 CHAPTER 9 MAG GOES TO VANITY FAIR I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world those children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day as she stood packing the Goa-Broddy trunk in her room, surrounded by her sisters. And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Joe, looking like a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms. And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great occasion. I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice things," said Amy, with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically replenished her sister's cushion. I wish you were all going, but as you can't I shall keep my adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can do when you've been so kind, lending me things and helping me get ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes. What did Mother give you out of the treasure-box? Asked Amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain seed or chest in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor as gifts for her girls when the proper time came. A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn't time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old Tarleton. It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it," said Joe, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use. There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want, replied Meg. Now let me see, there is my new gray walking-suit. Just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth. Then my poplin for Sunday and the small party. It looks heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear! Never mind you've got the Tarleton for the big party, and you always look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store of finery in which her soul delighted. It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to do. My blue house dress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as if I've got a new one. My silk sack is in a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sally's. I didn't like to say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother Black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with a gold top, sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor. Change it!" advised Joe. I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmy's feelings when she took so much pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Joe. I feel so rich and sort of elegant with two new pairs and the old ones cleaned up for common, and Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove-box. Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her night-caps. Would you put some on mine?" She asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands. No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig, said Joe decidedly. I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes and bows on my caps, said Meg impatiently. You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if only you could go to Annie Moffat's, observed Beth in her quiet way. So I did. Well, I am happy, and I won't fret. But it does seem as if the more one gets, the more one wants, doesn't it? There now the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall leave from mother to pack, said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white Tarleton, which she called her ball-dress with an important air. The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sally had promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of irksome work, that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life. The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted at first by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her, to put on little heirs and graces, use French phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it. Work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very destitute and much injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stockings. She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were busily employed in having a good time. They shopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theatres and operas or froliced at home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman who knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat a fat, jolly old lady who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and Daisy, as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned. When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin wouldn't do it all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the Tarleton, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sally's crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at it, and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud. No one said a word about it, but Sally offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within. It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are altogether ravishing, cried Annie with a great sniff. They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note, put in the maid holding it to Meg. What fun! Who were they from? Didn't know you had a lover, cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise. The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Lori, said Meg simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her. Oh, indeed! said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note into her pocket, as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty. Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, covering them so prettily, that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was the sweetest little thing she ever saw, and they looked quite charmed with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffitt, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror, and she laid her ferns against her rippling hair, and fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very shabby now. She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart's content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes was, and Mr. Moffitt insisted on dancing with her because she didn't dawdle but had some spring in her, as he gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her in ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall. How old is he? Sixteen or seventeen, I should say, replied another voice. It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Emily says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them. Mrs. M. has made her plans, I daresay, and will play her cards well early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet, said Mrs. Moffitt. She told that fib about her momma as if she did know, and collared up when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She'd be so nice if only she was got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday? Asked another voice. She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy Tarleton is all she has got. She may tear it to-night, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one. Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had just heard. For innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, Mrs. M. has made her plans, that fib about her momma and dowdy Tarleton, till she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over, and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well-meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one, in which till now she had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Lori was spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter, was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven. Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful towards her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her, though she did not understand it till Miss Bell looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air, "'Daisy dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Lawrence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a proper compliment to you.' Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely. You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come. Why not, Cherry?' asked Miss Bell. "'He's too old.' "'My child, what do you mean? What is his age I beg to know?' cried Miss Clara. "'Nearly seventy, I believe,' answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes. "'You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,' exclaimed Miss Bell, laughing. "'There isn't any. Laurie is only a little boy.' And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged, as she thus described her supposed lover. "'About your age,' Nan said. "'Near my sister Joes, I am seventeen in August,' returned Meg, tossing her head. "'It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?' said Annie, looking wise about nothing. "'Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full and we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Lawrence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together. And Meg hoped they would say no more.' "'It's evident Daisy isn't out yet,' said Miss Clara to Bell with a nod. "'I'd a pastoral state of innocence all round,' returned Miss Bell with a shrug. "'I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do anything for you, young ladies?' asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant and silk and lace. "'No thank you, ma'am,' replied Sally. "'I've got my new pink silk for Thursday and don't want a thing.' "'Nor I,' began Meg, but stopped because it occurs to her that she did want several things and could not have them.' "'What shall you wear?' asked Sally. "'My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night,' said Meg, trying to speak quite easily but feeling very uncomfortable. "'Why don't you send home for another?' said Sally, who was not an observing young lady. "'I haven't got any other. It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sally did not see it and exclaimed an amiable surprise. Only that! How funny!' She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly, "'Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't out yet? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away which I've outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?' "'You are very kind. But I don't mind my old dress if you don't. But as well enough for a little girl like me,' said Meg. "'Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with the touch here and there. I shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,' said Belle in her persuasive tone.' Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be a little beauty after touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the moffits. On the Thursday evening Belle shut herself up with her maid, and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with a Coraline salve to make them redder, and Hortense would have added a sous-sol of rouge if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress which was so tight she could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filigree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show. A cluster of tea roses at the bosom, and a ruche reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumey fan, and a bouquet and a shoulder-holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly-dressed doll. Manoiselle est charmante, très jolie, est-ce-ie nante? cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture. Come and show yourself, said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting. As Meg went wrestling after with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was a little beauty. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jack-daw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies. While I dress, do you drill her nann in the management of her skirt in those French heels, or she will trip herself up? Take your silver butterfly and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands? said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success. You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be sure you don't trip, returned Sally, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself. Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely downstairs and sailed into the drawing-rooms where the moffits and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect. Several young ladies who had taken no notice of her before were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies who sat on the sofas and criticised the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffitt reply to one of them, Daisy March, father, a colonel in the army, one of our first families but reverses of fortune, you know, intimate friends of the Laurences, sweet creature I assure you, my Ned is quite wild about her." "'Dear me,' said the old lady, putting up her glass for another observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffitt's fibs. The queer feeling did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady, and so got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her earring should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused, for just opposite she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glanced from her to Laurie, who she was happy to see looked unusually boyish and shy. Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head, I won't care for it or let it change me a bit, thought Meg, and wrestled across the room to shake hands with her friend. I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't, she said with her most grown-up air. Joe wanted me to come and tell her how you looked, so I did, answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her maternal tone. What shall you tell her? asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time. I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown up and unlike yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his glove-button. How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like it. Wouldn't Joe stare if she saw me? said Meg, bent on making him say whether he thought her improved or not. Yes, I think she would, returned Laurie gravely. Don't you like me so? asked Meg. No, I don't, was the blanch reply. Why not? In an anxious tone, he glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it. I don't like fuss and feathers. This was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg walked away saying petulantly, you are the rudest boy I ever saw. Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him saying to his mother, they are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her, but they have spoiled her entirely. She's nothing but a doll to-night. Oh, dear, sighed Meg. I wish I'd been sensible and worn my own things. Then I should not have disgusted other people or felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself. She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half-hidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till someone touched her, and turning she saw Lori looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand-out. Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me. I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you, said Meg, trying to look offended and failing entirely. Not a bit of it. I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good. I don't like your gown, but I do think you are just splendid." And he waved his hands as if words failed to express his admiration. Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch the time. He'd care my skirt doesn't trip you up—it's the plague of my life when I was a goose to wear it. "'Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,' said Lori, looking down at the little blue boots which he evidently approved of. Away they went, fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff. "'Lori, I want you to do me a favour, will you?' said Meg, as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she would not own why. "'Won't I?' said Lori, with alacrity. "'Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won't understand the joke, and it will worry mother.' "'Then why did you do it?' said Lori's eyes so plainly that Meg hastily added. I shall tell them myself all about it, and fest to mother how silly I've been. But I'd rather do it myself. So you'll not tell, will you?' "'I give you my word, I won't. Only what shall I say when they ask me?' "'Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.' "'I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You don't look as if you were having a good time. Are you?' And Lori looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper. "'No, not just now. Don't think I'm horrid. I only wanted a little fun. But this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it.' "'Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?' said Lori, knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a pleasant addition to the party. He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming for them. What a bore!' said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused Lori immensely. He did not speak to her again till supper time, when he saw her drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving like a pair of fools, as Lori said to himself. For he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed. "'You'll have a splitting headache to-morrow if you drink much of that. I wouldn't, Meg. Your mother doesn't like it, you know.' He whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass, and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan. "'I'm not Meg tonight. I'm a doll who does all sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my fuss and feathers and be desperately good again,' she answered with an affected little laugh. Wish to-morrow was here, then,' muttered Lori, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her. Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled as the other girls did. After supper she undertook the German and blundered through it nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized Lori who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good-night. "'Remember,' she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun. "'Silence, à l'amour,' replied Lori with a melodramatic flourish as he went away. This little bit of bi-play excited Annie's curiosity, but Meg was too tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she had expected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday she went home, quite used up with her fortnights fun and feeling that she had sat in the lap of luxury long enough. It does seem pleasant to be quiet and not have company manners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said Meg, looking about her with restful expression as she sat with her mother and Joe on the Sunday evening. "'I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,' replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day, for motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces. Meg had told her adventures gaily, and said over and over what a charming time she had had. But something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As the clock struck nine and Joe proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair, and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee, saying bravely, "'Marmie, I want to fess.' I thought so. What is it, dear?' "'Shall I go away?' asked Joe discreetly. "'Of course not. Don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffitts.' "'We are prepared,' said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious. I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled and made me look like a fashion plate. Lori thought I wasn't proper. I know he did, though he didn't say so, and one man called me a doll. I knew it was silly, but they flattered me and said I was a beauty and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me. Is that all?' asked Joe, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies. "'No. I drank champagne, and romped, and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable,' said Meg self-reproachfully. "'There is something more, I think.' And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly. "'Yes. It's very silly. But I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Lori.' Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffitts, and as she spoke Joe saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill-pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind. "'Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard,' cried Joe indignantly, "'why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the spot?' "'I couldn't. It was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed. I didn't remember that I ought to go away. Just wait till I see Annie Moffitt, and I'll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having plans and being kind to Lori because he's rich and may marry us by and by—oh, won't he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?' And Joe laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke. "'If you tell Lori, I'll never forgive you. She mustn't, must she, mother?' said Meg, looking distressed. "'No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,' said Mrs. March gravely. "'I was very unwise to let you go among people of whom I know so little. Kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.' Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me. I'll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, mother. I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I can't help saying I like it,' said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession. That is perfectly natural and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion, and lead one to do foolish or unmaidently things. Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg. Margaret sat thinking a moment while Joe stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing, and talking about admiration, lovers and things of that sort. And Joe felt as if during the fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow. "'Mother, do you have plans?' as Mrs. Moffat said,' asked Meg bashfully. "'Yes, my dear, I have a great many. All mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. Show you some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me, and mother's lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Joe, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my plans and help me carry them out, if they are good.' Joe went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said in her serious yet cheery way, "'I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good, to be admired, loved, and respected, to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, and when well used a noble thing, but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones without self-respect and peace. Poor girls don't stand any chance, bell says, unless they put themselves forward, sighed Meg. Then we'll be old maids, said Joe stoutly. Right, Joe, better be happy old maids than unhappy wives or unmaidently girls running about to find husbands, said Mrs. March decidedly. Don't be troubled, Meg. Poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honoured women I know were poor girls, but so loveworthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing, remember, my girls, mother is always ready to be your confidant, father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives. We will, Marmy, we will, cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them goodnight. The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 12 Some Unlikely Relatives The Cowbird and the Baltimore Oriole Having other things to attend to, or rather having other things to arouse his curiosity, Peter Rabbit did not visit the old orchard for several days. When he did it was to find the entire neighbourhood quite upset. There was an indignation meeting in progress, in and around the tree, in which Chebeck and his modest little wife had their home. How the tongues did clatter. Peter knew that something had happened, but, though he listened with all his might, he couldn't make her tale of it. Finally, Peter managed to get the attention of Jenny Wren. What's happened, demanded Peter. What's all this fuss about? Jenny Wren was so excited that she couldn't keep still an instant. Her sharp little eyes snapped, and her tail was carried higher than ever. It's a disgrace. It's a disgrace to the whole feathered race, and something ought to be done about it, sputtered Jenny. I'm ashamed to think that such a contemptible creature wears feathers. I am so. But what's it all about, demanded Peter impatiently? Do keep still long enough to tell me? Who is this contemptible creature? Sally Sly, snapped Jenny Wren. Sally Sly the Cowbird. I hoped she wouldn't disgrace the old orchard this year, but she has. When Mr. and Mrs. Chebeck returned from getting their breakfast this morning, they found one of Sally Sly's eggs in their nest. They are terribly upset, and I don't blame them. If I were in their place, I simply would throw that egg out. That's what I'd do. I'd throw that egg out. Peter was puzzled. He blinked his eyes and stroked his whiskers as he tried to understand what it all meant. Who is Sally Sly, and what did she do that for, he finally ventured? For goodness' sake, Peter Rabbit, do you mean to tell me you don't know who Sally Sly is? Then, without waiting for Peter to reply, Jenny rattled on. She's a member of the Blackbird family, and she's the laziest, most good for nothing, sneakiest, most unfeeling, and most selfish wretch I know of. Jenny paused long enough to get her breath. She laid that egg in Chebeck's nest because she is too lazy to build a nest of her own and too selfish to take care of her own children. Do you know what will happen, Peter Rabbit? Do you know what will happen? Peter shook his head and confessed that he didn't. When that egg hatches out, that young cowbird will be about twice as big as Chebeck's own children, sputtered Jenny. He'll be so big that he'll get most of the food. He'll just rob those little Chebecks in spite of all their mother and father can do. And Chebeck and his wife will be just soft-hearted enough to work themselves to skin and bone to feed the young wretch because he is an orphan and hasn't anybody to look after him. The worst of it is Sally Sly is likely to play the same trick on others. She always chooses the nest of someone smaller than herself. She's terribly sly. No one has seen her about. She just sneaked into the Old Orchard this morning when everybody was busy, laid that egg, and sneaked out again. Did you say that she is a member of the Blackbird family, asked Peter? Jenny ran nodded vigorously. That's what she is, said she. Thank goodness she isn't a member of my family. If she were, I never would be able to hold my head up. Just listen to Goldie the Oriole over in that big elm. I don't see how he can sing like that, knowing that one of his relatives has just done such a shameful deed. It's a queer thing that there can be two members of the same family, so unlike. Mrs. Goldie builds one of the most wonderful nests of anyone I know, and Sally Sly is too lazy to build any. If I were in Goldie's place, I— Hold on, cried Peter. I thought you said Sally Sly is a member of the Blackbird family. I don't see what she's got to do with Goldie the Oriole. You don't, eh? exclaimed Jenny. Well, for one who pokes into other people's affairs as you do, you don't know much. The Orioles and the Meadowlarks and the Grackles and the bobble-links all belong to the Blackbird family. They're all related to Redwing the Blackbird, and Sally Sly the Cowbird belongs in the same family. Oh, Peter gasped. I—I hadn't the least idea that any of these folks were related, stammered Peter. Well, they are, retorted Jenny Wren. As I live, they're Sally Sly now. Peter caught a glimpse of a brownish-gray bird, who reminded him somewhat of Mrs. Redwing. She was about the same size, and looked very much like her. It was plain that she was trying to keep out of sight, and the instant she knew that she'd been discovered, she flew away in the direction of the old pasture. It happened that late that afternoon, Peter visited the old pasture and saw her again. She and some of her friends were busily walking about, close to the feet of the cows, where they seemed to be picking up food. One had a brown head, neck, and breast. The rest of his coat was glossy black. Peter rightly guessed that this must be Mr. Cowbird. Seeing them on such good terms with the cows, he understood why they are called cowbirds. Remember that Sally Sly had left the old orchard. The feathered folks settled down to their personal affairs and household cares. Jenny Wren among them. Having no one to talk to, Peter found a shady place close to the old stone wall, and there sat down to think over the surprising things he had learned. Presently Goldie the Baltimore Oriole alighted in the nearest apple tree, and it seemed to Peter that never had he seen anyone more beautifully dressed. His head, neck, throat, and upper part of his back were black. The lower part of his back and his breast were a beautiful deep orange color. There was a dash of orange on his shoulders, but the rest of his wings were black with an edging of white. His tail was black and orange. Peter had heard him called the Firebird, and now he understood why. His song was quite as rich and beautiful as his coat. Shortly he was joined by Mrs. Goldie. Compared with her handsome husband she was very modestly dressed. She wore more brown than black, and where the orange color appeared it was rather dull. She wasted no time in singing. Almost instantly her sharp eyes spied a piece of string caught in the bushes almost over Peter's head. With a little cry of delight she flew down and seized it, but the string was caught, and though she tugged and pulled with all her might she couldn't get it free. Goldie saw the trouble she was having, and cutting his song short flew down to help her. Together they pulled and tugged and tugged and pulled until they had to stop to rest and get their breath. We simply must have this piece of string, said Mrs. Goldie. I've been hunting everywhere for a piece, and this is the first I've found. It is just what we need to bind our nest fast to the twigs. With this I won't have the least bit of fear that that nest will ever tear loose, no matter how hard the wind blows. Once more they tugged and pulled and pulled and tugged until at last they got it free, and Mrs. Goldie flew away in triumph with the string in her bill. Goldie himself followed. Peter watched them fly to the top of a long swaying branch of a big elm tree up near Farmer Brown's house. He could see something which looked like a bag hanging there, and he knew that this must be the nest. Gracious, said Peter. They must get terribly tossed about when the wind blows. I should think their babies would be thrown out. Don't you worry about them, said a voice. Peter looked up to find welcome robin just over him. Mrs. Goldie makes one of the most wonderful nest I know of, continued welcome robin. It's like a deep pocket made of grass, string, hair, and bark, all woven together like a piece of cloth. It is so deep that it's quite safe for the babies, and they seem to enjoy being rocked by the wind. I shouldn't care for it myself, because I like a solid foundation for my home, but the Goldie's like it. It looks dangerous, but it is really one of the safest nests I know of. Snakes and cats never get way up there, and there are few feathered nest robbers who can get it those eggs so deep down in the nest. Goldie is sometimes called golden robin. He isn't a robin at all, but I'd feel very proud if he were a member of my family. He's just as useful as he is handsome, and that's saying a great deal. He just dotes on caterpillars that, there's Mrs. Robin calling me, goodbye, Peter. With this, welcome robin flew away, and Peter once more settled himself to think over all he had learned. End of Chapter 12. Recording by Jan McGillivray. With Scott McGillivray. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by A.R. Dobbs, San Francisco, California. Adam Bede, by George Elliott. So that you may have clear images before your gladdened eyes of nature's unambitious underwood and flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among the flock as swerved or fell, those only shall be singled out upon whose lapse or error something more than brotherly forgiveness may attend. Wordsworth. Book 1. Chapter 1. The Workshop. With the single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comeer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder in the village of Haysloop, as it appeared on the 18th of June in the year of our Lord, 1799. The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and window frames and wainscotting. A scent of pinewood from a tent-like pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite. The slanting sunbeams shown through the transparent shavings that flew before the steady plain and lit up the fine grain of the oak paneling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough gray shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant bed and was lying with his nose between his four paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen who was carving a shield in the center of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong baritone belonged which was heard above the sound of plain and hammer singing. Awake, my soul, and with the sun thy daily stage of duty run, shake off dull sloth. Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle, but it presently broke out again with renewed vigor. Let all thy converse be sincere, let thy conscience as that noonday clear. Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large-boned muscular man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength. Yet the long supple hand, with its broad fingertips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall, stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name. But the jet-black hair made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from understrongly marked prominent and mobile eyebrows indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good-humored, honest intelligence. It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He is nearly as tall. He has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion. But the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. Seth's broad shoulders have a slight stoop. His eyes are grey, his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother's. And his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow. The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth. They scarcely ever spoke to Adam. The concert of the tools and Adam's voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the wall and said, There! I've finished my door to-day, anyhow! The workman all looked up. Jim Salt, a burly red-haired man known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise. What? Does think these finished the door? I, sure, said Seth with answering surprise. What's a wanting to it? A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said in a gentler tone than before. Why these forgot the panels? The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head and coloured over brow and crown. Hooray! shouted a small live fellow called Wirie Ben, running forward and seizing the door. We'll hang up the door at the fur end of the shop, and write on it, Seth be the Methodie, his work! Here, Jim! Lens, hold to the red-pot! Nonsense! said Adam, let it alone, Ben Crainage. You'll may hap be making such a slip yourself some day. You'll laugh at the other side of your mouth, then. Catch me, ad-ed Adam! It'll be a good while for my heads full of the Methodies! said Ben. Nay, but it's often full of drink, and that's worse. Ben, however, had now got the red-pot in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, making by way of preliminary and imaginary S in the air. Let it alone, will you? Adam called out, laying down his tools, writing up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. Let it alone, or I'll shake the soul out with your body. Ben shook in Adam's iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn't mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and pushing him along pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke up. Let be, Addy, let be! Ben will be joking. Why, he's the right to laugh at me. I can help laughing at myself. I shan't lose him till he promises to let the door alone, said Adam. Come, Ben, lad, said Seth, in a persuasive tone. Don't let's have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. May as well try to turn a wagon in a narrow lane. Today you'll leave the door alone, and make an end on it. I've been affrighted at Adam, said Ben, but I don't a mind saying as I'll let alone at your askin' Seth. Come, that's wise of you, Ben, said Adam, laughing, and relaxing his grasp. They all return to their work now, but why are you, Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm? Which was you thinkin' on, Seth, he began, the pretty Parsons face, or her Sarment, when you forgot the panels? Come, and hear her, Ben, said Seth, good-humoredly. She's going to preach on the green to-night. Happen you'd get something to think on yourself, then, instead of those wicked songs you're so fond on. You might get religion, and that'd be the best day's earnings you ever made. All a good time for that, Seth, I'll think about that when I'm a-goin' to settle in life. Bachelors doesn't want such heavy earnings. Happen I'll do the courtin' and the religion both together, as ye do, Seth, but ye wouldn't a-hammy get converted and chop in between ye and that pretty preacher and caref. No fear of that, Ben, she's neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won't speak lightly on her again. Well, I'm a half a mind to have a look at her to-night, if there isn't good company at the Holleybush. What'll she take for her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be I, I shouldn't a-come up a-time for it. Would it be—what coming out for to-see, a-prophetess, yea, I say unto you, and more than a-prophetess, an uncommon pretty young woman? Some Ben, said Adam rather sternly. You let the words of the Bible alone, and you're going too far now. What are ye a-turning round, Adam? I thought ye were dead again the woman preaching a while ago. Nay, I'm not turning no way. I said not about the women preaching. I said you let the Bible alone. You've got a jest-book, hand ye, as you're rare and proud on. Keep your dirty fingers to that. Why, ye are gettin' as big a saint as Seth! Ye're goin' to the preachin' to-night, I should think. You'll do finally to lead the singin'. But I don't know what Parson Irwin'll say at his grand favourite Adam Bede a-turnin' Methody. Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are. Though it's like enough you'll turn to somethin' worse. Mr. Irwin's got more sense nor to meddle with people's doin' as they like in religion. That's between themselves and God, as he says to me, many a time. Aye, aye, but he's none so fond of your dissenters for all that. Maybe I'm none so fond of Josh Todd's thick ale, but I don't hinder you from makin' a fool of yourself wit. There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam's. But Seth said very seriously, Nay, nay, Addy, they must not say as anybody's religions like thick ale. The destiny-believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root of the matter as well as the church-folks. Nay, Seth lad, I'm not for laughin' at no man's religion. Let them follow their consciences, that's all. Only I think it'd be better if their consciences had let them stay quiet at the church. There's a deal to be learnt there. And there's such a thing as being over-spiritual. We must have something besides gospel of this world. Look at the canals, and the aqueducts, and the coal-pit engines, and Arkwright's mills there at Cromford. A man must learn somewhat beside gospel to make them things, I reckon. But to hear some of them preachers, you'd think, as a man must be doin' nothin' all's life but shutting's eyes and lookin' what's goin' on inside him. I know a man must have the love of God in his soul, and the Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why it says as God put his spirit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way of lookin' at it. There's the spirit of God in all things and all times, weekday as well as Sunday, and in the great works and inventions, and in the figurin' and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls. And if a man does bits of jobs out or working hours, builds an oven for his wife to savor from goin' to the bake-house, or scrats at his bit of garden and makes two potatoes grow instead of one, he's doin' more good, and he's just as near to God as if he was runnin' after some preacher and a prayin' in a groanin'. "'Well done, Adam,' said Sendy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speaking. "'That's the best sormant I've heard this long while. By the same token my wife's been a-plagin' on me to build her oven this twelfth month.' "'There's reason in what they say,' said Adam, observed Seth gravely. "'But the nose thyself, as it's hearing the preachers the find so much fault with, has turned many an idle man into an industriouson. It's the preacher as empties the ale-house, and if a man gets religion, he'll do his work none the worse for that. "'Only he'll have the panels out of the doors sometimes, eh, Seth?' said Wirie Ben. "'Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again me as it'll last you your life. But it isn't a religion as was a fault there. It was Seth, Bede, as was all as a wool-gatherin chap, and religion hasn't accured him, the more's the pity.' "'Near he'd me, Seth,' said Wirie Ben. "'You are a downright good-hearted chap, panels or no panels. And you didn't set up your bristles at every bit of fun, like some of your kin, as his may-hap-cliverer.' "'Seth, lad,' said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself. "'They must not take me unkind. I wasn't a-driving at thee, in what I've said just now. Some has got one way a-lookin' at things, and some has got another.' "'Nay, nay, Addy, thee means'd me no unkindness,' said Seth. "'I know that well enough. Thee'd like thy dog, jip! Thee barks'd at me sometimes, but thee always licks'd my hand after.' All hands worked on in silence for some minutes until the church-clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket. Wirie Ben had left a screw half-driven in and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket. Some taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it, and Seth too had straightened his back and was putting out his hand towards his paper-cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools he looked up, and said in a tone of indignation, "'Look there now! I can't divide to see men throw away their tools that way. The minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure of their work, and was afraid to do in a stroke too much.' Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going. But Mum Taft broke silence and said, "'I, I, Adam lad, ye talk like a youngin. When ye are six and forty like me, is stood a six and twenty, ye want to be so flush, a workin' for naught?' "'Nonsense,' said Adam, still wrathful. What's age got to do with it, I wonder? Ye are not getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms drop down as if he was shot before the clocks fairly struck. Just as if he'd never a bit of pride and delight in his work. The very grindstone will go on turnin' a bit after ye lose it.' "'Boderation, Adam!' exclaimed wiry Ben. "'Lave a chap a loon, will ye? Ye were a findin' fout wit' preachers a while ago. Ye are fond enough a preachin' yorson. Ye may like work, better nor play, but I like play, better nor work. That'll accommodate ye. It laves ye the more to do.' "'Shalt go home before the ghost to the preaching?' Adam asked, looking up. "'Nay, I've got my hat and things at Will Mascary's. I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen to see Dinah more a safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from poisers, thee knowest.' "'Then I'll tell mother not to look for thee,' said Adam. "'The artna going to poisers thyself to-night,' said Zeth, rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. "'Nay, I'm goin' to the school.' Hitherto Jip had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket and begin to twist his apron round his waist, then Jip ran forward and looked up in his master's face with patient expectation. If Jip had had a tale he would doubtless have wagged it. But being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions he was like many other worthy personages destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him. "'What? Art ready for the basket, eh, Jip?' said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Zeth. Jip jumped and gave a short bark as much as to say, of course! Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression. The basket was the one which on work days held Adams and Zeth's dinner, and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Jip with his basket, trotting at his master's heels. On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house with smooth gray thatch and buffed walls looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the stone door was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the doorstone stood a clean old woman in a dark striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, "'Here's the key, dolly. Lay it down for me in the house, will you?' I sure, but when will you come in, Adam? Miss Mary's in the house, and Mr. Burge will be back and on. He'd be glad to hide ye to supper when I'll be as warned. No, dolly, thank you. I'm off home. Good evening." Adam hastened along with long strides, Jip close to his heels, out of the workyard and along the high road leading away from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman with his portmanteau strapped behind him stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart workmen in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark blue worsted stockings. Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck across the fields and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running in his head. Let all thy converse be sincere, thy conscience as that noonday clear for God's all-seeing. I survey thy secret thoughts, thy works, and ways. End of chapter 1. Part 3 Chapter 1 of Inchansary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Part 3 Chapter 1. Somes in Paris Somes had travelled little. Age 19 he had made the petty tour with his father, mother and Winifred, Brussels, the Rhine, Switzerland, and home by way of Paris. Age 27, just when he began to take an interest in pictures, he had spent five hot weeks in Italy looking into the Renaissance, not so much in it as he had been led to expect, and a fortnight in Paris on his way back, looking into himself, as became a foresight surrounded by people so strongly self-centred and foreign as the French. His knowledge of their language, being derived from his public school, he did not understand them when they spoke. Silence he had found better for all parties, one did not make a fool of oneself. He had disliked the look of the men's clothes, the clothes in cabs, the theatres which looked like beehives, the galleries which smelled of beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore that side of Paris supposed by foresight to constitute its attraction under the rose, and as for a collector's bargain, not one to be had. As Nicholas might have put it, they were a grasping lot. He had come back uneasy, saying Paris was overrated. And therefore in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his third attempt on the centre of civilisation. This time however the mountain was going to Mohammed, for he felt by now more deeply civilised than Paris, and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had a definite objective. This was no mere genuflection to a shrine of taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. He went, indeed, because things were getting past a joke. The watch went on and on and nothing, nothing. Jolion had never returned to Paris, and no one else was suspect. Busy with new and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. But at night, and in his leisure moments, he was ravaged by the thought that time was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as much in irons as ever. Since maficking night he had become aware that a young fool of a doctor was hanging round a net. Twice he had come across him, a cheerful young fool, not more than thirty. Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulness, an indecent extravagant sort of quality which had no relation to facts. The mixture of his desires and hopes was, in a word, growing torture, and lately the thought had come to him that perhaps Irene knew she was being shadowed. It was this which finally decided him to go and see for himself. To go and, once more, try to break down her re-bugnance, her refusal to make her own and his path comparatively smooth once more. If he failed again, well, he would see what she did with herself anyway. He went to a hotel in the Rue Comatant, highly recommended to Forsights, where practically nobody spoke French. He had formed no plan. He did not want to startle her, yet must contrive that she had no chance to evade him by flight. And next morning he set out in bright weather. Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star shape which almost annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely. His nose lifted a little sideways in real curiosity. He desired now to understand things French. Was not I net French? There was much to be got out of his visit, if he could only get it. In this laudable mood and the Place de la Concorde, he was nearly run down three times. He came on the Cour la Reine, where Irene's hotel was situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed on his procedure. Crossing over to the riverside, he noted the building, white and cheerful looking, with green sun-blinds, seen through a screen of plain-tree leaves. And conscious that it would be far better to meet her casually in some open place than to risk a call, he sat down on a bench, whence he could watch the entrance. It was not quite eleven o'clock, and improbable that she had yet gone out. Some pigeons were strutting and preening their feathers in the pools of sunlight between the shadows of the plain-trees. A workman in a blue blouse passed, and threw them crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. A bong, coiffed with ribbon, shepherded two little girls with pigtails and frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose cauché wore a blue coat and a black-glazed hat. To Soames, a kind of affectation seemed to cling about it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date. A theatrical people of French. He lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a sense of injury that fate should be casting his life into outlandish waters. He shouldn't wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this foreign life. She had never been properly English, even to look at. And he began considering which of those windows could be hers under the green sun-blinds. How could he word what he had come to say, so that it might pierce the defence of her proud obstinacy? When he threw the fag end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the thought, I can't stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs, better give it up and call on her in the late afternoon. But he still sat on, heard twelve strike, and then half past. I'll wait till one, he thought, while I'm about it. But just then he started up, and shrinkingly sat down again. A woman had come out in a cream-coloured frock and was moving away under a fawn-covered parasol, Irene herself. He waited till she was too far away to recognise him, then set out after her. She was strolling as though she had no particular objective, moving if he remembered rightly towards the Bois de Loin. For half an hour at least he kept his distance on the far side of the way, till she had passed into the Bois itself. Was she going to meet some one after all? Some confounded Frenchman, one of those Bellamy chaps, perhaps, who had nothing to do but hang about women. For he had read that book with difficulty and a sort of disgusted fascination. He followed doggedly along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then, when the path curved. And it came back to him how, long ago, one night in Hyde Park, he had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, chanting blindly, ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young Bezini. The path bent sharply, and hurrying he came upon her sitting in front of a small fountain, a little green bronze niobi veiled in hair to her slender hips, gazing at the pool she had wept. He came on her so suddenly that he was passed before he could turn and take off his hat. She did not start up. She had always had great self-command. It was one of the things he most admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against her, because he had never been able to tell what she was thinking. Had she realized that he was following? Her self-possession made him angry, and disdaining to explain his presence, he pointed to the mournful little niobi and said, That's rather a good thing. He could see then that she was struggling to preserve her composure. I didn't want to startle you. Is this one of your haunts? Yes. A little lonely, as he spoke a lady strolling by, paused to look at the fountain and passed on. Irene's eyes followed her. No, she said, prodding the ground with her parasol. Never lonely, one has always won shadow. Somes understood, and looking at her hard, he exclaimed, Well, it's your own fault. You can be free of it at any moment. Irene, come back to me, and be free. Irene laughed. Don't, cried Somes, stamping his foot. It's inhuman. Listen, is there any condition I can make which will bring you back to me, if I promise you a separate house and just a visit now and then? Irene rose, something wild, suddenly, in her face and figure. Non, non, non, you may hunt me to the grave. I will not come. Outraged and on edge, Somes recoiled. Don't make a scene, he said sharply, and they both stood motionless, staring at the little Naiobi whose greenish flesh the sunlight was burnishing. That's your last word, then, muttered Somes, clenching his hands. You condemn us both. Irene bent her head. I can't come back. Goodbye! A feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in Somes. Stop, he said, and listen to me a moment. You gave me a sacred vow. You came to me without a penny. You had all I could give. You broke that vow without cause. You made me a byword. You refused me a child. You've left me in prison. You still move me so that I want you. I want you. Well, what do you think of yourself? Irene turned. Her face was deadly pale. Her eyes burning dark. God made me as I am, she said, wicked if you like, but not so wicked that I'll give myself again to a man I hate. The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to layer caress all down her clinging, cream-coloured frock. Somes could neither speak nor move. That word, hate, so extreme, so primitive, made all the foresight in him tremble. With a deep implication he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran almost into the arms of the lady sauntering back, the fool, the shadowing fool. He was soon dripping with perspiration in the depths of the poire. Well, he thought, I need have no consideration for her now. She hasn't got a grain of it for me. I'll show her this very day that she's my wife still. But on the way back to his hotel, he was forced to the conclusion that he did not know what he meant. One could not make scenes in public, and short of scenes in public, what was there he could do? He almost cursed his own thin skin-ness. She might deserve no consideration, but he alas deserved some at his own hands. And sitting lunchless in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing every moment by decker in hand, he was visited by black dejection in irons. His whole life, with every natural instinct and every decent yearning, gagged and fettered, had all because fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon this woman, so utterly that even now he had no real heart to set on any other. Cursed was the day he had met her, and his eyes for seeing in her anything but the cruel venus she was. And yet, still seeing her with the sunlight on the clean, shiny crepe of her gown, he uttered a little groan, so that a tourist who was passing thought, Man in pain, let's see, what did I have for lunch? Later in front of a cafe near the opera, over a glass of cold tea, with lemon and the straw in it, he took the malicious resolution to go and dine at her hotel. If she were there he would speak to her. If she were not he would leave a note. He dressed carefully and wrote as follows, Your ideal with that fellow Jolian Fawcite is known to me at all events. If you pursue it, understand that I will leave no stone unturned to make things unbearable for him, S. F. He sealed this note, but did not address it, refusing to write the maiden name which he had impudently resumed, or to put the word Fawcite on the envelope, lest she should tear it up unread. Then he went out and made his way through the glowing streets, abandoned to evening pleasure-seekers. Entering her hotel, he took his seat in a far corner of the dining-room, whence he could see all entrances and exits. She was not there. He ate little, quickly, watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge over his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy, but still she did not come. He went over to the keyboard and examined the names. There were twelve on the first floor, and he determined to take the note up himself. He mounted red carpeted stairs, past a little salon. Eight, ten, twelve. Should he knock, push the note under, or? He looked furtively round and turned the handle. The door opened, but into a little space leading to another door. He knocked on that. No answer. The door was locked. It fitted very closely to the floor. The note would not go under. He thrust it back into his pocket and stood a moment listening. He felt somehow certain that she was not there. And suddenly he came away, passing the little salon down the stairs. He stopped at the bureau and said, Will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note? Madame Heron left today, Monsieur, suddenly about three o'clock. There was illness in her family. Soames compressed his lips. Oh, he said, do you know her address? No, Monsieur, England, I think. Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed an open horse cab, which was passing. Drive me anywhere. The man who obviously did not understand smiled and waved his whip. And Soames was born along in that little yellow wheeled Victoria, all over star-shaped Paris, with hair and their paws and the question, C'est par ici, Monsieur? No, go on. Till the man gave it up into spare, and the yellow wheeled chariot continued to roll between the tall, flat-fronted, shuttered houses and planetree avenues, a little flying Dutchman of a cab. Like my life, thought Soames, without object, on and on. Matthew was having a bad ten minutes of it. He had come into the kitchen in the twilight of a cold, grey, December evening, and had sat down in the wood-box corner to take off his heavy boots, unconscious of the fact that Anne and a bevy of her schoolmates were having a practice of the fairy queen in the sitting-room. Presently they came trooping through the hall and out into the kitchen, laughing and chattering gaily. They did not see Matthew, who shrank bashfully back into the shadows beyond the wood-box, with a boot in one hand and a boot jack of the other, and watched them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes as they put on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue in the concert. Anne stood among them, bright-eyed and animated as they, but Matthew suddenly became conscious that there was something about her different from her mates. And what worried Matthew was that the difference impressed him as being something that should not exist. Anne had a brighter face and bigger, starier eyes and more delicate features than the others. Even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to take note of these things. But the difference that disturbed him did not consist in any of these respects. Then in what did it consist? Matthew was haunted by this question long after the girls had gone, arm in arm, down the long, hard-frozen lane, and Anne had betaken herself to her books. He could not refer it to Marilla, who he felt would be quite sure to stiff-scornfully and remark that the only difference she saw between Anne and the other girls was that they sometimes kept their tongues quiet while Anne never did. This Matthew felt would be no great help. He had recourse to his pipe that evening to help him study it out, much to Marilla's disgust. After two hours of smoking and hard reflection Matthew arrived at a solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed like the other girls. The more Matthew thought about the matter, the more he was convinced that Anne never had been dressed like the other girls, never since she came to Green Gables. Marilla kept her clothed in plain, dark dresses all made after the same unvarying pattern. If Matthew knew there was such a thing as fashion and dress it was as much as he did, but he was quite sure that Anne's sleeves did not look at all like the sleeves the other girls wore. He recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen around her that evening, all gay in wastes of red and blue and pink and white, and he wondered why Marilla always kept her so plainly and soberly gowned. Of course it must be all right. Marilla knew best, and Marilla was bringing her up. Maybe some wise, inscrutable motive was to be served thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the child have one pretty dress, something like Diana Barry always wore. Matthew decided that he would give her one. That surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted putting in of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight off. A nice new dress would be the very thing for a present. Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe and went to bed, while Marilla opened all the doors and aired the house. The very next evening Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy the dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it. It would be, he felt assured, no trifling or deal. There were some things Matthew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer. But he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl's dress. After much cogitation Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson store instead of William Blair's. To be sure the Cuthberts always had gone to William Blair's. It was almost as much a matter of conscious with them as to attend the Presbyterian Church and vote conservative. But William Blair's two daughters frequently waited on customers there, and Matthew held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal with them when he knew exactly what he wanted and could point it out. But in such a matter as this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he would go to Lawson's, where Samuel or his son would wait on him. Alas, Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady clerk also. She was a niece of his wives, and a very dashing young person indeed, with a huge drooping pompadour, big, rolling, brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile. She was dressed with exceeding smartness, and wore several bangle bracelets that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands. Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all, and those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell's swoop. What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuthbert? Miss Lucilla Harris inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands. Have you any—any—any—well now, say, any—garden rakes? stammered Matthew. Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well, she might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December. I believe we have one or two left over, she said, but they're upstairs in the lumber-room. I'll go and see. During her absence, Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort. When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired, anything else to-night, Mr. Cuthbert? Matthew took his courage in both hands and replied, Well now, since you suggest it, I might as well take—that is, look at—by some—some hayseed. Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called odd. She now concluded that he was entirely crazy. We only keep hayseed in the spring, she explained loftily. If not on hand, just now—oh, certainly, certainly, just as you say— stammered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making for the door. At the threshold he recollected that he had not paid for it, and he turned miserably back. While Miss Harris was counting out his change, he rallied his powers for a final, desperate attempt. Well now, if it isn't too much trouble, I might as well—that is, I'd like to look at—at—some sugar. Nighter Brown queried Miss Harris patiently. Oh, well now— Brown, said Matthew feebly. There's a barrel-o-bit over there, said Miss Harris, shaking her bangles at it. It's the only kind we have. I'll—I'll take twenty pounds of it, said Matthew, with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. Matthew had driven half-way home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange store. When he reached home he hid the rake in the tool-house, but the sugar he carried into Marilla. Brown's sugar, exclaimed Marilla, whatever possessed you to get so much. You know I never use it except for the hired man's porridge or black fruit-cake. Jerry's gone, and I've made my cake long ago. It's not good sugar, either. It's coarse and dark. William Blair doesn't usually keep sugar like that. I—I thought it might come in handy some time, said Matthew, making good his escape. When Matthew came to think the matter over, he decided that a woman was required to cope with the situation. Marilla was out of the question. Matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his project at once. Remained only Mrs. Lynde, for of no other woman in Avonleet would Matthew have dared to ask advice. To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man's hands. Pick out a dress for you to give Anne? To be sure I will. I'm going to comedy to-morrow, and I'll attend to it. Have you something particular in mind? No? Well, I'll just go by my own judgment, then. I believe a nice, rich brown would just suit Anne, and William Blair has some new gloria in that's real pretty. Perhaps you'd like me to make it up for her, too, seeing that if Marilla was to make it, Anne would probably get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise. Well, I'll do it. No, it isn't a might of trouble. I like sewing. I'll make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis, for she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figure goes. Well, now, I'm much obliged, said Matthew, and—and—I don't know. But I'd like—I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If it wouldn't be asking too much, I—I'd like them made in the new way. Puffs? Of course. You needn't worry a speck more about it, Matthew. I'll make it up in the very latest fashion, said Mrs. Lind. To herself, she added, when Matthew had gone, it'll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous, that's what, and I've ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I've held my tongue, though, for I can see Marilla doesn't want advice, and she thinks she knows more about bringing up children than I do, for all she's an old maid. But that's always the way. Folks that has brought up children know there's no hard and fast method in the world that'll suit every child. But them as never have think it's all plain and easy as rule of three. Just set your three terms down so fashion, and the sum will work out correct. But flesh and blood don't come under the head of arithmetic, and that's where Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake. I suppose she's trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by dressing her as she does, but it's more likely to cultivate envy and discontent. I'm sure the child must feel the difference between her clothes and the other girls. But to think of Matthew taking notice of it, that man is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years. Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Matthew had something on his mind. But what it was she could not guess, until Christmas Eve, when Mrs. Lynde brought up the new dress. Marilla behaved pretty well on the whole, although it is very likely she distrusted Mrs. Lynde's diplomatic explanation that she had made the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne would find out about it too soon if Marilla made it. So this is what Matthew has been looking so mysterious over and grinning about to himself for two weeks, is it? She said a little stiffly, but tolerantly. I knew he was up to some foolishness. While I must say I don't think Anne needed any more dresses. I made her three good warm serviceable ones this fall, and anything more is sheer extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew, and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along. They're as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways. This morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December, and people had looked forward to a green Christmas, but just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The firs in the haunted wood were all feathery and wonderful. The birches and wild cherry trees were outlined in pearl. The plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples, and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice re-echoed through green gables. Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it? I don't like green Christmases. They're not green. They're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why—why—Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew! Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings, and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air. Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was! A lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk, a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings, a waist elaborately pinned tucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves—they were the crowning glory. Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs, divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown silk ribbon. That's a Christmas present for you, Anne, said Matthew shyly. Why—why, Anne, don't you like it? Well now—well now! For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. Like it? Oh, Matthew! Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream. Well, well, let's have breakfast. Interrupted Marilla. I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress, but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair-ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown to match the dress. Come now. Sit in. I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast, said Anne rapturously. Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting time. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon, too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl, and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this. When the commonplace breakfast was over, Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas! I have something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress with such sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer. I've got something more for you, said Diana breathlessly. Here, this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it, and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the haunted wood in the dark now. Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with, for the Anne girl and Merry Christmas, written on it, and then a pair of the daintiest little kids slippers with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. Oh! said Anne. Diana! This is too much. I must be dreaming. I call it providential, said Diana. You won't have to borrow ruby slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pie would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Bright went home with Gertie Pie from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that? All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last, grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded. All the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even Envy in the shape of Josie Pie dared not deny. Oh! hasn't it been a brilliant evening, sighed Anne, when it was all over, and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. Everything went off very well, said Diana practically. I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allen is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers. Oh, Diana! Will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrilled to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was on-cord. I just said to myself, it is my dear bosom friend who is so honoured. Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid. Oh! I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allen called out my name, I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me. And for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practice those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right? Yes, indeed. You groaned lovely, assured Diana. I saw old Mrs. Sloan wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh! It's been a very memorable occasion, indeed. Wasn't the boys' dialogue fine? said Diana. Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. And I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue, one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now. You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that. It's nothing to me what that person does, said Anne loftily. I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana. That night, Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. Well, now. I guess our Anne did as well as any of them, said Matthew proudly. Yes, she did, admitted Marilla. She's a bright child, Matthew, and she looked real nice, too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of Anne to-night, although I'm not going to tell her so. Well, now. I was proud of her, and I did tell her so, for she went upstairs, said Matthew. We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea's school by and by. There's time enough to think of that, said Marilla. She's only thirteen in March. Though to-night it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lint made that dress a might too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn, and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queens after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet. Well, now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on, said Matthew. Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over.