gloomily, "especially when 
you've never had any experience with children. You 
don't know much about her or her real disposition, 
I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like 
that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage 
you I'm sure, Marilla." 

"I'm not feeling discouraged," was Manila's dry 
response. "When I make up my mind to do a 
thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see 
Anne. I'll call her in." 

Anne came running in presently, her face spark- 
ling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, 
abashed at finding herself in the unexpected presence 


of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. 
She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in 
the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the 
asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungrace- 
fully long. Her freckles were more numerous and 
obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless 
hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked 
redder than at that moment. 

"Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's 
sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's em- 
phatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those de~ 
light ful and popular people who pride themselves on 
speaking their mind without fear or favour. "She's 
terribly skinny and homely, Marilla, Come here, 
child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart* 
did any one ever see such freckles ? And hair as red 
as carrots ! Come here, child, I say." 

Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel 
expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen 
floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet 
with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender 
form trembling from head to foot. 

"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamp- 
ing her foot on the floor. "I hate you I hate 
you I hate you " a louder stamp with each as- 
sertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny 
and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and red- 
headed? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling 
woman !" 

"Anne !" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. 

But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undaunt- 
edly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passion- 


ate indignation exhaling from her like an atmos- 

"How aare you say such things about me?" she 
repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have 
such things said about you? How would you like to 
be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably 
hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care 
if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I 
hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they 
were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxi- 
cated husband. And I'll never forgive you for it, 
never, never!" 

Stamp ! Stamp ! 

"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed 
the horrified Mrs. Rachel. 

"Anne, go to your room and stay there until I 
come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of 
speech with difficulty. 

Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, 
slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside 
rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and 
up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above 
told that the door of the east gable had been shut 
with equal vehemence. 

"Well, I don't envy you your job bringing that 
up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable 

Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what 
of apology or deprecation. What she did say was 
a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. 

"You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, 


"Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that 
you are upholding her in such a terrible display of 
temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel 

"No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to 
excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have 
to give her a talking to about it. But we must 
make allowances for her. She's never been taught 
what is right And you were too hard on her, Ra- 

Marilla could not help tacking on that last sen- 
tence, although she was again surprised at herself 
for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of 
offended dignity. 

"Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what 
I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of 
orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have 
to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm 
not vexed don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry 
for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. 
You'll have your own troubles with that child. But 
if you'll take my advice which I suppose you won't 
do, although I've brought up ten children and buried 
two you'll do that 'talking to' you mention with 
a fair-sized birch switch. I should think that would 
be the most effective language for that kind of a 
child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, 
good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down 
to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me 
to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown 
at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new 
in my experience." 


Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away if a 
fat woman who always waddled could be said to 
sweep away and Marilla with a very solemn face 
betook herself to the east gable. 

On the way up-stairs she pondered uneasily as to 
what she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over 
the scene that had just been enacted. How unfor- 
tunate that Anne should have displayed such temper 
before Mrs. Rachel Lynde, of all people! Then Ma- 
rilla suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable and 
rebuking consciousness that she felt more humiliation 
over this than sorrow over the discovery of such a 
serious defect in Anne's disposition. And how was 
she to punish her? The amiable suggestion of the 
birch switch to the efficiency of which all of Mrs. 
Rachel's own children could have borne smarting 
testimony did not appeal to Marilla. She did not 
believe she could whip a child. No, some other 
method of punishment must be found to bring Anne 
to a proper realization of the enormity of her offence. 

Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, 
crying bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a 
clean counterpane. 

"Anne," she said, not ungently. 

No answer. 

"Anne," with greater severity, "get off that bed this 
minute and listen to what I have to say to you." 

Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a 
chair beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained and 
her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. 

"This is a nice way for you to behave, Anne! 
Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" 


"She hadn't any right to call me ugly and red- 
headed," retorted Anne, evasive and defiant 

"You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and 
talk the way you did to her, Anne. I was ashamed 
of you thoroughly ashamed of you. I wanted 
you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of 
that you have disgraced me. I'm sure I don't know 
why you should lose your temper like that just because 
Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely. 
You say it yourself often enough." 

"Oh, but there's such a difference between saying 
a thing yourself and hearing other people say it," 
wailed Anne. "You may know a thing is so, but 
you can't help hoping other people don't quite think 
it is. I suppose you think I have an awful temper, 
but I couldn't help it. When she said those things 
something just rose right up in me and choked me. I 
had to fly out at her." 

"Well, you made a fine exhibition of yourself I 
must say. Mrs. Lynde will have a nice story to tell 
about you everywhere and she'll tell it, too. It 
was a dreadful thing for you to lose your temper like 
that, Anne." 

"Just imagine how you would feel if somebody told 
you to your face that you were skinny and ugly," 
pleaded Anne tearfully. 

An old remembrance suddenly rose up before Ma- 
rilla. She had been a very small child when she had 
heard one aunt say of her to another, "What a pity 
she is such a dark, homely little thing." Marilla was 
every day of fifty before the sting had gone out of 
that memory. 


"I don't say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly 
right in saying what she did to you, Anne," she 
admitted in a softer tone. "Rachel is too outspoken. 
But that is no excuse for such behaviour on your 
part. She was a stranger and an elderly person and 
my visitor all three very good reasons why you 
should have been respectful to her. You were rude 
and saucy and" Marilla had a saving inspiration 
of punishment "you must go to her and tell her 
you are very sorry for your bad temper and ask her 
to forgive you." 

"I can never do that," said Anne determinedly 
and darkly. "You can punish me in any way you 
like, Marilla. You can shut me up in a dark, damp 
dungeon inhabited by snakes and toads and feed me 
only on bread and water and I shall not complain. 
But I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to forgive me." 

"We're not in the habit of shutting people up in 
dark, damp dungeons," said Marilla drily, "especially 
as they're rather scarce in Avonlea. But apologize 
to Mrs. Lynde you must and shall and you'll stay 
here in your room until you can tell me you're will- 
ing to do it." 

"I shall have to stay here for ever then," said 
'Anne mournfully, "because I can't tell Mrs. Lynde 
I'm sorry I said those things to her. How can I? 
I'm not sorry. I'm sorry I've vexed you; but I'm 
glad I told her just what I did. It was a great sat- 
isfaction. I can't say I'm sorry when I'm not, can 
I ? I can't even imagine I'm sorry." 

"Perhaps your imagination will be in better work- 
ing order by the morning," said Manila, rising to 


depart. "You'll have the night to think over your 
conduct in and come to a better frame of mind. 
You said you would try to be a very good girl if 
we kept you at Green Gables, but I must say it hasn't 
seemed very much like it this evening." 

Leaving this Parthian shaft to rankle in Anne's 
stormy bosom, Manila descended to the kitchen, 
grievously troubled in mind and vex^d in soul. She 
was as angry with herself as with Anne, because, 
whenever she recalled Mrs. Rachel's dumfounded 
countenance her lips twitched with amusement and 
she felt a most reprehensible desire to laugh. 


MARILLA said nothing to Matthew about the affair 
that evening; but when Anne proved still refractory 
the next morning an explanation had to be made to 
account for her absence from the breakfast-table. 
Marilla told Matthew the whole story, taking pains 
to impress him with a due sense of the enormity of 
Anne's behaviour. 

"It's a good thing Rachel Lynde got a calling 
down ; she's a meddlesome old gossip," was Matthew's 
consolatory rejoinder. 

"Matthew Cuthbert, I'm astonished at you. You 
know that Anne's behaviour was dreadful, and yet 
you take her part! I suppose you'll be saying next 
thing that she oughtn't to be punished at all." 

"Well now no not exactly/' said Matthew 
uneasily. "I reckon she ought to be punished a 
little. But don't be too hard on her, Marilla, Recol- 
lect she hasn't ever had any one to teach her right 
You're you're going to give her something to eat,, 
aren't you?" 

"When did you ever hear of me starving people 
into good behaviour?" demanded Marilla indig- 
nantly. "She'll have her meals regular, and I'll 
carry them up to her myself. But she'll stay up there 



until she's willing to apologize to Mrs. Lynde, and 
that's final, Matthew." 

Breakfast, dinner, and supper were very silent 
meals for Anne still remained obdurate. After 
each meal Marilla carried a well-filled tray to the 
east gable and brought it down later on not notice- 
ably depleted. Matthew eyed its last descent with a 
troubled eye. Had Anne eaten anything at all ? 

When Marilla went out that evening to bring the 
cows from the back pasture, Matthew, who had been 
hanging about the barns and watching, slipped into 
the house with the air of a burglar and crept up- 
stairs. As a general thing Matthew gravitated be- 
tween the kitchen and the little bedroom off the hall 
where he slept; once in a while he ventured uncom- 
fortably into the parlour or sitting-room when the 
minister came to tea. But he had never been up- 
stairs in his own house since the spring he helped 
Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four 
years ago. 

He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several 
minutes outside the door of the east gable before he 
summoned courage to tap on it with his fingers and 
then open the door to peep in. 

Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the win- 
dow, gazing mournfully out into the garden. Very 
small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew's heart 
smote him. He softly closed the door and tiptoed 
over to her. 

"Anne," he whispered, as if afraid of being over- 
heard, "how are you making it> Anne?" 

Anne smiled wanly. 


"Pretty well. I imagine a good deal, and that 
helps to pass the time. Of course, it's rather lonesome. 
But then, I may as well get used to that." 

Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years 
of solitary imprisonment before her. 

Matthew recollected that he must say what he had 
come to say without loss of time, lest Manila return 

"Well now, Anne, don't you think you'd better 
do it and have it over with?" he whispered. "It'll 
have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Ma- 
rilla's a dreadful determined woman dreadful deter- 
mined, Anne. Do it right off, I say, and have it 

"Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?" 

"Yes apologize that's the very word," said Mat- 
thew eagerly. "Just smooth it over so to speak. 
That's what I was trying to get at" 

"I suppose I could do it to oblige you," said Anne 
thoughtfully. "It would be true enough to say I 
am sorry, because I am sorry now. I wasn't a bit 
sorry last night. I was mad clear through, and I 
stayed mad all night I know I did because I woke 
up three times and I was just furious every time. 
But this morning it was all over. I wasn't in a tem- 
per any more and it left a dreadful sort of gone- 
ness, too. I felt so ashamed of myself. But I just 
couldn't think of going and telling Mrs. Lynde so. 
It would be so humiliating. I made up my mind 
I'd stay shut up here for ever rather than do that. 
But still I'd do anything for you if you really want 
me to" 


"Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome 
down-stairs without you. Just go and smooth it 
over that's a good girl." 

"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Ma- 
rilla as soon as she comes in that I've repented." 

"That's right that's right, Anne. But don't tell 
Marilla I said anything about it. She might think 
I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do 

"Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," 
promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses 
drag a secret from a person anyhow ?" 

But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. 
He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse 
pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been 
up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, 
was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice call- 
ing, "Marilla," over the banisters. 

"Well?" she said, going into the hall. 

"I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, 
and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." 

"Very well." Manila's crispness gave no sign of 
her relief. She had been wondering what under the 
canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll 
take you down after milking." 

Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and 
Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and 
triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But 
half-way down Anne's dejection vanished as if by 
enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped 
lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and 
an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla 


beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no 
meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into 
the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. 

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked 

"I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. 
Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. 

This was satisfactory or should have been so. 
But Mar ilia could not rid herself of the notion that 
something in her scheme of punishment was going 
askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and 

Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were 
in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting 
knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance 
vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every 
feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly 
went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. 
Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly. 

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she 
said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never 
express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole 
dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved 
terribly to you and I've disgraced the dear friends, 
Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at 
Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dread- 
fully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to 
be punished and cast out by respectable people for 
ever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper 
because you told me the truth. It was the truth; 
every word you said was true. My hair is red and 
I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to 


you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it Oh, 
Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you re- 
fuse it will be a lifelong sorrow to me. You wouldn't 
like to inflict a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan 
girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? 
Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive 
me, Mrs. Lynde." 

Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, 
and waited for the word of judgment 

There was no mistaking her sincerity it breathed 
in every tone of her voice. Both Manila and Mrs. 
Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the 
former understood in dismay that Anne was actually 
enjoying her valley of humiliation was revelling 
in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was 
the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, 
had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a spe- 
cies of positive pleasure. 

Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with 
perception, did not see this. She only perceived that 
Anne had made a very thorough apology and all 
resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat 
officious, heart. 

'There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. 
"Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too 
hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken 
person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what It 
can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew 
a girl once went to school with her, in fact 
whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she 
was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a 


real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised 
if yours did, too not a mite." 

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as 
she rose to her feet "You have given me a hope. I 
shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I 
could endure anything if I only thought my hair 
would be a handsome auburn when I grew up. It 
would be so much easier to be good if one's hair 
was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now 
may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench 
under the apple-trees while you and Marilla are 
talking? There is so much more scope for imagination 
out there." 

"Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick 
a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner 
if you like." 

As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got 
briskly up to light a lamp. 

"She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, 
Marilla; it's easier than the one you've got; I just 
keep that for the hired boy to sit on. Yes, she cer- 
tainly is an odd child, but there is something kind 
of taking about her after all. I don't feel so sur- 
prised at you and Matthew keeping her as I did 
nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all 
right Of course, she has a queer way of express- 
ing herself a little too well, too kind of forcible, 
you know; but she'll likely get over that now 
that she's come to live among civilized folks. And 
then, her temper's pretty quick, I guess; but there's 
one comfort, a child that has a quick temper, just 


blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to be sly 
or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's what. 
On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her." 

When Marilla went home Anne came out of the 
fragrant twilight of the orchard with a sheaf of white 
narcissi in her hands. 

"I apologized pretty well, didn't I ?" she said proudly 
as they went down the lane. "I thought since I had to 
do it I might as well do it thoroughly." 

"You did it thoroughly, all right enough," was 
Manila's comment. Marilla was dismayed at find- 
ing herself inclined to laugh over the recollection. 
She had also an uneasy feeling that she ought to 
scold Anne for apologizing so well; but then, that 
was ridiculous ! She compromised with her conscience 
by saying severely : 

"I hope you won't have occasion to make many 
more such apologies. I hope you'll try to control your 
temper now, Anne." 

"That wouldn't be so hard if people wouldn't twit 
me about my looks," said Anne with a sigh. "I don't 
get cross about other things ; but I'm so tired of being 
twitted about my hair and it just makes me boil right 
over. Do you suppose my hair will really be a hand- 
some auburn when I grow up ?" 

"You shouldn't think so much about your looks, 
Anne. I'm afraid you are a very vain little girl." 

"Plow can I be vain when I know I'm homely?" 
protested Anne. "I love pretty things ; and I hate to 
look in the glass and see something that isn't 
pretty. It makes me feel so sorrowful just as I feel 


when I took at any ugly thing. I pity it because it 
isn't beautiful." 

"Handsome is as handsome does/' quoted Marilla. 

"I've had that said to me before, but I have my 
doubts about it," remarked sceptical Anne, sniffing 
at her narcissi. "Oh, aren't these flowers sweet! It 
was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give them to me. I have 
no hard feelings against Mrs. Lynde now. It gives 
you a lovely, comfortable feeling to apologize and be 
forgiven, doesn't it ? Aren't the stars bright to-night ? 
If you could live in a star, which one would you 
pick? I'd like that lovely clear big one away over 
there above that dark hill." 

"Anne, do hold your tongue," said Marilla, thor- 
oughly worn out trying to follow the gyrations of 
Anne's thoughts. 

Anne said no more until they turned into their 
own lane. A little gypsy wind came down it to meet 
them, laden with the spicy perfume of young dew- 
wet ferns. Far up in the shadows a cheerful light 
gleamed out through the trees from the kitchen at 
Green Gables. Anne suddenly came close to Marilla 
and slipped her hand into the older woman's hard 

"It's lovely to be going home and know it's home," 
she said. "I love Green Gables already, and I never 
loved any place before. No place ever seemed like 
home. Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy. I could pray right 
now and not find it a bit hard." 

Something warm and pleasant welled up in Ma- 
rilla's heart at touch of that thin little hand in her 
own a throb of the maternity she had missed, 


perhaps. Its very unaccustomedness and sweetness 
disturbed her. She hastened to restore her sensations 
to their normal calm by inculcating a moral. 

"If you'll be a good girl you'll always be happy, 
Anne. And you should never find it hard to say your 

"Saying one's prayers isn't exactly the same thing 
as praying," said Anne meditatively. "But I'm going 
to imagine that I'm the wind that is blowing up there 
in those tree-tops. When I get tired of the trees I'll 
imagine I'm gently waving down here in the ferns 
and then I'll fly over to Mrs. Lynde's garden and set 
the flowers dancing and then I'll go with one great 
swoop over the clover field and then I'll blow over 
the Lake of Shining Waters and ripple it all up into 
little sparkling waves. Oh, there's so much scope for 
imagination in a wind! So I'll not talk any more 
just now, Marilla." 

"Thanks be to goodness for that/ 7 breathed Marilla 
in devout relief. 


"WELL, how do you like them?" said Manila. 

Anne was standing in the gable-room, looking 
solemnly at three new dresses spread out on the bed. 
One was of snuffy coloured gingham which Marilla 
had been tempted to buy from a peddler the pre- 
ceeding summer because it looked so serviceable ; one 
was of black-and-white checked sateen which she had 
picked up at a bargain counter in the winter; and 
one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade which she 
had purchased that week at a Carmody store. 

She had made them up herself, and they were all 
made alike plain skirts fulled tightly to plain waists, 
with sleeves as plain as waist and skirt and tight as 
sleeves could be. 

"I'll imagine that I like them," said Anne soberly. 

"I don't want you to imagine it," said Marilla, 
offended. "Oh, I can see you don't like the dresses! 
What is the matter with them? Aren't they neat 
and clean and new ?" 


"Then why don't you like them ?" 

"They're they're not pretty, said Anne re- 

"Pretty!" Marilla sniffed. "I didn't trouble my 



head about getting pretty dresses for you. I don't 
believe in pampering vanity, Anne, I'll tell you that 
right off. Those dresses are good, sensible, service- 
able dresses, without any frills or furbelows about 
them, and they're all you'll get this summer. The 
brown gingham and the blue print will do you for 
school when you begin to go. The sateen is for church 
and Sunday-school. I'll expect you to keep them 
neat and clean and not to tear them. I should think 
you'd be grateful to get most anything after those 
skimpy wincey things you've been wearing." 

"Oh, I am grateful," protested Anne. "But I'd 
be ever so much gratefuller if if you'd made just 
one of them with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves are 
so fashionable now. It would give me such a thrill, 
Manila, just to wear a dress with puffed sleeves." 

"Well, you'll have to do without your thrill. I 
hadn't any material to waste on puffed sleeves. I think 
they are ridiculous-looking things anyhow. I prefer 
the plain, sensible ones." 

"But I'd rather look ridiculous when everybody else 
does than plain and sensible all by myself," persisted 
Anne mournfully. 

"Trust you for that! Well, hang those dresses 
carefully up in your closet, and then sit down and 
learn the Sunday-school lesson. I got a quarterly 
from Mr. Bell for you and you'll go to Sunday-school 
to-morrow," said Marilla, disappearing downstairs in 
high dudgeon. 

Anne clasped her hands and looked at the dresses. 

"I did hope there would be a white one with 
puffed sleeves," she whispered disconsolately. "I 


prayed for one, but I didn't much expect it on that 
account. I didn't suppose God would have time to 
bother about a little orphan girl's dress. I knew I'd 
just have to depend on Marilla for it. Well, fortu- 
nately I can imagine that one of them is of snow- 
white muslin with lovely lace frills and three-puffed 

The next morning warnings of a sick headache pre- 
vented Marilla from going to Sunday-school with 

"You'll have to go down and call for Mrs. Lynde, 
Anne," she said. "She'll see that you get into the 
right class. Now, mind you behave yourself prop- 
erly. Stay to preaching afterwards and ask Mrs. 
Lynde to show you our pew. Here's a cent for col- 
lection. Don't stare at people and don't fidget. I 
shall expect you to tell me the text when you come 

Anne started off irreproachably, arrayed in the 
stiff black-and-white sateen, which, while decent as 
regards length and certainly not open to the charge 
of skimpiness, contrived to emphasize every corner 
and angle of her thin figure. Her hat was a little, 
flat, glossy, new sailor, the extreme plainness of 
which had likewise much disappointed Anne, who 
had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon and 
flowers. The latter, however, were supplied before 
Anne reached the main road, for, being confronted 
half-way down the lane with a golden frenzy of 
wind-stirred buttercups and a glory of wild roses, 
Anne promptly and liberally garlanded her hat with 
a heavy wreath of them. Whatever other people 


might have thought of the result it satisfied Anne, 
and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her 
ruddy head with its decoration of pink and yellow 
very proudly. 

When she reached Mrs. Lynde's house she found 
that lady gone. Nothing daunted Anne proceeded 
onward to the church alone. In the porch she found 
a crowd of little girls, all more or Irss gaily attired 
in whites and blues and pinks, and all staring with 
curious eyes at this stranger in their midst, with her 
extraordinary head adornment. Avonlea little girls 
had already heard queer stories about Anne; Mrs. 
Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, 
the hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the 
time to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy 
girl. They looked at her and whispered to each other 
behind their quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly 
advances, then or later on when the opening exer- 
cises were over and Anne found herself in Miss 
Rogerson's class. 

Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had 
taught a Sunday-school class for twenty years. Her 
method of teaching was to ask the printed questions 
from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at 
the particular little girl she thought ought to answer 
the question. She looked very often at Anne, and 
Anne, thanks to Marilla's drilling, answered promptly ; 
but it may be questioned if she understood very much 
about either question or answer. 

She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she 
felt very miserable ; every other little girl in the class 


had puffed sleeves. Anne felt that life was really not 
worth living without puffed sleeves. 

".Well, how did you like Sunday-school?" Ma- 
rilla wanted to know when Anne came home. Her 
wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the 
lane, so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for 
a time. 

"I didn't like it a bit It was horrid." 

"Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly. 

[Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed 
one of Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blos- 
soming fuchsia. 

"They might have been lonesome while I was 
away," she explained. "And now about the Sunday- 
school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. 
Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I 
went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, 
and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while 
the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an 
awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully 
tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting 
by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake 
of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and 
imagined all sorts of splendid things." 

"You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. 
You should have listened to Mr. Bell." 

"But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. 
"He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be 
very much interested in it, either. I think he thought 
God was too far off to make it worth while. I said 
a little prayer myself, though. There was a long 
row of white birches hanging over the lake and the 


sunshine fell down through them, 'way, 'way down, 
deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beau- 
tiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said, 
'Thank you for it, God,' two or three times." 

"Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously. 

"Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell 
did get through at last and they told me to go into 
the class-room with Miss Rogerson's class. There 
were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed 
sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, 
but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as 
could be to imagine they were puffed when I was 
alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there 
among the others who had really truly puffs." 

"You shouldn't have been thinking about your 
sleeves in Sunday-school. You should have been at- 
tending to the lesson. I hope you knew it." 

"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. 
Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think 
it was fair of her to do all the asking. There were 
lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because 
I didn't think she was a kindred spirit Then all 
the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked 
me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could 
recite, 'The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. 
That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really 
truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and 
melancholy that it might as well be. She said it 
wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth 
paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church 
afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in 
particular that just thrill me. 


" 'Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell 
In Midian's evil day.' 

I don't know what 'squadrons' means nor 'Midian/ 
either, but it sounds so tragical. I can hardly wait 
until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practise it all the 
week. After Sunday-school I asked Miss Rogerson 
because Mrs. Lynde was too far away to show 
me your pew. I sat just as still as I could and the 
text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third 
verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minis- 
ter I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was 
awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to 
match it to the text. I didn't think he was a bit 
interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that 
he hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him 
very much. I just let my thoughts run and I thought 
of the most surprising things." 

Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly 
reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable 
fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially 
about the minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers, 
were what she herself had really thought deep down 
in her heart for years, but had never given expression 
to. It almost seemed to her that those secret, tin- 
uttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible 
and accusing shape and form in the person of this 
outspoken morsel of neglected humanity. 



IT was not until the next Friday that Marilla 
heard the story of the flower-wreathed hat. She 
came home from Mrs. Lynde's and called Anne to 

"Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last 
Sunday with your hat rigged out ridiculous with 
roses and buttercups. What on earth put you up to 
such a caper ? A pretty-looking object you must have 

"Oh, I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to 
me," began Anne. 

"Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on 
your hat at all, no matter what colour they were, 
that was ridiculous. You are the most aggravating 

"I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear 
flowers on your hat than on your dress," protested 
Anne. "Lots of little girls there had bouquets pinned 
on their dresses. What was the difference?" 

Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete 
into dubious paths of the abstract. 

"Don't answer me back like that, Anne. It was 
very silly of you to do such a thing. Never let me 
catch you at such a trick again. Mrs. Rachel says 



she thought she would sink through the floor when 
she saw you come in all rigged out like that She 
couldn't get near enough to tell you to take them off 
till it was too late. She says people talked about it 
something dreadful. Of course they would think I 
had no better sense than to let you go decked out like 

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne, tears welling into 
her eyes. "I never thought you'd mind. The roses 
and buttercups were so sweet and pretty I thought 
they'd look lovely on my hat. Lots of the little girls 
had artificial flowers on their hats. I'm afraid I'm 
going to be a dreadful trial to you. Maybe you'd 
better send me back to the asylum. That would be 
terrible ; I don't think I could endure it ; most likely I 
would go into consumption; I'm so thin as it is, you 
see. But that would be better than being a trial to 

"Nonsense," said Marilla, vexed at herself for 
having made the child cry. "I don't want to send 
you back to the asylum, I'm sure. All I want is 
that you should behave like other little girls and not 
make yourself ridiculous. Don't cry any more. I've 
got some news for you. Diana Barry came home 
this afternoon. I'm going up to see if I can borrow 
a skirt pattern from Mrs. Barry, and if you like you 
can come with me and get acquainted with Diana." 

Anne rose to her feet, with clasped hands, the 
tears still glistening on her cheeks ; the dish-towel she 
had been hemming slipped unheeded to the floor. 

"Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened now that it has come 
I'm actually frightened. What if she shouldn't like 


me ! It would be the most tragical disappointment of 
my life." 

"Now, don't get into a fluster. And I do wish you 
wouldn't use such long words. It sounds so funny 
in a little girl. I guess Diana'll like you well enough. 
It's her mother you've got to reckon with. If she 
doesn't like you it won't matter how much Diana 
does. If she has heard about your outburst to Mrs. 
Lynde and going to church with buttercups round 
your hat I don't know what she'll think of you. You 
must be polite and well-behaved, and don't make any 
of your startling speeches. For pity's sake, if the 
child isn't actually trembling!" 

Anne was trembling. Her face was pale and tense. 

"Oh, Marilla, you'd be excited, too, if you were 
going to meet a little girl you hoped to be your bosom 
friend and whose mother mightn't like you," she said 
as she hastened to get her hat 

They went over to Orchard Slope by the short cut 
across the brook and up the firry hill grove. Mrs. Barry 
came to the kitchen door in answer to Manila's knock. 
She was a tall, black-eyed, black-haired woman, with 
a very resolute mouth. She had the reputation of 
being very strict with her children. 

"How do you do, Marilla?" she said cordially. 
"Come in. And this is the little girl you have adopted, 
I suppose?" 

"Yes, this is Anne Shirley," said Marilla. 

"Spelled with an e" gasped Anne, who, tremulous 
and excited as she was, was determined there should 
be no misunderstanding on that important point. 


Mrs. Barry, not hearing or not comprehending, 
merely shook hands and said kindly: 

"How are you?" 

"I am well in body although considerably rumpled 
up in spirit, thank you, ma'am," said Anne gravely. 
Then aside to Manila in an audible whisper, "There 
wasn't anything startling in that, was there, Marilla ?" 

Diana was sitting on the sofa, reading a book which 
she dropped when the callers entered. She was a very 
pretty little girl, with her mother's black eyes and 
hair, and rosy cheeks, and the merry expression which 
was her inheritance from her father. 

"This is my little girl, Diana," said Mrs. Barry. 
"Diana, you might take Anne out into the garden 
and show her your flowers. It will be better for you 
than straining your eyes over that book. She reads 
entirely too much " this to Marilla as the little girls 
went out "and I can't prevent her, for her father 
aids and abets her. She's always poring over a book. 
I'm glad she has the prospect of a playmate perhaps 
it will take her more out-of-doors." 

Outside in the garden, which was full of mellow 
sunset light streaming through the dark old firs to 
the west of it, stood Anne and Diana, gazing bashfully 
at one another over a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies. 

The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of 
flowers which would have delighted Anne's heart at 
any time less fraught with destiny. It was encircled 
by huge old willows and tall firs, beneath which flour- 
ished flowers that loved the shade. Prim, right-angled 
paths, neatly bordered with clam-shells, intersected it 
like moist red ribbons and in the beds between old- 

fashioned flowers ran riot There were rosy bleeding- 
hearts and great splendid crimson peonies; white, 
fragrant narcissi and thorny, sweet Scotch roses; 
pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted 
Bouncing Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon 
grass and mint; purple Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and 
masses of sweet clover white with its delicate, 
fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet lightning that shot 
its fiery lances over prim white muslr-flowers ; a gar- 
den it was where sunshine lingered and bees hummed, 
and winds, beguiled into loitering, purred and rustled. 

"Oh, Diana," said Anne at last, clasping her hands 
and speaking almost in a whisper, "do you think 
oh, do you think you can like me a little enough to 
be my bosom friend?" 

Diana laughed. Diana always laughed before she 

"Why, I guess so," she said frankly. "I'm awfully 
glad you've come to live at Green Gables. It will 
be jolly to have somebody to play with. There isn't 
any other girl who lives near enough to play with, 
and I've no sisters big enough." 

"Will you swear to be my friend for ever and 
ever?" demanded Anne eagerly. 

Diana looked shocked. 

"Why, it's dreadfully wicked to swear," she said 

"Oh no, not my kind of swearing. There are two 
kinds, you know." 

"I never heard of but one kind," said Diana doubt- 


"There really is another. Oh, it isn't wicked at all. 
It just means vowing and promising solemnly." 

"Well, I don't mind doing that," agreed Diana, 
relieved. "How do you do it?" 

"We must join hands so," said Anne gravely. "It 
ought to be over running water. We'll just imagine 
this path is running water. I'll repeat the oath first. 
I solemnly swear to be faithful to my bosom friend, 
Diana Barry, as long as the sun and moon shall 
endure. Now you say it and put my name in." 

Diana repeated the "oath" with a laugh fore and 
aft Then she said: 

"You're a queer girl, Anne. I heard before that 
you were queer. But I believe I'm going to like you 
real well." 

When Marilla and Anne went home Diana went 
with them as far as the log bridge. The two little 
girls walked with their arms about each other. At 
the brook they parted with many promises to spend 
the next afternoon together. 

"Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit?" asked 
Marilla as they went up through the garden of Green 

"Oh, yes," sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of 
any sarcasm on Manila's part "Oh, Marilla, I'm 
the happiest girl on Prince Edward Island this very 
moment I assure you I'll say my prayers with a right 
good-will to-night Diana and I are going to build a 
playhouse in Mr. William Bell's birch grove to-mor- 
row. Can I have those broken pieces of china that are 
out in the wood-shed ? Diana's birthday is in February 
and mine is in March. Don't you think that is a very 


strange coincidence? Diana is going to lend me a 
book to read. She says it's perfectly splendid and 
tremenjusly exciting. She's going to show me a place 
back in the woods where rice lilies grow. Don't you 
think Diana has got very soulful eyes? I wish I had 
soulful eyes. Diana is going to teach me to sing a 
song called 'Nelly in the Hazel Dell.' She's going to 
give me a picture to put up in my room ; it's a perfectly 
beautiful picture, she says a lovely lady in a pale blue 
silk dress. A sewing-machine agent gave it to her. I 
wish I had something to give Diana. I'm an inch 
taller than Diana, but she is ever so much fatter ; she 
says she'd like to be thin because it's so much more 
graceful, but I'm afraid she only said it to soothe my 
feelings. We're going to the shore some day to gather 
shells. We have agreed to call the spring down by 
the log bridge the Dryad's Bubble. Isn't that a per- 
fectly elegant name? I read a story once about a 
spring called that. A dryad is a sort of grown-up 
fairy, I think." 

"Well, all I hope is you won't talk Diana to death," 
said Marilla. "But remember this in all your planning, 
Anne. You're not going to play all the time nor most 
of it. You'll have your work to do and it'll have to 
be done first." 

Anne's cup of happiness was full, and Matthew 
caused it to overflow. He had just got home from a 
trip to the store at Carmody, and he sheepishly pro- 
duced a small parcel from his pocket and handed it 
to Anne, with a deprecatory look at Marilla. 

"I heard you say you liked chocolate sweeties, so 
I got you some," he said. 


"Humph," sniffed Marilla. "It'll ruin her teeth and 
stomach. There, there, child, don't look so dismal. 
You can eat those, since Matthew has gone and got 
them. He'd better have brought you peppermints. 
They're wholesomer. Don't sicken yourself eating 
them all at once now." 

"Oh, no, indeed, I won't," said Anne eagerly. "I'll 
just eat one to-night, Marilla. And I can give Diana 
half of them, can't I ? The other half will taste twice 
as sweet to me if I give some to her. It's delightful 
to think I have something to give her." 

"I will say it for the child," said Marilla when Anne 
had gone to her gable, "she isn't stingy. I'm glad, 
for of all faults I detest stinginess in a child. Dear 
me, it's only three weeks since she came, and it seems 
as if she'd been here always. I can't imagine the place 
without her. Now, don't be looking I-told-you-so, 
Matthew. That's bad enough in a woman, but it isn't 
to be endured in a man. I'm perfectly willing to own 
up that I'm glad I consented to keep the child and that 
I'm getting fond of her, but don't you rub it in, Mat- 
thew Cuthberti" 



"IT'S time Anne was in to do her sewing," said 
Manila, glancing at the clock and then out into the 
yellow August afternoon where everything drowsed 
in the heat "She stayed playing with Diana more 
than half an hour more'n I gave her leave to; and 
now she's perched out there on the woodpile talking 
to Matthew, nineteen to the dozen, when she knows 
perfectly well that she ought to be at her work. And 
of course he's listening to her like a perfect ninny. 
I never saw such an infatuated man. The more she 
talks and the odder the things she says, the more he's 
delighted evidently. Anne Shirley, you come right in 
here this minute, do you hear me !" 

A series of staccato taps on the west window brought 
Anne flying in from the yard, eyes shining, cheeks 
faintly flushed with pink, unbraided hair streaming 
behind her in a torrent of brightness. 

"Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed breathlessly, "there's 
going to be a Sunday-school picnic next week in Mr. 
Harmon Andrews' field, right near the Lake of Shining 
Waters. And Mrs. Superintendent Bell and Mrs. 
Rachel Lynde are going to make ice-cream think of 
it, Marilla ice cream! And oh, Marilla, can I go 
to it?" 


"Just look at the clock, if you please, Anne. What 
time did I tell you to come in ?" 

"Two o'clock but isn't it splendid about the picnic, 
Marilla? Please can I go? Oh, I've never been to a 
picnic I've dreamed of picnics, but I've never " 

"Yes, I told you to come at two o'clock. And it's 
a quarter to three. I'd like to know why you didn't 
obey me, Anne." 

"Why, I meant to, Marilla, as much as could be. 
But you have no idea how fascinating Idlewild is. 
And then, of course, I had to tell Matthew about the 
picnic. Matthew is such a sympathetic listener. Please 
can I go?" 

"You'll have to learn to resist the fascination of 
Idle-whatever-you-call-it When I tell you to come in 
at a certain time I mean that time and not half an hour 
later. And you needn't stop to discourse with sympa- 
thetic listeners on your way, either. As for the picnic, 
of course you can go. You're a Sunday-school scholar, 
and it's not likely I'd refuse to let you go when all the 
other little girls are going." 

"But but," faltered Anne, "Diana says that every- 
body must take a basket of things to eat I can't cook, 
as you know, Marilla, and and I don't mind going 
to a picnic without puffed sleeves so much, but I'd feel 
terribly humiliated if I had to go without a basket It's 
been preying on my mind ever since Diana told me." 

"Well, it needn't prey any longer. I'll bake you a 

"Oh, you dear good Marilla. Oh, you are so kind 
to me. Oh, I'm so much obliged to you." 

Getting through with her "ohs" Anne cast herself 


into Manila's arms and rapturously kissed her sallow 
cheek. It was the first time in her whole life that 
childish lips had voluntarily touched Manila's face. 
lAgain that sudden sensation of startling sweetness 
thrilled her. She was secretly vastly pleased at Anne's 
impulsive caress, which was probably the reason tsrhy 
she said brusquely : 

"There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense. 
I'd sooner see you doing strictly as you're told. As 
for cooking, I mean to begin giving you lessons in 
that some of these days. But you're so feather-brained, 
Anne, I've been waiting to see if you'd sober down a 
little and learn to be steady before I begin. .You've 
got to keep your wits about you in cooking and not 
stop in the middle of things to let your thoughts rove 
over all creation. Now, get out your patchwork and 
have your square done before tea-time." 

"I do not. like patchwork," said Anne dolefully, hunt- 
Ing out her workbasket and sitting down before a little 
heap of red and white diamonds with a sigh. "I think 
some kinds of sewing would be nice; but there's no 
scope for imagination in patchwork. It's just one little 
seam after another and you never seem to be getting 
anywhere. But of course I'd rather be Anne of Green 
Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place 
with nothing to do but play. I wish time went as quick 
sewing patches as it does when I'm playing with Diana, 
though. Oh, we do have such elegant times, Marilla. 
I have to furnish most of the imagination, but I'm well 
able to do that. Diana is simply perfect in every other 
way. You know that little piece of land across the 
brook that runs up between our farm and Mr. Barry's. 


It belongs to Mr. William Bell, and right in the corner 
there is a little ring of white birch trees the most 
romantic spot, Marilla, Diana and I have our play- 
house there. We call it Idlewild. Isn't that a poet- 
ical name ? I assure you it took me some time to think 
it out I stayed awake nearly a whole night before I 
invented it Then, just as I was dropping off to sleep, 
it came like an inspiration. Diana was enraptured 
when she heard it We have got our house fixed up 
elegantly. You must come and see it, Marilla won't 
you ? We have great big stones, all covered with moss, 
for seats, and boards from tree to tree for shelves. 
And we have all our dishes on them. Of course, 
they're all broken but it's the easiest thing in the world 
to imagine that they are whole. There's a piece of a 
plate with a spray of red and yellow ivy on it that is 
especially beautiful. We keep it in the parlour and we 
have the fairy glass there, too. The fairy glass is as 
lovely as a dream. Diana found it out in the woods 
behind their chicken house. It's all full of rainbows 
just little young rainbows that haven't grown big yet 
and Diana's mother told her it was broken off a hang- 
ing lamp they once had. But it's nicer to imagine the 
fairies lost it one night when they had a ball, so we 
call it the fairy glass. Matthew is going to make us a 
table. Oh, we have named that little round pool over 
in Mr. Barry's field Willowmere. I got that name out 
of the book Diana lent me. That was a thrilling book, 
Marilla. The heroine had five lovers. I'd be satisfied 
with one, wouldn't you ? She was very handsome and 
she went through great tribulations. She could faint 
as easy as anything. I'd love to be able to faint, 


wouldn't you, Marilla? It's so romantic. But I'm 
really very healthy for all I'm so thin. I believe I'm 
getting fatter, though. Don't you think I am? I 
look at my elbows every morning when I get up to see 
if any dimples are coming. Diana is having a new 
dress made with elbow sleeves. She is going to wear it 
to the picnic. Oh, I do hope it will be fine next Wednes- 
day. I don't feel that I could endure the disappoint- 
ment if anything happened to prevent me from getting 
to the picnic. I suppose I'd live through it, but I'm 
certain it would be a lifelong sorrow. It wouldn't 
matter if I got to a hundred picnics in after years; 
they wouldn't make up for missing this one. They're 
going to have boats on the Lake of Shining Waters 
and ice-cream as I told you. I have never tasted ice- 
cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but 
I guess ice-cream is one of those things that are be- 
yond imagination." 

"Anne, you have talked even on for ten minutes 
by the clock," said Marilla. "Now, just for curiosity's 
sake, see if you can hold your tongue for the same 
length of time." 

Anne held her tongue as desired. But for the rest 
of the week she talked picnic and thought picnic and 
dreamed picnic. On Saturday it rained and she worked 
herself up into such a frantic state lest it should keep 
on raining until and over Wednesday, that Marilla 
made her sew an extra patchwork square by way of 
steadying her nerves. 

On Sunday Anne confided to Marilla on the way 
home from church that she grew actually cold all over 


with excitement when the minister announced the 
picnic from the pulpit. 

"Such a thrill as went up and down my back, 
Marilla! I don't think I'd ever really believed until 
then that there was honestly going to be a picnic. I 
couldn't help fearing I'd only imagined it. But when 
a minister says a thing in the pulpit you just have to 
believe it." 

"You set your heart too much on things, Anne," 
said Marilla with a sigh. "I'm afraid there'll be a 
great many disappointments in store for you through 

"Oh, Marilla, looking forward to things is half the 
pleasure of them," exclaimed Anne. "You mayn't get 
the things themselves; but nothing can prevent you 
from having the fun of looking forward to them. Mrs. 
Lynde says, 'Blessed are they who expect nothing for 
they shall not be disappointed.' But I think it would 
be worse to expect nothing than to be disappointed." 

Marilla wore her amethyst brooch to church that 
day as usual. Marilla always wore her amethyst 
brooch to church. She would have thought it rather 
sacrilegious to leave it off as bad as forgetting her 
Bible or her collection dime. That amethyst brooch 
was Manila's most treasured possession. A sea- far- 
ing uncle had given it to her mother who in turn had 
bequeathed it to Marilla. It was an old-fashioned oval, 
containing a braid of her mother's hair, surrounded 
by a border of very fine amethysts. Marilla knew too 
little about precious stones to realize how fine the ame- 
thysts actually were ; but she thought them very beauti- 
ful and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet 


shimmer at her throat, above her good brown satin 
dress, even although she could not see it 

Anne had been smitten with delighted admiration 
.when she first saw that brooch. 

"Oh, Marilla, it's a perfectly elegant brooch. I don't 
know how you can pay attention to the sermon or the 
prayers when you have it on. / couldn't, I know. I 
think amethysts are just sweet. They are what I used 
to think diamonds were like. Long ago, before I had 
ever seen a diamond, I read about them and I tried to 
imagine what they would be like. I thought they 
would be lovely glimmering purple stones. When I 
saw a real diamond in a lady's ring one day I was so 
disappointed I cried. Of course, it was very lovely 
but it wasn't my idea of a diamond. Will you let me 
hold the brooch for one minute, Marilla? Do you 
think amethysts can be the souls of good violets?" 



ON the Monday evening before the picnic Manila 
came down from her room with a troubled face. 

"Anne," she said to that small personage, who was 
shelling peas by the spotless table and singing "Nelly 
of the Hazel Dell" with a vigour and expression that 
did credit to Diana's teaching, "did you see anything 
of my amethyst brooch ? I thought I stuck it in my 
pincushion when I came home from church yesterday 
evening, but I can't find it anywhere." 

"I I saw it this afternoon when you were away at 
the Aid Society," said Anne, a little slowly. "I was 
passing your door when I saw it on the cushion, so 
I went in to look at it." 

"Did you touch it ?" said Marilla sternly. 

"Y-e-e-s," admitted Anne, "I took it up and I pinned 
it on my breast just to see how it would look." 

"You had no business to do anything of the sort. 
It's very wrong in a little girl to meddle. You 
shouldn't have gone into my room in the first place and 
you shouldn't have touched a brooch that didn't belong 
to you in the second. Where did you put it?" 

"Oh, I put it back on the bureau. I hadn't it on a 
minute. Truly, I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla. I 

didn't think about its being wrong to go in and try on 



the brooch ; but I see now that it was and I'll never do 
it again. That's one good thing about me. I never 
do the same naughty thing twice." 

"You didn't put it back," said Manila. "That brooch 
isn't anywhere on the bureau. You've taken it out or 
something, Anne." 

"I did put it back," said Anne quickly pertly 
Marilla thought "I don't just remember whether I 
stuck it on the pincushion or laid it in the china tray. 
But I'm perfectly certain I put it back." 

"I'll go and have another look," said Marilla, de- 
termining to be just "If you put that brooch back 
it's there still. If it isn't I'll know you didn't, that's 

Marilla went to her room and made a thorough 
search, not only over the bureau but in every other 
place she thought the brooch might possibly be. It 
was not to be found and she returned to the kitchen. 

"Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission 
you were the last person to handle it Now, what have 
you done with it ? Tell me the truth at once. Did you 
take it out and lose it?" 

"No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly, meeting 
Manila's angry gaze squarely. "I never took the 
brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was 
to be led to the block for it although I'm not very 
certain what a block is. So there, Marilla." 

Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize 
her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of de- 

"I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," 
she said sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't 


say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the 
whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until 
you are ready to confess." 

"Will I take the peas with me ?" said Anne meekly. 

"No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid 

When Anne had gone Marilla went about her eve- 
ning tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was 
worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had 
lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having 
taken it, when anybody could see she must have ! With 
such an innocent face, too ! 

"I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had 
happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the 
peas. "Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal 
it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play 
with or help along that imagination of hers. She must 
have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul 
in that room since she was in it, by her own story, 
until I went up to-night. And the brooch is gone, 
there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and 
is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's 
a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a 
far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful 
responsibility to have a child in your house you can't 
trust. Slyness and untruth fulness that's what she 
has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than 
about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth 
about it I wouldn't mind so muh." 

Marilla went to her room at intervals all through 
the evening and searched for the brooch, without find- 
ing it. A bed-time visit to the east gable produced no 


result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew any- 
thing about the brooch but Manila was only the more 
firmly convinced that she did. 

She told Matthew the story the next morning. 
Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not 
so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that 
circumstances were against her. 

"You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" 
was the only suggestion he could offer. 

"I've moved the bureau and I've taken out the 
drawers and I've looked in every crack and cranny," 
was Manila's positive answer. "The brooch is gone 
and that child has taken it and lied about it. That's 
the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might 
as well look it in the face." 

"Well now, what are you going to do about it?" 
Matthew asked forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that 
Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He 
felt no desire to put his oar in this time. 

"She'll stay in her room until she confesses," said 
Marilla grimly, remembering the success of this 
method in the former case. "Then we'll see. Perhaps 
we'll be able to find the brooch if she'll only tell where 
she took it; but in any case she'll have to be severely 
punished, Matthew." 

"Well now, you'll have to punish her," said Matthew, 
reaching for his hat. "I've nothing to do with it, re- 
member. You warned me off yourself." 

Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not 
even go to Mrs. Lynde for advice. She went up to 
the east gable with a very serious face and left it with 
a face more serious still. Anne steadfastly refused 


to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not 
taken the brooch. The child has evidently been crying 
and Manila felt a pang of pity which she sternly re- 
pressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat 

"You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. 
You can make up your mind to that," she said firmly. 

"But the picnic is to-morrow, Marilla," cried Anne. 
"You won't keep me from going to that, will you? 
You'll just let me out for the afternoon, won't you? 
Then I'll stay here as long as you like afterwards 
cheerfully. But I must go to the picnic." 

"You'll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until 
you've confessed, Anne." 

"Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne. 

But Marilla had gone out and shut the door. 

Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as 
if expressly made to order for the picnic. Birds sang 
around Green Gables ; the Madonna lilies in the garden 
sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless 
winds at every door and window, and wandered 
through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction. 
The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if 
watching for Anne's usual morning greeting from the 
east gable. But Anne was not at her window. When 
Marilla took her breakfast up to her she found the child 
sitting primly on her bed, pale and resolute, with tight- 
shut lips and gleaming eyes. 

"Marilla, I'm ready to confess." 

"Ah !" Marilla laid down her tray. Once again her 
method had succeeded ; but her success was very bitter 


to her. "Let me hear what you have to say then, 

"I took the amethyst brooch," said Anne, as if re^ 
peating a lesson she had learned. "I took it just as 
you said. I didn't mean to take it when I went in. 
But it did look so beautiful, Marilla, when I pinned it 
on my breast that I was overcome by an irresistible 
temptation. I imagined how perfectly thrilling it 
would be to take it to Idlewild and play I was the Lady 
Cordelia Fitzgerald. It would be so much easier to 
imagine I was the Lady Cordelia if I had a real ame- 
thyst brooch on. Diana and I made necklaces of rose- 
berries but what are roseberries compared to ame- 
thysts ? So I took the brooch. I thought I could put 
it back before you came home. I went all the way 
around by the road to lengthen out the time. When 
I was going over the bridge across the Lake of Shining 
Waters I took the brooch off to have another look at it. 
Oh, how it did shine in the sunlight ! And then, when 
I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through 
my fingers so and went down down down, all 
purply-sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the 
Lake of Shining Waters. And that's the best I can do 
at confessing, Marilla." 

Marilla feltthot anger surge up into her heart again. 
,This child had taken and lost her treasured amethyst 
brooch and now sat there calmly reciting the details 
thereof without the least apparent compunction or re- 

"Anne, this is terrible," she said, trying to speak 
calmly. "You are the very wickedest girl I ever heard 


"Yes, I suppose I am," agreed Anne tranquilly. 
"And I know I'll have to be punished. It'll be your 
duty to punish me, Manila. Won't you please get it 
over right off because I'd like to go to the picnic with 
nothing on my mind." 

"Picnic, indeed ! You'll go to no picnic to-day, Anne 
Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn't 
half severe enough either for what you've done !" 

"Not go to the picnic !" Anne sprang to her feet and 
clutched Manila's hand. "But you promised me I 
might! Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That 
was why I confessed. Punish me any way you like 
but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the 
picnic. Think of the ice-cream! For anything you 
know I may never have a chance to taste ice-cream 

Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily. 

"You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to 
the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." 

Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. 
She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, 
and then flung herself face downward on the bed, cry- 
ing and writhing in an utter abandonment of disap- 
pointment and despair. 

"For the land's sake!" gasped Marilla, hastening 
from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child 
in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't 
she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was 
right from the first. But I've put my hand to the 
plough and I won't look back." 

That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely 
and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves 


when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the 
shelves nor the porch needed it but Marilla did. Then 
she went out and raked the yard. 

When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and 
called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking 
tragically over the banisters. 

"Come down to your dinner, Anne." 

"I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne sob- 
bingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. 
You'll feel remorse of conscience some day, I expect, 
for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember 
when the time comes that I forgive you. But please 
don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork 
and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic 
when one is in affliction." 

Exasperated Marilla returned to the kitchen and 
poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between 
his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with 
Anne, was a miserable man. 

"Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, 
Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mourn- 
fully surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and 
greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited 
to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing 
such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's 
pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's 
so set on it?" 

"Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think 
I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't ap- 
pear to realize how wicked she's been at all that's 
what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it 
wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize 


it, neither ; you're making excuses for her all the time 
to yourself I can see that." 

"Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly re- 
iterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances 
made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bring- 
ing up." 

"Well, she's having it now," retorted Marilla. 

The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince 
him: That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only 
cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, 
and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal 

When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge 
set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had 
noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when 
she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning 
from the Ladies' Aid. She would go and mend it. 

The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla 
lifted it out, the sunlight, falling through the vines 
that clustered thickly about the window, struck upon 
something caught in the shawl something that 
glittered and sparkled in facets of violet light Marilla 
snatched at it with a gasp. It was the amethyst brooch, 
hanging to a thread of the lace by its catch! 

"Dear life and heart," said Marilla blankly, "what 
does this mean? Here's my brooch safe and sound 
that I thought was at the bottom of Barry's pond. 
Whatever did that girl mean by saying she took it and 
lost it ? I declare I believe Green Gables is bewitched. 
I remember now that when I took off my shawl Mon- 
day afternoon I laid it on the bureau for a minute. I 
suppose the brooch got caught in it somehow. Well !" 


Marilla betook herself to the east gable, brooch in 
hand. Anne had cried herself out and was sitting de- 
jectedly by the window. 

"Anne Shirley," said Marilla solemnly, "I've just 
found my brooch hanging to my black lace shawl. 
Now I want to know what that rigmarole you told me 
this morning meant." 

"Why, you said you'd keep me here until I con- 
fessed," returned Anne wearily, "and so I decided to 
confess because I was bound to get to the picnic. I 
thought out a confession last night after I went to 
bed and made it as interesting as I could. And I said 
it over and over so that I wouldn't forget it. But you 
wouldn't let me go to the picnic after all, so all my 
trouble was wasted." 

Marilla had to laugh in spite of herself. But her 
conscience pricked her. 

"Anne, you do beat all! But I was wrong I see 
that now. I shouldn't have doubted your word when 
I'd never known you to tell a story. Of course, it 
wasn't right for you to confess to a thing you hadn't 
done it was very wrong to do so. But I drove you 
to it. So if you'll forgive me, Anne, I'll forgive you 
and we'll start square again. And now get yourself 
ready for the picnic." 

Anne flew up like a rocket. 

"Oh, Marilla, isn't it too late?" 

"No, it's only two o'clock. They won't be more 
than well gathered yet and it'll be an hour before they 
have tea. Wash your face and comb your hair and put 
on your gingham. I'll fill a basket for you. There's 


plenty of stuff baked in the house. And I'll get Jerry 
to hitch up the sorrel and drive you down to the picnic 

"Oh, Manila," exclaimed Anne, flying to the wash- 
stand. "Five minutes ago I was so miserable I was 
wishing I'd never been born and now I wouldn't change 
places with an angel !" 

That night a thoroughly happy, completely tired out 
Anne returned to Green Gables in a state of beautifica- 
tion impossible to describe. 

"Oh, Marilla, I've had a perfectly scrumptious time. 
Scrumptious is a new word I learned to-day. I heard 
Mary Alice Bell use it. Isn't it very expressive? 
Everything was lovely. We had a splendid tea and 
then Mr. Harmon Andrews took us all for a row on 
the Lake of Shining Waters six of us at a time. And 
Jane Andrews nearly fell overboard. She was leaning 
out to pick water lilies and if Mr. Andrews hadn't 
caught her by her sash just in the nick of time she'd 
have fallen in and prob'ly been drowned. I wish it 
had been me. It would have been such a romantic ex- 
perience to have been nearly drowned. It would be 
such a thrilling tale to tell. And we had the ice-cream. 
Words fail me to describe that ice-cream. Marilla, I 
assure you it was sublime." 

That evening Marilla told the whole story to Mat- 
thew over her stocking basket 

"I'm willing to own up that I made a mistake," she 
concluded candidly, "but I've learned a lesson. I have 
to laugh when I think of Anne's 'confession,' although 
I suppose I shouldn't for it really was a falsehood. But 


it doesn't seem as bad as the other would have been, 
somehow, and anyhow I'm responsible for it. That 
child is hard to understand in some respects. But I 
believe she'll turn out all right yet. And there's one 
thing certain, no house will ever be dull that she's in." 


"WHAT a splendid day!" said Anne, drawing 
a long breath. "Isn't it good just to be alive on a 
day like this ? I pity the people who aren't born yet 
for missing it. They may have good days, of course, 
but they can never have this one. And it's splendider 
still to have such a lovely way to go to school by, isn't 

"It's a lot nicer than going round by the road ; that 
is so dusty and hot," said Diana practically, peeping 
into her dinner basket and mentally calculating if the 
three juicy, toothsome, raspberry tarts reposing there 
were divided among ten girls how many bites each girl 
would have. 

The little girls of Avonlea school always pooled 
their lunches, and to eat three raspberry tarts all alone 
or even to share them only with one's best chum would 
have forever and ever branded as "awful mean" the 
girl who did it. And yet, when the tarts were divided 
among ten girls you just got enough to tantalize you. 

The way Anne and Diana went to school was a 
pretty one. Anne thought those walks to and from 
school with Diana couldn't be improved upon even by 
imagination. Going around by the main road would 

have been so unromantic; but to go by Lover's Lane 



and Willowmere and Violet Vale and the Birch Path 
was romantic, if ever anything was. 

Lover's Lane opened out below the orchard at Green 
Gables and stretched far up into the woods to the end 
of the Cuthbert farm. It was the way by which the 
cows were taken to the back pasture and the wood 
hauled home in winter. Anne had named it Lover's 
Lane before she had been a month at Green Gables. 

"Not that lovers ever really walk there," she ex- 
plained to Marilla, "but Diana and I are reading a 
perfectly magnificent book and there's a Lover's Lane 
in it. So we want to have one, too. And it's a very 
pretty name, don't you think ? So romantic ! We can 
imagine the lovers into it, you know. I like that lane 
because you can think out loud there without people 
calling you crazy." 

Anne, starting out alone ifl. the morning, went down 
Lover's Lane as far as the brook. Here Diana met 
her, and the two little girls went on up the lane under 
the leafy arch of maples "maples are such sociable 
trees," said Anne; "they're always rustling and whis- 
pering to you," until they came to a rustic bridge. 
Then they left the lane and walked through Mr. Barry's 
back field and past Willowmere. Beyond Willowmere 
came Violet Vale a little green dimple in the shadow 
of Mr. Andrew Bell's big woods. "Of course there 
are no violets there now," Anne told Marilla, "but 
Diana says there are millions of them in the spring. 
Oh, Marilla, can't you just imagine you see them? It 
actually takes away my breath. I named it Violet 
Vale. Diana says she never saw the beat of me for 
hitting on fancy names for places. It's nice to be 


clever at something, isn't it? But Diana named the 
Birch Path. She wanted to, so I let her; but I'm sure 
I could have found something more poetical than plain 
Birch Path. Anybody can think of a name like that. 
But the Birch Path is one of the prettiest places in the 
world, Marilla." 

It was. Other people besides Anne thought so when 
they stumbled on it. It was a little narrow, twisting 
path, winding down over a long hill straight through 
Mr. Bell's woods, where the light came down sifted 
through so many emerald screens that it was as flaw- 
less as the heart of a diamond. It was fringed in all 
its length with sljm young birches, white-stemmed and 
lissom boughed ; ferns and starflowers and wild lilies- 
of-the-valley and scarlet tufts of pigeon berries grew 
thickly along it; and always there was a delightful 
spiciness in the air and music of bird calls and the 
murmur and laugh of wood winds in the trees over- 
head. Now and then you might see a rabbit skipping 
across the road if you were quiet which, with Anne 
and Diana, happened about once in a blue moon. Down 
in the valley the path came out to the main road and 
then it was just up the spruce hill to the school. 

The Avonlea school was a whitewashed building 
low in the eaves and wide in the windows, furnished 
inside with comfortable substantial old-fashioned 
desks that opened and shut, and were carved all over 
their lids with the initials and hieroglyphics of three 
generations of school-children. The schoolhouse was 
set back from the road and behind it was a dusky fir 
wood and a brook where all the children put their 


bottles of milk in the morning to keep cool and sweet 
until dinner hour. 

Manila had seen Anne start off to school on the 
first day of September with many secret misgivings. 
Anne was such an odd girl. How would she get on 
with the other children ? And how on earth would she 
ever manage to hold her tongue during school hours? 

Things went better than Marilla feared, however. 
Anne came home that evening in high spirits. 

"I think I'm going to like school here," she an- 
nounced. "I don't think much of the master, though. 
'He's all the time curling his moustache and making 
eyes at Prissy Andrews. Prissy is grown-up, you know. 
She's sixteen and she's studying for the entrance 
examination into Queen's Academy at Charlottetown 
next year. Tillie Boulter says the master is dead gone 
on her. She's got a beautiful complexion and curly 
brown hair and she does it up so elegantly. She sits 
in the long seat at the back and he sits there, too, most 
of the time to explain her lessons, he says. But Ruby 
Gillis says she saw him writing something on her slate 
and when Prissy read it she blushed as red as a beet 
and giggled ; and Ruby Gillis says she doesn't believe 
it had anything to do with the lesson." 

"Anne Shirley, don't let me hear you talking about 
your teacher in that way again," said Marilla sharply. 
"You don't go to school to criticize the master. I 
guess he can teach you something and it's your busi- 
ness to learn. And I want you to understand right off 
that you are not to come home telling tales about him. 
That is something I won't encourage. I hope you were 
a good girl." 


"Indeed I was," said Anne comfortably. "It wasn't 
so hard as you might imagine, either. I sit with Diana. 
Our seat is right by the window and we can look down 
to the Lake of Shining Waters. There are a lot of 
nice girls in school and we had scrumptious fun play- 
ing at dinner time. It's so nice to have a lot of little 
girls to play with. But of course I like Diana best and 
always will. I adore Diana. I'm dreadfully far be- 
hind the others. They're all in the fifth book and I'm 
only in the fourth. I feel that it's kind of a disgrace. 
But there's not one of them has such an imagination as 
I have and I soon found that out. We had reading 
and geography and Canadian History and dictation 
to-day. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful 
and he held up my slate so that everybody could see 
it, all marked over. I felt so mortified, Marilla; he 
might have been politer to a stranger, I think. Ruby 
Gillis gave me an apple and Sophia Sloane lent me a 
lovely pink card with 'May I see you home?' on it. 
I'm to give it back to her to-morrow. And Tillie 
Boulter let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. 
Can I have some of those pearl beads off the old pin- 
cushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh 
Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPher- 
son told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara 
Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the 
first compliment I ever had in my life and you can't 
imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, 
have I really a pretty nose ? I know you'll tell me the 

"Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly. 


Secretly she thought Anne's nose was a remarkably 
pretty one ; but she had no intention of telling her so. 

That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly 
so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne 
and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, 
two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. 

"I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school to-day," 
said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in 
New Brunswick all summer and he only came home 
Saturday night. He's aw'fly handsome, Anne. And 
he teases the girls something terrible. He just tor- 
ments our lives out." 

Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having 
her life tormented out than not. 

"Gilbert Blythe?" said Anne. "Isn't it his name 
that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's 
and a big 'Take Notice' over them ?" 

"Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure 
he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard 
him say he studied the multiplication table by her 

"Oh, don't speak about freckles to me/' implored 
Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But 
I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall 
about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should 
just like to see anybody dare to write my name up 
with a boy's. Not, of course," she hastened to add, 
"that anybody woukl." 

Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written 
up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there 
was no danger of it. 

"Nonsense," said Diana, whose black eyes and 


glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts 
of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the 
porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. "It's only 
meant as a joke. And don't you be too sure your 
name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is 
dead gone on you. He told his mother his mother, 
mind you that you were the smartest girl in school 
That's better than being good-looking." 

"No, it isn't," said Anne, feminine to the core. 
"I'd rather be pretty than clever. And I hate Charlie 
Sloane. I can't bear a boy with goggle eyes. If 
any one wrote my name up with his I'd never get 
over it, Diana Barry. But it is nice to keep head of 
your class." 

"You'll have Gilbert in your class after this," said 
Diana, "and he's used to being head of his class, I 
can tell you. He's only in the fourth book although 
he's nearly fourteen. Four years ago his father was 
sick and had to go out to Alberta for his health and 
Gilbert went with him. They were there three years 
and Gil didn't go to school hardly any until they came 
back. You won't find it so easy to keep head after 
this, Anne." 

"I'm glad," said Anne quickly. "I couldn't really 
feel proud of keeping head of little boys and girls 
of just nine or ten. I got up yesterday spelling 
'ebullition.' Josie Pye was head and, mind you, 
she peeped in her book. Mr. Phillips didn't see her 
he was looking at Prissy Andrews but I did. 
I just swept her a look of freezing scorn and she got 
as red as a beet and spelled it wrong after all." 

"Those Pye girls are cheats all round." said Diana 


indignantly, as they climbed the fence of the main 
road. "Gertie Pye actually went and put her milk 
bottle in my place in the brook yesterday. Did you 
ever? I don't speak to her now." 

When Mr. Phillips was in the back of the room 
hearing Prissy Andrews' Latin Diana whispered to 

"That's Gilbert Blythe sitting right across the 
aisle from you, Anne. Just look a*, him and see if 
you don't think he's handsome." 

Anne looked accordingly. She had a good chance 
to do so, for the said Gilbert Blythe was absorbed in 
stealthily pinning the long yellow braid of Ruby 
Gillis, who sat in front of him, to the back of her 
seat He was a tall boy, with curly brown hair, 
roguish hazel eyes and a mouth twisted into a teasing 
smile. Presently Ruby Gillis started up to take a 
sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with 
a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out 
by the roots. Everybody looked at her and Mr. 
Phillips glared so sternly that Ruby began to cry. 
Gilbert had whisked the pin out of sight and was 
studying his history with the soberest face in the 
world; but when the commotion subsided he looked 
at Anne and winked with inexpressible drollery. 

"I think your Gilbert Blythe is handsome," con- 
fided Anne to Diana, "but I think he's very bold. It 
isn't good manners to wink at a strange girl." 

But it was not until the afternoon that things really 
began to happen. 

Mr. Phillips was back in the corner explaining a 
problem in algebra to Prissy Andrews and the rest 


of the scholars were doing pretty much as they 
pleased, eating green apples, whispering, drawing 
pictures on their slates, and driving crickets, har- 
nessed to strings, up and down the aisle. Gilbert 
Blythe was trying to make Anne Shirley look at him 
and failing utterly, because Anne was at that moment 
totally oblivious, not only of the very existence of 
Gilbert Blythe, but of every other scholar in Avonlea 
school and of Avonlea school itself. With her chin 
propped on her hands and her eyes fixed on the blue 
glimpse of the Lake of Shining Waters that the west 
window afforded, she was far away in a gorgeous 
dreamland, hearing and seeing nothing save her own 
wonderful visions. 

Gilbert Blythe wasn't used to putting himself out 
to make a girl look at him and meeting with failure. 
She should look at him, that red-haired Shirley girl 
with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that 
weren't like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea 

Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end 
of Anne's long red braid, held it out at arm's length 
and said in a piercing whisper, 

"Carrots! Carrots!" 

Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance ! 

She did more than look. She sprang to her feet, 
her bright fancies fallen into cureless ruin. She 
flashed one indignant glance at Gilbert from eyes 
whose angry sparkle was swiftly quenched in equally 
angry tears. 

"You mean, hateful boy!" she exclaimed passion- 
ately. "How dare you !" 


And then Thwack! Anne had brought her slate 
idown on Gilbert's head and cracked it slate, not 
head clear across. 

Avonlea school always enjoyed a scene. This was 
an especially enjoyable one. Everybody said, "Oh" 
in horrified delight. Diana gasped. Ruby Gillis, who 
was inclined to be hysterical, began to cry. Tommy 
Sloane let his team of crickets escape him altogether 
while he stared open-mouthed at the tableau. 

Mr. Phillips stalked down the aisle and laid his 
hand heavily on Anne's shoulder. 

"Anne Shirley, what does this mean?" he said 

Anne returned no answer. It was asking too much 
of flesh and blood to expect her to tell before the 
whole school that she had been called "carrots." 
Gilbert it was who spoke up stoutly. 

"It was my fault, Mr. Phillips. I teased her." 

Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert. 

"I am sorry to see a pupil of mine displaying such 
a temper and such a vindictive spirit," he said in a 
solemn tone, as if the mere fact of being a pupil of 
his ought to root out all evil passions from the hearts 
of small imperfect mortals. "Anne, go and stand on 
the platform in front of the blackboard for the rest of 
the afternoon." 

Anne would have infinitely preferred a whipping to 
this punishment, under which her sensitive spirit 
quivered as from a whiplash. With a white, set face 
she obeyed. Mr. Phillips took a chalk crayon and 
wrote on the blackboard above her head. 

"Ann Shirley has a very bad temper. Ann Shirley 


must learn to control her temper," and then read it 
out loud so that even the primer class, who couldn't 
read writing, should understand it. 

Anne stood there the rest of the afternoon with 
that legend above her. She did not cry or hang her 
head. Anger was still too hot in her heart for that 
and it sustained her amid all her agony of humilia- 
tion. With resentful eyes and passion-red cheeks she 
confronted alike Diana's sympathetic gaze and Charlie 
Sloane's indignant nods and Josie Pye's malicious 
smiles. As for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even 
look at him. She would never look at him again! 
She would never speak to him ! ! 

When school was dismissed Anne marched out with 
her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to 
intercept her at the porch door. 

"I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne," 
he whispered contritely. "Honest I am. Don't be 
mad for keeps, now." 

Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign 
of hearing. "Oh, how could you Anne?" breathed 
Diana as they went down the road, half reproachfully, 
half admiringly. Diana felt that! she could never have 
resisted Gilbert's plea. 

"I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe," said Anne 
firmly. "And Mr. Phillips spelled my name without 
an e, too. The iron has entered into my soul, Diana." 

Diana hadn't the least idea what Anne meant but 
she understood it was something terrible. 

"You mustn't mind Gilbert making fun of your 
hair, she said soothingly. "Why, he makes fun of 
all the girls. He laughs at mine because it's so black. 

He's called me a crow a dozen times; and I never 
heard him apologize for anything before, either." 

"There's a great deal of difference between being 
called a crow and being called carrots," said Anne 
with dignity. "Gilbert Blythe has hurt my feelings 
excruciatingly, Diana." 

It is possible the matter might have blown over 
without more excruciation if nothing else had hap- 
pened. But when things begin to happen they are apt 
to keep on. 

Avonlea scholars often spent noon hour picking 
gum in Mr. Bell's spruce grove over the hill and 
across his big pasture field. From there they could 
keep an eye on Eben Wright's house, where the mas- 
ter boarded. When they saw Mr. Phillips emerging 
therefrom they ran for the schoolhouse; but the 
distance being about three times longer than Mr. 
iWright's lane they were very apt to arrive there, 
breathless and gasping, some three minutes too late. 

On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with 
one of his spasmodic fits of reform and announced, 
before going home to dinner, that he should expect to 
find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. 
!Any one who came in late would be punished. 

All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. 
Bell's spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay 
only long enough to "pick a chew." But spruce 
groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguil- 
ing; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as 
usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of 
the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from 


the top of a patriarchal old spruce, "Master's com- 

The girls, who were on the ground, started first 
and managed to reach the schoolhouse in time but 
without a second to spare. The boys, who had to 
wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and 
Anne, who had not been picking gum at all but was 
wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist 
deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself, 
with a wreath of rice lilies on her hair as if she were 
some wild divinity of the shadowy places, was latest 
of all. Anne could run like a deer, however ; run she 
did with the impish result that she overtook the boys 
at the door and was swept into the schoolhouse among 
them just as Mr. Phillips was in the act of hanging 
up his hat 

Mr. Phillips' brief reforming energy was over; he 
didn't want the bother of punishing a dozen pupils ; 
but it was necessary to do something to save his word, 
so he looked about for a scapegoat and found it in 
Anne, who had dropped into her seat, gasping for 
breath, with her forgotten lily wreath hanging askew 
over one ear and giving her a particularly rakish and 
dishevelled appearance. 

"Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the 
boys' company we shall indulge your taste for it this 
afternoon," he said sarcastically. "Take those flowers 
out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe." 

The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with 
pity, plucked the wreath from Anne's hair and 
squeezed her hand. Anne stared at the master as if 
turned to stone. 


"Did you hear what I said, Anne?" queried Mr. 
Phillips sternly. 

"Yes, sir," said Anne slowly, "but I didn't suppose 
you really meant it." 

"I assure you I did," still with the sarcastic in- 
flection which all the children, and Anne especially, 
hated. It flicked on the raw. "Obey me at once." 

For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to 
disobey. Then, realizing that there was no help for 
it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat 
down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in 
her arms on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse 
of it as it went down, told the others going home 
from school that she'd "acksually never seen anything 
like it it was so white, with awful little red spots 
in it." 

To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It 
was bad enough to be singled out for punishment 
from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was 
worse still to be sent to sit with a boy; but that that 
boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on 
injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that 
she could not bear it and it would be of no use to 
try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger 
and humiliation. 

At first the other scholars looked and whispered 
and giggled and nudged. But as Anne never lifted 
her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his 
whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they 
soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was for- 
gotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class 
out Anne should have gone; but Anne did not move, 


and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses 
"To Priscilla" before he called the class, was think- 
ing about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed 
her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took 
from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold 
motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under 
the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, 
took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her 
fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder 
beneath her heel, and resumed her position without 
deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. 

When school went out Anne marched to her desk, 
ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and 
writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, 
and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. 

"What are you taking all those things home for, 
Anne ?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were 
out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question 

"I am not coming back to school any more," said 

Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant 

"Will Marilla let you stay home ?" she asked. 

"She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll never go to school 
to that man again." 

"Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready 
to cry. "I do think you're mean. What shall I do ? 
Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie 
Pye I know he will because she is sitting alone. 
Do come back, Anne." 

"I'd do almost anything in the world for you, 


Diana," said Anne sadly. "I'd let myself be torn 
limb from limb if it would do you any good. But 
I can't do this, so please don't ask it. You harrow 
up my very soul." 

"Just think of all the fun you will miss," mourned 
Diana. "We are going- to build the loveliest new 
house down by the brook; and we'll be playing ball 
next week and you've never played ball, Anne. It's 
tremenjusly exciting. And we're going to learn a 
new song Jane Andrews is practising it up now ; and 
Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy book 
next week and we're all going to read it out loud, 
chapter about, down by the brook. And you know 
you are so fond of reading out loud, Anne." 

Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was 
made up. She would not go to school to Mr. Phillips 
again ; she told Marilla so when she got home. 

"Nonsense," said Marilla. 

"It isn't nonsense at all," said Anne, gazing at 
Marilla with solemn, reproachful eyes. "Don't you 
understand, Marilla? I've been insulted." 

"Insulted fiddlesticks! You'll go to school to-mor- 
row as usual." 

"Oh, no." Anne shook her head gently. "I'm not 
going back, Marilla. I'll learn my lessons at home 
and I'll be as good as I can be and hold my tongue 
all the time if it's possible at all. But I will not go 
back to school I assure you." 

Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding 
stubbornness looking out of Anne's small face. She 
understood that she would have trouble in overcom- 


ing it; but she resolved wisely to say nothing more 
just then. 

"I'll run down and see Rachel about it this eve- 
ning," she thought "There's no use reasoning with 
Anne now. She's too worked up and I've an idea 
she can be awful stubborn if she takes the notion. 
Far as I can make out from her story, Mr. Phillips 
has been carrying matters with a rather high hand. 
But it would never do to say so to her. I'll just talk 
it over with Rachel. She's sent ten children to school 
and she ought to know something about it. She'll 
have heard the whole story, too, by this time." 

Marilla found Mrs. Lynde knitting quilts as in- 
dustriously and cheerfully as usual. 

"I suppose you know what I've come about," she 
said, a little shamefacedly. 

Mrs. Rachel nodded. 

"About Anne's fuss in school, I reckon," she said. 
"Tillie Boulter was in on her way home from school 
and told me about it." 

"I don't know what to do with her," said Marilla. 
*'She declares she won't go back to school. I never 
saw a child so worked up. I've been expecting trouble 
ever since she started to school. I knew things were 
going too smooth to last. She's so high-strung. What 
would you advise, Rachel?" 

"Well, since you've asked my advice, Marilla," 
said Mrs. Lynde amiably Mrs. Lynde dearly loved 
to be asked for advice "I'd just humour her a little 
at first, that's what I'd do. It's my belief that Mr. 
(Phillips was in the wrong. Of course, it doesn't 
do to say so to the children, you know. And of 


course he did right to punish her yesterday for giving 
way to temper. But to-day it was different The 
others who were late should have been punished as 
well as Anne, that's what. And I don't believe in 
making the girls sit with the boys for punishment. 
It isn't modest Tillie Boulter was real indignant 
She took Anne's part right through and said all the 
scholars did, too. Anne seems real popular among 
them, somehow. I never thought siie'd take with 
them so well." 

"Then you really think I'd better let her stay home," 
said Marilla in amazement. 

"Yes. That is, I wouldn't say school to her again 
until she said it herself. Depend upon it, Marilla, 
she'll cool off in a week or so and be ready enough 
to go back of her own accord, that's what, while, if 
you were to make her go back right off, dear knows 
what freak or tantrum she'd take next and make more 
trouble than ever. The less fuss made the better, in 
my opinion. She won't miss much by not going to 
school, as far as that goes. Mr. Phillips isn't any 
good at all as a teacher. The order he keeps is 
scandalous, that's what, and he neglects the young 
fry and puts all his time on those big scholars he's 
getting ready for Queen's. He'd never have got the 
school for another year if his uncle hadn't been a 
trustee the trustee, for he just leads the other two 
around by the nose, that's what I declare, I don't 
know what education in this Island is coming to." 

Mrs. Rachel shook her head, as much as to say 
if she were only at the head of the educational system 
of the Province things would be much better managed. 


Manila took Mrs. Rachel's advice and not another 
word was said to Anne about going back to school. 
She learned her lessons at home, did her chores, and 
played with Diana in the chilly purple autumn twi- 
lights; but when she met Gilbert Blythe on the road 
or encountered him in Sunday-school she passed him 
by with an icy contempt that was no whit thawed by 
his evident desire to appease her. Even Diana's efforts 
as a peacemaker were of no avail. Anne had evidently 
made up her mind to hate Gilbert Blythe to the end of 

As much as she hated Gilbert, however, did she 
love Diana, with all the love of her passionate little 
heart, equally intense in its likes and dislikes. One 
evening Manila, coming in from the orchard with 
a basket of apples, found Anne sitting alone by the 
east window in the twilight, crying bitterly. 

" Whatever's the matter now, Anne ?" she asked. 

"It's about Diana," sobbed Anne luxuriously. "I 
love Diana so, Marilla. I cannot ever live without 
her. But I know very well when we grow up that 
Diana will get married and go away and leave me. 
And oh, what shall I do ? I hate her husband I just 
hate him furiously. I've been imagining it all out 
the wedding and everything Diana dressed in snowy 
garments, with a veil, and looking as beautiful and 
regal as a queen ; and me the bridesmaid, with a lovely 
dress, too, and puffed sleeves, but with a breaking 
heart hid beneath my smiling face. And then bidding 
Diana good-bye-e-e " Here Anne broke down en- 
tirely and wept with increasing bitterness. 

Marilla turned quickly away to hide her twitching 


face ; but it was no use ; she collapsed on the nearest 
chair and burst into such a hearty and unusual peal of 
laughter that Matthew, crossing the yard outside, 
halted in amazement. When had he heard Marilla 
laugh like that before? 

"Well, Anne Shirley," said Marilla as soon as she 
could speak, "if you must borrow trouble, for pity's 
sake borrow it handier home. I should think you 
had an imagination, sure enough.'* 



OCTOBER was a beautiful month at Green Gables, 
when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as 
sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were 
royal crimson and the wild cherry-trees along the lane 
put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy 
green, while the fields sunned themselves in after- 

Anne revelled in the world of colour about her. 

"Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed one Saturday morn- 
ing, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous 
boughs, "I'm so glad I live in a world where there 
are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped 
from September to November, wouldn't it? Look at 
these maple branches. Don't they give you a thrill 
several thrills? I'm going to decorate my room with 

"Messy things," said Marilla, whose aesthetic sense 
was not noticeably developed. "You clutter up your 
room entirely too much with out-of-doors stuff, Anne. 
Bedrooms were made to sleep in." 

"Oh, and dream in too, Marilla. And you know 
one can dream so much better in a room where there 
are pretty things. I'm going to put these boughs 
in the old blue jug and set them on my table." 



"Mind you don't drop leaves all over the stairs 
then. I'm going to a meeting of the Aid Society at 
Carmody this afternoon, Anne, and I won't likely be 
home before dark. You'll have to get Matthew and 
Jerry their supper, so mind you don't forget to put 
the tea to draw until you sit down at the table as you 
did last time." 

"It was dreadful of me to forget," said Anne 
apologetically, "but that was the afternoon I was 
trying to think of a name for Violet Vale and it 
crowded other things out. Matthew was so good. 
He never scolded a bit. He put the tea down him- 
self and said we could wait awhile as well as not. 
And I told him a lovely fairy story while we were 
waiting, so he didn't find the time long at all. It was 
a beautiful fairy story, Manila. I forgot the end of 
it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew 
said he couldn't tell where the join came in." 

"Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you 
took a notion to get up and have dinner in the middle 
of the night. But you keep your wits about you this 
time. And I don't really know if I'm doing right 
it may make you more addle-pated than ever . 
but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the 
afternoon with you and have tea here." 

"Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands. "How 
perfectly lovely ! You are able to imagine things after 
all or else you'd never have understood how I've 
longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and 
grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the 
tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can 
I use the rosebud spray tea-set?" 


"No, indeed! The rosebud tea-set! Well, what 
next? You know I never use that except for the 
minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown 
tea-set. But you can open the little yellow crock of 
cherry preserves. It's time it was being used any- 
how I believe it's beginning to work. And you 
can cut some fruit-cake and have some of the cookies 
and snaps." 

"I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head 
of the table and pouring out the tea," said Anne, 
shutting her eyes ecstatically. "And asking Diana if 
she takes sugar ! I know she doesn't but of course I'll 
ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing 
her to take another piece of fruit-cake and another 
helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful 
sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the 
spare room to lay off her hat when she comes ? And 
then into the parlour to sit?" 

"No. The sitting-room will do for you and your 
company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry 
cordial that was left over from the church social the 
other night It's on the second shelf of the sitting- 
room closet and you and Diana can have it if you 
like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the after- 
noon, for I daresay Matthew'll be late coming in to 
tea since he's hauling potatoes to the vessel." 

Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's 
Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to 
ask Diana to tea. As a result, just after Marilla 
had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed 
in her second best dress and looking exactly as it 
is proper to look when asked out to tea. At other 


times she was wont to run into the kitchen without 
knocking; but now she knocked primly at the front 
door. And when Anne, dressed in her second best, 
as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands as 
gravely as if they had never met before. This un- 
natural solemnity lasted until after Diana had been 
taken to the east gable to lay off her hat and then 
had sat for ten minutes in the sitting-room, toes in 

"How is your mother?" inquired Anne politely just 
as if she had not seen Mrs. Barry picking apples that 
morning in excellent health and spirits. 

"She is very well, thank you. I suppose Mr. Cuth- 
bert is hauling potatoes to the Lily Sands this after- 
noon, is he ?" said Diana, who had ridden down to Mr. 
Harfhon Andrews' that morning in Matthew's cart. 

"Yes. Our potato crop is very good this year. I 
hope your father's potato crop is good, too." 

"It is fairly good, thank you. Have you picked 
many of your apples yet?" 

"Oh, ever so many," said Anne, forgetting to be 
dignified and jumping up quickly. "Let's go out to 
the orchard and get some of the Red Sweetings, 
Diana. Marilla says we can have all that are left on 
the tree. Marilla is a very generous woman. She 
said we could have fruit-cake and cherry preserves 
for tea. But it isn't good manners to tell your com- 
pany what you are going to give them to eat, so I 
won't tell you what she said we could have to drink. 
Only it begins with an r and a c and it's a bright red 
colour. I love bright red drinks, don't you? They 
taste twice as good as any other colour." 


The orchard, with its great sweeping boughs that 
bent to the ground with fruit, proved so delightful 
that the little girls spent most of the afternoon in it, 
sitting in a grassy corner where the frost had spared 
the green and the mellow autumn sunshine lingered 
warmly, eating apples and talking as hard as they 
could. Diana had much to tell Anne of what went 
on in school. She had to sit with Gertie Pye and 
she hated it; Gertie squeaked her pencil all the time 
and it just made her Diana's blood run cold; 
Ruby Gillis had charmed all her warts away, true's 
you live, with a magic pebble that old Mary Joe from 
the Creek gave her. You had to rub the warts with 
the pebble and then throw it away over your left 
shoulder at the time of the new moon and the warts 
would all go. Charlie Sloane's name was written up 
with Em White's on the porch wall and Em White 
was awful mad about it; Sam Boulter had "sassed" 
Mr. Phillips in class and Mr. Phillips whipped him 
and Sam's father came down to the school and dared 
Mr. Phillips to lay a hand on one of his children 
again ; and Mattie Andrews had a new red hood and 
a blue crossover with tassels on it and the airs she 
put on about it were perfectly sickening; and Lizzie 
Wright didn't speak to Mamie Wilson because Mamie 
Wilson's grown-up sister had cut out Lizzie Wright's 
grown-up sister with her beau ; and everybody missed 
Anne so and wished she'd come to school again; and 
Gilbert Blythe 

But Anne didn't want to hear about Gilbert Blythe. 
She jumped up hurriedly and said suppose they go 
in and have some raspberry cordial. 


Anne looked on the second shelf of the room pantry 
but there was no bottle of raspberry cordial there. 
Search revealed it away back on the top shelf. Anne 
put it on a tray and set it on the table with a tumbler. 

"Now, please help yourself, Diana," she said 
politely. "I don't believe I'll have any just now. I 
don't feel as if I wanted any after all those apples." 

Diana poured herself out a tumblerful, looked at its 
bright red hue admiringly, and then sipped it daintily. 

"That's awfully nice raspberry cordial, Anne," she 
said. "I didn't know raspberry cordial was so nice." 

"I'm real glad you like it. Take as much as you 
want. I'm going to run out and stir the fire up. There 
are so many responsibilities on a person's mind when 
they're keeping house, isn't there?" 

When Anne came back from the kitchen Diana was 
drinking her second glassful of cordial; and, being 
entreated thereto by Anne, she offered no particular 
objection to the drinking of a third. The tumblerfuls 
were generous ones and the raspberry cordial was 
certainly very nice. 

"The nicest I ever drank," said Diana, "It's ever 
so much nicer than Mrs. Lynde's although she brags 
of hers so much. It doesn't taste a bit like hers." 

"I should think Manila's raspberry cordial would 
prob'ly be much nicer than Mrs. Lynde's," said Anne 
loyally. "Marilla is a famous cook. She is trying 
to teach me to cook but I assure you, Diana, it is 
uphill work. There's so little scope for imagination 
in cookery. You just have to go by rules. The last 
time I made a cake I forgot to put the flour in. I 
was thinking the loveliest story about you and me, 


Diana. I thought you were desperately ill with small- 
pox and everybody deserted you, but I went boldly 
to your bedside and nursed you back to life; and then 
I took the smallpox and died and I was buried under 
those poplar trees in the graveyard and you planted 
a rosebush by my grave and watered it with your 
tears; and you never, never forgot the friend of your 
youth who sacrificed her life for you. Oh, it was such 
a pathetic tale, Diana. The tears just rained down 
over my cheeks while I mixed the cake. But I forgot 
the flour and the cake was a dismal failure. Flour is 
so essential to cakes, you know. Marilla was very 
cross and I don't wonder. I'm a great trial to her. 
She was terribly mortified about the pudding sauce 
last week. We had a plum pudding for dinner on 
Tuesday and there was half the pudding and a 
"pitcherful of sauce left over. Marilla said there was 
enough for another dinner and told me to set it on 
the pantry shelf and cover it. I meant to cover it 
just as much as could be, Diana, but when I carried 
it in I was imagining I was a nun of course I'm a 
Protestant but I imagined I was a Catholic taking 
the veil to bury a broken heart in cloistered seclusion ; 
and I forgot all about covering the pudding sauce. I 
thought of it next morning and ran to the pantry, 
Diana, fancy if you can my extreme horror at finding 
a mouse drowned in that pudding sauce! I lifted the 
mouse out with a spoon and threw it out in the yard 
and then I washed the spoon in three waters. Ma- 
rilla was out milking and I fully intended to ask her 
when she came in if I'd give the sauce to the pigs; 
but when she did come in I was imagining that I was 


a frost fairy going through the woods turning the 
trees red and yellow, whichever they wanted to be, 
so I never thought about the pudding sauce again and 
Marilla sent me out to pick apples. Well, Mr. and 
Mrs. Chester Ross from Spencervale came here that 
morning. You know they are very stylish people, 
especially Mrs. Chester Ross. When Marilla called 
me in dinner was all ready and everybody was at the 
table. I tried to be as polite and dignified as I could 
be, for I wanted Mrs. Chester Ross to think I was a 
ladylike little girl even if I wasn't pretty. Everything 
went right until I saw Marilla coming with the plum 
pudding in one hand and the pitcher of pudding sauce, 
warmed up, in the other. Diana, that was a terrible 
moment. I remembered everything and I just stood 
up in my place and shrieked out, 'Marilla, you mustn't 
use that pudding sauce. There was a mouse drowned 
in it. I forgot to tell you before.' Oh, Diana, I 
shall never forget that awful moment if I live to be 
a hundred. Mrs. Chester Ross just looked at me and 
I thought I would sink through the floor with morti- 
fication. She is such a perfect housekeeper and fancy 
what she must have thought of us. Marilla turned 
red as fire but she never said a word then. She 
just carried that sauce and pudding out and brought 
in some strawberry preserves. She even offered me 
some, but I couldn't swallow a mouthful. It was like 
heaping coals of fire on my head. After Mrs. Chester 
Ross went away Marilla gave me a dreadful scolding. 
Why, Diana, what is the matter ?" 

Diana had stood up very unsteadily; then she sat 
down again, putting her hands to her head. 


"I'm I'm awful sick," she said, a little thickly. 
"I I must go right home." 

"Oh, you mustn't dream of going home without 
your tea," cried Anne in distress. "I'll get it right 
off I'll go and put the tea down this very minute." 

"I must go home," repeated Diana, stupidly but 

"Let me get you a lunch anyhow," implored Anne. 
"Let me give you a bit of fruit-cake and some of the 
cherry preserves. Lie down on the sofa for a little 
while and you'll be better. Where do you feel bad ?" 

"I must go home," said Diana, and that was all 
she would say. In vain Anne pleaded. 

"I never heard of company going home without 
tea," she mourned. "Oh, Diana, do you suppose that 
it's possible you're really taking the smallpox? If 
you are I'll go and nurse you, you can depend on 
that I'll never forsake you. But I do wish you'd 
stay till after tea. Where do you feel bad ?" 

"I'm awful dizzy," said Diana. 

And indeed, she walked very dizzily. Anne, with 
tears of disappointment in her eyes, got Diana's hat 
and went with her as far as the Barry yard fence. 
Then she wept all the way back to Green Gables, 
where she sorrowfully put the remainder of the rasp- 
berry cordial back into the pantry and got tea ready 
for Matthew and Jerry, with all the zest gone out of 
the performance. 

The next day was Sunday and as the rain poured 
down in torrents from dawn till dusk Anne did not 
stir abroad from Green Gables. Monday afternoon 
Marilla sent her down to Mrs. Lynde's on an errand. 


In a very short space of time Anne came flying back 
up the lane, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Into 
the kitchen she dashed and flung herself face down- 
ward on the sofa in agony. 

"Whatever has gone wrong now, Anne?" queried 
Marilla in doubt and dismay. "I do hope you haven't 
gone and been saucy to Mrs. Lynde again." 

No answer from Anne save more tars and stormier 
sobs ! \ 

"Anne Shirley, when I ask you a question I want 
to be ansv/ered. Sit right up this very minute and 
tell me what you are crying about" 

Anne sat up, tragedy personified. 

"Mrs. Lynde was up to see Mrs. Barry to-day and 
Mrs. Barry was in an awful state," she wailed. "She 
says that I set Diana drunk Saturday and sent her 
home in a disgraceful condition. And she says I must 
be a thoroughly bad, wicked little girl and she's never, 
never going to let Diana play with me again. Oh, 
Marilla, I'm just overcome with woe." 

Marilla stared in blank amazement. 

"Set Diana drunk!" she said when she found her 
voice. "Anne, are you or Mrs. Barry crazy? What 
on earth did you give her?" 

"Not a thing but raspberry cordial," sobbed Anne. 
"I never thought raspberry cordial would set people 
drunk, Marilla, not even if they drank three big 
tumblerfuls as Diana did. Oh, it sounds so so 
like Mrs. Thomas' husband! But I didn't mean to 
set her drunk." 

"Drunk fiddlesticks!" said Marilla, marching to 
the sitting-room pantry. There on the shelf was a 


bottle which she at once recognized as one contain- 
ing some of her three year old homemade currant 
wine for which she was celebrated in Avonlea, al- 
though certain of the stricter sort, Mrs. Barry among 
them, disapproved strongly of it. And at the same 
time Manila recollected that she had put the bottle of 
raspberry cordial down in the cellar instead of in the 
pantry as she had told Anne. 

She went back to the kitchen with the wine bottle 
in her hand. Her face was twitching in spite of her- 

"Anne, you certainly have a genius for getting 
into trouble. You went and gave Diana currant wine 
instead of raspberry cordial. Didn't you know the 
difference yourself ?" 

"I never tasted it," said Anne. "I thought it was 
the cordial. I meant to be so so hospitable. Diana 
got awfully sick and had to go home. Mrs. Barry 
told Mrs. Lynde she was simply dead drunk. She 
just laughed silly like when her mother asked her 
what was the matter and went to sleep and slept for 
hours. Her mother smelled her breath and knew she 
was drunk. She had a fearful headache all day yes- 
terday. Mrs. Barry is so indignant She will never 
believe but what I did it on purpose." 

"I should think she would better punish Diana for 
being so greedy as to drink three glass fuls of any- 
thing," said Marilla shortly. "Why, three of those 
big glasses would have made her sick even if it had 
only been cordial. Well, this story will be a nice 
handle for those folks who are so down on me for 
making currant wine, although I haven't made any for 


three years ever since I found out that the minister 
didn't approve. I just kept that bottle for sickness. 
There, there, child, don't cry. I can't see as you were 
to blame although I'm sorry it happened so." 

"I must cry," said Anne. "My heart is broken. 
The stars in their courses fight against me, Marilla. 
Diana and I are parted forever. Oh, Marilla, I little 
dreamed of this when first we swore our vows of 

"Don't be foolish, Anne. Mrs. Barry will think 
better of it when she finds you're not really to blame. 
I suppose she thinks you've done it for a silly joke 
or something of that sort. You'd best go up this 
evening and tell her how it was." 

"My courage fails me at the thought of facing 
Diana's injured mother," sighed Anne. "I wish you'd 
go, Marilla. You're so much more dignified than I 
am. Likely she'd listen to you quicker than to me." 

"Well, I will," said Marilla, reflecting that it would 
probably be the wiser course. "Don't cry any more, 
Anne. It will be all right." 

Marilla had changed her mind about its being all 
right by the time she got back from Orchard Slope. 
Anne was watching for her coming and flew to the 
porch door to meet her. 

"Oh, Marilla, I know by your face that it's been 
no use," she said sorrowfully. "Mrs. Barry won't 
forgive me?" 

"Mrs. Barry, indeed!" snapped Marilla. "Of all 
the unreasonable women I ever saw she's the worst. 
I told her it was all a mistake and you weren't to 
blame, but she just simply didn't believe me. And 


she rubbed it well in about my currant wine and how 
I'd always said it couldn't have the least effect on 
anybody. I just told her plainly that currant wine 
wasn't meant to be drunk three tumblerfuls at a time 
and that if a child I had to do with was so greedy 
I'd sober her up with a right good spanking." 

Marilla whisked into the kitchen, grievously dis- 
turbed, leaving a very much distracted little soul in 
the porch behind her. Presently Anne stepped out 
bare-headed into the chill autumn dusk; very deter- 
minedly and steadily she took her way down through 
the sere clover field over the log bridge and up 
through the spruce grove, lighted by a pale little 
moon hanging low over the western woods. Mrs. 
Barry, coming to the door in answer to a timid 
knock, found a white-lipped, eager-eyed suppliant on 
the doorstep. 

Her face hardened. Mrs. Barry was a woman of 
strong prejudices and dislikes, and her anger was of 
the cold, sullen sort which is always hardest to over- 
come. To do her justice, she really believed Anne had 
made Diana drunk out of sheer malice prepense, and 
she was honestly anxious to preserve her little daughter 
from the contamination of further intimacy with such 
a child. 

"What do you want ?" she said stiffly. 

Anne clasped her hands. 

"Oh, Mrs. Barry, please forgive me. I did not mean 
to to intoxicate Diana. How could I? Just 
imagine if you were a poor little orphan girl that kind 
people had adopted and you had just one bosom friend 
in all the world. Do you think you would intoxicate 


her on purpose? I thought it was only raspberry 
cordial. I was firmly convinced it was raspberry 
cordial. Oh, please, don't say that you won't let Diana 
play with me any more. If you do you will cover my 
life with a dark cloud of woe." 

This speech, which would have softened good Mrs. 
Lynde's heart in a twinkling, had no effect on Mrs. 
Barry except to irritate her still more. She was 
suspicious of Anne's big words and dramatic gestures 
and imagined that the child was making fun of her. 
So she said, coldly and cruelly : 

"I don't think you are a fit little girl for Diana to 
associate with. You'd better go home and behave 

Anne's lip quivered. 

"Won't you let me see Diana just once to say fare- 
well?" she implored. 

"Diana has gone over to Carmody with her father," 
said Mrs. Barry, going in and shutting the door. 

Anne went back to Green Gables calm with despair. 

"My last hope is gone," she told Marilla. "I went 
up and saw Mrs. Barry myself and she treated me 
very insultingly. Marilla, I do not think she is a well- 
bred woman. There is nothing more to do except to 
pray and I haven't much hope that that'll do much good 
because, Marilla, I do not believe that God Himself 
can do very much with such an obstinate person as 
Mrs. Barry." 

"Anne, you shouldn't say such things," rebuked 
Marilla, striving to overcome that unholy tendency to 
laughter which she was dismayed to find growing upon 
her. And indeed, when she told the whole story to 


Matthew that night, she did laugh heartily over 
tAnne's tribulations. 

But when she slipped into the east gable before going 
to bed and found that Anne had cried herself to sleep 
an unaccustomed softness crept into her face. 

"Poor little soul," she murmured, lifting a loose curl 
of hair from the child's tear-stained face. Then she 
bent down and kissed the flushed cheek on the pillow. 



THE next afternoon Anne, bending over her patch- 
work at the kitchen window, happened to glance out 
and beheld Diana down by the Dryad's Bubble beckon- 
ing mysteriously. In a trice Anne was out of the house 
and flying down to the hollow, astonishment and hope 
struggling in her expressive eyes. But the hope faded 
when she saw Diana's dejected countenance. 

"Your mother has relented ?" she gasped. 

Diana shook her head mournfully. 

"No ; and oh, Anne, she says I'm never to play with 
you again. I've cried and cried and I told her it wasn't 
your fault, but it wasn't any use. I had ever such a 
time coaxing her to let me come down and say good- 
bye to you. She said I was only to stay ten minutes 
and she's timing me by the clock." 

"Ten minutes isn't very long to say an eternal fare- 
well in," said Anne tearfully. "Oh, Diana, will you 
promise faithfully never to forget me, the friend of 
your youth, no matter what dearer friends may caress 

"Indeed I will," sobbed Diana, "and I'll never have 
another bosom friend I don't want to have. I 
couldn't love anybody as I love you." 

"Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do 
you love me?" 



"Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?" 

"No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you 
liked me of course, but I never hoped you loved me. 
Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me. 
Nobody ever has loved me since I can remember. Oh, 
this is wonderful ! It's a ray of light which will for- 
ever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, 
Diana. Oh, just say it once again." 

"I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, 
"and I always will, you may be sure of that" 

"And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, 
solemnly extending her hand. "In the years to come 
thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, 
as that last story we read together says. Diana, wilt 
thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting 
to treasure f orevermore ?" 

"Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried 
Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne's affecting 
accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to 

"Yes. I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron 
pocket fortunately," said Anne. She solemnly clipped 
one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved 
friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though liv- 
ing side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful 
to thee." 

Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mourn- 
fully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned 
to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a 
little consoled for the time being by this romantic part- 

"It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall 


never have another friend. I'm really worse off than 
ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta 
now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. 
Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after 
a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting fare- 
well down by the spring. It will be sacred in my 
memory forever. I used the most pathetic language 
I could think of and said 'thou' and 'thee/ Thou' and 
'thee' seem so much more romantic than 'you/ Diana 
gave me a lock of her hair and I'm going to sew it 
up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my 
life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't 
believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me 
lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel 
remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come 
to my funeral." 

"I don't think there is much fear of your dying of 
grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Manila 

The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by 
coming down from her room with her basket of books 
on her arm and her lips primmed up into a line of de- 

"I'm going back to school," she announced. "That 
is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend 
has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can 
look at her and muse over days departed." 

"You'd better muse over your lessons and sums/' 
said Marilla, concealing her delight at this develop- 
ment of the situation. "If you're going back to school 
I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over 


people's heads and such carryings-on. Behave your- 
self and do just what your teacher tells you." 

"I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. 
"There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips 
said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't 
a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull 
and poky and never seems to have a good time. But 
I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to 
me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't 
bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep 
bitter tears if I did." 

Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. 
Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her 
voice in the singing, and her dramatic ability in the 
perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis 
smuggled three blue plums over to her during testa- 
ment reading: Ella May MacPherson gave her an 
enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral 
catalogue a species of desk decoration much prized in 
Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a 
perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for 
trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume 
bottle to keep slate-water in and Julia Bell copied care- 
fully on a piece of pale pink paper, scalloped on the 
edges, the following effusion : 


"When twilight drops her curtain down 
And pins it with a star 
Remember that you have a friend 
Though she may wander far." 

"It's so nice to be appreciated," sighed Anne rap- 
turously to Marilla that night. 


The girls were not the only scholars who "appreci- 
ated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner 
hour she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with 
the model Minnie Andrews she found on her desk a 
big lucious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up 
already to take a bite, when she remembered that the 
only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew 
was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the 
Lake of Shining Waters. Anne drop}, ed the apple as 
if it were a red hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her 
fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched 
on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy 
Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, 
annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's 
slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and 
yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils 
cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner 
hour, met with a more favourable reception. Anne 
was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the 
donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth 
straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and 
caused him to make such fearful errors in his dicta- 
tion that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to re- 
write it. 

But as, 

"The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more," 

so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition 
from Diana Barry, who was sitting with Gertie Pye, 
embittered Anne's little triumph. 

"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," 


she mourned to Marilla that night But the next morn- 
ing a note, most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and 
folded, and a small parcel, were passed across to Anne. 

"Dear Anne," ran the former, "Mother says I'm not 
to play with you or talk to you even in school. It 
isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love 
you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all 
my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I 
made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue 
paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only 
three girls in school know how to make them. When 
you look at it remember 

"Your true friend, 


Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and des- 
patched a prompt reply back to the other side of the 


"Of course I am not cross at you because you have 
to obey your mother. Our spirits can comune. I shall 
keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews 
is a very nice little girl although she has no imagina- 
tion but after having been Diana's busum friend I 
cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because 
my spelling isn't very good yet, although much im- 

"Yours until death us do part, 


"P. S. I shall sleep with your letter under my 
pillow to-night. 

"A. or c. s." 

Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since 
Anne had again begun to go to school. But none 
developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the 
"model" spirit from Minnie Andrews ; at least she got 
on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung 
herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not 
to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The 
rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was en- 
tirely good-natured on Gilbert's side ; but it is much to 
be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, 
who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for hold- 
ing grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in 
her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant 
to rival Gilbert in school work, because that would 
have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne 
persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and 
honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was 
head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of 
her long red braids, spelled him down. One morning 
Gilbert had all his sums done correctly and had his 
name written on the blackboard on the roll of honour; 
the next morning Anne, having wrestled wildly with 
decimals the entire evening before, would be first. One 
awful day they were ties and their names were written 
up together. It was almost as bad as a "take-notice" 
and Anne's mortification was as evident as Gilbert's 
satisfaction. When the written examinations at the end 
of each month were held the suspense was terrible. The 


first month Gilbert came out three marks ahead. The 
second Anne beat him by five. But her triumph 
was marred by the fact that Gilbert congratulated her 
heartily before the whole school. It would have been 
ever so much sweeter to her if he had felt the sting of 
his defeat. 

Mr. Phillips might not be a very good teacher; 
but a pupil so inflexibly determined on learning as 
Anne was could hardly escape making progress under 
any kind of a teacher. By the end of the term Anne 
and Gilbert were both promoted into the fifth class 
and allowed to begin studying the elements of "the 
branches" by which Latin, geometry, French and 
algebra were meant In geometry Anne met her 

"It's perfectly awful stuff, Marilla," she groaned. 
"I'm sure I'll never be able to make head or tail of 
it. There is no scope for imagination in it at all. 
Mr. Phillips says I'm the worst dunce he ever saw 
at it. And Gil I mean some of the others are so 
smart at it. It is extremely mortifying, Marilla. Even 
Diana gets along better than I do. But I don't mind 
being beaten by Diana. Even although we meet as 
strangers now I still love her with an inextinguishable 
love. It makes me very sad at times to think about her. 
But really, Marilla, one can't stay sad very long in. 
such an interesting world, can one?' 



ALL things great are wound up with all things 
little. At first glance it might not seem that the de- 
cision of a certain Canadian Premier to include Prince 
Edward Island in a political tour could have much or 
anything to do with the fortunes of little Anne Shirley 
at Green Gables. But it had. 

It was in January the Premier came, to address his 
loyal supporters and such of his non-supporters as 
chose to be present at the monster mass meeting held 
in Charlottetown. Most of the Avonlea people were 
on the Premier's side of politics; hence, on the night 
of the meeting nearly all the men and a goodly propor- 
tion of the women had gone to town, thirty miles away. 
Mrs. Rachel Lynde had gone too. Mrs. Rachel Lynde 
was a red-hot politician and couldn't have believed that 
the political rally could be carried through without her, 
although she was on the opposite side of politics. So 
she went to town and took her husband Thomas 
would be useful in looking after the horse and Marilla 
Cuthbert with her. Marilla had a sneaking interest in 
politics herself, and as she thought it might be her only 
chance to see a real live Premier, she promptly took it, 
leaving Anne and Matthew to keep house until her re- 
turn the following day. 


Hence, while Marilla and Mrs. Rachel were enjoy- 
ing themselves hugely at the mass meeting, Anne and 
Matthew had the cheerful kitchen at Green Gables all 
to themselves. A bright fire was glowing in the old- 
fashioned Waterloo stove and blue-white frost crystals 
were shining on the window-panes. Matthew nodded 
over a Farmers' Advocate on the sofa and Anne at the 
table studied her lessons with grim determination, de- 
spite sundry wistful glances at the clock shelf, where 
lay a new book that Jane Andrews had lent her that 
day. Jane had assured her that it was warranted to 
produce any number of thrills, or words to that effect, 
and Anne's fingers tingled to reach out for it. But that 
would mean Gilbert Blythe's triumph on the morrow. 
Anne turned her back on the clock shelf and tried to 
imagine it wasn't there. 

"Matthew, did you ever study geometry when you 
went to school ?" 

'Well now, no, I didn't," said Matthew, coming out 
of his doze with a start 

"I wish you had," sighed Anne, "because then you'd 
be able to sympathize with me. You can't sympathize 
properly if you've never studied it. It is casting a 
cloud over my whole life. I'm such a dunce at it, 

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew soothingly. "I 
guess you're all right at anything. Mr. Phillips told 
me last week in Blair's store at Carmody that you was 
the smartest scholar in school and was making rapid 
progress. 'Rapid progress' was his very words. There's 
them as runs down Teddy Phillips and says he ain't 
much of a teacher ; but I guess he's all right." 


Matthew would have thought anyone who praised 
Anne was "all right." 

"I'm sure I'd get on better with geometry if only 
he wouldn't change the letters," complained Anne. "I 
learn the proposition off by heart, and then he draws 
it on the blackboard and puts different letters from 
what are in the book and I get all mixed up. I don't 
think a teacher should take such a mean advantage, 
do you? We're studying agriculture now and I've 
found out at last what makes the roads red. It's a 
great comfort. I wonder how Marilla and Mrs. Lynde 
are enjoying themselves. Mrs. Lynde says Canada is 
going to the dogs the way things are being run at 
Ottawa, and that it's an awful warning to the electors. 
She says if women were allowed to vote we would soon 
see a blessed change. What way do you vote, Mat- 

"Conservative," said Matthew promptly. To vote 
Conservative was a part of Matthew's religion. 

"Then I'm Conservative too," said Anne decidedly. 
"I'm glad, because Gil because some of the boys in 
school are Grits. I guess Mr. Phillips is a Grit too, 
because Prissy Andrews' father is one, and Ruby Gillis 
says that when a man is courting he always has to 
agree with the girl's mother in religion and her father 
in politics. Is that true, Matthew?" 

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew. 

"Did you ever go courting, Matthew ?" 

"Well now, no, I dunno's I ever did," said Matthew, 
who had certainly never thought of such a thing in his 
whole existence. 

Anne reflected with her chin in her hands. 


"It must be rather interesting, don't you think, 
Matthew ? Ruby Gillis says when she grows up she's 
going to have ever so many beaus on the string and 
have them all crazy about her ; but I think that would 
be too exciting. I'd rather have just one in his right 
mind. But Ruby Gillis knows a great deal about such 
matters because she has so many big sisters, and Airs. 
Lynde says the Gillis girls have gone off like hot cakes. 
Mr. Phillips goes up to see Prissy Andrews nearly 
every evening. He says it is to help her with her les- 
sons, but Miranda Sloane is studying for Queen's, too, 
and I should think she needed help a lot more than 
Prissy because she's ever so much stupider, but he 
never goes to help her in the evenings at all. There 
are a great many things in this world that I can't 
understand very well, Matthew." 

"Well now, I dunno as I comprehend them all my- 
self," acknowledged Matthew. 

"Well, I suppose I must finish up my lessons. I 
won't allow myself to open that new book Jane lent 
me until I'm through. But it's a terrible temptation, 
Matthew. Even when I turn my back on it I can see 
it there just as plain. Jane said she cried herself sick 
over it. I love a book that makes me cry. But I think 
I'll carry that book into the sitting-room and lock it 
in the jam closet and give you the key. And you must 
not give it to me, Matthew, until my lessons are done, 
not even if I implore you on my bended knees. It's all 
very well to say resist temptation, but it's ever so much 
easier to resist it if you can't get the key. And then 
shall I run down the cellar and get some russets, Mat- 
thew ? Wouldn't you like some russets ?" 


"Well now, I dunno but what I would," said Mat- 
thew, who never ate russets but knew Anne's weakness 
for them. 

Just as Anne emerged triumphantly from the cellar 
with her plateful of russets came the sound of flying 
footsteps on the icy board walk outside and the next 
moment the kitchen door was flung open and in rushed 
Diana Barry, white- faced and breathless, with a shawl 
wrapped hastily around her head. Anne promptly let 
go of her candle and plate in her surprise, and plate, 
candle, and apples crashed together down the cellar 
ladder and were found at the bottom embedded in 
melted grease, the next day, by Marilla, who gathered 
them up and thanked mercy the house hadn't been set 
on fire. 

"Whatever is the matter, Diana ?" cried Anne. "Has 
your mother relented at last ?" 

"Oh, Anne, do come quick," implored Diana nerv- 
ously. "Minnie May is awful sick she's got croup, 
Young Mary Joe says and father and mother are 
away to town and there's nobody to go for the doctor. 
Minnie May is awful bad and Young Mary Joe doesn't 
know what to do and oh, Anne, I'm so scared !" 

Matthew, without a word, reached out for cap and 
coat, slipped past Diana and away into the darkness of 
the yard. 

"He's gone to harness the sorrel mare to go to 
Carmody for the doctor," said Anne, who was hurry- 
ing on hood and jacket. "I know it as well as if he'd 
said so. Matthew and I are such kindred spirits I can 
read his thoughts without words at all." 

"I don't believe he'll find the doctor at Carmody," 


sobbed Diana. "I know that Doctor Blair went to 
town and I guess Doctor Spencer would go too, Young 
Mary Joe never saw anybody with croup and Mrs. 
Lynde is away. Oh, Anne !" 

"Don't cry, Di," said Anne cheerily. "I know 
exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. 
Hammond had twins three times. When you look 
after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of 
experience. They all had croup regularly. Just wait 
till I get the ipecac bottle you mayn't have any at 
your house. Come on now." 

The two little girls hastened out hand in hand and 
hurried through Lovers' Lane and across the crusted 
field beyond, for the snow was too deep to go by the 
shorter wood way. Anne, although sincerely sorry 
for Minnie May, was far from being insensible to the 
romance of the situation and to the sweetness of once, 
more sharing that romance with a kindred spirit. 

The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow 
and silver of snowy slope ; big stars were shining over 
the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs 
stood up with snow powdering their branches and the 
wind whistling through them. Anne thought it was 
truly delightful to go skimming through all this mys- 
tery and loveliness with your bosom friend who had 
been so long estranged. 

Minnie May, aged three, was really very sick. She 
lay on the kitchen sofa, feverish and restless, while 
her hoarse breathing could be heard all over the house. 
Young Mary Joe, a buxom, broad-faced French girl 
from the Creek, whom Mrs. Barry had engaged to 
stay with the children during her absence, was help- 


less and bewildered, quite incapable of thinking what 
to do, or doing it if she thought of it. 

Anne went to work with skill and promptness. 

"Minnie May has croup all right; she's pretty bad, 
but I've seen them worse. First we must have lots of 
hot water. I declare, Diana, there isn't more than a 
cupful in the kettle ! There, I've filled it up, and, Mary 
Joe, you may put some wood in the stove. I don't want 
to hurt your .feelings, but it seems to me you might 
have thought of this before if you'd any imagination. 
Now, I'll undress Minnie May and put her to bed, and 
you try to find some soft flannel cloths, Diana. I'm 
going to give her a dose of ipecac first of all." 

Minnie May did not take kindly to the ipecac, but 
Anne had not brought up three pairs of twins for 
nothing. Down that ipecac went, not only once, but 
many times during the long, anxious night when the 
two little girls worked patiently over the suffering 
Minnie May, and Young Mary Joe, honestly anxious 
to do all she could, kept on a roaring fire and heated 
more water than would have been needed for a hospital 
of croupy babies. 

It was three o'clock when Matthew came with the 
doctor, for he had been obliged to go all the way to 
Spencervale for one. But the pressing need for as- 
sistance was past. Minnie May was much better and 
was sleeping soundly. 

"I was awfully near giving up in despair," explained 
Anne. "She got worse and worse until she was sicker 
than ever the Hammond twins were, even the last 
pair. I actually thought she was going to choke to 
death. I gave her every drop of ipecac in that bottle, 


and when the last dose went down I said to myself 
not to Diana or Mary Joe, because I didn't want to 
worry them any more than they were worried, but I 
had to say it to myself just to relieve my feelings 
This is the last lingering hope and I fear 'tis a vain 
one/ But in about three minutes she coughed up the 
phlegm and began to get better right away. You must 
just imagine my relief, doctor, because I can't express 
it in words. You know there are some things that 
cannot be expressed in words." 

"Yes, I know," nodded the doctor. He looked at 
Anne as if he were thinking some things about her that 
couldn't be expressed in words. Later on, however, 
he expressed them to Mr. and Mrs. Barry. 

"That little red-headed girl they have over at Cuth- 
bert's is as smart as they make 'em. I tell you she 
saved that baby's life, for it would have been too late 
by the time I got here. She seems to have a skill and 
presence of mind perfectly wonderful in a child of her 
age. I never saw anything like the eyes of her when 
she was explaining the case out to me." 

Anne had gone home in the wonderful, white- frosted 
winter morning, heavy-eyed from loss of sleep, but 
still talking unweariedly to Matthew as they crossed 
the long white field and walked under the glittering 
fairy arch of the Lovers' Lane maples. 

"Oh, Matthew, isn't it a wonderful morning? The 
world looks like something God had just imagined for 
His own pleasure, doesn't it? Those trees look as if 
I could blow them away with a breath pouf ! I'm 
so glad I live in a world where there are white frosts, 
aren't you? And I'm so glad Mrs. Hammond had 


three pairs of twins after all. If she hadn't I mightn't 
have known what to do for Minnie May. I'm real 
sorry I was ever cross with Mrs. Hammond for having 
twins. But, oh, Matthew, I'm so sleepy. I can't go to 
school. I just know I couldn't keep my eyes open and 
I'd be so stupid. But I hate to stay home for Gil 
some of the others will get head of the class, and it's 
so hard to get up again although of course the harder 
it is the more satisfaction you have when you do get 
up, haven't you?" 

"Well now, I guess you'll manage all right," said 
Matthew, looking at Anne's white little face and the 
dark shadows under her eyes. "You just go right to 
bed and have a good sleep. I'll do all the chores." 

Anne accordingly went to bed and slept so long 
and soundly that it was well on in the white and rosy 
winter afternoon when she awoke and descended to 
the kitchen where Marilla, who had arrived home in 
the meantime, was sitting knitting. 

"Oh, did you see the Premier?" exclaimed Anne at 
once. "What did he look like, Marilla?" 

"Well, he never got to be Premier on account of 
his looks," said Marilla. "Such a nose as that man 
had! But he can speak. I was proud of being a Con- 
servative. Rachel Lynde, of course, being a Liberal, 
had no use for him. Your dinner is in the oven, Anne ; 
and you can get yourself some blue plum preserve out 
of the pantry. I guess you're hungry. Matthew has 
been telling me about last night. I must say it was 
fortunate you knew what to do. I wouldn't have had 
any idea myself, for I never saw a case of croup. 
There now, never mind talking till you've had your 


dinner. I can tell by the look of you that you're just 
full up with speeches, but they'll keep." 

Marilla had something to tell Anne, but she did not 
tell it just then, for she knew if she did Anne's con- 
sequent excitement would lift her clear out of the 
region of such material matters as appetite or dinner. 
Not until Anne had finished her saucer of blue plums 
did Marilla say : 

"Mrs. Barry was here this afternoon, Anne. She 
wanted to see you, but I wouldn't wake you up. She 
says you saved Minnie May's life, and she is very sorry 
she acted as she did in that affair of the current wine. 
She says she knows now you didn't mean to set Diana 
drunk, and she hopes you'll forgive her and be good 
friends with Diana again. You're to go over this eve- 
ning if you like, for Diana can't stir outside the door 
on account of a bad cold she caught last night. Now, 
Anne Shirley, for pity's sake don't fly clean up into 
the air." 

The warning seemed not unnecessary, so uplifted 
and aerial was Anne's expression and attitude as she 
sprang to her feet, her face irradiated with the flame 
of her spirit. 

"Oh, Marilla, can I go right now without washing 
my dishes? I'll wash them when I come back, but I 
cannot tie myself down to anything so unromantic as 
dish-washing at this thrilling moment." 

"Yes, yes, run along," said Marilla indulgently. 
"Anne Shirley are you crazy? Come back this in- 
stant and put something on you. I might as well call 
to the wind. She's gone without a cap or wrap. Look 
at her tearing through the orchard with her hair 


streaming. It'll be a mercy if she doesn't catch her 
death of cold." 

Anne came dancing home in the purple winter twi- 
light across the snowy places. Afar in the southwest 
was the great shimmering, pearl-like sparkle of an eve- 
ning star in a sky that was pale golden and ethereal 
rose over gleaming white spaces and dark glens of 
spruce. The tinkles of sleigh-bells among the snowy 
hills came like elfin chimes through the frosty air, but 
their music was not sweeter than the song in Anne's 
heart and on her lips. 

"You see before you a perfectly happy person, 
Marilla," she announced. "I'm perfectly happy yes, 
in spite of my red hair. Just at present I have a soul 
above red hair. Mrs. Barry kissed me and cried and 
said she was so sorry and she could never repay me. 
I felt fearfully embarrassed, Marilla, but I just said 
as politely as I could, 'I have no hard feelings for you, 
Mrs. Barry. I assure you once for all that I did not 
mean to intoxicate Diana and henceforth I shall cover 
the past with the mantle of oblivion/ That was a 
pretty dignified way of speaking, wasn't it, Marilla? 
I felt that I was heaping coals of fire on Mrs. Barry's 
head. And Diana and I had a lovely afternoon. Diana 
showed me a new fancy crochet stitch her aunt over 
at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows 
it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal 
it to any one else. Diana gave me a beautiful card 
with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry: 

"'If you love me as I love you 
Nothing but death can part us two.' 


And that is true, Manila. We're going to ask Mr. 
Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and 
Gertie Pye can go with Minnie Andrews. We had an 
elegant tea. Mrs. Barry had the very best china set 
out, Manila, just as if I was real company. I can't 
tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used 
their very best china on my account before. And we 
had fruit-cake and pound-cake and doughnuts and two 
kinds of preserves, Marilla. And Mrs. Barry asked 
me if I took tea and said, 'Pa, why don't you pass the 
biscuits to Anne ?' It must be lovely to be grown up, 
Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so 

"I don't know about that," said Marilla with a brief 

"Well, anyway, when I am grown up," said Anne 
decidedly, "I'm always going to talk to little girls as 
if they were, too, and I'll never laugh when they use 
big words. I know from sorrowful experience how 
that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made 
taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because 
neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana 
left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I 
forgot and let it burn ; and then when we set it out on 
the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and 
that had to be thrown away. But the making of it 
was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry 
asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana 
stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way 
down to Lovers' Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I 
feel like praying to-night and I'm going to think out 
a special brand-new prayer in honour of the occasion." 



"MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for 
a minute?" asked Anne, running breathlessly down 
from the east gable one February evening. 

"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about 
after dark for," said Manila shortly. "You and Diana 
walked home from school together and then stood 
down there in the snow for half an hour more, your 
tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. 
So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." 

"But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She 
has something very important to tell me." 

"How do you know she has ?" 

"Because she just signalled to me from her window. 
iWe have arranged a way to signal with our candles 
and cardboard. We set the candle on the window-sill 
and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and 
forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was 
my idea, Marilla." 

"I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. 
"And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the cur- 
tains with your signalling nonsense." 

"Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so in- 
teresting. Two flashes mean, 'Are you there ?' Three 
mean 'yes' and four 'no.' Five mean, 'Come over as 



soon as possible, because I have something important 
to reveal.' Diana has just signalled five flashes, and 
I'm really suffering to know what it is." 

"Well, you needn't suffer any longer," said Marilla 
Sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here 
in just ten minutes, remember that" 

Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated 
time, although probably no mortal will ever know just 
what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's im- 
portant communication within the limits of ten 
minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. 

"Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know to- 
morrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told 
her she could ask me to go home with her from school 
and stay all night with her. And her cousins are com- 
ing over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to 
the Debating Club concert at the hall to-morrow night. 
And they are going to take Diana and me to the con- 
cert if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, 
Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." 

"You can calm down then, because you're not going. 
You're better at home in your own bed, and as for 
that Club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls 
should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." 

"I'm sure the Debating Club is a most respectable 
affair," pleaded Anne. 

"I'm not saying it isn't But you're not going to 
begin gadding about to concerts and staying out all 
hours of the night Pretty doings for children. I'm 
surprised at Mrs. Barry's letting Diana go." 

"But it's such a very special occasion," mourned 
Anne, on the verge of tears. "Diana has only one 


birthday in a year. It isn't as if birthdays were com- 
mon things, Manila. Prissy Andrews is going to re- 
cite 'Curfew Must Not Ring To-night' That is such a 
good moral piece, Marilla, I'm sure it would do me 
lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to 
sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as 
good as hymns. And oh, Marilla, the minister is go- 
ing to take part ; yes, indeed, he is ; he's going to give 
an address. That will be just about the same thing as 
a sermon. Please, mayn't I go, Marilla?" 

"You heard what I said, Anne, didn't you? Take 
off your boots now and go to bed. It's past eight" 

"There's just one more thing, Marilla," said Anne, 
with the air of producing the last shot in her locker. 
"Mrs. Barry told Diana that we might sleep in the 
spare-room bed. Think of the honour of your little 
Anne being put in the spare-room bed." 

"It's an honour you'll have to get along without 
Go to bed, Anne, and don't let me hear another word 
out of you." 

When Anne, with tears rolling over her cheeks, had 
gone sorrowfully up-stairs, Matthew, who had been 
apparently sound asleep on the lounge during the whole 
dialogue, opened his eyes and said decidedly: 

"Well now, Marilla, I think you ought to let Anne 

"I don't then," retorted Marilla. "Who's bringing 
this child up, Matthew, you or me ?" 

"Well now, you," admitted Matthew. 

"Don't interfere then." 

"Well now, I ain't interfering. It ain't interfering 

1 ..< *" .'-<*.... ._ 


to have your own opinion. And my opinion is that 
you ought to let Anne go." 

"You'd think I ought to let Anne go to the moon 
if she took the notion, I've no doubt," was Manila's 
amiable rejoinder. "I might have let her spend the 
night with Diana, if that was all. But I don't ap- 
prove of this concert plan. She'd go there and catch 
cold like as not, and have her head filled up with non- 
sense and excitement It would unsettle her for a 
week. I understand that child's disposition and what's 
good for it better than you, Matthew." 

"I think you ought to let Anne go," repeated Mat- 
thew firmly. Argument was not his strong point, but 
holding fast to his opinion certainly was. Marilla gave 
a gasp of helplessness and took refuge in silence. The 
next morning, when Anne was washing the breakfast 
dishes in the pantry, Matthew paused on his way out 
to the barn to say to Marilla again : 

"I think you ought to let Anne go, Marilla." 

For a moment Marilla looked things not lawful to 
be uttered. Then she yielded to the inevitable and said 
tartly : 

"Very well, she can go, since nothing else'll please 

Anne flew out of the pantry, dripping dish-cloth in 

"Oh, Marilla, Marilla, say those blessed words 

"I guess once is enough to say them. This is Mat- 
thew's doings and I wash my hands of it. If you catch 
pneumonia sleeping in a strange bed or coming out of 
that hot hall in the middle of the night, don't blame me, 

blame Matthew. Anne Shirley, you're dripping greasy 
water all over the floor. I never saw such a careless 

"Oh, I know I'm a great trial to you, Marilla," said 
Anne repentantly. "I make so many mistakes. But 
then just think of all the mistakes I don't make, al- 
though I might. I'll get some sand and scrub up the 
spots before I go to school. Oh, Marilla, my heart was 
just set on going to that concert. I never was to a 
concert in my life, and when the other girls talk about 
them in school I feel so out of it. You didn't know 
just how I felt about it, but you see Matthew did. 
Matthew understands me, and it's so nice to be under- 
stood, Marilla." 

Anne was too excited to do herself justice as to 
lessons that morning in school. Gilbert Blythe spelled 
her down in class and left her clear out of sight in 
mental arithmetic. Anne's consequent humiliation was 
less than it might have been, however, in view of the 
concert and the spare-room bed. She and Diana talked 
so constantly about it all day that with a stricter 
teacher than Mr. Phillips dire disgrace must inevitably 
have been their portion. 

Anne felt that she could not have borne it if she 
had not been going to the concert, for nothing else 
was discussed that day in school. The Avonlea Debat- 
ing Club, which met fortnightly all winter, had had 
several smaller free entertainments; but this was to 
be a big affair, admission ten cents, in aid of the library. 
The Avonlea young people had been practising for 
weeks, and all the scholars were especially interested in 
it by reason of older brothers and sisters who were 


going to take part. Everybody in school over nine 
years of age expected to go, except Carrie Sloane, 
whose father shared Manila's opinions about small 
girls going out to night concerts. Carrie Sloane cried 
into her grammar all the afternoon and felt that life 
was not worth living. 

For Anne the real excitement began with the dis- 
missal of school and increased therefrom in crescendo 
until it reached to a crash of positive ecstacy in the con- 
cert itself. They had a "perfectly elegant tea;" and 
then came the delicious occupation of dressing in 
Diana's little room up-stairs. Diana did Anne's front 
hair in the new pompadour style and Anne tied Diana's 
bows with the especial knack she possessed; and they 
experimented with at least half a dozen different ways 
of arranging their back hair. At last they were ready, 
cheeks scarlet and eyes glowing with excitement. 

True, Anne could not help a little pang when she 
contrasted her plain black tarn and shapeless, tight- 
sleeved, home-made gray cloth coat with Diana's 
jaunty fur cap and smart little jacket. But she re- 
membered in time that she had an imagination and 
could use it 

Then Diana's cousins, the Murrays from New- 
bridge, came ; they all crowded into the big pung sleigh, 
among straw and furry robes. Anne revelled in the 
drive to the hall, slipping along over the satin-smooth 
roads with the snow crisping under the runners. There 
was a magnificent sunset, and the snowy hills and deep 
blue water of the St. Lawrence Gulf seemed to rim in 
the splendour like a huge bowl of pearl and sapphire 
brimmed with wine and fire.. T.inides of sleigh-bells 

and distant laughter, that seemed like the mirth of 
wood elves, came from every quarter. 

"Oh, Diana," breathed Anne, squeezing Diana's 
mittened hand under the fur robe, "isn't it all like a 
beautiful dream? Do I really look the same as usual? 
I feel so different that it seems to me it must show in 
my looks." 

"You look awfully nice," said Diana, who having 
just received a compliment from one of her cousins, 
felt that she ought to pass it on. "You've got the 
loveliest colour." 

The programme that night was a series of "thrills" 
for at least one listener in the audience, and, as Anne 
assured Diana, every succeeding thrill was thrillier than 
the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in a new pink 
silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth 
white throat and real carnations in her hair rumour 
whispered that the master had sent all the way to town 
for them for her "climbed the slimy ladder, dark 
without one ray of light," Anne shivered in luxurious 
sympathy ; when the choir sang "Far Above the Gentle 
Daisies" Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed 
with angels; when Sam Sloane proceeded to explain 
and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed 
until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of 
sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection 
that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea ; and when 
Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the dead 
body of Caesar in the most heart-stirring tones look- 
ing at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence 
Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot 
if but one Roman citizen led the way. 


Only one number on the program failed to interest 
her. When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the 
Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book 
and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly 
stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands 
until they tingled. 

It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissi- 
pation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talk- 
ing it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep 
and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana 
tiptoed into the parlour, a long narrow room out of 
which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm 
and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. 

"Let's undress here," said Diana. "It's so nice and 

"Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne 
rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite 
there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, 
Diana ?" 

"Yes, of course, some day. They're always want- 
ing the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often 
and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how 
could you pretend not to listen to him ? When he came 
to the line, 

There's another, not a sister,' 

he looked right down at you." 

"Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom 
friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of 
that person. Are you ready for bed ? Let's run a race 
and see who'll get to the bed first." 

The suggestion appealed to Diana, The two little 


white-clad figures flew down the long room, through 
the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the 
same moment. And then something moved beneath 
them, there was a gasp and a cry and somebody said 
in muffled accents : 

"Merciful goodness !" 

Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how 
they got off that bed and out of the room. They only 
knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves 
tiptoeing shiveringly up-stairs. 

"Oh, who was it what was it?" whispered Anne, 
her teeth chattering with cold and fright. 

"It was Aunt Josephine," said Diana, gasping with 
laughter. "Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, how- 
ever she came to be there. Oh, I know she will 
be furious. It's dreadful it's really dreadful but 
did you ever know anything so funny, Anne ?" 

"Who is your Aunt Josephine ?" 

"She's father's aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. 
She's awfully old seventy anyhow and I don't be- 
lieve she was ever a little girl. We were expecting her 
out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim 
and proper and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I 
know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May 
and you can't think how she kicks." 

Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early 
breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly 
at the two little girls. 

"Did you have a good time last night? I tried to 
stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell 
you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have 


to go up-stairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. 
I hope you didn't disturb your aunt, Diana." 

Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne 
exchanged furtive smiles of guilty amusement across 
the table. Anne hurried home after breakfast and so 
remained in blissful ignorance of the disturbance which 
presently resulted in the Barry household until the late 
afternoon, when she went down to Mrs. Lynde's on 
an errand for Marilla. 

"So you and Diana nearly frightened poor old Miss 
Barry to death last night ?" said Mrs. Lynde severely, 
but with a twinkle in her eye. "Mrs. Barry was here 
a few minutes ago on her way to Carmody. She's feel- 
ing real worried over it Old Miss Barry was in a 
terrible temper when she got up this morning and 
Josephine Barry's temper is no joke, I can tell you 
that She wouldn't speak to Diana at all." 

"It wasn't Diana's fault," said Anne contritely. "It 
was mine. I suggested racing to see who would get 
into bed first" 

"I knew it!" said Mrs. Lynde with the exultation 
of a correct guesser. "I knew that idea came out of 
your head. Well, it's made a nice lot of trouble, that's 
what Old Miss Barry came out to stay for a month, 
but she declares she won't stay another day and is go- 
ing right back to-morrow, Sunday and all as it is. 
She'd have gone to-day if they could have taken her. 
She had promised to pay for a quarter's music lessons 
for Diana, but now she is determined to do nothing at 
all for such a tomboy. Oh, I guess they had a lively 
time of it there this morning. The Barry's must feel 
cut up. Old Miss Barry is rich and they'd like to keeg 


on the good side of her. Of course, Mrs. Barry didn't 
say just that to me, but I'm a pretty good judge of 
human nature, that's what." 

"I'm such an unlucky girl," mourned Anne. "I'm al- 
ways getting into scrapes myself and getting my best 
friends people I'd shed my heart's blood for into 
them, too. Can you tell me why it is so, Mrs. Lynde ?" 

"It's because you're too heedless and impulsive, child, 
that's what. You never stop to think whatever comes 
into your head to say or do you say or do it without a 
moment's reflection." 

"Oh, but that's the best of it," protested Anne. 
"Something just flashes into your mind, so exciting, 
and you must out with it. If you stop to think it over 
you spoil it all. Haven't you never felt that yourself, 
Mrs. Lynde?" 

No, Mrs. Lynde had not. She shook her head 

"You must learn to think a little, Anne, that's what. 
The proverb you need to go by is 'Look before you 
leap' especially into spare-room beds." 

Mrs. Lynde laughed comfortably over her mild joke, 
but Anne remained pensive. She saw nothing to laugh 
at in the situation, which to her eyes appeared very 
serious. When she left Mrs. Lynde's she took her way 
across the crusted fields to Orchard Slope. Diana met 
her at the kitchen door. 

"Your Aunt Josephine was very cross about it, 
wasn't she?" whispered Anne. 

"Yes," answered Diana, stifling a giggle, with an ap- 
prehensive glance over her shoulder at the closed sit- 
ting-room door. "She was fairly dancing with rage. 


Anne. Oh, how she scolded. She said I was the worst- 
behaved girl she ever saw and that my parents ought 
to be ashamed of the way they had brought me up. 
She says she won't stay and I'm sure I don't care. But 
father and mother do." 

"Why didn't you tell them it was my fault?" de- 
manded Anne. 

"It's likely I'd do such a thing, isn't it?" said Diana 
with just scorn. "I'm no telltale, Anne Shirley, and 
anyhow I was just as much to blame as you." 

"Well, I'm going in to tell her myself," said Anne 

Diana stared. 

"Anne Shirley, you'd never! why she'll eat you 

"Don't frighten me any more than I am frightened," 
implored Anne. "I'd rather walk up to a cannon's 
mouth. But I've got to do it, Diana. It was my fault 
and I've got to confess. I've had practice in confessing 

"Well, she's in the room," said Diana. "You can 
go in if you want to. I wouldn't dare. And I don't 
believe you'll do a bit of good." 

With this encouragement Anne bearded the lion in 
its den that is to say, walked resolutely up to the 
sitting-room and knocked faintly. A sharp "Come in" 

Miss Josephine Barry, thin, prim and rigid, was 
knitting fiercely by the fire, her wrath quite unappeased 
and her eyes snapping through her gold-rimmed 
glasses. She wheeled around in her chair, expecting to 
see Diana, and beheld a white-faced girl whose great 


eyes were brimmed up with a mixture of desperate 
courage and shrinking terror. 

"Who are you?" demanded Miss Josephine Barry 
without ceremony. 

"I'm Anne of Green Gables," said the small visitor 
tremulously, clasping her hands with her characteristic 
gesture, "and I've come to confess, if you please." 

"Confess what?" 

"That it was all my fault about jumping into bed 
on you last night. I suggested it. Diana would never 
have thought of such a thing, I am sure. Diana is a 
very lady-like girl, Miss Barry. So you must see how 
unjust it is to blame her." 

"Oh, I must, hey? I rather think Diana did her 
share of the jumping at least. Such carryings-on in 
a respectable house !" 

"But we were only in fun," persisted Anne. "I 
think you ought to forgive us, Miss Barry, now that 
we've apologized. And anyhow, please forgive Diana 
and let her have her music lessons. Diana's heart is 
set on her music lessons, Miss Barry, and I know too 
well what it is to set your heart on a thing and not 
get it. If you must be cross with any one, be cross 
with me. I've been so used in my early days to having 
people cross at me that I can endure it much better than 
Diana can." 

Much of the snap had gone out of the old lady's 
eyes by this time and was replaced by a twinkle of 
amused interest. But she still said severely : 

"I don't think it is any excuse for you that you were 
only in fun. Little girls never indulged in that kind 
of fun when I was young. You don't know what it 


is to be awakened out of a sound sleep, after a long 
and arduous journey, by two great girls coming bounce 
down on you." 

"I don't know, but I can imagine/' said Anne 
eagerly. "I'm sure it must have been very disturb- 
ing. But then, there is our side of it too. Have you 
any imagination, Miss Barry? If you have, just put 
yourself in our place. We didn't know there was any- 
body in that bed and you nearly scared us to death. 
It was simply awful the way we felt. And then we 
couldn't sleep in the spare room after being promised. 
I suppose you are used to sleeping in spare rooms. 
But just imagine what you would feel like if you were 
a little orphan girl who had never had such an honour." 

All the snap had gone by this time. Miss Barry 
actually laughed a sound which caused Diana, wait- 
ing in speechless anxiety in the kitchen outside, to give 
a great gasp of relief. 

"I'm afraid my imagination is a little rusty it's so 
long since I used it," she said. "I dare say your claim 
to sympathy is just as strong as mine. It all depends 
on the way we look at it. Sit down here and tell me 
about yourself." 

"I am very sorry I can't," said Anne firmly. "I 
would like to, because you seem like an interesting 
lady, and you might even be a kindred spirit although 
you don't look very much like it. But it is my duty 
to go home to Miss Marilla Cuthbert. Miss Marilla 
Cuthbert is a very kind lady who has taken me to 
bring up properly. She is doing her best, but it is very 
discouraging work. You must not blame her because 
I jumped on the bed. But before I go I do wish you 


would tell me if you will forgive Diana and stay just 
as long as you meant to in Avonlea." 

"I think perhaps I will if you will come over and 
talk to me occasionally," said Miss Barry. 

That evening Miss Barry gave Diana a silver bangle 
bracelet and told the senior members of the household 
that she had unpacked her valise. 

"I've made up my mind to stay simply for the sake 
of getting better acquainted with that Anne-girl," 
she said frankly. "She amuses me, and at my time of 
life an amusing person is a rarity." 

Manila's only comment when she heard the story 
was, "I told you so." This was for Matthew's benefit. 

Miss Barry stayed her month out and over. She 
was a more agreeable guest than usual, for Anne kept 
her in good humour. They became firm friends. 

When Miss Barry went away she said : 

"Remember, you Anne-girl, when you come to town 
you're to visit me and I'll put you in my very sparest 
spare-room bed to sleep." 

"Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all," Anne 
confided to Marilla. "You wouldn't think so to look 
at her, but she is. You don't find it right out at first, 
as in Matthew's case, but after awhile you come to 
see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to 
think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of 
them in the world." 



SPRING had come once more to Green Gables 
the beautiful, capricious, reluctant Canadian spring, 
lingering along through April and May in a succession 
of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and 
miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in 
Lovers' Lane were red-budded and little curly ferns 
pushed up around the Dryad's Bubble. Away up in 
the barrens, behind Mr. Silas Sloane's place, the May- 
flowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweet- 
ness under their brown leaves. All the school girls and 
boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming 
home in the clear, echoing twilight with arms and 
baskets full of flowery spoil. 

"I'm so sorry for people who live in lands where 
there are no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana says 
perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't 
be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Ma- 
rilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they 
are like they don't miss them. But I think that is the 
saddest thing of all. I think it would be tragic, Ma- 
rilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and not 
to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers 
are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the 
flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. 



But we had a splendid time to-day, Manila. We had 
our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well 
such a romantic spot Charlie Sloane dared Arty 
Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn't 
take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very 
fashionable to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the May- 
flowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard 
him say 'sweets to the sweet.' He got that out of a 
book, I know ; but it shows he has some imagination. 
I was offered some Mayflowers too, but I rejected them 
with scorn. I can't tell you the person's name because 
I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We made 
wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats ; 
and when the time came to go home we marched in 
procession down the road, two by two, with our 
bouquets and wreaths, singing 'My Home on the Hill.' 
Oh, it was so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane's 
folks rushed out to see us and everybody we met on the 
road stopped and stared after us. We made a real 

"Not much wonder! Such silly doings!" was Ma- 
rilla's response. 

After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet 
Vale was empurpled with them. Anne walked through 
it on her way to school with reverent steps and wor- 
shipping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground. 

"Somehow," she told Diana, "when I'm going 
through here I don't really care whether Gil 
whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. 
But when I'm up in school it's all different and I 
care as much as ever. There's such a lot of different 
Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such 


a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne 
it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then 
it wouldn't be half so interesting." 

One June evening, when the orchards were pink- 
blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly 
sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of 
Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savour of 
clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting 
by her gable window. She had been studying her 
lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, 
so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out 
past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more be- 
starred with its tufts of blossom. 

In all essential respects the little gable chamber was 
unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion 
as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as 
ever. Yet the whole character of the room was 
altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing person- 
ality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite inde- 
pendent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, 
and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blos- 
soms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, 
sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken 
a visible although immaterial form and had tapestried 
the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow 
and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in 
with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. 
She hung them over a chair and sat down with a 
short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that 
afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt 
weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne 
looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. 


"I do truly wish I could have had the headache 
in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it 
joyfully for your sake." 

"I guess you did your part in attending to the 
work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem 
to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes 
than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to 
starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people 
when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for din- 
ner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of 
leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't 
seem to be your way evidently." 

Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently. "I 
never thought about that pie from the moment I put 
it in the oven till now, although I felt instinctively 
that there was something missing on the dinner table. 
I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this 
morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my 
thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the 
pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me 
to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in 
a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my 
rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came 
to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the 
handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was 
trying to think of a name for a new island Diana 
and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most 
ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple-trees 
on it and the brook flows right around it. At last 
it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Vic- 
toria Island because we found it on the Queen's 


birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm 
very sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I 
wanted to be extra good to-day because it's an anni- 
versary. Do you remember what happened this day 
last year, Marilla ?" 

"No, I can't think of anything special." 

"Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green 
Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning- 
point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so im- 
portant to you. I've been here for a year and I've 
been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but 
one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept 
me, Marilla?" 

"No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who 
sometimes wondered how she could have lived before 
Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. 
If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to 
run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's 
apron pattern." 

"Oh it's it's too dark," cried Anne. 

"Too dark? Why, it's only twilight And good- 
ness knows you've gone over often enough after 

"I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne 
eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." 

"What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley ? 
I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this 
evening. Go at once and be smart, too." 

"I'll have to go around by the road then," said 
Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. 

"Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd 
like to catch you !" 

"I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," 
cried Anne desperately. 

Marilla stared. 

"The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What 
under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" 

"The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in 
a whisper. 

"Fiddlesticks ! There is no such thing as a haunted 
wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such 

"Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just 
imagined the wood was haunted. All the places 
around here are so so commonplace. We just 
got this up for our own amusement. We began it in 
April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. 
We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. 
Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. 
There's a white lady walks along the brook just about 
this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters 
wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a 
death in the family. And the ghost of a little 
murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it 
creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your 
hands so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to 
think of it. And there's a headless man stalks up 
and down the path and skeletons glower at you be- 
tween the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn't go 
through the Haunted Wood after dark now for any- 
thing. I'd be sure that white things would reach out 
from behind the trees and grab me." 

"Did ever anyone hear the like!" ejaculated Marilla, 
who had listened in dumb amazement "Anne Shirley, 


do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked 
nonsense of your own imagination?" 

"Not believe exactly," faltered Anne. "At least, 
I don't believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, 
it's different. That is when ghosts walk." 

"There are no such things as ghosts, Anne." 

"Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried Anne eagerly. 
"I know people who have seen them. And they are 
respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his 
grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the 
cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. 
You know Charlie Sloane's grandmother wouldn't 
tell a story for anything. She's a very religious 
woman. And Mrs. Thomas' father was pursued home 
one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off 
hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was 
the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning 
he would die within nine days. He didn't, but he 
died two years after, so you see it was really true. 
And Ruby Gillis says " 

"Anne Shirley," interrupted Marilla firmly, "I 
never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. 
I've had my doubts about that imagination of yours 
right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of 
it, I won't countenance any such doings. You'll go 
right over to Barry's, and you'll go through that 
spruce grove, just for a lesson and a warning to you. 
And never let me hear a word out of your head about 
haunted woods again." 

Anne might plead and cry as she liked and did, 
for her terror was very real. Her imagination had 
run away with her and she held the spruce grove in. 


mortal dread after nightfall. But Marilla was inex- 
orable. She marched the shrinking ghostseer down 
to the spring and ordered her to proceed straightway 
over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing 
ladies and headless spectres beyond. 

"Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel?" sobbed 
Anne. "What would you feel like if a white thing 
did snatch me up and carry me off?" 

"I'll risk it," said Marilla unfeelingly. "You know 
I always mean what I say. I'll cure you of imagining 
ghosts into places. March, now." 

Anne marched. That is, she stumbled over the 
bridge and went shuddering up the horrible dim path 
beyond. Anne never forgot that walk. Bitterly did 
she repent the license she had given to her imagina- 
tion. The goblins of her fancy lurked in every 
shadow about her, reaching out their cold, fleshless 
hands to grasp the terrified small girl who had called 
them into being. A white strip of birch bark blow- 
ing up from the hollow over the brown floor of the 
grove made her heart stand still. The long-drawn 
wail of two old boughs rubbing against each other 
brought out the perspiration in beads on her forehead. 
The swoop of bats in the darkness over her was as 
the wings of unearthly creatures. When she reached 
Mr. William Bell's field she fled across it as if pur- 
sued by an army of white things, and arrived at the 
Barry kitchen door so out of breath that she could 
hardly gasp out her request for the apron pattern. 
Diana was away so that she had no excuse to linger. 
The dreadful return journey had to be faced. Anne 
went back over it with shut eyes, preferring to take 


the risk of dashing her brains out among the boughs 
to that of seeing a white thing. When she finally 
stumbled over the log bridge she drew one long 
shivering breath of relief. 

"Well, so nothing caught you?" said Marilla un- 

"Oh, Mar Marilla," chattered Anne, "I'll b-b-be 
cont-t-tented with c-c-commonplace places after this." 



"DEAR me, there is nothing but meetings and 
partings in this world, as Mrs. Lynde says," remarked 
Anne plaintively, putting her slate and books down 
on the kitchen table on the last day of June and wiping 
her red eyes with a very damp handkerchief. "Wasn't 
it fortunate, Marilla, that I took an extra handkerchief 
to school to-day ? I had a presentiment that it would 
be needed." 

"I never thought you were so fond of Mr. Phillips 
that you'd require two handkerchiefs to dry your 
tears just because he was going away," said Marilla. 

"I don't think I was crying because I was really 
so very fond of him," reflected Anne. "I just cried 
because all the others did. It was Ruby Gillis started 
it. Ruby Gillis has always declared she hated Mr, 
Phillips, but just as soon as he got up to make his 
farewell speech she burst into tears. Then all the 
girls began to cry, one after the other. I tried to 
hold out, Marilla. I tried to remember the time Mr. 
Phillips made me sit with Gil with a boy ; and the 
time he spelled my name without an e on the black- 
board; and how he said I was the worst dunce he 
ever saw at geometry and laughed at my spelling; 
and all the times he had been so horrid and sarcastic ; 



but somehow I couldn't, Marilla, and I just had to 
cry too. Jane Andrews has been talking for a month 
about how glad she'd be when Mr. Phillips went away 
and she declared she'd never shed a tear. Well, she 
was worse than any of us and had to borrow a 
handkerchief from her brother of course the boys 
didn't cry because she hadn't brought one of her 
own, not expecting to need it Oh, Marilla, it was 
heartrending. Mr. Phillips made such a beautiful 
farewell speech beginning, 'The time has come for 
us to part.' It was very affecting. And he had tears 
in his eyes too, Marilla. Oh, I felt dreadfully sorry 
and remorseful for all the times I'd talked in school 
and drawn pictures of him on my slate and made 
fun of him and Prissy. I can tell you I wished I'd 
been a model pupil like Minnie Andrews. She hadn't 
anything on her conscience. The girls cried all the 
way home from school. Carrie Sloane kept saying 
every few minutes, 'The time has come for us to 
part/ and that would start us off again whenever we 
were in any danger of cheering up. I do feel dread- 
fully sad, Marilla, But one can't feel quite in the 
depths of despair with two months vacation before 
them, can they, Marilla? And besides, we met the 
new minister and his wife coming from the station. 
For all I was feeling so bad about Mr. Phillips 
going away I couldn't help taking a little interest in 
a new minister, could I? His wife is very pretty. 
Not exactly regally lovely, of course it wouldn't 
do, I suppose, for a minister to have a regally lovely 
wife, because it might set a bad example. Mrs. Lynde 
says the minister's wife over at Newbridge sets a 


very bad example because she dresses so fashionably. 
Our new minister's wife was dressed in blue muslin 
with lovely puffed sleeves and a hat trimmed with 
roses. Jane Andrews said she thought puffed sleeves 
were too worldly for a minister's wife, but I didn't 
make any such uncharitable remark, Marilla, because 
I know what it is to long for puffed sleeves. Besides, 
she's only been a minister's wife for a little while, so 
one should make allowances, shouldn't they? They 
are going to board with Mrs. Lynde until the manse 
is ready." 

If Marilla, in going down to Mrs. Lynde's that 
evening, was actuated by any motive save her avowed 
one of returning the quilting- frames she had bor- 
rowed the preceding winter, it was an amiable weak- 
ness shared by most of the Avonlea people. Many a 
thing Mrs. Lynde had lent, sometimes never expect- 
ing to see it again, came home that night in charge 
of the borrowers thereof. A new minister, and more- 
over a minister with a wife, was a lawful object of 
curiosity in a quiet little country settlement where 
sensations were few and far between. 

Old Mr. Bentley, the minister whom Anne had 
found lacking in imagination, had been pastor of 
Avonlea for eighteen years. He was a widower when 
he came, and a widower he remained, despite the fact 
that gossip regularly married him to this, that or 
the other one, every year of his sojourn. In the 
preceding February he had resigned his charge and 
departed amid the regrets of his people, most of 
whom had the affection born of long intercourse for 
their good old minister in spite of his shortcomings 


as an orator. Since then the Avonlea church had 
enjoyed a variety of religious dissipation in listening 
to the many and various candidates and "supplies" 
who came Sunday after Sunday to preach on trial. 
These stood or fell by the judgment of the fathers 
and mothers in Israel ; but a certain small, red-haired 
girl who sat meekly in the corner of the old Cuth- 
bert pew also had her opinions about them and dis- 
cussed the same in full with Matthew, Marilla always 
declining from principle to criticize ministers in any 
shape or form. 

"I don't think Mr. Smith would have done, 
Matthew," was Anne's final summing up. "Mrs. 
Lynde says his delivery was so poor, but I think his 
worst fault was just like Mr. Bentley's he had no 
imagination. And Mr. Terry had too much; he let 
it run away with him just as I did mine in the mat- 
ter of the Haunted Wood. Besides, Mrs. Lynde says 
his theology wasn't sound. Mr. Gresham was a very 
good man and a very religious man, but he told too 
many funny stories and made the people laugh in 
church ; he was undignified, and you must have some 
dignity about a minister, mustn't you, Matthew? I 
thought Mr. Marshall was decidedly attractive; but 
Mrs. Lynde says he isn't married, or even engaged, 
because she made special inquiries about him, and 
she says it would never do to have a young unmarried 
minister in Avonlea, because he might marry in the 
congregation and that would make trouble. Mrs. 
Lynde is a very far-seeing woman, isn't she, Mat- 
thew? I'm very glad they've called Mr. Allan. I 
liked him because his sermon was interesting and he 


prayed as if he meant it and not just as if he did 
it because he was in the habit of it. Mrs. Lynde 
says he isn't perfect, but she says she supposes we 
couldn't expect a perfect minister for seven hundred 
and fifty dollars a year, and anyhow his theology is 
sound because she questioned him thoroughly on all 
the points of doctrine. And she knows his wife's 
people and they are most respectable and the women 
are all good housekeepers. Mrs. Lynde says that sound 
doctrine in the man and good housekeeping in the 
woman make an ideal combination for a minister's 

The new minister and his wife were a young, 
pleasant-faced couple, still in their honeymoon, and 
full of all good and beautiful enthusiasms for their 
chosen life-work. Avonlea opened its hearts to them 
from the start. Old and young liked the frank, 
cheerful young man with his high ideals, and the 
bright, gentle little lady who assumed the mistress- 
ship of the manse. With Mrs. Allan Anne fell 
promptly and whole-heartedly in love. She had dis- 
covered another kindred spirit. 

"Mrs. Allan is perfectly lovely," she announced one 
Sunday afternoon. "She's taken our class and she's 
a splendid teacher. She said right away she didn't 
think it was fair for the teacher to ask all the ques- 
tions, and you know, Marilla, that is exactly what I've 
always thought She said we could ask her any 
question we liked, and I asked ever so many. I'm 
good at asking questions, Marilla." 

"I believe you," was Manila's emphatic comment. 

"Nobody else asked any except Ruby Gillis, and 


she asked if there was to be a Sunday-school picnic 
this summer. I didn't think that was a very proper 
question to ask because it hadn't any connection with 
the lesson the lesson was about Daniel in the lions' 
den but Mrs. Allan just smiled and said she thought 
there would be. Mrs. Allan has a lovely smile; she 
has such exquisite dimples in her cheeks. I wish I 
had dimples in my cheeks, Marilla. I'm not half so 
skinny as I was when I came here, but I have no 
dimples yet If I had perhaps I could influence people 
for good. Mrs. Allan said we ought always to try to 
influence other people for good. She talked so nice 
about everything. I never knew before that religion 
was such a cheerful thing. I always thought it was 
kind of melancholy, but Mrs. Allan's isn't, and I'd 
like to be a Christian if I could be one like her. I 
wouldn't want to be one like Mr. Superintendent Bell." 

"It's very naughty of you to speak so about Mr. 
Bell," said Marilla severely. "Mr. Bell is a real good 

"Oh, of course he's good," agreed Anne, "but he 
doesn't seem to get any comfort out of it. If I 
could be good I'd dance and sing all day because I 
was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allan is too old to 
dance and sing and of course it wouldn't be dignified 
in a minister's wife. But I can just feel she's glad 
she's a Christian and that she'd be one even if she 
could get to heaven without it" 

"I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up 
to tea some day soon," said Marilla reflectively. 
"They've been most everywhere but here. Let me 
see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have 


them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, 
for if he knew they were coming he'd find some ex- 
cuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. 
Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find 
it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a 
new minister's wife will frighten him to death." 

"I'll be as secret as the dead," assured Anne. "But 
oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the 
occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, 
and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this 

"You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. 

Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on 
at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife 
to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and 
Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of 
the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with ex- 
citement and delight. She talked it all over with 
Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on 
the big red stones by the Dryad's Bubble and made 
rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir 

"Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which 
I'm to make in the morning, and the baking-powder 
biscuits which Marilla will make just before tea-time. 
I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a 
busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having 
a minister's family to tea. I never went through such 
an experience before. You should just see our pantry. 
It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied 
chicken and cold tongue. We're to have two kinds 
of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and 


lemon pie, and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies, 
and fruit-cake, and Manila's famous yellow plum 
preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and 
pound cake and layer cake, and biscuits as aforesaid; 
and new bread and old both, in case the minister is 
dyspeptic and can't eat new. Mrs. Lynde says minis- 
ters mostly are dyspeptic, but I don't think Mr. Allan 
has been a minister long enough for it to have had a 
bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of 
my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn't be 
good! I dreamed last night that I was chased all 
around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a 

"It'll be good, all right," assured Diana, who was 
a very comfortable sort of friend. "I'm sure that 
piece of the one you made that we had for lunch in 
Idlewild two weeks ago was perfectly elegant." 

"Yes ; but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning 
out bad just when you especially want them to be 
good," sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-bal- 
samed twig afloat. "However, I suppose I shall just 
have to trust to Providence and be careful to put in 
the flour. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! 
Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go 
away and take it for a scarf ?" 

"You know there is no such thing as a dryad," said 
Diana. Diana's mother had found out about the 
Haunted Wood and had been decidedly angry over 
it As a result Diana had abstained from any further 
imitative flights of imagination and did not think it 
prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless 


"But it's so easy to imagine there is," said Anne. 
"Every night, before I go to bed, I look out of my 
window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, 
combing her locks with the spring for a mirror. 
Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in 
the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith 
in the dryad !" 

Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sun- 
rise because she was too excited to sleep. She had 
caught a severe cold in the head by reason of her 
dabbling in the spring on the preceding evening; but 
nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have 
quenched her interest in culinary matters that morn- 
ing. After breakfast she proceeded to make her cake. 
When she finally shut the oven door upon it she drew 
a long breath. 

"I'm sure I haven't forgotten anything this time, 
Marilla. But do you think it will rise ? Just suppose 
perhaps the baking-powder isn't good? I used it out 
of the new can. And Mrs. Lynde says you can never 
be sure of getting good baking-powder nowadays when 
everything is so adulterated. Mrs. Lynde says the 
Government ought to take the matter up, but she says 
we'll never see the day when a Tory Government will 
do it Marilla, what if that cake doesn't rise?" 

"We'll have plenty without it," was Manila's un- 
impassioned way of looking at the subject 

The cake did rise, however, and came out of the 
oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, 
flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers 
of ruby jelly and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allan 
eating it and possibly asking for another piece ! 


"You'll be using the best tea-set, of course, Ma- 
rilla," she said. "Can I fix up the table with ferns 
and wild roses ?" 

"I think that's all nonsense," sniffed Manila. "In 
my opinion it's the eatables that matter and not flum- 
mery decorations." 

"Mrs. Barry had her table decorated," said Anne, 
who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the 
serpent, "and the minister paid her an elegant com- 
pliment He said it was a feast for the eye as well 
as the palate." 

"Well, do as you like," said Marilla, who was 
quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry 
or anybody else. "Only mind you leave enough room 
for the dishes and the food." 

Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and 
after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's no- 
where. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a 
very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea-table 
such a thing of beauty that when the minister and 
his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over 
its loveliness. 

"It's Anne's doings," said Marilla, grimly just; 
and Anne felt that Mrs. Allan's approving smile was 
almost too much happiness for this world. 

Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the 
party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had 
been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that 
Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took 
him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the 
table in his best clothes and white collar and talked 
to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a 


word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be 

All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne's 
layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already 
been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it But 
Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, 
said smilingly: 

"Oh, you must take a piece of *his, Mrs. Allan. 
Anne made it on purpose for you." 

"In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, 
helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the 
minister and Marilla. 

Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most 
peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did 
she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Ma- 
rilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. 

"Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed, "what on earth 
did you put into that cake ?" 

"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried 
Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all 

"All right ! It's simply horrible. Mrs. Allan, don't 
try to eat it Anne, taste it yourself. What flavour- 
ing did you use ?" 

"Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with morti- 
fication after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, 
Marilla, it must have been the baking-powder. I had 
my suspicions of that bak " 

'Baking-powder fiddlesticks ! Go and bring me the 
bottle of vanilla you used." 

Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small 


bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labelled 
yellowly, "Best Vanilla." 

Manila took it, uncorked it, smelled it 

"Mercy on us, Anne, you've flavoured that cake 
with anodyne liniment. I broke the liniment bottle 
last week and poured what was left into an old empty 
vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault I should 
have warned you but for pity's sake why couldn't 
you have smelled it ?" 

Anne dissolved into tears under this double dis- 

"I couldn't I had such a cold!" and with this 
she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast 
herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to 
be comforted. 

Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and 
somebody entered the room. 

"Oh, Marilla," sobbed Anne without looking up, 
"I'm disgraced for ever. I shall never be able to live 
this down. It will get out things always do get 
out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake 
turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I 
shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavoured 
a cake with anodyne liniment Gil the boys in school 
will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla, if 
you have a spark of Christian pity don't tell me that 
I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I'll 
wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, 
but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. 
Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynde 
says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison 
her benefactor. But the liniment isn't poisonous. It's 

meant to be taken internally although not in cakes. 
Won't you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?" 

"Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself," 
said a merry voice. 

Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her 
bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. 

"My dear little girl, you mustn't cry like this," 
she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne's tragic face. 
"Why, it's all just a funny mistake that anybody 
might make." 

"Oh, no, it takes me to make such a mistake," said 
Anne forlornly. "And I wanted to have that cake 
so nice for you, Mrs. Allan." 

"Yes, I know, dear. And I assure you I appreci- 
ate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as 
if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn't cry 
any more, but come down with me and show me your 
flower garden. Miss Cuthbert tells me you have a 
little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very 
much interested in flowers." 

Anne permitted herself to be led down and com- 
forted, reflecting that it was really providential that 
Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was 
said about the liniment cake, and when the guests 
went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the 
evening more than could have been expected, consider- 
ing that terrible incident Nevertheless she sighed 

"Marilla, isn't it nice to think that to-morrow is 
a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" 

"I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Ma- 


rilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, 

"Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mourn- 
fully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging 
thing about me, Manila? I never make the same 
mistake twice." 

"I don't know as that's much benefit when you're 
always making new ones." 

"Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a 
limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when 
I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with 
them. That's a very comforting thought." 

"Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the 
pigs," said Marilla. "It isn't fit for any human to 
eat, not even Jerry Buote." 



"AND what are your eyes popping out of your 
head about now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had 
just come in from a run to the post-office. "Have 
you discovered another kindred spirit?" 

Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, 
shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had 
come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, 
through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the 
August evening. 

"No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am 
invited to tea at the manse to-morrow afternoon! 
Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post-office. 
Just look at it, Marilla. 'Miss Anne Shirley, Green 
Gables.' That is the first time I was ever called 
'Miss/ Such a thrill as it gave me! I shall cherish 
it for ever among my choicest treasures." 

"Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the 
members of her Sunday-school class to tea in turn," 
said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very 
coolly. "You needn't get in such a fever over it. Do 
learn to take things calmly, child." 

For Anne to take things calmly would have been 
to change her nature. All "spirit and fire and dew," 



as she was, the pleasures and pains of life came to her 
with trebled intensity. Marilla felt this and was 
vaguely troubled over it, realizing that the ups and 
downs of existence would probably bear hardly on 
this impulsive soul and not sufficiently understanding 
that the equally great capacity for delight might 
more than compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived 
it to be her duty to drill Anne into a tranquil uni- 
formity of disposition as impossible and alien to her 
as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the brook shallows. 
She did not make much headway, as she sorrow- 
fully admitted to herself. The downfall of some dear 
hope or plan plunged Anne into "deeps of affliction." 
The fulfillment thereof exalted her to dizzy realms 
of delight Marilla had almost begun to despair of 
ever fashioning this waif of the world into her model 
little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. 
Neither would she have believed that she really liked 
Anne much better as she was. 

Anne went to bed that night speechless with misery 
because Matthew had said the wind was round north- 
east and he feared it would be a rainy day to-morrow. 
The rustle of the poplar leaves about the house wor- 
ried her, it sounded so like pattering rain-drops, and 
the dull, faraway roar of the gulf, to which she 
listened delightedly at other times, loving its strange, 
sonorous, haunting rhythm, now seemed like a 
prophecy of storm and disaster to a small maiden who 
particularly wanted a fine day. Anne thought that 
the morning would never come. 

But all things have an end, even nights before the 
day on which you are invited to take tea at the manse. 


The morning, in spite of Matthew's predictions, was 
fine and Anne's spirits soared to their highest. 

"Oh, Marilla, there is something in me to-day that 
makes me just love everybody I see," she exclaimed 
as she washed the breakfast dishes. "You don't 
know how good I feel! Wouldn't it be nice if it 
could last? I believe I could be a model child if I 
were just invited out to tea every day. But oh, Ma- 
rilla, it's a solemn occasion, too. I feel so anxious. 
What if I shouldn't behave properly? You know I 
never had tea at a manse before, and I'm not sure 
that I know all the rules of etiquette, although I've 
been studying the rules given in the Etiquette Depart- 
ment of the Family Herald ever since I came here. 
I'm so afraid I'll do something silly or forget to do 
something I should do. Would it be good manners 
to take a second helping of anything if you wanted 
to very much ?" 

"The trouble with you, Anne, is that you're think- 
ing too much about yourself. You should just think 
of Mrs. Allan and what would be nicest and most 
agreeable for her," said Marilla, hitting for once in 
her life on a very sound and pithy piece of advice. 
Anne instantly realized this. 

"You are right, Marilla. I'll try not to think about 
myself at all." 

Anne evidently got through her visit without any 
serious breach of "etiquette" for she came home 
through the twilight, under a great, high-sprung sky 
gloried over with trails of saffron and rosy cloud, 
in a beatified state of mind and told Marilla all about 
it happily, sitting on the big red sandstone slab at the 


kitchen door with her tired curly head in Manila's 
gingham lap. 

A cool wind was blowing down over the long har- 
vest fields from the rims of firry western hills and 
whistling through the poplars. One clear star hung 
above the orchard and the fireflies were flitting over 
in Lovers' Lane, in and out among the ferns and rust- 
ling boughs. Anne watched them as she talked and 
somehow felt that wind and stars and fireflies were 
all tangled up together into something unutterably 
sweet and enchanting. 

"Oh, Marilla, I've had a most fascinating time. 
I feel that I have not lived in vain and I shall always 
feel like that even if I should never be invited to tea 
at a manse again. When I got there Mrs. Allan met 
me at the door. She was dressed in the sweetest dress 
of pale pink organdy, with dozens of frills and elbow 
sleeves, and she looked just like a seraph. I really 
think I'd like to be a minister's wife when I grow up, 
Marilla. A minister mightn't mind my red hair be- 
cause he wouldn't be thinking of such worldly things. 
But then of course one would have to be naturally 
good and I'll never be that, so I suppose there's no 
use in thinking about it Some people are naturally 
good, you know, and others are not. I'm one of the 
others. Mrs. Lynde says I'm full of original sin. 
No matter how hard I try to be good I can never make 
such a success of it as those who are naturally good. 
It's a good deal like geometry, I expect But don't you 
think the trying so hard ought to count for something ? 
Mrs. Allan is one of the naturally good people. I 
love her passionately. You know there are some 


people, like Matthew and Mrs. Allan, that you can 
love right off without any trouble. And there are 
others, like Mrs. Lynde, that you have to try very 
hard to love. You know you ought to love them be- 
cause they know so much and are such active workers 
in the church, but you have to keep reminding your- 
self of it all the time or else you forget. There 
was another little girl at the manse to tea, from the 
White Sands Sunday-school. Her name was Lau- 
retta Bradley, and she was a very nice little girl. 
Not exactly a kindred spirit, you know, but still very 
nice. We had an elegant tea, sad I think I kept all 
the rules of etiquette pretty well. After tea Mrs. 
Allan played and sang and she got Lauretta and me 
to sing, too. Mrs. Allan says I have a good voice 
and she says I must sing in the Sunday-school choir 
after this. You can't think how I was thrilled at the 
mere thought. I've longed so to sing in the Sunday- 
school choir, as Diana does, but I feared it was an 
honour I could never aspire to. Lauretta had to go 
home early because there is a big concert in the White 
Sands hotel to-night and her sister is to recite at it. 
Lauretta says that the Americans at the hotel give a 
concert every fortnight in aid of the Charlottetown 
hospital, and they ask lots of the White Sands people 
to recite. Lauretta said she expected to be asked herself 
some day. I just gazed at her in awe. After she had 
gone Mrs. Allan and I had a heart to heart talk. I told 
her everything about Mrs. Thomas and the twins and 
Katie Maurice and Violetta and coming to Green 
Gables and my troubles over geometry. And would you 
believe it, Marilla ? Mrs. Allan told me she was a dunce 


at geometry, too. You don't know how that en- 
couraged me. Mrs. Lynde came to the manse just be- 
fore I left, and what do you think, Marilla? The trus- 
tees have hired a new teacher and it's a lady. Her 
name is Miss Muriel Stacy. Isn't that a romantic 
name? Mrs. Lynde says they've never had a female 
teacher in Avonlea before and she thinks it is a dan- 
gerous innovation. But I think it will be splendid to 
have a lady teacher, and I really don't see how I'm 
going to live through the two weeks before school be- 
gins, I'm so impatient to see her.'* 



ANNE had to live through more than two weeks, 
as it happened. Almost a month having elapsed since 
the liniment cake episode, it was high time for her to 
get into fresh trouble of some sort, little mistakes, 
such as absent-mindedly emptying a pan of skim milk 
into a basket of yarn balls in the pantry instead of into 
the pigs' bucket, and walking clean over the edge of 
the log bridge into the brook while wrapped in imagina- 
tive reverie, not really being worth counting. 

A week after the tea at the manse Diana Barry gave 
a party. 

"Small and select," Anne assured Marilla. "Just the 
girls in our class." 

They had a very good time and nothing untoward 
happened until after tea, when they found themselves 
in the Barry garden, a little tired of all their games 
and ripe for any enticing form of mischief which might 
present itself. This presently took the form of "dar- 

, Daring was the fashionable amusement among the 
Avonlea small fry just then. It had begun among the 
boys, but soon spread to the girls, and all the silly 
things that were done in Avonlea that summer because 
the doers thereof were "dared" to do them would fill 
a book by themselves. 



First of all Carrie Sloane dared Ruby Gillis to climb 
to a certain point in the huge old willow-tree before 
the front door; which Ruby Gillis, albeit in mortal 
dread of the fat green caterpillars with which said tree 
was infested and with the fear of her mother before 
her eyes if she should tear her new muslin dress, 
nimbly did, to the discomfiture of the aforesaid Carrie 

Then Josie Pye dared Jane Andrews to hop on her 
left leg around the garden without stopping once or 
putting her right foot to the ground ; which Jane An- 
drews gamely tried to do, but gave out at the third 
corner and had to confess herself defeated. 

Josie's triumph being rather more pronounced than 
good taste permitted, Anne Shirley dared her to walk 
along the top of the board fence which bounded the 
garden to the east Now, to "walk" board fences re- 
quires more skill and steadiness of head and heel than 
one might suppose who has never tried it. But Josie 
Pye, if deficient in some qualities that make for popu- 
larity, had at least a natural and inborn gift, duly 
cultivated, for walking board fences. Josie walked the 
Barry fence with an airy unconcern which seemed to 
imply that a little thing like that wasn't worth a "dare." 
Reluctant admiration greeted her exploit, for most of 
the other girls could appreciate it, having suffered 
many things themselves in their efforts to walk fences. 
Josie descended from her perch, flushed with victory, 
and darted a defiant glance at Anne. 

Anne tossed her red braids. 

"I don't think it's such a very wonderful thing to 
walk a little, low, board fence," she said. "I knew 


a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridgepole of 
a roof." 

"I don't believe it," said Josie flatly. "I don't be- 
lieve anybody could walk a ridge-pole. You couldn't, 

"Couldn't I ?" cried Anne rashly. 

"Then I dare you to do it," said Josie defiantly. 
"I dare you to climb up there and walk the ridge-pole 
of Mr. Barry's kitchen roof." 

Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one 
thing to be done. She walked towards the house, 
where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen roof. 
All the fifth-class girls said, "Oh!" partly in excite- 
ment, partly in dismay. 

"Don't you do it, Anne," entreated Diana. "You'll 
fall off and be killed. Never mind Josie Pye. It isn't 
fair to dare anybody to do anything so dangerous." 

"I must do it. My honour is at stake," said Anne 
solemnly. "I shall walk that ridge-pole, Diana, or 
perish in the attempt. If I am killed you are to have 
my pearl bead ring." 

Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, 
gained the ridge-pole, balanced herself uprightly on 
that precarious footing, and started to walk along it, 
dizzily conscious that she was uncomfortably high up 
in the world and that walking ridge-poles was not a 
thing in which your imagination helped you out much. 
Nevertheless, she managed to take several steps before 
the catastrophe came. Then she swayed, lost her bal- 
ance, stumbled, staggered and fell, sliding down over 
the sun-baked roof and crashing off it through the 
tangle of Virginia creeper beneath all before the dis- 


mayed circle below could give a simultaneous, terrified 

If Anne had tumbled off the roof on the side up 
which she ascended Diana would probably have fallen 
heir to the pearl bead ring then and there. Fortunately 
she fell on the other side, where the roof extended 
down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a 
fall therefrom was a much less serious thing. Never- 
theless, when Diana and the other girls had rushed 
frantically around the house except Ruby Gillis, who 
remained as if rooted to the ground and went into 
hysterics they found Anne lying all white and limp 
among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia creeper. 

"Anne, are you killed?" shrieked Diana, throwing 
herself on her knees beside her friend. "Oh, Anne, 
dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if 
you're killed." 

To the immense relief of all the girls, and especially 
of Josie Pye, who, in spite of lack of imagination, had 
been seized with horrible visions of a future branded 
as the girl who was the cause of Anne Shirley's early 
and tragic death, Anne sat dizzily up and answered 
uncertainly : 

"No, Diana, I am not killed, but I think I am 
rendered unconscious." 

"Where?" sobbed Carrie Sloane. "Oh, where, 

Before Anne could answer Mrs. Barry appeared on 
the scene. At sight of her Anne tried to scramble to 
her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry 
of pain. 


"What's the matter? Where have you hurt your- 
self?" demanded Mrs. Barry. 

"My ankle," gasped Anne. "Oh, Diana, please find 
your father and ask him to take me home. I know 
I can never walk there. And I'm sure I couldn't hop 
so far on one foot when Jane couldn't even hop around 
the garden." 

Marilla was out in the orchard picking a panful 
of summer apples when she saw Mr. Barry coming 
over the log bridge and up the slope, with Mrs. Barry 
beside him and a whole procession of little girls trailing 
after him. In his arms he carried Anne whose head 
lay limply against his shoulder. 

At that moment Marilla had a revelation. In the 
sudden stab of fear that pierced to her very heart she 
realized what Anne had come to mean to her. She 
would have admitted that she liked Anne nay, that 
she was very fond of Anne. But now she knew as 
she hurried wildly down the slope that Anne was 
dearer to her than anything on earth. 

"Mr. Barry, what has happened to her ?" she gasped, 
more white and shaken than the self-contained, sensible 
Marilla had been for many years. 

Anne herself answered, lifting her head. 

"Don't be very frightened, Marilla. I was walking 
the ridge-pole and I fell off. I expect I have sprained 
my ankle. But, Marilla, I might have broken my neck. 
Let us look on the bright side of things." 

"I might have known you'd go and do something 
of the sort when I let you go to that party," said Ma- 
rilla, sharp and shrewish in her very relief. "Bring 


her in here, Mr. Barry, and lay her on the sofa. Mercy 
me, the child has gone and fainted !" 

It was quite true. Overcome by the pain of her in- 
jury, Anne had one more of her wishes granted to 
her. She had fainted dead away. 

Matthew, hastily summoned from the harvest field, 
was straightway despatched for the doctor, who in 
due time came, to discover that the injury was more 
serious than they had supposed. Anne's ankle was 

That night, when Marilla went up to the east gable, 
where a white-faced girl was lying, a plaintive voice 
greeted her from the bed. 

"Aren't you very sorry for me, Marilla ?" 

"It was your own fault," said Marilla, twitching 
down the blind and lighting a lamp. 

"And that is just why you should be sorry for me," 
said Anne, "because the thought that it is all my own 
fault is what makes it so hard. If I could blame it 
on anybody I would feel so much better. But what 
would you have done, Marilla, if you had been dared 
to walk a ridge-pole ?" 

"I'd have stayed on good firm ground and let them 
dare away. Such absurdity!" said Marilla. 

Anne sighed. 

"But you have such strength of mind, Marilla. I 
haven't I just felt that I couldn't bear Josie Pye's 
scorn. She would have crowed over me all my life. 
And I think I have been punished so much that you 
needn't be very cross with me, Marilla. It's not a bit 
nice to faint, after all. And the doctor hurt me dread- 
fully when he was setting my ankle. I won't be able to 


go around for six or seven weeks and I'll miss the new 
lady teacher. She won't be new any more by the time 
I'm able to go to school. And Gil everybody will get 
ahead of me in class. Oh, I am an afflicted mortal. 
But I'll try to bear it all bravely if only you won't be 
cross with me, Marilla." 

"There, there, I'm not cross," said Marilla. "You're 
an unlucky child, there's no doubt abont that ; but, as 
you say, you'll have the suffering of it Here now, 
try and eat some supper." 

"Isn't it fortunate I've got such an imagination?" 
said Anne. "It will help me through splendidly, I ex- 
pect. What do people who haven't any imagination do 
when they break their bones, do you suppose, Marilla?" 

Anne had good reason to bless her imagination many 
a time and oft during the tedious seven weeks that 
followed. But she was not solely dependent on it. 
She had many visitors and not a day passed without 
one or more of the schoolgirls dropping in to bring her 
flowers and books and tell her all the happenings in 
the juvenile world of Avonlea. 

"Everybody has been so good and kind, Marilla," 
sighed Anne happily, on the day when she could first 
limp across the floor. "It isn't very pleasant to be 
laid up ; but there is a bright side to it, Marilla. You 
find out how many friends you have. Why, even 
Superintendent Bell came to see me, and he's really 
a very fine man. Not a kindred spirit, of course; but 
still I like him and I'm awfully sorry I ever criticized 
his prayers. I believe now he really does mean them, 
only he has got into the habit of saying them as if he 
didn't. He could get over that if he'd take a little 


trouble. I gave him a good broad hint I told him 
how hard I tried to make my own little private prayers 
interesting. He told me all about the time he broke 
his ankle when he was a boy. It does seem so strange 
to think of Superintendent Bell ever being a boy. Even 
my imagination has its limits for I can't imagine that. 
When I try to imagine him as a boy I see him with 
gray whiskers and spectacles, just as he looks in Sun- 
day-school, only small. Now, it's so easy to imagine 
Mrs. Allan as a little girl. Mrs. Allan has been to see 
me fourteen times. Isn't that something to be proud 
of, Marilla? When a minister's wife has so many 
claims on her time ! She is such a cheerful person to 
have visit you, too. She never tells you it's your own 
fault and she hopes you'll be a better girl on account 
of it. Mrs. Lynde always told me that when she came 
to see me ; and she said it in a kind of way that made 
me feel she might hope I'd be a better girl, but didn't 
really believe I would. Even Josie Pye came to see 
me. I received her as politely as I could, because I 
think she was sorry she dared me to walk a ridge-pole. 
If I had been killed she would have had to carry a 
dark burden of remorse all her life. Diana has been 
a faithful friend. She's been over every day to cheer 
my lonely pillow. But oh, I shall be so glad when I 
can go to school for I've heard such exciting things 
about the new teacher. The girls all think she is per- 
fectly sweet Diana says she has the loveliest fair curly 
hair and such fascinating eyes. She dresses beauti- 
fully, and her sleeve puffs are bigger than anybody 
else's in Avonlea. Every other Friday afternoon she 
has recitations and everybody has to say a piece or 


take part in a dialogue. Oh, it's just glorious to think 
of it. Josie Pye says she hates it, but that is just be- 
cause Josie has so little imagination. Diana and Ruby 
Gillis and Jane Andrews are preparing a dialogue, 
called 'A Morning Visit/ for next Friday. And the 
Friday afternoons they don't have recitations Miss 
Stacy takes them all to the woods for a 'field' day and 
they study ferns and 'flowers and birds. And they 
have physical culture exercises every morning and eve- 
ning. Mrs. Lynde says she never heard of such go- 
ings-on and it all comes of having a lady teacher. But 
I think it must be splendid and I believe I shall find 
that Miss Stacy is a kindred spirit." 

"There's one thing plain to be seen, Anne," said 
Marilla, "and that is that your fall off the Barry roof 
hasnt injured your tongue at alk"' 



IT was October again when Anne was ready to 
go back to school a glorious October, all red and gold, 
with mellow mornings when the valleys were rilled 
with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had 
poured them in for the sun to drain amethyst, pearl, 
silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy 
that the fields glistened like cloth of silver and there 
were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of 
many-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The 
Birch Path was a canopy of yellow and the ferns were 
sear and brown all along it There was a tang in the 
very air that inspired the hearts of small maidens 
tripping, unlike snails, swiftly and willingly to school ; 
and it was jolly to be back again at the little brown desk 
beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis nodding across the aisle 
and Carrie Sloane sending up notes and Julia Bell pass- 
ing a "chew" of gum down from the back seat. Anne 
drew a long breath of happiness as she sharpened her 
pencil and arranged her picture cards in her desk. Life 
was certainly very interesting. 

In the new teacher she found another true and help- 
ful friend. Miss Stacy was a bright, sympathetic 
young woman with the happy gift of winning and hold- 
ing the affections of her pupils and bringing out the 



best that was in them mentally and morally. Anne 
expanded like a flower under this wholesome influence 
and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the 
critical Marilla glowing accounts of school work and 

"I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. 
She is so ladylike and she has such a sweet voice. 
When she pronounces my name I feel instinctively that 
she's spelling it with an e. We had recitations this 
afternoon. I just wish you could have been there to 
hear me recite 'Mary, Queen of Scots/ I just put my 
whole soul into it. Ruby Gillis told me coming home 
that the way I said the line, 'Now for my father's arm, 
she said, my woman's heart farewell,' just made her 
blood run cold." 

"Well now, you might recite it for me some of these 
days, out in the barn," suggested Matthew. 

"Of course I will," said Anne meditatively, "but I 
won't be able to do it so well, I know. It won't be 
so exciting as it is when you have a whole school ful 
before you hanging breathlessly on your words. I 
know I won't be able to make your blood run cold." 

"Mrs. Lynde says it made her blood run cold to see 
the boys climbing to the very tops of those big trees on 
Bell's hill after crow's nests last Friday," said Marilla. 
"I wonder at Miss Stacy for encouraging it." 

"But we wanted a crow's nest for nature study," 
explained Anne. "That was on our field afternoon. 
Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla. And Miss 
Stacy explains everything so beautifully. We have to 
write compositions on our field afternoons and I write 
the best ones." 


"It's very vain of you to say so then. You'd better 
let your teacher say it." 

"But she did say it, Marilla. And indeed I'm not 
vain about it. How can I be, when I'm such a dunce 
at geometry? Although I'm really beginning to see 
through it a little, too. Miss Stacy makes it so clear. 
Still, I'll never be good at it and I assure you it is a 
humbling reflection. But I love writing compositions. 
Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose our own subjects; 
but next week we are to write a composition on some 
remarkable person. It's hard to choose among so many 
remarkable people who have lived. Mustn't it be splen- 
did to be remarkable and have compositions written 
about you after you're dead ? Oh, I would dearly love 
to be remarkable. I think when I grow up I'll be a 
trained nurse and go with the Red Crosses to the field 
of battle as a messenger of mercy. That is, if I don't 
go out as a foreign missionary. That would be very 
romantic, but one would have to be very good to be 
a missionary, and that would be a stumbling-block. 
We have physical culture exercises every day, too. 
They make you graceful and promote digestion." 

"Promote fiddlesticks!" said Marilla, who honestly 
thought it was all nonsense. 

But all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays 
and physical culture contortions paled before a proj- 
ect which Miss Stacy brought forward in November. 
This was that the scholars of Avonlea school should 
get up a concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas 
night, for the laudable purpose of helping to pay for 
a schoolhouse flag. The pupils one and all taking 
graciously to this plan, the preparations for a pro- 


gramme were begun at once. And of all the excited 
performers-elect none was so excited as Anne Shirley, 
who threw herself into the undertaking heart and soul, 
hampered as she was by Manila's disapproval. Ma- 
rilla thought it all rank foolishness. 

"It's just filling your heads up with nonsense and 
taking time that ought to be put on your lessons," 
she grumbled. "I don't approve of children's getting 
up concerts and racing about to practices. It makes 
them vain and forward and fond of gadding." 

"But think of the worthy object," pleaded Anne. 
"A flag will cultivate a spirit of patriotism, Manila." 

"Fudge! There's precious little patriotism in the 
thoughts of any of you. All you want is a good time," 

"Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, 
isn't it all right? Of course it's real nice to be get- 
ting up a concert We're going to have six choruses 
and Diana is to sing a solo. I'm in two dialogues 
'The Society for the Suppression of Gossip' and 
'The Fairy Queen/ The boys are going to have a 
dialogue, too. And I'm to have two recitations, Ma- 
rilla. I just tremble when I think of it, but it's a nice 
thrilly kind of tremble. And we're to have a tableau 
at the last 'Faith, Hope and Charity/ Diana and 
Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with 
flowing hair. I'm to be Hope, with my hands clasped 
so and my eyes uplifted. I'm going to practise my 
recitations in the garret. Don't be alarmed if you hear 
me groaning. I have to groan heartrendingly in one 
of them, and it's really hard to get up a good artistic 
groan, Marilla. Josie Pye is sulky because she didn't 
get the part she wanted in the dialogue. She wanted 


to be the fairy queen. That would have been ridiculous, 
for who ever heard of a fairy queen as fat as Josie ? 
Fairy queens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be 
the queen and I am to be one of her maids of honour. 
Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is just as 
ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind 
what Josie says. I'm to have a wreath of white roses 
on my hair and Ruby Gillis is going to lend me her 
slippers because I haven't any of my own. It's neces- 
sary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You 
couldn't imagine a fairy wearing boots, could you? 
Especially with copper toes ? We are going to decorate 
the hall with creeping spruce and fir mottoes with pink 
tissue-paper roses in them. And we are all to march 
in two by two after the audience is seated, while Emma 
White plays a march on the organ. Oh, Marilla, I 
know you are not so enthusiastic about it as I am, but 
don't you hope your little Anne will distinguish her- 

"All I hope is that you'll behave yourself. I'll be 
heartily glad when all this fuss is over and you'll be 
able to settle down. You are simply good for nothing 
just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and 
groans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it's a marvel 
it's not clean worn out." 

Anne sighed and betook herself to the back yard, 
over which a young new moon was shining through 
the leafless poplar boughs from an apple-green west- 
ern sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne 
perched herself on a block and talked the concert over 
with him, sure of an appreciative and sympathetic 
listener in this instance at least, 


"Well now, I reckon it's going to be a pretty good 
concert. And I expect you'll do your part fine/' he 
said, smiling down into her eager, vivacious little face. 
Anne smiled back at him. Those two were the best 
of friends and Matthew thanked his stars many a time 
and oft that he had nothing to do with bringing her 
up. That was Manila's exclusive duty; if it had been 
his he would have been worried over frequent conflicts 
between inclination and said duty. As it was, he was 
free to "spoil Anne" Manila's phrasing as much as 
he liked. But it was not such a bad arrangement after 
all; a little "appreciation" sometimes does quite as 
much good as all the conscientious "bringing up" in 
the world, 



MATTHEW was having a bad ten minutes of it 
He had come into the kitchen, in the twilight of a cold, 
gray December evening, and had sat down in the wood- 
box corner to take off his heavy boots, unconscious of 
the fact that Anne and a bevy of her schoolmates were 
having a practice of "The Fairy Queen" in the sitting- 
room. Presently they came trooping through the hall 
and out into the kitchen, laughing and chatting gaily. 
They did not see Matthew, who shrank bashfully back 
into the shadows beyond the wood-box with a boot in 
one hand and a bootjack in the other, and he watched 
them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes as they put 
on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue and 
the concert Anne stood among them, bright-eyed 
and animated as they; but Matthew suddenly became 
conscious that there was something about her different 
from her mates. And what worried Matthew was that 
the difference impressed him as being something that 
should not exist Anne had a brighter face, and bigger, 
starrier eyes, and more delicate features than the 
others ; even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to 
take note of these things ; but the difference that dis- 
turbed him did not consist in any of these respects. 
Then in what did it consist ? 



Matthew was haunted by this question long after 
the girls had gone, arm in arm, down the long, hard- 
frozen lane and Anne had betaken herself to her books. 
He could not refer it to Marilla, who, he felt, would 
be quite sure to sniff scornfully and remark that the 
only difference she saw between Anne and the other 
girls was that they sometimes kept their tongues quiet 
while Anne never did. This, Matthew felt, would be 
no great help. 

He had recourse to his pipe that evening to help him 
study it out, much to Manila's disgust. After two 
hours of smoking and hard reflection Matthew arrived 
at a solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed 
like the other girls ! 

The more Matthew thought about the matter the 
more he was convinced that Anne never had been 
dressed like the other girls never since she had come 
to Green Gables. Marilla kept her clothed in plain, 
dark dresses, all made after the same unvarying pat- 
tern. If Matthew knew there was such a thing as 
fashion in dress it is as much as he did; but he was 
quite sure that Anne's sleeves did not look at all like 
the sleeves the other girls wore. He recalled the cluster 
of little girls he had seen around her that evening all 
gay in waists of red and blue and pink and white and 
he wondered why Marilla always kept her so plainly 
and soberly gowned. 

Of course, it must be all right. Marilla knew best 
and Marilla was bringing her up. Probably some wise, 
inscrutable motive was to be served thereby. But 
surely it would do no harm to let the child have one 
pretty dress something like Diana Barry always wore. 


Matthew decided that he would give her one; that 
surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted 
putting in of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight 
off. A nice new dress would be the very thing for a 
present Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put 
away his pipe and went to bed, while Manila opened 
all the doors and aired the house. 

The very next evening Matthew betook himself to 
Carmody to buy the dress, determined to get the worst 
over and have done with it. It would be, he felt as- 
sured, no trifling ordeal. There were some things Mat- 
thew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer; 
but he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers 
when it came to buying a girl's dress. 

After much cogitation Matthew resolved to go to 
Samuel Lawson's store instead of William Blair's. To 
be sure, the Cuthberts always had gone to William 
Blair's; it was almost as much a matter of conscience 
with them as to attend the Presbyterian church and 
vote Conservative. But William Blair's two daughters 
frequently waited on customers there and Matthew 
held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal 
with them when he knew exactly what he wanted and 
could point it out ; but in such a matter as this, requir- 
ing explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he 
must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he 
would go to Lawson's, where Samuel or his son would 
wait on him. 

Alas ! Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the 
recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady 
clerk also; she was a niece of his wife's and a very 
dashing young person indeed, with a huge, drooping 


pompadour, big, rolling brown eyes, and a most ex- 
tensive and bewildering smile. She was dressed with 
extensive smartness and wore several bangle bracelets 
that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every move- 
ment of her hands. Matthew was covered with con- 
fusion at finding her there at all; and those bangles 
completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop. 

"What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuth- 
bert?" Miss Lucilla Harris inquired, briskly and in- 
gratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands. 

"Have you any any any well now, say any 
garden rakes ?" stammered Matthew. 

Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she 
might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the 
middle of December. 

"I believe we have one or two left over," she said, 
"but they're up-stairs in the lumber-room. I'll go and 

During her absence Matthew collected his scattered 
senses for another effort. 

When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheer- 
fully inquired: "Anything else to-night, Mr. Cuth- 
bert?" Matthew took his courage in both hands and 
replied : "Well now, since you suggest it, I might as 
well take that is look at buy some some hay- 

Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called 
odd. She now concluded that he was entirely crazy. 

"We only keep hayseed in the spring," she explained 
loftily. "We've none on hand just now." 

"Oh, certainly certainly just as you say," stam- 
mered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making 


for the door. At the threshold he recollected that he 
had not paid for it and he turned miserably back. 
While Miss Harris was counting out his change he 
rallied his powers for a final desperate attempt 

"Well now if it isn't too much trouble I might as 
we ll that is I'd like to look at at some sugar." 

"White or brown?" queried Miss Harris patiently. 

"Oh well now brown," said Matthew feebly. 

"There's a barrel of it over there," said Miss Harris, 
shaking her bangles at it. "It's the only kind we have." 

"I'll I'll take twenty pounds of it," said Matthew, 
with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. 

Matthew had driven half-way home before he was 
his own man again. It had been a gruesome experi- 
ence, but it served him right, he thought, for commit- 
ting the heresy of going to a strange store. When he 
reached home he hid the rake in the toolhouse, but the 
sugar he carried in to Marilla. 

"Brown sugar!" exclaimed Marilla. "Whatever 
possessed you to get so much ? You know I never use 
it except for the hired man's porridge or black fruit- 
cake. Jerry's gone and I've made my cake long ago. 
It's not good sugar, either it's coarse and dark Wil- 
liam Blair doesn't usually keep sugar like that" 

"I I thought it might come in handy sometime," 
said Matthew, making good his escape. 

When Matthew came to think the matter over he 
decided that a woman was required to cope with the 
situation. Marilla was out of the question. Matthew 
felt sure she would throw cold water on his project 
at once. Remained only Mrs. Lynde ; for of no other 
woman in Avonlea would Matthew have dared to ask 


advice. To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that 
good lady promptly took the matter out of the 
harassed man's hands. 

"Pick out a dress for you to give Anne? To be 
sure I will. I'm going to Carmody to-morrow and I'll 
attend to it Have you something particular in mind ? 
No? Well, I'll just go by my own judgment then. 
I believe a nice rich brown would just suit Anne, and 
William Blair has some new gloria in that's real pretty. 
Perhaps you'd like me to make it up for her, too, see- 
ing that if Marilla was to make it Anne would probably 
get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise? 
Well, I'll do it. No, it isn't a mite of trouble. I like 
sewing. I'll make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis, for 
she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figure 

"Well now, I'm much obliged," said Matthew, "and 
and I dunno but I'd like I think they make the 
sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If 
it wouldn't be asking too much I I'd like them made 
in the new way." 

"Puffs? Of course. You needn't worry a speck 
more about it, Matthew. I'll make it up in the very 
latest fashion," said Mrs. Lynde. To herself she added 
when Matthew had gone : 

"It'll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child 
wearing something decent for once. The way Ma- 
rilla dresses her is positively ridiculous, that's what, 
and I've ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I've 
held my tongue though, for I can see Marilla doesn't 
want advice and she thinks she knows more about 
bringing children up than I do for all she's an old maid. 


But that's always the way. Folks that has brought up 
children know that there's no hard and fast method 
in the world that'll suit every child. But them as 
never have think it's all as plain and easy as Rule of 
Three just set your three terms down so fashion, and 
the sum'll work out correct. But flesh and blood don't 
come under the head of arithmetic and that's where 
Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake. I suppose she's 
trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by 
dressing her as she does ; but it's more likely to culti- 
vate envy and discontent. I'm sure the child must feel 
the difference between her clothes and the other girls'. 
But to think of Matthew taking notice of it ! That man 
is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years." 

Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Mat- 
thew had something on his mind, but what it was she 
could not guess, until Christmas Eve, when Mrs. Lynde 
brought up the new dress. Marilla behaved pretty well 
on the whole, although it is very likely she distrusted 
Mrs. Lynde's diplomatic explanation that she had made 
the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne would 
find out about it too soon if Marilla made it 

"So this is what Matthew has been looking so mys- 
terious over and grinning about to himself for two 
weeks, is it?" she said a little stiffly but tolerantly. "I 
knew he was up to some foolishness. Well, I must say 
I don't think Anne needed any more dresses. I made 
her three good, warm, serviceable ones this fall, 
and anything more is sheer extravagance. There's 
enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist, 
I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, 
Matthew, and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, 


I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been 
hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came 
in, although she never said a word after the first. The 
puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous 
right along ; they're as big as balloons now. Next year 
anybody who wears them will have to go through a 
door sideways." 

Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white 
world. It had been a very mild December and people 
had looked forward to a green Christmas; but just 
enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure 
Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable 
window with delighted eyes. The firs in the Haunted 
Wood were all feathery and wonderful; the birches 
and wild cherry-trees were outlined in pearl; the 
ploughed fields were stretches of snowy dimples ; and 
there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. 
Anne ran down-stairs singing until her voice re-echoed 
through Green Gables. 

"Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, 
Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad 
it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem 
real, does it ? I don't like green Christmases. They're 
not green they're just nasty faded browns and grays. 
What makes people call them green? Why why 
Matthew, is that for me ? Oh, Matthew !" 

Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from 
its paper swathings and held it out with a deprecatory 
glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously 
filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene 
out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested 


Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent 
silence. Oh, how pretty it was a lovely soft brown 
gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty 
frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in 
the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy 
lace at the neck. But the sleeves they were the crown- 
ing glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two 
beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows 
of brown silk ribbon. 

"That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said 
Matthew shyly. "Why why Anne, don't you like 
it ? Well now well now." 

For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. 

"Like it ! Oh, Matthew !" Anne laid the dress over 
a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's per- 
fectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. 
Look at those sleeves ! Oh, it seems to me this must 
be a happy dream." 

"Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Ma- 
rilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the 
dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that 
you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. 
Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. 
Come now, sit in." 

"I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said 
Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace 
at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes 
on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still 
fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over 
it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd 
never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely 
of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon, too. I feel that 


I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like 
this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl ; and I always 
resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's 
hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible 
temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra 
effort after this." 

When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana 
appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, 
a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew 
down the slope to meet her. 

"Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonder- 
ful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. 
Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with such 
sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." 

"I've got something more for you," said Diana 
breathlessly. "Here this box. Aunt Josephine sent 
us out a big box with ever so many things in it and 
this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, 
but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel 
very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood 
in the dark now." 

Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card 
with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," writ- 
ten on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid 
slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glisten- 
ing buckles. 

"Oh," said Anne, "Diana, this is too much. I must 
be dreaming." 

"/ call it providential," said Diana. "You won't 
have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a bless- 
ing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would 
be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be 


delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with 
Gertie Pye from the practice night before last Did 
you ever hear anything equal to that ?" 

All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excite- 
ment that day, for the hall had to be decorated and 
a last grand rehearsal held. 

The concert came off in the evening and was a pro- 
nounced success. The little hall was crowded ; all the 
performers did excellently well, but Anne was the 
bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in 
the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. 

"Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed 
Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were 
walking home together under a dark, starry sky. 

"Everything went off very well," said Diana prac- 
tically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten 
dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an ac- 
count of it to the Charlottetown papers." 

"Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? 
It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was per- 
fectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did 
when it was encored. I just said to myself, 'It is my 
dear bosom friend who is so honoured.' ' 

"Well, your recitations just brought down the house, 
Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." 

"Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan 
called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever 
got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were 
looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful 
moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I 
thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. 
I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So 


I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from 
ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's prov- 
idential that I practised those recitations so often up 
in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get 
through. Did I groan all right?" 

"Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana, 

"I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I 
sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched 
somebody's heart It's so romantic to take part in a 
concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable 
occasion indeed." 

"Wasn't the boys' dialogue fine ?" said Diana. "Gil- 
bert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it's 
awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. 
When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue 
one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil 
pick it up and put it in his breast-pocket. There now. 
You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be 
pleased at that" 

"It's nothing to me what that person does," said 
Anne loftily. "I simply never waste a thought on him, 

That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out 
to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for 
awhile by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. 

"Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of 
them," said Matthew proudly. 

"Yes, she did," admitted Marilla. "She's a bright 
child, Matthew. And she looked real nice, too. I've 
been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I 
suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, 


I was proud of Anne tonight, although I'm not going 
to tell her so." 

"Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so 
'fore she went up-stairs," said Matthew. "We must 
see what we can do for her some of these days, Ma- 
rilla, I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea 
school by and by." 

"There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. 
"She's only thirteen in March. Though to-night it 
struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. 
Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes 
Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess 
the best thing we can do for her will be to send her 
to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need be said 
about that for a year or two yet." 

"Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over 
off and on," said Matthew. "Things like that are al) 
the better for lots of thinking over." 



JUNIOR Avonlea found it hard to settle down to 
humdrum existence again. To Anne in particular 
things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and unprofitable 
after the goblet of excitement she had been sipping 
for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet 
pleasures of those far-away days before the concert? 
At first, as she told Diana, she did not really think she 

"I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never 
be quite the same again as it was in those olden days," 
she said mournfully, as if referring to a period of at 
least fifty years back. "Perhaps after awhile I'll get 
used to it, but I'm afraid concerts spoil people for 
every-day life. I suppose that is why Marilla dis- 
approves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman. 
It must be a great deal better to be sensible ; but still, 
I don't believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, 
because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says 
there is no danger of my ever being one, but you 
can never tell. I feel just now that I may grow up 
to be sensible yet But perhaps that it only because I'm 
tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so 
long. I just lay awake and imagined the concert over 
and over again. That's one splendid thing about such 
affairs it's so lovely to look back to them." 



Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back 
into its old groove and took up its old interests. To 
be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma 
White, who had quarrelled over a point of precedence 
in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, 
and a promising friendship of three years was broken 
up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for 
three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie 
Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite 
made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and 
Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have 
any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had de- 
clared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the pro- 
gramme, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells 
were not capable of doing the little they had to do 
properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody 
Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had 
said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recita- 
tions, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked ;" consequently 
Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" 
to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the 
exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss 
Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and 

The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually 
mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana 
could go to school nearly every day by way of the 
Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping 
lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all 
their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they 
must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk 
in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant 


"Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," 
remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely 
realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morn- 
ing it seemed to me that everything must be different. 
You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it 
doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. 
It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two 
more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great com- 
fort to think that I'll be able to use big words then 
without being laughed at." 

"Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon 
as she's fifteen," said Diana. 

"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus," said 
Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when 
any one writes her name up in a take-notice for all 
she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an 
uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never 
make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so 
often before you think, don't they? I simply can't 
talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable 
speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have 
noticed that I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan 
as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan 
thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the 
ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it 
right for a minister to set his affections so much on a 
mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are 
human and have their besetting sins just like every- 
body else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. 
Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. 
There are just a few things it's proper to talk about 
on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin 


is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm 
striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm 
really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." 

"In four more years we'll be able to put our hair 
up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she 
is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I 
shall wait until I'm seventeen.'* 

"If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose/' said Anne de- 
cidedly, "I wouldn't but there! I won't say what I 
was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. 
Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and 
that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my 
nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long 
ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, 
look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember 
for our woods composition. I really think the woods 
are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so 
white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming 
pretty dreams." 

"I won't mind writing that composition when its 
time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write 
about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday 
is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write 
a story out of our own heads !" 

"Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne. 

"It's easy for you because you have an imagina- 
tion," retorted Diana, "but what would you do if you 
had been born without one ? I suppose you have your 
composition all done?" 

Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously 
complacent and failing miserably. 

"I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called The 


Jealous Rival; or, in Death Not Divided/ I read it 
to Marilla and she said it was stuff and nonsense. 
Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. 
That is the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. 
I just cried like a child while I was writing it It's 
about two beautiful maidens called Cordelia Mont- 
morency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same 
village and were devotedly attached to each other. 
Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of mid- 
night hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a 
queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvetly 
purple eyes." 

"I never saw anybody with purple eyes," said Diana 

"Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted 
something out of the common. Geraldine had an ala- 
baster brow, too. I've found out what an alabaster 
brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thir- 
teen. .You know so much more than you did when you 
were only twelve." 

"Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?" 
asked Diana, who was beginning to feel rather in- 
terested in their fate. 

"They grew in beauty side by side until they were 
sixteen. Then Bertram DeVere came to their native 
village and fell in love with the fair Geraldine. He 
saved her life when her horse ran away with her in 
a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he carried 
her home three miles; because, you understand, the 
carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard 
to imagine the proposal because I had no experience 
to go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything 


about how men proposed because I thought she'd likely 
be an authority on the subject, having so many sisters 
married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry 
when Malcolm Andrews proposed to her sister 
Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had 
given him the farm in his own name and then said, 
'What do you say, darling pet, if we get hitched this 
fall ?' And Susan said, 'Yes no I don't know let 
me see,' and there they were, engaged as quick as 
that. But I didn't think that sort of a proposal was a 
very romantic one, so in the end I had to imagine it out 
as well as I could. I made it very flowery and poetical 
and Bertram went on his knees, although Ruby Gillis 
says it isn't done nowadays. Geraldine accepted him 
in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a lot 
of trouble with that speech. I rewrote it five times and 
I look upon it as my masterpiece. Bertram gave her 
a diamond ring and a ruby necklace and told her they 
would go to Europe for a wedding tour, for he was 
immensely wealthy. But then, alas, shadows began to 
darken over their path. Cordelia was secretly in love 
with Bertram herself and when Geraldine told her 
about the engagement she was simply furious, especially 
when she saw the necklace and the diamond ring. All 
her affection for Geraldine turned to bitter hate and 
she vowed that she would never marry Bertram. But 
she pretended to be Geraldine's friend the same as 
ever. One evening they were standing on the bridge 
over a rushing turbulent stream and Cordelia, think- 
ing they were alone, pushed Geraldine over the brink 
with a wild, mocking, 'Ha, ha, ha.' But Bertram saw 
it all and he at once plunged into the current, exclaim- 


ing, 'I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine.' But 
alas, he had forgotten he couldn't swim, and they were 
both drowned, clasped in each other's arms. Their 
bodies were washed ashore soon afterwards. They 
were buried in the one grave and their funeral was 
most imposing, Diana. It's so much more romantic 
to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding. As 
for Cordelia, she went insane with remorse and was 
shut up in a lunatic asylum. I thought that was a 
poetical retribution for her crime." 

"How perfectly lovely!" sighed Diana, who be- 
longed to Matthew's school of critics. "I don't see 
how you can make up such thrilling things out of 
your own head, Anne. I wish my imagination was as 
good as yours." 

"It would be if you'd only cultivate it," said Anne 
cheeringly. "I've just thought of a plan, Diana. Let 
you and I have a story club all our own and write 
stories for practice. I'll help you along until you can 
do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate your 
imagination, you know. Miss Stacy says so. Only 
we must take the right way. I told her about the 
Haunted Wood, but she said we went the wrong way 
about it in that." 

This was how the story club came into existence. 
It was limited to Diana and Anne at first, but soon it 
was extended to include Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis 
and one or two others who felt that their imaginations 
needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in it al- 
though Ruby Gillis opined that their admission would 
make it more exciting and each member had to pro- 
duce one story a week. 


"It's extremely interesting," Anne told Manila. 
"Each girl has to read her story out loud and then 
we talk it over. We are going to keep them all sacredly 
and have them to read to our descendants. We each 
write under a nom-de-plume. Mine is Rosamond 
Montmorency. All the girls do pretty well. Ruby 
Gillis is rather sentimental. She puts too much love- 
making into her stories and you know too much is 
worse than too little. Jane never puts any because 
she says it makes her feel so silly when she has to read 
it out loud. Jane's stories are extremely sensible. 
Then Diana puts too many murders into hers. She 
says most of the time she doesn't know what to do 
with the people so she kills them off to get rid of them. 
I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, 
but that isn't hard for I've millions of ideas." 

"I think this story-writing business is the f oolishest 
yet," scoffed Marilla. "You'll get a pack of nonsense 
into your heads and waste time that should be put on 
your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough but writ- 
ing them is worse." 

"But we're so careful to put a moral into them all, 
Marilla," explained Anne. "I insist upon that All 
the good people are rewarded and all the bad ones are 
suitably punished. I'm sure that must have a whole- 
some effect. The moral is the great thing. Mr. Allan 
says so. I read one of my stories to him and Mrs. 
Allan and they both agreed that the moral was ex- 
cellent Only they laughed in the wrong places. I 
like it better when people cry. Jane and Ruby almost 
always cry when I come to the pathetic parts. Diana 
wrote her Aunt Josephine about our club and her Aunt 


Josephine wrote back that we were to send her some of 
our stories. So we copied out four of our very best 
and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry wrote back that 
she had never read anything so amusing in her life, 
That kind of puzzled us because the stories were all 
very pathetic and almost everybody died. But I'm 
glad Miss Barry liked them. It shows our club is do- 
ing some good in the world. Mrs, Allan says that 
ought to be our object in everything. I do really try 
to make it my object but I forget so often when I'm 
having fun. I hope I shall be a little like Mrs. Allan 
when I grow up. Do you think there is any prospect 
of it, Marilla?" 

"I shouldn't say there was a great deal," was Ma- 
rilla's encouraging answer. "I'm sure Mrs. Allan was 
never such a silly, forgetful little girl as you are." 

"No ; but she wasn't always so good as she is now 
either," said Anne seriously. "She told me so herself 
that is, she said she was a dreadful mischief when 
she was a girl and was always getting into scrapes. I 
felt so encouraged when I heard that. Is it very 
wicked of me, Marilla, to feel encouraged when I 
hear that other people have been bad and mischievous ? 
Mrs. Lynde says it is. Mrs. Lynde says she always 
feels shocked when she hears of any one ever having 
been naughty, no matter how small they were. Mrs. 
Lynde says she once heard a minister confess that 
when he was a boy he stole a strawberry tart out of 
his aunt's pantry and she never had any respect for 
that minister again. Now, I wouldn't have felt that 
way. I'd have thought that it was real noble of him 
to confess it, and I'd have thought what an encourag- 


ing thing it would be for small boys nowadays who do 
naughty things and are sorry for them to know that 
perhaps they may grow up to be ministers in spite of 
it That's how I'd feel, Manila." 

"The way I feel at present, Anne," said Marilla, 
"is that it's high time you had those dishes washed. 
You've taken half an hour longer than you should with 
all your chattering. Learn to work first and talk after- 



MARILLA, walking home one late April evening 
from an Aid meeting, realized that the winter was 
over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring 
never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well 
as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not 
given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and 
feelings. She probably imagined that she was 
thinking about the Aids and their missionary box 
and the new carpet for the vestry-room, but under 
these reflections was a harmonious consciousness 
of red fields smoking into pale-purply mists in 
the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shad- 
ows falling over the meadow beyond the brook, 
of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirror- 
like wood-pool, of a wakening in the world and 
a stir of hidden pulses under the gray sod. The 
spring was abroad in the land and Manila's sober, 
middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because 
of its deep, primal gladness. 

Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, 
peering through its network of trees and reflecting 
the sunlight back from its windows in several little 
coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her 
steps along the damp lane, thought that it was 



really a satisfaction to know that she was going 
home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table 
nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold com- 
fort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had 
come to Green Gables. 

Consequently, when Manila entered her kitchen 
and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne 
anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. 
She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready 
at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off 
her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself 
against Matthew's return from ploughing. 

"I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," 
said Manila grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with 
a carving knife and more vim than was strictly 
necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting 
patiently for his tea in his corner. "She's gadding 
off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or prac- 
tising dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never 
thinking once about the time or her duties. She's 
just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this 
sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say 
she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever 
knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but 
her head is full of nonsense and there's never any 
knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just 
as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up 
with another. But there I Here I am saying the 
very thing I was riled with Rachel Lynde for say- 
ing at the Aid to-day. I was real glad when Mrs. 
Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know 
I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before 


everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness 
knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm 
bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick 
faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in 
Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to 
leave the house like this when I told her she was to 
stay home this afternoon and look after things. I 
must say, with all her faults, I never found her 
disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real 
sorry to find her so now." 

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being 
patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed 
it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, 
having learned by experience that she got through 
with whatever work was on hand much quicker if 
not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps 
you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call 
her untrustworthy until you're sure she has dis- 
obeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained Anne's 
a great hand at explaining." 

"She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted 
Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain 
that to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd 
take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, 
not you." 

It was dark when supper was ready, and still no 
sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge 
or up Lovers' Lane, breathless and repentant with 
a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and 
put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a 
candle to light her down cellar, she went up to the 
east gable for the one that generally stood on 


Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to 
see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward 
among the pillows. 

"Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have 
you been asleep, Anne?" 

"No," was the muffled reply. 

"Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anx- 
iously, going over to the bed. 

Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if 
desirous of hiding herself for ever from mortal eyes. 

"No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't 
look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't 
care who gets head in class or writes the best com- 
position or sings in the Sunday-school choir any 
more. Little things like that are of no importance 
now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go 
anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, 
Marilla, go away and don't look at me." 

"Did any one ever hear the like?" the mystified 
Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever 
is the matter with you? What have you done? 
Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, 
I say. There now, what is it ?" 

Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. 

"Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. 

Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked 
scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy 
masses down her back. It certainly had a very 
strange appearance. 

"Anne Shirley,what have you done to your hair? 
Why, it's green!" 

Green it might be called, if it were any earthly 


colour a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks 
here and there of the original red to heighten the 
ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla 
seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that 

"Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought 
nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I 
know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, 
Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." 

"I little know how you got into this fix, but I 
mean to find out," said Marilla. "Come right down 
to the kitchen it's too cold up here and tell me 
just what you've done. I've been expecting some- 
thing queer for some time. You haven't got into 
any scrape for over two months, and I was sure 
another one was due. Now, then, what did you do 
to your hair?" 

"I dyed it." 

"Dyed it ! Dyed your hair ! Anne Shirley, didn't 
you know it was a wicked thing to do?" 

"Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted 
Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a 
little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the 
cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in 
other ways to make up for it." 

"Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided 
it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it 
a decent colour at least. I wouldn't have dyed :t 

"But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," pro- 
tested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to 
be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn 


my hair a beautiful raven black he positively 
assured me that it would. How could I doubt his 
word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have 
your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should 
never suspect any one of not telling us the truth 
unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof 
now green hair is proof enough for anybody. But 
I hadn't then and I believed every word he said 

"Who said? Who are you talking about?" 

"The pedlar that was here this afternoon. I 
bought the dye from him." 

"Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never 
to let one of those Italians in the house! I don't 
believe in encouraging them to come around at all." 

"Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered 
what you told me, and I went out, carefully shut the 
door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, 
he wasn't an Italian he was a German Jew. He 
had a big box full of very interesting things and he 
told me he was working hard to make enough 
money to bring his wife and children out from Ger- 
many. He spoke so feelingly about them that it 
touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from 
him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all 
at once I saw the bottle of hair dye. The pedlar 
said it was warranted to dye any hair a beautiful 
raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a trice I saw 
myself with beautiful raven black hair and the temp- 
tation was irresistible. But the price of the bottle 
was seventy-five cents and I had only fifty cents 
left out of my chicken money. I think the pedlar 


had a very kind heart, for he said that, seeing it 
was me, he'd sell it for fifty cents and that was 
just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as 
he had gone I came up here and applied it with 
an old hair-brush as the directions said. I used up 
the whole bottle, and oh, Marilla, when I saw the 
dreadful colour it turned my hair I repented of 
being wicked, I can tell you. And I'~ r e been re- 
penting ever since." 

"Well, I hope you'll repent to good purpose," said 
Marilla severely, "and that you've got your eyes 
opened to where your vanity has led you, Anne. 
Goodness knows what's to be done. I suppose the 
first thing is to give your hair a good washing and 
see if that will do any good." 

Accordingly, Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it 
vigorously with soap and water, but for all the dif- 
ference it made she might as well have been scour- 
ing its original red. The pedlar had certainly 
spoken the truth when he declared that the dye 
wouldn't wash off, however his veracity might be 
impeached in other respects. 

"Oh, Marilla, what shall I do ?" questioned Anne 
in tears. "I can never live this down. People have 
pretty well forgotten my other mistakes the lini- 
ment cake and setting Diana drunk and flying into a 
temper with Mrs. Lynde. But they'll never forget 
this. They will think I am not respectable. Oh, 
Marilla, 'what a tangled web we weave when first 
we practise to deceive.' That is poetry, but it is 
true. And oh, how Josie Pye will laugh! Marilla, I 


cannot face Josie Pye. I am the unhappiest girl in 
Prince Edward Island." 

Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. Dur- 
ing that time she went nowhere and shampooed her 
hair every day. Diana alone of outsiders knew the 
fatal secret, but she promised solemnly never to 
tell, and it may be stated here and now that she 
kept her word. At the end of the week Manila 
said decidedly: 

"It's no use, Anne. That is fast dye if ever there 
was any. Your hair must be cut off; there is no 
other way. You can't go out with it looking like 

Anne's lips quivered, but she realized the bitter 
truth of Manila's remarks. .With a dismal sigh she 
went for the scissors. 

"Please cut it off at once, Marilla, and have it 
over. Oh, I feel that my heart is broken. This is 
such an unromantic affliction. The girls in books 
lose their hair in fevers or sell it to get money for 
some good deed, and I'm sure I wouldn't mind losing 
my hair in some such fashion half so much. But 
there is nothing comforting in having your hair cut 
off because you've dyed it a dreadful colour, is 
there? I'm going to weep all the time you're cut- 
ting it off, if it won't interfere. It seems such a 
tragic thing." 

Anne wept then, but later on, when she went up- 
stairs and looked in the glass, she was calm with 
despair. Marilla had done her work thoroughly and 
it had been necessary to shingle the hair as closely 
as possible, The result was not becoming, to state 


the case as mildly as may be. Anne promptly 
turned her glass to the wall. 

"I'll never, never look at myself again until my 
hair grows," she exclaimed passionately. 

Then she suddenly righted the glass. 

"Yes, I will, too. I'd do penance for being wicked 
that way. I'll look at myself every time I come to 
my room and see how ugly I am. And I won't try 
to imagine it away, either. I never thought I was 
vain about my hair, of all things, but now I know 
I was, in spite of its being red, because it was so 
long and thick and curly. I expect something will 
happen to my nose next." 

Anne's clipped head made a sensation in school on 
the following Monday, but to her relief nobody 
guessed the real reason for it, not even Josie Pye, 
who, however, did not fail to inform Anne that she 
looked like a perfect scarecrow. 

"I didn't say anything when Josie said that to 
me," Anne confided that evening to Marilla, who 
was lying on the sofa after one of her headaches, 
"because I thought it was part of my punishment 
and I ought to bear it patiently. It's hard to be 
told you look like a scarecrow and I wanted to say 
something back. But I didn't. I just swept her 
one scornful look and then I forgave her. It makes 
you feel very virtuous when you forgive people, 
doesn't it? I mean to devote all my energies to 
being good after this and I shall never try to be 
beautiful again. Of course it's better to be good. 
I know it is, but it's sometimes so hard to believe 
a thing even when you know it. I do really want 


to be good, Manila, like you and Mrs. Allan and 
Miss Stacy, and grow up to be a credit to you. 
Diana says when my hair begins to grow to tie a 
black velvet ribbon around my head with a bow 
at one side. She says she thinks it will be very 
becoming. I will call it a snood that sounds so 
romantic. But am I talking too much, Manila? 
Does it hurt your head?" 

"My head is better now. It was terrible bad this 
afternoon, though. These headaches of mine are 
getting worse and worse. I'll have to see a doctor 
about them. As for your chatter, I don't know that 
I mind it I've got so used to it." 

Which was Manila's way of saying that she liked 
to hear it. 



"Or course you must be Elaine, Anne," said Diana. 
"I could never have the courage to float down 

"Nor I," said Ruby Gillis with a shiver. "I don't 
mind floating down when there's two or three of us 
in the flat and we can sit up. It's fun then. But to 
lie down and pretend I was dead I just couldn't. 
I'd die really of fright." 

"Of course it would be romantic," conceded Jane 
Andrews. "But I know I couldn't keep still. I'd 
be popping up every minute or so to see where I 
was and if I wasn't drifting too far out. And you 
know, Anne, that would spoil the effect." 

"But it's so ridiculous to have a red-headed 
Elaine," mourned Anne. "I'm not afraid to float 
down and I'd love to be Elaine. But it's ridiculous 
just the same. Ruby ought to be Elaine because she 
is so fair and has such lovely long golden hair 
Elaine had 'all her bright hair streaming down/ you 
know. And Elaine was the lily maid. Now, a red- 
haired person cannot be a lily maid." 

"Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's," said 
Diana earnestly, "and your hair is ever so much 
darker than it used to be before you cut it." 



"Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Anne, 
flushing sensitively with delight. "I've sometimes 
thought it was myself but I never dared to ask 
any one for fear she would tell me it wasn't. Do 
you think it could be called auburn now, Diana?" 

"Yes, and I think it is real pretty," said Diana, 
looking admiringly at the short, silky curls that 
clustered over Anne's head and were held in place 
by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow. 

They were standing on the bank of the pond, be- 
low Orchard Slope, where a little headland fringed 
with birches ran out from the bank ; at its tip was a 
small wooden platform built out into the water for 
the convenience of fishermen and duck hunters. 
Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer after- 
noon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play 
with them. 

Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime 
that summer on and about the pond. Idlewild was 
a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut 
down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in 
the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and 
wept, not without an eye to the romance of it ; but 
she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and 
Diana said, big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, 
were too old for such childish amusements as play- 
houses, and there were more fascinating sports to be 
found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for 
trout over the bridge and the two girls learned to 
row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed 
dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting. 

It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. 


They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the 
preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education 
having prescribed it in the English course for the 
Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed 
and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until 
it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left 
in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and 
Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had be- 
come very real people to them, and Anne was de- 
voured by secret regret that she had not been born 
in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much 
more romantic than the present. 

Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The 
girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed 
off from the landing-place it would drift down with 
the current under the bridge and finally strand itself 
on another headland lower down which ran out at 
a curve in the pond. They had often gone down 
like this and nothing could be more convenient for 
playing Elaine. 

"Well, I'll be Elaine," said Anne, yielding re- 
luctantly, for, although she would have been de- 
lighted to play the principal character, yet her ar- 
tistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she 
felt, her limitations made impossible. "Ruby, you 
must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere 
and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must 
be the brothers and the father. We can't have the 
old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two 
in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall 
the barge all its length in blackest samite. That 


old black shawl of your mother's will be just the 
thing, Diana." 

The black shawl having been procured, Anne 
spread it over the flat and then lay down on the 
bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her 

"Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby 
Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face 
under the flickering shadows of the birches. "It 
makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose 
it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says 
that all play-acting is abominably wicked." 

"Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," 
said Anne severely. "It spoils the effect because this 
is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. 
Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be 
talking when she's dead." 

Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for cov- 
erlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of 
yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. 
A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the 
effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's 
folded hands was all that could be desired. 

"Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must 
kiss her quiet brows and, Diana, you say, 'Sister, 
farewell for ever,' and Ruby, you say, 'Farewell, 
sweet sister,' both of you as sorrowfully as you 
possibly can. Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. 
You know Elaine 'lay as though she smiled.' That's 
better. Now push the flat off." 

The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping 
roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. 


Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough 
to see it caught in the current and headed for the 
bridge before scampering up through the woods, 
across the road, and down to the lower headland 
where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, 
they were to be in readiness to receive the lily 

For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, 
enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. 
Then something happened not at all romantic. The 
flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was 
necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up 
her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite 
and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her 
barge through which the water was literally pour- 
ing. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off 
the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did 
not know this, but it did not take her long to 
realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this 
rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could, 
drift to the lower headland. .Where were the oars? 
Left behind at the landing! 

Anne gave one gasping little scream which no- 
body ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she 
did not lose her self-possession. There was one 
chance just one. 

"I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan 
the next day, "and it seemed like years while the 
flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water 
rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, 
most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, 
for I knew the only way God could save me was 


to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge 
piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles 
are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots 
and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to 
pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and 
right well I knew it. I just said, 'Dear God, please 
take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,' 
over and over again. Under such circumstances 
you don't think much about making a flowery 
prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat 
bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung 
the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scram- 
bled up on a big providential stub. And there I 
was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile 
with no way of getting up or down. It was a very 
unromantic position, but I didn't think about that 
at the time. You don't think much about romance 
when you have just escaped from a watery grave. 
I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave 
all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I 
should probably have to depend on human aid to 
get back to dry land." 

The flat drifted under the bridge and then 
promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Di- 
ana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, 
saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not 
a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For 
a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen 
with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the 
tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run 
up through the woods, never pausing as they 
crossed the main road to glance the way of the 


bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precari- 
ous foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their 
shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile 
her position was a very uncomfortable one. 

The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to 
the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn't somebody 
come ? Where had the girls gone ? Suppose they 
had fainted, one and all ! Suppose nobody ever 
came ! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that 
she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the 
wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, 
oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began 
to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to 

Then, just as she thought she really could not 
endure the ache in her arms and wrists another 
moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the 
bridge in Harmon Andrews' dory! 

Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, 
beheld a little white scornful face looking down 
upon him with big, frightened but also scornful 
gray eyes. 

"Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get 
there?" he exclaimed. 

Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to 
the pile and extended his hand. There was no help 
for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, 
scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drab- 
bled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of 
dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly 
extremely difficult to be dignified under the cir- 


"What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, tak- 
ing up his oars. 

"We were playing Elaine," explained Anne frig- 
idly, without even looking at her rescuer, "and I 
had to drift down to Camelot in the barge I mean 
the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out 
on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be 
kind enough to row me to the landing?" 

Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, 
disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. 

"I'm very much obliged to you," she said haught- 
ily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also 
sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand 
on her arm. 

"Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't 
we be good friends? I'm awfully sorry I made fun 
of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you 
and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long 
ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now 
honest I do. Let's be friends." 

For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, 
newly awakened consciousness under all her out- 
raged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expres- 
sion in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was 
very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer 
little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance 
promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. 
That scene of two years before flashed back into 
her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place 
yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had 
brought about her disgrace before the whole school. 
Her resentment, which to other and older people 


might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit 
allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated 
Gilbert Blythe ! She would never forgive him I 

"No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends 
with you, Gilbert Blythe ; and I don't want to be 1" 

"All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with 
an angry colour in his cheeks. "I'll never ask you 
to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don't care 

He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and 
Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the 
maples. She held her head very high, but she was 
conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost 
wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of 
course, he had insulted her terribly, but still ! 
Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief 
to sit down and have a good cry. She was really 
quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and 
cramped clinging was making itself felt. 

Half-way up the path she met Jane and Diana 
rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly re- 
moved from positive frenzy. They had found no- 
body at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry 
being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to 
hysterics, and was left to recover from them as 
best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through 
the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green 
Gables. There they had found nobody either, for 
Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was 
making hay in the back field. 

"Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the 
former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, 


"Oh, Anne we thought you were drowned 
and we felt like murderers because we had made 
you be Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics oh, 
Anne, how did you escape?" 

"I climbed up on one of the piles," explained 
Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in 
Mr. Andrews' dory and brought me to land." 

"Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so 
romantic!" said Jane, finding breath enough for 
utterance at last. "Of course you'll speak to him 
after this." 

"Of course I won't," flashed Anne with a mo- 
mentary return of her old spirit "And I don't want 
ever to hear the word romantic again, Jane An- 
drews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, 
girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born 
under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me 
or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone 
and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a 
presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on 
the pond any more." 

Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy 
than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the 
consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert house- 
holds when the events of the afternoon became 

"Will you ever have any sense, Anne ?" groaned 

"Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne 
optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful 
solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves 
and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I 


think my prospects of becoming sensible are 
brighter now than ever." 

"I don't see how/' said Marilla. 

"Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and 
valuable lesson to-day. Ever since I came to Green 
Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake 
has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. 
The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of med- 
dling with things that didn't belong to me. The 
Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my 
imagination run away with me. The liniment cake 
mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dye- 
ing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about 
my hair and nose now at least, very seldom. And 
to-day's mistake is going to cure me of being too 
romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is 
no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was 
probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds 
of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. 
I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great im- 
provement in me in this respect, Marilla." 

"I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. 

But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in 
his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when 
Marilla had gone out. 

"Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he 
whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing 
not too much, of course but keep a little of it, 
Anne, keep a little of it." 


ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back 
pasture by way of Lovers' Lane. It was a Septem- 
ber evening and all the gaps and clearings in the 
woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. 
Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but 
for the most part it was already quite shadowy 
beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs 
were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. 
The winds were out in their tops, and there is no 
sweeter music on earth than that which the wind 
makes in the fir-trees at evening. 

The cows swung placidly down the lane, and 
Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the 
battle canto from "Marmion" which had also been 
part of their English course the preceding winter 
and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by 
heart and exulting in its rushing lines and the 
clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to 
the lines: 

"The stubborn spearsmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood," 

she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she 
might the better fancy herself one of that heroic 
ring. When she opened them again it was to be- 



hold Diana coming through the gate that led into 
the Barry field and looking so important that Anne 
instantly divined there was news to be told. But 
betray too eager curiosity she would not. 

"Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, 
Diana? It makes me so glad to be rlive. In the 
mornings I always think the mornings are best; but 
when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." 

"It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, 
I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have 
three guesses." 

"Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the 
church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to deco- 
rate it," cried Anne. 

"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, be- 
cause nobody ever has been married in the church 
yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a 
funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such 
fun. Guess again." 

"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birth- 
day party?" 

Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing 
with merriment. 

"I can't think what it can be," said Anne in 
despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPher- 
son saw you home from prayer-meeting last night 
Did he?" 

"I should think not," exclaimed Diana indig- 
nantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he 
did, the horrid creature ! I knew you couldn't guess 
it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine to- 
day, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go 


to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the 
Exhibition. There !" 

"Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it neces- 
sary to lean up against a maple-tree for support, 
"do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla 
won't let me go. She will say that she can't encour- 
age gadding about. That was what she said last 
week when Jane invited me to go with them in their 
double-seated buggy to the American concert at the 
White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla 
said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and 
so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. 
I felt so heart-broken that I wouldn't say my pray- 
ers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and 
got up in the middle of the night and said them." 

"I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get mother to 
ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go 
then; and if she does we'll have the time of our 
lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and 
it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking 
about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, 
and they're going this year again." 

"I'm not going to think about it at all until I 
know whether I can go or not," said Anne reso- 
lutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it 
would be more than I could bear. But in case I do 
go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that 
time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. 
She said my old one would do very well for another 
winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having 
a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana 
navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always 


makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says 
she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. 
Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so 
much easier to be good if your clothes are fashion- 
able. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it 
doesn't make such a difference to naturally good 
people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, 
so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, 
and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at 
Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm 
trying not to imagine myself walking up the church 
aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm 
afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it 
just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is 
so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we 
were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue 
velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and 
tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so 
becoming. When I saw you come into church last 
Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you 
were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong 
for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla 
says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting 
subject, isn't it?" 

Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was 
arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on 
the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was 
thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and 
return the same day, it was necessary to make a 
very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and 
was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A 
glance from her window assured her that the day 


would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs 
of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. 
Through the gap in the trees a light was shining 
in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token 
that Diana was also up. 

Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the 
fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla 
came down, but for her own part was much too ex- 
cited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap 
and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over 
the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. 
Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they; 
were soon on the road. 

It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed 
every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along 
over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that 
was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The 
air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists 
curled through the valleys and floated off from the 
hills. Sometimes the road went through woods 
where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet 
banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges 
that made Anne's flesh cringe with the old, half- 
delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbour 
shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-gray 
fishing huts ; again it mounted to hills whence a far 
sweep of curving upland or misty blue sky could be 
seen; but wherever it went there was much of in- 
terest to discuss. It was almost noon when they 
reached town and found their way to "Beechwood." 
It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the 
street in a seclusion of green elms and branching 


beeches. Miss Barry met them at the door with 
a twinkle in her sharp black eyes. 

"So you've come to see me at last, you Anne- 
girl," she said. "Mercy, child, how you have 
grown ! You're taller than I am, I declare. And 
you're ever so much better-looking than you used 
to be, too. But I dare say you know that without 
being told." 

"Indeed I didn't," said Anne radiantly. "I know 
I'm not so freckled as I used to be, so I've much to 
be thankful for, but I really hadn't dared to hope 
there was any other improvement. I'm so glad you 
think there is, Miss Barry." 

Miss Barry's house was furnished with "great 
magnificence," as Anne told Marilla afterwards. 
The two little country girls were rather abashed by 
the splendour of the parlour where Miss Barry left 
them when she went to see about dinner. 

"Isn't it just like a palace?" whispered Diana. 
"I never was in Aunt Josephine's house before, and 
I'd no idea it was so grand. I just wish Julia Bell 
could see this she puts on such airs about her 
mother's parlour." 

"Velvet carpet," sighed Anne luxuriously, "and 
silk curtains ! I've dreamed of such things, Diana. 
But do you know I don't believe I feel very comfort- 
able with them after all. There are so many things 
in this room and all so splendid that there is no 
scope for imagination. That is one consolation 
when you are poor there are so many more things 
you can imagine about." 

Their sojourn in town was something that Anne 


and Diana dated from for years. From first to last 
it was crowded with delights. 

On Wednesday Miss Barry took them to the Ex- 
hibition grounds and kept them there all day. 

"It was splendid," Anne related to Marilla later 
on. "I never imagined anything so interesting. I 
don't really know which department was the most 
interesting. I think I liked the horses and the flow- 
ers and the fancy work best. Josie Pye took first 
prize for knitted lace. I was real glad she did. And 
I was glad that I felt glad, for it shows I'm improv- 
ing, don't you think, Marilla, when I can rejoice in 
Josie's success ? Mr. Harmon Andrews took second 
prize for Gravenstein apples and Mr. Bell took first 
prize for a pig. Diana said she thought it was ridic- 
ulous for a Sunday-school superintendent to take a 
prize in pigs, but I don't see why. Do you? She 
said she would always think of it after this when he 
was praying so solemnly. Clara Louise MacPher- 
son took a prize for painting, and Mrs. Lynde got 
first prize for home-made butter and cheese. So 
Avonlea was pretty well represented, wasn't it? 
Mrs. Lynde was there that day, and I never knew 
how much I really liked her until I saw her familiar 
face among all those strangers. There were thous- 
ands of people there, Marilla. It made me feel 
dreadfully insignificant. And Miss Barry took us 
up to the grand stand to see the horse-races. Mrs. 
Lynde wouldn't go; she said horse-racing was an 
abomination, and she being a church-member, 
thought it her bounden duty to set a good example 
by staying away. But there were so many there 


I don't believe Mrs. Lynde's absence would ever be 
noticed. I don't think, though, that I ought to go 
very often to horse-races, because they are awfully 
fascinating. Diana got so excited that she offered 
to bet me ten cents that the red horse would win. 
I didn't believe he would, but I refused to bet, 
because I wanted to tell Mrs. Allan all about every- 
thing, and I felt sure it wouldn't do to tell her 
that. It's always wrong to do anything you can't 
tell the minister's wife. It's as good as an extra 
conscience to have a minister's wife for your friend. 
And I was very glad I didn't bet, because the red 
horse did win, and I would have lost ten cents. 
So you see that virtue was its own reward. We 
saw a man go up in a balloon. I'd love to go up 
in a balloon, Marilla; it would be simply thrilling; 
and we saw a man selling fortunes. You paid him 
ten cents and a little bird picked out your fortune 
for you. Miss Barry gave Diana and me ten cents 
each to have our fortunes told. Mine was that I 
would marry a dark-complected man who was very 
wealthy, and I would go across water to live. I 
looked carefully at all the dark men I saw after 
that, but I didn't care much for any of them, and 
anyhow I suppose it's too early to be looking out 
for him yet. Oh, it was a never-to-be-forgotten 
day, Marilla. I was so tired I couldn't sleep at 
night. Miss Barry put us in the spare room, accord- 
ing to promise. It was an elegant room, Marilla, 
but somehow sleeping in a spare room isn't what 
I used to think it was. That's the worst of growing 
up, and I'm beginning to realize it. The things 


you wanted so much when you were a child don't 
seem half so wonderful to you when you get them/' 

Thursday the girls had a drive in the park, and in 
the evening Miss Barry took them to a concert in 
the Academy of Music, where a noted prima donna 
was to sing. To Anne the evening was a glittering 
vision of delight. 

"Oh, Marilla, it was beyond description. I was 
So excited I couldn't even talk, so you may know 
what it was like. I just sat in enraptured silence. 
Madame Selitsky was perfectly beautiful, and wore 
white satin and diamonds. But when she began to 
sing I never thought about anything else. Oh, I 
can't tell you how I felt. But it seemed to me that 
it could never be hard to be good any more. I felt 
like I do when I look up to the stars. Tears came 
into my eyes, but, oh, they were such happy tears. 
I was so sorry when it was all over, and I told Miss 
Barry I didn't see how I was ever to return to com- 
mon life again. She said she thought if we went 
over to the restaurant across the street and had an 
ice-cream it might help me. That sounded so pro- 
saic ; but to my surprise I found it true. The ice- 
cream was delicious, Marilla, and it was so lovely 
and dissipated to be sitting there eating it at eleven 
o'clock at night. Diana said she believed she was 
born for city life. Miss Barry asked me what my 
opinion was, but I said I would have to think it 
over very seriously before I could tell her what I 
really thought. So I thought it over after I went 
to bed. That is the best time to think things out. 
And I came to the conclusion, Marilla, that I wasn't 


born for city life and that I was glad of it. It's 
nice to be eating ice-cream at brilliant restaurants at 
eleven o'clock at night once in awhile ; but as a regu- 
lar thing I'd rather be in the east gable at eleven, 
sound asleep, but kind of knowing even in my sleep 
that the stars were shining outside and that the 
wind was blowing in the firs across the brook. I 
told Miss Barry so at breakfast the next morning 
and she laughed. Miss Barry generally laughed at 
anything I said, even when I said the most solemn 
things. I don't think I liked it, Marilla, because 
I wasn't trying to be funny. But she is a most 
hospitable lady and treated us royally." 

Friday brought going-home time, and Mr. Barry 
drove in for the girls. 

"Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourselves," said 
Miss Barry, as she bade them good-bye. 

"Indeed we have," said Diana. 

"And you, Anne-girl?" 

"I've enjoyed every minute of the time," said 
Anne, throwing her arms impulsively about the old 
woman's neck and kissing her wrinkled cheek. Di- 
ana would never have dared to do such a thing, and 
felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss 
Barry was pleased, and she stood on her veranda 
and watched the buggy out of sight Then she went 
back into her big house with a sigh. It seemed very 
lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry 
was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be 
told, and had never cared much for anybody but her- 
self. She valued people only as they were of service 
to her or amused her. Anne had amused her, and 


consequently stood high in the old lady's good 
graces. But Miss Barry found herself thinking less 
about Anne's quaint speeches than of her fresh en- 
thusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little win- 
ning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips. 

"I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool 
when I heard she'd adopted a girl out of an orphan 
asylum," she said to herself, "but I guess she didn't 
make much of a mistake after all. If I'd a child 
like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better 
and happier woman." 

Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant 

as the drive in pleasanter, indeed, since there 

was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at 
the end of it. It was sunset when they passed 
through White Sands and turned into the shore 
road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly 
against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was 
rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and trans- 
figured in her light. Every little cove along the 
curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The 
waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below 
them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, 
fresh air. 

"Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going 
home," breathed Anne. 

When she crossed the log bridge over the brook 
the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a 
friendly welcome back, and through the open door 
shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow 
athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely 


up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper 
was waiting on the table. 

"So you've got back?" said Manila, folding up 
her knitting. 

"Yes, and, oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne 
joyously. "I could kiss everything, even to the 
clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken ! You don't mean 
to say you cooked that for mel" 

"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be 
hungry after such a drive and need something real 
appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and 
we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. 
I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been 
fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put 
in four longer days." 

After supper Anne sat before the fire between 
Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account 
of her visit. 

"I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, 
"and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But 
the best of it all was the coming home." 


MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned 
back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she 
thought vaguely that she must see about having 
her glasses changed the next time she went to town, 
for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. 

It was nearly dark, for the dull November twi- 
light had fallen around Green Gables, and the only 
light in the kitchen came from the dancing red 
flames of the stove. 

Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearth- 
rug, gazing into that joyous glow where the sun- 
shine of a hundred summers was being distilled 
from the maple cord-wood. She had been reading, 
but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she 
was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips. 
Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves 
out of the mists and rainbows of her lively fancy; 
adventures wonderful and enthralling were happen- 
ing to her in cloudland adventures that always 
turned out triumphantly and never involved her in 
scrapes like those of actual life. 

Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that 
would never have been suffered to reveal itself in 
any clearer light than that soft mingling of fireshine 



and shadow. The lesson of a love that should dis- 
play itself easily in spoken word and open look was 
one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned 
to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all 
the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstra- 
tiveness. Her love made her afraid of being unduly 
indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that 
it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely 
on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, 
and perhaps she performed a sort of unconscious 
penance for this by being stricter and more critical 
than if the girl had been less dear to her. Certainly 
Anne herself had no idea how Marilla loved her. 
She sometimes thought wistfully that Marilla was 
very hard to please and distinctly lacking in sympa- 
thy and understanding. But she always checked the 
thought reproachfully remembering what she owed 
to Marilla. 

"Anne," said Marilla abruptly, "Miss Stacy was 
here this afternoon when you were out with Diana." 

Anne came back from her other world with a 
etart and a sigh. 

"Was she ? Oh, I'm so sorry I wasn't in. Why 
didn't you call me, Marilla ? Diana and I were only 
over in the Haunted Wood. It's lovely in the 
woods now. All the little wood things the ferns 
and the satin leaves and the crackerberries have 
gone to sleep, just as if somebody had tucked them 
away until spring under a blanket ef leaves. I 
think it was a little gray fairy with a rainbow scarf 
that came tiptoeing along the last moonlight night 
and did it. Diana wouldn't say much about that. 


though. Diana has never forgotten the scolding 
her mother gave her about imagining ghosts into 
the Haunted Wood. It had a very bad effect on 
Diana's imagination. It blighted it. Mrs. Lynde 
says Myrtle Bell is a blighted being. I asked Ruby 
Gillis why Myrtle was blighted, and Ruby said she 
guessed it was because her young man had gone 
back on her. Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but 
young men, and the older she gets the worse she 
is. Young men are all very well in their place, 
but it doesn't do to drag them into everything, does 
it ? Diana and I are thinking seriously of promising 
each other that we will never marry but be nice 
old maids and live together for ever. Diana hasn't 
quite made up her mind though, because she thinks 
perhaps it would be nobler to marry some wild, 
dashing, wicked young man and reform him. Diana 
and I talk a great deal about serious subjects now, 
you know. We feel that we are so much older 
than we used to be that it isn't becoming to talk of 
childish matters. It's such a solemn thing to be 
almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took all us 
girls who are in our teens down to the brook last 
Wednesday, and talked to us about it. She said 
we couldn't be too careful what habits we formed 
and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because 
by the time we were twenty our characters would 
be developed and the foundation laid for our whole 
future life. And she said if the foundation was 
shaky we could never build anything really worth 
while on it. Diana and I talked the matter over 
coming home from school. We felt extremely 


Solemn, Manila. And we decided that we would try 
to be very careful indeed and form respectable 
habits and learn all we could and be as sensible as 
possible, so that by the time we were twenty our 
characters would be properly developed. It's per- 
fectly appalling to think of being twenty, Marilla. 
It sounds so fearfully old and grown up. But why 
was Miss Stacy here this afternoon?" 

"That is what I want to tell you, Anne, if you'll 
ever give me a chance to get a word in edgewise. 
She was talking about you." 

"About me?" Anne looked rather scared. Then 
she flushed and exclaimed : 

"Oh, I know what she was saying. I meant to 
tell you, Marilla, honestly I did, but I forgot. Miss 
Stacy caught me reading 'Ben Hur' in school yester- 
day afternoon when I should have been studying my 
Canadian history. Jane Andrews lent it to me. I 
was reading it at dinner-hour, and I had just got to 
the chariot-race when school went in. I was simply 
wild to know how it turned out although I felt 
sure 'Ben Hur' must win, because it wouldn't be 
poetical justice if he didn't so I spread the history 
open on my desk-lid and then tucked "Ben Hur' 
between the desk and my knee. It just looked as if 
I was studying Canadian history, you know, while 
all the while I was revelling in 'Ben Hur.' I was 
so interested in it that I never noticed Miss Stacy 
coming down the aisle until all at once I just looked 
up and there she was looking down at me, so re- 
proachful like. I can't tell you how ashamed I 
felt, Marilla, especially when I heard Josie Pye gig- 


gling. Miss Stacy took 'Ben Hur' away, but she 
never said a word then. She kept me in at recess 
and talked to me. She said I had done very wrong 
in two respects. First, I was wasting the time I 
ought to have put on my studies; and secondly E 
was deceiving my teacher in trying to make it ap- 
pear I was reading a history when it was a story- 
book instead. I had never realized until that mo- 
ment, Marilla, that what I was doing was deceitful, 
I was shocked. I cried bitterly, and asked Miss 
Stacy to forgive me and I'd never do such a thing 
again; and I offered to do penance by never so 
much as looking at 'Ben Hur' for a whole week, 
not even to see how the chariot-race turned out. 
But Miss Stacy said she wouldn't require that, and 
she forgave me freely. So I think it wasn't very 
kind of her to come up here to you about it after 

"Miss Stacy never mentioned such a thing to me, 
Anne, and it's only your guilty conscience that's the 
matter with you. You have no business to be tak- 
ing story-books to school. You read too many 
novels anyhow. When I was a girl I wasn't so 
much as allowed to look at a novel." 

"Oh, how can you call 'Ben Hur' a novel when 
it's really such a religious book?" protested Anne. 
"Of course it's a little too exciting to be proper 
reading for Sunday, and I only read it on week-days. 
And I never read any book now unless either Miss 
Stacy or Mrs. Allan thinks it is a proper book for 
a girl thirteen and three-quarters to read. Miss 
Stacy made me promise that. She found me reading 


a book one day called, The Lurid Mystery of the 
Haunted Hall.' It was one Ruby Gillis had lent me, 
and, oh, Marilla, it was so fascinating and creepy. 
It just curdled the blood in my veins. But Miss 
Stacy said it was a very silly, unwholesome book, 
and she asked me not to read any more of it or 
any like it. I didn't mind promising not to read 
any more like it, but it was agonizing to give back 
that book without knowing how it turned out. But 
my love for Miss Stacy stood the test and I did. 
It's really wonderful, Marilla, what you can do when 
you're truly anxious to please a certain person." 

"Well, I guess I'll light the lamp and get to 
work," said Marilla. "I see plainly that you don't 
want to hear what Miss Stacy had to say. You're 
more interested in the sound of your own tongue 
than in anything else." 

"Oh, indeed, Marilla, I do want to hear it," cried 
Anne contritely. "I won't say another word not 
one. I know I talk too much, but I am really trying 
to overcome it, and although I say far too much, 
yet if you only knew how many things I want to 
say and don't, you'd give me some credit for it 
Please tell me, Marilla." 

"Well, Miss Stacy wants to organize a class 
among her advanced students who mean to study 
for the entrance examination into Queen's. She in- 
tends to give them extra lessons for an hour after 
school. And she came to ask Matthew and me if 
we would like to have you join it. iWhat do you 
think about it yourself, Anne? Would you like to 
go to Queen's and pass for a teacher?" 


"Oh, Marilla!" Anne straightened to her knees 
and clasped her hands. "It's been the dream of 
my life that is, for the last six months, ever since 
Ruby and Jane began to talk of studying for the en- 
trance. But I didn't say anything about it, because 
I supposed it would be perfectly useless. I'd love 
to be a teacher. But won't it be dreadfully expen- 
sive? Mr.. Andrews says it cost him one hundred 
and fifty dollars to put Prissy through, and Prissy 
wasn't a dunce in geometry?" 

"I guess you needn't worry about that part of it. 
When Matthew and I took you to bring up we re- 
solved we would do the best we could for you and 
give you a good education. I believe in a girl being 
fitted to earn her own living whether she ever has 
to or not. You'll always have a home at Green 
Gables as long as Matthew and I are here, but no- 
body knows what is going to happen in this uncer- 
tain world, and it's just as well to be prepared. So 
you can join the Queen's class if you like, Anne." 

"Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne flung her arms 
about Manila's waist and looked up earnestly into her 
face. "I'm extremely grateful to you and Matthew. 
And I'll study as hard as I can and do my very best 
to be a credit to you. I warn you not to expect much 
in geometry, but I think I can hold my own in anything 
else if I work hard." 

"I dare say you'll get along well enough. Miss 
Stacy says you are bright and diligent" Not for 
worlds would Marilla have told Anne just what Miss 
Stacy had said about her; that would have been to 
pamper vanity. "You needn't rush to any extreme of 


killing yourself over your books. There is no hurry. 
You won't be ready to try the entrance for a year 
and a half yet. But it's well to begin in time and be 
thoroughly grounded, Miss Stacy says." 

"I shall take more interest than ever in my studies 
now," said Anne blissfully, "because I have a purpose 
in life. Mr. Allan says everybody should have a pur- 
pose in life and pursue it faithfully. Only he says 
we must first make sure that it is a worthy purpose. 
I would call it a worthy purpose to want to be a teacher 
like Miss Stacy, wouldn't you, Marilla? I think it's 
a very noble profession." 

The Queen's class was organized in due time. Gil- 
bert Blythe, Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, 
Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane, and Moody Spurgeon Mac- 
Pherson joined it. Diana Barry did not, as her 
parents did not intend to send her to Queen's. This 
seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, 
since the night on which Minnie May had had the 
croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything. 
On the evening when the Queen's class first remained 
in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw Diana go 
slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through 
the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former 
could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing im- 
pulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, 
and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted 
Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for 
worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie 
Pye see those tears. 

"But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted 
the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon 


last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said 
mournfully that night "I thought how splendid it 
would have been if Diana had only been going to study 
for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things per- 
fect vn this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. 
Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but 
there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. 
And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely 
interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to 
be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby 
says she will only teach for two years after she gets 
through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says 
she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, 
never marry, because you are paid a salary for teach- 
ing, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls 
if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. 
I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for 
Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, 
and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says 
she is just going to college for education's sake, be- 
cause she won't have to earn her own living ; she says 
of course it is different with orphans who are living on 
charity they have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is go- 
ing to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be 
anything else with a name like that to live up to. I 
hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the 
thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes 
me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that 
big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears stick- 
ing out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intel- 
lectual-looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane 
says he's going to go into politics and be a member of 


Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at 
that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's 
only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." 

"What is Gilbert Blytlre going to be?" queried Ma- 
nila, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar. 

"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's am- 
bition in life is if he has any," said Anne scornfully. 

There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne 
now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one- 
sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert 
was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. 
He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other 
members of the class tacitly acknowledged their su- 
periority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with 

Since the day by the pond when she had refused to 
listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the 
aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recogni- 
tion whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He 
talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books 
and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, 
sometimes walked home with one or the other of them 
from prayer-meeting or Debating Club. But Anne 
Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it 
was not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that 
she told herself with a toss of her head that she did 
not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little 
heart she knew that she did care, and mat if she had 
that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she 
would answer very differently. All at once, as it 
seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the 
old resentment she had cherished against him was gone 


gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. 
It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emo- 
tion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the 
old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had wit- 
nessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that 
she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it 
But it was too late. 

And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not 
even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was 
and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud 
and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings 
in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now 
that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who pos- 
sibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could 
not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his 
retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was 
that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, con- 
tinually and undeservedly. 

Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of 
pleasant duties and studies. For Anne the days slipped 
by like golden beads on the necklace of the year. She 
was happy, eager, interested; there were lessons to 
be learned and honours to be won ; delightful books to 
read ; new pieces to be practised for the Sunday-school 
choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at the manse with 
Mrs. Allan ; and then, almost before Anne realized it, 
spring had come again to Green Gables and all the 
world was abloom once more. 

Studies palled just a wee bit then ; the Queen's class, 
left behind in school while the others scattered to green 
lanes and leafy wood-cuts and meadow byways, looked 
wistfullv out of the windows and discovered that Latin 


verbs and French exercises had somehow lost the tang 
and zest they had possessed in the crisp winter months. 
Even Anne and Gilbert lagged and grew indifferent. 
Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term was 
ended and the glad vacation days stretched rosily be- 
fore them. 

"But you've done good work this past year," Miss 
Stacy told them on the last evening, "and you deserve 
a good, jolly vacation. Have the best time you can 
in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of 
health and vitality and ambition to carry you through 
next year. It will be the tug of war, you know the 
last year before the Entrance." 

"Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?" 
asked Josie Pye. 

Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions ; in this in- 
stance the rest of the class felt grateful to her; none 
of them would have dared to ask it of Miss Stacy ; but 
all wanted to, for there had been alarming rumours 
running at large through the school for some time that 
Miss Stacy was not coming back the next year that 
she had been offered a position in the graded school of 
her own home district and meant to accept. The 
Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her 

"Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought 
of taking another school, but I have decided to come 
back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I've grown so 
interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't 
leave them. So I'll stay and see you through." 

"Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spar- 
geon had never been so carried away by his feelings 


before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he 
thought about it for a week. 

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Anne with shining eyes. 
"Dear Miss Stacy, it would be perfectly dreadful if 
you didn't come back. I don't believe I could have 
the heart to go on with my studies at all if another 
teacher came here." 

When Anne got home that night she stacked all 
her text-books away in an old trunk in the attic, locked 
it, and threw the key into the blanket box. 

"I'm not even going to look at a school book in 
vacation," she told Marilla. "I've studied as hard all 
the term as I possibly could and I've pored over that 
geometry until I know every proposition in the first 
book off by heart, even when the letters are changed. 
I just feel tired of everything sensible and I'm going 
to let my imagination run riot for the summer. Oh, 
you needn't be alarmed, Marilla. I'll only let it run 
riot within reasonable limits. But I want to have a 
real good jolly time this summer, for maybe it's the 
last summer I'll be a little girl. Mrs. Lynde says that 
if I keep stretching out next year as I've done this I'll 
have to put on longer skirts. She says I'm all running 
to legs and eyes. And when I put on longer skirts I 
shall feel that I have to live up to them and be very 
dignified. It won't even do to believe in fairies then, 
I'm afraid ; so I'm going to believe in them with all my 
whole heart this summer. I think we're going to have 
a very gay vacation. Ruby Gillis is going to have a 
birthday party soon and there's the Sunday-school 
picnic and the missionary concert next month. And 
Mr. Barry says that some evening he'll take Diana and 


me over to the White Sands Hotel and have dinner 
there. They have dinner there in the evening, you 
know. Jane Andrews was over once last summet and 
she says it was a dazzling sight to see the electric 
lights and the flowers and all the lady guests in such 
beautiful dresses. Jane says it was her first glimpse 
into high life and she'll never forget it to her dying 

Mrs. Lynde came up the next afternoon to find out 
why Marilla had not been at the Aid meeting on 
Thursday. When Marilla was not at Aid meeting 
people knew that there was something wrong at Green 

"Matthew had a bad spell with his heart Thursday," 
Marilla explained, "and I didn't feel like leaving him. 
Oh, yes, he's all right again now, but he takes them 
spells oftener than he used to and I'm anxious abou*i 
him. The doctor says he must be careful to avoid ex- 
citement. That's easy enough, for Matthew doesn't 
go about looking for excitement by any means and 
never did, but he's not to do any very heavy work 
either and you might as well tell Matthew not to 
breathe as not to work. Come and lay off your 
things, Rachel. You'll stay for tea?" 

"Well, seeing you're so pressing, perhaps I might as 
well stay/' said Mrs. Rachel, who had not the slightest 
intention of doing anything else. 

Mrs. Rachel and Marilla sat comfortably in the 
parlour while Anne got the tea and made hot biscuits 
that were light and white enough to defy even Mrs. 
Rachel's criticism. 

"I must say Anne has turned out a real smart girl," 


admitted Mrs. Rachel, as Marilla accompanied her to 
the end of the lane at sunset "She must be a great 
help to you." 

"She is," said Marilla, "and she's real steady and 
reliable now. I used to be afraid she'd never get over 
her feather-brained ways, but she has and I wouldn't 
be afraid to trust her in anything now." 

"I never would have thought she'd have turned out 
so well that first day I was here three years ago," said 
Mrs. Rachel. "Lawful heart, shall I ever forget that 
tantrum of hers ! When I went home that night I says 
to Thomas, says I, 'Mark my words, Thomas, Marilla 
Cuthbert'll live to rue the step she's took. But I was 
mistaken and I'm real glad of it. I ain't one of those 
kind of people, Marilla, as can never be brought to 
own up that they've made a mistake. No, that never 
was my way, thank goodness. I did make a mistake 
in judging Anne, but it weren't no wonder, for an 
odder, unexpecteder witch of a child there never was 
in this world, that's what. There was no ciphering 
her out by the rules that worked with other children. 
It's nothing short of wonderful how she's improved 
these three years, but especially in looks. She's a real 
pretty girl got to be, though I can't say I'm overly 
partial to that pale, big-eyed style myself. I like more 
snap and colour, like Diana Barry has or Ruby Gillis. 
Ruby Gillis' looks are real showy. But somehow I 
don't know how it is but when Anne and them are to- 
gether, though she ain't half as handsome, she makes 
them look kind of common and overdone something 
like them white June lilies she calls narcissus alongside 
of the big, red peonies, that's what" 



ANNE had her "good" summer and enjoyed it 
whole-heartedly. She and Diana fairly lived out- 
doors, revelling in all the delights that Lovers' 
Lane and the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and 
Victoria Island afforded. Marilla offered no ob- 
jections to Anne's gipsyings. The Spencervale doc- 
tor who had come the night Minnie May had the 
croup met Anne at the house of a patient one 
afternoon early in vacation, looked her over sharply, 
screwed up his mouth, shook his head, and sent a 
message to Marilla Cuthbert by another person. 
It was: 

"Keep that red-headed girl of yours in the open 
air all summer and don't let her read books until 
she gets more spring into her step." 

This message frightened Marilla wholesomely. 
She read Anne's death warrant by consumption 
in it unless it was scrupulously obeyed. As a 
result, Anne had the golden summer of her life as 
far as freedom and frolic went. She walked, rowed, 
berried and dreamed to her heart's content; and 
when September came she was bright-eyed and 
alert, with a step that would have satisfied the 
Spencervale doctor and a heart full of ambition 
and zest once more. 



"I feel just like studying with might and main," 
she declared as she brought her books down from 
the attic. "Oh, you good old friends, I'm glad to 
see your honest faces once more yes, even you, 
geometry. I've had a perfectly beautiful summer, 
Marilla, and now I'm rejoicing as a strong man to 
run a race, as Mr. Allan said last Sunday. Doesn't 
Mr. Allan preach magnificent sermons? Mrs. 
Lynde says he is improving every day and the 
first thing we know some city church will gobble 
him up and then we'll be left and have to turn to 
and break in another green preacher. But I don't 
see the use of meeting trouble half-way, do you, 
Marilla? I think it would be better just to enjoy 
Mr. Allan while we have him. If I were a man 
I think I'd be a minister. They can have such 
an influence for good, if their theology is sound; 
and it must be thrilling to preach splendid sermons 
and stir your hearers' hearts. Why can't women 
be ministers, Marilla? I asked Mrs. Lynde that 
and she was shocked and said it would be a scan- 
dalous thing. She said there might be female 
ministers in the States and she believed there was, 
but thank goodness we hadn't got to that stage in 
Canada yet and she hoped we never would. But I 
don't see why. I think women would make splendid 
ministers. When there is a social to be got up or 
a church tea or anything else to raise money the 
women have to turn to and do the work. I'm sure 
Mrs. Lynde can pray every bit as well as Super- 
intendent Bell and I've no doubt she could preach 
too with a little practice." 


"Yes, I believe she could," said Manilla drily. 
"She does plenty of unofficial preaching as it is. 
Nobody has much of a chance to go wrong in 
Avonlea with Rachel to oversee them." 

"Marilla," said Anne in a burst of confidence, "I 
want to tell you something and ask you what you 
think about it. It has worried me terribly on 
Sunday afternoons, that is, when I think specially 
about such matters. I do really want to be good ; 
and when I'm with you or Mrs. Allan or Miss Stacy 
I want it more than ever and I want to do just 
what would please you and what you would approve 
of. But mostly when I'm with Mrs. Lynde I feel 
desperately wicked and as if I wanted to go and 
do the very thing she tells me I oughtn't to do. 
I feel irresistibly tempted to do it. Now, what do 
you think is the reason I feel like that? Do you 
think it's because I'm really bad and unregener- 

Marilla looked dubious for a moment. Then she 

"If you are I guess I am too, Anne, for Rachel 
often has that very effect on me. I sometimes think 
she'd have more of an influence for good, as you say 
yourself, if she didn't keep nagging people to do 
right. There should have been a special command- 
ment against nagging. But there, I shouldn't talk 
so. Rachel is a good Christian woman and she 
means well. There isn't a kinder soul in Avonlea 
and she never shirks her share of work." 

"I'm very glad you feel the same," said Anne 
decidedly. "It's so encouraging. I sha'n't worry so 


much over that after this. But I dare say there'll 
be other things to worry me. They keep coming up 
new all the time things to perplex you, you know. 
You settle one question and there's another right 
after. There are so many things to be thought 
over and decided when you're beginning to grow up. 
It keeps me busy all the time thinking them over 
and deciding what is right. It's a serious thing to 
grow up, isn't it, Marilla? But when I have such 
good friends as you and Matthew and Mrs. Allan 
and Miss Stacy I ought to grow up successfully, 
and I'm sure it will be my own fault if I don't. 
I feel it's a great responsibility because I have only 
the one chance. If I don't grow up right I can't 
go back and begin over again. I've grown two 
inches this summer, Marilla. Mr. Gillis measured 
me at Ruby's party. I'm. so glad you made my 
new dresses longer. That dark green one is so 
pretty and it was sweet of you to put on the flounce. 
Of course I know it wasn't really necessary, but 
flounces are so stylish this fall and Josie Pye has 
flounces on all her dresses. I know I'll be able 
to study better because of mine. I shall have such 
a comfortable feeling deep down in my mind about 
that flounce." 

"It's worth something to have that," admitted 

Miss Stacy came back to Avonlea school and 
found all her pupils eager for work once more. Es- 
pecially did the Queen's class gird up their loins for 
the fray, for at the end of the coming year, dimly 
shadowing their pathway already, loomed up that 


fateful thing known as "the Entrance," at the 
thought of which one and all felt their hearts sink 
into their very shoes. Suppose they did not pass! 
That thought was doomed to haunt Anne through 
the waking hours of that winter, Sunday afternoons 
inclusive, to the almost entire exclusion of moral 
and theological problems. When Anne had bad 
dreams she found herself staring miserably at pass 
lists of the Entrance exams, where Gilbert Blythe's 
name was blazoned at the top and in which hers 
did not appear at all. 

But it was a jolly, busy, happy swift-flying winter, 
School work was as interesting, class rivalry as ab 
sorbing, as of yore. New worlds of thought, feeling, 
and ambition, fresh, fascinating fields of unexplored 
knowledge seemed to be opening out before Anne's 
eager eyes. 

"Hills peeped o'er hill and Alps on Alps arose." 

Much of all this was due to Miss Stacy's tactful, 
careful, broad-minded guidance. She led her class 
to think and explore and discover for themselves 
and encouraged straying from the old beaten paths 
to a degree that quite shocked Mrs. Lynde and the 
school trustees, who viewed all innovations on es- 
tablished methods rather dubiously. 

Apart from her studies Anne expanded socially, 
for Marilla, mindful of the Spencervale doctor's 
dictum, no longer vetoed occasional outings. The 
Debating Club flourished and gave several concerts; 
there were one or two parties almost verging on 


grown-up affairs ; there were sleigh drives and skat- 
ing frolics galore. 

Between times Anne grew, shooting up so rapidly 
that Marilla was astonished one day, when they 
were standing side by side, to find the girl was 
taller than herself. 

"Why, Anne, how you've grown!" she said, al- 
most unbelievingly. A sigh followed on the words. 
Marilla felt a queer regret over Anne's inches. The 
child she had learned to love had vanished somehow 
and here was this tall, serious-eyed girl of fifteen, 
with the thoughtful brows and the proudly poised 
little head, in her place. Marilla loved the girl as 
much as she had loved the child, but she was con- 
scious of a queer sorrowful sense of loss. And that 
night when Anne had gone to prayer-meeting with 
Diana Marilla sat alone in the wintry twilight and 
indulged in the weakness of a cry. Matthew, com- 
ing in with a lantern, caught her at it and gazed at 
her in such consternation that Marilla had to laugh 
through her tears. 

"I was thinking about Anne," she explained. 
"She's got to be such a big girl and she'll probably 
be away from us next winter. I'll miss her terrible." 

"She'll be able to come home often," comforted 
Matthew, to whom Anne was as yet and always 
would be the little, eager girl he had brought home 
from Bright River on that June evening four years 
before. "The branch railroad will be built to Car- 
mody by that time." 

"It won't be the same thing as having her here 
all the time," sighed Marilla gloomily, determined 


to enjoy her luxury of grief tmcomforted. "But 
there men can't understand these things!" 

There were other changes in Anne no less real 
than the physical change. For one thing, she be- 
came much quieter. Perhaps she thought all the 
more and dreamed as much as ever, but she cer- 
tainly talked less. Manila noticed and commented 
on this also. 

"You don't chatter half as much as you used to, 
Anne, nor use half as many big words. What has 
come over you?" 

Anne coloured and laughed a little, as she 
dropped her book and looked dreamily out of the 
window, where big fat red buds were bursting out 
on the creeper in response to the lure of the spring 

"I don't know I don't want to talk as much," 
she said, denting her chin thoughtfully with her 
fore-finger. "It's nicer to think dear, pretty 
thoughts and keep them in one's heart, like treas- 
ures. I don't like to have them laughed at or 
wondered over. And somehow I don't want to use 
big words any more. It's almost a pity, isn't it, 
now that I'm really growing big enough to say 
them if I did want to. It's fun to be almost grown 
up in some ways, but it's not the kind of fun ft 
expected, Marilla. There's so much to learn and 
do and think that there isn't time for big words. 
Besides, Miss Stacy says the short ones are much 
stronger and better. She makes us write all our 
essays as simply as possible. It was hard at first. 
I was so used to crowding in all the fine big words 


I could think of and I thought of any number of 
them. But I've got used to it now and I see it's 
so much better." 

"What has become of your story club? I haven't 
heard you speak of it for a long time." 

"The story club isn't in existence any longer. 
We hadn't time for it and anyhow I think we had 
got tired of it. It was silly to be writing about 
love and murder and elopements and mysteries. 
Miss Stacy sometimes has us write a story for 
training in composition, but she won't let us write 
anything but what might happen in Avonlea in our 
own lives, and she criticizes it very sharply and 
makes us criticize our own too. I never thought 
my compositions had so many faults until I began 
to look for them myself. I felt so ashamed I wanted 
to give up altogether, but Miss Stacy said I could 
learn to write well if I only trained myself to be 
my own severest critic. And so I am trying to." 

"You've only two more months before the En- 
trance," said Marilla. "Do you think you'll be 
able to get through?" 

Anne shivered. 

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I'll be all 
right and then I get horribly afraid. We've stud- 
ied hard and Miss Stacy has drilled us thoroughly, 
but we mayn't get through for all that. We've each 
got a stumbling-block. Mine is geometry of course, 
and Jane's is Latin and Ruby's and Charlie's is 
algebra and Josie's is arithmetic. Moody Spurgeon 
says he feels it in his bones that he is going to fail 
in English history. Miss Stacy is going to give us 


examinations in June just as hard as we'll have at 
the Entrance and mark us just as strictly, so we'll 
have some idea. I wish it was all over, Marilla. 
It haunts me. Sometimes I wake up in the night 
and wonder what I'll do if I don't pass." 

"Why, go to school next year ane try again/' 
said Marilla unconcernedly. 

"Oh, I don't believe I'd have the heart for it. It 
would be such a disgrace to fail, especially if Gil if 
the others passed. And I get so nervous in an 
examination that I'm likely to make a mess of it. 
I wish I had nerves like Jane Andrews. Nothing 
rattles her." 

Anne sighed and, dragging her eyes from the 
witcheries of the spring world, the beckoning day 
of breeze and blue, and the green things upspring^ 
ing in the garden, buried herself resolutely in her 
book. There would be other springs, but if she did 
not succeed in passing the Entrance Anne felt con- 
vinced that she would never recover sufficiently to 
enjoy them. 


WITH the end of June came the close of the term 
and the close of Miss Stacy's rule in Avonlea school. 
Anne and Diana walked home that evening feeling 
very sober indeed. Red eyes and damp handker- 
chiefs bore convincing testimony to the fact that 
Miss Stacy's farewell words must have been quite 
as touching as Mr. Phillips' had been under similar 
circumstances three years before. Diana looked 
back at the school-house from the foot of the spruce 
hill and sighed deeply. 

"It does seem as if it was the end of everything, 
doesn't it?" she said dismally. 

"You oughtn't to feel half as badly as I do," said 
Anne, hunting vainly for a dry spot on her hand- 
kerchief. "You'll be back again next winter, but 
I suppose I've left the dear old school for ever if 
I have good luck, that is." 

"It won't be a bit the same. Miss Stacy won't be 
there, nor you nor Jane nor Ruby probably. I shall 
have to sit all alone, for I couldn't bear to have 
another deskmate after you. Oh, we have had jolly 
times, haven't we, Anne? It's dreadful to think 
they're all over." 

Two big tears rolled down by Diana's nose. 



"If you would stop crying I could," said Anne 
imploringly. "Just as soon as I put away my hanky 
I see you brimming up and that starts me off again. 
As Mrs. Lynde says, 'If you can't be cheerful, be as 
cheerful as you can.' After all, I dare say I'll be 
back next year. This is one of the times I know 
I'm not going to pass. They're getting alarmingly 

"Why, you came out splendidly in the exams 
Miss Stacy gave." 

"Yes, but those exams didn't make me nervous. 
When I think of the real thing you can't imagine 
what a horrid cold fluttery feeling comes round my 
heart. And then my number is thirteen and Josie 
Pye says it's so unlucky. I am not superstitious and 
I know it can make no difference. But still I wish 
it wasn't thirteen." 

"I do wish I were going in with you," said Diana. 
"Wouldn't we have a perfectly elegant time? But 
I suppose you'll have to cram in the evenings." 

"No ; Miss Stacy has made us promise not to open 
a book at all. She says it would only tire and con- 
fuse us and we are to go out walking and not think 
about the exams at all and go to bed early. It's 
good advice, but I expect it will be hard to follow ; 
good advice is apt to be, I think. Prissy Andrews 
told me that she sat up half the night every night 
of her Entrance week and crammed for dear life; 
and I had determined to sit up at least as long as 
she did. It was so kind of your Aunt Josephine to 
ask me to stay at Beechwood while I'm in town." 

"You'll write to me while you're in, won't you?" 


"I'll write Tuesday night and tell you how the 
first day goes," promised Anne. 

"I'll be haunting the post-office Wednesday," 
vowed Diana. 

Anne went to town the following Monday and on 
Wednesday Diana haunted the post-office, as 
agreed, and got her letter. 

"Dearest Diana," wrote Anne, "here it is Tues- 
day night and I'm writing this in the library at 
Beechwood. Last night I was horribly lonesome 
all alone in my room and wished so much you were 
with me. I couldn't 'cram' because I'd promised 
Miss Stacy not to, but it was as hard to keep from 
opening my history as it used to be to keep from 
heading a story before my lessons were learned. 

"This morning Miss Stacy came for me and we 
went to the Academy, calling for Jane and Ruby and 
Josie on our way. Ruby asked me to feel her hands 
and they were as cold as ice. Josie said I looked as 
if I hadn't slept a wink and she didn't believe I was 
strong enough to stand the grind of the teacher's 
course even if I did get through. There are times 
and seasons even yet when I don't feel that I've 
made any great headway in learning to like Josie 

"When we reached the Academy there were 
scores of students there from all over the Island. 
The first person we saw was Moody Spurgeon 
sitting on the steps and muttering away to himself. 
Jane asked him what on earth he was doing and he 
said he was repeating the multiplication table over 
and over to steady his nerves and for pity's sake 


not to interrupt him, because if he stopped for a 
moment he got frightened and forgot everything 
he ever knew, but the multiplication table kept all 
his facts firmly in their proper place! 

"When we were assigned to our rooms Miss 
Stacy had to leave us. Jane and I sat together and 
Jane was so composed that I envied her. No need 
of the multiplication table for good, steady, sensible 
Jane! I wondered if I looked as I felt and if they 
could hear my heart thumping clear across the 
room. Then a man came in and began distributing 
the English examination sheets. My hands grew 
cold then and my head fairly whirled around as I 
picked it up. Just one awful moment, Diana, I 
felt exactly as I did four years ago when I asked 
Marilla if I might stay at Green Gables and then 
everything cleared up in mind and my heart began 
beating again I forgot to say that it had stopped 
altogether ! for I knew I could do something with 
that paper anyhow. 

"At noon we went home for dinner and then back 
again for history in the afternoon. The history was 
a pretty hard paper and I got dreadfully mixed up 
in the dates. Still, I think I did fairly well to-day. 
But oh, Diana, to-morrow the geometry exam 
comes off and when I think of it it takes every bit 
of determination I possess to keep from opening my 
Euclid. If I thought the multiplication table would 
help me any I would recite it from now till to- 
morrow morning. 

"I went down to see the other girls this evening. 
On my way I met Moody Spurgeon wandering dis- 


tractedly around. He said he knew he had failed in 
history and he was born to be a disappointment to 
his parents and he was going home on the morning 
train ; and it would be easier to be a carpenter than 
a minister, anyhow. I cheered him up and per- 
suaded him to stay to the end because it would be 
unfair to Miss Stacy rf he didn't. Sometimes I have 
wished I was born a boy, but when I see Moody 
Spurgeon I'm always glad I'm a girl and not his 

"Ruby was in hysterics when I reached their 
boarding-house; she bad just discovered a fearful 
mistake she had made in her English paper. When 
she recovered we went up-town and had an ice- 
cream. How we wished you had been with us. 

"Oh, Diana, if only the geometry examination 
were over! But there, as Mrs. Lynde would say, 
the sun will go on rising and setting whether I 
fail in geometry or not. That is true but not es- 
pecially comforting. I think I'd rather it didn't go 
on if I failed! 

"Yours devotedly, 

The geometry examination and all the others 
were over in due time and Anne arrived home on 
Friday evening, rather tired but with an air of 
chastened triumph about her. Diana was over at 
Green Gables when she arrived and they met as 
if they had been parted for years. 

"You old darling, it's perfectly splendid to see 
you back again. It seems like an age since you 


went to town and oh, Anne, how did you get 

"Pretty well, I think, in everything but the ge- 
ometry. I don't know whether I passed in it or 
not and I have a creepy, crawly presentiment that 
I didn't. Oh, how good it is to be back! Green 
Gables is the dearest, loveliest spot in the world." 

"How did the others do?" 

"The girls say they know they didn't pass, but I 
think they did pretty well. Josie says the geometry 
was so easy a child of ten could do it! Moody 
Spurgeon still thinks he failed in history and Charlie 
says he failed in algebra. But we don't really know 
anything about it and won't until the pass list is 
out. That won't be for a fortnight. Fancy living a 
fortnight in such suspense ! I wish I could go to 
sleep and never wake up until it is over." 

Diana knew it would be useless to ask how Gil- 
bert Blythe had fared, so she merely said: 

"Oh, you'll pass all right. Don't worry." 

"I'd rather not pass at all than not come out 
pretty well up on the list," flashed Anne, by which 
she meant and Diana knew she meant that 
success would be incomplete and bitter if she did 
not come out ahead of Gilbert Blythe. 

With this end in view Anne had strained every 
nerve during the examinations. So had Gilbert. 
They had met and passed each other on the street 
a dozen times without any sign of recognition and 
every time Anne had held her head a little higher 
and wished a little more earnestly that she had 
made friends with Gilbert when he asked her, and 


vowed a little more determinedly to surpass him in 
the examination. She knew that all Avonlea junior 
was wondering which would come out first; she 
even knew that Jimmy Glover and Ned Wright had 
a bet on the question and that Josie Pye had said 
there was no doubt in the world that Gilbert would 
be first ; and she felt that her humiliation would be 
unbearable if she failed. 

But she had another and nobler motive for wish- 
ing to do well. She wanted to "pass high" for the 
sake of Matthew and Marilla especially Matthew. 
Matthew had declared to her his conviction that 
she "would beat the whole Island." That, Anne 
felt, was something it would be foolish to hope for 
even in the wildest dreams. But she did hope fer- 
vently that she would be among the first ten at 
least, so that she might see Matthew's kindly brown 
eyes gleam with pride in her achievement. That, 
she felt, would be a sweet reward indeed for all her 
hard work and patient grubbing among unimagi- 
native equations and conjugations. 

At the end of the fortnight Anne took to "haunt- 
ing" the post-office also, in the distracted company 
of Jane, Ruby and Josie, opening the Charlottetown 
dailies with shaking hands and cold, sinkaway feel- 
ings as bad as any experienced during the Entrance 
week. Charlie and Gilbert were not above doing 
this too, but Moody Spurgeon stayed resolutely 

"I haven't got the grit to go there and look at 
a paper in cold blood," he told Anne. "I'm just 


going to wait until somebody comes and tells me 
suddenly whether I've passed or not." 

When three weeks had gone by without the pass 
list appearing Anne began to feel that she really 
couldn't stand the strain much longer. Her appetite 
failed and her interest in Avonlea doings lan- 
guished. Mrs. Lynde wanted to know what else 
you could expect with a Tory superintendent of 
education at the head of affairs, and Matthew, 
noting Anne's paleness and indifference and the 
lagging steps that bore her home from the post- 
office every afternoon, began seriously to wonder 
if he hadn't better vote Grit at the next election. 

But one evening the news came. Anne was sit- 
ting at her open window, for the time forgetful of 
the woes of examinations and the cares of the 
world, as she drank in the beauty of the summer 
dusk, sweet-scented with flower-breaths from the 
garden below and sibilant and rustling from the 
stir of poplars. The eastern sky above the firs was 
flushed faintly pink from the reflection of the west, 
and Anne was wondering dreamily if the spirit of 
colour looked like that, when she saw Diana come 
flying down through the firs, over the log bridge, 
and up the slope, with a fluttering newspaper in 
her hand. 

Anne sprang to her feet, knowing at once what 
that paper contained. The pass list was out ! Her 
head whirled and her heart beat until it hurt her. 
She could not move a step. It seemed an hour to 
her before Diana came rushing along the hall and 


burst into the room without even knocking, so great 
was her excitement. 

"Anne, you've passed," she cried, "passed the 
very first you and Gilbert both you're ties but 
your name is first. Oh, I'm so proud 1" 

Diana flung the paper on the table and herself on 
Anne's bed, utterly breathless and incapable of 
further speech. Anne lighted the lamp, oversetting 
the match-safe and using up half a dozen matches 
before her shaking hands could accomplish the task. 
Then she snatched up the paper. Yes, she had 
passed there was her name at the very top of a 
list of two hundred! That moment wsts worth liv- 
ing for. 

"You did just splendidly, Anne," puffed Diana, 
recovering sufficiently to sit up and speak, for Anne, 
starry-eyed and rapt, had not uttered a word. 
"Father brought the paper home from Bright River 
not ten minutes ago it came out on the afternoon 
train, you know, and won't be here till to-morrow 
by mail and when I saw the pass list I just rushed 
over like a wild thing. You've all passed, every 
one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he's 
conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty 
well they're half-way up and so did Charlie. 
Josie just scraped through with three marks to 
spare, but you'll see she'll put on as many airs as 
if she'd led. Won't Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, 
Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at 
the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I 
know I'd go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy 


as it is, but you're as calm and cool as a spring 

"I'm just dazzled inside," said Anne. "I want 
to say a hundred things, and I can't find words to 
say them in. I never dreamed of this yes, I did, 
too, just once! I let myself think on r .g t 'What if 
I should come out first?' quakingly, you know, for 
it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could 
lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I 
must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. 
Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news 
to the others." 

They hurried to the hayfield below the barn 
where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would 
have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the 
lane fence. 

"Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed 
and I'm first or one of the first ! I'm not vain, but 
I'm thankful." 

"Well now, I always said it," said Matthew, gaz- 
ing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could 
beat them all easy." 

"You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," 
said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in 
Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that 
good soul said heartily: 

"I just guess she has done well, and far be it from 
me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to 
your friends, Anne, that's what, and we'll all proud' 
of you." 

That night Anne, who had wound up a delightful 
evening by a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at 


the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a 
great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer 
of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from 
her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the 
past and reverent petition for the future ; and when 
she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as 
fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might 



"Pur on your white organdy, by all means, Anne/' 
advised Diana decidedly. 

They were together in the east gable chamber; 
outside it was only twilight a lovely yellowish- 
green twilight with a clear blue cloudless sky. A 
big round moon, slowly deepening from her pallid 
lustre into burnished silver, hung over the Haunted 
Wood ; the air was full of sweet summer sounds 
sleepy birds twittering, freakish breezes, far-away 
voices and laughter. But in Anne's room the blind 
was drawn and the lamp lighted, for an important 
toilet was being made. 

The east gable was a very different place from 
what it had been on that night four years before, 
when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the 
marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. 
Changes had crept in, Marilla conniving at them re- 
signedly, until it was as sweet and dainty a nest as 
a young girl could desire. 

The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the 
pink silk curtains of Anne's early visions had cer- 
tainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept 
pace with her growth, and it is not probable she 
lamented them. The floor was covered with a 



pretty matting, and the curtains that softened the 
high window and fluttered in the vagrant breezes 
were of pale green art muslin. The walls, hung not 
with gold and silver brocade tapestry, but with a 
dainty apple-blossom paper, were adorned with a 
few good pictures given Anne by Mrs. Allan. Miss 
Stacy's photograph occupied the place of honour, 
and Anne made a sentimental point of keeping fresh 
flowers on the bracket under it. To-night a spike 
of white lilies faintly perfumed the room like the 
dream of a fragrance. There was no "mahogany 
furniture," but there was a white-painted bookcase 
filled with books, a cushioned wicker rocker, a 
toilet-table befrilled with white muslin, a quaint, 
gilt-framed mirror with chubby pink cupids and 
purple grapes painted over its arched top, that used 
to hang in the spare room, and a low white bed. 

Anne was dressing for a concert at the White 
Sands Hotel. The guests had got it up in aid of 
the Charlottetown hospital, and had hunted out all 
the available amateur talent in the surrounding 
districts to help it along. Bertha Sampson and 
Pearl Clay of the White Sands Baptist choir had 
been asked to sing a duet; Milton Clark of New- 
bridge was to give a violin solo; Winnie Adella 
Blair of Carmody was to sing a Scotch ballad ; and 
Laura Spencer of Spencervale and Anne Shirley of 
Avonlea were to recite. 

As Anne would have said at one time, it was "an 
epoch in her life," and she was deliciously athrill 
with the excitement of it. Matthew was in the 
seventh heaven of gratified pride over the honour 


conferred on his Anne, and Marilla was not far be- 
hind, although she would have died rather than 
admit it, and said she didn't think it was very proper 
for a lot of young folks to be gadding over to the 
hotel without any responsible person with them. 

Anne and Diana were to drive over with Jane 
Andrews and her brother Billy in their double- 
seated buggy; and several other Avonlea girls and 
boys were going, too. There was a party of visitors 
expected out from town, and after the concert a 
supper was to be given to the performers. 

"Do you really think the organdy will be best ?" 
queried Anne anxiously. "I don't think it's as 
pretty as my blue-flowered muslin and it certainly 
isn't so fashionable." 

"But it suits you ever so much better," said 
Diana. "It's so soft and frilly and clinging. The 
muslin is stiff, and makes you look too dressed up. 
But the organdy seems as if it grew on you." 

Anne sighed and yielded. Diana was beginning 
to have a reputation for notable taste in dressing, 
and her advice on such subjects was much sought 
after. She was looking very pretty herself on this 
particular night in a dress of the lovely wild-rose 
pink, from which Anne was for ever debarred ; but 
she was not to take any part in the concert, so her 
appearance was of minor importance. All her 
pains were bestowed upon Anne, who, she vowed, 
must, for the credit of Avonlea, be dressed and 
combed and adorned to the queen's taste. 

"Pull out that frill a little more so; here, let 
me tie your sash ; now for your slippers. I'm going 


to braid your hair in two thick braids, and tie them 
half-way up with big white bows no, don't pull 
out a single curl over your forehead just have the 
soft part. There is no way you do your hair suits 
you so well, Anne, and Mrs. Allan says you look 
like a Madonna when you part it so. I shall fasten 
this little white house rose just behind your ear. 
There was just one on my bush, and I saved it for 

"Shall I put my pearl beads on?" asked Anne. 
"Matthew brought me a string from town last week, 
and I know he'd like to see them on me." 

Diana pursed up her lips, put her black head on 
one side critically, and finally pronounced in favour 
of the beads, which were thereupon tied around 
Anne's slim milk-white throat. 

"There's something so stylish about you, Anne," 
said Diana, with unenvious admiration. "You hold 
your head with such an air. I suppose it's your fig- 
ure. I am just a dumpling. I've always been 
afraid of it, and now I know it is so. Well, I sup- 
pose I shall just have to resign myself to it." 

"But you have such dimples," said Anne, smiling 
affectionately into the pretty, vivacious face so near 
her own. "Lovely dimples, like little dents in 
cream. I have given up all hope of dimples. My 
dimple-dream will never come true ; but so many of 
my dreams have that I mustn't complain. Am I all 
ready now ?" 

"All ready," assured Diana, as Marilla appeared 
in the doorway, a gaunt figure with grayer hair than 
of yore and no fewer angles, but with a much softer 


face. "Come right in and look at our elocutionist, 
Marilla. Doesn't she look lovely?" 

Marilla emitted a sound between a sniff and a 

"She looks neat and proper. I like that way of 
fixing her hair. But I expect she'll ruin that dress 
driving over there in the dust and dew with it, and 
it looks most too thin for these damp nights. Or- 
gandy's the most unserviceable stuff in the world 
anyhow, and I told Matthew so when he got it. 
But there is no use in saying anything to Matthew 
nowadays. Time was when he would take my ad- 
vice, but now he just buys things for Anne regard- 
less, and the clerks at Carmody know they can palm 
anything off on him. Just let them tell him a thing 
is pretty and fashionable, and Matthew plunks his 
money down for it. Mind you keep your skirt 
clear of the wheel, Anne, and put your warm jacket 

Then Marilla stalked down-stairs, thinking 
proudly how sweet Anne looked, with that 

"One moonbeam from the forehead to the crown" 

and regretting that she could not go to the concert 
herself to hear her girl recite. 

"I wonder if it is too damp for my dress," said 
Anne anxiously. 

"Not a bit of it," said Diana, pulling up the 
window blind. "It's a perfect night, and there 
won't be any dew. Look at the moonlight." 

"I'm so glad my window looks east into the sun- 


rising," said Anne, going over to Diana. "It's so 
splendid to see the morning coming up over those 
long hills and glowing through those sharp fir tops. 
It's new every morning, and I feel as if I washed 
my very soul in that bath of earliest sunshine. Oh, 
Diana, I love this little room so dearly. I don't 
know how I'll get along without it when I go to 
town next month." 

"Don't speak of your going away to-night," 
begged Diana. "I don't want to think of it, it 
makes me so miserable, and I do want to have a 
good time this evening. What are you going to 
recite, Anne? And are you nervous?" 

"Not a bit. I've recited so often in public I don't 
mind at all now. I've decided to give 'The 
Maiden's Vow.' It's so pathetic. Laura Spencer 
is going to give a comic recitation, but I'd rather 
make people cry than laugh." 

"What will you recite if they encore you?'* 

"They won't dream of encoring me," scoffed 
Anne, who was not without her own secret hopes 
that they would, and already visioned herself telling 
Matthew all about it at the next morning's break- 
fast-table. "There are Billy and Jane now I hear 
the wheels. Come on." 

Billy Andrews insisted that Anne should ride on 
the front seat with him, so she unwillingly climbed 
up. She would have much preferred to sit back 
with the girls, where she could have laughed and 
chattered to her heart's content. There was not 
much of either laughter or chatter in Billy. He was 
a big, fat, stolid youth of twenty, with a round, ex^ 


pressionless face, and a painful lack of conversa- 
tional gifts. But he admired Anne immensely, and 
was puffed up with pride over the prospect of 
driving to White Sands with that slim, upright 
figure beside him. 

Anne, by dint of talking over her shoulder to the 
girls and occasionally passing a sop of civility to 
Billy who grinned and chuckled and never could 
think of any reply until it was too late contrived 
to enjoy the drive in spite of all. It was a night 
lor enjoyment. The road was full of buggies, all 
bound for the hotel, and laughter, silver-clear, 
echoed and re-echoed along it. When they reached 
the hotel it was a blaze of light from top to bottom. 
They were met by the ladies of the concert com- 
mittee, one of whom took Anne off to the per- 
formers' dressing room, which was filled with the 
members of a Charlottetown Symphony Club, 
among whom Anne felt suddenly shy and frightened 
and countrified. Her dress, which, in the east 
gable, had seemed so dainty and pretty, now seemed 
simple and plain too simple and plain, she thought, 
among all the silks and laces that glistened and 
rustled around her. What were her pearl beads 
compared to the diamonds of the big, handsome 
lady near her? And how poor her one wee white 
rose must look beside all the hot-house flowers the 
others wore ! Anne laid her hat and jacket away, 
and shrank miserably into a corner. She wished 
herself back in the white room at Green Gables. 

It was still worse on the platform of the big con- 
cert hall of the hotel, where she presently found 


herself. The electric lights dazzled her eyes, the 
perfume and hum bewildered her. She wished she 
were sitting down in the audience with Diana and 
Jane, who seemed to be having a splendid time 
away at the back. She was wedged in between a 
stout lady in pink silk and a tall, scornful looking 
girl in a white lace dress. The stout lady occa- 
sionally turned her head squarely around and 
surveyed Anne through her eyeglasses until Anne, 
acutely sensitive of being so scrutinized, felt that 
she must scream aloud ; and the white lace girl kept 
talking audibly to her next neighbour about the 
"country bumpkins" and "rustic belles" in the 
audience, languidly anticipating "such fun" from 
the displays of local talent on the programme. 
Anne believed that she would hate that white lace 
girl to the end of life. 

Unfortunately for Anne, a professional elocution- 
ist was staying at the hotel and had consented to 
recite. She was a lithe, dark-eyed woman in a 
wonderful gown of shimmering gray stuff like 
woven moonbeams, with gems on her neck and in 
her dark hair. She had a marvellously flexible 
voice and wonderful power of expression ; the audi- 
ence went wild over her selection. Anne, forget- 
ting all about herself and her troubles for the time, 
listened with rapt and shining eyes; but when the 
recitation ended she suddenly put her hands over 
her face. She could never get up and recite after 
that never. Had she ever thought she could re- 
cite? Oh, if she were only back at Green Gables! 

At this unpropitious moment her name was 


called. Somehow, Anne who did not notice the 
rather guilty little start of surprise the white lace 
girl gave, and would not have understood the subtle 
compliment implied therein if she had got on her 
feet, and moved dizzily out to the front. She was 
so pale that Diana and Jane, down in the audience, 
clasped each other's hands in nervous sympathy. 

Anne was the victim of an overwhelming attack 
of stage fright. Often as she had recited in public, 
she had never before faced such an audience as 
this, and the sight of it paralyzed her energies com- 
pletely. Everything was so strange, so brilliant, 
so bewildering the rows of ladies in evening dress, 
the critical faces, the whole atmosphere of wealth 
and culture about her. Very different this from 
the plain benches at the Debating Club, filled with 
the homely, sympathetic faces of friends and neigh- 
bours. These people, she thought, would be merci- 
less critics. Perhaps, like the white lace girl, they 
anticipated amusement from her "rustic" efforts. 
She felt hopelessly, helplessly ashamed and miser- 
able. Her knees trembled, her heart fluttered, a 
horrible faintness came over her; not a word could 
she utter, and the next moment she would have fled 
from the platform despite the humiliation which, 
she felt, must ever after be her portion if she did so. 

But suddenly, as her dilated, frightened eyes 
gazed out over the audience, she saw Gilbert Blythe 
away at the back of the room, bending forward 
with a smile on his face a smile which seemed to 
Anne at once triumphant and taunting. In reality 
it was nothing of the kind. Gilbert was merely 


smiling with appreciation of the whole affair in 
general and of the effect produced by Anne's slender 
white form and spiritual face against a background 
of palms in particular. Josie Pye, whom he had 
driven over, sat beside him, and her face certainly 
was both triumphant and taunting. But Anne did 
not see Josie, and would not have cared if she had. 
She drew a long breath and flung her head up 
proudly, courage and determination tingling over 
her like an electric shock. She would not fail be- 
fore Gilbert Blythe he should never be able to 
laugh at her, never, never! Her fright and nerv- 
ousness vanished; and she began her recitation, her 
clear, sweet voice reaching to the farthest corner 
of the room without a tremor or a break. Self- 
possession was fully restored to her, and in the re- 
action from that horrible moment of powerlessness 
she recited as she had never done before. When 
she finished there were bursts of honest applause. 
Anne, stepping back to her seat, blushing with shy- 
ness and delight, found her hand vigorously clasped 
and shaken by the stout lady in pink silk. 

"My dear, you did splendidly," she puffed. "I've 
been crying like a baby, actually I have. There, 
they're encoring you they're bound to have you 

"Oh, I can't go," said Anne confusedly. "But 
yet I must, or Matthew will be disappointed. He 
said they would encore me." 

"Then don't disappoint Matthew," said the pink 
lady, laughing. 

Smiling, blushing, limpid-eyed, Anne tripped 


back and gave a quaint, funny little selection that 
captivated her audience still further. The rest of 
the evening was quite a little triumph for her. 

When the concert was over, the stout, pink lady 
who was the wife of an American millionaire 
took her under her wing, and introduced her to 
everybody; and everybody was very nice to her. 
The professional elocutionist, Mrs. Evans, came and 
chatted with her, telling her that she had a charm- 
ing voice and "interpreted" her selections beauti- 
fully. Even the white lace girl paid her a languid 
little compliment. They had supper in the big, 
beautifully decorated dining-room ; Diana and Jane 
were invited to partake of this, also, since they had 
come with Anne, but Billy was nowhere to be 
found, having decamped in mortal fear of some such 
invitation. He was in waiting for them, with the 
team, however, when it was all over, and the three 
girls came merrily out into the calm, white moon- 
shine radiance. Anne breathed deeply, and looked 
into the clear sky beyond the dark boughs of the 

Oh, it was good to be out again in the purity and 
silence of the night ! How great and still and won- 
derful everything was, with the murmur of the sea 
sounding through it and the darkling cliffs beyond 
like grim giants guarding enchanted coasts. 

"Hasn't it been a perfectly splendid time?" sighed 
Jane, as they drove away. "I just wish I was a 
rich American and could spend my summer at a 
hotel and wear jewels and low-necked dresses and 
have ice-cream and chicken salad every blessed day. 


I'm sure it would be ever so much more fun than 
teaching school. Anne, your recitation was simply 
great, although I thought at first you were never 
going to begin. I think it was better than Mrs. 

"Oh, no, don't say things like that, Jane," said 
Anne quickly, "because it sounds silly. It couldn't 
be better than Mrs. Evans', you know, for she is 
a professional, and I'm only a schoolgirl with a little 
knack of reciting. I'm quite satisfied if the people 
just liked mine pretty well." 

"I've a compliment for you, Anne," said Diana. 
"At least I think it must be a compliment because 
of the tone he said it in. Part of it was anyhow. 
There was an American sitting behind Jane and me 
such a romantic-looking man, with coal-black 
hair and eyes. Josie Pye says he is a distinguished 
artist, and that her mother's cousin in Boston is 
married to a man that used to go to school with 
him. Well, we heard him say didn't we, Jane ? 
'Who is that girl on the platform with the splendid 
Titian hair? She has a face I should like to paint.' 
There now, Anne. But what does Titian hair 

"Being interpreted it means plain red, I guess," 
laughed Anne. "Titian was a very famous artist 
who liked to paint red-haired women." 

"Did you see all the diamonds those ladies wore ?" 
sighed Jane. "They were simply dazzling. 
Wouldn't you just love to be rich, girls?" 

"We are rich," said Anne stanchly. "Why, we 
have sixteen years to our credit, and we're happy as 


queens, and we've all got imaginations, more or 
less. Look at that sea, girls all silver and shadow 
and vision of things not seen. We couldn't enjoy 
its loveliness any more if we had millions of dollars 
and ropes of diamonds. You wouldn't change into 
any of those women if you could. Would you want 
to be that white lace girl and wear a sour look all 
your life, as if you'd been born turning up your nose 
at the world? Or the pink lady, kind and nice as 
she is, so stout and short that you'd really no figure 
at all ? Or even Mrs. Evans, with that sad, sad look 
in her eyes? She must have been dreadfully un- 
happy sometime to have such a look. You know 
you wouldn't, Jane Andrews !" 

"I don't know exactly," said Jane unconvinced. 
"I think diamonds would comfort a person for a 
good deal." 

"Well, I don't want to be any one but myself, 
even if I go uncomforted by diamonds all my life," 
declared Anne. "I'm quite content to be Anne of 
Green Gables, with my string of pearl beads. I 
know Matthew gave me as much love with them as 
ever went with Madame the Pink Lady's jewels." 


THE next three weeks were busy ones at Green 
Gables, for Anne was getting ready to go to 
Queen's, and there was much sewing to be done, 
and many things to be talked over and arranged. 
Anne's outfit was ample and pretty, for Matthew 
saw to that, and Marilla for once made no objec- 
tions whatever to anything he purchased or sug- 
gested. More one evening she went up to the 
east gable with her arms full of a delicate pale green 

"Anne, here's something for a nice light dress 
for you. I don't suppose you really need it ; you've 
plenty of pretty waists ; but I thought maybe you'd 
like something real dressy to wear if you were asked 
out anywhere of an evening in town, to a party or 
anything like that. I hear that Jane and Ruby and 
Josie have got 'evening dresses,' as they call them, 
and I don't mean you shall be behind them. I got 
Mrs. Allan to help me pick it in town last week, 
and we'll get Emily Gillis to make it for you. Emily 
has got taste, and her fits aren't to be equalled." 

"Oh, Marilla, it's just lovely," said Anne. 
"Thank you so much. I don't believe you ought to 
be so kind to me it's making it harder every day 
for me to go away." 



The green dress was made up with as many tucks 
fnlls and shirrings as Emily's taste permitted 
Anne put it on one evening for Matthew's and Ma- 
illa s benefit, and recited "The Maiden's Vow" for 
them m the kitchen. As Marilla watched the 
bright, animated face and graceful motions her 
thoughts went back to the evening Anne had ar- 
rived at Green Gables, and memory recalled a vivid 
picture of the odd, frightened child in her prepos- 
terous yellowish-brown wincey dress, the heart- 
break looking out of her tearful eyes. Something 
in the memory brought tears to Manila's own eyes. 
"I declare, my recitation has made you cry, Ma- 
rilla," said Anne gaily, stooping over Manila's chair 
to drop a butterfly kiss on that lady's cheek. "Now, 
I call that a positive triumph." 

"No, I wasn't crying over your piece," said Ma- 
rilla, who would have scorned to be betrayed into 
such weakness by any "poetry stuff." "I just 
couldn't help thinking of the little girl you used to 
be, Anne. And I was wishing you could have 
stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. 
You're grown up now and you're going away ; and 
you look so tall and stylish and so so different 
altogether in that dress as if you didn't belong in 
Avonlea at all and I just got lonesome thinking 
it all over." 

"Marilla !" Anne sat down on Manila's gingham 
lap, took Manila's lined face between her hands, 
and looked gravely and tenderly into Manila's eyes. 
"I'm not a bit changed not really. I'm only just 
pruned down and branched out. The real me back 


here is just the same. It won't make a bit of 
difference where I go or how much I change out- 
wardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, 
who will love you and Matthew and dear Green 
Gables more and better every day of her life." 

Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Manila's 
faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's 
shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then 
to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feel- 
ings into words ; but nature and habit had willed it 
otherwise, and she could only put her arms close 
about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, 
wishing that she need never let her go. 

Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, 
got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of 
the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across 
the yard to the gate under the poplars. 

"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled," 
he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my 
oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's 
smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better 
than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and 
there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. 
Spencer made if it -was luck. I don't believe it 
was any such thing. It was Providence, because 
the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon." 

The day finally came when Anne must go to 
town. She and Matthew drove in one fine Septem- 
ber morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and 
an untearful, practical one on Manila's side at 
least with Marilla. But when Anne had gone 
Diana dried her tears and went to a beaeh picnic at 


White Sands with some of her Carmody cousins, 
where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well ; 
while Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary 
work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest 
kind of a heartache the ache that burns and gnaws 
and cannot wash itself away in readv tears. But 
that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and 
miserably conscious that the little gable room at 
the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid 
young life and unstirred by any soft breathing, she 
buried her face in her pillow, and wept for her girl 
in a passion of sobs that appalled her when she 
grew calm enough to reflect how very wicked it 
must be to take on so about a sinful fellow creature. 
Anne and the rest of the Avonlea scholars reached 
town just in time to hurry off to the Academy. 
That first day passed pleasantly enough in a whirl 
of excitement, meeting all the new students, learn- 
ing to know the professors by sight and being as- 
sorted and organized into classes. Anne intended 
taking up the Second Year work, being advised to 
do so by Miss Stacy; Gilbert Blythe elected to do 
the same. This meant getting a First Class teach- 
er's license in one year instead of two, if they were 
successful ; but it also meant much more and harder 
work. Jane, Ruby, Josie, Charlie, and Moody 
Spurgeon, not being troubled with the stirrings of 
ambition, were content to take up the Second Class 
work. Anne was conscious of a pang of loneliness 
when she found herself in a room with fifty other 
students, not one of whom she knew, except the tall, 
brown-haired boy across the room; and knowing 


him in the fashion she did, did not help her much, 
as she reflected pessimistically. Yet she was un- 
deniably glad that they were in the same class; the 
old rivalry could still be carried on, and Anne would 
hardly have known what to do if it had been lack- 

"I wouldn't feel comfortable without it," she 
thought. "Gilbert looks awfully determined. I 
suppose he's making up his mind, here and now, to 
win the medal. What a splendid chin he has! I 
never noticed it before. I do wish Jane and Ruby 
had gone in for First Class, too. I suppose I won't 
feel so much like a cat in a strange garret when I 
get acquainted, though. I wonder which of the 
girls here are going to be my friends. It's really 
an interesting speculation. Of course I promised 
Diana that no Queen's girl, no matter how much I 
liked her, should ever be as dear to me as she is ; 
but I've lots of second-best affections to bestow. I 
like the look of that girl with the brown eyes and 
the crimson waist. She looks vivid and red-rosy; 
and there's that pale, fair one gazing out of the 
window. She has lovely hair, and looks as if she 
knew a thing or two about dreams. I'd like to 
know them both know them well well enough to 
walk with my arm about their waists, and call them 
nicknames. But just now I don't know them and 
they don't know me, and probably don't want to 
know me particularly. Oh, it's lonesome !" 

It was lonesomer still when Anne found herself 
alone in her hall bedroom that night at twilight. 
She was not to board with the other girls, who all 


had relatives in town to take pity on them. Miss 
Josephine Barry would have liked to board her, but 
Beechwood was so far from the Academy that it 
was out of the question ; so Miss Barry hunted up 
a boarding-house, assuring Matthew and Marilla 
that it was the very place for Anne. 

"The lady who keeps it is a reduced gentle- 
woman," explained Miss Barry. "Her husband 
was a British officer, and she is very careful what 
sort of boarders she takes. Anne will not meet 
with any objectionable persons under her roof. The 
table is good, and the house is near the Academy, in 
a quiet neighbourhood." 

All this might be quite true, and, indeed, proved 
to be so, but it did not materially help Anne in the 
first agony of homesickness that seized upon her. 
She looked dismally about her narrow little room, 
with its dull-papered, pictureless walls, Its small iron 
bedstead and empty bookcase ; and a horrible choke 
came into her throat as she thought of her own 
white room at Green Gables, where she would have 
the pleasant consciousness of a great green still out- 
doors, of sweet peas growing in the garden, and 
moonlight falling on the orchard, of the brook be- 
low the slope and the spruce boughs tossing in the 
night wind beyond it, of a vast starry sky, and the 
light from Diana's window shining out through the 
gap in the trees. Here there was nothing of this; 
Anne knew that outside of her window was a hard 
street, with a network of telephone wires shutting 
out the sky, the tramp of alien feet, and a thousand 


lights gleaming on stranger faces. She knew that 
she was going to cry, and fought against it. 

"I won't cry. It's silly and weak there's the 
third tear splashing down by my nose. There are 
more coming! I must think of something funny to 
stop them. But there's nothing funny except what 
is connected with Avonlea, and that only makes 
things worse four five I'm going home next 
Friday, but that seems a hundred years away. Oh, 
Matthew is nearly home by now and Marilla is at 
the gate, looking down the lane for him six 
seven eight oh, there's no use in counting them ! 
They're coming in a flood presently. I can't cheer 
up I don't want to cheer up. It's nicer to be miser- 

The flood of tears would have come, no doubt, 
had not Josie Pye appeared at that moment. In the 
joy of seeing a familiar face Anne forgot that there 
had never been much love lost between her and 
Josie. As a part of Avonlea life even a Pye was 

"I'm so glad you came up," Anne said sincerely. 

"You've been crying," remarked Josie, with ag- 
gravating pity. "I suppose you're homesick some 
people have so little self-control in that respect. 
I've no intention of being homesick, I can tell you. 
Town's too jolly after that poky old Avonlea. I 
wonder how I ever existed there so long. You 
shouldn't cry, Anne; it isn't becoming, for your 
nose and eyes get red, and then you seem all red. 
I'd a perfectly scrumptious time in the Academy to- 
day. Our French professor is simply a duck. His 


moustache would give you kerwollops of the heart. 
Have you anything eatable around, Anne? I'm 
literally starving. Ah, I guessed likely Marilla'd 
load you up with cake. That's why I called round. 
Otherwise I'd have gone to the park to hear the 
band play with Frank Stockley. He boards same 
place as I do, and he's a sport. He noticed you in 
class to-day, and asked me who the red-headed girl 
was. I told him you were an orphan that the Cuth- 
berts had adopted, and nobody knew very much 
about what you'd been before that." 

Anne was wondering if, after all, solitude and 
tears were not more satisfactory than Josie Pye's 
companionship when Jane and Ruby appeared, each 
with an inch of Queen's colour ribbon purple and 
scarlet pinned proudly to her coat. As Josie was 
not "speaking" to Jane just then she had to subside 
into comparative harmlessness. 

"Well," said Jane with a sigh, "I feel as if I'd 
lived many moons since the morning. I ought to be 
home studying my Virgil that horrid old professor 
gave us twenty lines to start in on to-morrow. 
But I simply couldn't settle down to study to-night. 
Anne, methinks I see the traces of tears. If you've 
been crying do own up. It will restore my self- 
respect, for I was shedding tears freely before Ruby 
came along. I don't mind being a goose so much 
if somebody else is goosey, too. Cake? You'll 
give me a teeny piece, won't you ? Thank you. It 
has the real Avonlea flavour." 

Ruby, perceiving the Queen's calendar lying OH 


the table, wanted to know if Anne meant to try for 
the gold medal. 

Anne blushed and admitted she was thinking of it. 

"Oh, that reminds me," said Josie, "Queen's is 
to get one of the Avery scholarships after all. The 
tword carne to-day. Frank Stockley told me his 
uncle is one of the board of governors, you know. 
It will be announced in the Academy to-morrow." 

An Avery scholarship ! Anne felt her heart beat 
more quickly, and the horizons of her ambition 
shifted and broadened as if by magic. Before Josie 
had told the news Anne's highest pinnacle of aspira- 
tion had been a teacher's provincial license, Class 
First, at the end of the year, and perhaps the medal ! 
But now in one moment Anne saw herself winning 
the Avery scholarship, taking an Arts course at 
Redmond College, and graduating in a gown and 
mortar-board, all before the echo of Josie's words 
had died away. For the Avery scholarship was in 
English, and Anne felt that here her foot was on 
her native heath. 

A wealthy manufacturer of New Brunswick had 
died and left part of his fortune to endow a large 
number of scholarships to be distributed among the 
various high schools and academies of the Maritime 
Provinces, according to their respective standings. 
There had been much doubt whether one would be 
allotted to Queen's, but the matter was settled at 
last, and at the end of the year the graduate who 
made the highest mark in English and English Lit- 
erature would win the scholarship two hundred 
and fifty dollars a year for four years at Redmond 


College. No wonder that Anne went to bed that 
night with tingling cheeks 1 

"I'll win that scholarship if hard work can do it," 
she resolved. "Wouldn't Matthew be proud if I 
got to be a B. A. ? Oh, it's delightful to have ambi- 
tions. I'm so glad I have such a lot And there 
never seems to be any end to them that's the best 
of it. Just as soon as you attain to one ambition 
you see another one glittering higher up still. It 
does make life so interesting," 



ANNE'S homesickness wore off, greatly helped in 
the wearing by her week-end visits home. As long 
as the open weather lasted the Avonlea students 
went out to Carmody on the new branch railway 
every Friday night. Diana and several other 
Avonlea young folks were generally on hand to 
meet them and they all walked over to Avonlea in a 
merry party. Anne thought those Friday evening 
gipsyings over the autumnal hills in the crisp golden 
air, with the homelights of Avonlea twinkling be- 
yond, were the best and dearest hours in the whole 

Gilbert Blythe nearly always walked with Ruby 
Gillis and carried her satchel for her. Ruby was a 
very handsome young lady, now thinking herself 
quite as grown up as she really was ; she wore her 
skirts as long as her mother would let her and did 
her hair up in town, though she had to take it down 
when she went home. She had large, bright-blue 
eyes, a brilliant complexion, and a plump showy 
figure. She laughed a great deal, was cheerful and 
good-tempered, and enjoyed the pleasant things of 
life frankly. 

"But I shouldn't think she was the sort of girl 



Gilbert would like," whispered Jane to Anne. Anne 
did not think so either, but she would not have said 
so for the Avery scholarship. She could not help 
thinking, too, that it would be very pleasant to have 
such a friend as Gilbert to jest and chatter with and 
exchange ideas about books and studies and ambi- 
tions. Gilbert had ambitions, she knew, and Ruby 
Gillis did not seem the sort of person with whom 
such could be profitably discussed. 

There was no silly sentiment in Anne's ideas con- 
cerning Gilbert. Boys were to her, when she 
thought about them at all, merely possible good 
comrades. If she and Gilbert had been friends she 
would not have cared how many other friends he 
had nor with whom he walked. She had a genius 
for friendship; girl friends she had in plenty; but 
she had a vague consciousness that masculine 
friendship might also be a good thing to round out 
one's conceptions of companionship and furnish 
broader standpoints of judgment and comparison. 
Not that Anne could have put her feelings on the 
matter into just such clear definition. But she 
thought that if Gilbert had ever walked home with 
her from the train, over the crisp fields and along 
the ferny byways, they might have had many and 
merry and interesting conversations about the new 
world that was opening around them and their 
hopes and ambitions therein. Gilbert was a clever 
young fellow, with his own thoughts about things 
and a determination to get the best out of life and 
put the best into it. Ruby Gillis told Jane Andrews 
that she didn't understand half the things Gilbert 


Blythe said; he talked just like Anne Shirley did 
when she had a thoughtful fit on and for her part 
she didn't think it any fun to be bothering about 
books and that sort of thing when you didn't have 
to. Frank Stockley had lots more dash and go, but 
then he wasn't half as good-looking as Gilbert and 
she really couldn't decide which she liked best ! 

In the Academy Anne gradually drew a little cir- 
cle of friends about her, thoughtful, imaginative, 
ambitious students like herself. With the "rose- 
red" girl, Stella Maynard, and the "dream girl," 
Priscilla Grant, she soon became intimate, finding 
the latter pale spiritual-looking maiden to be full 
to the brim of mischief and pranks and fun, while 
the vivid, black-eyed Stella had a heartful of wistful 
dreams and fancies, as aerial and rainbow-like as 
Anne's own. 

After the Christmas holidays the Avonlea stu- 
dents gave up going home on Fridays and settled 
down to hard work. By this time all the Queen's 
scholars had gravitated into their own places in the 
ranks and the various classes had assumed distinct 
and settled shadings of individuality. Certain facts 
had become generally accepted. It was admitted 
that the medal contestants had practically narrowed 
down to three Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, and 
Lewis Wilson; the Avery scholarship was more 
doubtful, any one of a certain six being a possible 
winner. The bronze medal for mathematics was 
considered as good as won by a fat, funny little up- 
country boy with a bumpy forehead and a patched 



Ruby Gillis was the handsomest girl of the year 
at the Academy; in the Second Year classes Stella 
Maynard carried off the palm for beauty, with a 
small but critical minority in favour of Anne Shir- 
ley. Ethel Marr was admitted by all competent 
judges to have the most stylish modes of hair-dress- 
ing, and Jane Andrews plain, plodding, conscien- 
tious Jane- carried off the honours in the domestic 
science course. Even Josie Pye attained a certain 
preeminence as the sharpest-tongued young lady 
in attendance at Queen's. So it may be fairly 
stated that Miss Stacy's old pupils held their own in 
the wider arena of the academical course. 

Anne worked hard and steadily. Her rivalry 
with Gilbert was as intense as it had ever been in 
Avonlea school, although it was not known in the 
class at large, but somehow the bitterness had gone 
out of it. Anne no longer wished to win for the 
sake of defeating Gilbert; rather, for the proud 
consciousness of a well-won victory over a worthy 
foeman. It would be worth while to win, but she 
no longer thought life would be insupportable if 
she did not. 

In spite of lessons the students found opportuni- 
ties for pleasant times. Anne spent many of her 
spare hours at Beechwood and generally ate her 
Sunday dinners there and went to church with Miss 
Barry. The latter was, as she admitted, growing 
old, but her black eyes were not dim nor the vigour 
of her tongue in the least abated. But she never 
sharpened the latter on Anne, who continued to 
be a prime favourite with the critical old lady. 


"That Anne-girl improves all the time," she said. 
"I get tired of other girls there is such a provok- 
ing and eternal sameness about them. Anne has as 
many shades as a rainbow and every shade is the 
prettiest while it lasts. I don't know that she is as 
amusing as she was when she was a child, but she 
makes me love her and I like people who make me 
love them. It saves me so much trouble in making 
myself love them." 

Then, almost before anybody realized it, spring 
had come; out in Avonlea the Mayflowers were 
peeping pinkly out on the sere barrens where snow- 
wreaths lingered; and the "mist of green" was on 
the woods and in the valleys. But in Charlotte- 
town harassed Queen's students thought and talked 
only of examinations. 

"It doesn't seem possible that the term is nearly 
over," said Anne. "Why, last fall it seemed so long 
to look forward to a whole winter of studies and 
classes. And here we are, with the exams looming 
up next week. Girls, sometimes I feel as if those 
exams meant everything, but when I look at the big 
buds swelling on those chestnut trees and the misty 
blue air at the end of the streets they don't seem 
half so important." 

Jane and Ruby and Josie, who had dropped in, did 
not take this view of it. To them the coming ex- 
aminations were constantly very important indeed 
far more important than chestnut buds or May- 
time hazes. It was all very well for Anne, who was 
sure of passing at least, to have her moments of 
belittling them, but when your whole future de- 


pended on them as the girls truly thought theirs 

di lT y U C Uld n0t re S ard them philosophically. 

"I've lost seven pounds in the last two weeks," 
sighed Jane. "It's no use to say don't worry. I 
will worry. Worrying helps you some it seems as 
if you were doing something when you re worrying. 
It would be dreadful if I failed to get my license 
after going to Queen's all winter and spending so 
much money." 

"/ don't care," said Josie Pye. "If I don't pass 
this year I'm coming back next. My father can af- 
ford to send me. Anne, Frank Stockley says that 
Professor Tremaine said Gilbert Blythe was sure to 
get the medal and that Emily Clay would likely win 
the Avery scholarship." 

"That may make me feel badly to-morrow, Josie," 
laughed Anne, "but just now I honestly feel that as 
long as I know the violets are coming out all purple 
down in the hollow below Green Gables and that 
little ferns are poking their heads up in Lovers' 
Lane, it's not a great deal of difference whether I 
win the Avery or not. I've done my best and I 
begin to understand what is meant by the 'joy of 
the strife.' Next to trying and winning, the best 
thing is trying and failing. Girls, don't talk about 
exams ! Look at that arch of pale green sky over 
those houses and picture to yourselves what it must 
look like over the purply-dark beechwoods back of 

"What are you going to wear for commencement, 
Jane?" asked Ruby practically. 

Jane and Josie both answered at once and the 


chatter drifted into a side eddy of fashions. But 
Anne, with her elbows on the window sill, her soft 
cheek laid against her clasped hands, and her eyes 
filled with visions, looked out unheedingly across 
city roof and spire to that glorious dome of sunset 
sky and wove her dreams of a possible future from 
the golden tissue of youth's own optimism. All the 
Beyond was hers with its possibilities lurking rosily 
in the oncoming years each year a rose of promise 
to be woven into an immortal chaplet 



ON the morning when the final results of all the 
examinations were to be posted on the bulletin 
board at Queen's, Anne and Jane walked down the 
street together. Jane was smiling and happy ; ex- 
aminations were over and she was comfortably sure 
she had made a pass at least ; further considerations 
troubled Jane not at all ; she had no soaring ambi- 
tions and consequently was not affected with the 
unrest attendant thereon. For we pay a price for 
everything we get or take in this world; and al- 
though ambitions are well worth having, they are 
not to be cheaply won, but exact their dues of work 
and self-denial, anxiety and discouragement. Anne 
was pale and quiet ; in ten more minutes she would 
know who had won the medal and who the Avery. 
Beyond those ten minutes there did not seem, just 
then, to be anything worth being called Time. 

"Of course you'll win one of them anyhow," said 
Jane, who couldn't understand how the faculty 
could be so unfair as to order it otherwise. 

"I have no hope of the Avery," said Anne. 
"Everybody says Emily Clay will win it. And I'm 
not going to march up to that bulletin board and 
look at it before everybody. I haven't the moral 



courage. I'm going straight to the girl's dressing- 
room. You must read the announcements and then 
come and tell me, Jane. And I implore you in the 
name of our old friendship to do it as quickly as 
possible. If I have failed just say so, without try- 
ing to break it gently; and whatever you do don't 
sympathize with me. Promise me this, Jane." 

Jane promised solemnly; but, as it happened, 
there was no necessity for such a promise. When 
they went up the entrance steps of Queen's they 
found the hall full of boys who were carrying Gil- 
bert Blythe around on their shoulders and yelling 
at the tops of their voices, "Hurrah for Blythe, 
Medallist !" 

For a moment Anne felt one sickening pang of 
defeat and disappointment. So she had failed and 
Gilbert had won! Well, Matthew would be sorry, 
he had been so sure she would win. 

And then ! 

Somebody called out: 

"Three cheers for Miss Shirley, winner of the 

"Oh, Anne," gasped Jane, as they fled to the 
girls' dressing-room amid hearty cheers. "Oh, 
Anne, I'm so proud! Isn't it splendid?" 

And then the girls were around them and Anne 
was the centre of a laughing, congratulating group. 
Her shoulders were thumped and her hands shaken 
vigorously. She was pushed and pulled and hugged 
and among it all she managed to whisper to Jane : 

"Oh, won't Matthew and Marilla be pleased ! I 
must write the news home right away." 


Commencement was the next important happen- 
ing. The exercises were held in the big assembly 
hall of the Academy. Addresses were given, essays 
read, songs sung, the public award of diplomas, 
prizes and medals made. 

Matthew and Marilla were there, with eyes and 
ears for only one student on the platform a tall 
girl in pale green, with faintly flushed cheeks and 
starry eyes, who read the best essay and was 
pointed out and whispered about as the Avery 

"Reckon you're glad we kept her, Marilla?" 
whispered Matthew, speaking for the first time 
since he had entered the hall, when Anne had fin- 
ished her essay. 

"It's not the first time I've been glad," retorted 
Marilla. "You do like to rub things in, Matthew 

Miss Barry, who was sitting behind them, leaned 
forward and poked Marilla in the back with her 

"Aren't you proud of that Anne-girl? I am/' 
she said. 

Anne went home to Avonlea with Matthew and 
Marilla that evening. She had not been home 
since April and she felt that she could not wait 
another day. The apple blossoms were out and the 
world was fresh and young. Diana was at Green 
(Gables to meet her. In her own white room, where 
Marilla had set a flowering house rose on the win- 
dow sill, Anne looked about her and drew a long 
ibrcatli of happiness. 


'*Oh, Diana, it's so good to be back again. It's 
so good to see those pointed firs coming out against 
the pink sky and that white orchard and the old 
Snow Queen, Isn't the breath of the mint deli- 
cious? And that tea rose why, it's a song and a 
hope and a prayer all in one. And it's good to see 
you again, Diana !" 

"I thought you liked that Stella Maynard better 
than me/' said Diana reproachfully. "Josie Pye 
told me you did. Josie said you were infatuated 
with her." 

Anne laughed and pelted Diana with the faded 
"June lilies" of her bouquet. 

"Stella Maynard is the dearest girl in the world 
except one and you are that one, Diana," she said. 
"I love you more than ever and I've so many 
things to tell you. But just now I feel as if it were 
joy enough to sit here and look at you. I'm tired, 
I think tired of being studious and ambitious. I 
mean to spend at least two hours to-morrow lying 
out in the orchard grass, thinking of absolutely 

"You've done splendidly, Anne. I suppose you 
won't be teaching now that you've won the Avery ?" 

"No. I'm going to Redmond in September. 
Doesn't it seem wonderful ? I'll have a brand-new 
stock of ambition laid in by that time after three 
glorious, golden months of vacation. Jane and 
Ruby are going to teach. Isn't it splendid to think 
we all got through even to Moody Spurgeon and 
Josie Pye?" 

"The Newbridge trustees have offered Jane their 


school already," said Diana. "Gilbert Blythe is go- 
ing to teach, too. He has to. His father can't afford 
to send him to college next year, after all, so 
he means to earn his own way through. I expect 
he'll get the school here if Miss Ames decides to 

Anne felt a queer little sensation of dismayed sur- 
prise. She had not known this; she had expected 
that Gilbert would be going to Redmond also. 
What would she do without their inspiring rivalry? 
Would not work, even at a co-educational college 
with a real degree in prospect, be rather flat without 
her friend the enemy? 

The next morning at breakfast it suddenly struck 
Anne that Matthew was not looking well. Surely 
he was much grayer than he had been a year before. 

"Marilla," she said hesitatingly when he had gone 
out, "is Matthew quite well ?" 

"No, he isn't," said Marilla in a troubled tone. 
"He's had some real bad spells with his heart this 
spring and he won't spare himself a mite. I've been 
real worried about him, but he's some better this 
while back and we've got a good hired man, so I'm 
hoping he'll kind of rest and pick up. Maybe he will 
now you're home. You always cheer him up." 

Anne leaned across the table and took Marilla's 
face in her hands. 

"You are not looking as well yourself as I'd like 
to see you, Marilla. You look tired. I'm afraid 
you've been working too hard. You must take * 
rest, now that I'm home. I'm just going to Uk 
this one day off to visit all the dear old spott and 


hunt up my old dreams, and then it will be your 
turn to be lazy while I do the work." 

Marilla smiled affectionately at her girl. 

"It's not the work it's my head. I've a pain so 
often now behind my eyes. Doctor Spencer's 
been fussing with glasses, but they don't do me any 
good. There is a distinguished oculist coming to 
the Island the last of June and the doctor says I 
must see him. I guess I'll have to. I can't read or 
sew with any comfort now. Well, Anne, you've 
done real well at Queen's I must say. To take 
First Class License in one year and win the Avery 
scholarship well, well, Mrs. Lynde says pride goes 
before a fall and she doesn't believe in the higher 
education of women at all ; she says it unfits them 
for woman's true sphere. I don't believe a word of 
it. Speaking of Rachel reminds me did you hear 
anything about the Abbey Bank lately, Anne?" 

"I heard that it was shaky," answered Anne. 

"That is what Rachel said. She was up here one 
day last week and said there was some talk about it. 
Matthew felt real worried. All we have saved is in 
that bank every penny. I wanted Matthew to put 
it in the Savings Bank in the first place, but old Mr. 
Abbey was a great friend of father's and he'd always 
banked with him. Matthew said any bank with 
him at the head of it was good enough for any- 

"I think he has only been its nominal head for 
many years," said Anne. "He is a very old man; 


his nephews are really at the head of the institu- 

"Well, when Rachel told us that, I wanted Mat- 
thew to draw our money right out and he said 
he'd think of it. But Mr. Russell told him yester- 
day that the bank was all right." 

Anne had her good day in the companionship 
of the outdoor world. She never forgot that day ; 
it was so bright and golden and fair, so free from 
shadow and so lavish of blossom. Anne spent 
some of its rich hours in the orchard; she went to 
the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and Violet 
Vale ; she called at the manse and had a satisfying 
talk with Mrs. Allan; and finally in the evening 
she went with Matthew for the cows, through 
Lovers' Lane to the back pasture. The woods 
were all gloried through with sunset and the warm 
splendour of it streamed down through the hill 
gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with 
bent head ; Anne, tall and erect, suited her spring- 
ing step to his. 

"You've been working too hard to-day, Mat- 
thew," she said reproachfully. "Why won't you 
take things easier?" 

"Well now, I can't seem to," said Matthew, as 
he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. 
"It's only that I'm getting old, Anne, and keep for- 
getting it. Well, well, I've always worked pretty 
hard and I'd rather drop in harness." 

"If I had been the boy you sent for," said Anne 
wistfully, "I'd be able to help you so much now and 


spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my 
heart to wish I had been, just for that." 

"Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen 
boys, Anne," said Matthew patting her hand. 
"Just miad you that rather than a dozen boys. 
Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the 
Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl my 
girl my girl that I'm proud of." 

He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into 
the yard. Anne took the memory of it with her 
when she went to her room that night and sat 
for a long while at her open window, thinking of 
the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the 
Snow Queen was mistily white in the moon- 
shine ; the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond 
Orchard Slope. Anne always remembered the 
silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that 
night. It was the last night before sorrow touched 
her life; and no life is ever quite the same again 
when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been 
laid upon it 



"MATTHEW Matthewwhat is the matter? 
Matthew, are you sick?" 

It was Manila who spoke, alarm in every jerky 
word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full 
of white narcissus, it was long before Anne could 
love the sight or odour of white narcissus again, 
in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in 
the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and 
his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped 
her flowers and sprang across the kitchen to him at 
the same moment as Marilla. They were both too 
late; before they could reach him Matthew had 
fallen across the threshold. 

"He's fainted," gasped Marilla. "Anne, run for 
Martin quick, quick ! He's at the barn." 

Martin, the hired man, who had just driven home 
from the post-office, started at once for the doctor, 
calling at Orchard Slope on his way to send Mr. and 
Mrs. Barry over. Mrs. Lynde, who was there on 
an errand, came too. They found Anne and Ma- 
rilla distractedly trying to restore Matthew to con- 

Mrs. Lynde pushed them gently aside, tried his 
pulse, and then laid her ear over his heart. She 



looked at their anxious faces sorrowfully and the 
tears came into her eyes. 

"Oh, Marilla," she said gravely. "I don't think 
we can do anything for him." 

"Mrs. Lynde, you don't think you can't think 
Matthew is is " Anne could not say the dread- 
ful word ; she turned sick and pallid. 

"Child, yes, I'm afraid of it. Look at his face. 
When you've seen that look as often as I have you'll 
know what it means." 

Anne looked at the still face and there beheld the 
seal of the Great Presence. 

When the doctor came he said that death had 
been instantaneous and probably painless, caused in 
all likelihood by some sudden shock. The secret 
of the shock was discovered to be in the paper 
Matthew had held and which Martin had brought 
from the office that morning. It contained an ac- 
count of the failure of the Abbey Bank. 

The news spread quickly through Avonlea, and 
all day friends and neighbours thronged Green 
Gables and came and went on errands of kindness 
for the dead and living. For the first time shy, 
quiet Matthew Cuthbert was a person of central 
importance; the white majesty of death had fallen 
on him and set him apart as one crowned. 

When the calm night came softly down over 
Green Gables the old house was hushed and tranquil. 
In the parlour lay Matthew Cuthbert in his coffin, 
his long gray hair framing his placid face on which 
there was a little kindly smile as if he slept, dream- 
ing pleasant dreams. There were flowers about 


him sweet old-fashioned flowers which his mother 
had planted in the homestead garden in her bridal 
days and for which Matthew had always had a 
secret, wordkss love. Anne had gathered them and 
brought them to him, her anguished, tearless eyes 
burning in her white face. It was the last thing 
she could do for him. 

The Barrys and Mrs. Lynde stayed with them 
that night. Diana, going to the east gable, where 
Anne was standing at her window, said gently: 

"Anne dear, would you like to have me sleep with 
you to-night?" 

"Thank you, Diana." Anne looked earnestly in- 
to her friend's face. "I think you won't misunder- 
stand me when I say that I want to be alone. I'm 
not afraid. I haven't been alone one minute since 
it happened and I want to be. I want to be quite 
silent and quiet and try to realize it. I can't realize 
it. Half the time it seems to me that Matthew 
can't be dead ; and the other half it seems as if he 
must have been dead for a long time and I've had 
this horrible dull ache ever since." 

Diana did not quite understand. Manila's im- 
passioned grief, breaking all the bounds of natural 
reserve and lifelong habits in its stormy rush, she 
could comprehend better than Anne's tearless 
agony. But she went away kindly, leaving Anne 
alone to keep her first vigil with sorrow. 

Anne hoped that tears would come in solitude. 
It seemed to her a terrible thing that she could not 
shed a tear for Matthew, whom she had loved so 
much and who had been so kind to her, Matthew, 


who had walked with her last evening at sunset and 
was now lying in the dim room below with that 
awful peace on his brow. But no tears came at 
first, even when she knelt by her window in the 
darkness and prayed, looking up to the stars beyond 
the hills no tears, only the same horrible dull ache 
of misery that kept on aching until she fell asleep, 
worn out with the day's pain and excitement. 

In the night she awakened, with the stillness and 
the darkness about her, and the recollection of the 
day came over her like a wave of sorrow. She 
could see Matthew's face smiling at her as he had 
smiled when they parted at the gate that last eve- 
ning she could hear his voice saying, "My girl 
my girl that I'm proud of." Then the tears came 
and Anne wept her heart out. Manila heard, her 
and crept in to comfort her. 

"There there don't cry so, dearie. It can't 
bring him back. It it isn't right to cry so. I 
knew that to-day, but I couldn't help it then. He'd 
always been such a good, kind brother to me but 
God knows best." 

"Oh, just let me cry, Manila," sobbed Anne. 
"The tears don't hurt me like that ache did. Stay 
here for a little while with me and keep your arm 
round me so. I couldn't have Diana stay, she's 
good and kind and sweet but it's not her sorrow 
she's outside of it and she couldn't come close 
enough to my heart to help me. It's our sorrow 
yours and mine. Oh, Marilla, what will we da 
without him?" 

"We've got each other. Anne. I don't know 


what I'd do if you weren't hereif you'd never 
come. Oh, Anne, I know I've been kind of strict 
and harsh with you maybe but you mustn't think 
I didn't love you as well as Matthew did, for all 
that. I want to tell you now when I can. It's 
never been easy for me to say things out of my 
heart, but at times like this it's easier. I love you 
as dear as if you were my own flesh and blood and 
you've been my joy and comfort ever since you 
came to Green Gables." 

Two days afterwards they carried Matthew Cuth- 
bert over his homestead threshold and away from 
the fields he had tilled and the orchards he had 
loved and the trees he had planted ; and then Avon- 
lea settled back to its usual placidity and even at 
Green Gables affairs slipped into their old groove 
and work was done and duties fulfilled with regu- 
larity as before, although always with the aching 
sense of "loss in all familiar things." Anne, new to 
grief, thought it almost sad that it could be so 
that they could go on in the old way without Mat- 
thew. She felt something like shame and remorse 
when she discovered that the sunrises behind the 
firs and the pale pink buds opening in the garden 
gave her the old inrush of gladness when she saw 
them that Diana's visits were pleasant to her ana 
that Diana's merry words and ways moved her to 
laughter and smiles that, in brief, the beautiful 
world of blossom and love and friendship had lost 
none of its power to please her fancy and thrill her 
heart, that life still called to her with many insistent 


"It seems like disloyalty to Matthew, somehow, 
to find pleasure in these things now that he has 
gone," she said wistfully to Mrs. Allan one evening 
when they were together in the manse garden. "I 
miss him so much all the time and yet, Mrs. 
Allan, the world and life seem very beautiful and 
interesting to me for all. To-day Diana said some- 
thing funny and I found myself laughing. I thought 
when it happened I could never laugh again. And 
it somehow seems as if I oughtn't to." 

"When Matthew was here he liked to hear you 
laugh and he liked to know that you found pleasure 
in the pleasant things around you," said Mrs. Allan 
gently. "He is just away now; and he likes to 
know it just the same. I am sure we should not 
shut our hearts against the healing influences that 
nature offers us. But I understand your feeling. 
I think we all experience the same thing. We re- 
sent the thought that anything can please us when 
some one we love is no longer here to share the 
pleasure with us, and we almost feel as if we were 
unfaithful to our sorrow when we find our interest 
in life returning to us." 

"I was down to the graveyard to plant a rose- 
bush on Matthew's grave this afternoon," said Anne 
dreamily. "I took a slip of the little white Scotch 
rose-bush his mother brought out from Scotland 
long ago; Matthew always liked those roses the 
best they were so small and sweet on their thorny 
stems. It made me feel glad that I could plant it 
by his grave as if I were doing something that 
must please him in taking it there to be near him. 


I hope he has roses like them in heaven. Perhaps 
the souls of all those little white roses that he has 
loved so many summers were all there to meet him. 
I must go home now. Manila is all alone and she 
gets lonely at twilight." 

"She will be lonelier still, I fear, when you go 
away again to college," said Mrs. Allan. 

Anne did not reply ; she said good night and went 
slowly back to Green Gables. Marilla was sitting 
on the front door-steps and Anne sat down beside 
her. The door was open behind them, held back by 
a big pink conch shell with hints of sea sunsets in its 
smooth inner convolutions. 

Anne gathered some sprays of pale yellow honey- 
suckle and put them in her hair. She liked the deli- 
cious hint of fragrance, as of some aerial benedic- 
tion, above her every time she moved. 

"Doctor Spencer was here while you were away," 
Marilla said. "He says that the specialist will be 
in town to-morrow and he insists that I must go in 
and have my eyes examined. I suppose I'd better 
go and have it over. I'll be more than thankful if 
the man can give me the right kind of glasses to suit 
my eyes. You won't mind staying here alone while 
I'm away, will you? Martin will have to drive me 
in and there's ironing and baking to do." 

"I shall be all right. Diana will come over for 
company for me. I shall attend to the ironing and 
baking beautifully you needn't fear that I'll starch 
the handkerchiefs or flavour the cake with lini- 

Marilla laughed. 


"What a girl you were for making mistakes in 
them days, Anne. You were always getting into 
scrapes. I did use to think you were possessed. 
Do you mind the time you dyed your hair ?" 

"Yes, indeed. I shall never forget it," smiled 
Anne, touching the heavy braid of hair that was 
wound about her shapely head. "I laugh a little 
now sometimes when I think what a worry my hair 
used to be to me but I don't laugh much, because 
it was a very real trouble then. I did suffer terribly 
over my hair and my freckles. My freckles are 
really gone ; and people are nice enough to tell me 
my hair is auburn now all but Josie Pye. She in- 
formed me yesterday that she really thought it was 
redder than ever, or at least my black dress made 
it look redder, and she asked me if people who had 
red hair ever got used to having it. Marilla, I've 
almost decided to give up trying to like Josie Pye. 
I've made what I would once have called a heroic 
effort to like her, but Josie Pye won't be liked." 

"Josie is a Pye," said Marilla sharply, "so she 
can't help being disagreeable. I suppose people of 
that kind serve some useful purpose in society, but 
I must say I don't know what it is any more than I 
know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach?" 

"No, she is going back to Queen's next year. So 
are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloane. Jane and 
Ruby are going to teach and they have both got 
schools Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some 
place up west." 

"Gilbert Blythe is going to teach too, isn't he?" 



"What a nice-looking young fellow he is," said 
Marilla absently. "I saw him in church last Sun- 
day and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a 
lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe 
was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, 
he and I. People called him my beaa." 

Anne looked up with swift interest. 

"Oh, Marilla and what happened? why didn't 

"We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him 
when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile 
but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish 
him first. He never came back the Blythes were 
all mighty independent. But I always felt rather 
sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven 
him when I had the chance." 

"So you've had a bit of romance in your life, 
too," said Anne softly. 

"Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You 
wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But 
you never can tell about people from their outsides. 
Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd for- 
gotten myself. But it all came back to me when I 
saw Gilbert last Sunday." 



MARILLA went to town the next day and returned 
in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard 
Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in 
the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head lean- 
ing on her hand. Something in her dejected atti- 
tude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never 
seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. 

"Are you very tired, Marilla ?" 

"Yes no I don't know," said Marilla wearily, 
looking up. "I suppose I am tired but I haven't 
thought about it. It's not that." 

"Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" 
asked Anne anxiously. 

"Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He 
says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely 
and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if 
I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's 
given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse 
and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he 
says I'll certainly be stone blind in six months. 
Blind ! Anne, just think of it !" 

For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclama- 
tion of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that 
she could not speak. Then she said bravely, but 
with a catch in her voice : 


"Marilla, don't think of it. You know he has 
given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose 
your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your 
headaches it will be a great thing." 

"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. 
"What am I to live for if I can't lead or sew or 
do anything like that ? I might as well be blind 
or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when 
I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking 
about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thank- 
ful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything 
about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I 
can't bear that folks should come here to question 
and sympathize and talk about it." 

When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne per- 
suaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself 
to the east gable and sat down by her window in 
the darkness alone.with her tears and her heaviness 
of heart. How sadly things had changed since she 
had sat there the night after coming home ! Then 
she had been full of hope and joy and the future had 
looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had 
lived years since then, but before she went to bed 
there was a smile on her lips and peace in her 
heart. She had looked her duty courageously in 
the face and found it a friend as duty ever is when 
we meet it frankly. 

One afternoon a few days later Marilla came 
slowly in from the yard where she had been talking 
to a caller a man whom Anne knew by sight as 
John Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what 


he could have been saying to bring that look to 
Manila's face. 

"What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" 

Manila sat down by the window and looked at 
Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of 
the oculist's prohibition and her voice broke as she 

"He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables 
and he wants to buy it." 

"Buy itl Buy Green Gables?" Anne wondered 
if she had heard aright. "Oh, Marilla, you don't 
mean to sell Green Gables 1" 

"Anne, I don't know what else is to be done. 
I've thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I 
could stay here and make out to look after things 
and manage, with a good hired man. But as it is 
I can't. I may lose my sight altogether ; and any- 
way I'll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never 
thought I'd live to see the day when I'd have to sell 
my home. But things would only go behind worse 
and worse all the time, till nobody would want to 
buy it. Every cent of our money went in that 
bank; and there's some notes Matthew gave last fal/ 
to pay. Mrs. Lynde advises me to sell the farm 
and board somewhere with her I suppose. It 
won't bring much it's small and the buildings are 
old. But it'll be enough for me to live on I reckon. 
I'm thankful you're provided for with that scholar- 
ship, Anne. I'm sorry you won't have a home to 
come to in your vacations, that's all, but I suppose 
you'll manage somehow." 

Marilla broke down and wept bitterly. 


"You mustn't sell Green Gables," said Anne 

"Oh, Anne, I wish I didn't have to. But you 
can see for yourself. I can't stay here alone, I'd 
go crazy with trouble and loneliness. And my 
sight would go I know it would." 

"You won't have to stay here alone, Marilla, 
I'll be with you. I'm not going to Redmond." 

"Not going to Redmond!" Marilla lifted her 
worn face from her hands and looked at Anne. 
"Why, what do you mean?" 

"Just what I say. I'm not going to take the 
scholarship. I decided so the night after you came 
home from town. You surely don't think I could 
leave you alone in your trouble, Marilla, after all 
you've done for me. I've been thinking and plan- 
ning. Let me tell you my plans. Mr. Barry wants 
to rent the farm for next year. So you won't have 
any bother over that. And I'm going to teach. 
I've applied for the school here but I don't expect 
to get it for I understand the trustees have prom- 
ised it to Gilbert Blythe. But I can have the Car- 
mody school Mr. Blair told me so last night at 
the store. Of course that won't be quite as nice 
or convenient as if I had the Avonlea school. But 
I can board home and drive myself over to Carmody 
and back, in the warm weather at least. And even 
in winter I can come home Fridays. We'll keep a 
horse for that. Oh, I have it all planned out, Ma- 
rilla. And I'll read to you and keep you cheered 
up. You sha'n't be dull or lonesome. And we'll 
be real cosy and happy here together, you and I." 


Marilla had listened like a woman in a dream. 

"Oh, Anne, I could get on real well if you were 
here, I know. But I can't let you sacrifice yourself 
so for me. It would be terrible." 

"Nonsense !" Anne laughed merrily. "There is 
no sacrifice. Nothing could be worse than giving 
up Green Gables nothing could hurt me more. 
,We must keep the dear old place. My mind is 
quite made up, Marilla. I'm not going to Red- 
mond; and I am going to stay here and teach. 
Don't you worry about me a bit." 

"But your ambitions and " 

"I'm just as ambitious as ever. Only, I've 
changed the object of my ambitions. I'm going to 
be a good teacher and I'm going to save your eye- 
sight. Besides, I mean to study at home here and 
take a little college course all by myself. Oh, I've 
dozens of plans, Marilla. I've been thinking them 
out for a week. I shall give life here my best, and 
I believe it will give its best to me in return. When 
I left Queen's my future seemed to stretch out 
before me like a straight road. I thought I could 
see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a 
bend in it. I don't know what lies around the 
bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does. 
It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla, 
I wonder how the road beyond it goes what there 
is of green glory and soft, checkered light and 
shadows what new landscapes what new beau- 
ties what curves and hills and valleys further on." 

"I don't feel as if I ought to let you give it up," 
said Marilla, referring to the scholarship. 


"But you can't prevent me. I'm sixteen and a 
half, 'obstinate as a mule,' as Mrs. Lynde once told 
me," laughed Anne. "Oh, Marilla, don't you go 
pitying me. I don't like to be pitied, and there is no 
need for it. I'm heart glad over the very thought 
of staying at dear Green Gables. Nobody could 
love it as you and I do so we must keep it." 

"You blessed girl!" said Marilla, yielding. "I 
feel as if you'd given me new life. I guess I ought 
to stick out and make you go to college but I 
know I can't, so I ain't going to try. I'll make it 
up to you though, Anne." 

When it became noised abroad in Avonlea that 
Anne Shirley had given up the idea of going to 
college and intended to stay home and teach there 
was a good deal of discussion over it. Most of the 
good folks, not knowing about Manila's eyes, 
thought she was foolish. Mrs. Allan did not. She 
told Anne so in approving words that brought tears 
of pleasure to the girl's eyes. Neither did good 
Mrs. Lynde. She came up one evening and found 
Anne and Marilla sitting at the front door in the 
warm, scented summer dusk. They liked to sit 
there when the twilight came down and the white 
moths flew about in the garden and the odour of 
mint filled the dewy air. 

Mrs. Rachel deposited her substantial person up- 
on the stone bench by the door, behind which grew 
a row of tall pink and yellow hollyhocks, with a long 
breath of mingled weariness and relief. 

"I declare I'm glad to sit down. I've been on my 
feet all day, and two hundred pounds is a good bit 


for two feet to carry round. It's a great blessing 
not to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. 
Well, Anne, I hear you've given up your notion of 
going to college. I was real glad to hear it. 
You've got as much education now as a woman can 
be comfortable with. I don't believe in girls going 
to college with the men and cramming their heads 
full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense." 

"But I'm going to study Latin and Greek just the 
same, Mrs. Lynde," said Anne laughing. "I'm go- 
ing to take my Arts course right here at Green 
Gables, and study everything that I would at 

Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holy horror. 

"Anne Shirley, you'll kill yourself." 

"Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I'm 
not going to overdo things. As 'Josiah Allen's 
wife' says, I shall be 'mejum.' But I'll have lots 
of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I've 
no vocation for fancy work. I'm going to teach 
over at Carmody, you know." 

"I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach 
right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided 
to give you the school." 

"Mrs. Lynde !" cried Anne, springing to her feet 
in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised 
it to Gilbert Blythe !" 

"So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that 
you had applied for it he went to them they had 
a business meeting at the school last night, you 
know and told them that he withdrew his applica- 
tion and suggested that they accept yours. He 


said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of 
course he gave up the school just to oblige you, 
because he knew how much you wanted to stay 
with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real 
kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real 
self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay 
at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to 
earn his own way through college. So the trus- 
tees decided to take you. I was tickled to death 
when Thomas came home and told me." 

"I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured 
Anne. "I mean I don't think I ought to let Gil- 
bert make such a sacrifice for for me.' 

"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's 
signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So 
it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to 
refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll 
get along all right, now that there are no Pyes 
going. Josie was the last of them, and a good 
thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye 
or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty 
years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep 
school-teachers reminded that earth isn't their 
home. Bless my heart ! What does all that wink- 
ing and blinking at the Barry gable mean?" 

"Diana is signalling for me to go over," laughed 
Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. 
Excuse me while I run over and see what she 

Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and 
disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted 
Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. 


"There's a good deal of the child about her yet 
in some ways." 

"There's a good deal more of the woman about 
her in others," retorted Manila, with a momentary 
return of her old crispness. 

But crispness was no longer Manila's distinguish- 
ing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas 
that night, 

"Marilla Cuthbert has got mellow. That's what." 

Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the 
next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's 
grave and water the Scotch rose-bush. She lingered 
there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the 
little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like 
low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses 
growing at will among the graves. When she fi- 
nally left it and walked down the long hill that 
sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past 
sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike 
afterlight "a haunt of ancient peace." There was 
a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown 
over honey-siveet fields of clover. Home lights 
twinkled out here and there among the homestead 
trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with 
its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a 
glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected 
them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it 
all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened 
the gates of her soul to it. 

"Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very 
lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you." 

Half-way down the hill a tall lad came whistling 


out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It 
was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he 
recogmzed Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, 
but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had 
not stopped and held out her hand. 

"Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want 
to thank you for giving up the school for me It 
was very good of you and I want you to know 
that I appreciate it." 

Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. 

"It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. 
I was pleased to be able to do you some small serv- 
ice. Are we going to be friends after this? Have 
you really forgiven me my old fault ?" 

Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to with- 
draw her hand. 

"I forgave you that day by the pond landing, 
although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little 
goose I was. I've been I may as well make a 
complete confession I've been sorry ever since." 

"We are going to be the best of friends," said 
Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good 
friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny long 
enough. I know we can help each other in many 
ways. You are going to keep up your studies, 
aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk 
home with you." 

Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter 
entered the kitchen. 

"Who was that came up the lane with you, 


"Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find 
herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." 

"I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such 
good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at 
the gate talking to him," said Marilla, with a dry 

"We haven't been we've been good enemies. 
But we have decided that it will be much more 
sensible to be good friends in future. Were we 
really there half an hour? It seemed just a few 
minutes. But, you see, we have five years' lost 
conversations to catch up with, Marilla." 

Anne sat long at her window that night compan- 
ioned by a glad content. The wind purred softly 
in the cherry boughs, and the mint breaths came up 
to her. The stars twinkled over the pointed firs in 
the hollow and Diana's light gleamed through the 
old gap. 

Anne's horizon had closed in since the night she 
had sat there after coming home from Queen's ; but 
if the path set before her feet was to be narrow she 
knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom 
along it. The joys of sincere work and worthy 
aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers; 
nothing could rob her of her birthright of fancy or 
her ideal world of dreams. And there was always 
the bend in the road! 

" 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the 
world/ " whispered Anne softly. 






Canadian Edition, eachSS^St SI. 6 9 



and S6nd the pessimist into 


sh uld have 


ie heart of Arcadia and brim-full of the sweet ar 
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By B. Mabel Dunham, author of The Trail of the Conestoga. An excellent story 
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