 CHAPTER 34 A QUEEN'S GIRL The next three weeks were busy ones at Green Gables, for Anne was getting ready to go to Queens, and there was much sewing to be done and many things to be talked over and arranged. Anne's outfit was ample and pretty, for Matthew sought of that, and Marilla for once made no objections whatever to anything he purchased or suggested. More, one evening she went up to the East Gable with her arms full of a delicate, pale green material. Anne, here's something for a nice light dress for you. I don't suppose you really need it, you've plenty of pretty waists, but I thought maybe you'd like something real dressy to wear if you were asked out anywhere of an evening in town, to a party or anything like that. I hear that Jane and Ruby and Josie have got evening dresses as they call them, and I don't mean you shall be behind them. I got Mrs. Allen to help me pick it in town last week, and we'll get Emily Gillis to make it for you. Emily has got taste, and her fits aren't to be equalled. Oh, Marilla, it's just lovely, said Anne. Thank you so much. I don't believe you ought to be so kind to me. It's making it harder every day for me to go away. The green dress was made up with as many tucks and frills and shurings as Emily's taste permitted. Anne put it on one evening for Matthews and Marilla's benefit, and recited the maidens vow for them in the kitchen. As Marilla watched the bright, animated face in graceful motions, her thoughts went back to the evening Anne had arrived at Green Gables, and memory recalled a vivid picture of the odd, frightened child in her preposterous yellowish-brown, wincy dress, the heart break looking out of her tearful eyes. Everything in the memory brought tears to Marilla's own eyes. I declare, my recitation has made you cry, Marilla," said Anne, gaily stooping over Marilla's chair to drop a butterfly kiss on that lady's cheek. Now I call that a positive triumph. No, I wasn't crying over your peace," said Marilla, who would have scorned to be betrayed into such weakness by any poetry stuff. I just couldn't help thinking of the little girl you used to be, Anne. And I was wishing you could have stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. You've grown up now, and you're going away, and you look so tall and stylish and so—so different altogether in that dress, as if you didn't belong in Avonlea at all. And I just got lonesome thinking it all over. Marilla—Anne sat down on Marilla's gingham lap, took Marilla's lined face between her hands and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla's eyes. I'm not a bit changed, not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real me, back here, is just the same. It won't make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly. At heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life. Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Marilla's faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feelings into words. But nature and habit had wielded otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she'd never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out of doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars. Well, now, I guess he ain't been much spoiled, he muttered proudly. I guess my putting my aura in occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart, and pretty, and loving too, which is better than all the rest. There's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made, if it was luck. I don't believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon. The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an un-tierful practical one, on Marilla's side at least, with Marilla. But when Anne had gone, Diana dried her tears and went to a beach picnic at White Sands, with some of her Carmody cousins, where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well. While Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest kind of heartache, the ache that burns and gnaws and cannot wash itself away in ready tears. But that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and miserably conscious that the little gable room at the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid young life and unstirred by any soft breathing, she buried her face in her pillow, and wept for her girl in a passion of soves that appalled her when she grew calm enough to reflect how very wicked it must be to take on so about a sinful fellow creature. Anne and the rest of the Avonlea scholars reached town just in time to hurry off to the academy. That first day passed pleasantly enough in a world of excitement, meeting all the new students, learning to know the professors by sight and being assorted and organized into classes. Anne intended taking up the second year work, being advised to do so by Miss Stacey. Gilbert Blythe elected to do the same. This meant getting a first-class teacher's license in one year instead of two if they were successful, but it also meant much more and harder work. Jane, Ruby, Josie, Charlie, and Moody Spurgeon, not being troubled with the stirrings of ambition, were content to take up the second-class work. Anne was conscious of a pang of loneliness when she found herself in a room with fifty other students, not one of whom she knew, except the tall, brown-haired boy across the room, and knowing him in the fashion she did did not help her much as she reflected pessimistically. But she was undeniably glad that they were in the same class. The old rivalry could still be carried on, and Anne would hardly have known what to do if it had been lacking. I wouldn't feel comfortable without it, she thought. Gilbert looks awfully determined. I suppose he's making up his mind here and now to win the medal. What a splendid chin he has. I never noticed it before. I do wish Jane and Ruby had gone in for first-class, too. I suppose I won't feel so much like a cat in a strange garret when I get acquainted, though. I wonder which of the girls here are going to be my friends. It's really an interesting speculation. Of course, I promise Diana that no queen's girl, no matter how much I liked her, should ever be as dear to me as she is, but I have lots of second-best affections to bestow. I like the look of that girl with the brown eyes and the crimson waist. She looks vivid and red-rosy. There's that pale fair-wong gazing out of the window. She has lovely hair, and looks as if she knew a thing or two about dreams. I'd like to know them both. Know them well. Still enough to walk with my arm about their waist and call them nicknames. But just now I don't know them, and they don't know me, and probably don't want to know me particularly. Oh, it's lonesome. It was lonesomer still when Anne found herself alone in her hall bedroom that night at twilight. She was not to board with the other girls who all had relatives in town to take pity on them. Miss Josephine Barry would have liked to board her, but Beechwood was so far from the academy that it was out of the question. So Miss Barry hunted up a boarding-house, assuring Matthew and Marilla that it was the very place for Anne. The lady who keeps it is a reduced gentlewoman, explained Miss Barry. Her husband was a British officer, and she is very careful what sort of border she takes. Anne will not meet with any objectionable persons under her roof. The table is good, and the house is near the academy in a quiet neighborhood. All this might be quite true, and indeed proved to be so. But it did not materially help Anne in the first agony of homesickness that seized upon her. She looked dismally about her narrow little room with its dull-papered, pictureless walls, its small iron bedstead and empty bookcase, and a horrible choke came into her throat as she thought of her own white room at Green Gables, where she would have the pleasant consciousness of a great, green still outdoors, of sweet peas growing in the garden and moonlight falling on the orchard, of the brook below the slope and the spruce boughs tossing in the night wind beyond it, of a vast starry sky and the light from Diana's window shining out through the gap in the trees. Here there was nothing of this. Anne knew that outside of her window was a hard street with a network of telephone wires shutting out the sky, the tramp of alien feet, and a thousand lights gleaming on stranger faces. She knew that she was going to cry and fought against it. I won't cry. It's silly and weak. There's the third tear splashing down my nose. There are more coming. I must think of something funny to stop them. But there's nothing funny except what is connected with Avonlea, and that only makes things worse. Four. Five. They're going home next Friday, but that seems a hundred years away. Oh! Matthew is nearly home by now, and Rubella is at the gate looking down the lane for him. Six. Seven. Eight. Oh! There's no use in counting them. They're coming in a flood presently. I can't cheer up. I don't want to cheer up. It's nicer to be miserable. The flood of tears would have come, no doubt, had not Josie Pie appear to that moment, in the joy of seeing a familiar face, Anne forgot that there had never been much love lost between her and Josie. As a part of Avonlea's life, even a pie was welcome. I'm so glad you came up, Anne said sincerely. You've been crying, remarked Josie, with aggravating pity. I suppose you're homesick. Some people have so little self-control in that respect. I've no intention of being homesick, I can tell you. Town's too jolly after that pokey old Avonlea. I wonder how I ever existed there so long. You shouldn't cry, Anne. It isn't becoming, for your nose and eyes get red, and then you seem all red. I had a perfectly scrumptious time in the academy today. Our French professor is simply a duck. His moustache would give you co-wallops of the heart. Have you anything eatable around, Anne? I'm literally starving. Ah! I guess likely Marilla'd load you up with cake. That's why I called round. Otherwise, I'd have gone to the park to hear the band play with Frank Stockley. He bored same place I do, and he's a sport. He noticed you in class today, and asked me who the red-headed girl was. I told him you were an orphan that the Cuthberts had adopted, and nobody knew very much about what you'd been before that. Anne was wondering if, after all, solitude and tears were not more satisfactory than Josie Pie's companionship when Jane and Ruby appeared, each with an inch of Queen's colour ribbon, purple and scarlet, pinned proudly to her coat. As Josie was not speaking to Jane just then, she had to subside into comparative harmlessness. Well, said Jane with a sigh, I feel as if I'd lived many moons since this morning. I ought to be home studying my Virgil, that horrible professor gave us twenty lines to start in on to-morrow, but I simply couldn't settle down to study to-night. Anne, me thinks I see the traces of tears. If you've been crying, do own up. It will restore my self-respect, for I was shedding tears freely before Ruby came along. I don't mind being a goose so much if somebody else is goosey, too. Cake? You'll give me a teeny-piece, won't you? Thank you. It has the real Avonlea flavour. Ruby, perceiving the Queen's calendar lying on the table, wanted to know if Anne meant to try for the gold medal. Anne blushed and admitted she was thinking of it. Oh, that reminds me, said Josie. Queen's is to get one of the Avery Scholarships after all. The word came to-day. Frank Stockley told me. His uncle is one of the Board of Governors, you know. It will be announced in the Academy to-morrow. An Avery Scholarship. Anne felt her heart beat more quickly, and the horizons of her ambition shifted and broadened as if by magic. Before Josie had told the news, Anne's highest pinnacle of aspiration had been a teacher's provincial license, first class, at the end of the year, and perhaps the medal. But now in one moment Anne saw herself winning the Avery Scholarship, taking an arts course at Redmond College and graduating in a gown and mortarboard before the echo of Josie's words had died away. For the Avery Scholarship was in English, and Anne felt that here her foot was on native heath. A wealthy manufacturer of New Brunswick had died and left part of his fortune to endow a large number of scholarships to be distributed among the various high schools and academies of the Maritime provinces, according to their respective standings. There had been much doubt whether one would be allotted to Queens, but the matter was settled at last, and at the end of the year the graduate who made the highest mark in English and English literature would win the scholarship, two hundred and fifty dollars a year for four years at Redmond College. No wonder that Anne went to bed that night with tingling cheeks. I'll win that scholarship if hard work can do it," she resolved. Wouldn't Matthew be proud if I got to be a BA? Oh, it's delightful to have ambitions. I'm so glad I have such a lot. And there never seems to be any end to them. That's the best of it. Just as soon as you attain one ambition you see another one glittering higher up still, it does make life so interesting. Anne's homesickness wore off, greatly helped in the wearing by her weekend visits home. As long as the open weather lasted, the Avonlea students went out to Carmody on the new branch railway every Friday night. Diana and several other Avonlea young folks were generally on hand to meet them, and they all walked over to Avonlea in a merry party. Anne thought those Friday evening gypsy-ings over the autumnal hills in the crisp golden air with the home lights of Avonlea twinkling beyond were the best and dearest hours in the whole week. Gilbert Blythe nearly always walked with Ruby Gillis and carried her satchel for her. Ruby was a very handsome young lady, now thinking herself quite as grown up as she really was. She wore her skirts as long as her mother would let her and did her hair up in town, though she had to take it down when she went home. She had large, bright blue eyes, a brilliant complexion, and a plump, showy figure. She laughed a great deal, was cheerful and good-tempered, and enjoyed the pleasant things of life, frankly. But I wouldn't think she was the sort of girl Gilbert would like, whispered Jane to Anne. Anne did not think so, either, but she would not have said so for the Avery Scholarship. She could not help thinking, too, that it would be very pleasant to have such a friend as Gilbert to jest and chatter with and exchange ideas about books and studies and ambitions. Gilbert had ambitions, she knew, and Ruby Gillis did not seem the sort of person with whom such could be profitably discussed. There was no silly sentiment in Anne's ideas concerning Gilbert. Boys were to her, when she thought about them at all, merely possible good comrades. If she and Gilbert had been friends, she would not have cared how many other friends he had, nor with whom he walked. She had a genius for friendship, girl friends she had in plenty, but she had a vague consciousness that masculine friendship might also be a good thing to round out one's conceptions of companionship and furnish broader standpoints of judgment and comparison. Not that Anne could have put her feelings on the matter into just such clear definition. But she thought that if Gilbert had ever walked home with her from the train, over the crisp fields and along the phrony byways, they might have had many and merry and interesting conversations about the new world that was opening around them and their hopes and ambitions therein. Gilbert was a clever young fellow, with his own thoughts about things and a determination to get the best out of life and put the best into it. Ruby Gillis told Jane Andrews that she didn't understand half the things Gilbert Blythe said. He talked just like Anne Shirley did when she had a thoughtful fit on, and for her part she didn't think it any fun to be bothering about books and that sort of thing when you didn't have to. Frank Stockley had lots more dash and go, but then he wasn't half as good-looking as Gilbert, and she really couldn't decide which she liked best. In the academy Anne gradually drew a little circle of friends about her, thoughtful, imaginative, ambitious students like herself. With the rose-red girl Stella Maynard and the dream girl Priscilla Grant she soon became intimate, finding the latter pale, spiritual looking maiden to be full to the brim of mischief and pranks and fun, while the vivid black-eyed Stella had a heart full of wistful dreams and fancies as aerial and rainbow-like as Anne's own. After the Christmas holidays the Avonlea students gave up going home on Fridays and settled down to hard work. By this time all the Queen scholars had gravitated into their own places in the ranks and the various classes had assumed distinct and settled shadings of individuality. Certain facts had become generally accepted. It was admitted that the metal contestants had practically narrowed down to three, Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, and Louis Wilson. The Avery Scholarship was more doubtful, any one of a certain six being a possible winner. The bronze medal for mathematics was considered as good as one by a fat, funny little up-country boy with a bumpy forehead and a patched coat. Ruby Gillis was the handsomest girl of the year at the academy. In the second-year classes Stella Maynard carried off the palm for beauty, with a small but critical minority in favour of Anne Shirley. Ethel Marr was admitted by all competent judges to have the most stylish modes of hairdressing, and Jane Andrews, Elaine, Plotting, Conscientious Jane, carried off the honours in the Domestic Science course. Even Josie Pie attained a certain preeminence as the sharpest tongue-young lady in attendance at Queen's. So it may be fairly stated that Miss Stacy's old pupils held their own in the wider arena of the academical course. Anne worked hard and steadily. Her rivalry with Gilbert was as intense as it had ever been in Avonlea School, although it was not known in the class at large. But somehow the bitterness had gone out of it. Anne no longer wished to win for the sake of defeating Gilbert, rather for the proud consciousness of a well-won victory over a worthy foeman. It would be worthwhile to win, but she no longer thought life would be insupportable if she did not. In spite of lessons the students found opportunities for pleasant times. Anne spent many of her spare hours at Beechwood and generally ate her Sunday dinners there and went to church with Miss Berry. The latter was, as she admitted, growing old, but her black eyes were not dim nor the vigor of her tongue in the least debated. But she never sharpened the latter on Anne, who continued to be a prime favorite with a critical old lady. That Anne girl improves all the time, she said. I get tired of other girls. There is such a provoking and eternal sameness about them. Anne has as many shanes as a rainbow and every shade is the prettiest while it lasts. I don't know that she is as amusing as she was when she was a child, but she makes me love her and I like people who make me love them. It saves me so much trouble in making myself love them. Anne, almost before anybody realized it, spring had come. Out in Avonlea the mayflowers were peeping pinkly out in the seer barrens where snow wreaths lingered, and the mist of green was on the woods and in the valleys. But in Charlottetown, harassed queen students, thought and talked only of examinations. It doesn't seem possible that the term is nearly over, said Anne, while last fall it seemed so long to look forward to, a whole winter of studies and classes. And here we are, with the exams looming up next week. Well, sometimes I feel as if those exams meant everything, but when I look at the big buds swelling on those chestnut trees and the misty blue air at the end of the streets, they don't seem half so important. Jane and Ruby and Josie, who had dropped in, did not take this view of it. To them the coming examinations were constantly very important indeed, far more important than chestnut buds or maytime hazes. It was all very well for Anne, who was sure of passing at least, to have her moments of belittling them. But when your whole future depended on them, as the girls truly thought theirs did, you could not regard them philosophically. I have lost seven pounds in the last two weeks, sighed Jane. It's no use to say, don't worry, I will worry. Worrying helps you some. It seems as if you were doing something when you're worrying. It would be dreadful if I fail to get my license after going to Queens all winter and spending so much money. I don't care, said Josie Pie. If I don't pass this year I'm coming back next. My father can afford to send me. Frank Stonkley says that Professor Tremaine said Gilbert Blythe was sure to get the medal, and that Emily Clay would likely win the Avery Scholarship. That may make me feel badly to-morrow, Josie, laughed Anne, but just now I honestly feel that as long as I know the violets are coming out all purple down in the hollow below green gables, and that little ferns are poking their heads up in Lovers Lane, it's not a great deal of difference whether I win the Avery or not. I've done my best, and I begin to understand what is meant by the joy of the strife. Just a trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing. Girls, don't talk about exams. Look at that arch of pale green sky over those houses and picture to yourself what it must look like over the purpley, dark, beach-woods back of Avonlea. What are you going to wear for commencement, Jane? asked Ruby practically. Jane and Josie both answered at once, and the chatter drifted into a side-eddy of fashions. But Anne, with her elbows on the windowsill, her soft cheek laid against her clasped hands, and her eyes filled with visions, looked out unheatingly across city roof inspired to that glorious dome of sunset sky and woe of her dreams of a possible future from the golden tissue of youth's own optimism. All the beyond was hers with its possibilities lurking rosely in the oncoming years. Each year a rose of promise to be woven into an immortal chaplet. On the morning when the final results of all the examinations were to be posted on the bulletin board at Queens, Anne and Jane walked down the street together. Jane was smiling and happy, examinations were over, and she was comfortably sure she had made a pass at least. Further considerations troubled Jane not at all. She had no soaring ambitions, and consequently was not affected with the unrest attendant thereon. For we pay a price for everything we get or take in this world, and although ambitions are well worth having, they are not to be cheaply won, but exact their dews of work in self-denial, anxiety and discouragement. Anne was pale and quiet. In ten more minutes she would know who had won the medal and who the Avery. Beyond those ten minutes there did not seem just then to be anything worth being called time. Of course she'll win one of them anyhow, said Jane, who couldn't understand how the faculty could be so unfair as to order it otherwise. I have not hope of the Avery, said Anne. Everybody says Emily Clay will win it. And I'm not going to march up to that bulletin board and look at it before everybody. I haven't the moral courage. I'm going straight to the girl's dressing room. You must read the announcements and then come and tell me, Jane, and I implore you in the name of our old friendship to do it as quickly as possible. If I have failed, just say so without trying to break it gently. And whatever you do, don't sympathize with me. Promise me this, Jane." Jane promised solemnly. But as it happened there was no necessity for such a promise. When they went up the entrance steps of Queens they found the hall full of boys who were carrying Gilbert Blythe around on their shoulders and yelling at the tops of their voices, hurrah for Blythe, metalist! For a moment Anne felt one sickening pang of defeat and disappointment. So she had failed and Gilbert had won. Well, Matthew would be sorry. He had been so sure she would win. And then somebody called out, three cheers from Miss Shirley, winner of the Avery. Oh, Anne gasped, Jane, as they fled to the girl's dressing room amid hearty cheers. Oh, Anne, I'm so proud. Isn't it splendid? And then the girls were around them. And Anne was the center of a laughing, congratulating group. Her shoulders were thumped and her hands shaken vigorously. She was pushed and pulled and hugged and among it all she managed to whisper to Jane, oh, won't Matthew and Marilla be pleased? I must write the news home right away. Commencement was the next important happening. The exercises were held in the big assembly hall of the academy. Addresses were given, essays read, songs sung, the public awarded diplomas, prizes, and medals made. Matthew and Marilla were there, with eyes and ears for only one student on the platform. A tall girl in pale green, with faintly flushed cheeks and starry eyes, who read the best essay and was pointed out and whispered about as the Avery winner. Wrecking your glad we kept to Marilla? whispered Matthew, speaking for the first time since he had entered the hall when Anne had finished her essay. It's not the first time I've been glad, retorted Marilla. You do like to rub things in, Matthew Cuthbert. Miss Barry, who was sitting behind them, leaned forward and poked Marilla in the back with her parasol. Aren't you proud of that, Anne, girl? I am, she said. Anne went home to Avonlea with Matthew and Marilla that evening. She had not been home since April, and she felt that she could not wait another day. The apple blossoms were out, and the world was fresh and young. Diana was at Green Gables to meet her, in her own white room where Marilla had set a flowering house-rose on the windowsill, and looked about her and drew a long breath of happiness. Oh, Diana, it's so good to be back again. It's so good to see those pointed furs coming out against the pink sky and that white orchard against the old Snow Queen. Isn't the breath of the mint delicious? And that tea-rose, why, it's a song and a hope and a prayer all in one. And it's good to see you again, Diana. I thought you liked that Stella Maynard better than me, said Diana reproachfully. Josie Pie told me you did. Josie said you were infatuated with her. Anne laughed and pelted Diana with the faded June lilies of her bouquet. Stella Maynard is the dearest girl in the world except one, and you are that one, Diana, she said. I love you more than ever, and I've so many things to tell you. But just now I feel as if it were joy enough to sit here and look at you. I'm tired, I think, tired of being studious and ambitious. I mean to spend at least two hours tomorrow lying out in the orchard grass thinking of absolutely nothing. You've done splendidly, Anne. I suppose you won't be teaching now that you've won the Avery. I'm going to Redmond in September. Doesn't it seem wonderful? I'll have a brand new stock of ambition laid in by that time after three glorious golden months of vacation. Jane and Ruby are going to teach. Isn't it splendid to think we all got through, even to Moody's Spurgeon and Josie Pie? The Newbridge trustees have offered Jane their school already, said Diana. Gilbert Blythe is going to teach, too. He has to. His father can't afford to send him to college next year after all, so he means to earn his way through. I expect he'll get the school here if Miss Ames decides to leave. Anne felt a queer little sensation of dismayed surprise. She had not known this. She had expected that Gilbert would be going to Redmond also. What would she do without their inspiring rivalry? Would not work, even at a coeducational college with a real degree in prospect, be rather flat without her friend the enemy? The next morning at breakfast it suddenly struck Anne that Matthew was not looking well. Surely he was much grayer than he had been a year before. Marilla—she said hesitatingly when he had gone out—is Matthew quite well? No, he isn't, said Marilla, in a troubled tone. He's had some real bad spells with his heart this spring, and he won't spare himself a might. I've been real worried about him, but he's some better this while back, and we've got a good hired man, so I'm hoping he'll kind of rest and pick up. Maybe he will, now you're home. You always cheer him up. Anne leaned across the table and took Marilla's face in her hands. You're not looking as well yourself as I'd like to see you, Marilla. You look tired. I'm afraid you've been working too hard. You must take a rest now that I'm home. I'm just going to take this one day off to visit all the dear old spots and hunt up my old dreams, and then it will be your turn to be lazy while I do the work. Marilla smiled affectionately at her girl. It's not the work. It's my head. I've got a pain so often now behind my eyes. Dr. Spencer's been fussing with glasses, but they don't do me any good. There is a distinguished oculus coming to the island the last of June, and the doctor says I must see him. I guess I'll have to. I can't read or sow with any comfort now. Well, Anne, you've done real well at Queens, I must say, to take first-class license in one year and win the Avery Scholarship. Well, well. Mrs. Linn says pride goes before a fall, and she doesn't believe in the higher education of women at all. She says it unfits them for a woman's true sphere. I don't believe a word of it. Speaking of Rachel reminds me, did you hear anything about the Abbey Bank lately, Anne? I heard it was shaky, answered Anne. Why? That is what Rachel said. She was up here one day last week and said there was some talk about it. Matthew felt real worried. All we have saved is in that bank, every penny. I wanted Matthew to put it in the Savings Bank in first place, but old Mr. Abbey was a great friend of Father's, and he'd always banked with him. Matthew said any bank with him at the head of it was good enough for anybody. I think he has only been its nominal head for many years, said Anne. He is a very old man. His nephew is a really at the head of the institution. Well, when Rachel told us that I wanted Matthew to draw our money right out and he said he'd think of it, but Mr. Russell told him yesterday that the bank was all right. Anne had her good day in the companionship of the outdoor world. She never forgot that day. It was so bright and golden and fair, so free from shadow and so lavish of blossom. Anne spent some of its rich hours in the orchard. She went to the Dryad's bubble and Willowmere and Violet Vale. She held in at the manse and had a satisfying talk with Mrs. Allen. And finally in the evening she went with Matthew for the cows through lovers' lane to the back pasture. The woods were all gloried through with sunset and the warm splendor of it streamed down through the hill gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with bent head. Anne, tall and erect, suited her springing step to his. You've been working too hard today, Matthew, she said reproachfully. Why don't you take things easier? Well, now? I can't seem to, said Matthew as he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. It's only that I'm getting old, Anne, and keep forgetting it. Well, well, I've always worked pretty hard and I'd rather drop in harness. If I had been the boy you sent for, said Anne wistfully, I'd be able to help you so much now and spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my heart to wish I had been just for that. Well, now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne, said Matthew, patting her hand. Just mind you that, rather than a dozen boys. Well, now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl, my girl, my girl that I'm proud of. He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard. Anne took the memory of it with her when she went to her room that night, and sat for a long while at her open window, thinking of the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the snow queen was mistily white in the moonshine, the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond orchard slope, Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life, and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it. CHAPTER XXXVII. A Vand of Green Gables. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, June 2007. Anne of Green Gables. By Lucy Maud Montgomery. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE REAPER WHOSE NAME IS DEATH. Matthew? Matthew! What is the matter? Matthew, are you sick? It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full of white Narcissus. It was long before Anne could love the sight or odor of white Narcissus again, in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped her flowers and sprang across the kitchen to him at the same moment as Marilla. They were both too late. Before they could reach him, Matthew had fallen across the threshold. He's fainted, gasped Marilla, and run for Martin, quick! Quick! He's at the barn! Martin, the hired man, who had just driven home from the post office, started at once for the doctor, calling at Orchard Slope on his way to send Mr. and Mrs. Barry over. Mrs. Lynde, who was there on an errand, came too. They found Anne and Marilla distractedly trying to restore Matthew to consciousness. Mrs. Lynde pushed them gently aside, tried his pulse, and then laid her ear over his heart. She looked at their anxious faces sorrowfully, and the tears came into her eyes. Oh, Marilla! She said gravely. I don't think we can do anything for him. Mrs. Lynde! You don't think—you can't think—Matthew is—is— Anne could not say the dreadful word. She turned sick and pallid. Child, yes, I'm afraid of it. Look at his face. When you've seen that look as often as I have, you'll know what it means. Anne looked at the still face, and there beheld the seal of the great presence. When the doctor came, he said that death had been instantaneous and probably painless, caused in all likelihood by some sudden shock. The secret of the shock was discovered to be in the paper Matthew had held, and which Martin had brought from the post office that morning. It contained an account of the failure of the Abbey Bank. The news spread quickly through Avonlea, and all day friends and neighbors thronged Green Gables and came and went on errands of kindness for the dead and living. For the first time, shy, quiet Matthew Cuthbert was a person of central importance. The White Majesty of Death had fallen on him and set him apart as one crowned. When the calm night came softly down over Green Gables, the old house was hushed and tranquil. In the parlour lay Matthew Cuthbert in his coffin, his long grey hair framing his placid face, on which there was a little kindly smile as if he but slept, dreaming pleasant dreams. There were flowers about him, sweet, old-fashioned flowers which his mother had planted in the homestead garden in her bridal days, and for which Matthew had always had a secret, wordless love. Anne had gathered them and brought them to him, her anguished, tearless eyes burning in her white face. It was the last thing she could do for him. The barris and Mrs. Lynde stayed with them that night. Diana, going to the East Gable, where Anne was standing at her window, said gently, Anne, dear, would you like to have me sleep with you tonight? Thank you, Diana. Anne looked earnestly into her friend's face. I think you won't misunderstand me when I say I want to be alone. I'm not afraid. I haven't been alone one minute since it happened, and I want to be. I want to be quite silent and quiet, and try to realize it. I can't realize it. Half the time it seems to me that Matthew can't be dead, and the other half it seems as if he must have been dead for a long time, and I've had this horrible, dull ache ever since. Diana did not quite understand. Marilla's impassioned grief, breaking all the bounds of natural reserve and lifelong habit in its stormy rush, she could comprehend better than Anne's tearless agony. But she went away kindly, leaving Anne alone to keep her first visual with sorrow. Anne hoped that the tears would come in solitude. It seemed to her a terrible thing that she could not shed a tear for Matthew, whom she had loved so much and who had been so kind to her. Matthew, who had walked with her last evening at sunset, and was now lying in the dim room below with that awful peace on his brow. But no tears came at first, even when she knelt by her window in the darkness and prayed, looking up to the stars beyond the hills. No tears. Only the same horrible, dull ache of misery that kept on aching until she fell asleep, worn out with the day's pain and excitement. In the night she awakened, with the stillness and the darkness about her, and the recollection of the day came over her like a wave of sorrow. She could see Matthew's face smiling at her as he had smiled when they parted at the gate the last evening. She could hear his voice saying, my girl, my girl that I'm proud of. Then the tears came, and Anne wept her heart out. Marilla heard her and crept in to comfort her. There, there, don't cry so, dearie. It can't bring him back. It—it isn't right to cry so. I knew that today, but I couldn't help it then. He'd always been such a good, kind brother to me. But God knows best. Oh, just let me cry, Marilla, sobbed Anne. The tears don't hurt me like that ache did. Stay here for a little while with me and keep your arm around me so. I couldn't have Diana stay. She's good and kind and sweet, but it's not her sorrow. She's outside of it, and she couldn't come close enough to my heart to help me. It's our sorrow, yours and mine. Oh, Marilla, what will we do without him? We've got each other, Anne. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here, if you'd never come. Oh, Anne, I know I've been kind of strict and harsh with you, maybe, but you mustn't think I didn't love you as well as Matthew did for all that. I want to tell you now, when I can—it's never been easy for me to say things out of my heart—but at times like this it's easier. I love you as dear as if you were my own flesh and blood, and you've been my joy and comfort ever since you came to Greengables. Two days afterwards they carried Matthew Cuthbert over his homestead threshold and away from the fields he had tilled and the orchards he had loved and the trees he had planted, and then Avonlea settled back to its usual placidity, and even at Greengables affairs slipped into their old groove and work was done and duties fulfilled with regularity as before, although always with the aching sense of loss in all familiar things. Anne, new to grief, thought it almost sad that it could be so—that they could go on in the old way without Matthew. She felt something like shame and remorse when she discovered that the sunrises behind the furs and the pale pink buds opening in the garden gave her the old inrush of gladness when she saw them, that Diana's visits were pleasant to her, and that Diana's merry words and ways moved her to laughter and smiles, that, in brief, the beautiful world of blossom and love and friendship had lost none of its power to please her fancy and thrill her heart, that life still called to her with many insistent voices. It seems like disloyalty to Matthew somehow to find pleasure in these things now that he is gone. She said wistfully to Mrs. Allen one evening when they were together in the man's garden. I miss him so much, all the time, and yet, Mrs. Allen, the world and life seemed very beautiful and interesting to me for all. Today Diana said something funny and I found myself laughing. I thought when it happened I could never laugh again, and it somehow seems as if I oughtn't to. When Matthew was here he liked to hear you laugh, and he liked to know that you found pleasure in the pleasant things around you, said Mrs. Allen gently. He is just away now, and he likes to know it just the same. I am sure we should not shut our hearts against the healing influences that nature offers us. But I can understand your feeling. I think we all experience the same thing. We resent the thought that anything can please us when someone we love is no longer here to share the pleasure with us, and we almost feel as if we were unfaithful to our sorrow when we find our interest in life returning to us. I was down to the graveyard to plant a rose-bush on Matthew's grave this afternoon, said Anne dreamily. I took a slip of the little white scotch rose-bush his mother brought out from Scotland long ago. Matthew always liked those roses the best. They were so small and sweet on their thorny stems. It made me feel glad that I could plant it by his grave, as if I were doing something that must please him in taking it there to be near him. I hope he has roses like them in heaven. Perhaps the souls of all those little white roses that he has loved so many summers were all there to meet him. I must go home now. Marilla is all alone, and she gets lonely at twilight. She will be lonelier still, I fear, when you go away again to college, said Mrs. Allen. Anne did not reply. She said good night and went slowly back to Green Gables. Marilla was sitting on the front door steps, and Anne sat down beside her. The door was opened behind them, held back by a big pink conch shell, with hints of sea sunsets in its smooth inner convolutions. Anne gathered some sprays of pale yellow honeysuckle and put them in her hair. She liked the delicious hint of fragrance as some aerial benediction above her every time she moved. Dr. Spencer was here while you were away, Marilla said. He says that the specialist will be in town tomorrow, and he insists that I must go in and have my eyes examined. I suppose I'd better go and have it over. I'll be more than thankful if the man can give me the right kind of glasses to suit my eyes. You won't mind staying here alone while I'm away, will you? Martin will have to drive me in, and there's ironing and baking to do. I shall be all right. Diana will come over for company for me. I shall attend to the ironing and baking beautifully. You needn't fear that I'll starch the handkerchiefs or flavor the cake with liniment. Marilla laughed. What a girl you were for making mistakes in them days, Anne. You were always getting into scrapes. I did used to think you were possessed. Do you mind the time you dyed your hair? Yes, indeed. I shall never forget it," smiled Anne, touching the heavy braid of hair that was round about her shapely head. I laugh a little now, sometimes when I think what a worry my hair used to be to me. But I don't laugh much, because it was a very real trouble then. I did suffer terribly over my hair and my freckles. My freckles are really gone, and people are nice enough to tell me my hair is awkward now—all that Josie Pie. She informed me yesterday that she really thought it was redder than ever, or at least my black dress made it look redder, and she asked me if people who had red hair ever got used to having it. Marilla, I've almost decided to give up trying to like Josie Pie. I've made what I would once have called a heroic effort to like her, but Josie Pie won't be liked. Josie is a pie, said Marilla sharply, so she can't help being disagreeable. I suppose people of that kind serve some useful purpose in society, but I must say I don't know what it is, any more than I know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach? No, she is going back to Queens next year. So are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloan. Jane and Ruby are going to teach, and they have both got schools. Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some place up west. Gilbert Blythe is going to teach, too, isn't he? Yes. Marilla is going to teach quickly. What a nice-looking fellow he is, said Marilla absently. I saw him in church last Sunday, and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau. Anne looked up with swift interest. Oh, Marilla! And what happened? Why didn't you...? We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to after a while, but I was sulky and angry, and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back. The Blythe's were all mighty independent, but I always felt rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance. So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too, said Anne softly. Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgotten about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Van of Green Gables This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, June 2007. Anne of Green Gables By Lucy Mod Montgomery Chapter 38 The Bend in the Road Marilla went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard's Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. Are you very tired, Marilla? Yes. No. I don't know, said Marilla, wearily looking up. I suppose I am tired. But I haven't thought about it. It's not that. Did you see the Oculus? What did he say? Asked Anne anxiously. Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry and if I wear the glasses he's given me, he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't, he says I'll certainly be stone blind in six months. Blind. Anne just think of it. For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could not speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice, Marilla, don't think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether, and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing. I don't call it much hope, said Marilla bitterly. What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to anyone for a spell yet anyway. I can't bear that folk should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it. When Marilla had eaten her lunch, Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the East Gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat here the night after coming home. Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then. But before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend, this duty ever is, when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller, a man whom Anne knew by sight as Saddler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that looked Marilla's face. What did Mr. Saddler want, Marilla? Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculus prohibition and her voice broke as she said. She heard that I was going to sell green gables and he wants to buy it. Buy it? Buy green gables? Anne wondered if she had heard a right. Oh, Marilla, you don't mean to sell green gables? Anne, I don't know what else is to be done. I've thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I could stay here and make out to look after things and manage with a good hired man. But as it is I can't. I may lose my sight altogether, and anyway I'll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd have to sell my home. But things would only get behind worse and worse all the time till nobody would want to buy it. Every cent of our money went in that bank, and there's some notes Matthew gave last fall to pay. Mrs. Lynde advises me to sell the farm and board somewhere, with her, I suppose. It won't bring much. It's small and the buildings are old. But it'll be enough for me to live on, I reckon. I'm thankful you're provided for with that scholarship, Anne. I'm sorry you won't have a home to come to in your vacations, that's all. But I suppose you'll manage somehow. Marilla broke down and wept bitterly. You mustn't sell green gables," said Anne resolutely. Oh, Anne, I wish I didn't have to. But you can see for yourself. I can't stay here alone. I'd go crazy with trouble and loneliness. And my sight would go, I know it would. You won't have to stay here alone, Marilla. I'll be with you. I'm not going to Redmond. Marilla lifted her worn face from her hands and looked at Anne. Why—what do you mean? Just what I say. I'm not going to take the scholarship. I decided so the night after you came home from town. You surely don't think I could leave you alone in your trouble, Marilla, after all you've done for me? I've been thinking and planning. Let me tell you my plans. Mr. Barry wants to rent the farm for next year, so you won't have any bother over that. And I'm going to teach. I've applied for the school here, but I don't expect to get it, for I understand the trustees have promised it to Gilbert Blythe. But I can have the Carmody School. Mr. Blair told me so last night at the store. Of course, that won't be quite as nice or convenient as if I had the Avonlea School. But I can board home and drive myself over to Carmody and back, in the warm weather at least. And even in winter I can come home Fridays. We'll keep a horse for that. Oh, I have it all planned out, Marilla. And I'll reek to you and keep you cheered up. You shan't be dull or lonesome. And we'll be real cosy and happy here together, you and I." Marilla had listened like a woman in a dream. Oh, Anne, I could get on real well if you were here, I know. But I can't let you sacrifice yourself so for me. It would be terrible. Nonsense. Anne laughed merrily. There is no sacrifice. Nothing could be worse than giving up green gables. Nothing could hurt me more. We must keep the dear old place. My mind is quite made up, Marilla. I'm not going to Redmond, and I am going to stay here and teach. Don't you worry about me a bit. But your ambitions—and I'm just as ambitious as ever. Only I've changed the object of my ambitions. I'm going to be a good teacher, and I'm going to save your eyesight. Besides, I mean to study at home here and take a little college course all by myself. Oh, I've dozens of plans, Marilla. I've been thinking them out for a week. I shall give life here my best, and I believe it will give its best to me in return. When I left Queens my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a bend in it. I don't know what lies around the bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does. It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla. I wonder how the road beyond it goes. What there is of green glory and soft, checkered light and shadows. What new landscapes. What new beauties. What curves and hills and valleys further on. I don't feel as if I ought to let you give it up, said Marilla, referring to the scholarship. But you can't prevent me. I'm sixteen-and-a-half, obstinate as a mule, as Mrs. Lynde once told me, laughed Anne. Oh, Marilla, don't you go pitying me. I don't like to be pitied, and there is no need for it. I'm heart-glowed over the very thought of staying at Dear Green Gables. Nobody could love it as you and I do, so we must keep it. You blessed girl, said Marilla, yielding. I feel as if you'd given me new life. I guess I ought to stick out and make you go to college. But I know I can't, so I ain't gonna try. I'll make it up to you, though, Anne. When it became noise abroad in Avonlea that Anne Shirley had given up the idea of going to college and intended to stay home and teach, there was a good deal of discussion over it. Most of the good folks, not knowing about Marilla's eyes, thought she was foolish. Mrs. Allen did not. She told Anne so in approving words that brought tears of pleasure to the girl's eyes. Later did good Mrs. Lynde. She came up one evening and found Anne and Marilla sitting at the front door in the warm, scented summer dusk. They liked to sit there when the twilight came down and the white moths flew about in the garden, and the odor of mint filled the dewy air. Mrs. Rachel deposited her substantial person upon the stone bench by the door, behind which grew a row of tall, pink and yellow hollyhocks, with a long breath of mingled weariness and relief. I declare I'm getting glad to sit down. I've been on my feet all day, and two hundred pounds is a good bit for two feet to carry round. It's a great blessing not to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. Well, Anne, I hear you've given up your notion of going to college. I was real glad to hear it. You've got as much education now as a woman can be comfortable with. I don't believe in girls going to college with the men and cramming their heads full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense. But I'm going to study Latin and Greek just the same, Mrs. Lynde," said Anne, laughing. I'm going to take my arts course right here at Green Gables and study everything that I would at college. Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holly horror. Anne, surely you'll kill yourself. Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I'm not going to overdo things, as Josiah Allen's wife says, I shall be medium. But I'll have lots of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I've no vocation for fancy work. I'm going to teach over at Carmody, you know. I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school. Mrs. Lynde," cried Anne, springing to her feet in surprise, why I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe. So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it, he went to them. They had a business meeting at the school last night, you know, and told them that he withdrew his application and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course, he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. He's still self-sacrificing too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me. I don't feel that I ought to take it, murmured Anne. I mean, I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for—for me. I guess you can't prevent him now. He signed papers with the White Sands trustees, so it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no pies coming. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some pie or other going to Avonlea School for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep schoolteachers reminded that Earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What is all that winking and blinking at the barry-gaple mean? Diana is signalling for me to go over, laughed Anne. You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants. Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer and disappeared in the furry shadows of the haunted wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways. There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others, retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night, Marilla Cuthbert has got mellow, that's what. Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the scotch rose-bush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low friendly speech and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the lake of shining waters, it was past sunset, and all Avonlea lay before her in a dream-like after-light, a haunt of ancient peace. There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home-lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft, mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still, softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. Your old world, she murmured, you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you. Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the blithe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. Gilbert, she said with scarlet cheeks, I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was! I've been—I may as well make a complete confession. I've been sorry ever since. We are going to be the best of friends, said Gilbert jubilantly. We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come. I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne? Gilbert Blythe answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. I met him on Barry's hill. I didn't think you and Gilbert were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him, said Marilla with a dry smile. We haven't been—we've been good enemies—but we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future. Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But you see, we have five years lost conversations to catch up with Marilla. Anne sat long at her window that night, companioned by a glad content. The wind purred softly in the cherry-bows, and the mint breaths came up to her. The stars twinkled over the pointed furs in the hollow, and Diana's light gleamed through the old gap. Anne's horizons had closed in since the night she had sat there after coming home from Queens. But if the path set before her feet was to be narrow, she knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom along it. The joy of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers. Anne could rob her of her birthright of fancy or her ideal world of dreams, and there was always the bend in the road. God's in his heaven, all's right with the world, whispered Anne softly.