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                  ANNE OF GREEN GABLES

                  Lucy Maud Montgomery



Table of Contents

CHAPTER I          Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised
CHAPTER II         Matthew Cuthbert Is Surprised
CHAPTER III        Marilla Cuthbert Is Surprised
CHAPTER IV         Morning at Green Gables
CHAPTER V          Anne's History
CHAPTER VI         Marilla Makes Up Her Mind
CHAPTER VII        Anne Says Her Prayers
CHAPTER VIII       Anne's Bringing-Up Is Begun
CHAPTER IX         Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified
CHAPTER X          Anne's Apology
CHAPTER XI         Anne's Impressions of Sunday School
CHAPTER XII        A Solemn Vow and Promise
CHAPTER XIII       The Delights of Anticipation
CHAPTER XIV        Anne's Confession
CHAPTER XV         A Tempest in the School Teapot
CHAPTER XVI        Diana Is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results
CHAPTER XVII       A New Interest in Life
CHAPTER XVIII      Anne to the Rescue
CHAPTER XIX        A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession
CHAPTER XX         A Good Imagination Gone Wrong
CHAPTER XXI        A New Departure in Flavorings
CHAPTER XXII       Anne is Invited Out to Tea
CHAPTER XXIII      Anne Comes to Grief in an Affair of Honor
CHAPTER XXIV       Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert
CHAPTER XXV        Matthew Insists on Puffed Sleeves
CHAPTER XXVI       The Story Club Is Formed
CHAPTER XXVII      Vanity and Vexation of Spirit
CHAPTER XXVIII     An Unfortunate Lily Maid
CHAPTER XXIX       An Epoch in Anne's Life
CHAPTER XXX        The Queens Class Is Organized
CHAPTER XXXI       Where the Brook and River Meet
CHAPTER XXXII      The Pass List Is Out
CHAPTER XXXIII     The Hotel Concert
CHAPTER XXXIV      A Queen's Girl
CHAPTER XXXV       The Winter at Queen's
CHAPTER XXXVI      The Glory and the Dream
CHAPTER XXXVII     The Reaper Whose Name Is Death
CHAPTER XXXVIII    The Bend in the road



Anne of Green Gables


CHAPTER I

Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Surprised


Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main
road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders
and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its
source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place;
it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its
earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of
pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's
Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not
even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door
without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably
was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window,
keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks
and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or
out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted
out the whys and wherefores thereof.

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

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June.  The
sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard
on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-
white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees.  Thomas Lynde--
a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel
Lynde's husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the
hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to
have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by
Green Gables.  Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she
had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in
William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to
sow his turnip seed the next afternoon.  Peter had asked him, of
course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to
volunteer information about anything in his whole life.

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

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

"I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find
out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman
finally concluded.  "He doesn't generally go to town this
time of year and he NEVER visits; if he'd run out of turnip
seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more;
he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor.  Yet
something must have happened since last night to start him
off.  I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a
minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has
taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marilla's lips twitched understandingly.  She had
expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of
Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for
her neighbor's curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel.
I've had some qualms myself.  But Matthew was terrible set
on it.  I could see that, so I gave in.  It's so seldom
Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he does I always
feel it's my duty to give in.  And as for the risk, there's
risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world.
There's risks in people's having children of their own if it
comes to that--they don't always turn out well.  And then
Nova Scotia is right close to the Island.  It isn't as if we
were getting him from England or the States.  He can't be
much different from ourselves."

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II

Matthew Cuthbert is surprised


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

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

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

Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and Mrs.
Rachel; he had an uncomfortable feeling that the mysterious
creatures were secretly laughing at him.  He may have been
quite right in thinking so, for he was an odd-looking
personage, with an ungainly figure and long iron-gray hair
that touched his stooping shoulders, and a full, soft brown
beard which he had worn ever since he was twenty.  In fact,
he had looked at twenty very much as he looked at sixty,
lacking a little of the grayness.

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

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

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

"I'm not expecting a girl," said Matthew blankly.  "It's a boy
I've come for.  He should be here.  Mrs. Alexander Spencer was
to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me."

The stationmaster whistled.

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

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

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

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

She had been watching him ever since he had passed her and
she had her eyes on him now.  Matthew was not looking at her
and would not have seen what she was really like if he had
been, but an ordinary observer would have seen this:
A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight,
very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey.  She wore a faded
brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her
back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair.
Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her
mouth was large and so were her eyes, which looked green in
some lights and moods and gray in others.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I can carry it," the child responded cheerfully.  "It
isn't heavy.  I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it
isn't heavy.  And if it isn't carried in just a certain way
the handle pulls out--so I'd better keep it because I know
the exact knack of it.  It's an extremely old carpet-bag.
Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have been
nice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree.  We've got to drive a
long piece, haven't we?  Mrs. Spencer said it was eight
miles.  I'm glad because I love driving.  Oh, it seems so
wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you.
I've never belonged to anybody--not really.  But the asylum
was the worst.  I've only been in it four months, but that
was enough.  I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an
asylum, so you can't possibly understand what it is like.
It's worse than anything you could imagine.  Mrs. Spencer
said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but I didn't
mean to be wicked.  It's so easy to be wicked without
knowing it, isn't it?  They were good, you know--the asylum
people.  But there is so little scope for the imagination in
an asylum--only just in the other orphans.  It was pretty
interesting to imagine things about them--to imagine that
perhaps the girl who sat next to you was really the daughter
of a belted earl, who had been stolen away from her parents
in her infancy by a cruel nurse who died before she could
confess.  I used to lie awake at nights and imagine things
like that, because I didn't have time in the day.  I guess
that's why I'm so thin--I AM dreadful thin, ain't I?  There
isn't a pick on my bones.  I do love to imagine I'm nice and
plump, with dimples in my elbows."

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

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

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

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew.

"Why, a bride, of course--a bride all in white with a
lovely misty veil.  I've never seen one, but I can imagine
what she would look like.  I don't ever expect to be a bride
myself.  I'm so homely nobody will ever want to marry me--
unless it might be a foreign missionary.  I suppose a
foreign missionary mightn't be very particular.  But I do
hope that some day I shall have a white dress.  That is my
highest ideal of earthly bliss.  I just love pretty clothes.
And I've never had a pretty dress in my life that I can
remember--but of course it's all the more to look forward
to, isn't it?  And then I can imagine that I'm dressed
gorgeously.  This morning when I left the asylum I felt so
ashamed because I had to wear this horrid old wincey dress.
All the orphans had to wear them, you know.  A merchant in
Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards of wincey to
the asylum.  Some people said it was because he couldn't
sell it, but I'd rather believe that it was out of the
kindness of his heart, wouldn't you?  When we got on the
train I felt as if everybody must be looking at me and
pitying me.  But I just went to work and imagined that I had
on the most beautiful pale blue silk dress--because when you
ARE imagining you might as well imagine something worth
while--and a big hat all flowers and nodding plumes, and a
gold watch, and kid gloves and boots.  I felt cheered up
right away and I enjoyed my trip to the Island with all my
might.  I wasn't a bit sick coming over in the boat.
Neither was Mrs. Spencer although she generally is.  She
said she hadn't time to get sick, watching to see that I
didn't fall overboard.  She said she never saw the beat of
me for prowling about.  But if it kept her from being
seasick it's a mercy I did prowl, isn't it?  And I wanted to
see everything that was to be seen on that boat, because I
didn't know whether I'd ever have another opportunity.  Oh,
there are a lot more cherry-trees all in bloom!  This Island
is the bloomiest place.  I just love it already, and I'm so
glad I'm going to live here.  I've always heard that Prince
Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world, and I
used to imagine I was living here, but I never really
expected I would.  It's delightful when your imaginations
come true, isn't it?  But those red roads are so funny.
When we got into the train at Charlottetown and the red
roads began to flash past I asked Mrs. Spencer what made
them red and she said she didn't know and for pity's sake
not to ask her any more questions.  She said I must have
asked her a thousand already.  I suppose I had, too, but how
you going to find out about things if you don't ask
questions?  And what DOES make the roads red?"

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew.

"Well, that is one of the things to find out sometime.
Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to
find out about?  It just makes me feel glad to be alive--
it's such an interesting world.  It wouldn't be half so
interesting if we know all about everything, would it?
There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there?  But
am I talking too much?  People are always telling me I do.
Would you rather I didn't talk?  If you say so I'll stop.  I
can STOP when I make up my mind to it, although it's difficult."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin
shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes.  Matthew was
not used to deciding on the tints of ladies' tresses, but in
this case there couldn't be much doubt.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well now, no, I haven't," confessed Matthew ingenuously.

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

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

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

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

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

Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb.  She leaned back
in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face
lifted rapturously to the white splendor above.  Even when
they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to
Newbridge she never moved or spoke.  Still with rapt face
she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw
visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background.
Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs
barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces
peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence.  When
three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had
not spoken.  She could keep silence, it was evident, as
energetically as she could talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally
beautiful.  But they shouldn't call that lovely place the
Avenue.  There is no meaning in a name like that.  They
should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight.  Isn't
that a nice imaginative name?  When I don't like the name of
a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always
think of them so.  There was a girl at the asylum whose name
was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia
DeVere.  Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I
shall always call it the White Way of Delight.  Have we
really only another mile to go before we get home?  I'm glad
and I'm sorry.  I'm sorry because this drive has been so
pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end.
Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never
be sure.  And it's so often the case that it isn't
pleasanter.  That has been my experience anyhow.  But I'm
glad to think of getting home.  You see, I've never had a
real home since I can remember.  It gives me that pleasant
ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home.
Oh, isn't that pretty!"

They had driven over the crest of a hill.  Below them was a
pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was
it.  A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower
end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from
the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many
shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and
rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for
which no name has ever been found.  Above the bridge the
pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay
all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows.  Here and
there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad
girl tip-toeing to her own reflection.  From the marsh at
the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus
of the frogs.  There was a little gray house peering around
a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was
not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows.

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

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

Matthew ruminated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted breathlessly, catching
at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she
might not see his gesture.  "Let me guess.  I'm sure I'll
guess right."

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

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

Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrel's back delightedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III

Marilla Cuthbert is Surprised


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

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

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

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

"No boy!  But there MUST have been a boy," insisted Marilla.
"We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy."

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

"Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejaculated Marilla.

During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes
roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out
of her face.  Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning
of what had been said.  Dropping her precious carpet-bag she
sprang forward a step and clasped her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The child hesitated for a moment.

"Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly.

"CALL you Cordelia?  Is that your name?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how
this mistake came to be made?  We sent word to Mrs. Spencer
to bring us a boy.  Were there no boys at the asylum?"

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

"What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring
at Matthew.

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

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

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

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

Anne took off her hat meekly.  Matthew came back presently
and they sat down to supper.  But Anne could not eat.  In
vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the
crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish
by her plate.  She did not really make any headway at all.

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

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

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

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

"No, I didn't."

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

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

Marilla had been wondering where Anne should be put to bed.
She had prepared a couch in the kitchen chamber for the
desired and expected boy.  But, although it was neat and
clean, it did not seem quite the thing to put a girl there
somehow.  But the spare room was out of the question for
such a stray waif, so there remained only the east gable
room.  Marilla lighted a candle and told Anne to follow her,
which Anne spiritlessly did, taking her hat and carpet-bag
from the hall table as she passed.  The hall was fearsomely
clean; the little gable chamber in which she presently found
herself seemed still cleaner.

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

"I suppose you have a nightgown?" she questioned.

Anne nodded.

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

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

When Marilla had gone Anne looked around her wistfully.
The whitewashed walls were so painfully bare and staring
that she thought they must ache over their own bareness.
The floor was bare, too, except for a round braided mat in
the middle such as Anne had never seen before.  In one corner
was the bed, a high, old-fashioned one, with four dark, low-
turned posts.  In the other corner was the aforesaid three-
corner table adorned with a fat, red velvet pin-cushion hard
enough to turn the point of the most adventurous pin.  Above
it hung a little six-by-eight mirror.  Midway between table
and bed was the window, with an icy white muslin frill over
it, and opposite it was the wash-stand.  The whole apartment
was of a rigidity not to be described in words, but which
sent a shiver to the very marrow of Anne's bones.  With a
sob she hastily discarded her garments, put on the skimpy
nightgown and sprang into bed where she burrowed face
downward into the pillow and pulled the clothes over her
head.  When Marilla came up for the light various skimpy
articles of raiment scattered most untidily over the floor
and a certain tempestuous appearance of the bed were the
only indications of any presence save her own.

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

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

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

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

Then she dived down into invisibility again.

Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen and proceeded to
wash the supper dishes.  Matthew was smoking--a sure sign of
perturbation of mind.  He seldom smoked, for Marilla set her
face against it as a filthy habit; but at certain times and
seasons he felt driven to it and them Marilla winked at the
practice, realizing that a mere man must have some vent for
his emotions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Matthew Cuthbert, I believe that child has bewitched you!
I can see as plain as plain that you want to keep her."

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV

Morning at Green Gables


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marilla really did not know how to talk to the child, and
her uncomfortable ignorance made her crisp and curt when she
did not mean to be.

Anne stood up and drew a long breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you wash dishes right?" asked Marilla distrustfully.

"Pretty well.  I'm better at looking after children, though.
I've had so much experience at that.  It's such a pity you
haven't any here for me to look after."

"I don't feel as if I wanted any more children to look after
than I've got at present.  YOU'RE problem enough in all
conscience.  What's to be done with you I don't know.
Matthew is a most ridiculous man."

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

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

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

Anne flew to the door, face alight, eyes glowing.  On the
very threshold she stopped short, wheeled about, came back
and sat down by the table, light and glow as effectually
blotted out as if some one had clapped an extinguisher on her.

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

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

"That's the apple-scented geranium."

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

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

"Oh, I like things to have handles even if they are only
geraniums.  It makes them seem more like people.  How do you
know but that it hurts a geranium's feelings just to be
called a geranium and nothing else?  You wouldn't like to be
called nothing but a woman all the time.  Yes, I shall call
it Bonny.  I named that cherry-tree outside my bedroom
window this morning.  I called it Snow Queen because it was
so white.  Of course, it won't always be in blossom, but one
can imagine that it is, can't one?"

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

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

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

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

"I'm going to drive over to White Sands and settle this
thing.  I'll take Anne with me and Mrs. Spencer will
probably make arrangements to send her back to Nova Scotia
at once.  I'll set your tea out for you and I'll be home in
time to milk the cows."

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V

Anne's History


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

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

Anne sighed.

"Well, that is another hope gone.  `My life is a perfect
graveyard of buried hopes.'  That's a sentence I read in a
book once, and I say it over to comfort myself whenever
I'm disappointed in anything."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I don't know." Anne looked thoughtful.  "I read
in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell
as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it.  I don't
believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle
or a skunk cabbage.  I suppose my father could have been a
good man even if he had been called Jedediah; but I'm
sure it would have been a cross.  Well, my mother was a
teacher in the High school, too, but when she married
father she gave up teaching, of course.  A husband was
enough responsibility.  Mrs. Thomas said that they were a
pair of babies and as poor as church mice.  They went to
live in a weeny-teeny little yellow house in Bolingbroke.
I've never seen that house, but I've imagined it thousands
of times.  I think it must have had honeysuckle over the
parlor window and lilacs in the front yard and lilies of the
valley just inside the gate.  Yes, and muslin curtains in
all the windows.  Muslin curtains give a house such an air.
I was born in that house.  Mrs. Thomas said I was the
homeliest baby she ever saw, I was so scrawny and tiny
and nothing but eyes, but that mother thought I was
perfectly beautiful.  I should think a mother would be a
better judge than a poor woman who came in to scrub,
wouldn't you?  I'm glad she was satisfied with me anyhow,
I would feel so sad if I thought I was a disappointment to
her--because she didn't live very long after that, you see.
She died of fever when I was just three months old.  I do
wish she'd lived long enough for me to remember calling
her mother.  I think it would be so sweet to say `mother,'
don't you?  And father died four days afterwards from
fever too.  That left me an orphan and folks were at their
wits' end, so Mrs. Thomas said, what to do with me.  You
see, nobody wanted me even then.  It seems to be my fate.
Father and mother had both come from places far away
and it was well known they hadn't any relatives living.
Finally Mrs. Thomas said she'd take me, though she was
poor and had a drunken husband.  She brought me up by
hand.  Do you know if there is anything in being brought
up by hand that ought to make people who are brought up
that way better than other people?  Because whenever I
was naughty Mrs. Thomas would ask me how I could be
such a bad girl when she had brought me up by hand--
reproachful-like.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Bolingbroke
to Marysville, and I lived with them until I was eight
years old.  I helped look after the Thomas children--there
were four of them younger than me--and I can tell you
they took a lot of looking after.  Then Mr. Thomas was
killed falling under a train and his mother offered to take
Mrs. Thomas and the children, but she didn't want me.
Mrs. Thomas was at HER wits' end, so she said, what to do
with me.  Then Mrs. Hammond from up the river came
down and said she'd take me, seeing I was handy with
children, and I went up the river to live with her in a
little clearing among the stumps.  It was a very lonesome
place.  I'm sure I could never have lived there if I hadn't
had an imagination.  Mr. Hammond worked a little sawmill
up there, and Mrs. Hammond had eight children.  She had
twins three times.  I like babies in moderation, but twins
three times in succession is TOO MUCH.  I told Mrs.
Hammond so firmly, when the last pair came.  I used to get
so dreadfully tired carrying them about.

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

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

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

"Not a great deal.  I went a little the last year I stayed
with Mrs. Thomas.  When I went up river we were so far
from a school that I couldn't walk it in winter and there
was a vacation in summer, so I could only go in the spring
and fall.  But of course I went while I was at the asylum.
I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of
poetry off by heart--`The Battle of Hohenlinden' and
`Edinburgh after Flodden,' and `Bingen of the Rhine,' and
lost of the `Lady of the Lake' and most of `The Seasons' by
James Thompson.  Don't you just love poetry that gives
you a crinkly feeling up and down your back?  There is a
piece in the Fifth Reader--`The Downfall of Poland'--that
is just full of thrills.  Of course, I wasn't in the Fifth
Reader--I was only in the Fourth--but the big girls used
to lend me theirs to read."

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

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

Marilla asked no more questions.  Anne gave herself up
to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided
the sorrel abstractedly while she pondered deeply.  Pity
was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child.  What a
starved, unloved life she had had--a life of drudgery and
poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to
read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the
truth.  No wonder she had been so delighted at the prospect
of a real home.  It was a pity she had to be sent back.
What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable
whim and let her stay?  He was set on it; and the child
seemed a nice, teachable little thing.

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

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

"Isn't the sea wonderful?" said Anne, rousing from a
long, wide-eyed silence.  "Once, when I lived in Marysville,
Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to
spend the day at the shore ten miles away.  I enjoyed
every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the
children all the time.  I lived it over in happy dreams for
years.  But this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore.
Aren't those gulls splendid?  Would you like to be a gull?
I think I would--that is, if I couldn't be a human girl.
Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and
swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely
blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest?
Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it.  What big house is
that just ahead, please?"

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

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




CHAPTER VI

Marilla Makes Up Her Mind


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small,
shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous
flesh on her bones.  But she had heard of her.  "A terrible
worker and driver," Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged
servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess,
and her family of pert, quarrelsome children.  Marilla felt a
qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her
tender mercies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the
child's pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery
of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more
caught in the trap from which it had escaped.  Marilla felt
an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal
of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day.  More-
over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett.  To hand a sensitive,
"highstrung" child over to such a woman!  No, she could
not take the responsibility of doing that!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but
it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew.  And since
you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to
be.  I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of
used to it.  It seems a sort of duty.  I've never brought up
a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a
terrible mess of it.  But I'll do my best.  So far as I'm
concerned, Matthew, she may stay."

Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight.

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

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

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

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

"I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected,
as she strained the milk into the creamers.  "She'd be so
excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink.  Marilla Cuthbert,
you're fairly in for it.  Did you ever suppose you'd see
the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl?  It's
surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew
should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed
to have such a mortal dread of little girls.  Anyhow,
we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows
what will come of it."




CHAPTER VII

Anne Says Her Prayers


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

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

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

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

"I never say any prayers," announced Anne.

Marilla looked horrified astonishment.

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

"`God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in
His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness,
and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly.

Marilla looked rather relieved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment.

Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely.

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

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

"You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said
finally.  "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him
humbly for the things you want."

"Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face
in Marilla's lap.  "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the
way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all
right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting
her head for a moment.

     "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White
     Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny
     and the Snow Queen.  I'm really extremely grateful for
     them.  And that's all the blessings I can think of just
     now to thank Thee for.  As for the things I want,
     they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of
     time to name them all so I will only mention the two
     most important.  Please let me stay at Green Gables;
     and please let me be good-looking when I grow up.
     I remain,
                                        "Yours respectfully,
                                             Anne Shirley.

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

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

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

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

"I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience,"
said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows.

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

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




CHAPTER VIII

Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun


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

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

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

"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I
told you to do," said Marilla immovably.  "Just go and do
it before you ask any more questions, Anne."

Anne went and attended to the dishcloth.  Then she returned
to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face.
"Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring
her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you.
Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will
try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful.
Why, child, whatever is the matter?"

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

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

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

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

"It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla,"
protested Anne.

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

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

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

"But we could imagine you were my aunt."

"I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.

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

"No."

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

"I don't believe in imagining things different from what
they really are," retorted Marilla.  "When the Lord puts us
in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine
them away.  And that reminds me.  Go into the sitting
room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any
flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on
the mantelpiece.  The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll
devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by
heart.  There's to be no more of such praying as I heard
last night."

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

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

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

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

Anne came back to earth with a start.

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

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

Anne's eyes marveled.

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

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

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

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

"Well, learn it and hold your tongue," said Marilla shortly.

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

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

"A--a what kind of friend?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"
pleaded Anne.

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

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

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

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

"There--I know this prayer.  I learned that last sentence
coming upstairs.  Now I'm going to imagine things into this
room so that they'll always stay imagined.  The floor is
covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over
it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls
are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry.  The
furniture is mahogany.  I never saw any mahogany, but it
does sound SO luxurious.  This is a couch all heaped with
gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and
gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it.  I can see my
reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall.
I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace,
with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair.  My
hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory
pallor.  My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald.  No, it
isn't--I can't make THAT seem real."

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

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

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


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

Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips
past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin in her
hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams.




CHAPTER IX

Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified


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

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

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

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

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

Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came,
wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremu-
lous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine; so that
good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully
over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such
evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must
bring its compensations.  When details were exhausted
Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with
the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding
the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger,
she halted confusedly inside the door.  She certainly was an
odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress
she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs
seemed ungracefully long.  Her freckles were more numerous
and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless
hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked
redder than at that moment.

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

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

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

"Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation.

But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly,
head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate
indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere.

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

Stamp!  Stamp!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Anne," she said not ungently.

No answer.

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

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

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

"She hadn't any right to call me ugly and redheaded,"
retorted Anne, evasive and defiant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall have to stay here forever then," said Anne
mournfully, "because I can't tell Mrs. Lynde I'm sorry I
said those things to her.  How can I?  I'm NOT sorry.  I'm
sorry I've vexed you; but I'm GLAD I told her just what I did.
It was a great satisfaction.  I can't say I'm sorry when I'm
not, can I?  I can't even IMAGINE I'm sorry."

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

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




CHAPTER X

Anne's Apology


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

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

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

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

"When did you ever hear of me starving people into good
behavior?" demanded Marilla indignantly.  "She'll have
her meals regular, and I'll carry them up to her myself.
But she'll stay up there until she's willing to apologize
to Mrs. Lynde, and that's final, Matthew."

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

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

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

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

"Anne," he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard,
"how are you making it, Anne?"

Anne smiled wanly.

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

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

Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come
to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely.
"Well now, Anne, don't you think you'd better do it and
have it over with?" he whispered.  "It'll have to be done
sooner or later, you know, for Marilla's a dreadful deter-
mined woman--dreadful determined, Anne.  Do it right off,
I say, and have it over."

"Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?"

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

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

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

"Very well," said Anne resignedly.  "I'll tell Marilla as
soon as she comes in I've repented."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne
walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant,
the latter drooping and dejected.  But halfway down Anne's
dejection vanished as if by enchantment.  She lifted her
head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the
sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her.
Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly.  This was no
meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the
presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she said
with a quiver in her voice.  "I could never express all
my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary.  You
must just imagine it.  I behaved terribly to you--and
I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who
have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy.
I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve
to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever.
It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you
told me the truth.  It WAS the truth; every word you said
was true.  My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and
ugly.  What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't
have said it.  Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me.
If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little
orphan girl would you, even if she had a dreadful temper?
Oh, I am sure you wouldn't.  Please say you forgive me,
Mrs. Lynde."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She's a real odd little thing.  Take this chair, Marilla;
it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the
hired boy to sit on.  Yes, she certainly is an odd child,
but there is something kind of taking about her after all.
I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as
I did--nor so sorry for you, either.  She may turn out all
right.  Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--
a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but
she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among
civilized folks.  And then, her temper's pretty quick, I
guess; but there's one comfort, a child that has a quick
temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to
be sly or deceitful.  Preserve me from a sly child, that's
what.  On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How can I be vain when I know I'm homely?" protested
Anne.  "I love pretty things; and I hate to look in
the glass and see something that isn't pretty.  It makes me
feel so sorrowful--just as I feel when I look at any ugly
thing.  I pity it because it isn't beautiful."

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

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

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

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

Something warm and pleasant welled up in Marilla's heart
at touch of that thin little hand in her own--a throb
of the maternity she had missed, perhaps.  Its very
unaccustomedness and sweetness disturbed her.  She
hastened to restore her sensations to their normal
calm by inculcating a moral.

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI

Anne's Impressions of Sunday-School


"Well, how do you like them?" said Marilla.

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Then why don't you like them?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne clasped her hands and looked at the dresses.

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

The next morning warnings of a sick headache prevented
Marilla from going to Sunday-school with Anne.

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

Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff black-
and-white sateen, which, while decent as regards length
and certainly not open to the charge of skimpiness, contrived
to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure.
Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the
extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed
Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon
and flowers.  The latter, however, were supplied before
Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway
down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred buttercups
and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally
garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them.  Whatever
other people might have thought of the result it satisfied
Anne, and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ruddy
head with its decoration of pink and yellow very proudly.

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

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

She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt
very miserable; every other little girl in the class had
puffed sleeves.  Anne felt that life was really not worth
living without puffed sleeves.

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

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

"Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly.

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

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

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

"But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne.  "He was
talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much inter-
ested in it, either.  I think he thought God was too far off
though.  There was long row of white birches hanging over
the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, 'way, 'way
down, deep into the water.  Oh, Marilla, it was like a
beautiful dream!  It gave me a thrill and I just said,
`Thank you for it, God,' two or three times."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII

A Solemn Vow and Promise


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't answer me back like that, Anne.  It was very silly
of you to do such a thing.  Never let me catch you at such a
trick again.  Mrs. Rachel says she thought she would sink
through the floor when she come in all rigged out like
that.  She couldn't get near enough to tell you to take
them off till it was too late.  She says people talked about
it something dreadful.  Of course they would think I had no
better sense than to let you go decked out like that."

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

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

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

"Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened--now that it has come I'm
actually frightened.  What if she shouldn't like me!  It
would be the most tragical disappointment of my life."

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

Anne WAS trembling.  Her face was pale and tense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are you?"

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

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

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

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

The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers
which would have delighted Anne's heart at any time less
fraught with destiny.  It was encircled by huge old willows
and tall firs, beneath which flourished flowers that loved
the shade.  Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered with
clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the
beds between old-fashioned flowers ran riot.  There were
rosy bleeding-hearts and great splendid crimson peonies;
white, fragrant narcissi and thorny, sweet Scotch roses;
pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted Bouncing
Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint;
purple Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover
white with its delicate, fragrant, feathery sprays;
scarlet lightning that shot its fiery lances over prim white
musk-flowers; a garden it was where sunshine lingered and
bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering, purred
and rustled.

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

Diana laughed.  Diana always laughed before she spoke.

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

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

Diana looked shocked.

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

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

"I never heard of but one kind," said Diana doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes," sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of any
sarcasm on Marilla's part.  "Oh Marilla, I'm the happiest
girl on Prince Edward Island this very moment.  I assure
you I'll say my prayers with a right good-will tonight.
Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr. William
Bell's birch grove tomorrow.  Can I have those broken
pieces of china that are out in the woodshed?  Diana's
birthday is in February and mine is in March.  Don't you
think that is a very strange coincidence?  Diana is
going to lend me a book to read.  She says it's perfectly
splendid and tremendously exciting.  She's going to show me
a place back in the woods where rice lilies grow.  Don't
you think Diana has got very soulful eyes?  I wish I had
soulful eyes.  Diana is going to teach me to sing a song
called `Nelly in the Hazel Dell.'  She's going to give me
a picture to put up in my room; it's a perfectly beautiful
picture, she says--a lovely lady in a pale blue silk dress.
A sewing-machine agent gave it to her.  I wish I had something
to give Diana.  I'm an inch taller than Diana, but she is ever
so much fatter; she says she'd like to be thin because it's so
much more graceful, but I'm afraid she only said it to soothe my
feelings.  We're going to the shore some day to gather shells.
We have agreed to call the spring down by the log bridge the
Dryad's Bubble.  Isn't that a perfectly elegant name?  I read a
story once about a spring called that.  A dryad is sort of a
grown-up fairy, I think."

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII

The Delights of Anticipation


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting through with her "ohs" Anne cast herself into Marilla's
arms and rapturously kissed her sallow cheek.  It was the first
time in her whole life that childish lips had voluntarily touched
Marilla's face.  Again that sudden sensation of startling
sweetness thrilled her.  She was secretly vastly pleased at
Anne's impulsive caress, which was probably the reason why she
said brusquely:

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

"I do NOT like patchwork," said Anne dolefully, hunting out her
workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white
diamonds with a sigh.  "I think some kinds of sewing would be
nice; but there's no scope for imagination in patchwork.  It's
just one little seam after another and you never seem to be
getting anywhere.  But of course I'd rather be Anne of Green
Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing
to do but play.  I wish time went as quick sewing patches as it
does when I'm playing with Diana, though.  Oh, we do have such
elegant times, Marilla.  I have to furnish most of the
imagination, but I'm well able to do that.  Diana is simply
perfect in every other way.  You know that little piece of land
across the brook that runs up between our farm and Mr. Barry's.
It belongs to Mr. William Bell, and right in the corner there is
a little ring of white birch trees--the most romantic spot,
Marilla.  Diana and I have our playhouse there.  We call it
Idlewild.  Isn't that a poetical name?  I assure you it took me
some time to think it out.  I stayed awake nearly a whole night
before I invented it.  Then, just as I was dropping off to sleep,
it came like an inspiration.  Diana was ENRAPTURED when she heard
it.  We have got our house fixed up elegantly.  You must come and
see it, Marilla--won't you?  We have great big stones, all
covered with moss, for seats, and boards from tree to tree for
shelves.  And we have all our dishes on them.  Of course, they're
all broken but it's the easiest thing in the world to imagine
that they are whole.  There's a piece of a plate with a spray of
red and yellow ivy on it that is especially beautiful.  We keep
it in the parlor and we have the fairy glass there, too.  The
fairy glass is as lovely as a dream.  Diana found it out in the
woods behind their chicken house.  It's all full of
rainbows--just little young rainbows that haven't grown big
yet--and Diana's mother told her it was broken off a hanging lamp
they once had.  But it's nice to imagine the fairies lost it one
night when they had a ball, so we call it the fairy glass.
Matthew is going to make us a table.  Oh, we have named that
little round pool over in Mr. Barry's field Willowmere.  I got
that name out of the book Diana lent me.  That was a thrilling
book, Marilla.  The heroine had five lovers.  I'd be satisfied
with one, wouldn't you?  She was very handsome and she went
through great tribulations.  She could faint as easy as anything.
I'd love to be able to faint, wouldn't you, Marilla?  It's so
romantic.  But I'm really very healthy for all I'm so thin.
I believe I'm getting fatter, though.  Don't you think I am?
I look at my elbows every morning when I get up to see if any
dimples are coming.  Diana is having a new dress made with elbow
sleeves.  She is going to wear it to the picnic.  Oh, I do hope
it will be fine next Wednesday.  I don't feel that I could endure
the disappointment if anything happened to prevent me from
getting to the picnic.  I suppose I'd live through it, but I'm
certain it would be a lifelong sorrow.  It wouldn't matter if I
got to a hundred picnics in after years; they wouldn't make up
for missing this one.  They're going to have boats on the Lake of
Shining Waters--and ice cream, as I told you.  I have never
tasted ice cream.  Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I
guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination."

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

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

On Sunday Anne confided to Marilla on the way home from church
that she grew actually cold all over with excitement when the
minister announced the picnic from the pulpit.

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

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

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

Marilla wore her amethyst brooch to church that day as usual.
Marilla always wore her amethyst brooch to church.  She would
have thought it rather sacrilegious to leave it off--as bad as
forgetting her Bible or her collection dime.  That amethyst
brooch was Marilla's most treasured possession.  A seafaring
uncle had given it to her mother who in turn had bequeathed it to
Marilla.  It was an old-fashioned oval, containing a braid of her
mother's hair, surrounded by a border of very fine amethysts.
Marilla knew too little about precious stones to realize how fine
the amethysts actually were; but she thought them very beautiful
and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet shimmer at
her throat, above her good brown satin dress, even although she
could not see it.

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

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




CHAPTER XIV

Anne's Confession


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

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

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

"Did you touch it?" said Marilla sternly.

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

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

"Oh, I put it back on the bureau.  I hadn't it on a minute.
Truly, I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla.  I didn't think about
its being wrong to go in and try on the brooch; but I see now
that it was and I'll never do it again.  That's one good thing
about me.  I never do the same naughty thing twice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said
sharply.  "I know you are.  There now, don't say anything more
unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth.  Go to your room
and stay there until you are ready to confess."

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

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

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

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

Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and
searched for the brooch, without finding it.  A bedtime visit to
the east gable produced no result.  Anne persisted in denying
that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the
more firmly convinced that she did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marilla felt deserted by everyone.  She could not even go to Mrs.
Lynde for advice.  She went up to the east gable with a very
serious face and left it with a face more serious still.  Anne
steadfastly refused to confess.  She persisted in asserting that
she had not taken the brooch.  The child had evidently been
crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly
repressed.  By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat out."

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

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

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

"Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne.

But Marilla had gone out and shut the door.

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

"Marilla, I'm ready to confess."

"Ah!" Marilla laid down her tray.  Once again her method had
succeeded; but her success was very bitter to her.  "Let me hear
what you have to say then, Anne."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily.

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

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

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

That was a dismal morning.  Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed
the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing
else to do.  Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but
Marilla did.  Then she went out and raked the yard.

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

"Come down to your dinner, Anne."

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

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

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

"Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you.  I think I've let her off
entirely too easy.  And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked
she's been at all--that's what worries me most.  If she'd really
felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad.  And you don't seem to realize
it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to
yourself--I can see that."

"Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew.
"And there should be allowances made, Marilla.  You know she's
never had any bringing up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne flew up like a rocket.

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

"No, it's only two o'clock.  They won't be more than well
gathered yet and it'll be an hour before they have tea.  Wash
your face and comb your hair and put on your gingham.  I'll fill
a basket for you.  There's plenty of stuff baked in the house.
And I'll get Jerry to hitch up the sorrel and drive you down to
the picnic ground."

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

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

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

That evening Marilla told the whole story to Matthew over her
stocking basket.

"I'm willing to own up that I made a mistake," she concluded
candidly, "but I've learned a lesson.  I have to laugh when I
think of Anne's `confession,' although I suppose I shouldn't for
it really was a falsehood.  But it doesn't seem as bad as the
other would have been, somehow, and anyhow I'm responsible for
it.  That child is hard to understand in some respects.  But I
believe she'll turn out all right yet.  And there's one thing
certain, no house will ever be dull that she's in."




CHAPTER XV

A Tempest in the School Teapot


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

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

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

The way Anne and Diana went to school WAS a pretty one.  Anne
thought those walks to and from school with Diana couldn't be
improved upon even by imagination.  Going around by the main road
would have been so unromantic; but to go by Lover's Lane and
Willowmere and Violet Vale and the Birch Path was romantic, if
ever anything was.

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

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

Anne, starting out alone in the morning, went down Lover's Lane
as far as the brook.  Here Diana met her, and the two little
girls went on up the lane under the leafy arch of maples--"maples
are such sociable trees," said Anne; "they're always rustling and
whispering to you"--until they came to a rustic bridge.  Then
they left the lane and walked through Mr. Barry's back field and
past Willowmere.  Beyond Willowmere came Violet Vale--a little
green dimple in the shadow of Mr. Andrew Bell's big woods.  "Of
course there are no violets there now," Anne told Marilla, "but
Diana says there are millions of them in spring.  Oh, Marilla,
can't you just imagine you see them?  It actually takes away my
breath.  I named it Violet Vale.  Diana says she never saw the
beat of me for hitting on fancy names for places.  It's nice to
be clever at something, isn't it?  But Diana named the Birch
Path.  She wanted to, so I let her; but I'm sure I could have
found something more poetical than plain Birch Path.  Anybody can
think of a name like that.  But the Birch Path is one of the
prettiest places in the world, Marilla."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly.  Secretly she
thought Anne's nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no
intention of telling her so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Carrots!  Carrots!"

Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance!

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

"You mean, hateful boy!" she exclaimed passionately.  "How dare you!"

And then--thwack! Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert's
head and cracked it--slate not head--clear across.

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

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

"Anne Shirley, what does this mean?" he said angrily.  Anne
returned no answer.  It was asking too much of flesh and blood to
expect her to tell before the whole school that she had been
called "carrots." Gilbert it was who spoke up stoutly.

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

Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You mustn't mind Gilbert making fun of your hair," she said
soothingly.  "Why, he makes fun of all the girls.  He laughs at
mine because it's so black.  He's called me a crow a dozen times;
and I never heard him apologize for anything before, either."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and
nudged. But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked
fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only,
they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten.
When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have
gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been
writing some verses "To Priscilla" before he called the class,
was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her.
Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little
pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and
slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm.  Whereupon Anne arose,
took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers,
dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel,
and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert.

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

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

"I am not coming back to school any more," said Anne.
Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nonsense," said Marilla.

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

"Insulted fiddlesticks! You'll go to school tomorrow as usual."

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

Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding stubbornness
looking out of Anne's small face.  She understood that she would
have trouble in overcoming it; but she re-solved wisely to say
nothing more just then.  "I'll run down and see Rachel about it
this evening," she thought.  "There's no use reasoning with Anne
now.  She's too worked up and I've an idea she can be awful stubborn
if she takes the notion.  Far as I can make out from her story,
Mr. Phillips has been carrying matters with a rather high hand.
But it would never do to say so to her.  I'll just talk it
over with Rachel.  She's sent ten children to school and she
ought to know something about it.  She'll have heard the whole
story, too, by this time."

Marilla found Mrs. Lynde knitting quilts as industriously and
cheerfully as usual.

"I suppose you know what I've come about," she said, a little
shamefacedly.

Mrs. Rachel nodded.

"About Anne's fuss in school, I reckon," she said.  "Tillie
Boulter was in on her way home from school and told me about it."
"I don't know what to do with her," said Marilla.  "She declares
she won't go back to school.  I never saw a child so worked up.
I've been expecting trouble ever since she started to school.
I knew things were going too smooth to last.  She's so high strung.
What would you advise, Rachel?"

"Well, since you've asked my advice, Marilla," said Mrs. Lynde
amiably--Mrs. Lynde dearly loved to be asked for advice--"I'd
just humor her a little at first, that's what I'd do.  It's my
belief that Mr. Phillips was in the wrong.  Of course, it
doesn't do to say so to the children, you know.  And of course he
did right to punish her yesterday for giving way to temper.  But
today it was different.  The others who were late should have
been punished as well as Anne, that's what.  And I don't believe
in making the girls sit with the boys for punishment.  It isn't
modest.  Tillie Boulter was real indignant.  She took Anne's part
right through and said all the scholars did too.  Anne seems real
popular among them, somehow.  I never thought she'd take with
them so well."

"Then you really think I'd better let her stay home," said
Marilla in amazement.

"Yes.  That is I wouldn't say school to her again until she
said it herself.  Depend upon it, Marilla, she'll cool off in
a week or so and be ready enough to go back of her own accord,
that's what, while, if you were to make her go back right off,
dear knows what freak or tantrum she'd take next and make more
trouble than ever.  The less fuss made the better, in my opinion.
She won't miss much by not going to school, as far as THAT goes.
Mr. Phillips isn't any good at all as a teacher.  The order he keeps
is scandalous, that's what, and he neglects the young fry and
puts all his time on those big scholars he's getting ready for
Queen's.  He'd never have got the school for another year if his
uncle hadn't been a trustee--THE trustee, for he just leads the
other two around by the nose, that's what.  I declare, I don't
know what education in this Island is coming to."

Mrs. Rachel shook her head, as much as to say if she were only
at the head of the educational system of the Province things
would be much better managed.

Marilla took Mrs. Rachel's advice and not another word was said
to Anne about going back to school.  She learned her lessons at
home, did her chores, and played with Diana in the chilly purple
autumn twilights; but when she met Gilbert Blythe on the road or
encountered him in Sunday school she passed him by with an icy
contempt that was no whit thawed by his evident desire to appease
her.  Even Diana's efforts as a peacemaker were of no avail.
Anne had evidently made up her mind to hate Gilbert Blythe to
the end of life.

As much as she hated Gilbert, however, did she love Diana, with
all the love of her passionate little heart, equally intense in
its likes and dislikes.  One evening Marilla, coming in from the
orchard with a basket of apples, found Anne sitting along by the
east window in the twilight, crying bitterly.

"Whatever's the matter now, Anne?" she asked.

"It's about Diana," sobbed Anne luxuriously.  "I love Diana so,
Marilla.  I cannot ever live without her.  But I know very well
when we grow up that Diana will get married and go away and leave
me.  And oh, what shall I do?  I hate her husband--I just hate
him furiously.  I've been imagining it all out--the wedding and
everything--Diana dressed in snowy garments, with a veil, and
looking as beautiful and regal as a queen; and me the bridesmaid,
with a lovely dress too, and puffed sleeves, but with a breaking
heart hid beneath my smiling face.  And then bidding Diana
goodbye-e-e--" Here Anne broke down entirely and wept with
increasing bitterness.

Marilla turned quickly away to hide her twitching face; but it
was no use; she collapsed on the nearest chair and burst into
such a hearty and unusual peal of laughter that Matthew, crossing
the yard outside, halted in amazement.  When had he heard Marilla
laugh like that before?

"Well, Anne Shirley," said Marilla as soon as she could speak,
"if you must borrow trouble, for pity's sake borrow it handier
home.  I should think you had an imagination, sure enough."




CHAPTER XVI

Diana Is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results


OCTOBER was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches
in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind
the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along
the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy
green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.

Anne reveled in the world of color about her.

"Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing
in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs" 'I'm so glad I live in
a world where there are Octobers.  It would be terrible if we
just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it?  Look at
these maple branches.  Don't they give you a thrill--several
thrills?  I'm going to decorate my room with them."

"Messy things," said Marilla, whose aesthetic sense was not
noticeably developed.  "You clutter up your room entirely too
much with out-of-doors stuff, Anne.  Bedrooms were made to sleep
in."

"Oh, and dream in too, Marilla.  And you know one can dream so
much better in a room where there are pretty things.  I'm going
to put these boughs in the old blue jug and set them on my
table."

"Mind you don't drop leaves all over the stairs then.  I'm going
on a meeting of the Aid Society at Carmody this afternoon, Anne,
and I won't likely be home before dark.  You'll have to get
Matthew and Jerry their supper, so mind you don't forget to put
the tea to draw until you sit down at the table as you did last
time."

"It was dreadful of me to forget," said Anne apologetically, "but
that was the afternoon I was trying to think of a name for Violet
Vale and it crowded other things out.  Matthew was so good.  He
never scolded a bit.  He put the tea down himself and said we
could wait awhile as well as not.  And I told him a lovely fairy
story while we were waiting, so he didn't find the time long at
all.  It was a beautiful fairy story, Marilla.  I forgot the end
of it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew said he
couldn't tell where the join came in."

"Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you took a notion to
get up and have dinner in the middle of the night.  But you keep
your wits about you this time.  And--I don't really know if I'm
doing right--it may make you more addlepated than ever--but you
can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and
have tea here."

"Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands.  "How perfectly lovely!
You ARE able to imagine things after all or else you'd never have
understood how I've longed for that very thing.  It will seem so
nice and grown-uppish.  No fear of my forgetting to put the tea
to draw when I have company.  Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud
spray tea set?"

"No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next?  You know I
never use that except for the minister or the Aids.  You'll put
down the old brown tea set.  But you can open the little yellow
crock of cherry preserves.  It's time it was being used anyhow--I
believe it's beginning to work.  And you can cut some fruit cake
and have some of the cookies and snaps."

"I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table
and pouring out the tea," said Anne, shutting her eyes
ecstatically.  "And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she
doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know.  And
then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another
helping of preserves.  Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation
just to think of it.  Can I take her into the spare room to lay
off her hat when she comes?  And then into the parlor to sit?"

"No.  The sitting room will do for you and your company.  But
there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left
over from the church social the other night.  It's on the second
shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if
you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for
I daresay Matthew'll be late coming in to tea since he's hauling
potatoes to the vessel."

Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's Bubble and up the
spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea.  As a result
just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over,
dressed in HER second-best dress and looking exactly as it is
proper to look when asked out to tea.  At other times she was
wont to run into the kitchen without knocking; but now she
knocked primly at the front door.  And when Anne, dressed in her
second best, as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands
as gravely as if they had never met before.  This unnatural
solemnity lasted until after Diana had been taken to the east
gable to lay off her hat and then had sat for ten minutes in the
sitting room, toes in position.

"How is your mother?" inquired Anne politely, just as if she had
not seen Mrs. Barry picking apples that morning in excellent
health and spirits.

"She is very well, thank you.  I suppose Mr. Cuthbert is hauling
potatoes to the LILY SANDS this afternoon, is he?" said Diana,
who had ridden down to Mr. Harmon Andrews's that morning in
Matthew's cart.

"Yes.  Our potato crop is very good this year.  I hope your
father's crop is good too."

"It is fairly good, thank you.  Have you picked many of your
apples yet?"

"Oh, ever so many," said Anne forgetting to be dignified and
jumping up quickly.  "Let's go out to the orchard and get some of
the Red Sweetings, Diana.  Marilla says we can have all that are
left on the tree.  Marilla is a very generous woman.  She said we
could have fruit cake and cherry preserves for tea.  But it isn't
good manners to tell your company what you are going to give them
to eat, so I won't tell you what she said we could have to drink.
Only it begins with an R and a C and it's bright red color.  I
love bright red drinks, don't you?  They taste twice as good as
any other color."

The orchard, with its great sweeping boughs that bent to the
ground with fruit, proved so delightful that the little girls
spent most of the afternoon in it, sitting in a grassy corner
where the frost had spared the green and the mellow autumn
sunshine lingered warmly, eating apples and talking as hard as
they could.  Diana had much to tell Anne of what went on in
school.  She had to sit with Gertie Pye and she hated it; Gertie
squeaked her pencil all the time and it just made
her--Diana's--blood run cold; Ruby Gillis had charmed all her
warts away, true's you live, with a magic pebble that old Mary
Joe from the Creek gave her.  You had to rub the warts with the
pebble and then throw it away over your left shoulder at the time
of the new moon and the warts would all go.  Charlie Sloane's
name was written up with Em White's on the porch wall and Em
White was AWFUL MAD about it; Sam Boulter had "sassed" Mr.
Phillips in class and Mr. Phillips whipped him and Sam's father
came down to the school and dared Mr. Phillips to lay a hand on
one of his children again; and Mattie Andrews had a new red hood
and a blue crossover with tassels on it and the airs she put on
about it were perfectly sickening; and Lizzie Wright didn't speak
to Mamie Wilson because Mamie Wilson's grown-up sister had cut
out Lizzie Wright's grown-up sister with her beau; and everybody
missed Anne so and wished she's come to school again; and Gilbert
Blythe--

But Anne didn't want to hear about Gilbert Blythe.  She jumped up
hurriedly and said suppose they go in and have some raspberry
cordial.

Anne looked on the second shelf of the room pantry but there was
no bottle of raspberry cordial there .  Search revealed it away
back on the top shelf.  Anne put it on a tray and set it on the
table with a tumbler.

"Now, please help yourself, Diana," she said politely.  "I don't
believe I'll have any just now.  I don't feel as if I wanted any
after all those apples."

Diana poured herself out a tumblerful, looked at its bright-red
hue admiringly, and then sipped it daintily.

"That's awfully nice raspberry cordial, Anne," she said.  "I
didn't know raspberry cordial was so nice."

"I'm real glad you like it.  Take as much as you want.  I'm going
to run out and stir the fire up.  There are so many
responsibilities on a person's mind when they're keeping house,
isn't there?"

When Anne came back from the kitchen Diana was drinking her
second glassful of cordial; and, being entreated thereto by Anne,
she offered no particular objection to the drinking of a third.
The tumblerfuls were generous ones and the raspberry cordial was
certainly very nice.

"The nicest I ever drank," said Diana.  "It's ever so much nicer
than Mrs. Lynde's, although she brags of hers so much.  It
doesn't taste a bit like hers."

"I should think Marilla's raspberry cordial would prob'ly be much
nicer than Mrs. Lynde's," said Anne loyally.  "Marilla is a
famous cook.  She is trying to teach me to cook but I assure you,
Diana, it is uphill work.  There's so little scope for
imagination in cookery.  You just have to go by rules.  The last
time I made a cake I forgot to put the flour in.  I was thinking
the loveliest story about you and me, Diana.  I thought you were
desperately ill with smallpox and everybody deserted you, but I
went boldly to your bedside and nursed you back to life; and then
I took the smallpox and died and I was buried under those poplar
trees in the graveyard and you planted a rosebush by my grave and
watered it with your tears; and you never, never forgot the
friend of your youth who sacrificed her life for you.  Oh, it was
such a pathetic tale, Diana.  The tears just rained down over my
cheeks while I mixed the cake.  But I forgot the flour and the
cake was a dismal failure.  Flour is so essential to cakes, you
know.  Marilla was very cross and I don't wonder.  I'm a great
trial to her.  She was terribly mortified about the pudding sauce
last week.  We had a plum pudding for dinner on Tuesday and there
was half the pudding and a pitcherful of sauce left over.
Marilla said there was enough for another dinner and told me to
set it on the pantry shelf and cover it.  I meant to cover it
just as much as could be, Diana, but when I carried it in I was
imagining I was a nun--of course I'm a Protestant but I imagined
I was a Catholic--taking the veil to bury a broken heart in
cloistered seclusion; and I forgot all about covering the pudding
sauce.  I thought of it next morning and ran to the pantry.
Diana, fancy if you can my extreme horror at finding a mouse
drowned in that pudding sauce! I lifted the mouse out with a
spoon and threw it out in the yard and then I washed the spoon in
three waters.  Marilla was out milking and I fully intended to
ask her when she came in if I'd give the sauce to the pigs; but
when she did come in I was imagining that I was a frost fairy
going through the woods turning the trees red and yellow,
whichever they wanted to be, so I never thought about the
pudding sauce again and Marilla sent me out to pick apples.
Well, Mr. and Mrs. Chester Ross from Spencervale came here that
morning.  You know they are very stylish people, especially Mrs.
Chester Ross.  When Marilla called me in dinner was all ready and
everybody was at the table.  I tried to be as polite and
dignified as I could be, for I wanted Mrs. Chester Ross to think
I was a ladylike little girl even if I wasn't pretty.  Everything
went right until I saw Marilla coming with the plum pudding in
one hand and the pitcher of pudding sauce WARMED UP, in the other.
Diana, that was a terrible moment.  I remembered everything and I
just stood up in my place and shrieked out `Marilla, you mustn't
use that pudding sauce.  There was a mouse drowned in it.  I
forgot to tell you before.' Oh, Diana, I shall never forget that
awful moment if I live to be a hundred.  Mrs. Chester Ross just
LOOKED at me and I thought I would sink through the floor with
mortification.  She is such a perfect housekeeper and fancy what
she must have thought of us.  Marilla turned red as fire but she
never said a word--then.  She just carried that sauce and
pudding out and brought in some strawberry preserves.  She even
offered me some, but I couldn't swallow a mouthful.  It was like
heaping coals of fire on my head.  After Mrs. Chester Ross went
away, Marilla gave me a dreadful scolding.  Why, Diana, what is
the matter?"

Diana had stood up very unsteadily; then she sat down again,
putting her hands to her head.

"I'm--I'm awful sick," she said, a little thickly.  "I--I--must go
right home."

"Oh, you mustn't dream of going home without your tea," cried
Anne in distress.  "I'll get it right off--I'll go and put the
tea down this very minute."

"I must go home," repeated Diana, stupidly but determinedly.

"Let me get you a lunch anyhow," implored Anne.  "Let me give you
a bit of fruit cake and some of the cherry preserves.  Lie down
on the sofa for a little while and you'll be better.  Where do
you feel bad?"

"I must go home," said Diana, and that was all she would say.  In
vain Anne pleaded.

"I never heard of company going home without tea," she mourned.
"Oh, Diana, do you suppose that it's possible you're really
taking the smallpox?  If you are I'll go and nurse you, you can
depend on that.  I'll never forsake you.  But I do wish you'd
stay till after tea.  Where do you feel bad?"

"I'm awful dizzy," said Diana.

And indeed, she walked very dizzily.  Anne, with tears of
disappointment in her eyes, got Diana's hat and went with her as
far as the Barry yard fence.  Then she wept all the way back to
Green Gables, where she sorrowfully put the remainder of the
raspberry cordial back into the pantry and got tea ready for
Matthew and Jerry, with all the zest gone out of the performance.

The next day was Sunday and as the rain poured down in torrents
from dawn till dusk Anne did not stir abroad from Green Gables.
Monday afternoon Marilla sent her down to Mrs. Lynde's on an
errand.  In a very short space of time Anne came flying back up
the lane with tears rolling down her cheeks.  Into the kitchen
she dashed and flung herself face downward on the sofa in an
agony.

"Whatever has gone wrong now, Anne?" queried Marilla in doubt and
dismay.  "I do hope you haven't gone and been saucy to Mrs. Lynde
again."

No answer from Anne save more tears and stormier sobs!

"Anne Shirley, when I ask you a question I want to be answered.
Sit right up this very minute and tell me what you are crying
about."

Anne sat up, tragedy personified.

"Mrs. Lynde was up to see Mrs. Barry today and Mrs. Barry was in
an awful state," she wailed.  "She says that I set Diana DRUNK
Saturday and sent her home in a disgraceful condition.  And she
says I must be a thoroughly bad, wicked little girl and she's
never, never going to let Diana play with me again.  Oh, Marilla,
I'm just overcome with woe."

Marilla stared in blank amazement.

"Set Diana drunk!" she said when she found her voice.  "Anne are
you or Mrs. Barry crazy?  What on earth did you give her?"

"Not a thing but raspberry cordial," sobbed Anne.  "I never
thought raspberry cordial would set people drunk, Marilla--not
even if they drank three big tumblerfuls as Diana did.  Oh, it
sounds so--so--like Mrs. Thomas's husband! But I didn't mean to
set her drunk."

"Drunk fiddlesticks!" said Marilla, marching to the sitting room
pantry.  There on the shelf was a bottle which she at once
recognized as one containing some of her three-year-old homemade
currant wine for which she was celebrated in Avonlea, although
certain of the stricter sort, Mrs. Barry among them, disapproved
strongly of it.  And at the same time Marilla recollected that
she had put the bottle of raspberry cordial down in the cellar
instead of in the pantry as she had told Anne.

She went back to the kitchen with the wine bottle in her hand.
Her face was twitching in spite of herself.

"Anne, you certainly have a genius for getting into trouble.  You
went and gave Diana currant wine instead of raspberry cordial.
Didn't you know the difference yourself?"

"I never tasted it," said Anne.  "I thought it was the cordial.
I meant to be so--so--hospitable.  Diana got awfully sick and had
to go home.  Mrs. Barry told Mrs. Lynde she was simply dead
drunk.  She just laughed silly-like when her mother asked her
what was the matter and went to sleep and slept for hours.  Her
mother smelled her breath and knew she was drunk.  She had a
fearful headache all day yesterday.  Mrs. Barry is so indignant.
She will never believe but what I did it on purpose."

"I should think she would better punish Diana for being so greedy
as to drink three glassfuls of anything," said Marilla shortly.
"Why, three of those big glasses would have made her sick even if
it had only been cordial.  Well, this story will be a nice handle
for those folks who are so down on me for making currant wine,
although I haven't made any for three years ever since I found
out that the minister didn't approve.  I just kept that bottle
for sickness.  There, there, child, don't cry.  I can't see as
you were to blame although I'm sorry it happened so."

"I must cry," said Anne.  "My heart is broken.  The stars in their
courses fight against me, Marilla.  Diana and I are parted forever.
Oh, Marilla, I little dreamed of this when first we swore our vows
of friendship."

"Don't be foolish, Anne.  Mrs. Barry will think better of it
when she finds you're not to blame.  I suppose she thinks you've
done it for a silly joke or something of that sort.  You'd best
go up this evening and tell her how it was."

"My courage fails me at the thought of facing Diana's injured
mother," sighed Anne.  "I wish you'd go, Marilla.  You're so much
more dignified than I am.  Likely she'd listen to you quicker
than to me."

"Well, I will," said Marilla, reflecting that it would probably
be the wiser course.  "Don't cry any more, Anne.  It will be all
right."

Marilla had changed her mind about it being all right by the time
she got back from Orchard Slope.  Anne was watching for her
coming and flew to the porch door to meet her.

"Oh, Marilla, I know by your face that it's been no use," she
said sorrowfully.  "Mrs. Barry won't forgive me?"

"Mrs. Barry indeed!" snapped Marilla.  "Of all the unreasonable
women I ever saw she's the worst.  I told her it was all a
mistake and you weren't to blame, but she just simply didn't
believe me.  And she rubbed it well in about my currant wine and
how I'd always said it couldn't have the least effect on anybody.
I just told her plainly that currant wine wasn't meant to be
drunk three tumblerfuls at a time and that if a child I had to do
with was so greedy I'd sober her up with a right good spanking."

Marilla whisked into the kitchen, grievously disturbed, leaving a
very much distracted little soul in the porch behind her.
Presently Anne stepped out bareheaded into the chill autumn dusk;
very determinedly and steadily she took her way down through the
sere clover field over the log bridge and up through the spruce
grove, lighted by a pale little moon hanging low over the western
woods.  Mrs. Barry, coming to the door in answer to a timid
knock, found a white-lipped eager-eyed suppliant on the doorstep.

Her face hardened.  Mrs. Barry was a woman of strong prejudices
and dislikes, and her anger was of the cold, sullen sort which is
always hardest to overcome.  To do her justice, she really
believed Anne had made Diana drunk out of sheer malice prepense,???
and she was honestly anxious to preserve her little daughter from
the contamination of further intimacy with such a child.

"What do you want?" she said stiffly.

Anne clasped her hands.

"Oh, Mrs. Barry, please forgive me.  I did not mean
to--to--intoxicate Diana.  How could I?  Just imagine if you were
a poor little orphan girl that kind people had adopted and you
had just one bosom friend in all the world.  Do you think you
would intoxicate her on purpose?  I thought it was only raspberry
cordial.  I was firmly convinced it was raspberry cordial.  Oh,
please don't say that you won't let Diana play with me any more.
If you do you will cover my life with a dark cloud of woe."

This speech which would have softened good Mrs. Lynde's heart in
a twinkling, had no effect on Mrs. Barry except to irritate her
still more.  She was suspicious of Anne's big words and dramatic
gestures and imagined that the child was making fun of her.  So
she said, coldly and cruelly:

"I don't think you are a fit little girl for Diana to associate
with.  You'd better go home and behave yourself."

Anne's lips quivered.

"Won't you let me see Diana just once to say farewell?" she
implored.

"Diana has gone over to Carmody with her father," said Mrs.
Barry, going in and shutting the door.

Anne went back to Green Gables calm with despair.

"My last hope is gone," she told Marilla.  "I went up and saw
Mrs. Barry myself and she treated me very insultingly.  Marilla,
I do NOT think she is a well-bred woman.  There is nothing more
to do except to pray and I haven't much hope that that'll do much
good because, Marilla, I do not believe that God Himself can do
very much with such an obstinate person as Mrs. Barry."

"Anne, you shouldn't say such things" rebuked Marilla, striving
to overcome that unholy tendency to laughter which she was
dismayed to find growing upon her.  And indeed, when she told the
whole story to Matthew that night, she did laugh heartily over
Anne's tribulations.

But when she slipped into the east gable before going to bed and
found that Anne had cried herself to sleep an unaccustomed
softness crept into her face.

"Poor little soul," she murmured, lifting a loose curl of hair
from the child's tear-stained face.  Then she bent down and
kissed the flushed cheek on the pillow.



CHAPTER XVII
A New Interest in Life

THE next afternoon Anne, bending over her patchwork at the
kitchen window, happened to glance out and beheld Diana down by
the Dryad's Bubble beckoning mysteriously.  In a trice Anne was
out of the house and flying down to the hollow, astonishment and
hope struggling in her expressive eyes.  But the hope faded when
she saw Diana's dejected countenance.

"Your mother hasn't relented?" she gasped.

Diana shook her head mournfully.

"No; and oh, Anne, she says I'm never to play with you again.
I've cried and cried and I told her it wasn't your fault, but it
wasn't any use.  I had ever such a time coaxing her to let me
come down and say good-bye to you.  She said I was only to stay
ten minutes and she's timing me by the clock."

"Ten minutes isn't very long to say an eternal farewell in," said
Anne tearfully.  "Oh, Diana, will you promise faithfully never to
forget me, the friend of your youth, no matter what dearer
friends may caress thee?"

"Indeed I will," sobbed Diana, "and I'll never have another bosom
friend--I don't want to have.  I couldn't love anybody as I love
you."

"Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you LOVE me?"

"Why, of course I do.  Didn't you know that?"

"No." Anne drew a long breath.  "I thought you LIKED me of course
but I never hoped you LOVED me.  Why, Diana, I didn't think
anybody could love me.  Nobody ever has loved me since I can
remember.  Oh, this is wonderful! It's a ray of light which will
forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana.
Oh, just say it once again."

"I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, "and I always
will, you may be sure of that."

"And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, solemnly
extending her hand.  "In the years to come thy memory will shine
like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read
together says.  Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black
tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?"

"Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried Diana, wiping
away the tears which Anne's affecting accents had caused to flow
afresh, and returning to practicalities.

"Yes.  I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket
fortunately," said Anne.  She solemnly clipped one of Diana's
curls.  "Fare thee well, my beloved friend.  Henceforth we must
be as strangers though living side by side.  But my heart will
ever be faithful to thee."

Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her
hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back.  Then she
returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being
by this romantic parting.

"It is all over," she informed Marilla.  "I shall never have
another friend.  I'm really worse off than ever before, for I
haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now.  And even if I had it
wouldn't be the same.  Somehow, little dream girls are not
satisfying after a real friend.  Diana and I had such an
affecting farewell down by the spring.  It will be sacred in my
memory forever.  I used the most pathetic language I could think
of and said `thou' and `thee.' `Thou' and `thee' seem so much
more romantic than `you.'  Diana gave me a lock of her hair and
I'm going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck
all my life.  Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't
believe I'll live very long.  Perhaps when she sees me lying cold
and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has
done and will let Diana come to my funeral."

"I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long
as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically.

The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from
her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip??? lips primmed
up into a line of determination.

"I'm going back to school," she announced.  "That is all there is
left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn
from me.  In school I can look at her and muse over days
departed."

"You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla,
concealing her delight at this development of the situation.  "If
you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking
slates over people's heads and such carryings on.  Behave
yourself and do just what your teacher tells you."

"I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully.  "There
won't be much fun in it, I expect.  Mr. Phillips said Minnie
Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination
or life in her.  She is just dull and poky and never seems to
have a good time.  But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will
come easy to me now.  I'm going round by the road.  I couldn't
bear to go by the Birch Path all alone.  I should weep bitter
tears if I did."

Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms.  Her imagination
had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her
dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour.
Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during
testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous
yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species
of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school.  Sophia Sloane
offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit
lace, so nice for trimming aprons.  Katie Boulter gave her a
perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied
carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges
the following effusion:


When twilight drops her curtain down
And pins it with a star
Remember that you have a friend
Though she may wander far.


"It's so nice to be appreciated," sighed Anne rapturously to
Marilla that night.

The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her.  When
Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr.
Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her
desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all
ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in
Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe
orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters.  Anne
dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously
wiped her fingers on her handkerchief.  The apple lay untouched
on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews,
who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of
his perquisites.  Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously
bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents
where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her
after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception.  Anne was
graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a
smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the
seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful
errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after
school to rewrite it.

But as,


The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more.


so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana
Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little
triumph.

"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned
to Marilla that night.  But the next morning a note most
fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel
were passed across to Anne.

Dear Anne (ran the former)


Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in
school.  It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I
love you as much as ever.  I miss you awfully to tell all my
secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit.  I made you one
of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper.  They are awfully
fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make
them.  When you look at it remember
                                            Your true friend
                                            Diana Barry.


Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt
reply back to the other side of the school.


My own darling Diana:--


Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your
mother.  Our spirits can commune.  I shall keep your lovely
present forever.  Minnie Andrews is a very nice little
girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been
Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's.  Please excuse
mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much
improoved.
                                Yours until death us do part
                                Anne or Cordelia Shirley.


P.S.  I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight.
A. OR C.S.


Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had
again begun to go to school.  But none developed.  Perhaps Anne
caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at
least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth.  She
flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to
be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe.  The rivalry between
them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's
side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be
said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for
holding grudges.  She was as intense in her hatreds as in her
loves.  She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival
Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to
acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but
the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them.  Now
Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of
her long red braids, spelled him down.  One morning Gilbert had
all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the
blackboard on the roll of honor; the next morning Anne, having
wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be
first.  One awful day they were ties and their names were written
up together.  It was almost as bad as a take-notice and Anne's
mortification was as evident as Gilbert's satisfaction.  When the
written examinations at the end of each month were held the
suspense was terrible.  The first month Gilbert came out three
marks ahead.  The second Anne beat him by five.  But her triumph
was marred by the fact that Gilbert congratulated her heartily
before the whole school.  It would have been ever so much sweeter
to her if he had felt the sting of his defeat.

Mr. Phillips might not be a very good teacher; but a pupil so
inflexibly determined on learning as Anne was could hardly escape
making progress under any kind of teacher.  By the end of the
term Anne and Gilbert were both promoted into the fifth class and
allowed to begin studying the elements of "the branches"--by
which Latin, geometry, French, and algebra were meant.  In
geometry Anne met her Waterloo.

"It's perfectly awful stuff, Marilla," she groaned.  "I'm sure
I'll never be able to make head or tail of it.  There is no scope
for imagination in it at all.  Mr. Phillips says I'm the worst
dunce he ever saw at it.  And Gil--I mean some of the others are
so smart at it.  It is extremely mortifying, Marilla.

Even Diana gets along better than I do.  But I don't mind being
beaten by Diana.  Even although we meet as strangers now I still
love her with an INEXTINGUISHABLE love.  It makes me very sad at
times to think about her.  But really, Marilla, one can't stay
sad very long in such an interesting world, can one?"