Skip to main content

Full text of "Anne's house of dreams"

See other formats



Presented to 




Elizabeth A. 

John M. Kerr 





Author oj '" Anne of Green Gables" "Anne of 
Avonlea," "The Story Girl," etc. 

" Our kin 

Have built them temples, and therein 
Pray to the gods we know; and dwell 
In little houses lovable." 

Rupert Brook* 







[32.0 -35 









V. THE HOME COMING . . .,' .. .34 

VI. CAPTAIN JIM . . . . > . \ 39 




X. LESLIE MOORE . . . ... . .93 
















XXVII. ON THE SAND-BAR . . . .232 





AFFAIR . . . . . . 274 



HARBOUR . . . . . . 287 






DREAMS . 335 

Anne's House of Dreams 


THANKS be, I'm done with geometry, learning 
or teaching it," said Anne Shirley, a trifle vin- 
dictively, as she thumped a somewhat battered volume 
of Euclid into a big chest of books, banged the lid 
in triumph, and sat down upon it, looking at Diana 
Wright across the Green Gables garret, with gray 
yes that were like a morning sky. 

The garret was a shadowy, suggestive, delightful 
place, as all garrets should be. Through the open 
window, by which Anne sat, blew the sweet, scented, 
sun-warm air of the August afternoon ; outside, poplar 
boughs rustled and tossed in the wind; beyond them 
were the woods, where Lover's Lane wound its en- 
chanted path, and the old apple orchard which still 
bore its rosy harvests munificently. And, over all, 
was a great mountain range of snowy clouds in the 
blue southern sky. Through the other window was 
glimpsed a distant, white-capped, blue sea the beauti- 
ful St. Lawrence Gulf, on which floats, like a jewel, 
Abegweit, whose softer, sweeter Indian name has 



long been forsaken for the more prosaic one of Prince 
Edward Island. 

Diana Weight, three years older than when we last 
saw her, had grown somewhat matronly in the inter- 
vening time. But her eyes were as black and brilliant, 
her cheeks as rosy, and her dimples as enchanting, as 
in the long-ago days when she and Anne Shirley had 
vowed eternal friendship in the garden at Orchard 
Slope. In her arms she held a small, sleeping, black- 
curled creature, who for two happy years had been 
known to the world of Avonlea as "Small Anne 
Cordelia." Avonlea folks knew why Diana had called 
her Anne, of course, but Avonlea folks were puzzled 
by the Cordelia. There had never been a Cordelia 
in the Wright or Barry connections. Mrs. Harmon 
Andrews said she supposed Diana had found the name 
in some trashy novel, and wondered that Fred hadn't 
more sense than to allow it. But Diana and Anne 
smiled at each other. They knew how Small Anne 
Cordelia had come by her name. 

"You always hated geometry," said Diana with a 
retrospective smile. "I should think you'd be real 
glad to be through with teaching, anyhow." 

"Oh, I've always liked teaching, apart from geome- 
try. These past three years in Summerside have been 
very pleasant ones. Mrs. Harmon Andrews told me 
when I came home that I wouldn't likely find married 
life as much better than teaching as I expected. Evi- 
dently Mrs. Harmon is of Hamlet's opinion that it 


may be better to bear the ills that we have than fly 
to others that we know not of." 

Anne's laugh, as blithe and irresistible as of yore, 
with an added note of sweetness and maturity, rang 
through the garret. Marilla in the kitchen below, 
compounding blue plum preserve, heard it and smiled ; 
then sighed to think how seldom that dear laugh 
would ec^o through Green Gables in the years to 
come. Nothing in her life had ever given Marilla so 
much happiness as the knowledge that Anne was go- 
ing to marry Gilbert Blythe ; but every joy must bring 
with it its little shadow of sorrow. During the three 
Summerside years Anne had been home often for 
vacations and week-ends; but, after this, a bi-annual 
visit would be as much as could be hoped for. 

"You needn't let what Mrs. Harmon says worry 
you," said Diana, with the calm assurance of the 
four-years matron. "Married life has its ups and 
downs, of course. You mustn't expect that every- 
thing will always go smoothly. But I can assure you, 
Anne, that it's a happy life, when you're married to 
the right man." 

Anne smothered a smile. Diana's airs of vast ex- 
perience always amused her a little. 

"I daresay I'll be putting them on too, when I've 
been married four years," she thought. "Surely my 
sense of humour will preserve me from it, though." 

"Is it settled yet where you are going to live?" 
asked Diana, cuddling Small Anne Cordelia with the 


inimitable gesture of motherhood which always sent 
through Anne's heart, filled with sweet, unuttered 
dreams and hopes, a thrill that was half pure pleasure 
and half a strange, ethereal pain. 

"Yes. That was what I wanted to tell you when I 
'phoned to you to come down today. By the way, I 
can't realise that we really have telephones in Avon- 
lea now. It sounds so preposterously up-to-date and 
modernish for this darling, leisurely old place." 

"We can thank the A. V. I. S. for them," said 
Diana. "We should never have got the line if they 
hadn't taken the matter up and carried it through. 
There was enough cold water thrown to discourage 
any society. But they stuck to it, nevertheless. You 
did a splendid thing for Avonlea when you founded 
that society, Anne. What fun we did have at our 
meetings! Will you ever forget the blue hall and 
Judson Parker's scheme for painting medicine adver- 
tisements on his fence?" 

"I don't know that I'm wholly grateful to the 
A. V. I. S. in the matter of the telephone," said Anne. 
"Oh, I know it's most convenient even more so than 
our old device of signalling to each other by flashes 
of candlelight! And, as Mrs. Rachel says, 'Avonlea 
must keep up with the procession, that's what.' But 
somehow I feel as if I didn't want Avonlea spoiled 
by what Mr. Harrison, when he wants to be witty, 
calls 'modern inconveniences.' I should like to have 
it kept always just as it was in the dear old years. 


That's foolish and sentimental and impossible. So 
I shall immediately become wise and practical and 
possible. The telephone, as Mr. Harrison concedes, 
is 'a buster of a good thing' even if you do know 
that probably half a dozen interested people are listen- 
ing along the line." 

"That's the worst of it," sighed Diana. "It's so 
annoying to hear the receivers going down whenever 
you ring anyone up. They say Mrs. Harmon 
Andrews insisted that their 'phone should be put in 
their kitchen just so that she could listen whenever it 
rang and keep an eye on the dinner at the same time. 
Today, when you called me, I distinctly heard that 
queer clock of the Pyes* striking. So no doubt Josie 
or Gertie was listening." 

"Oh, so that is why you said, 'You've got a new 
clock at Green Gables, haven't you?' I couldn't 
imagine what you meant. I heard a vicious click as 
soon as you had spoken. I suppose it was the Pyc 
receiver being hung up with profane energy. Well, 
never mind the Pyes. As Mrs. Rachel says, 'Pyes 
they always were and Pyes they always will be, world 
without end, amen.' I want to talk of pleasanter 
things. It's all settled as to where my new home shall 

"Oh, Anne, where? I do hope it's near here." 

"No-o-o, that's the drawback. Gilbert is going to 
settle at Four Winds Harbour sixty miles from 


"Sixty! It might as well be six hundred," sighed 
Diana. "I never can get further from home now 
than Charlottetown/' 

"You'll have to come to Four Winds. It's the most 
beautiful harbour on the Island. There's a little vil- 
lage called Glen St. Mary at its head, and Dr. David 
Blythe has been practising there for fifty years. He 
is Gilbert's great-uncle, you know. He is going to 
retire, and Gilbert is to take over his practice. Dr. 
Blythe is going to keep his house, though, so we shall 
have to find a habitation for ourselves. I don't know 
yet what it is, or where it will be in reality, but I have 
a little house o' dreams all furnished in my imagina- 
tion a tiny, delightful castle in Spain." 

"Where are you going for your wedding tour?" 
asked Diana. 

"Nowhere. Don't look horrified, Diana dearest. 
You suggest Mrs. Harmon Andrews. She, no doubt, 
will remark condescendingly that people who can't 
afford wedding 'towers' are real sensible not to take 
them; and then she'll remind me that Jane went to 
Europe for hers. I want to spend my honeymoon at 
Four Winds in my own dear house of dreams." 

"And you've decided not to have any bridesmaid?" 

"There isn't any one to have. You and Phil and 
Priscilla and Jane all stole a march on me in the 
matter of marriage; and Stella is teaching in Van- 
couver. I have no other 'kindred soul' and I won't 
have a bridesmaid who isn't." 


"But you are going to wear a veil, aren't you?" 
asked Diana, anxiously. 

"Yes, indeedy. I shouldn't feel like a bride with- 
out one I remember telling Matthew, that evening 
when he brought me to Green Gables, that I never 
expected to be a bride because I was so homely no one 
would ever want to marry me unless some foreign 
missionary did. I had an idea then that foreign mis- 
sionaries couldn't afford to be finicky in the matter 
of looks if they wanted a girl to risk her life among 
cannibals. You should have seen the foreign mis- 
sionary Priscilla married. He was as handsome and 
inscrutable as those day-dreams we once planned to 
marry ourselves, Diana; he was the best dressed man 
I ever met, and he raved over Priscilla's 'ethereal, 
golden beauty.' But of course there are no cannibals 
in Japan." 

"Your wedding dress is a dream, anyhow," sighed 
Diana rapturously. "You'll look like a perfect queen 
in it you're so tall and slender. How do you keep 
so slim, Anne? I'm fatter than ever I'll soon have 
no waist at all." 

"Stoutness and slimness seem to be matters of pre- 
destination," said Anne. "At all events, Mrs. Har- 
mon Andrews can't say to you what she said to me 
when I came home from Summerside, 'Well, Anne, 
you're just about as skinny as ever.' It sounds quite 
romantic to be 'slender,' but 'skinny' has a very 
different tang." 


"Mrs. Harmon has been talking about your trous- 
seau. She admits it's as nice as Jane's, although she 
says Jane married a millionaire and you are only mar- 
rying a 'poor young doctor without a cent to his 
name.' ' 

Anne laughed. 

"My dresses are nice. I love pretty things. I re- 
member the first pretty dress I ever had the brown 
gloria Matthew gave me for our school concert. Be- 
fore that everything I had was so ugly. It seemed 
to me that I stepped into a new world that night." 

"That was the night Gilbert recited 'Bingen on the 
Rhine,' and looked at you when he said, 'There's an- 
other, not a sister.' And you were so furious because 
he put your pink tissue rose in his breast pocket ! You 
didn't much imagine then that you would ever marry 

"Oh, well, that's another instance of predestina- 
tion," laughed Anne, as they went down the garret 


THERE was more excitement in the air of Green 
Gables than there had ever been before in all its 
history. Even Marilla was so excited that she 
couldn't help showing it which was little short of 
being phenomenal. 

"There's never been a wedding in this house," she 
said, half apologetically, to Mrs. Rachel Lynde. 
"When I was a child I heard an old minister say that 
a house was not a real home until it had been con- 
secrated by a birth, a wedding and a death. We've 
had deaths here my father and mother died here as 
well as Matthew; and we've even had a birth here. 
Long ago, just after we moved into this house, we 
had a married hired man for a little while, and his 
wife had a baby here. But there's never been a wed- 
ding before. It does seem so strange to think of Anne 
being married. In a way she just seems to me the 
little girl Matthew brought home here fourteen years 
ago. I can't realise that she's grown up. I shall 
never forget what I felt when I saw Matthew bring- 



ing in a girl. I wonder what became of the boy we 
would have got if there hadn't been a mistake. I 
wonder what his fate was." 

"Well, it was a fortunate mistake," said Mrs. 
Rachel Lynde, "though, mind you, there was a time 
I didn't think so that evening I came up to see Anne 
and she treated us to such a scene. Many things have 
changed since then, that's what." 

Mrs. Rachel sighed, and then brisked up again. 
When weddings were in order Mrs. Rachel was ready 
to let the dead past bury its dead. 

"I'm going to give Anne two of my cotton warp 
spreads," she resumed. "A tobacco-stripe one and an 
apple-leaf one. She tells me they're getting to be 
real fashionable again. Well, fashion or no fashion, 
I don't believe there's anything prettier for a spare- 
room bed than a nice apple-leaf spread, that's what. 
I must see about getting them bleached. I've had 
them sewed up in cotton bags ever since Thomas 
died, and no doubt they're an awful colour. But 
there's a month yet, and dew-bleaching will work 

Only a month! Manila sighed and then said 
proudly : 

"I'm giving Anne that half dozen braided rugs I 
have in the garret. I never supposed she'd want 
them they're so old-fashioned, and nobody seems 
to want anything but hooked mats now. But she 
asked me for them said she'd rather have them than 


anything else for her floors. They are pretty. I 
made them of the nicest rags, and braided them in 
stripes. It was such company these last few winters. 
And I'll make her enough blue plum preserve to stock 
her jam closet for a year. It seems real strange. 
Those blue plum trees hadn't even a blossom for three 
years, and I thought they might as well be cut down. 
And this last spring they were white, and such a crop 
of plums I never remember at Green Gables." 

"Well, thank goodness that Anne and Gilbert 
really are going to be married after all. It's what I've 
always prayed for," said Mrs. Rachel, in the tone of 
one who is comfortably sure that her prayers have 
availed much. "It was a great relief to find out that 
she really didn't mean to take the Kingsport man. He 
was rich, to be sure, and Gilbert is poor at least, to 
begin with; but then he's an Island boy." 

"He's Gilbert Blythe," said Marilla contentedly. 
Marilla would have died the death before she would 
have put into words the thought that was always in 
the background of her mind whenever she had looked 
at Gilbert from his childhood up the thought that, 
had it not been for her own wilful pride long, long 
ago, he might have been her son. Marilla felt that, 
in some strange way, his marriage with Anne would 
put right that old mistake. Good had come out of 
the evil of the ancient bitterness. 

As for Anne herself, she was so happy that she 
almost felt frightened. The gods, so says the old 


superstition, do not like to behold too happy mortals. 
It is certain, at least, that some human beings do not. 
Two of that ilk descended upon Anne one violet dusk 
and proceeded to do what in them lay to prick the 
rainbow bubble of her satisfaction. If she thought 
she was getting any particular prize in young Dr. 
Ely the, or if she imagined that he was still as in- 
fatuated with her as he might have been in his salad 
days, it was surely their duty to put the matter before 
her in another light. Yet these two worthy ladies 
were not enemies of Anne; on the contrary, they 
were really quite fond of her, and would have de- 
fended her as their own young had anyone else at- 
tacked her. Human nature is not obliged to be con- 

Mrs. Inglis nee Jane Andrews, to quote from the 
Daily Enterprise came with her mother and Mrs. 
Jasper Bell. But in Jane the milk of human kindness 
had not been curdled by years of matrimonial bicker- 
ings. Her lines had fallen in pleasant places. In 
spite of the fact as Mrs. Rachel Lynde would say 
that she had married a millionaire, her marriage had 
been happy. Wealth had not spoiled her. She was 
still the placid, amiable, pink-cheeked Jane of the old 
quartette, sympathising with her old chum's happiness 
and as keenly interested in all the dainty details of 
Anne's trousseau as if it could rival her own silken 
and bejewelled splendours. Jane was not brilliant, and 
had probably never made a remark worth listening to 


in her life; but she never said anything that would 
hurt anyone's feelings which may be a negative 
talent but is likewise a rare and enviable one. 

"So Gilbert didn't go back on you after all," said 
Mrs. Harmon Andrews, contriving to convey an ex- 
pression of surprise in her tone. "Well, the Blythes 
generally keep their word when they've once passed 
it, no matter what happens. Let me see you're 
twenty-five, aren't you, Anne? When I was a girl 
twenty-five was the first corner. But you look quite 
young. Red-headed people always do." 

"Red hair is very fashionable now," said Anne, 
trying to smile, but speaking rather coldly. Life had 
developed in her a sense of humour which helped her 
over many difficulties; but as yet nothing had availed 
to steel her against a reference to her hair. 

"So it is so it is," conceded Mrs. Harmon. 
"There's no telling what queer freaks fashion will 
take. Well, Anne, your things are very pretty, and 
very suitable to your position in life, aren't they, 
Jane? I hope you'll be very happy. You have my 
best wishes, I'm sure. A long engagement doesn't 
often turn out well. But, of course, in your case it 
couldn't be helped." 

"Gilbert looks very young for a doctor. I'm 
afraid people won't have much confidence in him," 
said Mrs. Jasper Bell gloomily. Then she shut her 
mouth tightly, as if she had said what she considered 
it her duty to say and held her conscience clear. She 


belonged to the type which always has a stringy black 
feather in its hat and straggling locks of hair on its 

Anne's surface pleasure in her pretty bridal things 
was temporarily shadowed; but the deeps of happi- 
ness below could not thus be disturbed; and the little 
stings of Mesdames Bell and Andrews were forgotten 
when Gilbert came later, and they wandered down to 
the birches of the brook, which had been saplings 
when Anne had come to Green Gables, but were now 
tall, ivory columns in a fairy palace of twilight and 
stars. In their shadows Anne and Gilbert talked in 
lover-fashion of their new home and their new life 

"I've found a nest for us, Anne." 

"Oh, where? Not right in the village, I hope. I 
wouldn't like that altogether." 

"No. There was no house to be had in the village. 
This is a little white house on the harbour shore, half 
way between Glen St. Mary and Four Winds Point. 
It's a little out of the way, but when we get a 'phone 
in that won't matter so much. The situation is beauti- 
ful. It looks to the sunset and has the great blue 
harbour before it. The sand-dunes aren't very far 
away the sea-winds blow over them and the sea 
spray drenches them." 

"But the house itself, Gilbert, our first home? 
What is it like?" 

"Not very large, but large enough for us. There's 


a splendid living room with a fireplace in it down- 
stairs, and a dining room that looks out on the 
harbour, and a little room that will do for my office. 
It is about sixty years old the oldest house in Four 
Winds. But it has been kept in pretty good repair, 
and was all done over about fifteen years ago- 
shingled, plastered and re-floored. It was well built 
to begin with. I understand that there was some ro- 
mantic story connected with its building, but the man 
I rented it from didn't know it. He said Captain Jim 
was the only one who could spin that old yarn now." 

"Who is Captain Jim?" 

"The keeper of the lighthouse on Four Winds 
Point. You'll love that Four Winds light, Anne. It's 
a revolving one, and it flashes like a magnificent star 
through the twilights. We can see it from our living 
room windows and our front door." 

"Who owns the house?" 

"Well, it's the property of the Glen St. Mary Pres- 
byterian Church now, and I rented it from the 
trustees. But it belonged until lately to a very old 
lady, Miss Elizabeth Russell. She died last spring, 
and as she had no near relatives she left her property 
to the Glen St. Mary Church. Her furniture is still 
in the house, and I bought most of it for a mere 
song you might say, because it was all so old- 
fashioned that the trustees despaired of selling it. 
Glen St. Mary folks prefer plush brocade and side- 
boards with mirrors and ornamentations, I fancy. 


But Miss Russell's furniture is very good and I feel 
sure you'll like it, Anne." 

"So far, good," said Anne, nodding cautious ap- 
proval. "But, Gilbert, people cannot live by furniture 
alone. You haven't yet mentioned one very important 
thing. Are there trees about this house?" 

"Heaps of them, oh, dryad! There is a big grove 
of fir trees behind it, two rows of Lombardy poplars 
down the lane, and a ring of white birches around a 
very delightful garden. Our front door opens right 
into the garden, but there is another entrance a little 
gate hung between two firs. The hinges are on one 
trunk and the catch on the other. Their boughs form 
an arch overhead." 

"Oh, I'm so glad ! I couldn't live where there were 
no trees something vital in me would starve. Well, 
after that, there's no use asking you if there's a brook 
anywhere near. That would be expecting too much." 

"But there is a brook and it actually cuts across 
one corner of the garden." 

"Then," said Anne, with a long sigh of supreme 
satisfaction, "this house you have found is my house 
of dreams and none other." 


HAVE you made up your mind who you're going 
to have to the wedding, Anne?" asked Mrs. 
Rachel Lynde, as she hemstitched ' table napkins in- 
dustriously. "It's time your invitations were sent, 
even if they are to be only informal ones." 

"I don't mean to have very many," said Anne. "We 
just want those we love best to see us married. 
Gilbert's people, and Mr. and Mrs. Allan, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Harrison." 

"There was a time when you'd hardly have num- 
bered Mr. Harrison among your dearest friends," 
said Marilla drily. 

"Well, I wasn't very strongly attracted to him at 
our first meeting," acknowledged Anne, with a laugh 
over the recollection. "But Mr. Harrison has im- 
proved on acquaintance, and Mrs. Harrison is really 
a dear. Then, of course, there are Miss Lavendar 
and Paul." 

"Have they decided to come to the Island this sum- 
mer? I thought they were going to Europe." 



"They changed their minds when I wrote them I 
was going to be married. I had a letter from Paul 
today. He says he must come to my wedding, no 
matter what happens to Europe." 

"That child always idolised you," remarked Mrs. 

'"That 'child' is a young man of nineteen now, Mrs. 

"How time does fly!" was Mrs. Lynde's brilliant 
and original response. 

"Charlotta the Fourth may come with them. She 
sent word by Paul that she would come if her husband 
would let her. I wonder if she still wears those 
enormous blue bows, and whether her husband calls 
her Charlotta or Leonora. I should love to have 
Charlotta at my wedding. Charlotta and I were at 
a wedding long syne. They expect to be at Echo 
Lodge next week. Then there are Phil and the 
Reverend Jo " 

"It sounds awful to hear you speaking of a min- 
ister like that, Anne," said Mrs. Rachel severely. 

"His wife calls him that." 

"She should have more respect for his holy office, 
then," retorted Mrs. Rachel. 

"I've heard you criticise ministers pretty sharply 
yourself," teased Anne. 

"Yes, but I do it reverently," protested Mrs. Lynde. 
"You never heard me nickname a minister." 

Anne smothered a smile. 


"Well, there are Diana and Fred and little Fred 
and Small Anne Cordelia and Jane Andrews. I 
wish I could have Miss Stacey and Aunt Jamesina 
and Priscilla and Stella. But Stella is in Vancouver, 
and Pris is in Japan, and Miss Stacey is married in 
California, and Aunt Jamesina has gone to India to 
explore her daughter's mission field, in spite of her 
horror of snakes. It's really dreadful the way 
people get scattered over the globe." 

"The Lord never intended it, that's what," said 
Mrs. Rachel authoritatively. "In my young days 
people grew up and married and settled down where 
they were born, or pretty near it. Thank goodness 
you've stuck to the Island, Anne. I was afraid 
Gilbert would insist on rushing off to the ends of the 
earth when he got through college, and dragging 
you with him." 

"If everybody stayed where he was born places 
would soon be filled up, Mrs. Lynde." 

"Oh, I'm not going to argue with you, Anne. 7 
am not a B.A. What time of the day is the ceremony 
to be?" 

"We have decided on noon high noon, as the 
society reporters say. That will give us time to catch 
the evening train to Glen St. Mary." 

"And you'll be married in the parlour?" 

"No not unless it rains. We mean to be married 
in the orchard with the blue sky over us and the 
sunshine around us. Do you know when and where 


I'd like to be married, if I could? It would be at 
dawn a June dawn, with a glorious sunrise, and 
roses blooming in the gardens ; and I would slip down 
and meet Gilbert and we would go together to the 
heart of the beech woods, and there, under the green 
arches that would be like a splendid cathedral, we 
would be married." 

Marilla sniffed scornfully and Mrs. Lynde looked 

"But that would be terrible queer, Anne. Why, it 
wouldn't really seem legal. And what would Mrs. 
Harmon Andrews say?" 

"Ah, there's the rub," sighed Anne. "There are 
so many things in life we cannot do because of the 
fear of what Mrs. Harmon Andrews would say. 
''Tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis, 'tis true.' What 
delightful things we might do were it not for Mrs. 
Harmon Andrews!" 

"By times, Anne, I don't feel quite sure that I 
understand you altogether," complained Mrs. Lynde. 

"Anne was always romantic, you know," said 
Marilla apologetically. 

"Well, married life will most likely cure her of 
that," Mrs. Rachel responded comfortingly. 

Anne laughed and slipped away to Lover's Lane, 
where Gilbert found her; and neither of them seemed 
to entertain much fear, or hope, that their married 
life would cure them of romance. 

The Echo Lodge people came over the next week, 


and Green Gables buzzed with the delight of them. 
Miss Lavendar had changed so little that the three 
years since her last Island visit might have been a 
watch in the night; but Anne gasped with amazement 
over Paul. Could this splendid six feet of manhood 
be the little Paul of Avonlea schooldays? 

"You really make me feel old, Paul," said Anne. 
"Why, I have to look up to you 1" 

"You'll never grow old, Teacher," said N Paul. 
"You are one of the fortunate mortals who have 
found and drunk from the Fountain of Youth, 
you and Mother Lavendar. See here! When you're 
married I won't call you Mrs. Blythe. To me you'll 
always be Teacher' the teacher of the best lessons 
I ever learned. I want to show you something." 

The "something" was a pocketbook full of poems. 
Paul had put some of his beautiful fancies into 
verse, and magazine editors had not been as un- 
appreciative as they are sometimes supposed to be. 
Anne read Paul's poems with real delight They 
were full of charm and promise. 

"You'll be famous yet, Paul. I always dreamed 
of having one famous pupil. He was to be a college 
president but a great poet would be even better. 
Some day I'll be able to boast that I whipped the 
distinguished Paul Irving. But then I never did 
whip you, did I, Paul ? What an opportunity lost ! I 
think I kept you in at recess, however." 

"You may be famous yourself, Teacher. I've 


seen a good deal of your work these last three years." 

"No. I know what I can do. I can write pretty, 
fanciful little sketches that children love and editors 
send welcome cheques for. But I can do nothing big. 
My only chance for earthly immortality is a corner 
in your Memoirs." 

Charlotta the Fourth had discarded the blue bows 
but her freckles were not noticeably less. 

"I never did think I'd come down to marrying a 
Yankee, Miss Shirley, ma'am," she said. "But you 
never know what's before you, and it isn't his fault. 
He was born that way." 

"You're a Yankee yourself, Charlotta, since you've 
married one." 

"Miss Shirley, ma'am, I'm not! And I wouldn't be 
if I was to marry a dozen Yankees! Tom's kind of 
nice. And besides, I thought I'd better not be too 
hard to please, for I mightn't get another chance. 
Tom don't drink and he don't growl because he has 
to work between meals, and when all's said and done 
I'm satisfied, Miss Shirley, ma'am." 

"Does he call you Leonora?" asked Anne. 

"Goodness, no, Miss Shirley, ma'am. I wouldn't 
know who he meant if he did. Of course, when we 
got married he had to say, 'I take thee, Leonora,' 
and I declare to you, Miss Shirley, ma'am, I've had 
the most dreadful feeling ever since that it wasn't me 
he was talking to and I haven't been rightly married 
at all. And so you're going to be married yourself, 


Miss Shirley, ma'am? I always thought I'd like to 
marry a doctor. It wou!3 be so handy when the 
children had measles and croup. Tom is only a 
bricklayer, but he's real good-tempered. When I 
said to him, says I, 'Tom, can I go to Miss Shirley's 
wedding? I mean to go anyhow, but I'd like to have 
your consent,' he just says, 'Suit yourself, Charlotta, 
and you'll suit me.' That's a real pleasant kind of 
husband to have, Miss Shirley, ma'am." 

Philippa and her Reverend Jo arrived at Green 
Gables the day before the wedding. Anne and Phil 
had a rapturous meeting which presently simmered 
down to a cosy, confidential chat over all that had 
been and was about to be. 

"Queen Anne, you're as queenly as ever. I've got 
fearfully thin since the babies came. I'm not half so 
good-looking; but I think Jo likes it. There's not 
such a contrast between us, you see. And oh, it's 
perfectly magnificent that you're going to marry 
Gilbert. Roy Gardner wouldn't have done at all, at 
alj. I can see that now, though I was horribly 
disappointed at the time. You know, Anne, you did 
treat Roy very badly." 

"He has recovered, I understand," smiled Anne. 

"Oh, yes. He is married and his wife is a sweet 
little thing and they're perfectly happy. Everything 
works together for good. Jo and the Bible say that, 
and they are pretty good authorities." 

"Are Alec and Alonzo married yet?" 


"Alec is, but Alonzo isn't. How those dear old 
days at Patty's Place come back when I'm talking 
to you, Anne! What fun we had!" 

"Have you been to Patty's Place lately?" 

"Oh, yes, I go often. Miss Patty and Miss Maria 
still sit by the fireplace and knit. And that reminds 
me we've brought you a wedding gift from them, 
Anne. Guess what it is." 

"I never could. How did they know I was going 
to be married?" 

"Oh, I told them. I was there last week. And 
they were so interested. Two days ago Miss Patty 
wrote me a note asking me to call; and then she 
asked if I would take her gift to you. What would 
you wish most from Patty's Place, Anne?" 

"You can't mean that Miss Patty has sent me her 
china dogs?" 

"Go up head. They're in my trunk this very 
moment. And I've a letter for you. Wait a moment 
and I'll get it." 

"Dear Miss Shirley," Miss Patty had written, 
"Maria and I were very much interested in hearing 
of your approaching nuptials. We send you our best 
wishes. Maria and I have never married, but we 
have no objection to other people doing so. We are 
sending you the china clogs. I intended to leave them 
to you in my will, because you seemed to have a 
sincere affection for them. But Maria and I expect 


to live a good while yet (D.V.), so I have decided to 
give you the dogs while you are young. You will 
not have forgotten that Gog looks to the right and 
Magog to the left." 

"Just fancy those lovely old dogs sitting by the 
fireplace in my house of dreams," said Anne rap- 
turously. "I never expected anything so delightful." 

That evening Green Gables hummed with prepara- 
tions for the following day; but in the twilight Anne 
slipped away. She had a little pilgrimage to make 
on this last day of her girlhood and she must make 
it alone. She went to Matthew's grave, in the little 
poplar-shaded Avonlea graveyard, and there kept a 
silent tryst with old memories and immortal loves. 

"How glad Matthew would be tomorrow if he 
were here," she whispered. "But I believe he does 
know and is glad of it somewhere else. I've read 
somewhere that 'our dead are never dead until we 
have forgotten them.' Matthew will never be dead 
to me, for I can never forget him." 

She left on his grave the flowers she had brought 
and walked slowly down the long hill. It was a 
gracious evening, full of delectable lights and 
shadows. In the west was a sky of mackerel 
clouds crimson and amber-tinted, with long strips 
of apple-green sky between. Beyond was the glim- 
mering radiance of a sunset sea, and' the ceaseless 
voice of many waters came up from the tawny shore. 

All around her, lying in the fine, beautiful country 
silence, were the hills and fields and woods she had 
known and loved so long. 

"History repeats itself," said Gilbert, joining her 
as she passed the Ely the gate. "Do yon remember 
our first walk down this hill, Anne our first walk 
together anywhere, for that matter?" 

"I was coming home in the twilight from 
Matthew's grave and you came out of the gate ; and 
I swallowed the pride of years and spoke to you." 

"And all heaven opened before me," supplemented 
Gilbert. "From that moment I looked forward to 
tomorrow. When I left you at your gate that night 
and walked home I was the happiest boy in the world. 
Anne had forgiven me." 

"I think you had the most to forgive. I was an 
ungrateful little wretch and after you had really 
saved my life that day on the pond, too. How I 
loathed that load of obligation at first! I don't 
deserve the happiness that has come to me." 

Gilbert laughed and clasped tighter the girlish hand 
that wore his ring. Anne's engagement 'ring was a 
circlet of pearls. She had refused to wear a diamond. 

"I've never really liked diamonds since I found 
out they weren't the lovely purple I had dreamed. 
They will always suggest my old disappointment." 

"But pearls are for tears, the old legend says," 
Gilbert had objected. 

"I'm not afraid of that. And tears can be happy 


as well as sad. My very happiest moments have 
been when I had tears in my eyes when Marilla 
told me I might stay at Green Gables when Matthew 
gave me the first pretty dress I ever had when I 
heard that you were going to recover from the fever. 
So give me pearls for our troth ring, Gilbert, and 
I'll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy." 
But tonight our lovers thought only of joy and 
never of sorrow. For the morrow was their wedding 
day, and their house of dreams awaited them on the 
misty, purple shore of Four Winds Harbour. 




A!^NE wakened on the morning of her wedding 
day to find the sunshine winking in at the 
window of the little porch gable and a September 
breeze frolicking with her curtains. 

"I'm so glad the sun will shine on me," she thought 

She recalled the first morning she had wakened in 
that little porch room, when the sunshine had crept 
in on her through the blossom-drift of the old Snow 
Queen. That had not been a happy wakening, for 
it brought with it the bitter disappointment of the 
preceding night. But since then the little room had 
been endeared and consecrated by years of happy 
childhood dreams and maiden visions. To it she 
had come back joyfully after all her absences; at its 
window she had knelt through that night of bitter 
agony when she believed Gilbert dying, and by it she 
had sat in speechless happiness the night of her 
betrothal. Many vigils of joy and some of sorrow 
had been kept there; and today she must leave it for- 



ever. Henceforth it would be hers no more; fifteen- 
year-old Dora was to inherit it when she had gone. 
Nor did Anne wish it otherwise; the little room was 
sacred to youth and girlhood to the past that was 
to close today before the chapter of wifehood opened. 

Green Gables was a busy and joyous house that 
forenoon. Diana arrived early, with little Fred and 
Small Anne Cordelia, to lend a hand. Davy and 
Dora, the Green Gables twins, whisked the babies off 
to the garden. 

"Don't let Small Anne Cordelia spoil her clothes," 
warned Diana anxiously. 

"You needn't be afraid to trust her with Dora," 
said Manila. "That child is more sensible and care- 
ful than most of the mothers I've known. She's really 
a wonder in some ways. Not much like that other 
harum-scarum I brought up." 

Marilla smiled across her chicken salad at Anne. 
It might even be suspected that she liked the harum- 
scarum best after all. 

"Those twins are real nice children," said Mrs. 
Rachel, when she was sure they were out of earshot. 
"Dora is so womanly and helpful, and Davy is de- 
veloping into a very smart boy. He isn't the holy 
terror for mischief he used to be." 

"I never was so distracted in my life as I was the 
first six months he was here," acknowledged Marilla. 
"After that I suppose I got used to him. He's taken 
a great notion to farming lately, and wants me to let 


him try running the farm next year. I may, for Mr. 
Barry doesn't think he'll want to rent it much longer, 
and some new arrangement will have to be made." 

"Well, you certainly have a lovely day for your 
wedding, Anne," said Diana, as she slipped a volum- 
inous apron over her silken array. "You couldn't 
have had a finer one if you'd ordered it from 

"Indeed, there's too much money going out of this 
Island to that same Eaton's," said Mrs. Lynde in- 
dignantly. She had strong views on the subject of 
octopus-like department stores, and never lost an op- 
portunity of airing them. "And as for those 
catalogues of theirs, they're the Avonlea girls' Bible 
now, that's what. They pore over them on Sundays 
instead of studying the Holy Scriptures." 

"Well, they're splendid to amuse children with," 
said Diana. "Fred and Small Anne look at the 
pictures by the hour." 

"/ amused ten children without the aid of Eaton's 
catalogue," said Mrs. Rachel severely. 

"Come, you two, don't quarrel over Eaton's 
catalogue," said Anne gaily. "This is my day of 
days, you know. I'm so happy I want every one else 
to be happy, too." 

"I'm sure I hope your happiness will last, child," 
sighed Mrs. Rachel. She did hope it truly, and 
believed it, but she was afraid it was in the nature of 
a challenge to Providence to flaunt your happiness 


too openly. Anne, for her own good, must be toned 
down a trifle. 

But it was a happy and beautiful bride who came 
down the old, homespun-carpeted stairs that Septem- 
ber noon the first bride of Green, Gables, slender and 
shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with her 
arms full of roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the 
hall below, looked up at her with adoring eyes. She 
was his at last, this evasive, long-sought Anne, won 
after years of patient waiting. It was to him she 
was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride. Was 
he worthy of her? Could he make her as happy as 
he hoped? If he failed her if he could not measure 
up to her standard of manhood then, as she held 
out her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept 
away in a glad certainty. They belonged to each 
other; and, no matter what life might hold for them, 
it could never alter that. Their happiness was in 
each other's keeping and both were unafraid. 

They were married in the sunshine of the old 
orchard, circled by the loving and kindly faces of 
long-familiar friends. Mr. Allan married them, and 
the Reverend Jo made what Mrs. Rachel Lynde after- 
wards pronounced to be the "most beautiful wedding 
prayer" she had ever heard. Birds do not often 
sing in September, but one sang sweetly from some 
hidden bough while Gilbert and Anne repeated their 
deathless vows. Anne heard it and thrilled to it; 
Gilbert heard it, and wondered only that all the birds 


in the world had not burst into jubilant song; Paul 
heard it and later wrote a lyric about it which was 
one of the most admired in his first volume of verse; 
Charlotta the Fourth heard it and was blissfully sure 
it meant good luck for her adored Miss Shirley. The 
bird sang until the ceremony was ended and then it 
wound up with one mad little, glad little trill. Never 
had the old gray-green house among its enfolding 
orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon. All 
the old jests and quips that must have done duty at 
weddings since Eden were served up, and seemed as 
new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as if they 
had never been uttered before. Laughter and joy 
had their way; and when Anne and Gilbert left to 
catch the Carmody train, with Paul as driver, the 
twins were ready with rice and old shoes, in the 
throwing of which Charlotta the Fourth and Mr. 
Harrison bore a valiant part. Marilla stood at the 
gate and watched the carriage out of sight down the 
long lane with its banks of goldenrod. Anne turned 
at its end to wave her last good-bye. She was gone 
Green Gables was her home no more; Manila's face 
looked very gray and old as she turned to the house 
which Anne had filled for fourteen years, and even 
in her absence, with light and life. 

But Diana and her small fry, the Echo Lodge 
people and the Allans, had stayed to help the two old 
ladies over the loneliness of the first evening; and 
they contrived to have a quietly pleasant little supper 


time, sitting long around the table and chatting over 
all the details of the day. While they were sitting 
there Anne and Gilbert were alighting from the train 
at Glen St. Mary. 


DR. DAVID BLYTHE had sent his horse and 
buggy to meet them, and the urchin who had 
brought it slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leav- 
ing them to the delight of driving alone to their new 
home through the radiant evening. 

Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that 
broke upon them when they had driven over the hill 
behind the village. Her new home could not yet be 
seen; but before her lay Four Winds Harbour like a 
great, shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, 
she saw its entrance between the bar of sand-dunes 
on one side and a steep, high, grim, red-sandstone cliff 
on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and 
austere, dreamed in the afterlight. The little fishing 
village, nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes .met 
the harbour shore, looked like a great opal in the haze. 
The sky over them was like a jewelled cup from which 
the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the 
compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape 
was infused with the subtleties of a sea evening. A 



few dim sails drifted along the darkening, fir-clad 
harbour shores. A bell was ringing from the tower 
of a little white church on the far side; mellowly 
and dreamily sweet, the chime floated across the 
water blent with the moan of the sea. The great 
revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed 
warm and golden against the clear northern sky, a 
trembling, quivering star of good hope. Far out 
along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of 
a passing steamer's smoke. 

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful," murmured Anne. "I 
shall love Four Winds, Gilbert. Where is our 

"We can't see it yet the belt of birch running up 
from that little cove hides it. It's about two miles 
from Glen St. Mary, and there's another mile between 
it and the light-house. We won't have many neigh- 
bours, Anne. There's only one house near us and I 
don't know who lives in it. Shall you be lonely when 
I'm away?" 

"Not with that light and that loveliness for com- 
pany. Who lives in that house, Gilbert?" 

"I don't know. It doesn't look exactly as if 
the occupants would be kindred spirits, Anne, does 

The house was a large, substantial affair, painted 
such a vivid green that the landscape seemed quite 
faded by contrast. There was an orchard behind it, 
and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow, there 


was a certain bareness about it. Perhaps its neatness 
was responsible for this; the whole establishment, 
house, barns, orchard, garden, lawn and lane, was so 
starkly neat. 

"It doesn't seem probable that anyone with that 
taste in paint could be very kindred," acknowledged 
Anne, "unless it were an accident like our blue hall. 
\ feel certain there are no children there, at least. It's 
even neater than the old Copp place on the Tory 
road, and I never expected to see anything neater 
than that." 

They had not met anybody on the moist, red road 
that wound along the harbour shore. But just before 
they came to the belt of birch which hid their home, 
Anne saw a girl who was driving a flock of snow-white 
geese along the crest of a velvety green hill on the 
right. Great, scattered firs grew along it. Between 
their trunks one saw glimpses of yellow harvest 
fields, gleams of golden sand-hills, and bits of blue 
sea. The girl was tall and wore a dress of pale blue 
print. She walked with a certain springiness of step 
and erectness of bearing. She and her geese came 
out of the gate at the foot of the hill as Anne and 
Gilbert passed. She stood with her hand on the 
fastening of the gate, and looked steadily at them, 
with an expression that hardly attained to interest, 
but did not descend to curiosity. It seemed to Anne, 
for a fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled 
hint of hostility in it. But it was the girl's beaut* 


which made Anne give a little gasp a beauty so 
marked that it must have attracted attention any- 
where. She was hatless, but heavy braids of 
burnished hair, the hue of ripe wheat, were twisted 
about her head like a coronet; her eyes were blue and 
star-like; her figure, in its plain print gown, was 
magnificent; and her lips were as crimson as the 
bunch of blood-red poppies she wore at her belt. 

"Gilbert, who is the girl we have just passed?" 
asked Anne, in a low voice. 

"I didn't notice any girl," said Gilbert, who had 
eyes only for his bride. 

"She was standing by that gate no, don't look 
back. She is still watching us. I never saw such 
a beautiful face." 

"I don't remember seeing any very handsome girls 
while I was here. There are some pretty girls up at 
the Glen, but I hardly think they could be called 

"This girl is. You can't have seen her, or you 
would remember her. Nobody could forget her. I 
never saw such a face except in pictures. And her 
hair! It made me think of Browning's 'cord of 
gold' and 'gorgeous snake' !" 

"Probably she's some visitor in Four Winds 
likely some one from that big summer hotel over the 

"She wore a white apron and she was driving 


"She might do that for amusement. Look, Anne 
there's our house." 

Anne looked and forgot for a time the girl with 
the splendid, resentful eyes. The first glimpse of her 
new home was a delight to eye and spirit it looked 
so like a big, creamy seashell stranded on the harbour 
shore. The rows of tall Lombardy poplars down its 
lane stood out in stately, purple silhouette against 
the sky. Behind it, sheltering its garden from the 
too keen breath of sea winds, was a cloudy fir wood, 
in which the winds might make all kinds of weird 
and haunting music. Like all woods, it seemed to be 
holding and enfolding secrets in its recesses, secrets 
whose charm is only to be won by entering in and 
patiently seeking. Outwardly, dark green arms keep 
them inviolate from curious or indifferent eyes. 

The night winds were beginning their wild dances 
beyond the bar and the fishing hamlet across the 
harbour was gemmed with lights as Anne and Gilbert 
drove up the poplar lane. The door of the little 
house opened, and a warm glow of firelight 
flickered out into the dusk. Gilbert lifted Anne from 
the buggy and led her into the garden, through the 
little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, 
red path to the sandstone step. 

"Welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand 
they stepped over the threshold of their house of 


OLD Doctor Dave" and "Mrs. Doctor Dave" had 
come down to the little house to greet the bride 
and groom. Doctor Dave was a big, jolly, white- 
whiskered old fellow, and Mrs. Doctor was a trim, 
rosy-cheeked, silver-haired little lady who took Anne 
at once to her heart, literally and figuratively. 

"I'm so glad to see you, dear. You must be real 
tired. We've got a bite of supper ready, and Captain 
Jim brought up some trout for you. Captain Jim 
where are you? Oh, he's slipped out to see to the 
horse, I suppose. Come upstairs and take your things 

Anne looked about her with bright, appreciative 
eyes as she followed Mrs. Doctor Dave upstairs. 
She liked the appearance of her new home very 
much. It seemed to have the atmosphere of Green 
Gables and the flavour of her old traditions. 

"I think I would have found Miss Elizabeth Rus- 
sell a 'kindred spirit,' " she murmured when she was 
alone in her room. There were two windows in it; 



the dormer one looked out on the lower harbour and 
the sand-bar and the Four Winds light. 

" 'A magic casement opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn/ " 

quoted Anne softly. The gable window gave a view 
of a little harvest-hued valley through which a brook 
ran. Half a mile up the brook was the only house 
in sight an old, rambling, gray one surrounded by 
huge willows through which its windows peered, like 
shy, seeking eyes, into the dusk. Anne wondered 
who lived there ; they would be her nearest neighbours 
and she hoped they would be nice. She suddenly 
found herself thinking of the beautiful girl with the 
white geese. 

"Gilbert thought she didn't belong here," mused 
Anne, "but I feel sure she does. There was something 
about her that made her part of the sea and the 
sky and the harbour. Four Winds is in her blood." 

When Anne went downstairs Gilbert was standing 
before the fireplace talking to a stranger. Both turned 
as Anne entered. 

"Anne, this is Captain Boyd. Captain Boyd, my 

It was the first time Gilbert had said "my wife" 
to anybody but Anne, and he narrowly escaped burst- 
ing with the pride of it. The old captain held out 
a sinewy hand to Anne ; they smiled at each other and 


were friends from that moment. Kindred spirit 
flashed recognition to kindred spirit. 

"I'm right down pleased to meet you, Mistress 
Blythe; and I hope you'll be as happy as the first 
bride was who came here. I can't wish you no better 
than that. But your husband doesn't introduce me 
jest exactly right. 'Captain Jim' is my week-a-day 
name and you might as well begin as you're sartain 
to end up calling me that. You sartainly are a 
nice little bride, Mistress Blythe. Looking at you 
sorter makes me feel that I've jest been married 

Amid the laughter that followed Mrs. Doctor Dave 
urged Captain Jim to stay and have supper with them. 

"Thank you kindly. Twill be a real treat, Mistress 
Doctor. I mostly has to eat my meals alone, with 
the reflection of my ugly old phiz in a looking-glass 
opposite for company. Tisn't often I have a chance 
to sit down with two such sweet, purty ladies." 

Captain Jim's compliments may look very bald on 
paper, but he paid them with such a gracious, gentle 
deference of tone and look that the woman upon 
whom they were bestowed felt that she was being 
offered a queen's tribute in a kingly fashion. 

Captain Jim was a high-souled, simple-minded old 
man, with eternal youth in his eyes and heart. He 
had a tall, rather ungainly figure, somewhat stooped, 
yet suggestive of great strength and endurance; a 
clean-shaven face deeply lined and bronzed; a thick 


mane of iron-gray hair falling quite to his shoulders, 
and a pair of remarkably blue, deep-set eyes, which 
sometimes twinkled and sometimes dreamed, and 
sometimes looked out seaward with a wistful quest 
in them, as of one seeking something precious and 
tost. Anne was to learn one day what it was for 
which Captain Jim looked. 

It could not be denied that Captain Jim was a 
homely man. His spare jaws, rugged mouth, and 
square brow were not fashioned on the lines of 
beauty; and he had passed through many hardships 
and sorrows which had marked his body as well as 
'his soul; but though at first sight Anne thought him 
plain she never thought anything more about it the 
spirit shining through that rugged tenement beautified 
it so wholly. 

They gathered gaily around the supper table. The 
hearth fire banished the chill of the September even- 
ing, but the window of the dining room was open 
and sea breezes entered at their own sweet will. The 
view was magnificent, taking in the harbour and the 
sweep of low, purple hills beyond. The table was 
heaped with Mrs. Doctor's delicacies but the piece de 
resistance was undoubtedly the big platter of sea- 

"Thought they'd be sorter tasty after travelling," 
said Captain Jim. "They're fresh as trout can be, 
Mistress Blythe. Two hours ago they were swim- 
ming in the Glen Pond." 


"vVho is attending to the light tonight, Captain 
Jim?" asked Doctor Dave. 

"Nephew Alec. He understands it as well as I do. 
Well, now, I'm real glad you asked me to stay to 
supper. I'm proper hungry didn't have much of a 
dinner today." 

"I believe you half starve yourself most of the 
time down at that light," said Mrs. Doctor Dave 
severely. "You won't take the trouble to get up a 
decent meal." 

"Oh, I do, Mistress Doctor, I do," protested 
Captain Jim. "Why, I live like a king gen'rally. 
Last night I was up to the Glen and took home two 
pounds of steak. I meant to have a spanking good 
dinner today." 

"And what happened to the steak?" asked Mrs. 
Doctor Dave. "Did you lose it on the way home?" 

"No." Captain Jim looked sheepish. "Just at bed- 
time a poor, ornery sort of dog came along and asked 
for a night's lodging. Guess he belonged to some of 
the fishermen 'long shore. I couldn't turn the poor 
cur out he had a sore foot. So I shut him in the 
porch, with an old bag to lie on, and went to bed. 
But somehow I couldn't sleep. Come to think it 
over, I sorter remembered that the dog looked 

"And you got up and gave him that steak all 
that steak," said Mrs. Doctor Dave, with a kind of 
triumphant reproof. 


"Well, there wasn't anything else to give him," 
said Captain Jim deprecatingly. "Nothing a dog'd 
care for, that is. I reckon he was hungry, for he 
made about two bites of it. I had a fine sleep the 
rest of the night but my dinner had to be sorter 
scanty potatoes and point, as you might say. The 
dog, he lit out for home this morning. I reckon he 
weren't a vegetarian." 

"The idea of starving yourself for a worthless 
dog!'' sniffed Mrs. Doctor. 

"You don't know but he may be worth a lot to 
somebody," protested Captain Jim. "He didn't look 
of much account, but you can't go by looks in jedging 
a dog. Like meself, he might be a real beauty inside. 
The First Mate didn't approve of him, I'll allow. 
His language was right down forcible. But the First 
Mate is prejudiced. No use in taking a cat's opinion 
of a dog. 'Tennyrate, I lost my dinner, so this nice 
spread in this dee-lightful company is real pleasant. 
It's a great thing to have good neighbours." 

"'Who lives in the house among the willows up the 
brook?" asjced Anne. 

"Mrs. Dick Moore," said Captain Jim "and her 
husband," he added, as if by way of an afterthought. 

Anne smiled, and deduced a mental picture of Mrs. 
Dick Moore from Captain Jim's way of putting it; 
evidently a second Mrs. Rachel Lynde. 

"You haven't many neighbours, Mistress Blythe," 
Captain Jim went on. "This side of the harbour is 


mighty thinly settled. Most of the land belongs to 
Mr. Howard up yander past the Glen, and he rents 
it out for pasture. The other side of the harbour, 
now, is thick with folks 'specially MacAllisters. 
There's a whole colony of MacAllisters you can't 
throw a stone but you hit one. I was talking to old 
Leon Blacquiere the other day. He's been working 
on the harbour all summer. 'Dey're nearly all Mac- 
Allisters over thar,' he told me. 'Dare's Neil Mac- 
Allister and Sandy MacAllister and William 
MacAllister and Alec MacAllister and Angus Mac- 
Allister and I believe dare's de Devil MacAllister.' ' 

"There are nearly as many Elliotts and Craw- 
fords," said Doctor Dave, after the laughter had 
subsided. "You know, Gilbert, we folk on this side 
of Four Winds have an old saying 'From the conceit 
of the Elliotts, the pride of the MacAllisters, and the 
vainglory of the Craw fords, good Lord deliver us.' ' 

"There's a plenty of fine people among them, 
though," said Captain Jim. "I sailed with William 
Crawford for many a year, and for courage and 
endurance and truth that man hadn't an equal. 
They've got brains over on that side of Four 
Winds. Mebbe that's why this side is sorter inclined 
to pick on 'em. Strange, ain't it, how folks seem to 
resent anyone being born a mite cleverer than they 

Doctor Dave, who had a forty years' feud with the 
over-harbour people, laughed and subsided. 


"Who lives in that brilliant emerald house about 
half a mile up the road?" asked Gilbert. 

Captain Jim smiled delightedly. 

"Miss Cornelia Bryant. She'll likely be over to 
see you soon, seeing you're Presbyterians. If you 
were Methodists she wouldn't come at all. Cornelia 
has a holy horror of Methodists." 

"She's quite a character," chuckled Doctor Dave. 
"A most inveterate man-hater!" 

"Sour grapes?" queried Gilbert, laughing. 

"No, 'tisn't sour grapes," answered Captain Jim 
seriously. "Cornelia could have had her pick when 
she was young. Even yet she's only to say the word 
to see the old widowers jump. She jest seems to 
have been born with a sort of chronic spite agin 
men and Methodists. She's got the bitterest tongue 
and the kindest heart in Four Winds. Wherever 
there's any trouble, that woman is there, doing 
everything to help in the tenderest way. She never 
says a harsh word about another woman, and if she 
likes to card us poor scalawags of men down I reckon 
our tough old hides can stand it." 

"She always speaks well of you, Captain Jim," 
said Mrs. Doctor. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I don't half like it. It makes 
me feel as if there must be something sorter unnat- 
teral about me." 



WHO was the first bride who came to this house, 
Captain Jim?" Anne asked, as they sat around 
the fireplace after supper. 

"Was she a part of the story I've heard was con- 
nected with this house?" asked Gilbert. "Somebody 
told me you could tell it, Captain Jim." 

"Well, yes, I know it. I reckon I'm the only person 
living in Four Winds now that can remember the 
schoolmaster's bride as she was when she come to 
the Island. She's been dead this thirty year, but she 
was one of them women you never forget." 

"Tell us the story," pleaded Anne. "I want to find 
out all about the women who have lived in this house 
before me." 

"Well, there's jest been three Elizabeth Russell, 
and Mrs. Ned Russell, and the schoolmaster's bride. 
Elizabeth Russell was a nice, clever little critter, and 
Mrs. Ned was a nice woman, too. But they weren't 
ever like the schoolmaster's bride. 

"The schoolmaster's name was John Selwyn. He 



came out from the Old Country to teach school at 
the Glen when I was a boy of sixteen. He wasn't 
much like the usual run of derelicts who used to come 
out to P. E. I. to teach school in them days. Most 
of them were clever, drunken critters who taught the 
children the three R's when they were sober, and 
lambasted them when they wasn't. But John Selwyn 
was a fine, handsome young fellow. He boarded at 
my father's, and he and me were cronies, though he 
was ten years older'n me. We read and walked and 
talked a heap together. He knew about all the poetry 
that was ever written, I reckon, and he used to quote 
it to me along shore in the evenings. Dad thought 
it an awful waste of time, but he sorter endured it, 
hoping it'd put me off the notion of going to sea. 
Well, nothing could do that mother come of a race 
of sea-going folk and it was born in me. But I loved 
to hear John read and recite. It's almost sixty years 
ago, but I could repeat yards of poetry I learned from 
him. Nearly sixty years!" 

Captain Jim was silent for a space, gazing into the 
glowing fire in a quest of the bygones. Then, with a 
sigh, he resumed his story. 

"I remember one spring evening I met him on the 
sand-hills. He looked sorter uplifted jest like you 
did, Dr. Blythe, when you brought Mistress Blythe in 
tonight. I thought of him the minute I seen you. 
And he told me that he had a sweetheart back home 
and that she was coming out to him. I wasn't morc'n 


half pleased, ornery young lump of selfishness that I 
was; I thought he wouldn't be as much my friend 
after she came. But I'd enough decency not to let 
him see it. He told me all about her. Her name was 
Persis Leigh, and she would have come out with him 
if it hadn't been for her old uncle. He was sick, and 
he'd looked after her when her parents died and she 
wouldn'* leave him. And now he was dead and she 
was coming out to marry John Selwyn. 'Twasn't no 
easy journey for a woman in them days. There 
weren't no steamers, you must ricollect. 

" 'When do you expect her ?' says I. 

'"She sails on the Royal William, the 20th of 
June,' says he, 'and so she should be here by mid- 
July. I must set Carpenter Johnson to building me a 
home for her. Her letter come today. I know be- 
fore I opened it that it had good news for me. I saw 
her a few nights ago.' 

"I didn't understand him, and then he explained 
though I didn't understand that much better. He said 
he had a gift or a curse. Them was his words, 
Mistress Blythe a gift or a curse. He didn't know 
which it was. He said a great-great-grandmother of 
his had had it, and they burned her for a witch on 
account of it. He said queer spells trances, I think 
was the name he give 'em come over him now and 
again. Are there such things, Doctor?" 

"There are people who are certainly subject to 
trances," answered Gilbert. "The matter is more 


in the line of psychical research than medical. What 
were the trances of this John Selwyn like?" 

"Like dreams," said the old Doctor skeptically. 

"He said he could see things in them," said Captain 
Jim slowly. "Mind you, I'm telling you jest what he 
said things that were happening things that were 
going to happen. He said they were sometimes a 
comfort to him and sometimes a horror. Four nights 
before this he'd been in one went into it while he 
was sitting looking at the fire. And he saw an old 
room he knew well in England, and Persis Leigh in 
it, holding out her hands to him and looking glad 
and happy. So he knew he was going to hear good 
news of her." 

"A dream a dream," scoffed the old Doctor. 

"Likely likely," conceded Captain Jim. "That's 
what / said to him at the time. It was a vast more 
comfortable to think so. I didn't like the idea of him 
seeing things like that it was real uncanny. 

" 'No,' says he, 'I didn't dream it. But we won't 
talk of this again. You won't be so much my friend 
if you think much about it.' 

"I told him nothing could make me any less his 
friend. But he jest shook his head and says, says 

" 'Lad, I know. I've lost friends before because of 
this. I don't blame them. There are times when I 
feel hardly friendly to myself because of it. Such a 


power has a bit of divinity in it whether of a good 
or an evil divinity who shall say? And we mortals 
all shrink from too close contact with God or devil.' 

"Them was his words. I remember them as if 
'twas yesterday, though I didn't know jest what he 
meant. What do you s'pose he did mean, doctor?" 

"I doubt if he knew what he meant himself," said 
Doctor Dave testily. 

"I think I understand," whispered Anne. She was 
listening in her old attitude of clasped lips and shining 
eyes. Captain Jim treated himself to an admiring 
smile before he went on with his story. 

"Well, purty soon all the Glen and Four Winds 
people knew the schoolmaster's bride was coming, and 
they were all glad because they thought so much of 
him. And everybody took an interest in his new 
house this house. He picked this site for it, because 
you could see the harbour and hear the sea from it. 
He made the garden out there for his bride, but he 
didn't plant the Lombardies. Mrs. Ned Russell 
planted them. But there's a double row of rose-bushes 
in the garden that the little girls who went to the 
Glen school set out there for the schoolmaster's 
bride. He said they were pink for her cheeks and 
white for her brow and red for her lips. He'd quoted 
poetry so much that he sorter got into the habit of 
talking it, too, I reckon. 

"Almost everybody sent him some little present to 


help out the furnishing of the house. When the 
Russells came into it they were well-to-do and fur- 
nished it real handsome, as you can see; but the first 
furniture that went into it was plain enough. This 
little house was rich in love, though The women 
sent in quilts and table-cloths and towels, and one 
man made a chest for her, and another a table and so 
on. Even blind old Aunt Margaret Boyd wove a little 
basket for her out of the sweet-scented sand-hill grass. 
The schoolmaster's wife used it for years to keep her 
handkerchiefs in. 

"Well, at last everything was ready even to the 
logs in the big fireplace ready for lighting. 'Twasn't 
exactly this fireplace, though 'twas in the same place. 
Miss Elizabeth had this put in when she made the 
house over fifteen years ago. It was a big, old- 
fashioned fireplace where you could have roasted an 
ox. Many's the time . I've sat here and spun yarns, 
same's I'm doing tonight." 

Again there was a silence, while Captain Jim kept 
a passing tryst with visitants Anne and Gilbert could 
not see the folks who had sat with him around that 
fireplace in the vanished years, with mirth and bridal 
joy shining in eyes long since closed forever under 
churchyard sod or heaving leagues of sea. Here on 
olden nights children had tossed laughter lightly to 
and fro. Here on winter evenings friends had gathered. 
Dance and music and jest had been here. Here 
youths and maidens had dreamed. For Captain Jim 


the little house was tenanted with shapes entreating 

"It was the first of July when the house was 
finished. The schoolmaster began to count the days 
then. We used to see him walking along the shore, 
and we'd say to each other, 'She'll soon be with him 

"She was expected the middle of July, but she didn't 
come then. Nobody felt anxious. Vessels were often 
delayed for days and mebbe weeks. The Royal William 
was a week overdue and then two and then three. 
And at last we began to be frightened, and it got 
worse and worse. Fin'lly I couldn't bear to look into 
John Selwyn's eyes. D'ye know, Mistress Blythe" 
Captain Jim lowered his voice "I used to think 
that they looked just like what his old great-great- 
grandmother's must have been when they were burn- 
ing her to death. He never said much but he taught 
school like a man in a dream and then hurried to the 
shore. Many a night he walked there from dark to 
dawn. People said he was losing his mind. Every- 
body had given up hope the Royal William was eight 
weeks overdue. It was the middle of September and 
the schoolmaster's bride hadn't come never would 
come, we thought. 

"There was a big storm then that lasted three days, 
and on the evening after it died away I went to the 
shore. I found the schoolmaster there, leaning with 
his arms folded against a big rock, gazing out to sea. 


"I spoke to him but he didn't answer. His eyes 
seemed to be looking at something I couldn't see. His 
face was set, like a dead man's. 

" 'John John/ I called out jest like that jest 
like a frightened child, 'wake up wake up.' 

"That strange, awful look seemed to sorter fade 
out of his eyes. He turned his head and looked at 
me. I've never forgot his face never will forget it 
till I ships for my last voyage. 

"' 'AH is well, lad,' he says. 'I've seen the Royal 
William coming around East Point. She will be here 
by dawn. Tomorrow night I shall sit with my bride 
by my own hearth-fire.' 

"Do you think he did see it?" demanded Captain 
Jim abruptly. 

"God knows," said Gilbert softly. "Great love and 
great pain might compass we know not what 

"I am sure he did see it," said Anne earnestly. 

"Fol-de-rol," said Doctor Dave, but he spoke with 
less conviction than usual. 

"Because, you know," said Captain Jim solemnly, 
"the Royal William came into Four Winds Harbour 
at daylight the next morning. Every soul in the Glen 
and along the shore was at the old wharf to meet her. 
The schoolmaster had been watching there all night. 
How we cheered as she sailed up the channel." 

Captain Jim's eyes were shining. They were look- 
ing at the Four Winds Harbour of sixty years agone, 


with a battered old ship sailing through the sunrise 

"And Persis Leigh was on board ?" asked Anne. 

"Yes her and the captain's wife. They'd had an 
awful passage storm after storm and their pro- 
visions give out, too. But there they were at last. 
When Persis Leigh stepped onto the old wharf John 
Sclwyn took her in his arms and folks stopped 
cheering and begun to cry. I cried myself, though 
'twas years, mind you, afore I'd admit it. Ain't it 
ftmny how ashamed boys are of tears?" 

"Was Persis Leigh beautiful?" asked Anne. 

"Well, I don't know that you'd call her beautiful 
exactly I don't know," said Captain Jim slowly. 
"Somehow, you never got so far along as to wonder 
if she was handsome or not. It jest didn't matter. 
There was something so sweet and winsome about her 
that you had to love her, that was all. But she was 
pleasant to look at big, clear, hazel eyes and heaps 
of glossy brown hair, and an English skin. John and 
her were married at our house that night at early 
candle-lighting; everybody from far and near was 
there to see it and we all brought them down here 
afterwards. Mistress Sehvyn lighted the fire, and we 
went away and left them sitting here, jest as John had 
seen in that vision of his. A strange thing a strange 
thing I But I've seen a tumble lot of strange things 
in my time." 

Captain Jim shook his head sagely. 


"It's a dear story," said Anne, feeling that for once 
she had got enough romance to satisfy her. "How 
long did they live here?" 

"Fifteen years. I ran off to sea soon after they 
were married, like the young scalawag I was. But 
every time I come back from a voyage I'd head for 
here, even before I went home, and tell Mistress 
Selwyn all about it. Fifteen happy years! They had a 
sort of talent for happiness, them two. Some folks are 
like that, if you've noticed. They couldn't be unhappy 
for long, no matter what happened. They quarrelled 
once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited. But 
Mistress Selwyn says to me once, says she, laughing 
in that pretty way of hers, 'I felt dreadful when John 
and I quarrelled, but underneath it all I was very 
happy because I had such a nice husband to quarrel 
with and make it up with.' Then they moved to 
Charlottetown, and Ned Russell bought this house 
and brought his bride here. They were a gay young 
pair, as I remember them. Miss Elizabeth Russell was 
Alec's sister. She came to live with them a year or so 
later, and she was a creature of mirth, too. The walls 
of this house must be sorter soaked with laughing 
and good times. You're the third bride I've seen 
come here, Mistress Blythe and the handsomest." 

Captain Jim contrived to give his sunflower com- 
pliment the delicacy of a violet, and Anne wore it 
proudly. She was looking her best that night, with 
the bridal rose on her checks and the love-light in 


her eyes; even gruff old Doctor Dave gave her an 
approving glance, and told his wife, as they drove 
home together, that that red-headed wife of the boy's 
was something of a beauty. 

"I must be getting back to the light," announced 
Captain Jim. "I've enj : yed this evening something 

"You must come often to see us," said Anne. 

"I wonder if you'd give that invitation if you 
knew how likely I'll be to accept it," Captain Jim 
remarked whimsically. 

"Which is another way of saying you wonder if I 
mean it," smiled Anne. "I do, 'cross my heart,' as 
we used to say at school." 

"Then I'll come. You're likely to be pestered with 
me at any hour. And I'll be proud to have you drop 
down and visit me now and then, too. Gin'rally 
I haven't anyone to talk to but the First Mate, bless 
his sociable heart. He's a mighty good listener, and 
has forgot more'n any MacAllister of them all ever 
knew, but he isn't much of a conversationalist. 
You're young and I'm old, but our souls are about 
the same age, I reckon. We both belong to the race 
that knows Joseph, as Cornelia Bryant would say." 

"'The race that knows Joseph?" puzzled Anne. 

"Yes. Cornelia divides all the folks in the world 

.into two kinds the race that knows Joseph and the 

race that don't. If a person sorter sees eye to eye with 

you, and has pretty much the same ideas about things, 


and the same taste in jokes why, then he belongs to 
the race that knows Joseph." 

"Oh, I understand," exclaimed Anne, light break- 
ing in upon her. "It's what I used to call and still 
call in quotation marks 'kindred spirits.' ' 

"Jest so jest so," agreed Captain Jim. "We're 
it, whatever it is. When you come in to-night, Mis- 
tress Blythe, I says to myself, says I, 'Yes, she's of 
the race that knows Joseph.' And mighty glad I was, 
for if it wasn't so we couldn't have had any real 
satisfaction in each other's company. The race that 
knows Joseph is the salt of the airth, I reckon." 

The moon had just risen when Anne and Gilbert 
went to the door with their guests. Four Winds 
Harbour was beginning to be a thing of dream and 
glamour and enchantment a spellbound haven where 
no tempest might ever ravin. The Lombardies down 
the lane, tall and sombre as the priestly forms of some 
mystic band, were tipped with silver. 

"Always liked Lombardies," said Captain Jim, 
waving a long arm at them. "They're the trees of 
princesses. They're out of fashion now. Folks com- 
plain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking. 
So they do so they do, if you don't risk your neck 
every spring climbing up a light ladder to trim them 
out. I always did it for Miss Elizabeth, so her Lom- 
bardies never got out-at-elbows. She was especially 
fond of them. She liked their dignity and stand-off- 
rshness. They don't hobnob with every Tom, Dick 


and Harry. If it's maples for company, Mistress 
Blythe, it's Lombardies for society." 

"What a beautiful night," said Mrs. Doctor Dave, 
as she climbed into the Doctor's buggy. 

"Most nights are beautiful," said Gaptain Jim. "But 
I 'low that moonlight over Four Winds makes me 
sorter wonder what's left for heaven. The moon's a 
great friend of mine, Mistress Blythe. I've loved her 
ever since I can remember. When I was a little chap 
of eight I fell asleep in the garden one evening and 
wasn't missed. I woke up along in the night and I 
was most scared to death. What shadows and queer 
noises there was! I dursn't move. Jest crouched 
there quaking, poor small mite. Seemed 'sif there 
weren't anyone in the world but meself and it was 
mighty big. Then all at once I saw the moon looking 
down at me through the apple boughs, jest like an old 
friend. I was comforted right off. Got up and 
walked to the house as brave as a lion, looking at her. 
Many's the night I've watched her from the deck of 
my vessel, on seas far away from here. Why don't you 
folks tell me to take in the slack of my jaw and go 

The laughter of the goodnights died away. Anne 
and Gilbert walked hand in hand around their garden. 
The brook that ran across the corner dimpled pellucid- 
ly in the shadows of the birches. The poppies along 
its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight. Flowers 
that had been planted by the hands of the school- 


master's bride flung their sweetness on the shadowy 
air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays. 
Anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray. 

"I love to smell flowers in the dark," she said. 
"You get hold of their soul then. Oh, Gilbert, this 
little house is all I've dreamed it. And I'm so glad 
that we are not the first who have kept bridal tryst 
here I" 


THAT September was a month of golden mists 
and purple hazes at Four Winds Harbour a 
month of sun-steeped days and of nights that were 
swimming in moonlight, or pulsating with stars. No 
storm marred it, no rough wind blew. Anne and 
Gilbert put their nest in order, rambled on the shores, 
sailed on the harbour, drove about Four Winds and 
the Glen, or through the ferny, sequestered roads of 
the woods around the harbour head; in short, had 
such a honeymoon as any lovers in the world might 
have envied them. 

"If life were to stop short just now it would still 
have been richly worth while, just for the sake of 
these past four weeks, wouldn't it?" said Anne. "I 
don't suppose we will ever have four such perfect 
weeks again but we've had them. Everything 
wind, weather, folks, house of dreams has conspired 
to make our honeymoon delightful. There hasn't 
even been a rainy day since we came here." 



"And we haven't quarrelled once," teased Gilbert. 

"Well, 'that's a pleasure all the greater for being 
deferred,' " quoted Anne. "I'm so glad we decided 
to spend our honeymoon here. Our memories of it 
will always belong here, in our house of dreams, in- 
stead of being scattered about in strange places." 

There was a certain tang of romance and adventure 
in the atmosphere of their new home which Anne had 
never found in Avonlea. There, although she had 
lived in sight of the sea, it had not entered intimately 
into her life. In Four Winds it surrounded her and 
called to her constantly. From every window of her 
new home she saw some varying aspect of it. Its 
haunting murmur was ever in her ears. Vessels sailed 
up the harbour every day to the wharf at the Glen, or 
sailed out again through the sunset, bound for ports 
that might be half way round the globe. Fishing boats 
went white-winged down the channel in the mornings, 
and returned laden in the evenings. Sailors and 
fisher-folk travelled the red, winding harbour roads, 
light-hearted and content. There was always a certain 
sense of things going to happen of adventures and 
farings-forth. The ways of Four Winds were less 
staid and settled and grooved than those of Avonlea; 
winds of change blew over them; the sea called ever 
to the dwellers on shore, and even those who might 
not answer its call felt the thrill and unrest and mys- 
tery and possibilities of it. 

"I understand now why some men must go to sea," 


said Anne. "That desire which comes to us all at 
times 'to sail beyond the bourne of sunset' must be 
very imperious when it is born in you. I don't wonder 
Captain Jim ran away because of it. I never see a 
ship sailing out of the channel, or a gull soaring over 
the sand-bar, without wishing I were on board the 
ship or had wings, not like a dove 'to fly away and be 
at rest,' but like a gull, to sweep out into the very 
heart of a storm." 

"You'll stay right here with me, Anne-girl," said 
Gilbert lazily. "I won't have you flying away from 
me into the hearts of storms." 

They were sitting on their red sand-stone doorstep 
in the late afternoon. Great tranquillities were all 
about them in land and sea and sky. Silvery gulls were 
soaring over them. The horizons were laced with long 
trails of frail, pinkish clouds. The hushed air was 
threaded with a murmurous refrain of minstrel 
winds and waves. Pale asters were blowing in the 
sere and mis.ty meadows between them and the har- 

"Doctors who have to be up all night waiting on 
sick folk don't feel very adventurous, I suppose," 
Anne said indulgently. "If you had had a good sleep 
last night, Gilbert, you'd be as ready as I am for a 
flight of imagination." 

"I did good work last night, Anne," said Gilbert 
quietly. "Under God, I saved a life. This is the first 
time I could ever really claim that. In other cases I 


may have helped; but, Anne, if I had not stayed at 
Allonby's last night and fought death hand to hand, 
that woman would have died before morning. I tried 
an experiment that was certainly never tried in Four 
Winds before. I doubt if it was ever tried anywhere 
before outside of a hospital. It was a new thing in 
Kingsport hospital last winter. I could never have 
dared try it here if I had not been absolutely certain 
that there was no other chance. I risked it and it 
succeeded. As a result, a good wife and mother is 
saved for long years of happiness and usefulness. As 
I drove home this morning, while the sun was rising 
over the harbour, I thanked God that I had chosen the 
profession I did. I had fought a good fight and won 
think of it, Anne, won, against the Great Destroyer. 
It's what I dreamed of doing long ago when we talked 
together of what we wanted to do in life. That dream 
of mine came true this morning." 

"Was that the only one of your dreams that has 
come true?" asked Anne, who knew perfectly well 
what the substance of his answer would be, but wanted 
to hear it again. 

"You know, Anne-girl," said Gilbert, smiling into 
her eyes. At that moment there were certainly two 
perfectly happy people sitting on the doorstep of a 
little white house on the Four Winds Harbour shore. 

Presently Gilbert said, with a change of tone, "Do 
I or do I not see a full-rigged ship sailing up our 



Anne looked and sprang up. 

"That must be either Miss Cornelia Bryant or Mrs. 
Moore coming to call," she said. 

"I'm going into the office, and if it is Miss Cornelia 
I warn you that I'll eavesdrop," said Gilbert. "From 
all I've heard regarding Miss Cornelia I conclude 
that her conversation will not be dull, to say the 

"It may be Mrs. Moore." 

"I don't think Mrs. Moore is built on those lines. 
I saw her working in her garden the other day, and, 
though I was too far away to see clearly, I thought 
she was rather slender. She doesn't seem very 
socially inclined when she has never called on you 
yet, although she's your nearest neighbour." 

"She can't be like Mrs. Lynde, after all, or curiosity 
would have brought her," said Anne. "This caller is, 
I think, Miss Cornelia." 

Miss Cornelia it was; moreover, Miss Cornelia 
had not come to make any brief and fashionable 
wedding call. She had her work under her arm in 
a substantial parcel, and when Anne asked her to 
stay she promptly took off her capacious sun-hat, 
which had been held on her head, despite irreverent 
September breezes, by a tight elastic band under her 
hard little knob of fair hair. No hat pins for Miss 
Cornelia, an it please ye ! Elastic bands had been good 
enough for her mother and they were good enough 
for her. She had a fresh, round, pink-and-white face, 


and jolly brown eyes. She did not look in the least 
like the traditional old maid, and there was something 
in her expression which won Anne instantly. With 
her old instinctive quickness to discern kindred spirits 
she knew she was going to like Miss Cornelia, in spite 
of uncertain oddities of opinion, and certain oddities 
of attire. 

Nobody but Miss Cornelia would have come to 
make a call arrayed in a striped blue-and-white apron 
and a wrapper of chocolate print, with a design of 
huge, pink roses scattered over it. And nobody but 
Miss Cornelia could have looked dignified and suit- 
ably garbed in it. Had Miss Cornelia been entering 
a palace to call on a prince's bride, she would have 
been just as dignified and just as wholly mistress of 
the situation. She would have trailed her rose- 
spattered flounce over the marble floors just as un- 
concernedly, and she would have proceeded just as 
calmly to disabuse the mind of the princess of any 
idea that the possession of a mere man, be he prince 
or peasant, was anything to brag of. 

"I've brought my work, Mrs. Blythe, dearie," she 
remarked, unrolling some dainty material. "I'm in 
a hurry to get this done, and there isn't any time to 

Anne looked in some surprise at the white garment 
spread over Miss Cornelia's ample lap. It was cer- 
tainly a baby's dress, and it was most beautifully 
made, with tiny frills and tucks. Miss Cornelia ad- 


justed her glasses and fell to embroidering with ex- 
quisite stitches. 

"This is for Mrs. Fred Proctor up at the Glen," 
she announced. "She's expecting her eighth baby any 
day now, and not a stitch has she ready for it. The 
other seven have wore out all she made for the first, 
and she's never had time or strength or spirit to make 
any more. That woman is a martyr, Mrs. Blythe, 
believe me. When she married Fred Proctor / knew 
how it would turn out. He was one of your wicked, 
fascinating men. After he got married he left off be- 
ing fascinating and just kept on being wicked. He 
drinks and he neglects his family. Isn't that like a 
man? I don't know how Mrs. Proctor would ever 
keep her children decently clothed if her neighbours 
didn't help her out." 

As Anne was afterwards to learn, Miss Cornelia 
was the only neighbour who troubled herself much 
about the decency of the young Proctors. 

"When I heard this eighth baby was coming I de- 
cided to make some things for it," Miss Cornelia went 
on. "This is the last and I want to finish it today." 

"It's certainly very pretty," said Anne. "I'll get 
my sewing and we'll have a little thimble party of 
two. You are a beautiful sewer, Miss Bryant." 

"Yes, I'm the best sewer in these parts," said Miss 
Cornelia in a matter-of-fact tone. "I ought to be! 
Lord, I've done more of it than if I'd had a hundred 
children of my own, believe me! I s'pose I'm a fool. 


to be putting hand embroidery on this dress for an 
eighth baby. But, Lord, Mrs. Blythe, dearie, it isn't 
to blame for being the eighth, and I kind of wished 
it to have one real pretty dress, just as if it was 
wanted. Nobody's wanting the poor mite so I put 
some extra fuss on its little things just on that ac- 

"Any baby might be proud of that dress," said 
Anne, feeling still more strongly that she was going 
to like Miss Cornelia. 

"I s'pose you've been thinking I was never coming 
to call on you," resumed Miss Cornelia. "But this 
is harvest month, you know, and I've been busy and 
a lot of extra hands hanging round, eating more'n 
they work, just like the men. I'd have come yester- 
day, but I went to Mrs. Roderick MacAllister's 
funeral. At first I thought my head was aching so 
badly I couldn't enjoy myself if I did go. But she 
was a hundred years old, and I'd always promised 
myself that I'd go to her funeral." 

"Was it a successful function?" asked Anne, notic- 
ing that the office door was ajar. 

"What's that? Oh, yes, it was a tremendous 
funeral. She had a very large connection. There 
was over one hundred and twenty carriages in the 
procession. There was one or two funny things 
happened. I thought that die I would to see old Joe 
Bradshaw, who is an infidel and never darkens the 
door of a church, singing 'Safe in the Arms of Jesus' 


with great gusto and fervour. He glories in singing 
that's why he never misses a funeral. Poor Mrs. 
Bradshaw didn't look much like singing all wore out 
slaving. Old Joe starts out once in a while to buy 
her a present and brings home some new kind of farm 
machinery. Isn't that like a man? But what else 
would you expect of a man who never goes to church, 
even a Methodist one? I was real thankful to see 
you and the young Doctor in the Presbyterian church 
your first Sunday. No doctor for me who isn't a 

"We were in the Methodist church last Sunday 
evening," said Anne wickedly. 

"Oh, I s'pose Dr. Blythe has to go to the Methodist 
church once in a while or he wouldn't get the 
Methodist practice." 

"We liked the sermon very much," declared 
Anne boldly. "And I thought the Methodist min- 
ister's prayer was one of the most beautiful I ever 

"Oh, I've no doubt he can pray. I never heard 
anyone make more beautiful prayers than old Simon 
Bentley, who was always drunk, or hoping to be, and 
the drunker he was the better he prayed." 

"The Methodist minister is very fine looking," 
said Anne, for the benefit of the office door. 

"Yes, he's quite ornamental," agreed Miss Cornelia. 
"Oh, and very ladylike. And he thinks that every 
girl who looks at him falls in love with him as if a 


Methodist minister, wandering about like any Jew, 
was such a prize! If you and the young doctor take 
my advice, you won't have much to do with the 
Methodists. My motto is if you are a Presbyterian, 
be a Presbyterian." 

"Don't you think that Methodists go to heaven as 
well as Presbyterians?" asked Anne smilelessly. 

"That isn't for us to decide. It's in higher hands 
than ours," said Miss Cornelia solemnly. "But I 
ain't going to associate with them on earth whatever 
I may have to do in heaven. This Methodist minister 
isn't married. The last one they had was, and his 
wife was the silliest, flightiest little thing I ever saw. 
I told her husband once that he should have waited 
till she was grown up before he married her. He 
said he wanted to have the training of her. Wasn't 
that like a man?" 

"It's rather hard to decide just when people are 
grown up," laughed Anne. 

"That's a true word, dearie. Some are grown up 
when they're born, and others ain't grown up when 
they're eighty, believe me. That same Mrs. Roderick 
I was speaking of never grew up. She was as foolish 
when she was a hundred as when she was ten." 

"Perhaps that was why she lived so long," sug- 
gested Anne. 

"Maybe 'twas. I'd rather live fifty sensible years 
than a hundred foolish ones." 


"But just think what a dull world it would be if 
everyone was sensible," pleaded Anne. 

Miss Cornelia disdained any skirmish of flippant 

"Mrs. Roderick was a Milgrave, and the Milgraves 
never had much sense. Her nephew, Ebenezer Mil- 
grave, used to be insane for years. He believed he 
was dead and used to rage at his wife because she 
wouldn't bury him. I'd a-done it." 

Miss Cornelia looked so grimly determined that 
Anne could almost see her with a spade in her hand. 

"Don't you know any good husbands, Miss 

"Oh, yes, lots of them over yonder," said Miss 
Cornelia, waving her hand through the open window 
towards the little graveyard of the church across the 

"But living going about in the flesh?" persisted 

"Oh, there's a few, just to show that with God all 
things are possible," acknowledged Miss Cornelia 
reluctantly. "I don't deny that an odd man here and 
there, if he's caught young and trained up proper, and 
if his mother has spanked him well beforehand, may 
turn out a decent being. Your husband, now, isn't so 
bad, as men go, from all I hear. I s'pose" Miss 
Cornelia looked sharply at Anne over her glasses 
"you think there's nobody like him in the world," 


"There isn't," said Anne promptly. 

"Ah, well, I heard another bride say that once," 
sighed Miss Cornelia. "Jennie Dean thought when 
she married that there wasn't anybody like her hus- 
band in the world. And she was right there wasn't! 
And a good thing, too, believe me! He led her an 
awful life and he was courting his second wife while 
Jennie was dying. Wasn't that like a man ? However, 
I hope your confidence will be better justified, dearie. 
The young doctor is taking real well. I was afraid at 
first he mightn't, for folks hereabouts have always 
thought old Doctor Dave the only doctor in the world. 
Doctor Dave hadn't much tact, to be sure he was 
always talking of ropes in houses where someone had 
hanged himself. But folks forgot their hurt feelings 
when they had a pain in their stomachs. If he'd been 
a minister instead of a doctor they'd never have for- 
given him. Soul-ache doesn't worry folks near as 
much as stomach-ache. Seeing as we're both Presby- 
terians and no Methodists around, will you tell me 
your candid opinion of our minister?" 

"Why really I well," hesitated Anne. 

Miss Cornelia nodded. 

"Exactly. I agree with you, dearie. We made a 
mistake when we called him. His face just looks 
like one of those long, narrow stones in the graveyard, 
doesn't it? 'Sacred to the memory' ought to be 
written on his forehead. I shall never forget the first 
sermon he preached after he came. It was on the sub- 


ject of everyone doing what they were best 
fitted for a very good subject, of course; but such 
illustrations as he used! He said, 'If you had a cow 
and an apple tree, and if you tied the apple tree in 
your stable and planted the cow in your orchard, with 
her legs up, how much milk would you get from the 
apple tree, or how many apples from the cow?' Did 
you ever hear the like in your born days, dearie? I 
was so thankful there were no Methodists there that 
day they'd never have been done hooting over it. 
But what I dislike most in him is his habit of agreeing 
with everybody, no matter what is said. If you said to 
him, 'You're a scoundrel,' he'd say, with that smooth 
smile of his, 'Yes, that's so.' A minister should have 
more backbone. The long and the short of it is, I 
consider him a reverend jackass. But, of course, this 
is just between you and me. When there are Metho- 
dists in hearing I praise him to the skies. Some folks 
think his wife dresses too gay, but / say when she has 
to live with a face like that she needs something to 
cheer her up. You'll never hear me condemning a 
woman for her dress. I'm only too thankful when her 
husband isn't too mean and miserly to allow it. Not 
that I bother much with dress myself. Women just 
dress to please the men, and I'd never stoop to that. 
I have had a real placid, comfortable life, dearie, and 
it's just because I never cared a cent what the men 

"Why do you hate the men so, Miss Bryant?" 


"Lord, dearie, I don't hate them. They aren't 
worth it. I just sort of despise them. I think I'll like 
your husband if he keeps on as he has begun. But 
apart from him, about the only men in the world I've 
much use for are the old doctor and Captain Jim." 

"Captain Jim is certainly splendid," agreed Anne 

"Captain Jim is a good man, but he's kind of vexing 
in one way. You can't make him mad. I've tried 
for twenty years and he just keeps on being placid. 
It does sort of rile me. And I s'pose the woman he 
should have married got a man who went into tant- 
rums twice a day." 

"Who was she?" 

"Oh, I don't know, dearie. I never remember of 
Captain Jim making up to anybody. He was edging 
on old as far as my memory goes. He's seventy-six, 
you know. I never heard any reason for his staying 
a bachelor, but there must be one, believe me He 
sailed all his life till five years ago, and there's no 
corner of the earth he hasn't poked his nose into. He 
and Elizabeth Russell were great cronies, all their 
lives, but they never had any notion of sweet-hearting. 
Elizabeth never married, though she had plenty of 
chances. She was a great beauty when she was 
young. The year the Prince of Wales came to the 
Island she was visiting her uncle in Charlottetown and 
he was a Government official, and so she got invited 
to the great ball. She was the prettiest girl there, 


and the Prince danced with her, and all the other 
women he didn't dance with were furious about it, 
because their social standing was higher than hers 
and they said he shouldn't have passed them over. 
Elizabeth was always very proud of that dance. Mean 
folks said that was why she never married she 
couldn't put up with an ordinary man after dancing 
with a prince. But that wasn't so. She told me the 
reason once it was because she had such a temper 
that she was afraid she couldn't live peaceably with 
any man. She had an awful temper she used to 
have to go upstairs and bite pieces out of her bureau 
to keep it down by times. But I told her that wasn't 
any reason for not marrying if she wanted to. There's 
no reason why we should let the men have a monopoly 
of temper, is there, Mrs. Blythe, dearie?" 

"I've a bit of temper myself," sighed Anne. 

"It's well you have, dearie. You won't be half so 
likely to be trodden on, believe me! My, how that 
golden glow of yours is blooming! Your garden 
looks fine. Poor Elizabeth always took such care of 

"I love it," said Anne. "I'm glad it's so full of 
old-fashioned flowers. Speaking of gardening, we 
want to get a man to dig up that little lot beyond the 
fir grove and set it out with strawberry plants for 
us. Gilbert is so busy he will never get time for it 
this fall. Do you know anyone we can get?" 

"Well, Henry Hammond up at the Glen goes out 


doing jobs like that. He'll do, maybe. He's always 
a heap more interested in his wages than in his work, 
just like a man, and he's so slow in the uptake that 
he stands still for five minutes before it dawns on 
him that he's stopped. His father threw a stump at 
him when he was small. Nice gentle missile, wasn't 
it? So like a man! Course, the boy never got over 
it. But he's the only one I can recommend at all. He 
painted my house for me last spring. It looks real 
nice now, don't you think?" 

Anne was saved by the clock striking five. 

"Lord, is it that late?" exclaimed Miss Cornelia. 
"How time does slip by when you're enjoying your- 
self! Well, I must betake myself home." 

"No, indeed ! You are going to stay and have tea 
with us," said Anne eagerly. 

"Are you asking me because you think you ought 
to, or because you really want to?" demanded Miss 

"Because I really want to." 

"Then I'll stay. You belong to the race that knows 

"I know we are going to be friends," said Anne, 
with the smile that only they of the household of faith 
ever saw. 

"Yes, we are, dearie. Thank goodness, we can 
choose our friends. We have to take our relatives as 
they are, and be thankful if there are no penitentiary 
birds among them. Not that I've many none nearer 


than second cousins. I'm a kind of lonely soul, Mrs. 

There was a wistful note in Miss Cornelia's voice. 

"I wish you would call me Anne," exclaimed Anne 
impulsively. "It would seem more homey. Every- 
one in Four Winds, except my husband, calls me Mrs. 
Blythe, and it makes me feel like a stranger. Do you 
know that your name is very near being the one I 
yearned after when I was a child. I hated 'Anne' 
and I called myself 'Cordelia' in imagination." 

"I like Anne. It was my mother's name. Old- 
fashioned names are the best and sweetest in my 
opinion. If you're going to get tea you might send 
the young doctor to talk to me. He's been lying on 
the sofa in that office ever since I came, laughing fit 
to kill over what I've been saying." 

"How did you know?" cried Anne, too aghast at 
this instance of Miss Cornelia's uncanny prescience 
to make a polite denial. 

"I saw him sitting beside you when I came up the 
lane, and I know men's tricks," retorted Miss Cor- 
nelia. "There, I've finished my little dress, dearie, 
and the eighth baby can come as soon as it pleases." 


IT was late September when Anne and Gilbert 
were able to pay Four Winds light their promised 
visit. They had often planned to go, but something 
always occurred to prevent them. Captain Jim had 
"dropped in" several times at the little house. 

"I don't stand on ceremony, Mistress Blythe," he 
told Anne. "It's a real pleasure to me to come here, 
and I'm not going to deny myself jest because you 
haven't got down to see me. There oughtn't to be no 
bargaining like that among the race that knows 
Joseph. I'll come when I can, and you come when 
you can, and so long's we have our pleasant little chat 
it don't matter a mite what roof's over us." 

Captain Jim took a great fancy to Gog and Magog, 
who were presiding over the destinies of the hearth 
in the little house with as much dignity and aplomb 
as they had done at Patty's Place. 

"Aren't they the cutest little cusses?" he would say 
delightedly; and he bade them greeting and farewell 
as gravely and invariably as he did his host and 



hostess. Captain Jim was not going to offend house- 
hold deities by any lack of reverence and ceremony. 

"You've made this little house just about perfect," 
he told Anne. "It never was so nice before. Mis- 
tress Selwyn had your taste and she did wonders; but 
folks in those days didn't have the pretty little curtains 
and pictures and nicknacks you have. As for Elizabeth, 
she lived in the past. You've kinder brought the 
future into it, so to speak. I'd be real happy even 
if we couldn't talk at all, when I come here jest to 
sit and look at you and your pictures and your flowers 
would be enough of a treat. It's beautiful beauti- 

Captain Jim was a passionate worshipper of beauty. 
Every lovely thing heard or seen gave him a deep, 
subtle, inner joy that irradiated his life. He was quite 
keenly aware of his own lack of outward comeliness 
and lamented it. 

"Folks say I'm good," he remarked whimsically 
upon one occasion, "but I sometimes wish the Lord 
had made me only half as good and put the rest of it 
into looks. But there, I reckon He knew, what He was 
about, as a good Captain should. Some of us have to 
be homely, or the purty ones like Mistress Blythe 
here wouldn't show up so well." 

One evening Anne and Gilbert finally walked down 
to the Four Winds light. The day had begun som- 
brely in gray cloud and mist, but it had ended in a 
pomp of scarlet and gold. Over the western hills 


beyond the harbour were amber deeps and crystalline 
shallows, with the fire of sunset below. The north 
was a mackerel sky of little, fiery golden clouds. The 
red light flamed on the white sails of a vessel gliding 
down the channel, bound to a southern port in a land 
of palms. Beyond her, it smote upon and incarna- 
dined the shining, white, grassless faces of the sand- 
dunes.' To the right, it fell on the old house among 
the willows up the brook, and gave it for a fleeting 
space casements more splendid than those of an old 
cathedral. They glowed out of its quiet and grayness 
like the throbbing, blood-red thoughts of a vivid soul 
imprisoned in a dull husk of environment. 

"That old house up the brook always seems so 
lonely," said Anne. "I never see visitors there. Of 
course, its lane opens on the upper road but I don't 
think there's much coming and going. It seems odd 
we've never met the Moores yet, when they live with- 
in fifteen minutes' walk of us. I may have seen them 
in church, of course, but if so I didn't know them. 
I'm sorry they are so unsociable, when they are our 
only near neighbours." 

"Evidently they don't belong to the race that knows 
Joseph," laughed Gilbert. "Have you ever found out 
who that girl was whom you thought so beautiful?" 

"No. Somehow I have never remembered to ask 
about her. But I've never seen her anywhere, so I 
suppose she must have been a stranger. Oh, the sun 
has just vanished and there's the light." 


As the dusk deepened, the great beacon cut swathes 
of light through it, sweeping in a circle over the fields 
and the harbour, the sandbar and the gulf. 

"I feel as if it might catch me and whisk me leagues 
out to sea," said Anne, as one drenched them with 
radiance; and she felt rather relieved when they got 
so near the Point that they were inside the range of 
those dazzling, recurrent flashes. 

As they turned into the little lane that led across 
the fields to the Point they met a man coming out of 
it a man of such extraordinary appearance that for 
a moment they both frankly stared. He was a de- 
cidedly fine-looking person tall, broad-shouldered, 
well- featured, with a Roman nose and frank gray 
eyes ; he was dressed in a prosperous farmer's Sunday 
best; in so far he might have been any inhabitant of 
Four Winds or the Glen. But, flowing over his breast 
nearly to his knees, was a river of crinkly brown 
beard; and adown his back, beneath his commonplace 
felt hat, was a corresponding cascade of thick, wavy, 
brown hair. 

"Anne," murmured Gilbert, when they were out 
of earshot, "you didn't put what Uncle Dave calls 
'a little of the Scott Act' in that lemonade you gave 
me just before we left home, did you?" 

"No, I didn't," said Anne, stifling her laughter, lest 
the retreating enigma should hear her. "Who in the 
world can he be?" 

"I don't know; but if Captain Jim keeps appari- 


tions like that down at this Point I'm going to carry 
cold iron in my pocket when I come here. He wasn't 
a sailor, or one might pardon his eccentricity of ap- 
pearance; he must belong to the over-harbour clans. 
Uncle Dave says they have several freaks over there." 

"Uncle Dave is a little prejudiced, I think. You 
know all the over-harbour people who come to the 
Glen Church seem very nice. Oh, Gilbert, isn't this 

The Four Winds light was built on a spur of red 
sand-stone cliff jutting out into the gulf. On one 
side, across the channel, stretched the silvery sand 
shore of the bar; on the other, extended a long, curv- 
ing beach of red cliffs, rising steeply from the pebbled 
coves. It was a shore that knew the magic and mys- 
tery of storm and star. There is a great solitude 
about such a shore. The woods are never solitary 
they are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. 
But the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some 
great, unshareable sorrow, which shuts it up into itself 
for all eternity. We can never pierce its infinite mys- 
tery we may only wander, awed and spell-bound, on 
the outer fringe of it. The woods call to us with a 
hundred voices, but the sea has one only a mighty 
voice that drowns our souls in its majestic music. The 
woods are human, but the sea is of the company of 
the archangels. 

Anne and Gilbert found Uncle Jim sitting on a 
bench outside the lighthouse, putting the finishing 


touches to a wonderful, full-rigged, toy schooner. He 
rose and welcomed them to his abode with the gentle, 
unconscious courtesy that became him so well. 

"This has been a purty nice day all through, Mis- 
tress Blythe, and now, right at the last, it's brought 
its best. Would you like to sit down here outside a 
bit, while the light lasts? I've just finished this bit 
of a plaything for my little grand-nephew, Joe, up at 
the Glen. After I promised to make it for him I was 
kinder sorry, for his mother was vexed. She's afraid 
he'll be wanting to go to sea later on and she doesn't 
want the notion encouraged in him. But what could 
I do, Mistress Blythe? I'd promised him, and I think 
it's sorter real dastardly to break a promise you make 
to a child. Come, sit down. It won't take long to 
stay an hour." 

The wind was off shore, and only broke the sea's 
surface into long, silvery ripples, and sent sheeny 
shadows flying out across it, from every point and 
headland, like transparent wings. The dusk was 
hanging a curtain of violet gloom over the sand-dunes 
and the headlands where gulls were huddling. The 
sky was faintly filmed over with scarfs of silken 
vapor. Cloud fleets rode at anchor along the horizons. 
An evening star was watching over the bar. 

"Isn't that a view worth looking at?" said Captain 
Jim, with a loving, proprietary pride. "Nice and far 
from the market-place, ain't it? No buying and sell- 
ing and getting gain. You don't have to pay any- 


thing all that sea and sky free 'without money and 
without price.' There's going to be a moonrise purty 
soon, too I'm never tired of finding out what a 
moonrise can be over them rocks and sea and har- 
bour. There's a surprise in it every time." 

They had their moonrise, and watched its marvel 
and magic in a silence that asked nothing of the world 
or each other. Then they went up into the tower, 
and Captain Jim showed and explained the mechan- 
ism of the great light. Finally they found themselves 
in the dining room, where a fire of driftwood was 
weaving flames of wavering, elusive, sea-born hues in 
the open fireplace. 

"I put this fireplace in myself," remarked Captain 
Jim. "The Government don't give lighthouse keepers 
such luxuries. Look at the colours that wood makes. 
If you'd like some driftwood for your fire, Mistress 
Blythe, I'll bring you up a load some day. Sit down. 
I'm going to make you a cup of tea." 

Captain Jim placed a chair for Anne, having first 
removed therefrom a huge, orange-coloured cat and a 

"Get down, Matey. The sofa is your place. I must 
put this paper away safe till I can find time to finish 
the story in it. It's called A Mad Love. 'Tisn't my 
favourite brand of fiction, but I'm reading it jest to 
see how long she can spin it out. It's at the sixty- 
second chapter now, and the wedding ain't any nearer 
than when it begun, far's I can see. When little Joe 


comes I have to read him pirate yarns. Ain't it 
strange how innocent little creatures like children like 
the blood-thirstiest stories?" 

"Like my lad Davy at home," said Anne. "He 
wants tales that reek with gore." 

Captain Jim's tea proved to be nectar. He was 
pleased as a child with Anne's compliments, but he 
affected a fine indifference. 

"The secret is I don't skimp the cream," he re- 
marked airily. Captain Jim had never heard of 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, but he evidently agreed with 
that writer's dictum that "big heart never liked little 
cream pot." 

"We met an odd-looking personage coming out of 
your lane," said Gilbert as they sipped. "Who was 

Captain Jim grinned. 

"That's Marshall Elliott a mighty fine man with 
jest one streak of foolishness in him. I s'pose you 
wondered what his object was in turning himself into 
a sort of dime museum freak." 

"Is he a modern Nazarite or a Hebrew prophet left 
over from olden times?" asked Anne. 

"Neither of them. It's politics that's at the bottom 
of his freak. All those Elliotts and Crawfords and 
MacAHisters are dyed-in-the-wool politicians. They're 
born Grit or Troy, as the case may be, and they live 
Grit or Tory, and they die Grit or Tory; and what 
they're going to do in heaven, where there's probably 


no politics, is more than I can fathom. This Marshall 
Elliott was born a Grit. I'm a Grit myself in modera- 
tion, but there's no moderation about Marshall. Fif- 
teen years ago there was a specially bitter general 
election. Marshall fought for his party tooth and 
nail. He was dead sure the Liberals would win so 
sure that he got up at a public meeting and vowed 
that he wouldn't shave his face or cut his hair until 
the Grits were in power. Well, they didn't go in and 
they've never got in yet and you saw the result to- 
night for yourselves. Marshall stuck to his word." 

"What does his wife think of it?" asked Anne. 

"He's a bachelor. But if he had a wife I reckon 
she couldn't make him break that vow. That family 
of Elliotts has always been more stubborn than nat- 
teral. Marshall's brother Alexander had a dog he 
set great store by, and when it died the man actilly 
wanted to have it buried in the graveyard, 'along with 
the other Christians,' he said. Course, he wasn't 
allowed to; so he buried it just outside the graveyard 
fence, and never darkened the church door again. 
But Sundays he'd drive his family to church and sit 
by that dog's grave and read his Bible all the time 
service was going on. They say when he was dying 
he asked his wife to bury him beside the dog ; she was 
a meek little soul but she fired up at that. She said 
she wasn't going to be buried be-side no dog, and if 
he'd rather have his 1-ast resting place beside the dog 
than beside her, jest to say so. Alexander Elliott was 


a stubborn mule, but he was fond of his wife, so he 
give in and said, 'Well, durn it, bury me where you 
please. But when Gabriel's trump blows I expect my 
dog to rise with the rest of us, for he had as much 
soul as any durned Elliott or Crawford or MacAllister 
that ever strutted.' Them was his parting words. As 
for Marshall, we're all used to him, but he must strike 
strangers as right down peculiar-looking. I've known 
him ever since he was ten he's about fifty now and 
I like him. Him and me was out cod-fishing today. 
That's about all I'm good for now catching trout 
and cod occasional. But 'tweren't always so not by 
no manner of means. I used to do other things, as 
you'd admit if you saw my life-book." 

Anne was just going to ask what his life-book was 
when the First Mate created a diversion by springing 
upon Captain Jim's knee. He was a gorgeous beastie, 
with a face as round as a full moon, vivid green eyes, 
and immense, white, double paws. Captain Jim 
stroked his velvet back gently. 

"I never fancied cats much till I found the First 
Mate," he remarked, to the accompaniment of the 
Mate's tremendous purrs. "I saved his life, and 
when you've saved a creature's life you're bound to 
love it. It's next thing to giving life. There's some 
turrible thoughtless people in the world, Mistress 
Blythe. Some of them city folks who have summer 
homes over the harbour are so thoughtless that they're 
cruel. It's the worst kind of cruelty the thoughtless 


kind. You can't cope with it. They keep cats there 
in the summer, and feed and pet 'em, and doll 'em up 
with ribbons and collars. And then in the fall they 
go off and leave 'em to starve or freeze. It makes my 
blood boil, Mistress Blythe. One day last winter I 
found a poor old mother cat dead on the shore, lying 
against the skin-and-bone bodies of her three little 
kittens. She'd died trying to shelter 'em. She had 
her poor stiff paws around 'em. Master, I cried. 
Then I swore. Then I carried them poor little kittens 
home and fed 'em up and found good homes for 'em. 
I knew the woman who left the cat and when she come 
back this summer I jest went over the harbour and told 
her my opinion of her. It was rank meddling, but I 
do love meddling in a good cause." 

"How did she take it?" asked Gilbert. 

"Cried and said she 'didn't think.' I says to her, 
says I, 'Do you s'pose that'll be held for a good ex- 
cuse in the day of Jedgment, when you'll have to ac- 
count for that poor old mother's life? The Lord'll 
ask you what He give you your brains for if it wasn't 
to think, I reckon.' I don't fancy she'll leave cats to 
starve another time." 

"Was the First Mate one of the forsaken?" asked 
Anne, making advances to him which were responded 
to graciously, if condescendingly. 

"Yes. I found him one bitter cold day in winter, 
caught in the branches of a tree by his durn-fool rib- 
bon collar. He was almost starving. If you could 


have seen his eyes, Mistress Blythe ! He was nothing 
but a kitten, and he'd got his living somehow since 
he'd been left until he got hung up. When I loosed 
him he give my hand a pitiful swipe with his little 
red tongue. He wasn't the able seaman you see now. 
He was meek as Moses. That was nine years ago. 
His life has been long in the land for a cat. He's a 
good old pal, the First Mate is." 

"I should have expected you to have a dog," said 

Captain Jim shook his head. 

"I had a dog once. I thought so much of him that 
when he died I couldn't bear the thought of getting 
another in his place. He was a friend you under- 
stand, Mistress Blythe? Matey's only a pal. I'm 
fond of Matey all the fonder on account of the spice 
of devilment that's in him like there is in all cats. 
But I loved my dog. I always had a sneaking sympa- 
thy for Alexander Elliott about his dog. There isn't 
any devil in a good dog. That's why they're more 
lovable than cats, I reckon. But I'm darned if they're 
as interesting. Here I am, talking too much. Why 
don't you check me ? When I do get a chance to talk 
to anyone I run on turrible. If you've done your tea 
I've a few little things you might like to look at 
picked 'em up in the queer corners I used to be poking 
my nose into." 

Captain Jim's "few little things" turned out to be 
a most interesting collection of curios, hideous, quaint 


and beautiful. And almost every one had some strik- 
ing story attached to it. 

Anne never forgot the delight with which she 
listened to those old tales that moonlit evening by that 
enchanted driftwood fire, while the silver sea called 
to them through the open window and sobbed against 
the rocks below them. 

Captain Jim never said a boastful word, but it was 
impossible to help seeing what a hero the man had been 
brave, true, resourceful, unselfish. He sat there in 
his little room and made those things live again for 
his hearers. By a lift of the eyebrow, a twist of the 
lip, a gesture, a word, he painted a whole scene or 
character so that they saw it as it was. 

Some of Captain Jim's adventures had such a mar- 
vellous edge that Anne and Gilbert secretly wondered 
if he were not drawing a rather long bow at their 
credulous expense. But in this, as they found later, 
they did him injustice. His tales were all literally 
true. Captain Jim had the gift of the born story- 
teller, whereby "unhappy, far-off things" can be 
brought vividly before the hearer in all their pristine 

Anne and Gilbert laughed and shivered over his 
tales, and once Anne found herself crying. Captain 
Jim surveyed her tears with pleasure shining from his 

"I like to see folks cry that way," he remarked. 
"It's a compliment. But I can't do justice to the 


things I've seen or helped to do. I've 'em all jotted 
down in my life-book, but I haven't got the knack of 
writing them out properly. If I could hit on jest the 
right words and string 'em together proper on paper 
I could make a great book. It would beat A Mad 
Love holler, and I believe Joe'd like it as well as the 
pirate yarns. Yes, I've had some adventures in my 
time; and, do you know, Mistress Blythe, I still lust 
after 'em. Yes, old and useless as I be, there's an 
awful longing sweeps over me at times to sail out 
out out there forever and ever." 
"Like Ulysses, you would 

'Sail beyond the sunset and the baths 
Of all the western stars until you die/" 

said Anne dreamily. 

"Ulysses? I've read of him. Yes, that's jest how 
I feel jest how all us old sailors feel, I reckon. I'll 
die on land after all, I s'pose. Well, what is to be will 
be. There was old William Ford at the Glen who 
never went on the water in his life, 'cause he was 
afraid of being drowned. A fortune-teller had pre- 
dicted he would be. And one day he fainted and fell 
with his face in the barn trough and was drowned. 
Must you go ? Well, come soon and come often. The 
doctor is to do the talking next time. He knows a 
heap of things I want to find out. I'm sorter lone- 
some here by times. It's been worse since Eliza- 
beth Russell died. Her and me was such cronies." 

Captain Jim spoke with the pathos of the aged, who 


see their old friends slipping from them one by one 
friends whose place can never be quite filled by those 
of a younger generation, even of the race that knows 
Joseph. Anne and Gilbert promised to come soon and 

"He's a rare old fellow, isn't he?" said Gilbert, as 
they walked home. 

"Somehow, I can't reconcile his simple, kindly per 
sonality with the wild, adventurous life he has lived," 
mused Anne. 

"You wouldn't find it so hard if you had seen him 
the other day down at the fishing village. One of 
the men of Peter Gautier's boat made a nasty remark 
about some girl along the shore. Captain Jim fairly 
scorched the wretched fellow with the lightning of his 
eyes. He seemed a man transformed. He didn't say 
much but the way he said it ! You'd have thought it 
would strip the flesh from the fellow's bones. I under- 
stand that Captain Jim will never allow a word against 
any woman to be said in his presence." 

"I wonder why he never married," said Anne. "He 
should have sons with their ships at sea now, and 
grandchildren climbing over him to hear his stories 
he's that kind of a man. Instead, he has nothing but 
a magnificent cat." 

But Anne was mistaken. Captain Jim had more 
than that. He had a memory. 



I'M going for a walk to the outside shore tonigltt," 
Anne told Gog and Magog one October evening. 
There was no one else to tell, for Gilbert had gone 
over the harbour. Anne had her little domain in the 
speckless order one would expect of anyone brought 
up by Marilla Cuthbert, and felt that she could gad 
shoreward with a clear conscience. Many and de- 
lightful had been her shore rambles, sometimes with 
Gilbert, sometimes with Captain Jim, sometimes alone 
with her own thoughts and new, poignantly-sweet 
dreams that were beginning to span life with their 
rainbows. She loved the gentle, misty harbour shore 
and the silvery, wind-haunted sand shore, but best of 
all she loved the rock shore, with its cliffs and caves 
and piles of surf -worn boulders, and its coves where 
the pebbles glittered under the pools; and it was to 
this shore she hied herself tonight. 

There had been an autumn storm of wind and rain, 
lasting for three days. Thunderous had been the 
crash of billows on the rocks, wild the white spray and 



spume that blew over the bar, troubled and misty and 
tempest-torn the erstwhile blue peace of Four Winds 
Harbour. Now it was over, and the shore lay clean- 
washed after the storm; not a wind stirred, but there 
was still a fine surf on, dashing on sand and rock in 
a splendid white turmoil the only restless thing in 
the great, pervading stillness and peace. 

"Oh, this is a moment worth living through weeks 
of storm and stress for," Anne exclaimed, delightedly 
sending her far gaze across the tossing waters from 
the top of the cliff where she stood. Presently she 
scrambled down the steep path to the little cove be- 
low, where she seemed shut in with rocks and sea and 

"I'm going to dance and sing," she said. "There's 
no one here to see me the sea-gulls won't carry tales 
of the matter. I may be as crazy as I like." 

She caught up her skirt and pirouetted along the 
hard strip of sand just out of reach of the waves that 
almost lapped her feet with their spent foam. Whirl- 
ing round and round, laughing like a child, she reached 
the little headland that ran out to the east of the cove; 
then she stopped suddenly, blushing crimson; she was 
not alone; there had been a witness to her dance and 

The girl of the golden hair and sea-blue eyes was 
sitting on a boulder of the headland, half -hidden by 
a jutting rock. She was looking straight at Anne 
with a strange expression part wonder, part 


sympathy, part could it be? envy. She was bare- 
headed, and her splendid hair, more than ever like 
Browning's "gorgeous snake," was bound about her 
head with a crimson ribbon. She wore a dress of 
some dark material, very plainly made; but swathed 
about her waist, outlining its fine curves, was a vivid 
girdle of red silk. Her hands, clasped over her knee, 
were brown and somewhat work-hardened; but the 
skin of her throat and cheeks was as white as cream. 
A flying gleam of sunset broke through a low-lying 
western cloud and fell across her hair. For a moment 
she seemed the spirit of the sea personified all its 
mystery, all its passion, all its elusive charm. 

"You you must think me crazy," stammered 
Anne, trying to recover her self-possession. To be 
seen by this stately girl in such an abandon of child- 
ishness she, Mrs. Dr. Blythe, with all the dignity of 
the matron to keep up it was too bad! 

"No," said the girl, "I don't." 

She said nothing more; her voice was expression- 
less; her manner slightly repellent; but there was 
something in her eyes eager yet shy, defiant yet 
pleading which turned Anne from her purpose of 
walking away. Instead, she sat down on the boulder 
beside the girl. 

"Let's introduce ourselves," she said, with the 
smile that had never yet failed to win confidence and 
friendliness. "I am Mrs. Blythe and I live in that 
little white house up the harbour shore." 


"Yes, I know," said the girl. "I am Leslie Moore 
Mrs. Dick Moore," she added stiffly. 

Anne was silent for a moment from sheer amaze- 
ment. It had not occurred to her that this girl was 
married there seemed nothing of the wife about her. 
And that she should be the neighbour whom Anne had 
pictured as a commonplace Four Winds housewife! 
Anne could not quickly adjust her mental focus to this 
astonishing change. 

"Then then you live in that gray house up the 
brook," she stammered. 

"Yes. I should have gone over to call on you long 
ago," said the other. She did not offer any explana- 
tion or excuse for not having gone. 

"I wish you woidd come," said Anne, recovering 
herself somewhat. "We're such near neighbours we 
ought to be friends. That is the sole fault of Four 
Winds there aren't quite enough neighbours. Other- 
wise it is perfection." 

"You like it?" 

"Like it ! I love it. It is the most beautiful place I 
ever saw." 

"I've never seen many places," said Leslie Moore, 
slowly, "but I've always thought it was very lovely 
here. I I love it, too." 

She spoke, as she looked, shyly, yet eagerly. Anne 
had an odd impression that this strange girl the 
word "girl" would persist could say a good deal if 
she chose. 


"I often come to the shore," she added. 

"So do I," said Anne. "It's a wonder we haven't 
met here before." 

"Probably you come earlier in the evening than I do. 
It is generally late almost dark when I come. And 
I love to come just after a storm like this. I don't 
like the sea so well when it's calm and quiet. I like 
the struggle and the crash and the noise." 

"I love it in all its moods," declared Anne. "The 
sea at Four Winds is to me what Lover's Lane was 
at home. Tonight it seemed so free so untamed 
something broke loose in me, too, out of sympathy. 
That was why I danced along the shore in that wild 
way. I didn't suppose anybody was looking, of course. 
If Miss Cornelia Bryant had seen me she would have 
foreboded a gloomy prospect for poor young Dr. 

"You know Miss Cornelia?" said Leslie, laughing. 
She had an exquisite laugh; it bubbled up suddenly 
and unexpectedly with something of the delicious 
quality of a baby's. Anne laughed, too. 

"Oh, yes. She has been down to my house of 
dreams several times." 

''Your house of dreams ?" 

"Oh, that's a dear, foolish little name Gilbert and I 
have for our home. We just call it that between our- 
selves. It slipped out before I thought." 

"So Miss Russell's little white house is your 
house of dreams," said Leslie wonderingly. "/ had 


a house of dreams once but it was a palace," she 
added, with a laugh, the sweetness of which was 
marred by a little note of derision. 

"Oh, I once dreamed of a palace, too," said Anne. 
"I suppose all girls do. And then we settle down con- 
tentedly in eight-room houses that seem to fulfil all 
the desires of our hearts because our prince is there. 
You should have had your palace really, though you 
are so beautiful. You must let me say it it has to be 
said I'm nearly bursting with admiration. You are 
the loveliest thing I ever saw, Mrs. Moore." 

"If we are to be friends you must call me Leslie," 
.said the other with an odd passion. 

"Of course I will. And my friends call me Anne." 

"I suppose I am beautiful," Leslie went on, look- 
ing stormily out to sea. "I hate my beauty. I wish 
I had always been as brown and plain as the brownest 
and plainest girl at the fishing village over there. 
Well, what do you think of Miss Cornelia?" 

The abrupt change of subject shut the door on any 
further confidences. 

"Miss Cornelia is a darling, isn*l she?" said Anne. 
"Gilbert and I were invited to her house to a state tea 
last week. You've heard of groaning tables." 

"I seem to recall seeing the expression in the news- 
paper reports of weddings," said Leslie, smiling. 

"Well, Miss Cornelia's groaned at least, it 
creaked positively. You couldn't have believed she 
would have cooked so much for two ordinary people. 


She had every kind of pie you could name, I think, 
except lemon pie. She said she had taken the prize 
for lemon pies at the Charlottetown Exhibition ten 
years ago and had never made any since for fear of 
losing her reputation for them." 

"Were you able to eat enough pie to please her?" 

"/ wasn't. Gilbert won her heart by eating I won't 
tell you how much. She said she never knew a man 
who didn't like pie better than his Bible. Do you 
know, I love Miss Cornelia." 

"So do I," said Leslie. "She is the best friend I 
have in the world." 

Anne wondered secretly why, if this were so, Miss 
Cornelia had never mentioned Mrs. Dick Moore to 
her. Miss Cornelia had certainly talked freely about 
every other individual in or near Four Winds. 

"Isn't that beautiful?" said Leslie, after a brief 
silence, pointing to the exquisite effect of a shaft of 
light falling through a cleft in the rock behind them, 
across a dark green pool at its base. "If I had come 
here and seen nothing but just that I would, go 
home satisfied." 

"The effects of light and shadow all along these 
shores are wonderful," agreed Anne. "My little sew- 
ing room looks out on the harbour, and I sit at its 
window and feast my eyes. The colours and shadows 
are never the same two minutes together." 

"And you are never lonely?" asked Leslie abruptly. 
"Never when you are alone?" 


"No. I don't think I've ever been really lonely in 
my life," answered Anne. "Even when I'm alone I 
have real good company dreams and imaginations 
and pretendings. I like to be alone now and then, 
just to think over things and taste them. But^I love 
friendship and nice, jolly little times with people. 
Oh, won't you come to see me often? Please do. I 
believe," Anne added, laughing, "that you'd like me 
if you knew me." 

"I wonder if you would like me/' said Leslie seri- 
ously. She was not fishing for a compliment. She 
looked out across the waves that were beginning to be 
garlanded with blossoms of moonlit foam, and her 
eyes filled with shadows. 

"I'm sure I would," said Anne. "And please don't 
think I'm utterly irresponsible because you saw me 
dancing on the shore at sunset. No doubt I shall be 
dignified after a time. You see, I haven't been mar- 
ried very long. I feel like a girl, and sometimes like 
a child, yet." 

"I have been married twelve years," said Leslie. 

Here was another unbelievable thing. 

"Why, you can't be as old as I am!" exclaimed 
Anne. "You must have been a child when you were 

"I was sixteen," said Leslie, rising, and picking up 
the cap and jacket lying beside her. "I am twenty- 
eight now. Well, I must go back." 

"So must I. Gilbert will probably be home. But I'm 


so glad we both came to the shore tonight and met 
each other." 

Leslie said nothing, and Anne was a little chilled. 
She had offered friendship frankly but it had not been 
accepted very graciously, if it had not been absolutely 
repelled. In silence they climbed the cliffs and walked 
across a pasture-field of which the feathery, bleached, 
wild grasses were like a carpet of creamy velvet in 
the moonlight. When they reached the shore lane 
Leslie turned. 

"I go this way, Mrs. Blythe. You will come over 
and see me some time, won't you?" 

Anne felt as if the invitation had been thrown at 
her. She got the impression that Leslie Moore gave 
it reluctantly. 

"I will come if you really want me to," she said 
a little coldly. 

"Oh, I do I do," exclaimed Leslie, with an eager- 
ness which seemed to burst forth and beat down some 
restraint that had been imposed on it. 

"Then I'll come. Good-nightLeslie." 

"Good-night, Mrs. Blythe." 

Anne walked home in a brown study and poured out 
her tale to Gilbert. 

"So Mrs. Dick Moore isn't one of the race that 
knows Joseph?" said Gilbert teasingly. 

"No o o, not exactly. And yet I think she 
was one of them once, but has gone or got into exile," 
said Anne musingly. "She is certainly very different 


from the other women about here. You can't talk 
about eggs and butter to her. To think I've been 
imagining her a second Mrs. Rachel Lynde! Have 
you ever seen Dick Moore, Gilbert?" 

"No. I've seen several men working about the 
fields of the farm, but I don't know which was 

"She never 'mentioned him. I know she isn't 

"From what you tell me I suppose she was married 
before she was old enough to know her own mind or 
heart, and found out too late that she had made a 
mistake. It's a common tragedy enough, Anne. A 
fine woman would have made the best of it. Mrs. 
Moore has evidently let it make her bitter and resent- 

"Don't let us judge her till we know," pleaded 
Anne. "I don't believe her case is so ordinary. You 
will understand her fascination when you meet her, 
Gilbert. It is a thing quite apart from her beauty. 
I feel that she possesses a rich nature, into which a 
friend might enter as into a kingdom; but for 
some reason she bars everyone out and shuts all her 
possibilities up in herself, so that they cannot develop 
and blossom. There, I've been struggling to define 
her to myself ever since I left her, and that is the 
nearest I can get to it. I'm going to ask Miss Cor- 
nelia about her." 


YES, the eighth baby arrived a fortnight ago," said 
Miss Cornelia, from a rocker before the fire of 
the little house one chilly October afternoon. "It's a 
girl. Fred was ranting mad said he wanted a boy 
when the truth is he didn't want it at all. If it had been 
a boy he'd have ranted because it wasn't a girl. They 
had four girls and three boys before, so I can't see 
that it made much difference what this one was, but 
of course he'd have to be cantankerous, just like a 
man. The baby is real pretty, dressed up in its nice 
little clothes. It has black eyes and the dearest, tiny 

"I must go and see it. I just love babies," said 
Anne, smiling to herself over a thought too dear and 
sacred to be put into words. 

"I don't say but what they're nice," admitted Miss 
Cornelia. "But some folks seem to have more than 
they really need, believe me. My poor cousin Flora 
up at the Glen had eleven, and such a slave as she is I 
Her husband suicided three years ago. Just like a 



"What made him do that?" asked Anne, rather 

"Couldn't get his way over something, so he jumped 
into the well. A good riddance! He was a born 
tyrant. But of course it spoiled the well. Flora could 
never abide the thought of using it again, poor thing! 
So she had another dug and a frightful expense it 
was, and the water as hard as nails. If he had to drown 
himself there was plenty of water in the harbour, 
wasn't there? I've no patience with a man like that. 
We've only had two suicides in Four Winds in my 
recollection. The other was Frank West Leslie 
Moore's father. By the way, has Leslie ever been 
over to call on you yet?" 

"No, but I met her on the shore a few nights ago 
and we scraped an acquaintance," said Anne, pricking 
up her ears. 

Miss Cornelia nodded. 

"I'm glad, dearie. I was hoping you'd foregather 
with her. What do you think of her?" 

"I thought her very beautiful." 

"Oh, of course. There was never anybody about 
Four Winds could touch her for looks. Did you ever 
see her hair? It reaches to her feet when she lets it 
down. But I meant how did you like her?" 

"I think I could like her very much if she'd let me," 
said Anne slowly. 

"But she wouldn't let you she pushed you off and 
kept you at arm's length. Poor Leslie! You 


wouldn't be much surprised if you knew what her 
life has been. It's been a tragedy a tragedy!" 
repeated Miss Cornelia emphatically. 

"I wish you would tell me all about her that is, 
if you can do so without betraying any confidence." 

"Lord, dearie, everybody in Four Winds knows 
poor Leslie's story. It's no secret the outside, 
that is. Nobody knows the inside but Leslie herself, 
and she doesn't take folks into her confidence. I'm 
about the best friend she has on earth, I reckon, and 
she's never uttered a word of complaint to me. Have 
you ever seen Dick Moore ?" 


"Well, I may as well begin at the beginning and 
tell you everything straight through, so you'll under- 
stand it. As I said, Leslie's father was Frank West. 
He was clever and shiftless just like a man. Oh, 
he had heaps of brains and much good they did 
him! He started to go to college, and he went for 
two years, and then his health broke down. The 
Wests were all inclined to be consumptive. So Frank 
came home and started farming. He married Rose 
Elliott from over harbour. Rose was reckoned the 
beauty of Four Winds Leslie takes her looks from 
her mother, but she has ten times the spirit and go 
that Rose had, and a far better figure. Now you 
know, Anne, I always take the ground that us women 
ought to stand by each other. We've got enough to 
endure at the hands of the men, the Lord knows, so 


I hold we hadn't ought to clapper-claw one another, 
and it isn't often you'll find me running down another 
woman. But I never had much use for Rose Elliott. 
She was spoiled to begin with, believe me t and she 
was nothing but a lazy, selfish, whining creature. 
Frank was no hand to work, so they were poor as 
Job's turkey. Poor! They lived on potatoes and 
point, believe me. They had two children Leslie 
and Kenneth. Leslie had her mother's looks and her 
father's brains, and something she didn't get from 
either of them. She took after her Grandmother 
West a splendid old lady. She was the brightest, 
friendliest, merriest thing when she was a child, 
Anne. Everybody liked her. She was her father's 
favourite and she was awful fond of him. They were 
'chums,' as she used to say. She couldn't see any of 
his faults and he was a taking sort of man in some 

"Well, when Leslie was twelve years old, the first 
dreadful thing happened. She worshipped little 
Kenneth he was four years younger than her, and 
he was a dear little chap. And he was killed one day 
fell off a big load of hay just as it was going into 
the barn, and the wheel went right over his little 
body and crushed the life out of it. And mind you, 
Anne, Leslie saw it. She was looking down from 
the loft. She gave one screech the hired man said 
he never heard such a sound in all his life he said 
it would ring in his ears till Gabriel's trump drove 


it out. But she never screeched or cried again about 
it. She jumped from the loft onto the load and from 
the load to the floor, and caught up the little bleeding, 
warm, dead body, Anne they had to tear it from her 
before she would let it go. They sent for me I 
can't talk of it." 

Miss Cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly 
brown eyes and sewed in bitter silence for a few 

"Well," she resumed, "it was all over they buried 
little Kenneth in that graveyard over the harbour, 
and after a while Leslie went back to her school and 
her studies. She never mentioned Kenneth's name 
I've never heard it cross her lips from that day to 
this. I reckon that old hurt still aches and burns at 
times; but she was only a child and time is real kind 
to children, Anne, dearie. After a while she began 
to laugh again she had the prettiest laugh. You 
don't often hear it now." 

"I heard it once the other night," said Anne. "It 
is a beautiful laugh." 

"Frank West began to go down after Kenneth's 
death. He wasn't strong and it was a shock to him, 
because he was real fond of the child, though, as I've 
said, Leslie was his favourite. He got mopy and 
melancholy, and couldn't or wouldn't work. And 
one day, when Leslie was fourteen years of age, he 
hanged himself and in the parlour, too, mind you, 
Anne, right in the middle of the parlour from the 


lamp hook in the ceiling. Wasn't that like a man? 
It was the anniversary of his wedding day, too. 
Nice, tasty time to pick for it, wasn't it? And, of 
course, that poor Leslie had to be the one to find 
him. She went into the parlour that morning, singing, 
with some fresh flowers for the vases, and there she 
saw her father hanging from the ceiling, his face as 
black as a coal. It was something awful, believe me!" 

"Oh, how horrible!" said Anne, shuddering. "The 
poor, poor child!" 

"Leslie didn't cry at her father's funeral any more 
then she had cried at Kenneth's. Rose whooped and 
howled for two, however, and Leslie had all she 
could do trying to calm and comfort her mother. I 
was disgusted with Rose and so was everyone else, 
but Leslie never got out of patience. She loved her 
mother. Leslie is clannish her own could never do 
wrong in her eyes. Well, they buried Frank West 
beside Kenneth, and Rose put up a great big 
monument to him. It was bigger than his character, 
believe me! Anyhow, it was bigger than Rose could 
afford, for the farm was mortgaged for more than 
its value. But not long after Leslie's old grand- 
mother West died and she left Leslie a little money 
enough to give her a year at Queen's Academy. 
Leslie had made up her mind to pass for a teacher 
if she could, and then earn enough to put herself 
throtigh Redmond College. That had been her 


father's pet scheme--he wanted her to have what he 
had lost. Leslie was full of ambition and her head 
was chock full of brains. She went to Queen's, and 
she took two years' work in one year and got her 
First; and when she came home she got the Glen 
school. She was so happy and hopeful and full of 
life and eagerness. When I think of what she was 
then and what she is now, I say drat the men!" 

Miss Cornelia snipped her thread off as viciously 
as if, Nero-like, she was. severing the neck of man- 
kind by the stroke. 

"Dick Moore came into her life that summer. His 
father, Abner Moore, kept store at the Glen, but 
Dick had a sea-going streak in him from his mother; 
he used to sail in summer and clerk in his father's 
store in winter. He was a big, handsome fellow, 
with a little ugly soul. He was always wanting 
something till he got it, and then he stopped wanting 
it just like a man. Oh, he didn't growl at the 
weather when it was fine, and he was mostly real 
pleasant and agreeable when everything went right. 
But he drank a good deal, and there were some nasty 
stories told of him and a girl down at the fishing 
village. He wasn't fit for Leslie to wipe her feet on, 
that's the long and short of it. And he was a 
Methodist! But he was clean mad about her 
because of her good looks in the first place, and 
because she wouldn't have anything to say to him 


in the second. He vowed he'd have her and he 
got her 1" 

"How did he bring it about?" 

"Oh, it was an iniquitous thing! I'll never forgive 
Rose West. You see, dearie, Abner Moore held the 
mortgage on the West farm, and the interest was 
overdue some years, and Dick just went and told 
Mrs. West that if Leslie wouldn't marry him he'd 
get his father to foreclose the mortgage. Rose carried 
on terrible fainted and wept, and pleaded with 
Leslie not to let her be turned out of her home. She 
said it would break her heart to leave the home she'd 
come to as a bride. I wouldn't have blamed her for 
feeling dreadful bad over it but you wouldn't have 
thought she'd be so selfish as to sacrifice her own flesh 
and blood because of k, would you? Well, she was. 
And Leslie gave in she loved her mother so much she 
would have done anything to save her pain. She 
married Dick Moore. None of us knew why at the 
time. It wasn't till long afterward that I found out 
how her mother had worried her into it. I was sure 
there was something wrong, though, because I knew 
how she had snubbed him time and again, and it 
wasn't like Leslie to turn face-about like that. Be- 
sides, I knew that Drck Moore wasn't the kind of 
man Leslie could ever fancy, in spite of his good 
looks and dashing ways. Of course, there was na 
wedding, but Rose asked me to go and see them 
married. I went, but I was sorry I did. I'd seen 


Leslie's face at her brother's funeral and at her 
father's funeral and now it seemed to me I was 
seeing it at her own funeral. But Rose was smiling 
as a basket of chips, believe me! 

"Leslie and Dick settled down on the West place 
Rose couldn't bear to part with her dear daughter! 
and lived there for the winter. In the spring Rose 
took pneumonia and died a year too late! Leslie 
was heart-broken enough over it. Isn't it terrible 
the way some unworthy folks are loved, while others 
that deserve it far more, you'd think, never get much 
affection? As for Dick, he'd had enough of quiet 
married life just like a man. He was for up and 
off. He went over to Nova Scotia to visit his re- 
lations his father had come from Nova Scotia 
and he wrote back to Leslie that his cousin, George 
Moore, was going on a voyage to Havana and he 
was going too. The name of the vessel was the Four 
Sisters and they were to be gone about nine weeks. 

"It must have been a relief to Leslie. But she 
never said anything. From the day of her marriage 
she was just what she is now cold and proud, and 
keeping everyone but me at a distance. I won't be 
kept at a distance, believe me! I've just stuck to 
Leslie as close as I knew how in spite of everything." 

"She told me you were the best friend she had," 
said Anne. 

"Did she?" exclaimed Miss Cornelia delightedly. 
"Well, I'm real thankful to hear it. Sometimes I've 


wondered if she really did want me around at all 
she never let me think so. You must have thawed her 
out more than you think, or she wouldn't have said 
that much itself to you. Oh, that poor, heart-broken 
girl! I never see Dick Moore but I want to run a 
knife clean through him." 

Miss Cornelia wiped her eyes again and having 
relieved her feelings by her blood-thirsty wish, took 
up her tale. 

"'Well, Leslie was left over there alone. Dick had 
put in the crop before he went, and old Abner looked 
after it. The summer went by and the Four Sisters 
didn't come back. The Nova Scotia Moores in- 
vestigated, and found she had got to Havana and 
discharged her cargo and took on another and left 
for home ; and that was all they ever found out about 
her. By degrees people began to talk of Dick Moore 
as one that was dead. Almost everyone believed that 
he was, though no one felt certain, for men have 
turned up here at the harbour after they'd been gone 
for years. Leslie never thought he was dead and 
she was right. A thousand pities too! The next 
summer Captain Jim was in Havana that was 
before he gave up the sea, of course. He thought 
he'd poke round a bit Captain Jim was always 
meddlesome, just like a man and he went to inquir- 
ing round among the sailors' boarding houses and 
places like that, to see if he could find out anything 
about the crew of the Four Sisters. He'd better hav 


let sleeping dogs lie, in my opinion! Well, he went 
to one out-of-the-way place, and there he found a man 
and he knew at first sight it was Dick Moore, though 
he had a big beard. Captain Jim got it shaved off 
and then there was no doubt Dick Moore k was 
his body at least. His mind wasn't there as for his 
soul, in my opinion he never had one !" 

"What had happened to him?" 

"Nobody knows the rights of it. All the folks who 
kept the boarding house could tell was that about a 
year before they had found him lying on their door- 
step one morning in an awful condition his head 
battered to a jelly almost. They supposed he'd got 
hurt in some drunken row, and likely that's the truth 
of it. They took him in, never thinking he could 
live. But he did and he was just like a child when 
he got well. He hadn't memory or intellect or reason. 
They tried to find out who he was but they never 
could. He couldn't even tell them his name he 
could only say a few simple words. He had a letter 
on him beginning 'Dear Dick* and signed 'Leslie/ but 
there was no address on it and the envelope was gone. 
They let him stay on he learned to do a few odd 
jobs about the place and there Captain Jim found 
him. He brought him home and I've always said 
it was a bad day's work, though I s'pose there was 
nothing else he could do. He thought maybe when 
Dick got home and saw his old surroundings and 
familiar faces his memory would wake up. But it 


hadn't any effect. There he's been at the house up 
the brook ever since. He's just like a child, no more 
nor less. Takes fractious spells occasionally, but 
mostly he's just vacant and good humoured and harm- 
less. He's apt to run away if he isn't watched. 
That's the burden Leslie has had to carry for eleven 
years and all alone. Old Abner Moore died soon 
after Dick was brought home and it was found he 
was almost bankrupt. When things were settled up 
there was nothing for Leslie and Dick but the old 
West farm. Leslie rented it to John Ward, and the 
rent is all she has to live on. Sometimes in summer 

she takes a boarder to help out. But most visitors 

prefer the other side of the harbour where the hotels 
and summer cottages are. Leslie's house is too far 
from the bathing shore. She's taken care of Dick 
and she's never been away from him for eleven years 
she's tied to that imbecile for life. And after all 
the dreams and hopes she once had ! You can imagine 
what it has been like for her, Anne, dearie with her 
beauty and spirit and pride and cleverness. It's just 
been a living death." 

"Poor, poor girl!" said Anne again. Her own 
happiness seemed to reproach her. What right had 
she to be so happy when another human soul must be 
so miserable? 

"Will you tell me just what Leslie said and how 
she acted the night you met her on the shore?" 
asked Miss Cornelia. 


She listened intently and nodded her satisfaction. 

"You thought she was stiff and cold, Anne, dearie, 
but I can tell you she thawed out wonderful for her. 
She must have taken to you real strong. I'm so 
glad. You may be able to help her a good deal. I 
was thankful when I heard that a young couple was 
coming to this house, for I hoped it would mean some 
friends for Leslie; especially if you belonged to the 
race that knows Joseph. You will be her friend, 
won't you, Anne, dearie?" 

"Indeed I will, if she'll let me," said Anne, with 
all her own sweet, impulsive earnestness. 

"No, you must be her friend, whether she'll let 
you or not," said Miss Cornelia resolutely. "Don't 
you mind if she's stiff by times don't notice it. 
Remember what her life has been and is and must 
always be, I suppose, for creatures like Dick Moore 
live forever, I understand. You should see how fat 
he's got since he came home. He used to be lean 
enough. Just make her be friends you can do it 
you're one of those who have the knack. Only you 
mustn't be sensitive. And don't mind if she doesn't 
seem to want you to go over there much. She knows 
that some women don't like to be where Dick is 
they complain he gives them the creeps. Just get her 
to come over here as often as she can. She can't 
get away so very much she can't leave Dick long, for 
the Lord knows what he'd do burn the house down 
most likely. At nights, after he's in bed and asleep, 


is about the only time she's free. He always goes 
to bed early and sleeps like the dead till next morn- 
ing. That is how you came to meet her at the shore 
likely. She wanders there considerable." 

"I will do everything I can for her," said Anne. 
Her interest in Leslie Moore, which had been vivid 
ever since she had seen her driving her geese down 
the hill, was intensified a thousand fold by Miss Cor- 
nelia's narration. The girl's beauty and sorrow and 
loneliness drew her with an irresistible fascination. 
She had never known anyone like her; her friends 
had hitherto been wholesome, normal, merry girls 
like herself, with only the average trials of human 
care and bereavement to shadow their girlish dreams. 
Leslie Moore stood apart, a tragic, appealing figure 
of thwarted womanhood. Anne resolved that she 
would win entrance into the kingdom of that lonely 
soul and find there the comradeship it could so richly 
give, were it not for the cruel fetters that held it in 
a prison not of its own making. 

"And mind you this, Anne, dearie," said Miss 
Cornelia, who had not yet wholly relieved her mind. 
"You mustn't think Leslie is an infidel because she 
hardly ever goes to church or even that she's a 
Methodist. She can't take Dick to church, of course 
not that he ever troubled church much in his best 
days. But you just remember that she's a real strong 
Presbyterian at heart, Anne, dearie." 


LESLIE came over to the house of dreams one 
frosty October night, when moonlit mists were 
hanging over the harbour and curling like silver rib- 
bons along the seaward glens. She looked as if she re- 
pented coming when Gilbeit answered her knock; but 
Anne flew past him, pounced on her, and drew her in. 

"I'm so glad you picked tonight for a call," she 
said gaily. "I made up a lot of extra good fudge 
this afternoon and we want someone to help us cat it 
before the fire while we tell stories. Perhaps 
Captain Jim will drop in, too. This is his night." 

"No. Captain Jim is over home," said Leslie. 
"He he made me come here," she added, half de- 

"I'll say a thank-you to him for that when I see 
him," said Anne, pulling easy chairs before the fire. 

"Oh, I don't mean that I didn't want to come," 
protested Leslie, flushing a little. "I I've been 
thinking of coming but it isn't always easy for me 
to get away." 

"Of course it must be hard for you to leave Mr. 



Moore," said Anne, in a matter-of-fact tone. She 
had decided that it would be best to mention Dick 
Moore occasionally as an accepted fact, and not give 
undue morbidness to the subject by avoiding it. She 
was right, for Leslie's air of constraint suddenly 
vanished. Evidently she had been wondering how 
much Anne knew of the conditions of her life and 
was relieved that no explanations were needed. She 
allowed her cap and jacket to be taken, and sat down 
wiith a girlish snuggle in the big armchair by Magog. 
She was dressed prettily and carefully, with the 
customary touch of colour in the scarlet geranium at 
her white throat. Her beautiful hair gleamed like 
molten gold in the warm firelight. Her sea-blue eyes 
were full of soft laughter and allurement. For the 
moment, under the influence of the little house of 
dreams, she was a girl again a girl forgetful of the. 
past and its bitterness. The atmosphere of the many 
loves that had sanctified the little house was all about 
her; the companionship of two healthy, happy, young 
folks of her own generation encircled her; she felt 
and yielded to the magic of her surroundings Miss 
Cornelia and Captain Jim would scarcely have recog- 
nized her ; Anne found it hard to believe that this was 
the cold, unresponsive woman she had met on the 
shore this animated girl who talked and listened with 
the eagerness of a starved soul. And how hungrily 
Leslie's eyes looked at the bookcases between the 
windows ! 


"Our library isn't very extensive," said Anne, "but 
every book in it is a friend. We've picked our books 
up through the years, here and there, never buying 
one until we had first read it and knew that it be- 
longed to the race of Joseph." 

Leslie laughed beautiful laughter that seemed 
akin to all the mirth that had echoed through the 
little house in the vanished years. 

"I have a few books of father's not many," she 
said. "I've read them until I know them almost by 
heart. I-don't get many books. There's a circulating 
library at the Glen store but I don't think the com- 
mittee who pick the books for Mr. Parker know what 
books are of Joseph's race or perhaps they don't 
care. It was so seldom I got one I really liked that 
I gave up getting any." 

"I hope you'll look on our bookshelves as your 
own," said Anne. "You are entirely and whole- 
heartedly welcome to the loan of any book on them." 

"You are setting a feast of fat things before me," 
said Leslie, joyously. Then, as the clock struck ten, 
she rose, half unwillingly. 

"I must go. I didn't realise it was so late. Captain 
Jim is always saying it doesn't take long to stay an 
hour. But I've stayed two and oh, but I've enjoyed 
them," she added frankly. 

"Come often," said Anne and Gilbert. They had 
risen and stood together in the firelight's glow. 
Leslie looked at them youthful, hopeful, happy, 


typifying all she had missed and must forever miss. 
The light went out of her face and eyes; the girl 
vanished; it was the sorowful, cheated woman who 
answered the invitation almost coldly and got herself 
away with a pitiful haste. 

Anne watched her until she was lost in the shadows 
of the chill and misty night. Then she turned slowly 
back to the glow of her own radiant hearthstone. 

"Isn't she lovely, Gilbert? Her hair fascinates me. 
Miss Cornelia says it reaches to her feet. Ruby 
Gillis had beautiful hair but Leslie's is alive- every 
thread of it is living gold." 

"She is very beautiful," agreed Gilbert, so heartily 
that Anne almost wished he were a little less enthusias- 

"Gilbert, would you like my hair better if it were 
like Leslie's?" she asked wistfully. 

"I wouldn't have your hair any colour but just what 
it is for the world," said Gilbert, with one or two 
convincing accompaniments. "You wouldn't be Anne 
if you had golden hair or hair of any colour but" 

"Red," said Anne, with gloomy satisfaction. 

"Yes, red to give warmth to that milk-white skin 
and those shining gray-green eyes of yours. Golden 
hair wouldn't suit you at all, Queen Anne my Queen 
Anne queen of my heart and life and home." 

"Then you may admire Leslie's all you like," said 
Anne magnanimously. 


ONE evening, a week later, Anne decided to run 
over the fields to the house up the brook 
for an informal call. It was an evening 01 gray fog 
that had crept in from the gulf, swathed the harbour, 
filled the glens and valleys, and clung heavily to the 
autumnal meadows. Through it the sea sobbed and 
shuddered. Anne saw Four Wind* in a new aspect, 
and found it weird and mysterious and fascinating; 
but it also gave her a little feeling of loneliness. 
Gilbert was away and would be away until the mor- 
row, attending a medical pow-wow in Charlottetown. 
Anne longed for an hour of fellowship with some girl 
friend. Captain Jim and Miss Cornelia were "good 
fellows" each, in their own way; but youth yearned 
to youth. 

"If only Diana or Phil or Pris or Stella could drop 
in for a chat," she said to herself, "how delightful it 
would be ! This is such a ghostly night. I'm sure all 
the ships that ever sailed out of Fours Winds to their 
doom could be seen tonight sailing up the harbour with 



their drowned crews on their decks, if that shrouding 
fog could suddenly be drawn aside. I feel as if it 
concealed innumerable mysteries as if I were sur- 
rounded by the wraiths of old generations of Four 
Winds people peering at me through that gray veil. If 
ever the dear dead ladies of this little house came back 
to revisit it they would come on just such a night as 
this. If I sit here any longer I'll see one of them there 
opposite me in Gilbert's chair. This place isn't exactly 
canny tonight. Even Gog and Magog have an air of 
pricking up their ears to hear the footsteps of unseen 
guests. I'll run over to see Leslie before I frighten 
myself with my own fancies, as I did long ago in the 
matter of the Haunted Wood. I'll leave my house of 
dreams to welcome back its old inhabitants. My fire 
will give them my good-will and greeting they will 
be gone before I come back, and my house will be 
mine once more. Tonight I am sure it is keeping a 
tryst with the past." 

Laughing a little over her fancy, yet with some- 
thing of a creepy sensation in the region of her spine, 
Anne kissed her hand to Gog and Magog and slipped 
out into the fog, with some of the new magazines 
under her arm for Leslie. 

"Leslie's wild for books and magazines," Miss Cor- 
nelia had told her, "and she hardly ever sees one. 
She can't afford to buy them or subscribe for them. 
She's really pitifully poor, Anne. I don't see how 
she makes out to live at all on the little rent the farm 


brings in. She never even hints a complaint on the 
score of poverty, but I know what it must be. She's 
been handicapped by it all her life. She didn't mind 
it when she was free and ambitious, but it must gall 
now, believe me. I'm glad she seemed so bright and 
merry the evening she spent with you. Captain Jim 
told me he had fairly to put her cap and coat on and 
push her out of the door. Don't be too long going to 
see her either. If you are she'll think it's because you 
don't like the sight of Dick, and she'll crawl into her 
shell again. Dick's a great, big, harmless baby, but 
that silly grin and chuckle of his do get on some 
people's nerves. Thank goodness, I've no nerves my- 
self. I like Dick Moore better now than I ever did 
when he was in his right senses though the Lord 
knows that isn't saying much. I was down there one 
day in housecleaning time helping Leslie a bit, and I 
was frying doughnuts. Dick was hanging round to 
get one, as usual, and all at once he picked up a scald- 
ing hot one I'd just fished out and dropped it on the 
back of my neck when I was bending over. Then he 
laughed and laughed. Believe me, Anne, it took all 
the grace of God in my heart to keep me from just 
whisking up that stew-pan of boiling fat and pouring 
it over his head." 

'Anne laughed over Miss Cornelia's wrath as she 
sped through the darkness. But laughter accorded 
ill with that night. She was sober enough when she 
reached the house among the willows. Everything 


was very silent. The front part of the house seemed 
dark and deserted, so Anne slipped round to the side 
door, which opened from the veranda into a little 
sitting room. There she halted noiselessly. 

The door was open. Beyond, in the dimly lighted 
room, sat Leslie Moore, with her arms flung out on 
the table and her head bent upon them. She was 
weeping horribly with low, fierce, choking sobs, 
as if some agony in her soul were trying to tear itself 
out. An old black dog was sitting by her, his nose 
resting on her lap, his big doggish eyes full of mute, 
imploring sympathy and devotion. Anne drew back 
in dismay. She felt that she could not intermeddle 
with this bitterness. Her heart ached with a sympathy 
she might not utter. To go in now would be to shut 
the door forever on any possible help or friendship. 
Some instinct warned Anne that the proud, bitter girl 
would never forgive the one who thus surprised her 
in her abandonment of despair. 

Anne slipped noiselessly from the veranda and 
found her way across the yard. Beyond, she heard 
voices in the gloom and saw the dim glow of a light. 
At the gate she met two men Captain Jim with a 
lantern, and another who she knew must be Dick 
Moore a big man, badly gone to fat, with a broad, 
round, red face, and vacant eyes. Even in the dull 
light Anne got the impression that there was some- 
thing unusual about his eyes. 

"Is this you, Mistress Blythe?" said Captain Jim. 


"Now, now, you hadn't oughter be roaming about 
alone on a night like this. You could get lost in this 
fog easier than not. Jest you wait till I see Dick 
safe inside the door and I'll come back and light you 
over the fields. I ain't going to have Dr. Blythe 
coming home and finding that you walked clean over 
Cape Le force in the fog. A woman did that once, 
forty years ago. 

"So you've been over to see Leslie," he said, when 
he rejoined her. 

"I didn't go in," said Anne, and told what she had 
seen. Captain Jim sighed. 

"Poor, poor, little girl! She don't cry often, 
Mistress Blythe she's too brave for that. She must 
feel terrible when she does cry. A night like this is 
hard on poor women who have sorrows. There's 
something about it that kinder brings up all we've 
suffered or feared." 

"It's full of ghosts," said Anne, with a shiver. 
"That was why I came over I wanted to clasp a 
human hand and hear a human voice. There seem to 
be so many inhuman presences about tonight. Even 
my own dear house was full of them. They fairly 
elbowed me out. So I fled over here for companion- 
ship of my kind." 

"You were right not to go in, though, Mistress 
Blythe. Leslie wouldn't have liked it. She wouldn't 
have liked me going in with Dick, as I'd 
have done if I hadn't met you. I had Dick down 


with me all day. I keep him with me as much as I 
can to help Leslie a bit." 

"Isn't there something odd about his eyes?" asked 

"You noticed that? Yes, one is blue and t'other is 
hazel his father had the same. It's a Moore 
peculiarity. That was what told me he was Dick 
Moore when I saw him first down in Cuby. If it 
hadn't a-bin for his eyes I mightn't a-known him, 
what with his beard and fat. You know, I reckon, 
that it was me found him and brought him home. 
Miss Cornelia always says I shouldn't have done it, 
but I can't agree with her. It was the right thing to 
do and so 'twas the only thing. There ain't no 
question in my mind about that. But my old heart 
aches for Leslie. She's only twenty-eight and she's 
eaten more bread with sorrow than most women do 
in eighty years." 

They walked on in silence for a little while. 
Presently Anne said, "Do you know, Captain Jim, 
I never like walking with a lantern. I have always 
the strangest feeling that just outside the circle of 
light, just over its edge in the darkness, I am sur- 
rounded by a ring of furtive, sinister things, watching 
me from the shadows with hostile eyes. I've had 
that feeling from childhood. What is the reason? 
I never feel like that when I'm really in the darkness 
when it is close all around me I'm not the least 


"I've something of that feeling myself/* admitted 
Captain Jim. "I reckon when the darkness is close 
to us it is a friend. But when we sorter push it away 
from us divorce ourselves from it, so to speak, with 
lantern light it becomes an enemy. But the fog is 
lifting. There's a smart west wind rising, if you 
notice. The stars will be out when you get home." 

They were out; and when Anne re-entered her 
house of dreams the red embers were still glowing on 
the hearth, and all the haunting presences were gone. 


THE splendour of colour which had glowed for 
weeks along the shores of Four Winds Harbour 
had faded out into the soft gray-blue of late autumnal 
hills. There came many days when fields and shores 
were dim with misty rain, or shivering before the 
breath of a melancholy sea-wind nights, too, of 
storm and tempest, when Anne sometimes wakened 
to pray that no ship might be beating up the grim 
north shore, for if it were so not even the great, 
faithful light, whirling through the darkness un- 
afraid, could avail to guide it into safe haven. 

"In November I sometimes feel as if spring could 
never come again," she sighed, grieving over the 
hopeless unsightliness of her frosted and bedraggled 
flower-plots. The gay little garden of the school- 
master's bride was rather a forlorn place now, and 
the Lombardies and birches were under bare poles, as 
Captain Jim said But the fir- wood behind the little 
house was forever green and staunch; and even in 
November and December there came gracious days of 
sunshine and purple hazes, when the harbour danced 



and sparkled as blithely as in midsummer, and the 
gulf was so softly blue and tender that the storm 
and the wild wind seemed only things of a long-past 

Anne and Gilbert spent many an autumn evening 
at the lighthouse. It was always a cheery place. 
Even when the east wind sang in minor and the sea 
was dead and gray, hints of sunshine seemed to be 
lurking all about it. Perhaps this was because the 
First Mate always paraded it in panoply of gold. 
He was so large and effulgent that one hardly missed 
the sun, and his resounding purrs formed a pleasant 
accompaniment to the laughter and conversation 
which went on around Captain Jim's fireplace. Captain 
Jim and Gilbert had many long discussions and high 
converse on matters beyond the ken of cat or king. 

"I like to ponder on all kinds of problems, though I 
can't solve 'em," said Captain Jim. "My father held 
that we should never talk of things we couldn't un- 
derstand, but if we didn't, doctor, the subjects for con- 
versation would be mighty few. I reckon the gods 
laugh many a time to hear us, but what matters so 
long as we remember that we're only men and don't 
take to fancying that we're gods ourselves, really, 
knowing good and evil. I reckon our pow-pows won't 
do us or anyone much harm, so let's have another 
whack at the whence, why and whither this evening, 

While they "whacked," Anne listened or dreamed. 


Sometimes Leslie went to the lighthouse with them, 
and she and Anne wandered along the shore in the 
eerie twilight, or sat on the rocks . below the light- 
house until the darkness drove them back to the cheer 
of the driftwood fire. Then Captain Jim would 
brew them tea and tell them 

"tales of land and sea 
And whatsoever might betide 
The great forgotten world outside." 

Leslie seemed always to enjoy those lighthouse 
carousals very much, and bloomed out for the time 
being into ready wit and beautiful laughter, or 
glowing-eyed silence. There was a certain tang and 
savour in the conversation when Leslie was present 
which they missed when she was absent. Even when 
she did not talk she seemed to inspire others to bril- 
liancy. Captain Jim told his stories better, Gilbert 
was quicker in argument and repartee, Anne felt 
little gushes and trickles of fancy and imagination 
bubbling to her lips under the influence of Leslie's 

"That girl was born to be a leader in social and 
intellectual circles, far away from Four Winds," she 
said to Gilbert as they walked home one night. "She's 
just wasted here wasted." 

"Weren't you listening to Captain Jim and yours 
truly the other night when we discussed that subject 
generally? We came to the comforting conclusion 
that the Creator probably knew how to run His 


universe quite as well as we do, and that, after all, 
there are no such things as 'wasted' lives, saving and 
except when an individual wilfully squanders and 
wastes his own life which Leslie Moore certainly 
hasn't done. And some people might think that a 
Redmond B.A., whom editors were beginning to 
honour, was 'wasted' as the wife of a struggling 
country doctor in the rural community of Four 


"If you had married Roy Gardner, now," 
continued Gilbert mercilessly, "you could have been 
'a leader in social and intellectual circles far away 
from Four Winds.' ' 

"Gilbert Blythel" 

"You know you were in love with him at one 
time, Anne." 

"Gilbert, that's mean 'pisen mean, just like all 
the men,' as Miss Cornelia says. I never was in 
love with him. I only imagined I was. You know 
that. You know I'd rather be your wife in our house 
of dreams and fulfilment than a queen in a palace." 

Gilbert's answer was not in words; but I am afraid 
that both of them forgot poor Leslie speeding her 
lonely way across the fields to a house that was neither 
a palace nor the fulfilment of a dream. 

The moon was rising over the sad, dark sea behind 
them and transfiguring it. Her light had not yet 
reached the harbour, the further side of which was 


shadowy and suggestive, with dim coves and rich 
glooms and jewelling lights. 

"How the home lights shine out tonight through 
the dark !" said Anne. "That string of them over the 
harbour looks like a necklace. And what a coruscation 
there is up at the Glen! Oh, look, Gilbert, there is 
ours. I'm so glad we left it burning. I hate to come 
home to a dark house. Our homelight, Gilbert ! Isn't 
it lovely to see?" 

"Just one of earth's many millions of homes, Anne- 
girl but ours ours our beacon in 'a naughty 
world.' When a fellow has a home and a dear, little, 
red-haired wife in it what more need he ask of life?" 

"Well, he might ask one thing more," whispered 
Anne happily. "Oh, Gilbert, it seems as if I just 
couldn't wait for the spring." 


AT first Anne and Gilbert talked of going home 
to Avonlea for Christmas; but eventually 
they decided to stay in Four Winds. "I want to 
spend the first Christmas of our life together in our 
own home," decreed Anne. 

So it fell out that Marilla and Mrs. Rachel Lynde 
and the twins came to Four Winds for Christmas. 
Marilla had the face of a woman who had circum- 
navigated the globe. She had never been sixty 
miles away from home before; and she had never 
eaten a Christmas dinner anywhere save at Green 

Mrs. Rachel had made and brought with her an 
enormous plum pudding. Nothing could have 
convinced Mrs. Rachel that a college graduate of 
the younger generation could make a Christmas 
plum pudding properly ; but she bestowed approval on 
Anne's house. 

"Anne's a good housekeeper," she said to Marilla 
in the spare room the night of their arrival. "I've 



looked into her bread box and her scrap pail. I al- 
ways judge a housekeeper by those, that's what. 
There's nothing in the pail that shouldn't have been 
thrown away, and no stale pieces in the bread box. 
Of course, she was trained up with you but, then, 
she went to college afterwards. I notice she's got 
my tobacco stripe quilt on the bed here, and that 
big round braided mat of yours before her living- 
room fire. It makes me feel right at home." 

Anne's first Christmas in her own house was as 
delightful as she could have wished. The day was 
fine and bright; the first skim of snow had fallen on 
Christmas Eve and made the world beautiful; the 
harbour was still open and glittering. 

Captain Jim and Miss Cornelia came to dinner. 
Leslie and Dick had been invited, but Leslie made 
excuse; they always went to her Uncle Isaac West's 
for Christmas, she said. 

"She'd rather have it so," Miss Cornelia told Anne. 
"She can't bear taking Dick where there are strangers. 
Christmas is always a hard time for Leslie. She and 
her father used to make a lot of it." 

Miss Cornelia and Mrs. Rachel did not take a very 
violent fancy to each other. "Two suns hold not 
their courses in one sphere." But they did not clash 
at all, for Mrs. Rachel was in the kitchen helping 
Anne and Marilla with the dinner, and it fell to 
Gilbert to entertain Captain Jim and Miss Cornelia, 
or rather to be entertained by them, for a dialogue 


between those two old friends and antagonists was 
assuredly never dull. 

"It's many a year since there was a Christmas 
dinner here, Mistress Blythe," said Captain Jim. 
"Miss Russell always went to her friends in town 
for Christmas. But I was here to the first Christmas 
dinner that was ever eaten in this house and the 
schoolmaster's bride cooked it. That was sixty years 
ago today, Mistress Blythe and a day very like this 
just enough snow to make the hills white, and the 
harbour as blue as June. I was only a lad, and I'd 
never been invited out to dinner before, and I was 
too shy to eat enough. I've got all over that." 

"Most men do," said Miss Cornelia, sewing furi- 
ously. Miss Cornelia was not going to sit with idle 
hands, even on Christmas. Babies come without any 
consideration for holidays, and there was one expect- 
ed in a poverty-stricken household at Glen St. Mary. 
Miss Cornelia had sent that household a substantial 
dinner for it little swarm, and so meant to eat her 
own with a comfortable conscience. 

"Well, you "know, the way to a man's heart is 
through his stomach, Cornelia," explained Captain 

"I believe you when he has a heart," retorted 
Miss Cornelia. "I suppose that's why so many 
women kill themselves cooking just as poor Amelia 
Baxter did. She died last Christmas morning, and 
she said it was the first Christmas since she was 


married that she didn't have to cook a big, twenty- 
plate dinner. It must have been a real pleasant change 
for her. Well, she's been dead a year, so you'll soon 
hear of Horace Baxter taking notice." 

"I heard he was taking notice already," said 
Captain Jim, winking at Gilbert. "Wasn't he up to 
your place one Sunday lately, with his funeral blacks 
on, and a boiled collar?" 

"No, he wasn't. And he needn't come neither. I 
could have had him long ago when he was fresh. I 
don't want any second-hand goods, believe me. As 
for Horace Baxter, he was in financial difficulties a 
year ago last summer, and he prayed to the Lord for 
help; and when his wife died and he got her life 
insurance he said he believed it was the answer to his 
prayer. Wasn't that like a man ?" 

"Have you really proof that he said that, Cornelia ?" 

"I have the Methodist minister's word for it if 
you call that proof. Robert Baxter told me tht same 
thing too, but I admit that isn't evidence. Robert 
Baxter isn't often known to tell the truth." 

"Come, come, Cornelia, I think he generally tells 
the truth, but he changes his opinion so often it 
sometimes sounds as if he didn't." 

"It sounds like it mighty often, believe me. But 
trust one man to excuse another. I have no use for 
Robert Baxter. He turned Methodist just because 
the Presbyterian choir happened to be singing 


'Behold the bridegroom cometh' for a collection piece 
when him- and Margaret walked up the aisle the 
Sunday after they were married. Served him right 
for being late ! He always insisted the choir did it on 
purpose to insult him, as if he was of that much 
importance. But that family always thought they 
were much bigger potatoes than they really were. 
His brother Eliphalet imagined the devil was always 
at his elbow but / never believed the devil wasted 
that much time on him." 

"I don't know," said Captain Jim thoughtfully. 
"Eliphalet Baxter lived too much alone hadn't even 
a cat or dog to keep him human. When a man is 
alone he's mighty apt to be with the devil if he 
ain't with God. He has to choose which company 
he'll keep, I reckon. If the devil always was at Life 
Baxter's elbow it must have been because Life liked 
to have him there." 

"Man-like," said Miss Cornelia, and subsided into 
silence over a complicated arrangement of tucks until 
Captain Jim deliberately stirred her up again by 
remarking in a casual way : 

"I was up to the Methodist church last Sunday 

"You'd better have been home reading your Bible," 
was Miss Cornelia's retort. 

"Come, now, Cornelia, I can't see any harm in go- 
ing to the Methodist church when there's no preach- 


ing in your own. I've been a Presbyterian for seven* 
ty-six years, and it isn't likely my theology will hoist 
anchor at this late day." 

"It's setting a bad example," said Miss Cornelia 

"Besides," continued wicked Captain Jim, "I wanted 
to hear some good singing. The Methodists have a 
good choir; and you can't deny, Cornelia, that the 
singing in our church is awful since the split in the 

"What if the singing isn't good? They're doing 
their best, and God sees no difference between the 
voice of a crow and the voice of a nightingale." 

"Come, come, Cornelia," said Captain Jim mildly, 
"I've a better opinion of the Almighty's ear for music 
than that." 

"What caused the trouble in our choir?" asked 
Gilbert, who was suffering from suppressed laughter. 

"It dates back to the new church, three years ago," 
answered Captain Jim. "We had a fearful time over 
the building of that church fell out over the question 
of a new site. The two sites wasn't more'n two 
hundred yards apart, but you'd have thought they 
was a thousand by the bitterness of that fight. We 
was split up into three factions one wanted the east 
site and one the south, and one held to the old. It 
was fought out in bed and at board, and in church 
and at market. All the old scandals of three genera- 
tions were dragged out of their graves and aired. 


Three matches was broken up by it. And the meet- 
ings we had to try to settle the question! Cornelia, 
will you ever forget the one when old Luther Burns 
got up and made a speech? He stated his opinions 

"Call a spade a spade, Captain. You mean he got 
red-mad and raked them all, fore and aft. They 
deserved it too a pack of incapables. But what 
would you expect of a committee of men? That 
building committee held twenty-seven meetings, and 
at the end of the twenty-seventh weren't no nearer 
having a church than when they begun not so near, 
for a fact, for in one fit of hurrying things along 
they'd gone to work and tore the old church down, 
so there we were, without a church, and no place but 
the hall to worship in." 

"The Methodists offered us their church, Cornelia." 
"The Glen St. Mary church wouldn't have been 
built to this day," went on Miss Cornelia, ignoring 
Captain Jim, "if we women hadn't just started in 
and took charge. We said we meant to have a church, 
if the men meant to quarrel till doomsday, and we 
were tired of being a laughing-stock for the Method- 
ists. We held one meeting and elected a committee 
and canvassed for subscriptions. We got them, too. 
When any of the men tried to sass us we told them 
they'd tried for two years to build a church and it 
was our turn now. We shut them up close, believe 
me, and in six months we had our church. Of course, 


when the men saw we were determined they stopped 
fighting and went to work, man-like, as soon as they 
saw they had to, or quit bossing. Oh, women can't 
preach or be elders; but they can build churches and 
scare up the money for them." 

"The Methodists allow women to preach," saicj 
Captain Jim. 

Miss Cornelia glared at him. 

"I never said the Methodists hadn't common sense, 
Captain. What I say is, I doubt if they have much 

"I suppose you are in favor of votes for women, 
Miss Cornelia," said Gilbert. 

"I'm not hankering after the vote, believe me," 
said Miss Cornelia scornfully. "/ know what it is to 
clean up after the men. But some of these days, when 
the men realise they've got the world into a mess they 
can't get it out of, they'll be glad to give us the vote, 
and shoulder their troubles over on us. That's their 
scheme. Oh, it's well that women are patient, believe 

"What about Job?" suggested Captain Jim. 

"Job! It was such a rare thing to find a patient 
man that when one was really discovered they were 
determined he shouldn't be forgotten," retorted Miss 
Cornelia triumphantly. "Anyhow, the virtue doesn't 
go with the name. There never was such an impa- 
tient man born as old Job Taylor over harbour." 

"Well, you know, he had a good deal to try him. 


Cornelia. Even you can't defend his wife. I always 
remember what old William MacAllister said of her 
at her funeral, 'There's nae doot she was a Chrees- 
tian wumman, but she had the de'il's own temper.' ' 

"I suppose she was trying," admitted Miss Cornelia 
reluctantly, "but that didn't justify what Job said 
when she died. He rode home from the graveyard 
the day of the funeral with my father. He never 
said a word till they got near home. Then he heaved 
a big sigh and said, 'You may not believe it, Stephen, 
but this is the happiest day of my life!' Wasn't that 
like a man?" 

"I s'pose poor old Mrs. Job did make life kinder 
uneasy for him," reflected Captain Jim. 

"Well, there's such a thing as decency, isn't there? 
Even if a man is rejoicing in his heart over his wife 
being dead, he needn't proclaim it to the four winds 
of heaven. And happy day or not, Job Taylor wasn't 
long in marrying again, you might notice. His second 
wife could manage him. She made him walk Spanish, 
believe me ! The first thing she did was to make him 
hustle round and put up a tombstone to the first Mrs. 
Job and she had a place left on it for her own name. 
She said there'd be nobody to make Job put up a 
monument to her." 

"Speaking of Taylors, how is Mrs. Lewis Taylor 
up at the Glen, doctor?" asked Captain Jim. 

"She's getting better slowly but she has to work 
too hard," replied Gilbert. 


"Her husband works hard too raising prize pigs," 
said Miss Cornelia. "He's noted for his beautiful 
pigs. He's a heap prouder of his pigs than of his 
children. But then, to be sure, his pigs are the best 
pigs possible, while his children don't amount to much. 
He picked a poor mother for them, and starved her 
while she was bearing and rearing them. His pigs 
got the cream and his children got the skim milk." 

"There are times, Cornelia, when I have to agree 
with you, though it hurts me," said Captain Jim. 
"That's just exactly the truth about Lewis Taylor. 
When I see those poor, miserable children of his, 
robbed of all children ought to have, it p'isens my 
own bite and sup for days afterwards." 

Gilbert went out to the kitchen in response to 
Anne's beckoning. Anne shut the door and gave 
him a connubial lecture. 

"Gilbert, you and Captain Jim must stop baiting 
Miss Cornelia. Oh, I've been listening to you and 
I just won't allow it." 

"Anne, Miss Cornelia is enjoying herself hugely. 
You know she is." 

"Well, never mind. You two needn't egg her on 
like that. Dinner is ready now, and, Gilbert, don't 
let Mrs. Rachel carve the geese. I know she means 
to offer to do it because she doesn't think you can do 
it properly. Show her you can." 

"I ought to be able to. I've been studying A-B-C-D 
diagrams of carving for the past month," said Gilbert 


"Only don't talk to me while I'm doing it, Anne, 
for if you drive the letters out of my head I'll be in 
a worse predicament than you were in old geometry 
days when the teacher changed them" 

Gilbert carved the geese beautifully. Even Mrs. 
Rachel had to admit that. And everybody ate of 
them and enjoyed them. Anne's first Christmas 
dinner was a great success and she beamed with 
housewifely pride. Merry was the feast and long; 
and when it was over they gathered around the cheer 
of the red hearth flame and Captain Jim told them 
stories until the red sun swung low over Four Winds 
Harbour, and the long blue shadows of the Lombardies 
fell across the snow in the lane. 

"I must be getting back to the light," he said finally. 
"Til jest have time to walk home before sun-down. 
Thank you for a beautiful Christmas, Mistress Blythe. 
Bring Master Davy down to the light some night be- 
fore he goes home." 

"I want to see those stone gods," said Davy with 
a relish. 


THE Green Gables folk went home after Christ- 
mas, Marilla under solemn covenant to return 
for a month in the spring. More snow came before 
New Year's, and the harbour froze over, but the gulf 
still was free, beyond the white, imprisoned fields. 
The last day of the old year was one of those bright, 
cold, dazzling winter days, which bombard us with 
their brilliancy, and command our admiration but 
never our love. The sky was sharp and blue; the 
snow diamonds sparkled insistently; the stark trees 
were bare and shameless, with a kind of brazen 
beauty; the hills shot assaulting lances of crystal. 
Even the shadows were sharp and stiff and clear-cut, 
as no proper shadows should be. Everything that 
was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less 
attractive in the glaring splendour; and everything 
that was ugly seemed ten times uglier, and every- 
thing was either handsome or ugly. There was no 
soft blending, or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness 
in that searching glitter. The only things that held 



their own individuality were the firs for the fir is 
the tree of mystery and shadow, and yields never to 
the encroachments of crude radiance. 

But finally the day began to realise that she was 
growing old. Then a certain pensiveness fell over 
her beauty which dimmed yet intensified it; sharp 
angles, glittering points, melted away into curves and 
enticing gleams. The white harbour put on soft grays 
and pinks ; the far-away hills turned amethyst. 

"The old year is going away beautifully," said 

She and Leslie and Gilbert were on their way to 
the Four Winds Point, having plotted with Captain 
Jim to watch the New Year in at the light. The sun 
had set and in the southwestern sky hung Venus, 
glorious and golden, having drawn as near to her 
earth-sister as is possible for her. For the first time 
Anne and Gilbert saw the shadow cast by that bril- 
liant star of evening, that faint, mysterious shadow, 
never seen save when there is white snow to reveal it, 
and then only with averted vision, vanishing when 
you gaze at it directly. 

"It's like the spirit of a shadow, isn't it?" whispered 
Anne. "You can see it so plainly haunting your side 
when you look ahead; but when you turn and look 
at it it's gone." 

"I have heard that you can see the shadow of Venus 
only once in a lifetime, and that within a year of 
seeing it your life's most wonderful gift will come 


to you," said Leslie. But she spoke rather hardly; 
perhaps she thought that even the shadow of Venus 
could bring her no gift of life. Anne smiled in the 
soft twilight; she felt quite sure what the mystic 
shadow promised her. 

They found Marshall Elliott at the lighthouse. At 
first Anne felt inclined to resent the intrusion of this 
long-haired, long-bearded eccentric into the familiar 
little circle. But Marshall Elliott soon proved his 
legitimate claim to membership in the household of 
Joseph. He was a witty, intelligent, well-read man, 
rivalling Captain Jim himself in the knack of telling 
a good story. They were all glad when he agreed to 
watch the old year out with them. 

Captain Jim's small nephew Joe had come down 
to spend New Year's with his great-uncle, and had 
fallen asleep on the sofa with the First Mate curled 
up in a huge golden ball at his feet. 

"Ain't he a dear little man?" said Captain Jim 
gloatingly. "I do love to watch a little child asleep, 
Mistress Blythe. It's the most beautiful sight in th 
world, I reckon. Joe does love to get down here for 
a night, because I have him sleep with me. At home 
he has to sleep with the other two boys, and he doesn't 
like it. 'Why can't I sleep with father, Uncle Jim?' 
say he. 'Everybody in the Bible slept with their 
fathers.' As for the questions he asks, the minister 
himself couldn't answer them. They fair swamp me. 
'Uncle Jim, if I wasn't me who'd I be?' and, 'Uncle 


Jim, what would happen if God died?' He fired them 
two off at me tonight, afore he went to sleep. As 
for his imagination, it sails away from everything. 
He makes up the most remarkable yarns and then 
his mother shuts him up in the closet for telling 
stories. And he sits down and makes up another one, 
and has it ready to relate to her when she lets him 
out. He had one for me when he come down to- 
night. 'Uncle Jim/ says he, solemn as a tombstone, 
'I had a 'venture in the Glen today.' 'Yes, what was 
it ?' says I, expecting something quite startling, but no- 
wise prepared for what I really got. 'I met a wolf 
in the street,' says he, 'a 'normous wolf with a big, 
red mouf and awful long teeth, Uncle Jim/ 'I didn't 
know there was any wolves up at the Glen/ says I. 
'Oh, he corned there from far, far away/ says Joe, 
'and I fought he was going to eat me up, Uncle Jim.' 
'Were you scared?' says I. 'No, 'cause I had a big 
gun/ says Joe, 'and I shot the wolf dead, Uncle Jim, 
solid dead and then he went up to heaven and bit 
God/ says he. Well, I was fair staggered, Mistress 

The hours bloomed into mirth around the drift- 
wood fire. Captain Jim told tales, and Marshall 
Elliott sang old Scotch ballads in a fine tenor voice; 
finally Captain Jim took down his old brown fiddle 
from the wall and began to play. He had a tolerable 
knack of fiddling, which all appreciated save the First 
Mate, who sprang from the sofa as if he had been 


shot, emitted a shriek of protest, and fled wildly up 
the stairs. , 

"Can't cultivate an ear for music in that cat 
nohow," said Captain Jim. "He won't stay long 
enough to learn to like it. When we got the organ 
up at the Glen church old Elder Richards bounced up 
from his seat the minute the organist began to play 
and scuttled down the aisle and out of the church at 
the rate of no-man's-business. It reminded me so 
strong of the First Mate tearing loose as soon as I 
begin to fiddle that I come nearer to laughing out 
loud in church than I ever did before or since." 

There was something so infectious in the rollicking 
tunes which Captain Jim played that very soon 
Marshall Elliott's feet began to twitch. He had been 
a noted dancer in his youth. Presently he started up 
and held out his hands to Leslie. Instantly she re- 
sponded. Round and round the firelit room they 
circled with a rhythmic grace that was wonderful. 
Leslie danced like one inspired; the wild, sweet 
abandon of the music seemed to have entered into 
and possessed her. Anne watched her in fascinated 
admiration. She had never seen her like this. All 
the innate richness and colour and charm of her nature 
seemed to have broken loose and overflowed in crim- 
son cheek and glowing eye and grace of motion. Even 
the aspect of Marshall Elliott, with his long beard and 
hair, could not spoil the picture. On the contrary, 
it seemed to enhance it. Marshall Elliott looked like 


a Viking of elder days, dancing with one of the blue- 
eyed, golden-haired daughters of the Northland. 

"The purtiest dancing I ever saw, and I've seen 
some in my time," declared Captain Jim, when at last 
the bow fell from his tired hand. Leslie dropped into 
her chair, laughing, breathless. 

"I love dancing," she said apart to Anne. "I haven't 
danced since I was sixteen but I love it. The music 
seems to run through my veins like quicksilver and I 
forget everything everything except the delight of 
keeping time to it. There isn't any floor beneath me, 
or walls about me, or roof over me I'm floating amid 
the stars." 

Captain Jim hung his fiddle up in its place, beside 
a large frame enclosing several banknotes. 

"Is there anybody else of your acquaintance who 
can afford to hang his walls with banknotes for 
pictures?" he asked. "There's twenty ten-dollar notes 
there, not worth the glass over them. They're old 
Bank of P. E. Island notes. Had them by me when 
the bank failed, and I had 'em framed and hung up, 
partly as a reminder not to put your trust in banks, 
and partly to give me a real luxurious, millionairy 
feeling. Hullo, Matey, don't be scared. You can come 
back now. The music and revelry is over for tonight. 
The old year has just another hour to stay with us. 
I've seen seventy-six New Years come in over that 
gulf yonder, Mistress Blythe." 

"You'll see a hundred," said Marshall Elliott. 


Captain Jim shook his head. 

"No; and I don't want to at least, I think I don't 
Death grows friendlier as we grow older. Not that 
one of us really wants to die though, Marshall. Ten- 
nyson spoke truth when he said that. There's old 
Mrs. Wallace up at the Glen. She's had heaps of 
trouble all her life, poor soul, and she's lost almost 
everyone she cared about. She's always saying that 
she'll be glad when her time comes, and she doesn't 
want to sojourn any longer in this vale of tears. But 
when she takes a sick spell there's a fuss! Doctors 
from town, and a trained nurse, and enough medicine 
to kill a dog. Life may be a vale of tears, all right, 
but there are some folks who enjoy weeping, I 

They spent the old year's last hour quietly around 
the fire. A few minutes before twelve Captain Jim 
rose and opened the door. 

"We must let the New Year in," he said. 

Outside was a fine blue night. A sparkling ribbon 
of moonlight garlanded the gulf. Inside the bar the 
harbour shone like a pavement of pearl. They stood 
before the door and waited Captain Jim with his 
ripe, full experience, Marshall Elliott in his vigorous 
but empty middle life, Gilbert and Anne with their 
precious memories and exquisite hopes, Leslie with 
her record of starved years and her hopeless future. 
The clock on the little shelf above the fireplace struck 


"Welcome, New Year," said Captain Jim, bowing 
low as the last stroke died away. "I wish you all the 
best year of your lives, mates. I reckon that what- 
ever the New Year brings us will be the best the 
Great Captain has for us and somehow or other 
we'll all make port in a good harbour." 


WINTER set in vigorously after New Year's. 
Big, white drifts heaped themselves about the 
little house, and palms of frost covered its windows. 
The harbour ice grew harder and thicker, until the Four 
Winds people began their usual winter travelling over 
it. The safe ways were "bushed" by a benevolent 
Government, and night and day the gay tinkle of the 
sleigh-bells sounded on it. On moonlit nights Anne 
heard them in her house of dreams like fairy chimes. 
The gulf froze over, and the Four Winds light flashed 
no more. During the months when navigation was 
closed Captain Jim's office was a sinecure. 

"The First Mate and I will have nothing to do till 
spring except keep warm and amuse ourselves. The 
last lighthouse keeper used always to move up to the 
Glen in winter; but I'd rather stay at the Point. The 
First Mate might get poisoned or chewed up by dogs 
at the Glen. It's a mite lonely, to be sure, with neither 
the light nor the water for company, but if our friends 
come to see us often we'll weather it through?' 

Captain Jim had an ice boat, and many a wild, 



glorious spin Gilbert and Anne and Leslie had over 
the glib harbour ice with him. Anne and Leslie took 
long snowshoe tramps together, too, over the fields, 
or across the harbour after storms, or through the 
woods beyond the Glen. They were very good com- 
rades in their rambles and their fireside communings. 
Each had something to give the other each felt life 
the richer for friendly exchange of thought and 
friendly silence; each looked across the white fields 
between their homes with a pleasant consciousness of 
a friend beyond. But, in spite of all this, Anne felt 
that there was always a barrier between Leslie and 
herself a constraint th*. t never wholly vanished. 

"I don't know why I can't get closer to her," Anne 
said one evening to Captain Jim. "I like her so much 
I admire her so much I want to take her right 
into my heart and creep right into hers. But I can 
never cross the barrier." 

"You've been too happy all your life, Mistress 
Blythe," said Captain Jim thoughtfully. "I reckon 
that's why you and Leslie can't get real close together 
in your souls. The barrier between you is her ex- 
perience of sorrow and trouble. She ain't responsible 
for it and you ain't; but it's there and neither of you 
can cross it." 

"My childhood wasn't very happy before I came 
to Green Gables," said Anne, gazing soberly out of 
the window at the still, sad, dead beauty of the leaf- 
less tree-shadows on the moonlit snow. 


"Mebbe not but it was just the usual unhappiness 
of a child who hasn't anyone to look after it properly. 
There hasn't been any tragedy in your life, Mistress 
Blythe. And poor Leslie's has been almost all tragedy. 
She feels, I reckon, though mebbe she hardly knows 
she feels it, that there's a vast deal in her life you 
can't enter nor understand and so she has to keep 
you back from it hold you off, so to speak, from 
hurting her. You know if we've got anything about 
us that hurts we shrink from anyone's touch on or 
near it. It holds good with our souls as well as our 
bodies, I reckon. Leslie's soul must be near ravfc 
it's no wonder she hides it away." 

"If that were really all, I wouldn't mind, Captain 
Jim. I would understand. But there are times 
not always, but now and again when I almost have 
to believe that Leslie doesn't doesn't like me. Some- 
times I surprise a look in her eyes that seems to show 
resentment and dislike it goes so quickly but I've 
seen it, I'm sure of that. And it hurts me, Captain 
Jim. I'm not used to being disliked and I've tried 
so hard to win Leslie's friendship." 

"You have won it, Mistress Blythe. Don't you go 
cherishing any foolish notion that Leslie don't like 
you. If she didn't she wouldn't have anything to do 
with you, much less chumming with you as she does. 
I know Leslie Moore too well not to be sure of that." 

"The first time I ever saw her, driving her geese 
down the hill on the day I came to Four Winds, she 


looked at me with the same expression," presisted 
Anne. "I felt it, even in the midst of my admiration 
of her beauty. She looked at me resentfully she 
did, indeed, Captain Jim." 

"The resentment must have been about something 
else, Mistress Blythe, and you jest come in for a share 
of it because you happened past. Leslie does take 
sullen spells now and again, poor girl. I can't blame 
her, when I know what she has to put up with. I 
don't know why it's permitted. The doctor and I 
have talked a lot about the origin of evil, but we 
haven't quite found out all about it yet. There's 
a vast of onunderstandable things in life, ain't there, 
Mistress Blythe? Sometimes things seem to work 
out real proper-like, same as with you and the doctor. 
And then again they all seem to go catawampus. 
There's Leslie, so clever and beautiful you'd think 
she was meant for a queen, and instead she's cooped 
up over there, robbed of almost everything a woman'd 
value, with no prospect except waiting on Dick Moore 
all her life. Though, mind you, Mistress Blythe, 1 
daresay she'd choose her life now, such as it is, rather 
than the life she lived with Dick before he went away. 
That's something a clumsy old sailor's tongue mustn't 
meddle with. But you've helped Leslie a lot she's a 
different creature since you come to Four Winds. 
Us old friends see the difference in her, as you can't. 
Miss Cornelia and me was talking it over the other 
day, and it's one of the mighty few p'ints that we 


see eye to eye on. So jest you throw overboard any 
idea of her not liking you." 

Anne could hardly discard it completely, for there 
were undoubtedly times when she felt, with an instinct 
that was not to be combated by reason, that Leslie 
harboured a queer, indefinable resentment towards 
her. At times, this secret consciousness marred the 
delight of their comradeship; at others it was almost 
forgotten ; but Anne always felt the hidden thorn was 
there, and might prick her at any moment. She felt 
a cruel sting from it on the day when she told Leslie 
of what she hoped the spring would bring to the little 
house of dreams. Leslie looked at her with hard, 
bitter, unfriendly eyes. 

"So you are to have that, too," she said in a choked 
voice. And without another word she had turned and 
gone across the fields homeward. Anne was deeply 
hurt; for the moment she felt as if she could never 
like Leslie again. But when Leslie came over a few 
evenings later she was so pleasant, so friendly, so 
frank, and witty, and winsome, that Anne was 
charmed into forgiveness and forgetfulness. Only, 
she never mentioned her darling hope to Leslie again ; 
nor did Leslie ever refer to it. But one evening, 
when late winter was listening for the word of spring, 
she came over to the little house for a twilight chat; 
and when she went away she left a small, white box 
on the table. Anne found it after she was gone and 
opened it wonderingly. In it was a tiny white dress 


of exquisite workmanship delicate embroidery, won- 
derful tucking, sheer loveliness. Every stitch in it 
was handwork; and the little frills of lace at neck 
and sleeves were of real Valenciennes. Lying on it 
was a card "with Leslie's love." 

"What hours of work she must have put on it," said 
Anne. "And the material must have cost more than 
she could really afford. It is very sweet of her." 

But Leslie was brusque and curt when Anne thanked 
her, and again the latter felt thrown back upon her- 

Leslie's gift was not alone in the little house. Miss 
Cornelia had, for the time being, given up sewing 
for unwanted, unwelcome eighth babies, and fallen 
to sewing for a very much wanted first one, whose 
welcome would leave nothing to be desired. Philippa 
Blake and Diana Wright each sent a marvellous gar- 
ment; and Mrs. Rachel Lynde sent several, in which 
good material and honest stitches took the place of 
embroidery and frills. Anne herself made many, 
desecrated by no touch of machinery, spending over 
them the happiest hours of that happy winter. 

Captain Jim was the most frequent guest of the 
little house, and none was more welcome. Every day 
Anne loved the simple-souled, true-hearted old sailor 
more and more. He was as refreshing as a sea-breeze, 
as interesting as some ancient chronicle. She was 
never tired of listening to his stories, and his quaint 
remarks and comments were a continual delight to her. 


Captain Jim was one of those rare and interesting 
people who "never speak but they say something." 
The milk of human kindness and the wisdom of the 
serpent were mingled in his composition in delight- 
ful proportions. 

Nothing ever seemed to put Captain Jim out or de- 
press him in any way. 

"I've kind of contracted a habit of enj'ying things," 
he remarked once, when Anne had commented on his 
invariable cheerfulness. "It's got so chronic that I 
believe I even enj'y the disagreeable things. It's 
great fun thinking they can't last. 'Old rheumatiz,' 
says I, when it grips me hard, 'you've got to stop 
aching sometime. The worse you are the sooner 
you'll stop, mebbe. I'm bound to get the better of 
you in the long run, whether in the body or out of the 
body.' " 

One night, by the fireside at the light Anne saw 
Captain Jim's "life-book." He needed no coaxing to 
show it and proudly gave it to her to read. 

"I writ it to leave to little Joe," he said. "I don't 
like the idea of everything I've done and seen being 
clean forgot after I've shipped for my last v'yage. 
Joe, he'll remember it, and tell the yarns to his 

It was an old leather-bound book filled with the 
record of his voyages and adventures. Anne thought 
what a treasure trove it would be to a writer. Every 
sentence was a nugget. In itself the book had no 


literary merit; Captain Jim's charm of story-telling 
failed him when he came to pen and ink; he could 
only jot roughly down the outline of his famous tales, 
and both spelling and grammar were sadly askew. 
But Anne felt that if anyone possessed of the gift 
could take that simple record of a brave, adventurous 
life, reading between the bald lines the tales of dangers 
staunchly faced and duty manfully done, a wonderful 
story might be made from it. Rich comedy and thrill- 
ing tragedy were both lying hidden in Captain Jim's 
"life-book," waiting for the touch of the master 
hand to waken the laughter and grief and horror of 

Anne said something of this to Gilbert as they 
walked home. 

"Why don't you try your hand at it yourself, 

Anne shook her head. 

"No. I only wish I could. But it's not in the 
power of my gift. You know what my forte is, Gil- 
bert the fanciful, the fairylike, the pretty. To write 
Captain Jim's life-book as it should be written one 
should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen 
psychologist, a born humourist and a born tragedian. 
A rare combination of gifts is needed. Paul might 
do it if he were older. Anyhow, I'm going to ask 
him to come down next summer and meet Captain 

"Come to this shore," wrote Anne to Paul. "I am 


afraid you cannot find here Nora or the Golden Lady 
or the Twin Sailors; but you will find one old sailor 
who can tell you wonderful stories." 

Paul, however, wrote back, saying regretfully that 
he could not come that year. He was going abroad 
for two years' study. 

"When I return I'll come to Four Winds, dear 
Teacher," he wrote. 

"But meanwhile, Captain Jim is growing old," said 
Anne, sorrowfully, "and there is nobody to write his 


THE ice in the harbour grew black and rotten in 
the March suns ; in April there were blue waters 
and a windy, white-capped gulf again; and again the 
Four Winds light begemmed the twilights. 

"I'm so glad to see it once more," said Anne, on the 
first evening of its reappearance. "I've missed it so 
all winter. The north-western sky has seemed blank 
and lonely without it." 

The land was tender with brand-new, golden-green, 
baby leaves. There was an emerald mist on the woods 
beyond the Glen. The seaward valleys were full of 
fairy mists at dawn. 

Vibrant winds came and went with salt foam in 
their breath. The sea laughed and flashed and 
preened and allured, like a beautiful, coquettish 
woman. The herring schooled and the fishing village 
woke to life. The harbour was alive with white sails 
making for the channel. The ships began to sail out- 
ward and inward again. 

"On a spring day like this," said Anne, "I know 



exactly what my soul will feel like on the resurrection 

"There are times in spring when I sorter fed that 
I might have been a poet if I'd been caught young," 
remarked Captain Jim. "I catch myself conning over 
old lines and verses I heard the schoolmaster reciting 
sixty years ago. They don't trouble me at other 
times. Now I feel as if I had to get out on the rocks 
or the fields or the water and spout them." 

Captain Jim ha4 come up that afternoon to bring 
Anne a load of shells for her garden, and a little 
bunch of sweet-grass which he had found in a ramble 
over the sand-dunes. 

"It's getting real scarce along this shore now," he 
said. "When I was a boy there was a-plenty of it. 
But now it's only once in a while you'll find a plot 
and never when you're looking for it. You jest have 
to stumble on it you're walking along on the sand- 
hills, never thinking of sweet-grass and all at once 
the air is full of sweetness and there's the grass 
under your feet. I favour the smell of sweet-grass. 
It always makes me think of my mother." 

"She was fond of it?" asked Anne. 

"Not that I knows on. Dunno's she ever saw any 
sweet-grass. No, it's because it has a kind of mother- 
ly perfume not too young, you understand some- 
thing kind of seasoned and wholesome and depend- 
able jest like a mother. The schoolmaster's bride 
always kept it among her handkerchiefs. You might 


put that little bunch among yours, Mistress Blythe. 
I don't like these boughten scents but a whiff of 
sweet-grass belongs anywhere a lady does." 

Anne had not been especially enthusiastic over the 
idea of surrounding her flower beds with quahog 
shells; as a decoration they did not appeal to her on 
first thought But she would not have hurt Captain 
Jim's feelings for anything; so she assumed a virtue 
she did not at first feel, and thanked him heartily And 
when Captain Jim had proudly encircled every bed 
with a rim of the big, milk-white shells, Anne found 
to her surprise that she liked the effect. On a town 
lawn, or even up at the Glen, they would not have 
been in keeping, but here, in the old-fashioned, sea- 
bound garden of the little house of dreams, they 

"They do look nice," she said sincerely. 

"The schoolmaster's bride always had cow-hawks 
round her beds," said Captain Jim. "She was a 
master hand with flowers. She looked at 'em and 
touched 'em so and they grew like mad. Some 
folks have that knack I reckon you have it, too, 
Mistress Blythe." 

"Oh, I don't know but I love my garden, and I 
love working in it. To potter with green, growing 
things, watching each day to see the dear, new sprouts 
come up, is like taking a hand in creation, I think. 
Just now my garden is like faith the substance of 
things hoped for. But bide a wee." 


"It always amazes me to look at the little, wririkled 
brown seeds and think of the rainbows in 'em," said 
Captain Jim. "When I ponder on them seeds I don't 
find it nowise hard to believe that we've got souls 
that'll live in other worlds. You couldn't hardly be- 
lieve there was life in them tiny things, some no big- 
ger than grains of dust, let alone colour and scent, if 
you hadn't seen the miracle, could you?" 

Anne, who was counting her days like silver beads 
on a rosary, could not now take the long walk to the 
lighthouse or up the Glen road. But Miss Cornelia 
and Captain Jim came very often to the little house. 
Miss Cornelia was the joy of Anne's and Gilbert's 
existence. They laughed side-splittingly over her 
speeches after every visit. When Captain Jim and 
she happened to visit the little house at the same 
time there was much sport for the listening. They 
waged wordy warfare, she attacking, he defending. 
Anne once reproached the Captain for his baiting of 
Miss Cornelia. 

"Oh, I do love to set her going, Mistress Blythe," 
chuckled the unrepentant sinner. "It's the greatest 
amusement I have in life. That tongue of hers would 
blister a stone. And you and that young dog of a 
doctor enj'y listening to her as much as I do." 

Captain Jim came along another evening to bring 
Anne some mayflowers. The garden was full of 
the moist, scented air of a maritime spring evening. 
There was a milk-white mist on the edge of the sea, 


with a young moon kissing it, and a silver gladness of 
stars over the Glen. The bell of the church across the 
harbour was ringing dreamily sweet. The mellow 
chime drifted through the dusk to mingle with the 
soft spring-moan of the sea. Captain Jim's may- 
flowers added the last completing touch to the charm 
of the night. 

"I haven't seen any this spring, and I've missed 
them," said Anne, burying her face in them. 

"They ain't to be found around Four Winds, only 
in the barrens away behind the GJen up yander. I 
took a little trip today to the Land-of -nothing-to-do, 
and hunted these up for you. I reckon they're the 
last you'll see this spring, for they're nearly done." 

"How kind and thoughtful you are, Captain Jim. 
Nobody else not even Gilbert" with a shake of her 
head at him "remembered that I always long for 
mayflowers in spring." 

"Well, I had another errand, too I wanted to 
take Mr. Howard back yander a mess of trout. He 
likes one occasional, and it's all I can do for a kind- 
ness he did me once. I stayed all the afternoon and 
talked to him. He likes to talk to me, though he's 
a highly eddicated man and I'm only an ignorant old 
sailor, because he's one of the folks that's got to talk 
or they're miserable, and he finds listeners scarce 
around here. The Glen folks fight shy of him be- 
cause they think he's an infidel. He ain't that far 
gone exactly few men is, I reckon but he's what 


you might call a heretic. Heretics are wicked, but 
they're mighty int'resting. It's jest that they've got 
sorter lost looking for God, being under the impres- 
sion that He's hard to find which He ain't never. 
Most of 'em blunder to Him after awhile, I guess. I 
don't think listening to Mr. Howard's arguments is 
likely to do me much harm. Mind you, I believe 
what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast of 
bother and back of it all, God is good. The trouble 
with Mr. Howard is that he's a leetle too clever. He 
thinks that he's bound to live up to his cleverness, and 
that it's smarter to thrash out some new way of 
getting to heaven than to go by the old track the 
common, ignorant folks is travelling. But he'll get 
there sometime all right, and then he'll laugh at 

"Mr. Howard was a Methodist to begin with," 
said Miss Cornelia, as if she thought he had not far 
to go from that to heresy. 

"Do you know, Cornelia," said Captain Jim 
gravely, "I've often thought that if I wasn't a Presby- 
terian I'd be a Methodist." 

"Oh, well," conceded Miss Cornelia, "if you weren't 
a Presbyterian it wouldn't matter much what you 
were. Speaking of heresy, reminds me, doctor I've 
brought back that book you lent me that Natural 
Law in the Spiritual World I didn't read more'n a 
third of it. I can read sense, and I can read non- 


sense, but that book is neither the one nor the other." 

"It is considered rather heretical in some quarters," 
admitted Gilbert, "but I told you that before you 
took it, Miss Cornelia." 

"Oh, I wouldn't have minded its being heretical. 
I can stand wickedness, but I can't stand foolishness," 
said Miss Cornelia calmly, and with the air of having 
said the last thing there was to say about Natural 

"Speaking of books, A Mad Love come to an end at 
last two weeks ago," remarked Captain Jim musingly. 
"It run to one hundred and three chapters. When 
they got married the book stopped right off, so I 
reckon their troubles were all over. It's real nice that 
that's the way in books anyhow, isn't it, even if 'tisn't 
so anywhere else?" 

"I never read novels," said Miss Cornelia. "Did 
you hear how Geordie Russell was today, Captain 

"Yes, I called in on my way home to see him. He's 
getting round all right but stewing in a broth of 
trouble, as usual, poor man. 'Course he brews up 
most of it for himself, but I reckon that don't make 
it any easier to bear." 

"He's an awful pessimist," said Miss Cornelia. 

"Well, no, he ain't a pessimist exactly, Cornelia. 
He only jest never finds anything that suits him." 

"And isn't that a pessimist?" 


"No, no. A pessimist is one who never expects 
to find anything to suit him. Geordie hain't got that 
far yet." 

"You'd find something good to say of the devil 
himself, Jim Boyd." 

"Well, you've heard the story of the old lady who 
said he was persevering. But no, Cornelia, I've noth- 
ing good to say of the devil." 

"Do you believe in him at all?" asked Miss Cor- 
nelia seriously. 

"How can you ask that when you know what a 
good Presbyterian I am, Cornelia? How could a 
Presbyterian get along without a devil?" 

"Do you?" persisted Miss Cornelia. 

Captain Jim suddenly became grave. 

"I believe in what I heard a minister once call 'a 
mighty and malignant and intelligent power of evil 
working in the universe,' " he said solemnly. "I do 
that, Cornelia. You can call it the devil, or the 'prin- 
ciple of evil,' or the Old Scratch, or any name you 
like. It's there, and all the infidels and heretics in 
the world can't argue it away, any more'n they can 
argue God away. It's there, and it's working. But, 
mind you, Cornelia, I believe it's going to get the 
worst of it in the long run." 

"I am sure I hope so," said Miss Cornelia, none 
too hopefully. "But speaking of the devil, I am posi- 
tive that Billy Booth is possessed by him now. Have 
you heard of Billy's latest performance?" 


"No, what was that?" 

"He's gone and burned up his wife's new, brown 
broadcloth suit, that she paid twenty-five dollars for 
in Charlottetown, because he declares the men looked 
too admiring at her when she wore it to church the 
first time. Wasn't that like a man?" 

"Mistress Booth is mighty pretty, and brown's her 
colour," said Captain Jim reflectively. 

"Is that any good reason why he should poke her 
new suit into the kitchen stove? Billy Booth is a 
jealous fool, and he makes his wife's life miserable. 
She's cried all the week about her suit. Oh, Anne, 
I wish I could write like you, believe me. Wouldn't 
I score some of the men round here !" 

"Those Booths are all a mite queer," said Captain 
Jim. "Billy seemed the sanest of the lot till he got 
married and then this queer jealous streak cropped 
out in him. His brother Daniel, now, was always 

"Took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn't 
get out of bed," said Miss Cornelia with a relish. 
"His wife would have to do all the barn work till he 
got over his spell. When he died people wrote her 
letters of condolence; if I'd written anything it would 
have been one of congratulation. Their father, old 
Abram Booth, was a disgusting old sot. He was 
drunk at his wife's funeral, and kept reeling round 
and hiccuping 'I didn't dri i i nk much but I feel 
a a awfully que e e r.' I gave him a good 


jab in the back with my umbrella when he came near 
me, and it sobered him up until they got the casket 
out of the house. Young Johnny Booth was to have 
been married yesterday, but he couldn't be because 
he's gone and got the mumps. Wasn't that like a 

"How could he help getting the mumps, poor fel- 

"I'd poor fellow him, believe me, if I was Kate 
Sterns. I don't know how he could help getting the 
mumps, but I do know the wedding supper was all 
prepared and everything will be spoiled before he's 
well again. Such a waste! He should have had the 
mumps when he was a boy." 

"Come, come, Cornelia, don't you think you're a 
mite unreasonable?" 

Miss Cornelia disdained to reply and turned instead 
to Susan Baker, a grim-faced, kind-hearted elderly 
spinster of the Glen, who had been installed as maid- 
of -all-work at the little house for some weeks. Susan 
had been up to the Glen to make a sick call, and had 
just returned. 

"How is poor old Aunt Mandy tonight?" asked 
Miss Cornelia. 

Susan sighed. 

"Very poorly very poorly, Cornelia. I am afraid 
she will soon be in heaven, poor thing!" 
. "Oh, surely, it's not so bad as that!" exclaimed 
Miss Cornelia, sympathetically. 


Captain Jim and Gilbert looked at each other. Then 
they suddenly rose and went out. 

'There are times," said Captain Jim, between 
spasms, "when it would be a sin not to laugh. Them 
two excellent women I" 


IN early June, when the sand-hills were a great 
glory of pink wild roses, and the Glen was 
smothered in apple-blossoms, Marilla arrived at the 
little house, accompanied by a black horse-hair trunk, 
patterned with brass nails, which had reposed undis- 
turbed in the Green Gables garret for half a century. 
Susan Baker, who, during her few weeks' sojourn in 
the little house, had come to worship "young Mrs. 
Doctor," as she called Anne, with blind fervour, looked 
rather jealously askance at Marilla at first. But as 
Marilla did not try to interfere in kitchen matters, 
and showed no desire to interrupt Susan's ministra- 
tions to young Mrs. Doctor, the good handmaiden be- 
came reconciled to her presence, and told her cronies 
at the Glen that Miss Cuthbert was a fine old lady 
and knew her place. 

One evening, when the sky's limpid bowl was filled 
with a red glory, and the robins were thrilling the 
golden twilight with jubilant hymns to the stars of 
evening, there was a sudden commotion in the little 



house of dreams. Telephone messages were sent up 
to the Glen, Doctor Dave and a white-capped nurse 
came hastily down, Marilla paced the garden walks 
between the quahog shells, murmuring prayers be- 
tween her set lips, and Susan sat in the kitchen with 
cotton wool in her ears and her apron over her head. 

Leslie, looking out from the house up the brook, 
saw that every window of the little house was alight, 
and did not sleep that night. 

The June night was short; but it seemed an eter- 
nity to those who waited and watched. 

"Oh, will it never end ?" said Marilla ; then she saw 
how grave the nurse and Doctor Dave looked, and 
she dared ask no more questions. Suppose Anne 
but Marilla could not suppose it. 

"Do not tell me," said Susan fiercely, answering 
the anguish in Manila's eyes, "that God could be so 
cruel as to take that darling lamb from us when we 
all love her so much." 

"He has taken others as well beloved," said Ma- 
rilla hoarsely. 

But at dawn, when the rising sun rent apart the 
mists hanging over the sand-bar, and made rainbows 
of them, joy came to the little house. Anne was safe, 
and a wee, white lady, with her mother's big eyes, 
was lying beside her. Gilbert, his face gray and hag- 
gard from his night's agony, came down to tell Ma* 
rilla and Susan. 

"Thank God," shuddered Marilla. 


Susan got up and took the cotton wool out of her 

"Now for breakfast," she said briskly. "I am of 
the opinion that we will all be glad of a bite and sup. 
You tell young Mrs. Doctor not to worry about a 
single thing Susan is at the helm. You tell her just 
to think of her baby." 

Gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. Anne, 
her pale face blanched with its baptism of pain, her 
eyes aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, did 
not need to be told to think of her baby. She thought 
of nothing else. For a few hours she tasted of happi- 
ness so rare and exquisite that she wondered if the 
angels in heaven did not envy her. 

"Little Joyce," she murmured, when Marilla came 
in to see the baby. "We planned to call her that if 
she were a girlie. There were so many we would 
have liked to name her for; we couldn't choose be- 
tween them, so we decided on Joyce we can call her 
Joy for short Joy it suits so well. Oh, Marilla, I 
thought I was happy before. Now I know that I just 
dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness. This is the 

"You mustn't talk, Anne wait till you're 
stronger," said Marilla warningly. 

"You know how hard it is for me not to talk," 
smiled Anne. 

At first she was too weak and too happy to notice 
that Gilbert and the nurse looked grave and Marilla 


sorrowful. Then, as subtly, and coldly, and remorse- 
lessly as a sea- fog stealing landward, fear crept into 
her heart Why was not Gilbert gladder? Why 
would he not talk about the baby? Why would they 
not let her have it with her after that first heavenly- 
happy hour? Was was there anything wrong? 

"Gilbert," whispered Anne imploringly, "the baby 
is all right isn't she? Tell me tell me." 

Gilbert was a long while in turning round; then he 
bent over Anne and looked in her eyes. Manila, 
listening fearfully outside the door, heard a pitiful, 
heart-broken moan, and fled to the kitchen where 
Susan was weeping. 

"Oh, the poor iamb the poor lamb ! How can she 
bear it, Miss Cuthbert? I am afraid it will kill her. 
She has been that built up and happy, longing for 
that baby, and planning for it. Cannot anything be 
done nohow, Miss Cuthbert?" 

"I'm afraid not, Susan. Gilbert says there is no 
hope. He knew from the first the little thing couldn't 

"And it is such a sweet baby," sobbed Susan. "I 
never saw one so white they are mostly red or yal- 
low. And it opened its big eyes as if it was months 
old. The little, little thing! Oh, the poor, young 
Mrs. Doctor!" 

At sunset the little soul that had come with the 
dawning went away, leaving heartbreak behind it. 
Miss Cornelia took the wee, white lady from the 


kindly but stranger hands of the nurse, and dressed 
the tiny waxen form in the beautiful dress Leslie had 
made for it. Leslie had asked her to do that. Then 
she took it back and laid it beside the poor, broken, 
tear-blinded little mother. 

"The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away, 
'dearie," she said through her own tears. "Blessed 
be the name of the Lord." 

Then she went away, leaving Anne and Gilbert 
alone together with their dead. 

The next day, the small white Joy was laid in a 
velvet casket which Leslie had lined with apple-blos- 
soms, and taken to the graveyard of the church across 
the harbour. Miss Cornelia and Marilla put all the little 
love-made garments away, together with the ruffled 
basket which had been befrilled and belaced for 
dimpled limbs and downy head. Little Joy was never 
to sleep there; she had found a colder, narrower bed. 

"This has been an awful disappointment to me," 
sighed Miss Cornelia. "I've looked forward to this 
baby and I did want it to be a girl, too." 

"I can only be thankful that Anne's life was 
spared," said Marilla, with a shiver, recalling those 
hours of darkness when the girl she loved was passing 
through the valley of the shadow. 

"Poor, poor lamb! Her heart is broken," said 

"I envy Anne," said Leslie suddenly and fiercely, 
"and I'd envy her even if she had died! She was a 


mother for one beautiful day. I'd gladly givt my life 
for that!" 

"I wouldn't talk like that, Leslie, dearie," said Miss 
Cornelia deprecatingly. She was afraid that the dig- 
nified Miss Cuthbert would think Leslie quite ter- 

Anne's convalescence was long, and made bitter for 
her by many things. The bloom and sunshine of the 
Four Winds world grated harshly on her; and yet, 
when the rain fell heavily, she pictured it beating so 
mercilessly down on that little grave across the har- 
bour; and when the wind blew around the eaves she 
heard sad voices in it she had never heard before. 

Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant 
platitudes with which they strove to cover the naked- 
ness of bereavement. A letter from Phil Blake was 
an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby's birth, 
but not of its death, and she wrote Anne a congratu- 
latory letter of sweet mirth which hurt her horribly. 

"I would have laughed over it so happily if I had 
my baby," she sobbed to Marilla. "But when I haven't 
it just seems like wanton cruelty though I know Phil 
wouldn't hurt me for the world. Oh, Marilla, I don't 
see how I can ever be happy again everything will 
hurt me all the rest of my life." 

"Time will help you," said Marilla, who was racked 
with sympathy but could never learn to express it 
in other than age-worn formulas. 

"It doesn't seem fair" said Anne rebelliously. 


"Babies are born and live where they are not wanted 
where they will be neglected where they will have 
no chance. I would have loved my baby so and 
cared for it so tenderly and tried to give her every 
chance for good. And yet I wasn't allowed to keep 

"It was God's will, Anne," said Marilla, helpless 
before the riddle of the universe the why of unde- 
served pain. "And little Joy is better off." 

"I can't believe that," cried Anne bitterly. Then, 
seeing that Marilla looked shocked, she added passion- 
ately, "Why should she be born at all why 
should any one be born at all if she's better 
off dead? I don't believe it is better for a child to 
die at birth than to live its life out and love and be 
loved and enjoy and suffer and do its work and 
develop a character that would give it a personality in 
eternity. And how do you know it was God's will? 
Perhaps it was just a thwarting of His purpose by 
the Power of Evil. We can't be expected to be re- 
signed to that." 

"Oh, Anne, don't talk so," said Marilla, genuinely 
alarmed lest Anne were drifting into deep and danger- 
ous waters. '"We can't understand but we must 
have faith we must believe that all is for the best. 
I know you find it hard to think so, just now. But 
try to be brave for Gilbert's sake. He's so worried 
about you. You aren't getting strong as fast as you 


"Oh, I know I've been very selfish," sighed Anne. 
"I love Gilbert more than ever and I want to live 
for his sake. But it seems as if part of me was buried 
over there in that little harbour graveyard and it 
hurts so much that I'm afraid of life." 

"It won't hurt so much always, Anne." 

"The thought that it may stop hurting sometimes 
hurts me worse than all else, Marilla." 

"Yes, I know, I've felt that too, about other things. 
But we all love you, Anne. Captain Jim has been 
up every day to ask for you and Mrs. Moore haunts 
the place and Miss Bryant spends most of her time, 
I think, cooking up nice things for you. Susan doesn't 
like it very well. She thinks she can cook as well as 
Miss Bryant." 

"Dear Susan ! Oh, everybody has been so dear and 
good and lovely to me, Marilla. I'm not ungrateful 
and perhaps when this horrible ache grows a little 
less I'll find that I can go on living." 


ANNE fotind that she could go oti living; the 
day came when she even smiled again over 
one of Miss Cornelia's speeches. But there was 
something in the smile that had never been in Anne's 
smile before and would never be absent from it again. 

On the first day she was able to go for a drive 
Gilbert took her down to Four Winds Point, and left 
her there while he rowed over the channel to see a 
patient at the fishing village. A rollicking wind was 
scudding across the harbour and the dunes, whipping 
the water into white-caps and washing the sandshore 
with long lines of silvery breakers. 

"I'm real proud to see you here again, Mistress 
Blythe," said Captain Jim. "Sit down sit down. 
I'm afeared it's mighty dusty here today but there's 
no need of looking at dust when you can look at 
such scenery, is there?" 

"I don't mind the dust," said Anne, "but Gilbert 
says I must keep in the open air. I think I'll go and 
sit on the rocks down there." 



"Would you like company or would you rather be 

"If by company you mean yours I'd much rather 
have it than be alone," said Anne, smiling. Then she 
sighed. She had never before minded being alone. 
Now she dreaded it. When she was alone now she 
felt so dreadfully alone. 

"Here's a nice little spot where the wind can't get 
at you," said Captain Jim, when they reached the 
rocks. "'I often sit here. It's a great place jest to 
sit and dream." 

"Oh dreams," sighed Anne. "I can't dream now, 
Captain Jim I'm done with dreams." 

"Oh, no, you're not, Mistress Blythe oh, no, you're 
not," said Captain Jim meditatively. "I know how 
you feel jest now but if you keep on living you'll 
get glad again, and the first thing you know you'll be 
dreaming again thank the good Lord for it! If it 
wasn't for our dreams they might as well bury us. 
How'd we stand living if it wasn't for our dream of 
immortality? And that's a dream that's bound to 
come true, Mistress Blythe. You'll see your little 
Joyce again some day." 

"But she won't be my baby," said Anne, with trem- 
bling lips. "Oh, she may be, as Longfellow says, 'a 
fair maiden clothed with celestial grace' but she'll be 
a stranger to me." 

"God will manage better'n that, I believe," said 
Captain Jim. 


They were both silent for a little time. Then Cap- 
tain Jim said very softly: 

"Mistress Blythe, may I tell you about lost Mar- 
garet ?" 

"Of course," said Anne gently. She did not know 
who "lost Margaret" was, but she felt that she was 
going to hear the romance of Captain Jim's life. 

"I've often wanted to tell you about her," Captain 
Jim went on. "Do you know why, Mistress Blythe? 
It's because I want somebody to remember and think 
of her sometime after I'm gone. I can't bear that 
her name should be forgotten by all living souls. And 
now nobody remembers lost Margaret but me." 

Then Captain Jim told the story an old, old for- 
gotten story, for it was over, fifty years since Mar- 
garet had fallen asleep one day in her father's dory 
and drifted or so it was supposed, for nothing was 
ever certainly known as to her fate out of the chan- 
nel, beyond the bar, to perish in the black thunder- 
squall which had come up so suddenly that long-ago 
summer afternoon. But to Captain Jim those fifty 
years were but as yesterday when it is past. 

"I walked the shore for months after that," he said 
sadly, "looking to find her dear, sweet little body; 
but the sea never give her back to me. But I'll find 
her sometime, Mistress Blythe I'll find her sometime. 
She's waiting for me. I wish I could tell you jest 
how she looked, but I can't. I've seen a fine, silvery 
mist hanging over the bar at sunrise that seemed like 


her and then again I've seen a white birch in the 
woods back yander that made me think of her. She 
had pale, brown hair and a little white, sweet face, 
and long slender fingers like yours, Mistress Blythe, 
only browner, for she was a shore girl. Sometimes 
I wake up in the night and hear the sea calling to me 
in the old way, and it seems as if lost Margaret called 
in it. And when there's a storm and the waves are 
sobbing and moaning I hear her lamenting among 
them. And when they laugh on a gay day it's her 
laugh lost Margaret's sweet, roguish, little laugh. 
The sea took her from me, but some day I'll find her. 
Mistress Blythe. It can't keep us apart forever." 

"I am glad you have told me about her," said Anne. 
"I have often wondered why you had lived all your 
life alone." 

"I couldn't ever care for anyone else. Lost Mar- 
garet took my heart with her out there," said the old 
lover, who had been faithful for fifty years to his 
drowned sweetheart. "You won't mind if I talk a 
good deal about her, will you, Mistress Blythe? It's 
a pleasure to me for all the pain went out of her 
memory years ago and jest left its blessing. I know 
you'll never forget her, Mistress Blythe. And if the 
years, as I hope, bring other little folks to your home, 
I want you to promise me that you'll tell them the 
story of lost Margaret, so that her name won't be 
forgotten among humankind." 


ANNE," said Leslie, breaking abruptly a short 
silence, "you don't know how good it is to be 
sitting here with you again working and talking 
and being silent together." 

They were sitting among the blue-eyed grasses on 
the bank of the brook in Anne's garden. The water 
sparkled and crooned past them ; the birches threw 
dappled shadows over them; roses bloomed along the 
walks. The sun was beginning to be low, and the air 
was full of woven music. There was one music of 
the wind in the firs behind the house, and another of 
the , waves on the bar, and still another from the 
distant bell of the church near which the wee, white 
lady slept. Anne loved that bell, though it brought 
sorrowful thoughts now. 

She looked curiously at Leslie, who had thrown 
down her sewing and spoken with a lack of restraint 
that was very unusual with her. 

"On that horrible night when you were so ill," 
Leslie went on, "I kept thinking that perhaps we'd 
have no more talks and walks and works together. 



And I realised just what your friendship had come 
to mean to me just what you meant and just what 
a hateful little beast I had been." 

"Leslie! Leslie! I never allow anyone to call my 
friends names." 

"It's true. That's exactly what I am a hateful 
little beast. There's something I've got to tell you, 
Anne. I suppose it will make you despise me, but I 
must confess it. Anne, there have been times this 
past winter and spring when I have hated you." 

"I knew it," said Anne calmly. 

"You knew it?" 

"Yes, I saw it in your eyes." 

"And yet you went on liking me and being my 

"Well, it was only now and then you hated me, 
Leslie. Between times you loved me, I think." 

"I certainly did. But that other horrid feeling was 
always there, spoiling it, back in my heart. I kept it 
down sometimes I forgot it but sometimes it would 
surge up and take possession of me. I hated you be- 
cause I envied you oh, I was sick with envy 
of you at times. You had a dear little home and 
love and happiness and glad dreams everything 
I wanted and never had and never could have. 
Oh, never could have! That was what stung. I 
wouldn't have envied you, if I had had any hope that 
life would ever be different for me. But I hadn't 
I hadn't and it didn't seem fair. It made me re- 


bellious and it hurt me and so I hated you at times. 
Oh, I was so ashamed of it I'm dying of shame 
now but I couldn't conquer it. That night, when 
I was afraid you mightn't live I thought I was go- 
ing to be punished for my wickedness and I loved 
you so then. Anne, Anne, I never had anything to 
love since my mother died, except Dick's old dog 
and it's so dreadful to have nothing to love life is so 
empty and there's nothing worse than emptiness 
and I might have loved you so much and that hor- 
rible thing had spoiled it " 

Leslie was trembling and growing almost incoher- 
ent with the violence of her emotion. 

"Don't, Leslie," implored Anne, "oh, don't. I 
understand don't talk of it any more." 

"I must I must. When I knew you were going to 
live I vowed that I would tell you as soon as you 
were well that I wouldn't go on accepting your 
friendship and companionship without telling you 
how unworthy I was of it. And I've been so afraid 
it would turn you against me." 

"You needn't fear that, Leslie." 

"Oh, I'm so glad so glad, Anne." Leslie clasped 
her brown, work-hardened hands tightly together to 
still their shaking. "But I want to tell you every- 
thing, now I've begun. You don't remember the first 
time I saw you, I suppose it wasn't that night on 
the shore" 


"No, it was the night Gilbert and I came home. 
You were driving your geese down the hill. I should 
think I do remember it ! I thought you were sq beauti- 
ful I longed for weeks after to find out who you 

"I knew who you were, although I had never seen 
either of you before. I had heard of the new doctor 
and his bride who were coming to live in Miss Rus- 
sell's little house I I hated you that very moment, 

"I felt the resentment in your eyes then I doubted 
I thought I must be mistaken because why should 
it be?" 

"It was because you looked so happy. Oh, you'll 
agree with me now that I am a hateful beast to 
hate another woman just because she was happy, 
and when her happiness didn't take anything from 
me ! That was why I never went to see you. I knew 
quite well I ought to go even our simple Four 
Winds customs demanded that. But I couldn't. 1 
used to watch you from my window I could see you 
and your husband strolling about your garden in the 
evening or you running down the poplar lane to 
meet him. And it hurt me. And yet in another way I 
wanted to go over. I felt that, if I were not so 
miserable, I could have liked you and found in you 
what I've never had in my life an intimate, real 
friend of my own age. And then you remember that 


night at the shore? You were afraid I would think 
you crazy. You must have thought I was." 

"No, but I couldn't understand you, Leslie. One 
moment you drew me to you the next you pushed 
me back." 

"I was very unhappy that evening. I had had a 
hard day Dick had been very very hard to man- 
age that day. Generally he is quite good-natured 
and easily controlled, you know, Anne. But some 
days he is very different. I was so heartsick I 
ran away to the shore as soon as he went to sleep. 
It was my only refuge. I sat there thinking of how 
my poor father had ended his life, and wonder- 
ing if I wouldn't be driven to it some day. Oh, my 
heart was full of black thoughts! And then you 
came dancing along the cove like a glad, light-hearted 
child. I I hated you more then than I've ever done 
since. And yet I craved your friendship. The one 
feeling swayed me one moment; the other feeling the 
next. When I got home that night I cried for shame 
of what you must think of me. But it's always been 
just the same when I came over here. Sometimes I'd 
be happy and enjoy my visit. And at other times that 
hideous feeling would mar it all. There were times 
when everything about you and your house hurt me. 
You had so many dear little things I couldn't have. 
Do you know it's ridiculous but I had an especial 
spite at those china dogs of yours, There were times 


when I wanted to catch up Gog and Magog and bang 
their pert black noses together ! Oh, you smile, Anne 
but it was never funny to me. I would come here 
and see you and Gilbert with your books and your 
flowers, and your household gods, and your little 
family jokes and your love for each other showing 
in every look and word, even when you didn't know 
it and I would go home to you know what I went 
home to! Oh, Anne, I don't believe I'm jealous and 
envious by nature. When I was a girl I lacked many 
things my schoolmates had, but I never cared I 
never disliked them for it. But I seem to have grown 
so hateful " 

"Leslie, dearest, stop blaming yourself. You arc 
not hateful or jealous or envious. The life you have 
to live has warped you a little, perhaps but it would 
have ruined a nature less fine and noble than yours. 
I'm letting you tell me all this because I believe it's 
better for you to talk it out and rid your soul of it. 
But don't blame yourself any more." 

"Well, I won't. I just wanted you to know me 
as I am. That time you told me of your darling hope 
for the spring was the worst of all, Anne. I shall 
never forgive myself for the way I behaved then. 
I repented it with tears. And I did put many a tender 
and loving thought of you into the little dress I 
made. But I might have known that anything I made 
could only be a shroud in the end." 


"Now, Leslie, that is bitter and morbid put such 
thoughts away. I was so glad when you brought the 
little dress; and since I had to lose little Joyce I like 
to think that the dress she wore was the one you 
made for her when you let yourself love me." 

"Anne, do you know, I believe I shall always love 
you after this. I don't think I'll ever feel that dread- 
ful way about you again. Talking it all out seems 
to have done away with it, somehow. It's very strange 
and I thought it so real and bitter. It's like open- 
ing the door of a dark room to show some hideous 
creature you've believed to be there and when the 
light streams in your monster turns out to have been 
just a shadow, vanishing when the light comes. It 
will never come between us again." 

"No, we are real friends now, Leslie, and I am 
very glad." 

"I hope you won't misunderstand me if I say 
something else. Anne, I was grieved to the core of 
my heart when you lost your baby; and if 1 could 
have saved her for you by cutting off one of my hands 
I would have done it But your sorrow has brought 
us closer together. Your perfect happiness isn't 
a barrier any longer. Oh, don't misunderstand, dear- 
est I'm not glad that your happiness isn't perfect 
any longer I can say that sincerely ; but since it isn't, 
there isn't such a gulf between us." 

"I do understand that, too, Leslie. Now, we'll just 
shut up the past and forget what was unpleasant in it 


It's all going to be different. We're both of the race 
of Joseph now. I think you've been wonderful 
wonderful. And, Leslie, I can't help believing that 
life has something good and beautiful for you yet." 

Leslie shook her head. 

"No," she said dully. "There isn't any hope. 
Dick will never be better and even if his memory 
were to come back oh, Anne, it would be worse, 
even worse, than it is now. This is something you 
can't understand, you happy bride. Anne, did Miss 
Cornelia ever tell you how I came to marry Dick?" 


"I'm glad I wanted you to know but I couldn't 
bring myself to talk of it if you hadn't known. Anne, 
it seems to me that ever since I was twelve years old 
life has been bitter. Before that I had a happy child- 
hood. We were very poor but we didn't mind. 
Father was so splendid so clever and loving and 
sympathetic. We were chums as far back as I can 
remember. And mother was so sweet. She was 
very, very beautiful. I look like her, but I am not 
so beautiful as she was." 

"Miss Cornelia says you are far more beautiful." 

"She is mistaken or prejudiced. I think my 
figure is better mother was slight and bent by hard 
work but she had the face of an angel. I used just 
to look up at her in worship. We all worshipped her, 
father and Kenneth and I." 

Anne remembered that Miss Cornelia had given 


her a very different impression of Leslie's mother. 
But had not love the truer vision? Still, it was 
selfish of Rose West to make her daughter marry 
Dick Moore. 

"Kenneth was my brother," went on Leslie. "Oh, 
I can't tell you how I loved him. And he was cruelly 
killed. Do you know how?" 


"Anne, I saw his little face as the wheel went over 
him. He fell on his back. Anne Anne I can see 
it now. I shall always see it. Anne, all I ask of 
heaven is that that recollection shall be blotted out 
of my memory. O my God !" 

"Leslie, don't speak of it. I know the story 
don't go into details that only harrow your soul up 
unavailingly. It will be blotted out." 

After a moment's struggle, Leslie regained a 
measure of self-control. 

"Then father's health got worse and he grew 
despondent his mind became unbalanced you've 
heard all that, too?" 


"After that I had just mother to live for. But I 
was very ambitious. I meant to teach and earn my 
way through college. I meant to climb to the very 
tog oh, I won't talk of that either. It's no use. 
You know what happened. I couldn't see my dear 
little heart-broken mother, who had been such a slave 
all her life, turned out of her home. Of course, I 


could have earned enough for us to live on. But 
mother couldn't leave her home. She had come there 
as a bride and she had loved father so and all her 
memories were there. Even yet, Anne, when I think 
that I made her last year happy I'm not sorry for 
what I did. As for Dick I didn't hate him when 
I married him I just felt for him trie indifferent, 
friendly feeling I had for most of my schoolmates. I 
knew he drank some but I had never heard the 
story of the girl down at the fishing cove. If I had, 
I couldn't have married him, even for mother's sake. 
Afterwards I did hate him but mother never knew. 
She died and then I was alone. I was only seven- 
teen and I was alone. Dick had gone off in the 
Four Sisters. I hoped he wouldn't be home very 
much more.. The sea had always been in his blood. 
I had no other hope. Well, Captain Jim brought him 
home, as you know and that's all there is to say. 
You know me now, Anne the worst of me the 
barriers are all down. And you still want to be my 

Anne looked up through the birches, at the white 
paper-lantern of a half moon drifting downwards to 
the gulf of sunset. Her face was very sweet. 

"I am your friend and you are mine, for always," 
she said. "Such a friend as I never had before. I have 
had many dear and beloved friends but there is a 
something in you, Leslie, that I never found in any- 
one else. You have more to offer me in that rich 


nature of yours, and I have more to give you than I 
had in my careless girlhood. We are both women 
and friends forever." 

They clasped hands and smiled at each other 
through the tears that filled the gray eyes and the 


ILBERT insisted that Susan shoud be kept on 
at the little house for the summer. Anne pro- 
tested at first. 

"Life here with just the two of us is so sweet, 
Gilbert. It spoils it a little to have anyone else. Susan 
is a dear soul, but she is an outsider. It won't hurt 
me to do the work here." 

"You must take your doctor's advice," said Gilbert. 
"There's an old proverb to the effect that shoe- 
makers' wives go barefoot and doctors' wives die 
young. I don't mean that it shall be true in my house- 
hold. You will keep Susan until the old spring comes 
back into your step, and those little hollows on your 
cheeks fill out." 

"You just take it easy, Mrs. Doctor, dear," said 
Susan, coming abruptly in. "Have a good time and 
do not worry about the pantry. Susan is at the 
helm. There is no use in keeping a dog and doing 
your own barking. I am going to take your break- 
fast up to you every morning." 



"Indeed you are not," laughed Anne. "I agree 
with Miss Cornelia that it's a scandal for a woman 
who isn't sick to eat her breakfast in bed, and almost 
justifies the men in any enormities." 

"Oh, Cornelia!" said Susan, with ineffable con- 
tempt. "I think you have better sense, Mrs. Doctor, 
dear, than to heed what Cornelia Bryant says. I 
cannot see why she must be always running down the 
men, even if she is an old maid. / am an old maid, 
but you never hear me abusing the men. I like 'em. 
I would have married one if I could. Is it not funny 
nobody ever asked me to marry him, Mrs. Doctor, 
dear? I am no beauty, but I am as good-looking as 
most of the married women you see. But I never 
had a beau. What do you suppose is the reason?" 

"It may be predestination," suggested Anne, with 
unearthly solemnity. 

Susan nodded. 

"That is what I have often thought, Mrs. Doctor, 
dear, and a great comfort it is. I do not mind nobody 
wanting me if the Almighty decreed it so for His own 
wise purposes. But sometimes doubt creeps in, Mrs. 
Doctor, dear, and I wonder if maybe the Old Scratch 
has not more to do with it than anyone else. I cannot 
feel resigned then. But maybe," added Susan, bright- 
ening up, "I will have a chance to get married yet. 
I often and often think of the old verse my aunt 
uwd to repeat: 


'There never was a goose so gray but sometime soon or 

Some honest gander came her way and took her for his 


A woman cannot ever be sure of not being married 
till she is buried, Mrs. Doctor, dear, and meanwhile 
I will make a batch of cherry pies. I notice the doctor 
favours 'emf, and I do like cooking for a man who 
appreciates his victuals." 

Miss Cornelia dropped in that afternoon, puffing 
a little. 

"'I don't mind the world or the devil much, but 
the flesh does rather bother me," she admitted. "You 
always look as cool as a cucumber, Anne, dearie. Do 
r smell cherry pie? If I do, ask me to stay to tea. 
Haven't tasted a cherry pie this summer. My cherries 
have all been stolen by those scamps of Oilman boys 
from the Glen." 

"'Now, now, Cornelia," remonstrated Captain Jim, 
who had been reading a sea novel in a corner of the 
living room, "you shouldn't say that about those two 
poor, motherless little Gilman boys, unless you've 
got certain proof. Jest because their father ain't none 
too honest isn't any reason for calling them thieves. 
It's more likely it's been the robins took your cherries. 
They're tumble thick this year." 

"Robins!" said Miss Cornelia disdainfully, 
"Humph! Two-legged robins, believe me!" 

"Well, most of the Four Winds robins are con- 
structed on that principle," said Captain Jim gravely. 

Miss Cornelia stared at him for a moment. Then 
she leaned back in her rocker and laughed long and 

"Well, you have got one on me at last, Jim Boyd, 
I'll admit. Just look how pleased he is, Anne, dearie, 
grinning like a Chessy-cat. As for the robins' legs, 
if robins have great, big, bare, sunburned legs, with 
ragged trousers hanging on ? em, such as I saw up in 
my cherry tree one morning at sunrise last week, 
I'll beg the Gilman boys' pardon. By the time I got 
down they were gone. I couldn't understand how 
they had disappeared so quick, but Captain Jim has 
enlightened me. They flew away, of course." 

Captain Jim laughed and went away, regretfully 
declining an invitation to stay to supper and partake 
of cherry pie. 

"I'm on my way to see Leslie and ask her if she'll 
take a boarder," Miss Cornelia resumed. "I'd 
a letter yesterday fiom a Mrs. Daly in Toronto, who 
boarded a spell with me two years ago. She wanted 
me to take a friend of hers for the summer. His 
name is Owen Ford, and he's a newspaper man, and 
it seems he's a grandson of the schoolmaster who 
built this house. John Selwyn's oldest daughter 
married an Ontario man named Ford, and this is her 
son. He wants to see the old place his grandparents 
lived in. He had a bad spell of typhoid in the spring 


and hasn't got rightly over it, so his doctor has 
ordered him to the sea. He doesn't want to go to 
the hotel he just wants a quiet home place. I can't 
take him, for I have to be away in August. I've 
been appointed a delegate to the W. F. M. S. conven- 
tion in Kingsport and I'm going. I don't know 
whether Leslie'll want to be bothered with him, either, 
but there's no one else. If she can't take him he'll 
have to go over the harbour." 

"When you've seen her come back and help us eat 
our cherry pies," said Anne. "Bring Leslie and Dick, 
too, if they can come. And so you're going to Kings- 
port? What a nice time you will have. I must give 
you a letter to a friend of mine there Mrs. Jonas 

"'I've prevailed on Mrs. Thomas Holt to go with 
me," said Miss Cornelia complacently. "It's time she 
had a little holiday, believe me. She has just about 
worked herself to death. Tom Holt can crochet 
beautifully, but he can't make a living for his family. 
He never seems to be able to get up early enough to 
do any work, but I notice he can always get up early 
to go fishing. Isn't that like a man?" 

Anne smiled. She had learned to discount largely 
Miss Cornelia's opinions of the Four Winds men. 
Otherwise she must have believed them the most 
hopeless assortment of reprobates and ne'er-do-weels 
in the world, with veritable slaves and martyrs for 
wives. This particular Tom Holt, for example, she 


knew to be a kind husband, a much loved father, and 
an excellent neighbour. If he were rather inclined to 
be lazy, liking better the fishing he had been born 
for than the farming he had not, and if he had a 
harmless eccentricity for doing fancy work, nobody 
save Miss Cornelia seemed to hold it against him. 
His wife was a "hustler," who gloried in hustling; 
his family got a comfortable living off the farm; 
and his strapping sons and daughters, inheriting their 
mother's energy, were all in a fair way to do well in 
the world. There was not a happier household in 
Glen St. Mary than the Holts'. 

Miss Cornelia returned satisfied from the house up 
the brook. 

"Leslie's going to take him," she announced. "She 
jumped at the chance. She wants to make a little 
money to shingle the roof of her house this fall, and 
she didn't know how she was going to manage it. 
I expect Captain Jim'll be more than interested when 
he hears that a grandson of the SelwynS* is coming 
here. Leslie said to tell you she hankered after cherry 
pie, but she couldn't come to tea because she has to 
go and hunt up her turkeys. They've strayed away. 
But she said, if there was a piece left, for you to put 
it in the pantry and she'd run over in the cat's light, 
when prowling's in order, to get it. You don't know, 
Anne, dearie, what good it did my heart to hear 
Leslie send you a message like that, laughing like she 


used to long ago. There's a great change come over 
her lately. She laughs and jokes like a girl, and 
from her talk I gather she's here real often." 

"Every day or else I'm over there," said Anne. 
"I don't know what I'd do without Leslie, especially 
just now when Gilbert is so busy. He's hardly ever 
home except for a few hours in the wee sma's. He's 
really working himself to death. So many of the 
over-harbour people send for him now." 

"They might better be content with their own 
doctor," said Miss Cornelia. "Though to be sure I 
can't blame them, for he's a Methodist. Ever since 
Dr. Blythe brought Mrs. Allonby round folks think 
he can raise the dead. I believe Dr. Dave is a mite 
jealous just like a man. He thinks Dr. Blythe has 
too many new-fangled notions ! 'Well/ I says to him, 
'it was a new-fangled notion saved Rhoda Allonby. 
If you'd been attending her she'd have died, and had 
a tombstone saying it had pleased God to take her 
away.' Oh, I do like to speak my mind to Dr. Dave! 
He's bossed the Glen for years, and he thinks he's 
forgotten more than other people ever knew. Speak- 
ing of doctors, I wish Dr. Blythe'd run over and see 
to that boil on Dick Moore's neck. It's getting past 
Leslie's skill. I'm sure I don't know what Dick Moore 
wants to start in having boils for as if he wasn't 
enough trouble without that!" 

"Do you know, Dick has taken quite a fancy to 


me," said Anne. "He follows me round like a dog, 
and smiles like a pleased child when I notice him." 

"Does it make you creepy?" 

"Not at all. I rather like poor Dick Moore. He 
seems so pitiful and appealing, somehow." 

"You wouldn't think him very appealing if you'd 
see him on his cantankerous days, believe me. But 
I'm glad you don't mind him it's all the nicer for 
Leslie. She'll have more to do when her boarder comes. 
I hope he'll be a decent creature. You'll probably like 
him he's a writer." 

"I wonder why people so commonly suppose that 
if two individuals are both writers they must there- 
fore be hugely congenial," said Anne, rather scorn- 
fully. "Nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be 
violently attracted toward each other merely because 
they were both blacksmiths." 

Nevertheless, she looked forward to the advent 
of Owen Ford with a pleasant sense of expectation. If 
he were young and likeable he might prove a very 
pleasant addition to society in Four Winds. The 
latch-string of the little house was always out for the 
race of Joseph. 


ONE evening Miss Cornelia telephoned down to 

"The writer man has just arrived here. I'm going 
to drive him down to your place, and you can show 
him the way over to Leslie's. It's shorter than driv- 
ing round by the other road, and I'm in a mortal 
hurry. The Reese baby has gone and fallen into a 
pail of hot water at the Glen, and got nearly scalded 
to death and they want me right off to put a new 
skin on the child, I presume. Mrs. Reese is always 
so careless, and then expects other people to mend 
her mistakes. You won't mind, will you, dearie ? His 
trunk can go down to-morrow." 

"Very well," said Anne. "What is he like, Miss 

"You'll see what he's like outside when I take him 
down. As for what he's like inside only the Lord 
who made him knows that. I'm not going to say 
another word, for every receiver in the Glen is down." 

"Miss Cornelia evidently can't find much fault with 



Mr. Ford's looks, or she would find it in spite of the 
receivers," said Anne. "I cenclude therefore, Susan, 
that Mr. Ford is rather handsome than otherwise." 

"Well, Mrs. Doctor, dear, I do enjoy seeing a well- 
looking man," said Susan candidly. "Had I not 
better get up a snack for him ? There is a strawberry 
pie that would melt in your mouth." 

"No, Leslie is expecting him and has his supper 
ready. Besides, I want that strawberry pie for my 
own poor man. He won't be home till late, so leave 
the pie and a glass of milk out for him, Susan." 

"That I will, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Susan is at the 
helm. After all, it is better to give pie to your own 
men than to strangers, who may be only seeking to 
devour, and the doctor himself is as well-looking a 
man as you often come across." 

When Owen Ford came Anne secretly admitted, as 
Miss Cornelia towed him in, that he was very "well- 
lookmg" indeed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, 
with thick, brown hair, finely-cut nose and chin, large 
and brilliant dark-gray eyes. 

"And did you notice his ears and his teeth, Mrs. 
Doctor, dear?" queried Susan later on. "He has got 
the nicest-shaped ears I ever saw on a man's head. 
I am choice about ears. When I was young I was 
scared that I might have to marry a man with ears 
like flaps. But I need not have worried, for never a 
chance did I have with any kind of ears." 

Anne had not noticed Owen Ford's ears, but she 


did see his teeth, as his lips parted over them in a 
frank and friendly smile. Unsmiling, his face was 
rather sad and absent in expression, not unlike the 
melancholy, inscrutable hero of Anne's own early 
dreams ; but mirth and humour and charm lighted it up 
when he smiled. Certainly, on the outside, as Miss 
Cornelia said, Owen Ford was a very presentable 

"You cannot realise how delighted I am to be here, 
Mrs. Blythe," he said, looking around him with eager, 
interested eyes. "I have an odd feeling of coming 
home. My mother was born and spent her childhood 
here, you know. She used to talk a great deal to me 
of her old home. I know the geography of it as well 
as of the one I lived in, and, of course, she told me 
the story of the building of the house, and of my 
grandfather's agonised watch for the Royal William. 
I had thought that so old a house must have vanished 
years ago, or I should have come to see it before this." 

"Old houses don't vanish easily on this enchanted 
coast," smiled Anne. "This is a 'land where all things 
always seem the same' nearly always, at least 
John Selwyn's house hasn't even been much changed, 
and outside the rose-bushes your grandfather planted 
for his bride are blooming this very minute." 

"How the thought links me with them ! With your 
leave I must explore the whole place soon." 

"'Our latch-string will always be out for you," 
promised Anne. "And do you know that the old sea 


captain who keeps the Four Winds light knew John 
Selwyn and his bride well in his boyhood? He told 
me their story the night I came here the third bride 
of the old house." 

"Can it be possible? This is a discovery. I must 
hunt him up." 

"It won't be difficult ; we are all cronies of Captain 
Jim. He will be as eager to see you as you could be 
to see him. Your grandmother shines like a star in 
his memory. But I think Mrs. Moore is expecting 
you. I'll show you our 'cross-lots' road." 

Anne walked with him to the house~ up the brook, 
over a field that was as white as snow with daisies. 
A boat-load of people were singing far across the 
harbour. The sound drifted over the water like faint, 
unearthly music wind-blown across a starlit sea. The 
big light flashed and beaconed. Owen Ford looked 
around him with satisfaction. 

"And so this is Four Winds," he said. "I wasn't 
prepared to find it quite so beautiful, in spite of all 
mother's praises. What colours what scenery what 
charm! I shall get as strong as a horse in no time. 
And if inspiration comes from beauty, I should 
certainly be able to begin my great Canadian novel 

"You haven't begun it yet?" asked Anne. 

"Alack-a-day, no. I've never been able to get the 
right central idea for it. It lurks beyond me it 
allures and beckons and recedes I almost grasp it 


and it is gone. Perhaps amid this peace and love- 
liness, I shall be able to capture it. Miss Bryant tells 
me that you write." 

"Oh, I do little things for children. I haven't done 
much since I was married. And I have no designs on 
a great Canadian novel," laughed Anne. "That is 
quite beyond me." 

Owen Ford laughed too. 

rt l dare say it is beyond me as well. All the same 
I mean to have a try at it some day, if I can ever get 
time. A newspaper man doesn't have much chance 
for that sort of thing. I've done a good deal of 
short story writing for the magazines, but I've never 
had the leisure that seems to be necessary for the 
writing of a book. With three months of liberty I 
ought to make a start, though if I could only get the 
necessary motif for it the soul of the book." 

An idea whisked through Anne's brain with a 
suddenness that made her jump. But she did not 
utter it, for they had reached the Moore house. As 
they entered the yard Leslie came out on the veranda 
from the side door, peering through the gloom for 
some sign of her expected guest. She stood just 
where the warm yellow light flooded her from the 
open door. She wore a plain dress of cheap, cream- 
tinted cotton voile, with the usual girdle of crimson. 
Leslie was never without her touch of crimson. 
She had told Anne that she never felt satisfied 
without a gleam of red somewhere about her, 


if it were only a flower. To Anne, it always 
seemed to symbolise Leslie's glowing, pent-up 
personality, denied all expression save in that 
flaming glint. Leslie's dress was cut a little away 
at the neck and had short sleeves. Her arms gleamed 
like ivory-tinted marble. Every exquisite curve of her 
form was outlined in soft darkness against the light. 
Her hair shone in it like flame. Beyond her was a 
purple sky, flowering with stars over the harbour. 

Anne heard her companion give a gasp. Even in 
the dusk she could see the amazement and admiration 
on his face. 

"Who is that beautiful creature?" he asked. 

"That is Mrs. Moore," said Anne. "She is very 
lovely, isn't she?" 

"I I never saw anything like her," he answered, 
rather dazedly. "I wasn't prepared I didn't expect 
good heavens, one doesn't expect a goddess for a 
landlady! Why, if she were clothed in a gown of 
sea-purple, with a rope of amethysts in her hair, she 
would be a veritable sea-queen. And she takes in 
boarders !" 

"Even goddesses must live," said Anne. "And 
Leslie isn't a goddess. She's just a very beautiful 
woman, as human as the rest of us. Did Miss Bryant 
tell you about Mr. Moore?" 

"Yes, he's mentally deficient, or something of the 
sort, isn't he? But she said nothing about Mrs. 
Moore, and I supposed she'd be the usual hustling 


country housewife who takes in boarders to earn an 
honest penny." 

"Well, that's just what Leslie is doing," said Anne 
crisply. "And it isn't altogether pleasant for her, 
either. I hope you won't mind Dick. If you do, 
please don't let Leslie see it. It would hurt her hor- 
ribly. He's just a big baby, and sometimes a rather 
annoying one." 

"Oh, I won't mind him. I don't suppose I'll be 
much in the house anyhow, except for meals. But 
what a shame it all is ! Her life must be a hard one." 

"It is. But she doesn't like to be pitied." 

Leslie had gone back into the house and now met 
them at the front door. She greeted Owen Ford with 
cold civility, and told him in a business-like tone that 
his room and his supper were ready for him. Dick, 
with a pleased grin, shambled upstairs with the valise, 
and Owen Ford was installed as an inmate of the old 
house among the willows. 


I HAVE a little brown cocoon of an idea that 
may possibly expand into a magnificent moth 
of fulfilment," Anne told Gilbert when she reached 
home. He had returned earlier than she had expected, 
and was enjoying Susan's cherry pie. Susan herself 
hovered in the background, like a rather grim but 
beneficent guardian spirit, and found as much pleasure 
in watching Gilbert eat pie as he did in eating it. 
"What is your idea?" he asked. 
"I sha'n't tell you just yet not till I see if I can 
bring the thing about." 

"What sort of a chap is Ford?" 
"Oh, very nice, and quite good-looking." 
"Such beautiful ears, doctor, dear," interjected 
Susan with a relish. 

"He is about thirty or thirty-five, I think, and he 
meditates writing a novel. His voice is pleasant and 
his smile delightful, and he knows how to dress. He 
looks as if life hadn't been altogether easy for him, 




Owen Ford came over the next evening with a note 
to Anne from Leslie ; they spent the sunset-tirne in the 
garden and then went for a moonlit sail on the harbour, 
in the little boat Gilbert had set up for summer out- 
ings. They liked Owen immensely and had that feel- 
ing of having known him for many years which 
distinguishes the freemasonry of the house of Joseph. 
"He is as nice as his ears, Mrs. Doctor, dear," said 
Susan, when he had gone. He had told Susan that 
he had never tasted anything like her strawberry short- 
cake and Susan's susceptible heart was his forever. 

"He has got a way with him," she reflected, as she 
cleared up the relics of the supper. "It is real queer 
he is not married, for a man like that could have any- 
body for the asking. Well, maybe he is like me, and 
has not met the right one yet." 

Susan really grew quite romantic in her musings as 
she washed the supper dishes. 

Two nights later Anne took Owen Ford down to 
Four Winds Point to introduce him to Captain Jim. 
The clover fields along the harbour shore were whiten- 
ing in the western wind, and Captain Jim had one 
of his finest sunsets on exhibition. He himself had 
just returned from a trip ov _ : the harbour. 

"I had to go over and ttil Henry Pollock he was 
dying. Everybody else was afraid to tell him. They 
expected he'd take on tumble, for he's been dread- 
ful determined to live, and been making no end of 
plans for the fall. His wife thought he oughter be 


told and that I'd be the best one to break it to him 
that he couldn^t get better. Henry and me are old 
cronies we sailed in the Gray Gull for years together. 
Well, I went over and sat down by Henry's bed and 
I says to him, says I, jest right out plain and simple, 
for if a thing's got to be told it may as well be told 
first as last, says I, 'Mate, I reckon you've got your 
sailing orders this time.' I was sorter quaking inside, 
for it's an awful thing to have to tell a man who 
hain't any idea he's dying that he is. But lo and 
behold, Mistress Blythe, Henry looks up at me, with 
those bright old black eyes of his in his wizened face 
and says, says he, Tell me something I don't know, 
Jim Boyd, if you want to give me information. I've 
known that for a week.' I was too astonished to 
speak, and Henry, he chuckled. 'To see you coming 
in here/ says he, 'with your face as solemn as a 
tombstone and sitting down there with your hands 
clasped over your stomach, and passing me out a blue- 
mouldy old item of news like that! It'd make a cat 
laugh, Jim Boyd,' says he. 'Who told you?' says I, 
stupid like. 'Nobody,' says he. 'A week ago Tuesday 
night I was lying here awake and I jest knew. I'd 
suspicioned it before, but then I knew. I've been 
keeping up for the wife's sake. And I'd like to have 
got that barn built, for Eben'll never get it right. But 
anyhow, now that you've eased your mind, Jim, put 
on a smile and tell me something interesting.' Well, 
there it was. They'd been so scared to tell him and 


he knew it all the time. Strange how nature looks 
out for us, ain't it, and lets us know what we should 
know when the time comes ? Did I never tell you the 
yarn about Henry getting the fish hook in his nose, 
Mistress Blythe?" 


"Well, him and me had a laugh over it today. It 
happened nigh unto thirty years ago. Him and me 
and several more was out mackerel fishing one day. It 
was a great day never saw such a school of mackerel 
in the gulf and in the general excitement Henry got 
quite wild and contrived to stick a fish hook clean 
through one side of his nose. Well, there he was; 
there was barb on one end and a big piece of lead 
on the other, so it couldn't be pulled out. We wanted 
to take him ashore at once, but Henry was game; 
he said he'd be jiggered if he'd leave a school like 
that for anything short of lockjaw; then he kept fish- 
ing away, hauling in hand over fist and groaning be- 
tween times. Fin'lly the school passed and we come 
in with a load; I got a file and begun to try to file 
through that hook. I tried to be as easy as I could, - 
but you should have heard Henry no, you shouldn't 
either. It was well no ladies were around. Henry 
wasn't a swearing man, but he'd heard some few 
matters of that sort along shore in his time, and he 
fished 'em all out of his recollection and hurled 'em 
at me. Fin'lly he declared he couldn't stand it and 
I had no bowels of compassion. So we hitched up 


and I drove him to a doctor in Charlottetown, thirty- 
five miles there weren't none nearer in them days 
with that blessed hook still hanging from his nose. 
When we got there old Dr. Crabb jest took a file and 
filed that hook jest the same as I'd tried to do, only 
he weren't a mite particular about doing it easy!" 

Captain Jim's visit to his old friend had revived 
many recollections and he was now in the full tide of 

"Henry was asking me today if I remembered the 
time old Father Chiniquy blessed Alexander Mac- 
Allister's boat. Another odd yarn and true as gospel. 
I was in the boat myself. We went out, him and me, 
in Alexander MacAllister's boat one morning at sun- 
rise. Besides, there was a French boy in the boat 
Catholic of course. You know old Father Chiniquy 
had turned Protestant, so the Catholics hadn't much 
use for him. Well, we sat out in the gulf in the 
broiling sun till noon, and not a bite did we get. When 
we went ashore old Father Chiniquy had to go, so he 
said in that polite way of his, Tm very sorry I cannot 
go out with you dis afternoon, Mr. MacAllister, but 
I leave you my blessing. You will catch a t'ousand 
dis afternoon.' Well, we did not catch a thousand, 
but we caught exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine 
the biggest catch for a small boat on the whole 
north shore that summer. Curious, wasn't it? 
Alexander MacAllister, he says to Andrew Peters, 
'Well, and what do you think of Father Chiniquy 


now?' 'Veil/ growled Andrew, 'I t'ink de old devil 
has got a blessing left yet.' Laws, how Henry did 
laugh over that today!" 

"Do you know who Mr. Ford is, Captain Jim?" 
asked Anne, seeing that Captain Jim's fountain of 
reminiscence had run out for the present. "I want 
you to guess." 

Captain Jim shook his head. 

"I never was any hand at guessing, Mistress Blythe, 
and yet somehow when I come in I thought, 'Where 
have I seen them eyes before?' for I have seen 'em." 

"Think of a September morning many years ago/' 
said Anne, softly. "Think of a ship sailing up the 
harbour a ship long waited for and despaired of. 
Think of the day the Royal William came in and the 
first look you had at the schoolmaster's bride." 

Captain Jim sprang up. 

"They're Persis Selwyn's eyes," he almost shouted. 
"You can't be her son you must be her " 

"Grandson; yes, I am Alice Selwyn's son." 

Captain Jim swooped down on Owen Ford and 
shook his hand over again. 

"Alice Selwyn's son! Lord, but you're welcome! 
Many's the time I've wondered where the descendants 
of the schoolmaster were living. I knew there was 
none on the Island. Alice Alice the first baby ever 
born in that little house. No baby ever brought more 
joy! I've dandled her a hundred times. It was from 
my knee she took her first steps alone. Can't I see 


her mother's face watching her and it was near 
sixty years ago. Is she living yet?" 

"No, she died when I was only a boy." 

"Oh, it doesn't seem right that I should be living 
to hear that," sighed Captain Jim. "But I'm heart- 
glad to see you. It's brought back my youth for a 
little while. You don't know yet what a boon that 
is. Mistress Blythe here has the trick she does it 
quite often for me." 

Captain Jim was still more excited when he dis- 
covered that Owen Ford was what he called a "real 
writing man." He gazed at him as at a superior being. 
Captain Jim knew that Anne wrote, but he had never 
taken that fact very seriously. Captain Jim thought 
women were delightful creatures, who ought to have 
the vote, and everything else they wanted, bless their 
hearts ; but he did not believe they could write. 

"Jest look at A Mad Love," he would protest. "A 
woman wrote that and jest look at it one hundred 
and three chapters when it could all have been told in 
ten. A writing woman never knows when to stop; 
that's the trouble. The p'int of good writing is to 
know when to stop." 

"Mr. Ford wants to hear some of your stories, 
Captain Jim," said Anne. "Tell him the one about 
the captain who went crazy and imagined he was the 
Flying Dutchman." 

This was Captain Jim's best story. It was a com- 
pound of horror and humour, and though Anne iiad 


heard it several times she laughed as heartily and 
shivered as fearsomely over it as Mr. Ford did. Other 
tales followed, for Captain Jim had an audience after 
his own heart. He told how his vessel had been run 
down by a steamer; how he had been boarded by 
Malay pirates; how his ship had caught fire; how he 
helped a political prisoner escape from a South Afri- 
can republic ; how he had been wrecked one fall on the 
Magdalens and stranded there for the winter; how a 
tiger had broken loose on board ship; how his crew 
had mutinied and marooned him on a barren island 
these and many other tales, tragic or humorous or 
grotesque, did Captain Jim relate. The mystery of the 
sea, the fascination of far lands, the lure of adventure, 
the laughter of the world his hearers felt and real- 
ised them all. Owen Ford listened, with his head on 
his hand, and the First Mate purring on his knee, his 
brilliant eyes fastened on Captain Jim's rugged, 
eloquent face. 

"Won't you let Mr. Ford see your life-book, 
Captain Jim?" asked Anne, when Captain Jim finally 
declared that yarn-spinning must end for the time. 

"Oh, he don't want to be bothered with that" pro- 
tested Captain Jim, who was secretly dying to show it. 

"I should like nothing better than to see it, Captain 
Boyd," said Owen. "If it is half as wonderful as 
your tales it will be worth seeing." 

With pretended reluctance Captain Jim dug his 
life-book out of his old chest and handed it to Owea 


"I reckon you won't care to wrastle long with my 
old hand o' write. I never had much schooling," he 
observed carelessly. "Just wrote that there to amuse 
my nephew Joe. He's always wanting stories. Comes 
here yesterday and says to me, reproachful-like, as I 
was lifting a twenty-pound codfish out of my boat, 
'Uncle Jim, ain't a codfish a dumb animal?' I'd been 
a-telling him, you see, that he must be real kind to 
dumb animals, and never hurt 'em in any way. I got 
out of the scrape by saying a codfish was dumb enough 
but it wasn't an animal, but Joe didn't look satisfied, 
and I wasn't satisfied myself. You've got to be 
mighty careful what you tell them little critters. They 
can see through you." 

While talking, Captain Jim watched Owen Ford 
from the corner of his eye as the latter examined the 
life-book; and presently observing that his guest was 
lost in its pages, he turned smilingly to his cupboard 
and proceeded to make a pot of tea. Owen Ford 
separated himself from the life-book, with as much 
reluctance as a miser wrenches himself from his gold, 
long enough to drink his tea, and then returned to it 

"Oh, you can take that thing home with you if you 
want to," said Captain Jim, as if the "thing" were 
not his most treasured possession. "I must go down 
and pull my boat up a bit on the skids. There's a 
wind coming. Did you notice the sky tonight? 


'Mackerel skies and mares' tails 
Make tall ships carry short sails.' " 

Owen Ford accepted the offer of the life-book 
gladly. On their way home Anne told him the story 
of lost Margaret. 

"That old captain is a wonderful old fellow," he 
said. "What a life he has led! Why, the man had 
more adventures in one week of his life than most of 
us have in a lifetime. Do you really think his tales 
are all true?" 

"I certainly do. I am sure Captain Jim could not 
tell a lie; and besides, all the people about here say 
that everything happened as he relates it. There used 
to be plenty of his old shipmates alive to corroborate 
him. He's one of the last of the old type of P. E. 
Island sea-captains. Thty are almost extinct MOW." 


OWEN FORD came over to the little house the 
next morning in a state of great excitement. 

"Mrs. Blythe, this is a wonderful book absolutely 
wonderful. If I could take it and use the material 
for a book I feel certain I could make the novel of the 
year out of it. Do you suppose Captain Jim would 
let me do it?" 

"Let you! I'm sure he would be delighted," cried 
Anne. "I admit that it was what was in my head 
when I took you down last night. Captain Jim has 
always been wishing he could get somebody to write 
his life-book properly for him." 

"Will you go down to the Point with me this even- 
ing, Mrs. Blythe? I'll ask him about the life-book 
myself, but I want you to tell him that you told me 
the story of lost Margaret and ask him if he will let 
me use it as a thread of romance with which to weave 
the stories of the life-book into a harmonious whole." 

Captain Jim was more excited than ever when 
Owen Ford told him of his plan. At last his cher- 
ished dream was to be realised and his "life-book" 



given to the world. He was also pleased that the 
story of lost Margaret should be woven into it. 

"It will keep her name from being forgotten," he 
said wistfully. "That's why I want it put in." 

"We'll collaborate," cried Owen delightedly. "You 
will give the soul and I the body. Oh, we'll write a 
famous book between us, Captain Jim. And we'll 
get right to work." 

"And to think my book is to be writ by the school- 
master's grandson!" exclaimed Captain Jim. "Lad, 
your grandfather was my dearest friend. I thought 
there was nobody like him. I see now why I had 
to wait so long. It couldn't be writ till the right man 
come. You belong here you've got the soul of this 
old north shore in you you're the only one who could 
write it." 

It was arranged that the tiny room off the living- 
room at the lighthouse should be given over to Owen 
for a workshop. It was necessary that Captain Jim 
should be near him as he wrote, for consultation upon 
many matters of sea- faring and gulf lore of which 
Owen was quite ignorant. 

He began work on the book the very next morn- 
ing, and flung himself into it heart and soul. As for 
Captain Jim, he was a happy man that summer. He 
looked upon the little room where Owen worked as 
a sacred shrine. Owen talked everything over with 
Captain Jim, but he would not let him see the manu- 


"You must wait until it is published," he said. 
"Then you'll get it all at once in its best shape." 

He delved into the treasures of the life-book and 
used them freely. He dreamed and brooded over lost 
Margaret until she became a vivid reality to him and 
lived in his pages. As the book progressed it took 
possession of him and he worked at it with feverish 
eagerness. He let Anne and Leslie read the manu- 
script and criticise it; and the concluding chapter of 
the book, which the critics, later on, were pleased to 
call idyllic, was modelled upon a suggestion of Leslie's. 

Anne fairly hugged herself with delight over the 
success of her idea. 

"I knew when I looked at Owen Ford that he was 
the very man for it," she told Gilbert. '"Both humour 
and passion were in his face, and that, together with 
the art of expression, was just what was necessary for 
the writing of such a book. As Mrs. Rachel would 
say, he was predestined for the part." 

Owen Ford wrote in the mornings. The after- 
noons were generally spent in some merry outing with 
the Blythes. Leslie often went, too, for Captain Jim 
took charge of Dick frequently, in order to set her 
free. They went boating on the harbour and up the 
three pretty rivers that flowed into it; they had clam- 
bakes on the bar and mussel-bakes on the rocks; they 
picked strawberries on the sand-dunes; they went out 
cod-fishing with Captain Jim; they shot plover in 
the shore fields and wild ducks in the cove at least. 


the men did. In the evenings they rambled in the low- 
lying, daisied, shore fields under a golden moon, or 
they sat in the living-room at the little house where 
often the coolness of the sea breeze justified a drift- 
wood fire, and talked of the thousand and one things 
which happy, eager, clever young people can find to 
talk about. 

Ever since the day on which she had made her 
confession to Anne Leslie had been a changed crea- 
ture. There was no trace of her old coldness and 
reserve, no shadow of her old bitterness. The girl- 
hood of which she had been cheated seemed to come 
back to her with the ripeness of womanhood; she ex- 
panded like a flower of flame and perfume; no laugh 
was readier than hers, no wit quicker, in the twilight 
circles of that enchanted summer. When she could 
not be with them all felt that some exquisite savour 
was lacking in their intercourse. Her beauty was 
illumined by the awakened soul within, as some rosy 
lamp might shine through a flawless vase of alabaster. 
There were hours when Anne's eyes seemed to ache 
with the splendour of her. As for Owen Ford, the 
"Margaret" of his book, although she had the soft 
brown hair and elfin face of the real girl who had 
vanished so long ago, "pillowed where lost Atlantis 
sleeps," had the personality of Leslie Moore, as it 
was revealed to him in those halcyon days at Four 
Winds Harbour. 

All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer 


one of those summers which come seldom into any 
life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories 
in their going one of those summers which, in a 
fortunate combination of delightful weather, delight- 
ful friends and delightful doings, come as near to per- 
fection as anything can come in this world. 

"Too good to last," Anne told herself with a little 
sigh, on the September day when a certain nip in the 
wind and a certain shade of intense blue on the gulf 
water said that autumn was hard by. 

That evening Owen Ford told them that he had 
finished his book and that his vacation must come to 
an end. 

"I have a good deal to do to it yet revising and 
pruning and so forth," he said, "but in the main it's 
done. I wrote the last sentence this morning. If I 
can find a publisher for it it will probably be out next 
summer or fall." 

Owen had not much doubt that he would find a 
publisher. He knew that he had written a great book 
a book that would score a wonderful success a 
book that would live. He knew that it would bring 
him both fame and fortune; but when he had written 
the last line of it he had bowed his head on the manu- 
script and so sat for a long time. And his thoughts 
were not of the good work he had done. 


I'M so sorry Gilbert is away," said Anne. "He 
had to go Allan Lyons at the Glen has met 
with a serious accident. He will not likely be home 
till very late. But he told me to tell you he'd be up and 
over early enough in the morning to see you before 
you left. It's too provoking. Susan and I had 
planned such a nice little jamboree for your last night 

She was sitting beside the garden brook on the little 
rustic seat Gilbert had built. Owen Ford stood be- 
fore her, leaning against the bronze column of a yel- 
low birch. He was very pale and his face bore the 
marks of the preceding sleepless night. Anne ; 
glancing up at him, wondered if, after all, his summer 
had brought him the strength it should. Had he 
worked too hard over his book? She remembered 
that for a week he had not been looking well. 

"Tm rather glad the doctor is away," said Owen 
slowly. "I wanted to see you alone, Mrs. Blythc. 
There is something I must tell somebody, or I think 



it will drive me mad. I've been trying for a week to 
look it in the face and I can't. I know I can trust 
you and, besides, you will understand. A woman 
with eyes like yours always understands. You are 
one of the folks people instinctively tell things to. 
Mrs. Blythe, I love Leslie. Love her! That seems 
too weak a word!" 

His voice suddenly broke with the suppressed pas- 
sion of his utterance. He turned his head away and 
hid his face on his arm. His whole form shook. 
Anne sat looking at him, pale and aghast. She had 
never thought of this ! And yet how was it she had 
never thought of it? It now seemed a natural and 
inevitable thing. She wondered at her own blindness. 
But but things like this did not happen in Four 
Winds. Elsewhere in the world human passions 
might set at defiance human conventions and laws 
but not here, surely. Leslie had kept summer board- 
ers off and on for ten years, and nothing like fhis had 
happened. But perhaps they had not been like Owen 
Ford; and the vivid, living Leslie of this summer 
was not the cold, sullen girl of other years. Oh, 
somebody should have thought of this! Why hadn't 
Miss Cornelia thought of it? Miss Cornelia was al- 
ways ready enough to sound the alarum where men 
were concerned. Anne felt an unreasonable resent- 
ment against Miss Cornelia. Then she gave a little 
inward groan. No matter who was to blame the 


mischief was done. And Leslie what of Leslie? It 
was for Leslie Anne felt most concerned. 

"Does Leslie know this, Mr. Ford?" she a*ked 

"No no, unless she has guessed it. You surely 
don't think I'd be cad and scoundrel enough to tell 
her, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn't help loving her that's 
all and my misery is greater than I can bear." 

"Does she care?" asked Anne. The moment the 
question crossed her lips she felt that she should not 
have asked it. Owen Ford answered it with over- 
eager protest. 

"No no, of course not. But I could make her 
care if she were free I know I could." 

"She does care and he knows it," thought Anne. 
Aloud she said, sympathetically but decidedly: 

"But she is not free, Mr. Ford. And the only 
thing you can do is to go away in silence and leave 
her to her own life." 

"I know I know," groaned Owen. He sat down 
on the grassy bank and stared moodily into the amber 
water beneath him. "I know there's nothing to do 
nothing but to say conventionally, 'Good-bye, Mrs. 
Moore. Thank you for all your kindness to me this 
summer,' just as I would have said it to the sonsy, bus- 
tling, keen-eyed housewife I expected her to be when 
I came. Then I'll pay my board money like any 
honest boarder and go! Oh, it's very simple. No 


doubt no perplexity a straight road to the end of 
the world! And I'll walk it you needn't fear that 
I won't, Mrs. Blythe. But it would be easier to walk 
over red-hot ploughshares." 

Anne flinched with the pain of his voice. And there 
was so little she could say that would be adequate 
to the situation. Blame v/as out of the question 
advice was not needed sympathy was mocked by 
the man's stark agony. She could only feel with him 
in a maze of compassion and regret. Her heart ached 
for Leslie! Had not that poor girl suffered enough 
without this? 

"It wouldn't be so hard to go and leave her if she 
were only happy," resumed Owen passionately. "But 
to think of her living death to realise what it is to 
which I do leave her! That is the worst of all. I 
would give my life to make her happy and I can do 
nothing even to help her nothing. She is bound for- 
ever to that poor wretch with nothing to look for- 
ward to but growing old in a succession of empty, 
meaningless, barren years. It drives me mad to think 
of it. But I must go through my life, never seeing 
her, but always knowing what she is enduring. It's 
hideous hideous !" 

"It is very hard," said Anne sorrowfully. "We 
her friends here all know how hard it is for her." 

"And she is so richly fitted for life," said Owen 
rebelliously. "Her beauty is the least of her dower 
and she is the most beautiful woman I've ever 


known. That laugh of hers ! I've angled all summer 
to evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing 
it. And her eyes they are as deep and blue as the 
gulf out there. I never saw such blueness- and goldl 
Did you ever see her hair down, Mrs. Blythe?" 


"I didonce. I had gone down to the Point to go 
fishing with Captain Jim but it was too rough to go 
out, so I came back. She had taken the opportunity 
of what she expected to be an afternoon alone to 
wash her hair, and she was standing on the veranda 
in the sunshine to dry it. It fell all about her to her 
feet in a fountain of living gold. When she saw me 
she hurried in, and the wind caught her hair and 
swirled it all around her Danae in her cloud. Some- 
how, just then the knowledge that I loved her came 
home to me and realised that I had loved her from 
the moment I first saw her standing against the dark- 
ness in that glow of light. And she must live on here 
petting and soothing Dick, pinching and saving for 
a mere existence, while I spend my life longing vainly 
for her, and debarred, by that very fact, from even 
giving her the little help a friend might. I walked 
the shore last night, almost till dawn, and thrashed 
it all out over and over again. And yet, in spite of 
everything, I can't find it in my heart to be sorry that 
I came to Four Winds. It seems to me that, bad as 
everything is, it would be still worse never to have 
known Leslie. It's burning, searing pain to love her 


and leave her but not to have loved her is unthink- 
able. I suppose all this sounds very crazy all these 
terrible emotions always do sound foolish when we 
put them into our inadequate words. They are not 
meant to be spoken only felt and endured. I 
shouldn't have spoken but it has helped some. At 
least, it has given me strength to go away respectably 
to-morrow morning, without making a scene. You'll 
write me now and then, won't you, Mrs. Blythe, and 
give me what news there is to give of her?" 

"Yes," said Anne. "Oh, I'm so sorry you are 
going we'll miss you so we've all been such friends ! 
If it were not for this you could come back other 
summers. Perhaps, even yet by-and-by when 
you've forgotten, perhaps " 

"I shall never forget and I shall never come back 
to Four Winds," said Owen briefly. 

Silence and twilight fell over the garden. Far away 
the sea was lapping gently and monotonously on the 
bar. The wind of evening in the poplars sounded 
like some sad, weird, old rune some broken dream 
of old memories. A slender shapely young aspen 
rose up before them against the fine maize and emerald 
and paling rose of the western sky, which brought 
out every leaf and twig in dark, tremulous, elfin love- 

"Isn't that beautiful?" said Owen, pointing to it 
with the air of a man who puts a certain conversation 
behind him. 


"It's so beautiful that it hurts me." said Anne softly. 
"Perfect things like that alway did hurt me I 
remember I called it 'the queer ache* when I was a 
child. What is the reason that pain like this seems 
inseparable from perfection ? Is it the pain of finality 
when we realise that there can be nothing beyond 
but retrogression?" 

"Perhaps," said Owen dreamily, "it is the prisoned 
infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as ex- 
pressed in that visible perfection." 

"You seem to have a cold in the head. Better rub 
some tallow on your nose when you go to bed," said 
Miss Cornelia, who had come in through the little 
gate between the firs in time to catch Owen's last re- 
mark. Miss Cornelia liked Owen; but it was a matter 
of principle with her to visit any "high falutin" lan- 
guage from a man with a snub. 

Miss Cornelia personated the comedy that ever 
peeps around the corner at the tragedy of life. Anne, 
whose nerves had been rather strained, laughed hys- 
terically, and even Owen smiled. Certainly, senti- 
ment and passion had a way of shrinking out of sight 
in Miss Cornelia's presence. And yet to Anne noth- 
ing seemed quite as hopeless and dark and painful as 
it had seemed a few moments before, But sleep was 
far from her eyes that night. 


OWEN FORD left Four Winds the next morn- 
ing. In the evening Anne went over to see 
Leslie, but found nobody. The house was locked and 
there was no light in any window. It looked like a 
home left soulless. Leslie did not run over on the 
following day which Anne thought a bad sign. 

Gilbert having occasion to go in the evening to the 
fishing cove, Anne drove with him to the Point, in- 
tending to stay awhile with Captain Jim. But the 
great light, cutting its swathes through the fog of 
the autumn evening, was in care of Alec Boyd and 
Captain Jim was away. 

"What will you do?" asked Gilbert. "Come with 

"I don't want to go to the cove but I'll go over 
the channel with you, and roam about on the sand- 
shore till you come back. The rock shore is too slip- 
pery and grim to-night." 

Alone on the sands of the bar Anne gave herself 
up to the eerie charm of the night. It was warm for 
September, and the late afternoon had been very 



foggy; but a full moon had in part lessened the fog 
and transformed the harbour and the gulf and the 
surrounding shores into a strange, fantastic, unreal 
world of pale silver mist, through which everything 
loomed phantom-like. Captain Josiah Crawford's 
black schooner sailing down the channel, laden with 
potatoes for Bluenose ports, was a spectral ship bound 
for a far uncharted land, ever receding, never to be 
reached. The calls of unseen gulls overhead were 
the cries of the souls of doomed seamen. The little 
curls of foam that blew across the sand were elfin 
things stealing up from the sea-caves. The big, round- 
shouldered sand-dunes were the sleeping giants of 
some old northern tale. The lights that glimmered 
palely across the harbour were the delusive beacons 
on some coast of fairyland. Anne pleased herself 
with a hundred fancies as she wandered through the 
mist. It was delightful romantic mysterious to be 
roaming here alone on this enchanted shere. 

But was she alone? Something loomed in the mist 
before her took shape and form suddenly moved 
towards her across the wave-rippled sand. 

"Leslie!" exclaimed Anne in amazement. "What- 
ever are you doing here to-night?" 

"If it comes to that, whatever are you doing 
here?" said Leslie, trying to laugh. The effort was 
a failure. She looked very pale and tired; but the 
love locks under her scarlet cap were curling about 
her face and eyes like little sparkling rings of gold. 


"I'm waiting for Gilbert he's over at the Cove. 
I intended to stay at the light, but Captain Jim is 

"Well, 7 came here because I wanted to walk and 
walk and walk," said Leslie restlessly. "I couldn't 
on the rock shore the tide was too high and the rocks 
prisoned me. I had to come here or I should have 
gone mad, I think. I rowed myself over the channel 
in Captain Jim's flat. I've been here for an hour. 
Come come let us walk. I can't stand still. Oh, 

"Leslie, dearest, what is the trouble?" asked Anne, 
though she knew too well already. 

"I can't tell you don't ask me. I wouldn't mind 
your knowing I wish you did know but I can't tell 
you I can't tell anyone. I've been such a fool, Anne 
and oh, it hurts so terribly to be a fool. There's 
nothing so painful in the world." 

She laughed bitterly. Anne slipped her arm around 

"Leslie, is it that you have learned to care for Mr. 

Leslie turned herself about passionately. 

"How did you know?" she cried. "Anne, how did 
you know ? Oh, is it written in my face for everyone 
to see? Is it as plain as that?" 

"No, no. I I can't tell you how I knew. It just 
came into my mind, somehow. Leslie, don't look at 
me like that!" 


"Do you despise me?" demanded Leslie in a fierce, 
low tone. "Do you think I'm wicked unwomanly? 
Or do you think I'm just plain fool ?" 

"I don't think you any of those things. Come, 
dear, let's just talk it over sensibly, as we might talk 
over any other of the great crises of life. You've 
been brooding over it and let yourself drift into a 
morbid view of it. You know you have a little tend- 
ency to do that about everything that goes wrong, and 
you promised me that you would fight against it." 

"But oh, it's so so shameful," murmured Leslie. 
"To love him unsought and when I'm not free to 
love anybody." 

"There's nothing shameful about it. But I'm very 
sorry that you have learned to care for Owen, because, 
as things are, it will only make you more unhappy." 

"I didn't learn to care," said Leslie, walking on 
and speaking passionately. "If it had been like that 
I could have prevented it. I never dreamed of such 
a thing until that day, a week ago, when he told me 
he had finished his book and must soon go away. Then 
then I knew. I felt as if someone had struck me a 
terrible blow. I didn't say anything I couldn't 
speak but I don't know what I looked like. I'm so 
afraid my face betrayed me. Oh, I would die of 
shame if I thought he knew or suspected." 

Anne was miserably silent, hampered by her deduc- 
tions from her conversation with Owen. Leslie went 
on feverishly, as if she found relief in speech. 


"I was so happy all this summer, Anne happier 
than I ever was in my life. I thought it was because 
everything had been made clear between you and me, 
and that it was our friendship which made life seem 
so beautiful and full once more. And it was, in part 
-but not all oh, not nearly all. I know now why 
everything was so different. And now it's all over 
and he has gone. How can I live, Anne? When I 
turned back into the house this morning after he had 
gone the solitude struck me like a blow in the face." 

"It won't seem so hard by and by, dear," said Anne, 
who always felt the pain of her friends so keenly 
that she could not speak easy, fluent words of com- 
forting. Besides, she remembered how well-meant 
speeches had hurt her in her own sorrow and was 

"Oh, it seems to me it will grow harder all the 
time," said Leslie miserably. "I've nothing to look 
forward to. Morning will come after morning and 
he will not come back he will never come back. Oh, 
when I think that I will never see him again I feel 
as if a great brutal hand had twisted itself among 
my heartstrings, and was wrenching them. Once, 
long ago, I dreamed of love and I thought it must 
be beautiful and now it's like this. When he went 
away yesterday morning he was so cold and indiffer- 
ent. He said 'Good-bye, Mrs. Moore' in the coldest 
tone in the world as if we had not even been friends 
as if I meant absolutely nothing to him. I know 


I don't I didn't want him to care but he might 
have been a little kinder." 

"Oh, I wish Gilbert would come," thought Anne. 
She was racked between her sympathy for Leslie and 
the necessity of avoiding anything that would betray 
Owen's confidence. She knew why his good-bye had 
been so cold why it could not have the cordiality 
that their good-comradeship demanded but she could 
not tell Leslie. 

"I couldn't help it, Anne I couldn't help it," said 
poor Leslie. 

"I know that." 

"Do you blame me so very much?" 

"I don't blame you at all." 

"And you won't you won't tell Gilbert?" 

"Leslie ! Do you think I would do such a thing ?" 

"Oh, I don't know you and Gilbert are such 
chums. I don't see how you could help telling him 

"Everything about my own concerns yes. But 
not my friends' secrets." 

*'I couldn't have him know. But I'm glad you 
know. I would feel guilty if there were anything I 
was ashamed to tell you. I hope Miss Cornelia won't 
find out. Sometimes I feel as if those terrible, kind 
brown eyes of hers read my very soul. Oh, I wish 
this mist would never lift I wish I could just stay 
in it forever, hidden away from every living being. 
I don't see how I can go on with life. This summer 


has been so full. I never was lonely for a moment. 
Before Owen came there used to be horrible moments 
when I had been with you and Gilbert and then 
had to leave you. You two would walk away to- 
gether and I would walk away alone. After Owen 
came he was always there to walk home with me we 
would laugh and talk as you and Gilbert were doing 
"there were no more lonely, envious moments for 
me. And now! Oh, yes, I've been a fool. Let's 
have done talking about my folly. I'll never bore 
you with it again." 

"Here is Gilbert, and you are coming back with 
us," said Anne, who had no intention of leaving Leslie 
to wander alone on the sand-bar on such a night and 
in such a mood. "There's plenty of room in our boat 
for three, and we'll tie the flat on behind." 

"Oh, I suppose I must reconcile myself to being 
the odd one again," said poor Leslie with another 
bitter laugh. "Forgive me, Anne that was hateful. 
I ought to be thankful and I am that I have two 
good friends who are glad to count me in as a third. 
Don't mind my hateful speeches. I just seem to be 
one great pain all over and everything hurts me." 

"Leslie seemed very quiet tonight, didn't she?" 
said Gilbert, when he and Anne reached home. "What 
in the world was she doing over there on the bar 

"Oh, she was tired and you know she likes to go 
to the shore after one of Dick's bad days." 


"What a pity she hadn't met and married a fellow 
like Ford long ago," ruminated Gilbert. "They'd 
have made an ideal couple, wouldn't they?" 

"For pity's sake, Gilbert, don't develop into a match- 
maker. It's an abominable profession for a man," 
cried Anne rather sharply, afraid that Gilbert might 
blunder on the truth if he kept on in this strain. 

"Bless us, Anne-girl, I'm not matchmaking," pro- 
tested Gilbert, rather surprised at her tone. "I was 
only thinking of one of the might-have-beens." 

"Well, don't. It's a waste of time," said Anne. 
Then she added suddenly : 

"Oh, Gilbert, I wish everybody could be as happy 
as we are." 



I'VE been reading obituary notices," said Mist 
Cornelia, laying down the Daily Enterprise and 
taking up her sewing. 

The harbour was lying black and sullen under a dour 
November sky; the wet, dead leaves clung drenched 
and sodden to the window sills; but the little house 
was gay with firelight and spring-like with Anne's 
ferns and geraniums. 

"It's always summer here, Anne," Leslie had said 
one day; and all who were the guests of that house 
of dreams felt the same. 

"The Enterprise seems to run to obituaries these 
days," quoth Miss Cornelia. "It always has a couple 
of columns of them, and I read every line. It's one 
of my forms of recreation, especially when there's 
some original poetry attached to them. Here's a 
choice sample for you : 

'She's gone to be with her Maker, 
Never more to roam. 
She used to play and sing with joy 
The song of Home, Sweet Home/ 


Who says we haven't any poetical talent on the 
Island! Have you ever noticed what heaps of good 
people die, Anne, dearie ? It's kind of pitiful. Here's 
ten obituaries, and every one of them saints and mod- 
els, even the men. Here's old Peter Stimson, who 
has 'left a large circle of friends to mourn his un- 
timely loss.' Lord, Anne, dearie, that man was eighty, 
and everybody who knew him had been wishing him 
dead these thirty years. Read obituaries when you're 
blue, Arnie, dearie especially the ones of folks you 
know. If you've any sense of humour at all they'll 
cheer you up, believe me. I just wish / had the writ- 
ing of the obituaries of some people. Isn't 'obituary' 
an awful ugly word? This very Peter I've been 
speaking of had a face exactly like one. I never saw 
it but I thought of the word obituary then and there. 
There's only one uglier word that I know of, and 
that's relict. Lord, Anne, dearie, I may be an old 
maid, but there's this comfort in it I'll never be 
any man's 'relict.' ' 

"It is an ugly word," said Anne, laughing. "Avon- 
lea graveyard was full of old tombstones 'sacred to 
the memory of So-and-So, relict of the late So-and- 
So.' It always made me think of something worn- 
out and moth-eaten. Why is it that so many of the 
words connected with death are so disagreeable? I 
do wish that the custom of calling a dead body 'the 
remains' could be abolished. I positively shiver when 
I hear the undertaker say at a funeral, 'All who wish 


to see the remains please step this way.' It always 
gives me the horrible impression that I am about to 
view the scene of a cannibal feast." 

"Well, all I hope," said Miss Cornelia calmly, "is 
that when I'm dead nobody will call me 'our departed 
sister.' I took a scunner at this sistering-and-broth- 
ering business five years ago when there was a travel- 
ling evangelist holding meetings at the Glen. I hadn't 
any use for him from the start. I felt in my bones 
that there was something wrong with him. And there 
was. Mind you, he was pretending to be a Presby- 
terian Presby tarian, he called it and all the time 
he was a Methodist. He brothered and sistered every- 
body. He had a large circle of relations, that man 
had. He clutched my hand fervently one night, and 
said imploringly, 'My dear sister Bryant, are you a 
Christian?' I just looked him over a bit, and then I 
said calmly, The only brother I ever had, Mr. Fiske, 
was buried fifteen years ago, and I haven't adopted 
any since. As for being a Christian, I was that, I hope 
and believe, when you were crawling about the floor 
in petticoats.' That squelched him, believe me. Mind 
you, Anne dearie, I'm not down on all evangelists. 
We've had some real fine, earnest men, who did a lot 
of good and made the old sinners squirm. But this 
Fiske-man wasn't one of them. I had a good laugh 
all to myself one evening. Fiske had asked all who 
were Christians to stand up. 7 didn't, believe me! I 
never had any use for that sort of thing. But most 


of them did, and then he asked all who wanted to be 
Christians to stand up. Nobody stirred for a spell, 
so Fiske started up a hymn at the top of his voice. 
Just in front of me poor little Ikey Baker was sitting 
in the Millison pew. He was a home boy, ten years 
old, and Millison just about worked him to death. 
The poor little creature was always so tired he fell 
asleep right off whenever he went to church or any- 
where he could sit still for a few minutes. He'd been 
sleeping all through the meeting, and I was thankful 
to see the poor child getting a rest, believe me. Well, 
when Fiske's voice went soaring skyward and the rest 
joined in, poor Ikey wakened with a start. He thought 
it was just an ordinary singing and that everybody 
ought to stand up, so he scrambled to his feet mighty 
quick, knowing he'd get a combing down from Maria 
Millison for sleeping in meeting. Fiske saw him, 
stopped and shouted, 'Another soul saved! Glory 
Hallelujah!' And there was poor, frightened Ikey, 
only half awake and yawning, never thinking about 
his soul at all. Poor child, he never had time to 
think of anything but his tired, overworked little 

"Leslie went one night and the Fiske-man got 
right after her oh, he was especially anxious about 
the souls of the nice-looking girls, believe me! and 
he hurt her feelings so she never went again. And 
then he prayed every night after that, right in public, 
that the Lord would soften her hard heart. Finally 


I went to Mr. Leavitt, our minister then, and told 
him if he didn't make Fiske stop that I'd just rise up 
the next night and throw my hymn book at him when 
he mentioned that 'beautiful but unrepentant young 
woman.' I'd have done it too, believe me. Mr. 
Leavitt did put a stop to it, but Fiske kept on with 
his meetings until Charley Douglas put an end to his 
career in the Glen. Mrs. Charley had been out in 
California all winter. She'd been real melancholy in 
the fall religious melancholy it ran in her family. 
Her father worried so much over believing that he 
had committed the unpardonable sin that he died in 
the asylum. So when Rose Douglas got that way 
Charley packed her off to visit her sister in Los An- 
geles. She got perfectly well and came home just 
when the Fiske revival was in full swing. She stepped 
off the train at the Glen, real smiling and chipper, and 
the first thing she saw staring her in the face on the 
black, gable-end of the freight shed, was the question, 
in big white letters, two feet high, 'Whither goest 
thou to heaven or hell?' That had been one of 
Fiske's ideas, and he had got Henry Hammond to 
paint it. Rose just gave a shriek and fainted; and 
when they got her home she was worse than ever. 
Charley Douglas went to Mr. Leavitt and told him 
that every Dougfas would leave the church if Fiske 
was kept there any longer. Mr. Leavitt had to give 
in, for the Douglases paid half his salary, so Fiske de- 
parted, and we had to depend on our Bibles once more 


for instructions on how to get to heaven. After he 
was gone Mr. Leavitt found out he was just a mas- 
querading Methodist, and he felt pretty sick, believe 
me. Mr. Leavitt fell short in some ways, but he was 
a good, sound Presbyterian." 

"By the way, I had a letter from Mr. Ford yester- 
day," said Anne. "He asked me to remember him 
kindly to you." 

"I don't want his remembrances," said Miss Cor- 
nelia, curtly. 

"Why?" said Anne, in astonishment. "I thought 
you liked him." 

"Well, so I did, in a kind of way. But I'll never 
forgive him for what he done to Leslie. There's that 
poor child eating her heart out about him as if she 
hadn't had trouble enough and him ranting round 
Toronto, I've no doubt, enjoying himself same as 
ever. Just like a man." 

"Oh, Miss Cornelia, how did you find out?" 

"Lord, Anne, dearie, I've got eyes, haven't I ? And 
I've known Leslie since she was a baby. There's been 
a new kind of heartbreak in her eyes all the fall, and 
I know that writer-man was behind it somehow. I'll 
never forgive myself for being the means of bringing 
him here. But I never expected he'd be like he was. 
I thought he'd just be like the other men Leslie had 
boarded conceited young asses, every one of them, 
that she never had any use for. One of them did try 
to flirt with her once and she froze him out so bad, 


I feel sure he's never got himself thawed since. So 
I never thought of any danger." 

"Don't let Leslie suspect you know her secret," said 
Anne hurriedly. "I think it would hurt her." 

"Trust me, Anne, dearie. / wasn't born yesterday. 
Oh, a plague on all the men! One of them ruined 
Leslie's life to begin with, and now another of the 
tribe comes and makes her still more wretched. Anne, 
this world is an awful place, believe me" 

" 'There's something in the world amiss 
Will be unriddled by and by,' " 

quoted Anne dreamily. 

"If it is, it'll be in a world where there aren't any 
men," said Miss Cornelia gloomily. 

"What have the men been doing now?" asked Gil- 
bert, entering. 

"Mischief mischief! What else did they ever 

"It was Eve ate the apple, Miss Cornelia." 

" 'Twas a he-creature tempted her," retorted Miss 
Cornelia triumphantly. 

Leslie, after her first anguish was over, found it 
possible to go on with life after all, as most of us do, 
no matter what our particular form of torment has 
been. It is even possible that she enjoyed moments 
of it, when she was one of the gay circle in the little 
house of dreams. But if Anne ever hoped that she 
was forgetting Owen Ford she would have been un- 


deceived by the furtive hunger in Leslie's eyes when- 
ever his name was mentioned. Pitiful to that hunger, 
Anne always contrived to tell Captain Jim or Gilbert 
bits of news from Owen's letters when Leslie was 
with them. The girl's flush and pallor at such mo- 
ments spoke all too eloquently of the emotion that 
filled her being. But she never spoke of him to Anne, 
or mentioned that night on the sand-bar. 

One day her old dog died and she grieved bitterly 
over him. 

"He's been my friend so long," she said sorrowfully 
to Anne. "He was Dick's old dog, you know Dick 
had him for a year or so before we were married. He 
left him with me when he sailed on the Four Sisters. 
Carlo got very fond of me and his dog-love helped 
me through that first dreadful year after mother died, 
when I was all alone. When I heard that Dick was 
coming back I was afraid Carlo wouldn't be so much 
mine. But he never seemed to care for Dick, though 
he had been so fond of him once. He would snap 
and growl at him as if he were a stranger. I was 
glad. It was nice to have one thing whose love was 
all mine. That old dog has been such a comfort to 
me, Anne. He got so feeble in the fall that I was 
afraid he couldn't live long but I hoped I could nurse 
him through the winter. He seemed pretty well this 
morning. He was lying on the rug before the fire; 
then, all at once, he got up and crept over to me; he 
put his head on my lap and gave me one loving look 


out of his big, soft, dog eyes and then he just shiv- 
ered and died. I shall miss him so." 

"Let me give you another dog, Leslie," said Anne. 
"I'm getting a lovely Gordon setter for a Christmas 
present for Gilbert. Let me give you one too." 

Leslie shook her head. 

"Not just now, thank you, Anne. I don't feel like 
having another dog yet. I don't seem to have any 
affection left for another. Perhaps in time I'll let 
you give me one. I really need one as a kind of pro- 
tection. But there was something almost human about 
Carlo it wouldn't be decent to fill his place too hur- 
riedly, dear old fellow." 

Anne went to Avonlea a week before Christmas and 
stayed until after the holidays. Gilbert came up for 
her, and there was a glad New Year celebration at 
Green Gables, when Barrys and Blythes and Wrights 
assembled to devour a dinner which had cost Mrs. 
Rachel and Marilla much careful thought and prep- 
aration. When they went back to Four Winds the 
little house was almost drifted over, for the third 
storm of a winter that was to prove phenomenally 
stormy had whirled up the harbour and heaped huge 
snow mountains about everything it encountered. But 
Captain Jim had shovelled out doors and paths, and 
Miss Cornelia had come down and kindled the hearth- 

"It's good to see you back, Anne, dearie! But did 
you ever see such drifts? You can't see the Moore 


place at all unless you go upstairs. Leslie'll be so 
glad you're back. She's almost buried alive over there. 
Fortunately Dick can shovel snow, and thinks it's 
great fun. Susan sent me word to tell you she would 
be on hand tomorrow. Where are you off to now, 

"I reckon I'll plough up to the Glen and sit a bit 
with old Martin Strong. He's not far from his end 
and he's lonesome. He hasn't many friends been too 
busy all his life to make any. He's made heaps of 
money, though." 

"Well, he thought that since he couldn't serve God 
and Mammon he'd better stick to Mammon," said 
Miss Cornelia crisply. "So he shouldn't complain if 
he doesn't find Mammon very good company now." 

Captain Jim went out, but remembered something 
in the yard and turned back for a moment. 

"I'd a letter from Mr. Ford, Mistress Blythe, and 
he says the life-book is accepted and is going to be 
published next fall. I felt fair uplifted when I got 
the news. To think that I'm to see it in print at last." 

"That man is clean crazy on the subject of his 
life-book," said Miss Cornelia compassionately. "For 
my part, I think there's far too many books in the 
world now." 


GILBERT laid down the ponderous medical tome 
over which he had been poring until the in- 
creasing dusk of the March evening made him desist. 
He leaned back in his chair and gazed meditatively 
out of the window. It was early spring probably 
the ugliest time of the year. Not even the sunset 
could redeem the dead, sodden landscape and rotten- 
black harbour ice upon which he looked. No sign of 
life was visible, save a big black crow winging his 
solitary way across a leaden field. Gilbert speculated 
idly concerning that crow. Was he a family crow, 
with a black but comely crow wife awaiting him in 
the woods beyond the Glen? Or was he a glossy 
young buck of a crow on courting thoughts intent? 
Or was he a cynical bachelor crow, believing that he 
travels the fastest who travels alone? Whatever he 
was, he soon disappeared in congenial gloom and 
Gilbert turned to the cheerier view indoors. 

The firelight flickered from point to point, gleaming 
on the white and green coats of Gog and Magog, on 
the sleek, brown head of the beautiful setter basking 



on the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on the 
vaseful of daffodils from the window garden, on 
Anne herself, sitting by her little table, with her sew- 
ing beside her and her hands clasped over her knee 
while she traced out pictures in the fire Castles in 
Spain whose airy turrets pierced moonlit cloud and 
sunset bar ships sailing from the Haven of Good 
Hopes straight to Four Winds Harbour with precious 
burthen. For Anne was again a dreamer of dreams, 
albeit a grim shape of fear went with her night and 
day to shadow and darken her visions. 

Gilbert was accustomed to refer to himself as "an 
old married man." But he still looked upon Anne 
with the incredulous eyes of a lover. He couldn't 
wholly believe yet that she was really his. It might 
be only a dream after all, part and parcel of this magic 
house of dreams. His soul still went on tip-toe be- 
fore her, lest the charm be shattered and the dream 

"Anne," he said slowly, "lend me your ears. I 
want to talk with you about something." 

Anne looked across at him through the fire-lit 

"What is it?" she asked, gaily. "You look fear- 
fully solemn, Gilbert. I really haven't done anything 
naughty to-day. Ask Susan." 

"It's not of you or ourselves I want to talk. It's 
about Dick Moore." 

"Dick Moore?" echoed Anne, sitting up alertly. 


"Why, what in the world have you to say about Dick 

"I've been thinking a great deal about him lately. 
Do you remember that time last summer I treated 
him for those carbuncles on his neck?" 

"Yes yes." 

"I took the opportunity to examine the scars on his 
head thoroughly. I've always thought Dick was a 
very interesting case from a medical point of view. 
Lately I've been studying the history of trephining 
and the cases where it has been employed. Anne, I 
have come to the conclusion that if Dick Moore were 
taken to a good hospital and the operation of trephin- 
ing performed on several places in his skull, his mem- 
ory and faculties might be restored." 

"Gilbert!" Anne's voice was full of protest. 
"Surely you don't mean it!" 

"I do, indeed. And I have decided that it is my 
duty to broach the subject to Leslie." 

"Gilbert Blythe, you shall not do any such thing," 
cried Anne vehemently. "Oh, Gilbert, you won't 
you won't. You couldn't be so cruel. Promise me 
you won't." 

"Why, Anne-girl, I didn't suppose you would take 
it like this. Be reasonable" 

"I won't be reasonable I can't be reasonable I 
am reasonable. It is you who are unreasonable. Gil- 
bert, have you ever once thought what it would mean 
for Leslie if Dick Moore were to be restored to his 


right senses? Just stop and think! She's unhappy 
enough now; but life as Dick's nurse and attendant 
is a thousand times easier for her than life as Dick's 
wife. I know I know! It's unthinkable. Don't 
you meddle with the matter. Leave well enough 

"I have thought over that aspect of the case thor- 
oughly, Anne. But I believe that a doctor is bound 
to set the sanctity of a patient's mind and body above 
all other considerations, no matter what the conse- 
quences may be. I believe it his duty to endeavour to 
restore health and sanity, if there is any hope what- 
ever of it." 

"But Dick isn't your patient in that respect," cried 
Anne, taking another tack. "If Leslie had asked you 
if anything could be done for him, then it might be 
your duty to tell her what you really thought. But 
you've no right to meddle." 

"I don't call it meddling. Uncle Dave told Leslie 
twelve years ago that nothing could be done for Dick. 
She believes that, of course." 

"And why did Uncle Dave tell her that, if it wasn't 
true?" cried Anne, triumphantly. "Doesn't he know 
as much about it as you?" 

"I think not though it may sound conceited and 
presumptuous to say it. And you know as well as I 
that he is rather prejudiced against what he calls 
'these new-fangled notions of cutting and carving.' 
He's even opposed to operating for appendicitis." 


"He's right," exclaimed Anne, with a complete 
change of front. "I believe myself that you modern 
doctors are entirely too fond of making experiments 
with human flesh and blood." 

"Rhoda Allonby would not be a living woman to- 
day if I had been afraid of making a certain experi- 
ment," argued Gilbert. "I took the risk and saved 
her life." 

"I'm sick and tired of hearing about Rhoda Allon- 
by," cried Anne most unjustly, for Gilbert had never 
mentioned Mrs. Allonby's name since the day he had 
told Anne of his success in regard to her. And he 
could not be blamed for other people's discussion of it. 

Gilbert felt rather hurt. 

"I had not expected you to look at the matter as 
you do, Anne," he said a little stiffly, getting up and 
moving towards the office door. It was their first ap- 
proach to a quarrel. 

But Anne flew after him and dragged him back. 

"Now, Gilbert, you are not 'going off mad.' Sit 
down here and I'll apologise bee-ym-ti- fully. I 
shouldn't have said that. But oh, if you knew " 

Anne checked herself just in time. She had been 
on the very verge of betraying Leslie's secret. 

"Knew what a woman feels about it," she concluded 

"I think I do know. I've looked at the matter from 
every point of view and I've been driven to the con- 
clusion that it is my duty to tell Leslie that I believe 


it is possible that Dick can be restored to himself; 
there my responsibility ends. It will be for her to 
decide what she will do." 

"I don't think you've any right to put such a re- 
sponsibility on her. She has enough to bear. She 
is poor how could she afford such an operation?" 

"That is for her to decide," persisted Gilbert stub- 

"You say you think that Dick can be cured. But 
are you sure of it?" 

"Certainly not. Nobody could be sure of such a 
thing. There may have been lesions of the brain 
itself, the effect of which can never be removed. But 
if, as I believe, his loss of memory and other faculties 
is due merely to the pressure on the brain centres of 
certain depressed areas of bone, then he can be cured." 

"But it's only a possibility !" insisted Anne. "Now, 
suppose you tell Leslie and she decides to have the 
operation. It will cost a great deal. She will have to 
borrow the money, or sell her little property. And 
suppose the operation is a failure and Dick remains 
the same. How will she be able to pay back the 
money she borrows, or make a living for herself and 
that big helpless creature if she sells the farm?" 

"Oh, I know I know. But it is my duty to tell 
her. I can't get away from that conviction." 

"Oh, I know the Blythe stubbornness," groaned 
Anne. "But don't do this solely on your own responsi- 
bility. Consult Doctor Dave." 


"I have done so," said Gilbert reluctantly. 

"And what did he say?" 

"In brief as ^ou say leave well enough alone, 
Apart from his prejudice against new-fangled surgery, 
I'm afraid he looks at the case from your point of 
view don't do it, for Leslie's sake." 

"There now," cried Anne triumphantly. "I do think, 
Gilbert, that you ought to abide by the judgment of a 
man nearly eighty, who has seen a great deal and saved 
scores of lives himself surely his opinion ought to 
weigh more than a mere boy's." 

"Thank you." 

"Don't laugh. It's too serious." 

"That's just my point. It is serious. Here is a man 
who is a helpless burden. He may be restored to 
reason and usefulness " 

"He was so very useful before," interjected Anne 

"He may be given a chance to make good and re- 
deem the past. His wife doesn't know this. I do. 
It is therefore my duty to tell her that there is such 
a possibility. That, boiled down, is my decision." 

"Don't say 'decision' yet, Gilbert. Consult somebody 
else. Ask Captain Jim what he thinks about it." 

"Very well. But I'll not promise to abide by his 
opinion, Anne. This is something a man must decide 
for himself. My conscience would never be easy if I 
kpt silent on the subject." 

"Oh, your conscience!" moaned Anne. "I suppose 


that Uncle Dave has a conscience too, hasn't he?" 

"Yes. But I am not the keeper of his conscience. 
Come, Anne, if this affair did not concern Leslie if 
it were a purely abstract case, you would agree with 
me, you know you would." 

"I wouldn't," vowed Anne, trying to believe it her- 
self. "Oh, you can argue all night, Gilbert, but you 
won't convince me. Just you ask Miss Cornelia what 
she thinks of it." 

"You're driven to the last ditch, Anne, when you 
bring up Miss Cornelia as a reinforcement. She will 
say, 'J ust like a man,' and rage furiously. No matter. 
This is no affair for Miss Cornelia to settle. Leslie 
alone must decide it." 

"You know very well how she will decide it," said 
Anne, almost in tears. "She has ideals of duty, too. 
I don't see how you can take such a responsibility on 
your shoulders. / couldn't." 

" 'Because right is right to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence/ " 

quoted Gilbert. 

"Oh, you think a couplet of poetry a convincing 
argument !" scoffed Anne. "That is so like a man." 

And then she laughed in spite of herself. It sounded 
so like an echo of Miss Cornelia. 

"Well, if you won't accept Tennyson as an authority, 
perhaps you will believe the words of a Greater than 
he," said Gilbert seriously. " 'Ye shall know the truth 
and the truth shall make you free.' I believe that, 


Anne, with all my heart. It's the greatest and grandest 
verse in the Bible or in any literature and the 
truest, if there are comparative degrees of trueness. 
And it's the first duty of a man to tell the truth, as he 
sees it and believes it." 

"In this case the truth won't make poor Leslie 
free," sighed Anne. "It will probably end in still more 
bitter bondage for her. Oh, Gilbert, I can't think you 
ire right." 



A SUDDEN outbreak of a virulent type of 
influenza at the Glen and down at the fishing 
village kept Gilbert so busy for the next fortnight 
that he had no time to pay the promised visit to 
Captain Jim. Anne hoped against hope that he had 
abandoned the idea about Dick Moore, and, resolving 
to let sleeping dogs lie, she said no more about the 
subject. But she thought of it incessantly. 

"I wonder if it would be right for me to tell him 
that Leslie cares for Owen," she thought. "He would 
never let her suspect that he knew, so her pride would 
not suffer, and it might convince him that he should 
let Dick Moore alone. Shall I shall I? No, after 
all, I cannot. A promise is sacred, and I've no right 
to betray Leslie's secret. But oh, I never felt so 
worried over anything in my life as I do over this. 
It's spoiling the spring it's spoiling everything." 

One evening Gilbert abruptly proposed that they go 
down and see Captain Jim. With a sinking heart 
Anne agreed, and they set forth. Two weeks of kind 
sunshine had wrought a miracle in the bleak landscape 



over which Gilbert's crow had flown. The hills and 
fields were dry and brown and warm, ready to break 
into bud and blossom ; the harbour was laughter-shaken 
again; the long harbour road was like a gleaming red 
ribbon ; down on the dunes a crowd of boys, who were 
out smelt fishing, were burning the thick, dry sand- 
hill grass of the preceding summer. The flames swept 
over the dunes rosily, flinging their cardinal banners 
against the dark gulf beyond, and illuminating the 
channel and the fishing village. It was a picturesque 
scene which would at other times have delighted 
Anne's eyes; but she was not enjoying this walk. 
Neither was Gilbert. Their usual good-comradeship 
and Josephian community of taste and view-point 
were sadly lacking. Anne's disapproval of the whole 
project showed itself in the haughty uplift of her 
head and the studied politeness of her remarks. 
Gilbert's mouth was set in all the Blythe obstinacy, 
but his eyes were troubled. He meant to do what he 
believed to be his duty; but to be at outs with Anne 
was a high price to pay. Altogether, both were glad 
when they reached the light and remorseful that they 
should be glad. 

Captain Jim put away the fishing net upon which 
he was working, and welcomed them joyfully. In the 
searching light of the spring evening he looked older 
than Anne had ever seen him. His hair had grown 
much grayer, and the strong old hand shook a little. 
But his blue eyes were clear and steady, and the staunch 


soul looked out through them gallant and unafraid. 

Captain Jim listened in amazed silence while Gilbert 
said what he had come to say. Anne, who knew how 
the old man worshipped Leslie, felt quite sure that he 
would side with her, although she had not much hope 
that this would influence Gilbert. She was therefore 
surprised beyond measure when Captain Jim, slowly 
and sorrowfully, but unhesitatingly, gave it as his 
opinion that Leslie should be told. 

"Oh, Captain Jim, I didn't think you'd say that," 
she exclaimed reproachfully. "I thought you wouldn't 
want to make more trouble for her." 

Captain Jim shook his head. 

"I don't want to. I know how you feel about it, 
Mistress Blythe just as I feel meself. But it ain't 
our feelings we have to steer by through life no, no, 
we'd make shipwreck mighty often if we did that. 
There's only the one saf compass and we've got to 
set our course by that what it's right to do. I agree 
with the doctor. If there's a chance for Dick, Leslie 
should be told of it. There's no two sides to that, in 
my opinion." 

"Well," said Anne, giving up in despair, "wait 
until Miss Cornelia gets after you two men." 

"Cornelia'll rake us fore and aft, no doubt," as- 
sented Captain Jim. "You women are lovely critters, 
Mistress Blythe, but you're just a mite illogical. You're 
a highly eddicated lady and Cornelia isn't, but you're 
like as two peas when it comes to that. I dunno's 


you're any the worse for it. Logic is a sort of hard, 
merciless thing, I reckon. Now, I'll brew a cup of 
tea and we'll drink it and talk of pleasant things, jest 
to calm our minds a bit." 

At least, Captain Jim's tea and conversation calmed 
Anne's mind to such an extent that she did not make 
Gilbert suffer so acutely on the way home as she had 
deliberately intended to do. She did not refer to the 
burning question at all, but she chatted amiably of 
other matters, and Gilbert understood that he was 
forgiven under protest. 

"Captain Jim seems very frail and bent this spring. 
The winter has aged him," said Anne sadly. "I am 
afraid that he will soon be going to seek lost Margaret. 
I can't bear to think of it." 

"Four Winds won't be the same place when Captain 
Jim 'sets out to sea,' " agreed Gilbert. 

The following evening he went to the house up the 
brook. Anne wandered dismally around until his 

"Well, what did Leslie say?" she demanded when 
he came in. 

"Very little. I think she felt rather dazed." 
"And is she going to have the operation ?" 
"She is going to think it over and decide very soon." 
Gilbert flung himself wearily into the easy chair 
before the fire. He looked tired. It had not been an 
easy thing for him to tell Leslie. And the terror that 
had sprung into her eyes when the meaning of what 


he told her came home to her was not a pleasant thing 
to remember. Now, when the die was cast, he was 
beset with doubts of his own wisdom. 

Anne looked at him remorsefully; then she slipped 
down on the rug beside him and laid her glossy red 
head on his arm. 

"Gilbert, I've been rather hateful over this. I won't 
be any more. Please just call me red-headed and 
forgive me." 

By which Gilbert understood that, no matter what 
came of it, there would be no I-told-you-so's. But he 
was not wholly comforted. Duty in the abstract is one 
thing; duty in the concrete is quite another, especially 
when the doer is confronted by a woman's stricken 

Some instinct made Anne keep away from Leslie 
for the next three days. On the third evening Leslie 
came down to the little house and told Gilbert that she 
had made up her mind; she would take Dick to 
Montreal and have the operation. 

She was very pale and seemed to have wrapped 
herself in her old mantle of aloofness. But her eyes 
had lost the look which had haunted Gilbert; they 
were cold and bright; and she proceeded to discuss 
details with him in a crisp, business-like way. There 
were plans to be made and many things to be thought 
over. When Leslie had got the information she 
wanted she went home. Anne wanted to walk part of 
the way with her. 


"Better not," said Leslie curtly. "To-day's rain has 
made the ground damp. Good-night" 

"Have I lost my friend?" said Anne with a sigh. 
"If the operation is successful and Dick Moore finds 
himself again Leslie will retreat into some remote 
fastness of her soul where none of us can ever find 

"Perhaps she will leave him," said Gilbert. 

"Leslie would never do that, Gilbert. Her sense 
of duty is very strong. She told me once that her 
Grandmother West always impressed upon her the 
fact that when she assumed any responsibility she 
must never shirk it, no matter what the consequences 
might be. That is one of her cardinal rules. I 
suppose it's very old-fashioned." 

"Don't be bitter, Anne-girl. You know you don't 
think it old-fashioned you know you have the very 
same idea of the sacredness of assumed responsibili- 
ties yourself. And you are right. Shirking respon- 
sibilities is the curse of our modern life the secret 
of all the unrest and discontent that is seething in 
the world." 

"Thus saith the preacher," mocked Anne. But 
under the mockery she felt that he was right ; and she 
was very sick at heart for Leslie. 

A week later Miss Cornelia descended like an 
avalanche upon the little house. Gilbert was away 
and Anne was compelled to bear the shock of the 
impact alone. 


Miss Cornelia hardly waited to get her hat off be- 
fore she began. 

"Anne, do you mean to tell me it's true what I've 
heard that Dr. Blythe has told Leslie Dick can be 
cured, and that she is going to take him to Montreal 
to have him operated on?" 

'"Yes, it is quite true, Miss Cornelia," said Anne 

"Well, it's inhuman cruelty, that's what it is," said 
Miss Cornelia, violently agitated. "I did think Dr. 
Blythe was a decent man. I didn't think he could 
have been guilty of this." 

"Dr. Blythe thought it was his duty to tell Leslie 
that there was a chance for Dick," said Anne with 
spirit, "and," she added, loyalty to Gilbert getting the 
better of her, "I agree with him." 

"Oh, no, you don't, dearie," said Miss Cornelia. 
"No person with any bowels of compassion could." 

"Captain Jim does." 

"Don't quote that old ninny to me," cried Miss 
Cornelia. "And I don't care who agrees with him. 
Think think what it means to that poor hunted, har- 
ried girl." 

"We do think of it. But Gilbert believes that a 
doctor should put the welfare of a patient's mind and 
body before all other considerations." 

"That's just like a man. But I expected better 
things of you, Anne," said Miss Cornelia, more in 
sorrow than in wrath ; then she proceeded to bombard 


Anne with precisely the same arguments with which 
the latter had attacked Gilbert; and Anne valiantly 
defended her husband with the weapons he had used 
for his own protection. Long was the fray, but Miss 
Cornelia made an end at last. 

"It's an iniquitous shame," she declared, almost 
in tears. "That's just what it is an iniquitous shame. 
Poor, poor Leslie !" 

"Don't you think Dick should be considered a little, 
too?" pleaded Anne. 

"Dick! Dick Moore! He's happy enough. He's 
a better-behaved and more reputable member of society 
now than he ever was before. Why, he was a drunk- 
ard and perhaps worse. Are you going to set him 
loose again to roar and to devour?" 

"He may reform," said poor Anne, beset by foe 
without and traitor within. 

"Reform your grandmother!" retorted Miss 
Cornelia. "Dick Moore got the injuries that left him 
as he is in a drunken brawl. He deserves his fate. It 
was sent on him for a punishment. I don't believe the 
doctor has any business to tamper with the visitations 
of God." 

"Nobody knows how Dick was hurt, Miss Cornelia. 
It may not have been in a drunken brawl at all. He 
may have been waylaid and robbed." 

"Pigs may whistle, but they've poor mouths for it," 
said Miss Cornelia. "Well, the gist of what you tell 
me is that the thing is settled and there's no use in 


talking. If that's so I'll hold my tongue. I don't pro- 
pose to wear my teeth out gnawing files. When a 
thing has to be I give in to it. But I like to make 
mighty sure first that it has to be. Now, I'll devote 
my energies to comforting and sustaining Leslie. And 
after all," added Miss Cornelia, orightening up hope- 
fully, "perhaps nothing can be done for Dick." 


LESLIE, having once made up her mind what to 
do, proceeded to do it with characteristic resolu- 
tion and speed. House-cleaning must be finished with 
first, whatever issues of life and death might await 
beyond. The gray house up the brook was put into 
flawless order and cleanliness, with Miss Cornelia's 
ready assistance. Miss Cornelia, having said her say 
to Anne, and later on to Gilbert and Captain Jim 
sparing neither of them, let it be assured never spoke 
of the matter to Leslie. She accepted the fact of Dick's 
operation, referred to it when necessary in a business- 
like way, and ignored it when it was not. Leslie never 
attempted to discuss it. She was very cold and quiet 
during these beautiful spring days. She seldom visited 
Anne, and though she was invariably courteous and 
friendly, that very courtesy was as an icy barrier be- 
tween her and the people of the little house. The 
old jokes and laughter and chumminess of common 
things could not reach her over it. Anne refused to 
feel hurt. She knew that Leslie was in the grip of 



a hideous dread a dread that wrapped her away from 
all little glimpses of happiness and hours of pleasure. 
When one great passion seizes possession of the soul 
all other feelings are crowded aside. Never in .all 
her life had Leslie Moore shuddered away from the 
future with more intolerable terror. But she went 
forward as unswervingly in the path she had elected 
as the martyrs of old walked their chosen way, know- 
ing the end of it to be the fiery agony of the stake. 

The financial question was settled with greater ease 
than Anne had feared. Leslie borrowed the necessary 
money from Captain Jim, and, at her insistence, he 
took a mortgage on the little farm. 

"So that is one thing off the poor girl's mind," Miss 
Cornelia told Anne, "and off mine too. Now, if Dick 
gets well enough to work again he'll be able to earn 
enough to pay the interest on it; and if he doesn't I 
know Captain Jim'll manage someway that Leslie 
won't have to. He said as much to me. Tm getting old, 
Cornelia,' he said, 'and I've no chick or child of my 
own. Leslie won't take a gift from a living man, 
but mebbe she will from a dead one.' So it will be 
all right as far as that goes. I wish everything else 
might be settled as satisfactorily. As for that wretch 
of a Dick, he's been awful these last few days. The 
devil was in him, believe me! Leslie and I 
couldn't get on with our work for the tricks he'd 
play. He chased all her ducks one day around the 
yard till most of them died. And not one thing would 


he do for us. Sometimes, you know, he'll make him- 
self quite handy, bringing in pails of water and wood. 
But this week if we sent him to the well he'd try to 
climb down into it. I thought once, 'If you'd only 
shoot down there head-first everything would be nicely 
settled.' " 

"Oh, Miss Cornelia!" 

"Now, you needn't Miss Cornelia me, Anne, dearie. 
'Anybody would have thought the same. If the Mont- 
real doctors can make a rational creature out of Dick 
Moore they're wonders." 

Leslie took Dick to Montreal early in May. Gilbert 
went with her, to help her, and make the necessary 
arrangements for her. He came home with the report 
that the Montreal surgeon whom they had consulted 
agreed with him that there was a good chance of 
Dick's restoration. 

"Very comforting," was Miss Cornelia's sarcastic 

Anne only sighed. Leslie had been very distant at 
their parting. But she had promised to write. Ten 
days after Gilbert's return the letter came. Leslie 
wrote that the operation had been success fullly per- 
formed and that Dick was making a good recovery. 

"What does she mean by 'successfully?' " asked 
Anne. "Does she mean that Dick's memory is really 

"Not likely since she says nothing of it," said 
Gilbert. "She uses the word 'successfully' from the 


surgeon's point of view. The operation has been 
performed and followed by normal results. But it 
is too soon to know whether Dick's faculties will be 
eventually restored, wholly or in part. His memory 
would not be likely to return to him all at once. The 
process will be gradual, if it occurs at all. Is that 
all she says?" 

"Yes there's her letter. It's very short. Poor 
girl, she must be under a terrible strain. Gilbert 
Blythe, there are heaps of things I long to say to you, 
only it would be mean." 

"Miss Cornelia says them for you," said Gilbert 
with a rueful smile. "She combs me down every time 
I encounter her. She makes it plain to me that she 
regards me as little better than a murderer, and that 
she thinks it a great pity that Dr. Dave ever let me 
step into his shoes. She even told me that the Method- 
ist doctor over the harbour was to be preferred before 
me. With Miss Cornelia the force of condemnation 
can no further go." 

"If Cornelia Bryant was sick, it would not be 
Doctor Dave or the Methodist doctor she would send 
for," sniffed Susan. "She would have you out of 
your hard-earned bed in the middle of the night, 
doctor,dear, if she took a spell of misery, that she 
would. And then she would likely say your bill was 
past all reason. But do not you mind her, doctor, 
dear. It takes all kinds of people to make a world." 

No further word came from Leslie for some time. 


The May days crept away in a sweet succession and 
the shores of Four Winds Harbour greened and 
bloomed and purpled. One day in late May Gilbert 
came home to be met by Susan in the stable yard. 

"I am afraid something has upset Mrs. Doctor, 
doctor, dear," she said mysteriously. "She got a 
letter this afternoon and since then she has just been 
walking round the garden and talking to herself. 
You know it is not good for her to be on her feet so 
much, doctor, dear. She did not see fit to tell me 
what her news was, and I am no pry, doctor, dear, 
and never was, but it is plain something has upset 
her. And it is not good for her to be upset." 

Gilbert hurried rather anxiously to the garden. 
Had anything happened at Green Gables ? But Anne, 
sitting on the rustic seat by the brook, did not look 
troubled, though she was certainly much excited. Her 
eyes were their grayest, and scarlet spots burned on 
her cheeks. 

"What has happened, Anne?" 

Anne gave a queer little laugh. 

"I think you'll hardly believe it when I tell you, 
Gilbert 7 can't believe it yet. As Susan said the 
other day, 'I feel like a fly coming to life in the sun 
dazed-like.' It's all so incredible. I've read the 
letter a score of times and every time it's just the 
same I can't believe my own eyes. Oh, Gilbert, you 
were right so right. I can see that clearly enough 


now and I'm so ashamed of myself and will you 
ever really forgive me?" 

"Anne, I'll shake you if you don't grow coherent. 
Redmond would be ashamed of you. What has 

"You won't believe it you won't believe it " 

"I'm going in to 'phone for Uncle Dave," said 
Gilbert, pretending to start for the house. 

"Sit down, Gilbert. I'll try to tell you. I've had 
a letter, and oh, Gilbert, it's all so amazing so in- 
credibly amazing we never thought not one of us 
ever dreamed " 

"I suppose," said Gilbert, sitting down with a re- 
signed air, "the only thing to do in a case of this 
kind is to have patience and go at the matter cate- 
gorically. Whom is your letter from?" 

"Leslie and, oh, Gilbert" 

"Leslie! Whew! What has she to say? What's 
the news about Dick?" 

Anne lifted the letter and held it out, calmly 
dramatic in a moment. 

"There is no Dick! The man we have thought 
Dick Moore whom everybody in Four Winds has 
believed for twelve years to be Dick Moore is his 
cousin, George Moore, of Nova Scotia, who, it seems, 
always resembled him very strikingly. Dick Moore 
died of yellow fever thirteen years ago in Cuba." 


AND do you mean to tell me, Anne, dearie, that 
Dick Moore has turned out not to be Dick 
Moore at all but somebody else? Is that what you 
'phoned up to me today?" 

"Yes, Miss Cornelia. It is very amazing, isn't it?" 

"It's it's just like a man," said Miss Cornelia 
helplessly. She took off her hat with trembling fingers. 
For once in her life Miss Cornelia was undeniably 

"I can't seem to sense it, Anne," she said. "I've 
heard you say it and I believe you but I can't take 
it in. Dick Moore is dead has been dead all these 
years and Leslie is free?" 

"Yes. The truth has made her free. Gilbert was 
right when he said that verse was the grandest in the 

"Tell me everything, Anne, dearie. Since I got 
your 'phone I've been in a regular muddle, believe me. 
Cornelia Bryant was never so kerflummuxed before." 

"There isn't a very great deal to tell. Leslie's 


letter was short. She didn't go into particulars. This 
man George Moore has recovered his memory and 
knows who he is. He says Dick took yellow fever 
in Cuba, and the Four Sisters had to sail without him. 
George stayed behind to nurse him. But he died very 
shortly afterwards. George did not write Leslie be- 
cause he intended to come right home and tell her 

"And why didn't he?" 

"I suppose his accident must have intervened. 
Gilbert says it is quite likely that George Moore re- 
members nothing of his accident, or what led to it, 
and may never remember it. It probably happened 
very soon after Dick's death. We may find out more 
particulars when Leslie writes again." 

"Does she say what she is going to do? When is 
she coming home ?" 

"She says she will stay with George Moore until 
he can leave the hospital. She has written to his 
people in Nova Scotia. It seems that George's only 
near relative is a married sister much older than him- 
self. She was living when George sailed on the Four 
Sisters, but of course we do not know what may have 
happened since. Did you ever see George Moore, 
Miss Cornelia?" 

"I did. It is all coming back to me. He was here 
visiting his Uncle Abner eighteen years ago, when he 
and Dick would be about seventeen. They were 
double cousins, you see. Their fathers were brothers 


and their mothers were twin sisters, and they did 
look a terrible lot alike. Of course," added Miss 
Cornelia scornfully, "it wasn't one of those freak 
resemblances you read of in novels where two people 
are so much alike that they can fill each other's places 
and their nearest and dearest can't tell between them. 
In those days you could tell easy enough which was 
George and which was Dick, if you saw them together 
and near at hand. Apart, or some distance away, it 
wasn't so easy. They played lots of tricks on people 
and thought it great fun, the two scamps. George 
Moore was a little taller and a good deal fatter than 
Dick though neither of them was what you would 
call fat they were both of the lean kind. Dick had 
higher color than George, and his hair was a shade 
lighter. But their features were just alike, and they 
both had that queer freak of eyes one blue and one 
hazel. They weren't much alike in any other way, 
though. George was a real nice fellow, though he 
was a scalawag for mischief, and some said he had a 
liking for a glass even then. But everybody liked 
him better than Dick. He spent about a month here. 
Leslie never saw him; she was only about eight or 
nine then and I remember now that she spent that 
whole winter over harbour with her grandmother West. 
Captain Jim was away, too that was the winter he 
was wrecked on the Magdalens. I don't suppose 
either he or Leslie had ever heard about the Nova 
Scotia cousin looking so much like Dick. Nobody 


ever thought of him when Captain Jim brought Dick 
George, I should say home. Of course, we all 
thought Dick had changed considerable he'd got so 
lumpish and fat. But we put that down to what had 
happened to him, and no doubt that was the reason, 
for, as I've said, George wasn't fat to begin with 
either. And there was no other way we could have 
guessed, for the man's senses were clean gone. I 
can't see that it is any wonder we were all deceived. 
But it's a staggering thing. And Leslie has sacrificed 
the best years of her life to nursing a man who hadn't 
any claim on her! Oh, drat the men! No matter 
what they do, it's the wrong thing. And no matter 
who they are, it's somebody they shouldn't be. They 
do exasperate me." 

"Gilbert and Captain Jim are men, and it is through 
them that the truth has been discovered at last," said 

"Well, I admit that," conceded Miss Cornelia re- 
luctantly. "I'm sorry I raked the doctor off so. It's 
the first time in my life I've ever felt ashamed of any- 
thing I said to a man. I don't know as I shall tell 
him so, though. He'll just have to take it for granted. 
Well, Anne, dearie, it's a mercy the Lord doesn't 
answer all our prayers. I've been praying hard right 


along that the operation wouldn't cure Dick. Of 
course I didn't put it just quite so plain. But that 
was what was in the back of my mind, and I have no 
doubt the Lord knew it." 


"Well, He has answered the spirit of your prayer. 
You really wished that things shouldn't be made any 
harder for Leslie. I'm afraid that in my secret heart 
I've been hoping the operation wouldn't succeed, and 
I am wholesomely ashamed of it." 

"How does Leslie seem to take it?" 

"She writes like one dazed. I think that, like our- 
selves, she hardly realises it yet. She says, 'It all 
seems like a strange dream to me, Anne.' That is the 
only reference she makes to herself." 

"Poor child ! I suppose when the chains are struck 
off a prisoner he'd feel queer and lost without them 
for a while. Anne, dearie, there's a thought keeps 
coming into my mind. What about Owen Ford? We 
both know Leslie was fond of him. Did it ever occur 
to you that he was fond of her?" 

"It did once," admitted Anne, feeling that she 
might say so much. 

"Well, I hadn't any reason to think he was, but it 
just appeared to me he must he. Now, Anne, dearie, 
the Lord knows I'm not a match-maker, and I scorn 
all such doings. But if I were you and writing to that 
Ford man I'd just mention, casual-like, what has 
happened. That is what /'d do." 

"Of course I will mention it when I write him," 
said Anne, a trifle distantly. Somehow, this was a 
thing she could not discuss with Miss Cornelia. And 
yet, she had to admit that the same thought had been 
lurking in her mind ever since she had heard of 


Leslie's freedom. But she would not desecrate it by 
free speech. 

"Of course there is no great rush, dearie. But 
Dick Moore's been dead for thirteen years and Leslie 
has wasted enough of her life for him. We'll just see 
what comes of it. As for this George Moore, who's 
gone and come back to life when everyone thought he 
was dead and done for, just like a man, I'm real 
sorry for him. He won't seem to fit in anywhere." 

"He is still a young man, and if he recovers com- 
pletely, as seems likely, he will be able to make a place 
for himself again. It must be very strange for him, 
poor fellow. I suppose all these years since his ac- 
cident will not exist for him." 


A FORTNIGHT later Leslie Moore came home 
alone to the old house where she had spent so 
many bitter years. In the June twilight she went over 
the fields to Anne's, and appeared with ghost-like 
suddenness in the scented garden. 

"Leslie!" cried Anne in amazement. "Where have 
you sprung from ? We never knew you were coming. 
Why didn't you write ? We would have met you." 

"I couldn't write somehow, Anne. It seemed so 
futile to try to say anything with pen and ink. And 
I wanted to get back quietly and unobserved." 

Anne put her arms about Leslie and kissed her. 
Leslie returned the kiss warmly. She looked pale and 
tired, and she gave a little sigh as she dropped down 
on the grasses beside a great bed of daffodils that 
were gleaming through the pale, silvery twilight like 
golden stars. 

"And you have come home alone, Leslie?" 

"Yes. George Moore's sister came to Montreal 
and took him home with her. Poor fellow, he was 
sorry to part with me though I was a stranger to 



him when his memory first came back. He clung to 
me in those first hard days when he was trying to 
realise that Dick's death was not the thing of yester- 
day that it seemed to him. It was all very hard for 
him. I helped him all I could. When his sister came 
it was easier for him, because it seemed to him only 
the other day that he had seen her last. Fortunately 
she had not changed much, and that helped him, too." 

"It is all so strange and wonderful, Leslie. I think 
we none of us realise it yet." 

"I cannot. When I went into the house over there 
an hour ago, I felt that it must be a dream that Dick 
must be there, with his childish smile, as he had been 
for so long. Anne, I seem stunned yet. I'm not 
glad or sorry or anything. I feel as if something 
had been torn suddenly out of my life and left a ter- 
rible hole. I feel as if I couldn't be / as if I must 
have changed into somebody else and couldn't get 
used to it. It gives me a horrible lonely, dazed, help- 
less feeling. It's good to see you again it seems as 
if you were, a sort of anchor for my drifting soul. 
Oh Anne, I dread it all the gossip and wonderment 
and questioning. When I think of that, I wish that 
I need not have come home at all. Dr. Dave was 
at the station when I came off the train he brought 
me home. Poor old man, he feels very badly because 
he told me years ago that nothing could be done for 
Dick. 'I honestly thought so, Leslie,' he said to me 
today. 'But I should have told you not to depend 


on my opinion I should have told you to go to a 
specialist. If I had, you would have been saved many 
bitter years, and poor George Moore many wasted 
ones. I blame myself very much, Leslie.' I told him 
not to do that he had done what he thought right. 
He has always been so kind to me I couldn't bear to 
see him worrying over it." 

"And Dick George, I mean ? Is his memory fully 

"Practically. Of course, there are a great manj 
details he can't recall yet but he remembers more 
and more every day. He went out for a walk on the 
evening after Dick was buried. He had Dick's 
money and watch on him; he meant to bring them 
home to me, along with my letter. He admits he went 
to a place where the sailors resorted and he re- 
members drinking and nothing else. Anne, I shall 
never forget the moment he remembered his own 
name. I saw him looking at me with an intelligent 
but puzzled expression. I said, 'Do you know me, 
Dick?' He answered, 'I never saw you before. Who 
are you? And my name is not Dick. I am George 
Moore, and Dick died of yellow fever yesterday! 
Where am I? What has happened to me?' I I 
fainted, Anne. And ever since I have felt as if I 
were in a dream." 

"You will soon adjust yourself to this new state 
of things, Leslie. And you are young life is before 
you you will have many beautiful years yet." 


"Perhaps I shall be able to look at it in that way 
after awhile, Anne. Just now I feel too tired and in- 
different to think about the future. I'm I'm Anne, 
I'm lonely. I miss Dick. Isn't it all very strange ? Do 
you know, I was really fond of poor Dick George, 
I suppose I should say just as I would have been 
fond of a helpless child who depended on me for 
everything. I would never have admitted it I was 
really ashamed of it because, you see, I had hated 
and despised Dick so much before he went away. 
When I heard that Captain Jim was bringing him 
home I expected I would just feel the same to him. 
But I never did although I continued to loathe him 
as I remembered him before. From the time he came 
home I felt only pity- a pity that hurt and wrung 
me. I supposed then that it was just because his ac- 
cident had made him so helpless and changed. But 
now I believe it was because there was really a dif- 
ferent personality there. Carlo knew it, Anne I 
know now that Carlo knew it. I always thought it 
strange that Carlo shouldn't have known Dick. Dogs 
are usually so faithful. But he knew it was not his 
master who had come back, although none of the rest 
of us did. I had never seen George Moore, you know. 
I remember now that Dick once mentioned casually 
that he had a cousin in Nova Scotia who looked as 
much like him as a twin; but the thing had gone out 
of my memory, and in any case I would never have 
thought it of iny importance. You see, it never oc- 


curred to me to question Dick's identity. Any change 
in him seemed to me just the result of the accident. 

"Oh, Anne, that night in April when Gilbert told 
me he thought Dick might be cured ! I can never for- 
get it. It seemed to me that I had once been a prisoner 
in a hideous cage of torture, and then the door had 
been opened and I could get out. I was still chained 
to the cage but I was not in it. And that night I felt 
that a merciless hand was drawing me back into the 
cage back to a torture even more terrible than it had 
once been. I didn't blame Gilbert. I felt he was right. 
And he had been very good he said that if, in view 
of the expense and uncertainty of the operation, I 
should decide not to risk it, he would not blame me in 
the least. But I knew how I ought to decide and I 
couldn't face it. All night I walked the floor like a 
mad woman, trying to compel myself to face it. I 
couldn't, Anne I thought I couldn't and when morn- 
ing broke I set my teeth and resolved that I wouldn't. 
I would let things remain as they were. It was very 
wicked, I know. It would have been a just punish- 
ment for such wickedness if I had just been left to 
abide by that decision. I kept to it all day. That 
afternoon I had to go up to the Glen to do some 
shopping. It was one of Dick's quiet, drowsy days, 
so I left him alone. I was gone a little longer than 
I had expected, and he missed me. He felt lonely. 
And when I got home, he ran to meet me just like 


h child, with such a pleased smile on his face. Some- 
how, Anne, I just gave way then. That smile on his 
poor vacant face was more than I could endure. I 
felt as if I were denying a child the chance to grow 
and develop. I knew that I must give him his chance, 
no matter what the consequences might be. So I 
came over and told Gilbert. Oh, Anne, you must 
have thought me hateful in those weeks before I went 
away. I didn't mean to be but I couldn't think of 
anything except what I had to do, and everything and 
everybody about me were like shadows. ' 

"I know I understood, Leslie. And now it is all 
over your chain is broken there is no cage." 

"There is no cage," repeated Leslie absently, pluck- 
ing at the fringing grasses with her slender, brown 
hands. "But it doesn't seem as if there were any- 
thing else, Anne. You you remember what I told 
you of my folly that night on the sand-bar? I find 
one doesn't get over being a fool very quickly. Some- 
times I think there are people who are fools forever. 
And to be a fool of that kind is almost as bad as 
being a a dog on a chain." 

"You will feel very differently after you get over 
being tired and bewildered," said Anne, who, knowing 
a certain thing that Leslie did not know, did not feel 
herself called upon to waste overmuch sympathy. 

Leslie laid her splendid golden head against Anne's 


"Anyhow, I have you," she said. "Life can't be al- 
together empty with such a friend. Anne, pat my 
head just as if I were a little girl mother me a bit 
and let me tell you while my stubborn tongue is 
loosed a little just what you and your comradeship 
have meant to me since that night I met you on the 
rock shore." 


ONE morning, when a windy golden sunrise was 
billowing over the gulf in waves of light, a 
certain weary stork flew over the bar of Four Winds 
Harbour on his way from the Land of Evening Stars. 
Under, his wing was tucked a sleepy, starry-eyed, little 
creature. The stork was tired, and he looked wist- 
fully about him. He knew he was somewhere near his 
destination, but he could not yet see it. The big, 
white light-house on the red sandstone cliff had its 
good points; but no stork possessed of any gumption 
would leave a new, velvet baby there. An old gray 
house, surrounded by willows, in a blossomy brook 
valley, looked more promising, but did not seem quite 
the thing either. The staring green abode further 
on was manifestly out of the question. Then the 
stork brightened up. He had caught sight of the 
very place a little white house nestled against a big, 
whispering fir-wood, with a spiral of blue smoke 
winding up from its kitchen chimney a house which 
just looked as if it were meant for babies. The stork 



gave a sigh of satisfaction, and softly alighted on the 

Half an hour later Gilbert ran down the hall and 
tapped on the spare-room door. A drowsy voice 
answered him and in a moment Manila's pale, scared 
face peeped out from behind the door. 

"Marilla, Anne has sent me to tell you that a cer- 
tain young gentleman has arrived here. He hasn't 
brought much luggage with him, but he evidently 
means to stay." 

"For pity's sake !" said Marilla blankly. "You don't 
mean to tell me, Gilbert, that it's all over. Why 
wasn't I called?" 

"Anne wouldn't let us disturb you when there was 
no need. Nobody was called until about two hours 
ago. There was no 'passage perilous' this time." 

"And and Gilbert will this baby live?" 

"He certainly will. He weighs ten pounds and 
why, listen to him. Nothing wrong with his lungs, 
is there? The nurse says his hair will be red. Anne 
is furious with her, and I'm tickled to death." 

That was a wonderful day in the little house of 

"The best dream of all has come true," said Anne, 
pale and rapturous. "Oh, Marilla, I hardly dare be- 
lieve it, after that horrible day last summer. I have 
had a heartache ever since then but it is gone now." 

"This baby will take Joy's place," said Marilla. 

"Oh, no, no, no, Marilla. He can't nothing can 


ever do that. He has his own place, my dear, wee 
man-child. But little Joy has hers, and always will 
have it. If she had lived she would have been over 
a year old. She would have been toddling around on 
her tiny feet and lisping a few words. I can see her 
so plainly, Marilla. Oh, I know now that Captain 
Jim was right when he said Ged would manage better 
than that my baby would seem a stranger to me when 
I found her Beyond. I've learned that this past year. 
I've followed her development day by day and week 
by week I always shall. I shall know just how she 
grows from year to year and when I meet her again 
I'll know her she won't be a stranger. Oh, Marilla, 
look at his dear, darling toes! Isn't it strange they 
should be so perfect?" 

"It would be stranger if they weren't," said Marilla 
crisply. Now that all was safely over, Marilla was 
herself again. 

"Oh, I know but it seems as if they couldn't be 
quite finished, you know and they are, even to the 
tiny nails. And his hands just look at his hands, 

"They appear to be a good deal like hands," Marilla 

"See how he clings to my finger. I'm sure he knows 
me already. He cries when the nurse takes him away. 
Oh, Marilla, do you think you don't think, do you 
that his hair is going to be red?" 

"I don't see much hair of any colour," said Marilla. 


"I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you, until it 
becomes visible." 

"Marilla, he has hair look at that fine little down 
all over his head. Anyway, nurse says his eyes will be 
hazel and his forehead is exactly like Gilbert's." 

"And he has the nicest little ears, Mrs. Doctor, 
dear," said Susan. "The first thing I did was to look 
at his ears. Hair is deceitful and noses and eyes 
change, and you cannot tell what is going to come of 
them, but ears is ears from start to finish, and you 
always know where you are with them. Just look at 
their shape and they are set right back against his 
precious head. You will never need to be ashamed 
of his ears, Mrs. Doctor, dear." 

Anne's convalescence was rapid and happy. Folks 
came and worshipped the baby, as people have bowed 
before the kingship of the new-born since long before 
the Wise Men of the East knelt in homage to the 
Royal Babe of the Bethlehem manger. Leslie, slowly 
finding herself amid the new conditions of her life, 
hovered over it, like a beautiful, golden-crowned 
Madonna. Miss Cornelia nursed it as knackily as 
could any mother in Israel. Captain Jim held the 
small creature in his big brown hands and gazed ten- 
derly at it, with eyes that saw the children who had 
never been born to him. 

"What are you going to call him?" asked Miss 

"Anne has settled his name," answered Gilbert 


"James Matthew after the two finest gentlemen 
I've ever known not even saving your presence," 
said Anne with a saucy glance at Gilbert. 

Gilbert smiled. 

"I never knew Matthew very well; he was so shy 
we boys couldn't get acquainted with him but I 
quite agree with you that Captain Jim is one of the 
rarest and finest souls God ever clothed in clay. He is 
so delighted over the fact that we have given his name 
to our small lad. It seems he has no other namesake." 

"Well, James Matthew is a name that will wear 
well and not fade in the washing," said Miss Cornelia. 
"I'm glad you didn't load him down with some high- 
falutin, romantic name that he'd be ashamed of when 
he gets to be a grandfather. Mrs. William Drew at 
the Glen has called her baby Bertie Shakespeare. 
Quite a combination, isn't it? And I'm glad you 
haven't had much trouble picking on a name. Some 
folks have an awful time. When the Stanley Flaggs' 
first boy was born there was so much rivalry as to 
who the child should be named for that the poor little 
soul had to go for two years without a name. Then 
a brother came along and there it was 'Big Baby' 
and 'Little Baby.' Finally they called Big Baby Peter 
and Little Baby Isaac, after the two grandfathers, 
and had them both christened together. And each 
tried to see if it couldn't howl the other down. You 
know that Highland Scotch family of MacNabs back 
of the Glen? They've got twelve boys and the oldest 


and the youngest are both called Neil Big Neil and 
Little Neil in the same family. Well, I s'pose they ran 
out of names." 

"I have read somewhere," laughed Anne, "that the 
first child is a poem but the tenth is very prosy prose. 
Perhaps Mrs. MacNab thought that the twelfth was 
merely an old tale re-told." 

"Well, there's something to be said for large fam- 
ilies," said Miss Cornelia, with a sigh. "I was an 
only child for eight years and I did long for a brother 
and sister. Mother told me to pray for one and 
pray I did, believe me. Well, one day Aunt Nellie 
came to me and said, 'Cornelia, there is a little brother 
for you upstairs in your ma's room. You can go up 
and see him.' I was so excited and delighted I just 
flew upstairs. And old Mrs. Flagg lifted up the baby 
for me to see. Lord, Anne, dearie, I never was so 
disappointed in my life. You see, I'd been praying 
for a brother two years older than myself." 

"How long did it take you to get over your disap- 
pointment?" asked Anne, amid her laughter. 

"Well, I had a spite at Providence for a good spell, 
and for weeks I wouldn't even look at the baby. No- 
body knew why, for I never told. Then he began to 
get real cute, and held out his wee hands to me and I 
began to get fond of him. But I didn't get really 
reconciled to him until one day a school chum came to 
see him and said she thought he was awful small for 


his age. I just got boiling mad, and I sailed right 
into her, and told her she didn't know a nice baby 
when she saw one, and ours was the nicest baby in the 
world. And after that I just worshipped him. Mother 
died before he was three years old and I was sister 
and mother to him both. Poor little lad, he was never 
strong, and he died when he wasn't much over twenty. 
Seems to me I'd have given anything on earth, Anne, 
dearie, if he'd only lived." 

Miss Cornelia sighed. Gilbert had gone down and 
Leslie, who had been crooning .over the small James 
Matthew in the dormer window, laid him asleep in his 
basket and went her way. As soon as she was safely 
out of earshot, Miss Cornelia bent forward and said 
in a conspirator's whisper: 

"Anne, dearie, I'd a letter from Owen Ford yes- 
terday. He's in Vancouver just now, but he wants to 
know if I can board him for a month later on. You 
know what that means. Well, I hope we're doing 

"We've nothing to do with it we couldn't prevent 
him from coming to Four Winds if he wanted to," 
said Anne quickly. She did not like the feeling of 
match-making Miss Cornelia's whispers gave her; 
and then she weakly succumbed herself. 

"Don't let Leslie know he is coming until he is 
here," she said. "If she found out I feel sure she 
would go away at once. She intends to go in the fall 


anyhow she told me so the other day. She is going 
to Montreal to take up nursing and make what she 
can of her life." 

"Oh, well, Anne, dearie," said Miss Cornelia, nod- 
ding sagely, "that is all as it may be. You and I have 
done our part and we must leave the rest to Higher 


WHEN Anne came downstairs again, the Island, 
as well as all Canada, was in the throes of a 
campaign preceding a general election. Gilbert, who 
was an ardent Conservative, found himself caught in 
the vortex, being much in demand for speech-making 
at the various county rallies. Miss Cornelia did not 
approve of his mixing up in politics and told Anne 

"Dr. Dave never did it. Dr. Blythe will find he is 
making a mistake, believe me. Politics is something 

no decent man should meddle with." 


"Is the government of the country to be left solely 
to the rogues then?" asked Anne. 

"Yes so long as it's Conservative rogues," said 
Miss Cornelia, marching off with the honours of war. 
"Men and politicians are all tarred with the same 
brush. The Grits have it laid on thicker than the 
Conservatives, that's all considerably thicker. But 
Grit or Tory, my advice to Dr. Blythe is to steer clear 
of politics. First thing you know, he'll be running 
an election himself, and going off to Ottawa for half 
the year and leaving his practice to go to the dogs." 



"Ah, well, let's not borrow trouble," said Anne. 
"The rate of interest is too high. Instead, let's look 
at Little Jem. It should be spelled with a G. Isn't 
he perfectly beautiful? Just see the dimples in his 
elbows. We'll bring him up to be a good Conserva- 
tive, you and I, Miss Cornelia." 

"Bring him up to be a good man," said Miss Cor- 
nelia. "They're scarce and valuable; though, mind 
you, I wouldn't like to see him a Grit. As for the 
election, you and I may be thankful we don't live over 
harbour. The air there is blue these days. Every 
Elliott and Crawford and MacAllister is on the war- 
path, loaded for bear. This side is peaceful and calm, 
seeing there's so few men. Captain Jim's a Grit, But 
it's my opinion he's ashamed of it, for he never talks 
politics. There isn't any earthly doubt that the Con- 
servatives will be returned with a big majority again." 

Miss Cornelia was mistaken. On the morning after 
the election Captain Jim dropped in at the little house 
to tell the news. So virulent is the microbe of party 
politics, even in a peaceable old man, that Captain 
Jim's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were flashing 
with all his old-time fire. 

"Mistress Blythe, the Liberals are in with a sweep- 
ing majority. After eighteen years of Tory misman- 
agement this down-trodden country is going to have 
a chance at last." 

"I never heard you make such a bitter partisan 
speech before, Captain Jim. I didn't think you had so 


much political venom in you," laughed Anne, who 
was not much excited over the tidings. Little Jem 
had said "Wow-ga" that morning. What were prin- 
cipalities and powers, the rise and fall of dynasties, 
the overthrow of Grit or Tory, compared with that 
miraculous occurrence? 

"It's been accumulating for a long while," said Cap- 
tain Jim, with a deprecating smile. "I thought I was 
only a moderate Grit, but when the news came that we 
were in I found out how Gritty I really was." 

"You know the doctor and I are Conservatives." 

"Ah, well, it's the only bad thing I know of either 
of you, Mistress Blythe. Cornelia is a Tory, too. I 
called in on my way from the Glen to tell her the 

"Didn't you know you took your life in your 

"Yes, but I couldn't resist the temptation." 

"How did she take it?" 

"Comparatively calm, Mistress Blythe, compara- 
tively calm. She says, says she, 'Well, Providence 
sends seasons of humiliation to a country, same as to 
individuals. You Grits have been cold and hungry 
for many a year. Make haste to get warmed and fed, 
for you won't be in long.' 'Well, now, Cornelia/ I 
says, 'mebbe Providence thinks Canada needs a real 
long spell of humiliation.' Ah, Susan, have you 
heard the news? The Liberals are in." 

Susan had just come in from the kitchen, attended 


by the odour of delectable dishes which always seemed 
to hover around her. 

"Now, are they?" she said, with beautiful uncon- 
cern. "Well, I never could see but that my bread rose 
just as light when Grits were in as when they were 
not. And if any party, Mrs. Doctor, dear, will make 
it rain before the week is out, and save our kitchen 
garden from entire ruination, that is the party Susan 
will vote for. In the meantime, will you just step 
out and give me your opinion on the meat for dinner? 
I am fearing that it is very tough, and I think that we 
had better change our butcher as well as our govern- 

One evening, a week later, Anne walked down to 
the Point, to see if she could get some fresh fish from 
Captain Jim, leaving Little Jem for the first time. It 
was quite a tragedy. Suppose he cried? Suppose 
Susan did not know just exactly what to do for him? 
Susan was calm and serene. 

"I have had as much experience with him as you, 
Mrs. Doctor, dear, have I not?" 

"Yes, with him but not with other babies. Why, 
I looked after three pairs of twins, when I was a 
child, Susan. When they cried, I gave them pepper- 
mint or castor oil quite coolly. It's quite curious 
now to recall how lightly I took all those babies and 
their woes." 

"Oh, well, if Little Jem cries, I will just clap a 
water bag on his little stomach," said Susan. 


"Not too hot, you know," said Anne anxiously. 
Oh, was it really wise to go? 

"Do not you fret, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Susan is 
not the woman to burn a wee man. Bless him, he 
has no notion of crying." 

Anne tore herself away finally and enjoyed her 
walk to the Point after all, through the long shadows 
of the sun-setting. Captain Jim was not in the living 
room of the lighthouse, but another man was a hand- 
some, middle-aged man, with a strong, clean-shaven 
chin, who was unknown to Anne. Nevertheless, 
when she sat down, he began to talk to her with all 
the assurance of an old acquaintance. There was 
nothing amiss in what he said or the way he said it, 
but Anne rather resented such a cool taking-for- 
granted in a complete stranger. Her replies were 
frosty, and as few as decency required. Nothing 
daunted, her companion talked on for several minutes, 
then excused himself and went away. Anne could 
have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye and it an- 
noyed her. Who was the creature ? There was some- 
thing vaguely familiar about him but she was certain 
she had never seen him before. 

"Captain Jim, who was that who just went out?" 
she asked, as Captain Jim came in. 

"Marshall Elliott," answered the captain. 

"Marshall Elliott !" cried Anne. "Oh, Captain Jim 
it wasn't yes, it was his voice oh, Captain Jim, 
I didn't know him and I was quite insulting to him ! 


Why didn't he tell me? He must have seen I didn't 
know him." 

"He wouldn't say a word about it he'd just enjoy 
the joke. Don't worry over snubbing him he'll think 
it fun. Yes, Marshall's shaved off his beard at last 
and cut his hair. His party is in, you know. I didn't 
know him myself first time I saw him. He was up in 
Carter Flagg's store at the Glen the night after elec- 
tion day, along with a crowd of others, waiting for 
the news. About twelve the 'phone came through 
the Liberals were in. Marshall just got up and 
walked out he didn't cheer or shout he left the 
others to do that, and they nearly lifted the roof off 
Carter's store, I reckon. Of course, all the Tories 
were over in Raymond Russell's store. Not much 
cheering there. Marshall went straight down the 
street to the side door of Augustus Palmer's barber 
shop. Augustus was in bed asleep, but Marshall 
hammered on the door until he got up and come down, 
wanting to know what all the racket was about. 

" 'Come into your shop and do the best job you 
ever did in your life, Gus,' said Marshall. The 
Liberals are in and you're going to barber a good 
Grit before the sun rises.' 

"Gus was mad as hops partly because he'd been 
dragged out of bed, but more because he's a Tory. 
He vowed he wouldn't shave any man after twelve 
at night. 


" 'You'll do what I want you to do, sonny/ said 
Marshall, 'or I'll jest turn you over my knee and give 
you one of those spankings your mother forgot.' 

"He'd have done it, too, and Gus knew it, for Mar- 
shall is as strong as an ox and Gus is only a midget 
of a man. So he gave in and towed Marshall in to 
the shop and went to work. 'Now/ says he, 'I'll 
barber you up, but if you say one word to me about 
the Grits getting in while I'm doing it I'll cut your 
throat with this razor/ says he. You wouldn't have 
thought mild little Gus could be so bloodthirsty, would 
you? Shows what party politics will do for a man. 
Marshall kept quiet and got his hair and beard dis- 
posed of and went home. When his old housekeeper 
heard him come upstairs she peeked out of her bed- 
room door to see whether 'twas him or the hired 
boy. And when she saw a strange man striding down 
the hall with a candle in his hand she screamed blue 
murder and fainted dead away. They had to send 
for the doctor before they could bring her to, and it 
was several days before she could look at Marshall 
without shaking all over." 

'Captain Jim had no fish. He seldom went out in 
his boat that summer, and his long tramping expedi- 
tions were over. He spent a great deal of his time 
sitting by his seaward window, looking out over the 
gulf, with his swiftly- whitening head leaning on his 
hand, He sat there tonight for many silent minutes, 


keeping some tryst with the past which Anne would 
not disturb. Presently he pointed to the iris of the 

"That's beautiful, isn't it, Mistress Blythe? But I 
wish you could have seen the sunrise this morning. 
It was a wonderful thing wonderful. I've seen all 
kinds of sunrises come over that gulf. I've been all 
over the world, Mistress Blythe, and take it all in 
all, I've never seen a finer sight than a summer sun- 
rise over the gulf. A man can't pick his time for 
dying, Mistress Blythe jest got to go when the Great 
Captain gives His sailing orders. But if I could I'd 
go out when the morning comes across that water. 
I've watched it many a time and thought what a thing 
it would be to pass out through that great white glory 
to whatever was waiting beyant, on a sea that ain't 
mapped out on any airthly chart. I think, Mistress 
Blythe, that I'd find lost Margaret there." 

Captain Jim had often talked to Anne of lost Mar- 
garet since he had told her the old story. His love for 
her trembled in every tone that love that had never 
grown faint or forgetful. 

"Anyway, I hope when my time comes I'll go quick 
and easy. I don't think I'm a coward, Mistress Blythe 
I've looked an ugly death in the face more than 
once without blenching. But the thought of a linger- 
ing death does give me a queer, sick feeling of 

"Don't talk about leaving us, dear, dear Captain 


Jim," pleaded Anne, in a choked voice, patting the old 
brown hand, once so strong, but now grown very 
feeble. "What would we do without you?" 

Captain Jim smiled beautifully. 

"Oh, you'd get along nicely nicely but you 
wouldn't forget the old man altogether, Mistress 
Blythe no, I don't think you'll ever quite forget 
him. The race of Joseph always remembers one 
another. But it'll be a memory that won't hurt I 
like to think that my memory won't hurt my friends 
it'll always be kind of pleasant to them, I hope and 
believe. It won't be very long now before lost Mar- 
garet calls me, for the last time. I'll be all ready to 
answer. I jest spoke of this because there's a little 
favour I want to ask you. Here's this poor old Matey 
of mine" Captain Jim reached out a hand and poked 
the big, warm, velvety, golden ball on the sofa. The 
First Mate uncoiled himself like a spring with a nice, 
throaty, comfortable sound, half purr, half, meow, 
stretched his paws in air, turned over and coiled 
himself up again. "He'll miss me when I start 
on the Long V'yage. I can't bear to think of leaving 
the poor critter to starve, like he was left before. If 
anything happens to me will you give Matey a bite 
and a corner, Mistress Blythe?" 

"Indeed I will." 

"Then that is all I had on my mind. Your Little 
Jem is to have the few curious things I picked up 
I've seen to that. And now I don't like to see tears 


in those pretty eyes, Mistress Blythe. I'll mebbe hang 
on for quite a spell yet. I heard you reading a piece 
of poetry one day last winter one of Tennyson's 
pieces. I'd sorter like to hear it again, if you could 
recite it for me." 

Softly and clearly, while the seawind blew in on 
them, Anne repeated the beautiful lines of Tennyson's 
wonderful swan song "Crossing the Bar." The old 
captain kept time gently with his sinewy hand. 

"Yes, yes, Mistress Blythe," he said, when she had 
finished, "that's it, that's it. He wasn't a sailor, you 
tell me I dunno how he could have put an old sailor's 
feelings into words like that, if he wasn't one. He 
didn't want any 'sadness o' farewells' and neither do 
I, Mistress Blythe for all will be well with me and 
mine beyant the bar." 


ANY news from Green Gables, Anne?" 
"Nothing very especial," replied Anne, fold- 
ing up Manila's letter. "Jake Donnell has been there 
shingling the roof. He is a full-fledged carpenter 
now, so it seems he has had his own way in regard 
to the choice* of a life-work. You remember his 
mother wanted him to be a college professor. I shall 
never forget the day she came to the school and rated 
me for failing to call him St. Clair." 

"Does anyone ever call him that now?" 

"Evidently not. It seems that he has completely 
lived it down. Even his mother has succumbed. I 
always thought that a boy with Jake's chin and mouth 
would get his own way in the end. Diana writes me 
that Dora has a beau. Just think of it that child!" 

"Dora is seventeen," said Gilbert. "Charlie Sloane 
and I were both mad about you when you were seven- 
teen, Anne." 

"Really, Gilbert, we must be getting on in years," 
said Anne, with a half-rueful smile, "when children 
who were six when we thought ourselves grown up 



are old enough now to have beaux. Dora's is Ralph 
Andrews Jane's brother. I remember him as a little, 
round, fat, white-headed fellow who was always at 
the foot of his class. But I understand he is quite a 
fine-looking young man now." 

"Dora will probably marry young. She's of the 
same type as Charlotta the Fourth she'll never miss 
her first chance for fear she might not get another." 

"Well, if she marries Ralph I hope he will be a 
little more up-and-coming than his brother Billy," 
mused Anne. 

"For instance," said Gilbert, laughing, "let us hope 
he will be able to propose on his own account. Anne, 
would you have married Billy if he had asked you 
himself, instead of getting Jane to do it for him?" 

"I might have." Anne went off into a shriek of 
laughter over the recollection of her first proposal. 
"The shock of the whole thing might have hypnotised 
me into some such rash and foolish act. Let us be 
thankful he did it by proxy." 

"I had a letter from George Moore yesterday," said 
Leslie, from the corner where she was reading. 

"Oh, how is he?" asked Anne interestedly, yet 
with an unreal feeling that she was inquiring about 
some one whom she did not know. 

"He is well, but he finds it very hard to adapt him- 
self to all the changes in his old home and friends. 
He is going to sea again in the spring. It's in his 


blood, he says, and he longs for it. But he told me 
something that made me glad for him, poor fellow. 
Before he sailed on the Four Sisters he was engaged 
to a girl at home. He did not tell me anything about 
her in Montreal, because he said he supposed she 
would have forgotten him and married someone else 
long ago, and with him, you see, his engagement and 
love was still a thing of the present. It was pretty 
hard on him, but when he got home he found she had 
never married and still cared for him. They are to 
be married this fall. I'm going to ask him to bring 
her over here for a little trip; he says he wants to 
come and see the place where he lived so many years 
without knowing it." 

"What a nice little romance," said Anne, whose love 
for the romantic was immortal. "And to think," she 
added with a sigh of self-reproach, "that if I had 
had my way George Moore would never have come up 
from the grave in which his identity was buried. How 
1 did fight against Gilbert's suggestion! Well, I am 
punished: I shall never be able to have a different 
opinion from Gilbert's again! If I try to have, he 
will squelch me by casting George Moore's case up 
to me!" 

"As if even that would squelch a woman!" mocked 
Gilbert. "At least do not become my echo, Anne. A 
little opposition gives spice to life. I do not want a 
wife like John MacAllister's over the harbour. No 


matter what he says, she at once remarks in that drab, 
lifeless little voice of hers, That is very true, John, 
dear me!'" 

Anne and Leslie laughed. Anne's laughter was 
silver and Leslie's golden, and the combination of the 
two was as satisfactory as a perfect chord in music. 

Susan, coming in on the heels of the laughter, 
echoed it with a resounding sigh. 

"Why, Susan, what is the matter?" asked Gilbert. 

"There's nothing wrong with Little Jem, is there, 
Susan?" cried Anne, starting up in alarm. 

"No, no, calm yourself, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Some- 
thing has happened, though. Dear me, everything 
has gone catawampus with me this week. I spoiled 
the bread, as you know too well and I scorched the 
doctor's best shirt bosom and I broke your big 
platter. And now, on the top of all this, comes word 
that my sister Matilda has broken her leg and wants 
me to go and stay with her for a spell." 

"Oh, I'm very sorry sorry that your sister has 
met with such an accident, I mean," exclaimed Anne. 

"Ah, well, man was made to mourn, Mrs. Doctor, 
dear. That sounds as if it ought to be in the Bible, 
but they tell me a person named Burns wrote it. And 
there is no doubt that we are born to trouble as the 
sparks fly upward. As for Matilda, I do not know 
what to think of her. None of our family ever broke 
their legs before. But whatever she has done she is 


still my sister, and I feel that it is my duty to go and 
wait on her, if you can spare me for a few weeks, 
Mrs. Doctor, dear." 

"Of course, Susan, of course. I can get someone 
to help me while you are gone." 

"If you cannot I will not go, Mrs. Doctor, dear, 
Matilda's leg to the contrary notwithstanding. I will 
not have you worried, and that blessed child upset in 
consequence, for any number of legs." 

"Oh, you must go to your sister at once, Susan. I 
can get a girl from the cove, who will do for a time." 

"Anne, will you let me come and stay with you 
while Susan is away?" exclaimed Leslie. "Do! I'd 
love to and it would be an act of charity on your 
part. I'm so horribly lonely over there in that big 
barn of a house. There's so little to do and at night 
I'm worse than lonely I'm frightened and nervous 
in spite of locked doors. There was a tramp around 
two days ago." 

Anne joyfully agreed, and next day Leslie was in- 
stalled as an inmate of the little house of dreams. 
Miss Cornelia warmly approved of the arrangement 

"It seems Providential," she told Anne in confi- 
dence. "I'm sorry for Matilda Clow, but since she 
had to break her leg it couldn't have happened at a 
better time. Leslie will be here while Owen Ford is 
in Four Winds, and those old cats up at the Glen 
won't get the chance to meow, as they would if she 


was living over there alone and Owen going to see 
her. They are doing enough of it as it is, because 
she doesn't put on mourning. I said to one of them, 
'If you mean she should put on mourning for George 
Moore, it seems to me more like his resurrection than 
his funeral; and if it's Dick you mean, I confess / 
can't see the propriety of going into weeds for a man 
who died thirteen years ago and good riddance then!' 
And when old Louisa Baldwin remarked to me that 
she thought it very strange that Leslie should never 
have suspected it wasn't her own husband 7 said, 'You 
never suspected it wasn't Dick Moore, and you were 
next-door neighbour to him all his life, and by nature 
you're ten times as suspicious as Leslie.' But you 
can't stop some people's tongues, Anne, dearie, and 
I'm real thankful Leslie will be under your roof while 
Owen is courting her." 

Owen Ford came to the little house one August 
evening when Leslie and Anne were absorbed in 
worshipping the baby. He paused at the open door 
of the living room, unseen by the two within, gazing 
with greedy eyes at the beautiful picture. Leslie sat 
on the floor with the baby in her lap, making ecstatic 
dabs at his fat little hands as he fluttered them in the 

"Oh, you dear, beautiful, beloved baby," she mum- 
bled, catching one wee hand and covering it with 

"Isn't him ze darlingest itty sing," crooned Anne, 


hanging over the arm of her chair adoringly. "Dem 
itty wee pads are ze very tweetest handles in ze whole 
big world, isn't dey, you darling itty man." 

Anne, in the months before Little Jem's coming, 
had pored diligently over several wise volumes, and 
pinned her faith to one in especial, "Sir Oracle on the 
Care and Training of Children." Sir Oracle implored 
parents by all they held sacred never to talk "baby 
talk" to their children. Infants should invariably be 
addressed in classical language from the moment of 
their birth. So should they learn to speak English 
undefiled from their earliest utterance. "How," de- 
manded Sir Oracle, "can a mother reasonably expect 
her child to learn correct speech, when she continually 
accustoms its impressionable gray matter to such 
absurd expressions and distortions of our noble tongue 
as thoughtless mothers inflict every day on the helpless 
creatures committed to their care? Can a child who 
is constantly called 'tweet itty wee singie' ever attain 
to any proper conception of his own being and pos- 
sibilities and destiny?" 

Anne was vastly impressed with this, and informed 
Gilbert that she meant to make it an inflexible rule 
never, under any circumstances, to talk "baby talk" 
to her children. Gilbert agreed with her, and they 
made a solemn compact on the subject a compact 
which Anne shamelessly violated the very first 
moment Little Jem was laid in her arms. "Oh, the 
darling itty wee sing!" she had exclaimed. And she 


had continued to violate it ever since. When Gilbert 
teased her she laughed Sir Oracle to scorn. 

"He never had any children of his own, Gilbert 
I am positive he hadn't or he would never have written 
such rubbish. You just can't help talking baby talk 
to a baby. It comes natural and it's right. It would 
be inhuman to talk to those tiny, soft, velvety little 
creatures as we do to great big boys and girls. Babies 
want love and cuddling and all the sweet baby talk 
they can get, and Little Jem is going to have it, bess 
his dear itty heartums." 

"But you're the worst I ever heard, Anne," pro- 
tested Gilbert, who, not being a mother but only a 
father, was not wholly convinced yet that Sir Oracle 
was wrong. "I never heard anything like the way 
you talk to that child." 

"Very likely you never did. Go away go away. 
Didn't I bring up three pairs of Hammond twins 
before I was eleven? You and Sir Oracle are nothing 
but cold-blooded theorists. Gilbert, fust look at him! 
He's smiling at me he knows what we're talking 
about. And oo dest agwees wif evy word muzzer 
says, don't oo, angel-lover ?" 

Gilbert put his arm about them. "Oh you mothers !" 
he said. "You mothers! God knew what He was 
about when He made you." 

So Little Jem was talked to and loved and cuddled : 
and he throve as became a child of the house of 
dreams. Leslie was quite as foolish over him as Anne 


was. When their work was done and Gilbert was 
out of the way, they gave themselves over to shame- 
less orgies of love-making and ecstasies of adoration, 
such as that in which Owen Ford had surprised them. 

Leslie was the first to become aware of him. Even 
in the twilight Anne could see the sudden whiteness 
that swept over her beautiful face, blotting out the 
crimson of lip and cheeks. 

Owen came forward, eagerly, blind for a moment 
to Anne. 

"Leslie !" he said, holding out his hand. It was the 
first time he had ever called her by her name; but 
the hand Leslie gave him was cold; and she was 
very quiet all the evening, while Anne and Gilbert 
and Owen laughed and talked together. Before his 
call ended she excused herself and went upstairs. 
Owen's gay spirits flagged and he went away soon 
after with a downcast air. 

Gilbert looked at Anne. 

"Anne, what are you up to? There's something 
going on that I don't understand. The whole air 
here tonight has been charged with electricity. Leslie 
sits like the muse of tragedy; Owen Ford jokes and 
laughs on the surface, and watches Leslie with the 
eyes of his soul. You seem all the time to be bursting 
with some suppressed excitement. Own up. What 
secret have you been keeping from your deceived hus- 

"Don't b, a goose, Gilbert," was Anne's conjugal 


reply. "As for Leslie, she is absurd and I'm going 
up to tell her so." 

Anne found Leslie at the dormer window of her 
room. The little place was filled with the rythmic 
thunder of the sea. Leslie sat with locked hands in 
the misty moonshine a beautiful, accusing presence. 

"Anne," she said in a low, reproachful voice, "did 
you know Owen Ford was coming to Four Winds?" 

"I did," said Anne brazenly. 

"Oh, you should have told me, Anne," Leslie cried 
passionately. "If I had known I would have gone 
away I wouldn't have stayed here to meet him. You 
should have told me. It wasn't fair of you, Anne 
oh, it wasn't fair!" 

Leslie's lips were trembling and her whole form 
was tense with emotion. But Anne laughed heart- 
lessly. She bent over and kissed Leslie's upturned, 
reproachful face. 

"Leslie, you are an adorable goose. Owen Ford 
didn't rush from the Pacific to the Atlantic from a 
burning desire to see me. Neither do I believe that he 
was inspired by any wild and frenzied passion for 
Miss Cornelia. Take off your tragic airs, my dear 
friend, and fold them up and put them away in laven- 
der. You'll never need them again. There are some 
people who can see through a grindstone when there 
is a hole in it, even if you cannot. I am not a 
prophetess, but I shall venture on a prediction. The 
bitterness of life is over for you. After this you are 


going to have the joys and hopes and I daresay the 
sorrows, too of a happy woman. The omen of the 
shadow of Venus did come true for you, Leslie. The 
year in which you saw it brought your life's best 
gift for you your love for Owen Ford. Now, go 
right to bed and have a good sleep." 

Leslie obeyed orders in so far that she went to 
bed: but it may be questioned if she slept much. I 
do not think she dared to dream wakingly; life had 
been so hard for this poor Leslie, the path on which 
she had had to walk had been so strait, that she could 
not whisper to her own heart the hopes that might 
wait on the future. But she watched the great re- 
volving light bestarring the short hours of the summer 
night, and her eyes grew soft and bright and young 
once more. Nor, when Owen Ford came next day, 
to ask her to go with him to the shore, did she say 
him nay. 



MISS CORNELIA sailed down to the little 
house one drowsy afternoon, when the gulf 
was the faint, bleached blue of hot August seas, and 
the orange lilies at the gate of Anne's garden held 
up their imperial cups to be filled with the molten gold 
of August sunshine. Not that Miss Cornelia con- 
cerned herself with painted oceans or sun-thirsty 
lilies. She sat in her favourite rocker in unusual idle- 
ness. She sewed not, neither did she spin. Nor did 
she say a single derogatory word concerning any por- 
tion of mankind. In short, Miss Cornelia's conversa- 
tion was singularly devoid of spice that day, and 
Gilbert, who had stayed home to listen to her, instead 
of going a-fishing, as he had intended, felt himself 
aggrieved. What had come over Miss Cornelia ? She 
did not look cast down or worried. On the contrary, 
there was a certain air of nervous exultation about 

"Where is Leslie?" she asked not as if it mattered 
much either. 



"Owen and she went raspberrying in the woods 
back of her farm," answered Anne. "They won't be 
back before supper time if then." 

"They don't seem to have any idea that there is 
such a thing as a clock," said Gilbert. "I can't get 
to the bottom of that affair. I'm certain you women 
pulled strings. But Anne, undutiful wife, won't tell 
me. Will you, Miss Cornelia?" 

"No, I shall not. But," said Miss Cornelia, with 
the air of one determined to take the plunge and have 
it over, "I will tell you something else. I came today 
on purpose to tell it. I am going to be married." 

Anne and Gilbert were silent. If Miss Cornelia 
had announced her intention of going out to the chan- 
nel and drowning herself the thing might have been 
believable. This was not. So they waited. Of course 
Miss Cornelia had made a mistake. 

"Well, you both look sort of kerflummexed," said 
Miss Cornelia, with a twinkle in her eyes. Now that 
the awkward moment of revelation was over, Miss 
Cornelia was her own woman again. "Do you think 
I'tfi too young and inexperienced for matrimony?" 

"You know it is rather staggering," said Gilbert, 
trying to gather his wits together. "I've heard you 
say a score of times that you wouldn't marry the best 
man in the world." 

"I'm not going to marry the best man in the world," 
retorted Miss Cornelia. "Marshall Elliott is a long 
way from being the best." 


"Are you going to marry Marshall Elliott?" ex- 
claimed Anne, recovering her power of speech under 
this second shock. 

"Yes. I could have had him any time these twenty 
years if I'd lifted my finger. But do you suppose 
I was going to walk into church beside a perambulat- 
ing haystack like that?" 

"I am sure we are very glad and we wish you all 
possible happiness," said Anne, very flatly and in- 
adequately, as she felt. She was not prepared for 
such an occasion. She had never imagined herself 
offering betrothal felicitations to Miss Cornelia. 

"Thanks, I knew you would," said Miss Cornelia. 
"You are the first of my friends to know it." 

"We shall be so sorry to lose you, though, dear 
Miss Cornelia," said Anne, beginning to be a little 
sad and sentimental. 

"Oh, you won't lose me," said Miss Cornelia un- 
sentimentally. "You don't suppose I would live over 
harbour with all those MacAllisters and Elliotts and 
Crawfords, do you? 'From the conceit of the Elliotts, 
the pride of the MacAllisters and the vain-glory of 
the Crawfords, good Lord deliver us.' Marshall is 
coming to live at my place. I'm sick and tried of 
hired men. That Jim Hastings I've got this summer 
is positively the worst of the species. He would 
drive anyone to getting married. What do you think ? 
He upset the churn yesterday and spilled a big churn- 
ing of cream over the yard. And not one whit con- 


cerned about it was he! Just gave a foolish laugh 
and said cream was good for the land. Wasn't that 
like a man ? I told him I wasn't in the habit of fertil- 
ising my back yard with cream." 

"Well, I wish you all manner of happiness too, 
Miss Cornelia," said Gilbert, solemnly; "but," he 
added, unable to resist the temptation to tease Miss 
Cornelia, despite Anne's imploring eyes, "I fear your 
day of independence is done. As you know, Marshall 
Elliott is a very determined man." 

"I like a man who can stick to a thing," retorted 
Miss Cornelia. "Amos Grant, who used to be after 
me long ago, couldn't. You never saw such a 
weather-vane. He jumped into the pond to drown 
himself once and then changed his mind and swum 
out again. Wasn't that like a man? Marshall would 
have stuck to it and drowned." 

"And he has a bit of a temper, they tell me," per- 
sisted Gilbert. 

"He wouldn't be an Elliott if he hadn't. I'm 
thankful he has. It will be real fun to make him 
mad. And you can generally do something with a 
tempery man when it comes to repenting time. But 
you can't do anything with a man who just keeps 
placid and aggravating." 

"You know he's a Grit, Miss Cornelia." 

"Yes, he is," admitted Miss Cornelia rather sadly. 
"And of course there is no hope of making a Con- 
servative of him. But at least he is a Presbyterian. 


So I suppose I shall have to be satisfied yth that." 

"Would you marry him if he were a*Methodist, 
Miss Cornelia?" 

"No, I would not. Politics is for this world, but 
religion is for both." 

"And you may be a 'relict' after all, Miss Cornelia." 

"Not I. Marshall will live me out. The Elliotts 
are long-lived, and the Bryants are not." 

"When are you to be married?" asked Anne. 

"In about a month's time. My wedding dress is 
to be navy blue silk. And I want to ask you, Anne, 
dearie, if you think it would be all right to wear a 
veil with a navy blue dress. I've always thought I'd 
like to wear a veil if I ever got married. Marshall 
says to have it if I want to. Isn't that like a man?" 

"Why shouldn't you wear it if you want to?" asked 

"Well, one doesn't want to be different from other 
people," said Miss Cornelia, who was not noticeably 
like anyone else on the face of the earth. "As I say, 
I do fancy a veil. But maybe it shouldn't be worn with 
any dress but a white one. Please tell me, Anne, 
dearie, what you really think. I'll go by your ad- 

"I don't think veils are usually worn with any but 
white dresses," admitted Anne, "but that is merely 
a convention; and I am like Mr. Elliott, Miss Cor- 
nelia. I don't see any good reason why you shouldn't 
have a veil if you want one." 



But Miss Cornelia, who made her calls in calico 
wrappers, ^pok her head. 

"If it isn't the proper thing I won't wear it," she 
said, with a sigh of regret for a lost dream. 

"Since you are determined to be married, Miss 
Cornelia," said Gilbert solemnly, "I shall give you 
the excellent rules for the management of a husband 
which my grandmother gave my mother when she 
married my father." 

"Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott," 
said Miss Cornelia placidly. "But let us hear your 

"The first one is, catch him." 

"He's caught. Go on." 

"The second one is, feed him well." 

"With enough pie. What next?" 

"The third and fourth are keep your eye on him." 

"I believe you," said Miss Cornelia emphatically. 


THE garden of the little house was a haunt 
beloved of bees and reddened by late roses 
that August. The little house folk lived much in it, 
and were given to taking picnic suppers in the grassy 
corner beyond the brook and sitting about in it through 
the twilights when great night moths sailed athwart 
the velvet gloom. One evening Owen Ford found 
Leslie alone in it. Anne and Gilbert were away, and 
Susan, who was expected back that night, had not yet 

The northern sky was amber and pale green over 
the fir tops. The air was cool, for August was near- 
ing September, and Leslie wore a crimson scarf over 
her white dress. Together they wandered through 
the little, friendly, flower-crowded paths in silence. 
Owen must go soon. His holiday was nearly over. 
Leslie found her heart beating wildly. She knew that 
this beloved garden was to be the scene of the binding 
words that must seal their as yet unworded under- 



"Some evenings a strange odour blows down the air 
of this garden, like a phantom perfume," said Owen. 
"I have never been able to discover from just what 
flower it comes. It is elusive and haunting and 
wonderfully sweet. I like to fancy it is the soul of 
Grandmother Selwyn passing on a little visit to the 
old spot she loved so well. There should be a lot of 
friendly ghosts about this little old house." 

"I have lived under its roof only a month," said 
Leslie, "but I love it as I never loved the house over 
there where I have lived all my life." 

"This house was builded and consecrated by love," 
said Owen. "Such houses must exert an influence 
over those who live in them. And this garden it 
is over sixty years old and the history of a thousand 
hopes and joys is written in its blossoms. Some of 
those flowers were actually set out by the school- 
master's bride, and she has been dead for thirty years. 
Yet they bloom on every summer. Look at those 
red roses, Leslie how they queen it over everything 

"I love the red roses," said Leslie. "Anne likes 
the pink ones best, and Gilbert likes the white. But 
I want the crimson ones. They satisfy some craving 
in me as no other flower does." 

"These roses are very late they bloom after all 
the others have gone and they hold all the warmth 
and soul of the summer come to fruition," said Owen, 
plucking some of the glowing, half-opened buds. 

'The rose is the flower of love the world has ac- 
claimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are love 
hopeful and expectant the white roses are love dead 
or forsaken but the red roses ah, Leslie, what are 
the red roses?" 

"Love triumphant," said Leslie in a low voice. 

"Yes love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you 
know you understand. I have loved you from the 
first. And I know you love me I don't need to ask 
you. But I want to hear you say it my darling 
my darling!" 

Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous 
voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life's supreme 
moment for them and as they stood there in the old 
garden, with its many years of love and delight and 
sorrow and glory, he crowned her shining hair with 
the red, red rose of a love triumphant. 

Anne and Gilbert returned presently, accompanied 
by Captain Jim. Anne lighted a few sticks of drift- 
wood in the fireplace, for love of the pixy flames, 
and they sat around it for an hour of good fellowship. 

"When I sit looking at a driftwood fire it's easy to 
believe I'm young again," said Captain Jim. 

"Can you read futures in the fire, Captain Jim?" 
asked Owen. 

Captain Jim looked at them all affectionately, ant 
then back again at Leslie's vivid face and glowing 


"I don't need the fire to read your futures," he said. 
"I see happiness for all of you all of you for 
Leslie and Mr. Ford and the Doctor here and Mis- 
tress Blythe and Little Jem and children that ain't 
born yet but will be. Happiness for you all though, 
mind you, I reckon you'll have your troubles and 
worries and sorrows, too. They're bound to come 
and no house, whether it's a palace or a little house 
of dreams, can bar 'em out. But they won't get the 
better of you if you face 'em together with love and 
trust. You can weather any storm with them two 
for compass and pilot." 

The old man rose suddenly and placed one hand on 
Leslie's head and one on Anne's. 

"Two good, sweet women," he said. "True and 
faithful and to be depended on. Your husbands will 
have honour in the gates because of you your children 
will rise up and call you blessed in the years to come." 

There was a strange solemnity about the little 
scene. Anne and Leslie bowed as those receiving a 
benediction. Gilbert suddenly brushed his hand over 
his eyes; Owen Ford was rapt as one who can see 
visions. All were silent for a space. The little house 
of dreams added another poignant and unforgettable 
moment to its store of memories. 

"I must be going now," said Captain Jim slowly 
at last. He took up his hat and looked lingeringly 
about the room. 


"Good night, all of you," he said, as he went out. 

Anne, pierced by the unusual wistfulness of his 
farewell, ran to the door after him. 

"Come back soon, Captain Jim," she called, as he 
passed through the little gate hung between the firs. 

"Ay, ay," he called cheerily back to her. But 
Captain Jim had sat by the old fireside of the house 
of dreams for the last time. 

Anne went slowly back to the others. 

"It's so so pitiful to think of him going all alone 
down to that lonely Point," she said. "And there is 
no one to welcome him there." 

"Captain Jim is such good company for others that 
one can't imagine him being anything but good com- 
pany for himself," said Owen. "But he must often 
be lonely. There was a touch of the seer about him 
tonight he spoke as one to whom it had been given 
to speak. Well, I must be going, too." 

Anne and Gilbert discreetly melted away ; but when 
Owen had gone Anne returned, to find Leslie stand- 
ing by the hearth. 

"Oh, Leslie I know and I'm so glad, dear," she 
said, putting her arms about her. 

"Anne, my happiness frightens me," whispered 
Leslie. "It seems too great to be real I'm afraid to 
speak of it to think of it. It seems to me that it 
must just be another dream of this house of dreams 
and it will vanish when I leave here." 

"Well, you are not going to leave here until Owen 


takes you. You are going to stay with me until that 
time comes. Do you think I'd let you go over to that 
lonely, sad place again?" 

"Thank you, dear. I meant to ask you if I might 
stay with you. I didn't want to go back there it 
would seem like going back into the chill and dreari- 
ness of the old life again. Anne, Anne, what a friend 
you've been to me 'a good, sweet woman true and 
faithful and to be depended on' Captain Jim summed 
you up." 

"He said 'women/ not 'woman,' " smiled Anne. 
"Perhaps Captain Jim sees us both through the rose- 
coloured spectacles of his love for us. But we can try 
to live up to his belief in us, at least." 

"Do you remember, Anne," said Leslie slowly, 
"that I once said that night we met on the shore 
that I hated my good looks? I did then. It always 
seemed to me that if I had been homely Dick would 
never have thought of me. I hated my beauty because 
it had attracted him, but now oh, I'm glad that I 
have it. It's all I have to offer Owen, his artist 
soul delights in it. I feel as if I do not come to him 
quite empty-handed." 

"Owen loves your beauty, Leslie. Who would not ? 
But it's foolish of you to say or think that that is all 
you bring him. He will tell you that I needn't. 
And now I must lock up. I expected Susan back 
tonight, but she has not come." 

"Oh, yes, here I am, Mrs. Doctor, dear," said 


Susan, entering unexpectedly from the kitchen, "and 
puffing like a hen drawing rails at that! It's quite 
a walk from the Glen down here." 

"I'm glad to see you back, Susan. How is your 

"She is able to sit up, but of course she cannot 
walk yet. However, she is very well able to get on 
without me now, for her daughter has come home for 
her vacation. And I am thankful to be back, Mrs. 
Doctor, dear. Matilda's leg was broken and no mis- 
take, but her tongue was not. She would talk the 
legs off an iron pot, that she would, Mrs. Doctor, 
dear, though I grieve to say it of my own sister. She 
was always a great talker and yet she was the first 
of our family to get married. She really did not 
care much about marrying James Clow, but she could 
not bear to disoblige him. Not but what James is a 
good man the only fault I have to find with him is 
that he always starts in to say grace with such an 
unearthly groan, Mrs. Doctor, dear. It always 
frightens my appetite clear away. And speaking of 
getting married, Mrs. Doctor, dear, is it true that 
Cornelia Bryant is going to be married to Marshall 

"Yes, quite true, Susan." 

"Well, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it does not seem to me 
fair. Here is me, who never said a word against the 
men, and I cannot get married nohow. And there is 
Cornelia Bryant, who is never done abusing them, 


and all she has to do is to reach out her hand and pick 

one up, as it were. It is a very strange world, Mrs. 

Doctor, dear." 

"There's another world, you know, Susan." 
"Yes," said Susan with a heavy sigh, "but, Mrs. 

Doctor, dear, there is neither marrying nor giving in 

marriage there." 


ONE day in late September Owen Ford's book 
came at last. Captain Jim had gone faithfully 
to the Glen post-office every day for a month, expect- 
ing it. This day he had not gone, and Leslie brought 
his copy home with hers and Anne's. 

"We'll take it down to him this evening," said 
Anne, excited as a schoolgirl. 

The walk to the Point on that clear, beguiling even- 
ing along the red harbour road was very pleasant. 
Then the sun dropped down behind the western hills 
into some valley that must have been full of lost 
sunsets, and at the same instant the big light flashed 
out on the white tower of the point. 

"Captain Jim is never late by the fraction of a 
second," said Leslie. 

Neither Anne nor Leslie ever forgot Captain Jim's 
face when they gave him the book his book, trans- 
figured and glorified. The cheeks that had been 
blanched of late suddenly flamed with the colour of 
boyhood; his eyes glowed with all the fire of youth; 
but his hands trembled as he opened it. 



It was called simply The Life-Book of Captain 
Jim, and on the title page the names of Owen Ford 
and James Boyd were printed as collaborators. The 
frontispiece was a photograph of Captain Jim him- 
self, standing at the door of the lighthouse, looking 
across the gulf. Owen Ford had "snapped" him one 
day while the book was being written. Captain Jim 
had known this, but he had not known that the picture 
was to be in the book. 

"Just think of it," he said, "the old sailor right 
there in a real printed book. This is the proudest 
day of my life. I'm like to bust, girls. There'll be 
no sleep for me tonight. I'll read my book clean 
through before sun-up." 

"We'll go right away and leave you free to begin 
it," said Anne. 

Captain Jim had been handling the book in a kind 
of reverent rapture. Now he decidedly closed it and 
laid it aside. 

"No, no, you're not going away before you take a 
cup of tea with the old man," he protested. "I 
couldn't hear to that could you, Matey? The life- 
book will keep, I reckon. I've waited for it this many 
a year. I can wait a little longer while I'm enjoying 
my friendi." 

Captain Jim moved about getting his kettle on to 
boil, and setting out his bread and butter. Despite 
his excitement he did not move with his old brisk- 
ness. His movements were slow and halting. But 


the girls did not offer to help him. They knew it 
would hurt his feelings. 

"You just picked the right evening to visit me," 
he said, producing a cake from his cupboard. "Leetle 
Joe's mother sent me down a big basket full of cakes 
and pies today. A blessing on all good cooks, says I. 
Look at this purty cake, all frosting and nuts. 'Tain't 
often I can entertain in such style. Set in, girls, set 
in! We'll 'tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang 
syne/ " 

The girls "set in" right merrily. The tea was up 
to Captain Jim's best brewing. Little Joe's mother's 
cake was the last word in cakes; Captain Jim was 
the prince of gracious hosts, never even permitting his 
eyes to wander to the corner where the life-book 
lay, in all its bravery of green and gold. But when 
his door finally closed behind Anne and Leslie they 
knew that he went straight to it, and as they walked 
home they pictured the delight of the old man poring 
over the printed pages wherein his own life was por- 
trayed with all the charm and colour of reality itself. 

"I wonder how he will like the ending the ending 
I suggested," said Leslie. 

She was never to know. Early the next morning 
Anne awakened to find Gilbert bending over her, 
fully dressed, and with an expression of anxiety on 
his face. 

-"Are you called out?" she asked drowsily. 


"No. Anne, I'm afraid there's something wrong 
at the Point. It's an hour after sunrise now, and 
the light is still burning. You know it has always 
been a matter of pride with Captain Jim to start the 
light the moment the sun sets, and put it out the 
moment it rises." 

Anne sat up in dismay. Through her window she 
saw the light blinking palely against the blue skies 
of dawn. 

"Perhaps he has fallen asleep over his life-book," 
she said anxiously, "or become so absorbed in it that 
he has forgotten the light." 

Gilbert shook his head. 

"That wouldn't be like Captain Jim. Anyway, I'm 
going down to see." 

"Wait a minute and I'll go with you," exclaimed 
Anne. "Oh, yes, I must Little Jem will sleep for 
an hour yet, and I'll call Susan. You may need a 
woman's help if Captain Jim is ill." 

It was an exquisite morning, full of tints and 
sounds at once ripe and delicate. The harbour was 
sparkling and dimpling like a girl; white gulls were 
soaring over the dunes ; beyond the bar was a shining, 
wonderful sea. The long fields by the shore were 
dewy and fresh in that first fine, purely-tinted light. 
The wind came dancing and whistling up the channel 
to replace the beautiful silence with a music more 
beautiful still. Had it not been for the baleful star 


on the white tower that early walk would have been 
a delight to Anne and Gilbert. But they went softly 
with fear. 

Their knock was not responded to. Gilbert opened 
the door and they went in. 

The old room was very quiet. On the table were 
the remnants of the little evening feast. The lamp 
still burned on the corner stand. The First Mate was 
asleep in a square of sunshine by the sofa. 

Captain Jim lay on the sofa, with his hands clasped 
over the life-book, open at the last page, lying on his 
breast. His eyes were closed and on his face was a 
look of the most perfect peace and happiness the 
look of one who has long sought and found at last. 

"He is asleep?" whispered Anne tremulously. 

Gilbert Went to the sofa and bent over him for a 
few moments. Then he straightened up. 

"Yes, he sleeps well," he said quietly. "Anne, 
Captain Jim has crossed the bar." 

They could not know precisely at what hour he 
had died, but Anne always believed that he had had 
his wish, and went out when the morning came across 
the gulf. Out on that shining tide his spirit drifted, 
over the sunrise sea of pearl and silver, to the haven 
where lost Margaret waited, beyond the storms and 


CAPTAIN JIM was buried in the little over- 
harbour graveyard, very near to the spot where 
the wee white lady slept. His relatives put up a very 
expensive, very ugly "monument" a monument at 
which he would have poked sly fun had he seen it in 
life. But his real monument was in the hearts of 
those who knew him, and in the book that was to live 
for generations. 

Leslie mourned that Captain Jim had not lived to 
see the amazing success of it. 

"How he would have delighted in the reviews 
they are almost all so kindly. And to have seen his 
life-book heading the lists of the best sellers oh, if 
he could just have lived to see it, Anne!" 

But Anne, despite her grief, was wiser. 

"It was the book itself he cared for, Leslie not 
what might be said of it and he had it. He had read 
it all through. That last night must have been one of 
the greatest happiness for him with the quick, pain- 
less ending he had hoped for in the morning. I am 



glad for Owen's sake and yours that the book is such 
a success but Captain Jim was satisfied I know" 

The lighthouse star still kept its nightly vigil; a 
substitute keeper had been sent to the Point, until 
such time as an all-wise government could decide 
which of many applicants was best fitted for the place 
or had the strongest pull. The First Mate was at 
home in the little house, beloved by Anne and Gilbert 
and Leslie, and tolerated by a Susan who had small 
liking for cats. 

"I can put up with him for the sake of Captain 
Jim, Mrs. Doctor, dear, for I liked the old man. And 
I will see that he gets bite and sup, and every mouse 
the traps account for. But do not ask me to do more 
than that, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Cats is cats, and take 
my word for it, they will never be anything else. And 
at least, Mrs. Doctor, dear, do keep him away from 
the blessed wee man. Picture to yourself how awful 
it would be if he was to suck the darling's breath." 

"That might be fitly called a oz/-astrophe," said 

"Oh, you may laugh, doctor, dear, but it would be 
no laughing matter." 

"Cats never suck babies' breaths," said Gilbert. 
"That is only an old superstition, Susan." 

"Oh, well, it may be a superstition or it may not, 
doctor, dear. All that I know is, it has happened. My 
sister's husband's nephew's wife's cat sucked their 
baby's breath, and the poor innocent was all but gone 


when they found it. And superstition or not, if I 
find that yellow beast lurking near our baby I will 
whack him with the poker, Mrs. Doctor, dear." 

Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Elliott were living comfort- 
ably and harmoniously in the green house. Leslie 
was busy with sewing, for she and Owen were to be 
married at Christmas. Anne wondered what she 
would do when Leslie was gone. 

"Changes come all the time. Just as soon as things 
get really nice they change," she said with a sigh. 

"The old Morgan place up at the Glen is for sale," 
said Gilbert, apropos of nothing in especial. 

"Is it?" asked Anne indifferently. 

"Yes. Now that Mr. Morgan has gone, Mrs. Mor- 
gan wants to go to live with her children in Van- 
couver.^Bhe will sell cheaply, for a big place like 
that in a small village like the Glen will not be very 
easy to dispose of." 

"Well, it's certainly a beautiful place, so it is likely 
she will find a purchaser," said Anne, absently, won- 
dering whether she should hemstitch or feather-stitch 
little Jem's "short" dresses. He was to be shortened 
the next week, and Anne felt ready to cry at the 
thought of it. 

"Suppose we buy it, Anne?" remarked Gilbert 

Anne dropped her sewing and stared at him, 

"You're not in earnest, Gilbert?" 

"Indeed I am, dear." 


"And leave this darling spot our house of 
dreams?" said Anne incredulously. "Oh, Gilbert, it's 
it's unthinkable!" 

"Listen patiently to me, dear. I know just how you 
feel about it. I feel the same. But we've always 
known we would have to move some day." 

"Oh, but not so soon, Gilbert not just yet." 

"We may never get such a chance again. If we 
don't buy the Morgan place someone else will and 
there is no other house in the Glen we would care to 
have, and no other really good site on which to build. 
This little house is well, it is and has been what no 
other house can ever be to us, I admit, but you know 
it is out-of-the-way down here for a doctor. We 
have felt the inconvenience, though we've made the 
best of it. And it's a tight fit for us now. Perhaps, 
in a few years, when Jem wants a room of his own, 
it will be entirely too small." 

"Oh, I know I know," said Anne, tears filling 
her eyes. "I know all that can be said against it, but 
I love it so and it's so beautiful here." 

"You would find it very lonely here after Leslie 
goes and Captain Jim has gone too. The Morgan 
place is beautiful, and in time we would love it. You 
know you have always admired it, Anne." 

"Oh, yes, but but this has all seemed to come 
up so suddenly, Gilbert. I'm dizzy. Ten minutes 
ago I had no thought of leaving this dear spot. I 
was planning what I meant to do for it in the spring 


what I meant to do in the garden. And if we 
leave this place who will get it? It is out-of-the-way, 
so it's likely some poor, shiftless, wandering family 
will rent it and over-run it and oh, that would be 
desecration. It would hurt me horribly." 

"I know. But we cannot sacrifice our own interests 
to such considerations, Anne-girl. The Morgan place 
will suit us in every essential particular we really 
can't afford to miss such a chance. Think of that 
big lawn with those magnificent old trees ; and of that 
splendid hardwood grove behind it twelve acres of 
it. What a play place for our children! There's a 
fine orchard, too, and you've always admired that 
high brick wall around the garden with the door in 
it you've thought it was so like a story-book garden 
And there is almost as fine a view of the harbour and 
the dunes from the Morgan place as from here." 

"You can't see the lighthouse star from it." 

"Yes. You can see it from the attic window. 
There's another advantage, Anne-girl you love big 

"There's no brook in the garden." 

"Well, no, but there is one running through the 
rnaple grove into the Glen pond. And the pond itself 
isn't far away. You'll be able to fancy you have 
your own Lake of Shining Waters again." 

"Well, don't say anything more about it just now, 
Gilbert. Give me time to think to get used to the 


"All right. There is no great hurry, of course. 
Only if we decide to buy, it would be well to be 
moved in and settled before winter." 

Gilbert went out, and Anne put away Little Jem's 
short dresses with trembling hands. She could not 
sew any more that day. With tear-wet eyes she 
wandered over the little domain where she had reigned 
so happy a queen. The Morgan place was all that 
Gilbert claimed. The grounds were beautiful, the 
house old enough to have dignity and repose and tradi- 
tions, and new enough to be comfortable and up-to- 
date. Anne had always admired it; but admiring is 
not loving; and she loved this little house of dreams 
so much. She loved everything about it the garden 
she had tended, and which so many women had tended 
before her the gleam and sparkle of the little brook 
that crept so roguishly across the corner the gate be- 
tween the creaking fir trees the old red sandstone 
step the stately Lombardies the two tiny quaint 
glass cupboards over the chimney-piece in the living- 
room the crooked pantry door in the kitchen the 
two funny dormer windows upstairs the little jog 
in the staircase why, these things were a part of 
her! How could she leave them? 

And how this little house, consecrated aforetime by 
love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her 
happiness and sorrow ! Here she had spent her bridal 
moon; here wee Joyce had lived her one brief day; 
here the sweetness of motherhood had come again 


with Little Jem; here She had heard the exquisite 
music of her baby's cooing laughter; here beloved 
friends had sat by her fireside. Joy and grief, birth 
and death, had made sacred forever this little house 
of dreams. 

And now she must leave it. She knew that, even 
while she had contended against the idea to Gilbert. 
The little house was out-grown. Gilbert's interests 
made the change necessary; his work, successful 
though it had been, was hampered by his location. 
Anne realised that the end of their life in this dear 
place drew nigh, and that she must face the fact 
bravely. But how her heart ached! 

"It will just be like tearing something out of my 
life," she sobbed. "And oh, if I could hope that some 
nice folk would come here in our place or even that 
it would be left vacant. That itself would be better 
than having it overrun with some horde who know 
nothing of the geography of dreamland, and nothing 
of the history that has given this house its soul and 
its identity. And if such a tribe come here the place 
will go to rack and ruin in no time an old place goes 
down so quickly if it is not carefully attended to. 
They'll tear up my garden and let the Lombardies 
get ragged and the paling will come to look like a 
mouth with half the teeth missing and the roof will 
leak and the plaster fall and they'll stuff pillows 
and rags in broken window panes and everything 
will be out-at-elbows." 


Anne's imagination pictured forth so vividly the 
coming degeneration of her dear little house that it 
hurt her as severely as if it had already been an ac- 
complished fact. She sat down on the stairs and had 
a long, bitter cry. Susan found her there and en- 
quired with much concern what the trouble was. 

"You have not quarrelled with the doctor, have you 
now, Mrs. Doctor, dear? But if you have, do not 
worry. It is a thing quite likely to happen with mar- 
ried couples, I am told, although I have had no ex- 
perience that way myself. He will be sorry, and you 
can soon make it up." 

"No, no, Susan, we haven't quarrelled. It's only 
Gilbert is going to buy the Morgan place, and we'll 
have to go and live at the Glen. And it will break my 

Susan did not enter into Anne's feelings at all. She 
was, indeed, quite rejoiced over the prospect of living 
at the Glen. Her one grievance against her place in 
the little house was its lonesome location. 

"Why, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it will be splendid. The 
Morgan house is such a fine, big one." 

"I hate big houses," sobbed Anne. 

"Oh, well, you will not hate them by the time you 
have half a dozen children," remarked Susan calmly. 
"And this house is too small already for us. We have 
no spare room, since Mrs. Moore is here, and that 
pantry is the most aggravating place I ever tried to 


work in. There is a corner every way you turn. Be- 
sides, it is out-of-the-world down here. There is 
really nothing at all but scenery." 

"Out of your world perhaps, Susan but not out of 
mine," said Anne with a faint smile. 

"I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Doctor, dear, 
but of course I am not well educated. But if Dr. 
Blythe buys the Morgan place he will make no mis- 
take, and that you may tie to. They have water in 
it, and the pantries and closets are beautiful, and there 
is not another such cellar in P. E. Island, so I have 
been told. Why, the cellar here, Mrs. Doctor, dear, 
has been a heart-break to me, as well you know." 

"Oh, go away, Susan, go away," said Anne for- 
lornly. "Cellars and pantries and closets don't make 
a home. Why don't you weep with those who weep?" 

"Well, I never was much hand for weeping, Mrs. 
Doctor, dear. I would rather fall to and cheer people 
up than weep with them. Now, do not you cry and 
spoil your pretty eyes. This house is very well and 
has served your turn, but it is high time you had a 

Susan's point of view seemed to be that of most 
people. Leslie was the only one who sympathised un- 
derstandingly with Anne. She had a good cry, too, 
when she heard the news. Then they both dried their 
tears and went to work at the preparations for mov- 


"Since we must go let us go as soon as we can and 
have it over," said poor Anne with bitter resignation. 

"You know you will like that lovely old place at the 
Glen after you have lived in it long enough to have 
dear memories woven about it," said Leslie. "Friends 
will come there, as they have come here happiness 
will glorify it for you. Now, it's just a house to you 
but the years will make it a home." 

Anne and Leslie had another cry the next week 
when they shortened Little Jem. Anne felt the trag- 
edy of it until evening when in his long nightie she 
found her own dear baby again. 

"But it will be rompers next and then trousers 
and in no time he will be grown-up," she sighed. 

"Well, you would not want him to stay a baby 
always, Mrs. Doctor, dear, would you?" said Susan. 
"Bless his innocent heart, he looks too sweet for any- 
thing in his little short dresses, with his dear feet 
sticking out. And think of the save in the ironing, 
Mrs. Doctor, dear." 

"Anne, I have just had a letter from Owen," said 
Leslie, entering with a bright face. "And, oh ! I have 
such good news. He writes me that he is going to 
buy this place from the church trustees and keep it to 
spend our summer vacations in. Anne, are you not 

"Oh, Leslie, 'glad' isn't the word for it! It seems 
almost too good to be true. I sha'n't feel half so badly 
now that I know this dear spot will never be dese- 


crated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in 
decay. Why, it's lovely! It's lovely!" 

One October morning Anne wakened to the realisa- 
tion that she had slept for the last time under the roof 
of her little house. The day was too busy to indulge 
regret and when evening came the house was stripped 
and bare. Anne and Gilbert were alone in it to say 
farewell. Leslie and Susan and Little Jem had gone 
to the Glen with the last load of furniture. The 
sunset light streamed in through the curtainless 

"It has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look, 
hasn't it?" said Anne. "Oh, I shall be so homesick 
at the Glen tonight !" 

"We have been very happy here, haven't we, Anne- 
girl?" said Gilbert, his voice full of feeling. 

Anne choked, unable to answer. Gilbert waited 
for her at the fir-tree gate, while she went over the 
house and said farewell to every room. She was 
going away; but the old house would still be there, 
looking seaward through its quaint windows. The 
autumn winds would blow around it mournfully, and 
the gray*rain would beat upon it and the white mists 
would come in from the sea to enfold it; and the 
moonlight would fall over it and light up the old 
paths where the schoolmaster and his bride had 
walked. There on that old harbour shore the charm 
of story would linger; the wind would still whistle 


alluringly over the silver sand-dunes ; the waves would 
still call from the red rock-coves. 

"But we will be gone," said Anne through her 

She went out, closing and locking the door behind 
her. Gilbert was waiting for her with a smile. The 
lighthouse star was gleaming northward. The little 
garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was 
already hooding itself in shadows. 

Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step 
which she had crossed as a bride. 

"Good-bye, dear little house of dreams," she said 

Warwick Bros. Hi Rutter, Limited 
Printers and Bookbinders, Toronto, Canada. 

" ' 

- 1989