 1 Mrs. Rachel Lind lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped into a little hollow, fringed with elders and ladies, eardrops, and traversed by brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Casper Place. It was reputed to be an intricate headlong brook in its earlier courses through these woods with dark secrets of pool and cascade, but by the time it reached the Lind's hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream. For not even a brook had run past Miss Rachel Lind's door without due regard for decency and decorum. It probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that as she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had fareded out wise and wherefores thereof. There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it who can attend closely to their neighbor's business by dentive neglecting their own, but Mrs. Rachel Lind was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife, her work was always done and well done. She ran the sewing-circle, helped run the Sunday school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Ford Mission's auxiliary. Yet with all this, Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window knitting cotton-wrap, quilts she had knitted sixteen of them as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in odd voices, and giving a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up a steep red hill beyond. Once Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with waters on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright, the orchard on the slope below the house was a bridal flush of pink white bloom hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lind, a meek little man whom Ammonlea called Rachel's Lind's husband, was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill-field beyond the barn, and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red Brookfield away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life, and yet he was Matthew Cuthbert at half past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill, moreover. He wore a white collar in his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea, and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which be tokened that he was going to a considerable distance. Now there was Matthew Cuthbert going away, and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, definitely putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess at both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him. He was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel ponder as she might could make nothing of it and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. I'll just step over to Green Gables after Teen, find out from Marilla where he's gone and why, the worthy woman finally concluded. He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he never visits. If he'd run out of turnip seeds, he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more. He wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor, yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today. Accordingly, after tea, Mrs. Rachel set out. She had not far to go. The big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from the Linn's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. The green gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land, and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so socially situated. Mrs. Rachel Linn did not call living in such a place living at all. It's just staying, that's what, she says as she stepped along the deep, rutted grassy lane bordered with wild rosebushes. It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were, they'd be enough of them. I'd rather look at the people, to be sure. They seem contented enough, but then I suppose they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said. With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of green gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows, and the other with prim lumbardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was we seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately, she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept the yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel wrapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment, or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. As windows looked east and west, through the west one, looking out of the backyard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight. But the east one, once you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry tree in its left orchard and knotting, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook was greeted over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously. And here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly close the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on the table. There were three plates laid so that Marilla must be expecting someone home today with Matthew to tea. But the dishes were everyday dishes, and there was only a crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that she expected company could not be any particular company. Yet when Matthew's white collar and the swirl mare, Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmisterious green gables. Good evening, Rachel, said Marilla briskly. This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks? Something that, for lack of any other name, might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of, or perhaps because of, their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman with angles and without curves. Her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard, little knot behind two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was, but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. We're all pretty well, said Mrs. Rachel. I was kind of afraid you weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctors. I'm not going to be surprised if I see a woman with his lips twitched understandingly. She'd expected Mrs. Rachel up. She'd known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. Oh no, I'm quite well. Although, I had a bad headache yesterday, she said. Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight. If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia, Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. Are you in earnest, Marilla? She demanded when voice returned to her. Yes, of course, said Marilla, as if getting voice from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia a part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated, avanly farm instead of being an overheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points, a boy, Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy from an orphan asylum, while the world was certainly turning upside down, she would be surprised at nothing after this, nothing. What on earth put such a notion into your head, she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked and must perforce be disapproved. Well, we've been thinking about it for some time, all winter in fact, returned to Marilla. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas, and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopetown in the spring. Her cousin lives there, and Mrs. Spencer has once visited her and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over, off, and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew's getting up in years, you know, he's sixty, and he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal, and you know how desperate hard it's going to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half grown little French boys, and as soon as you do, get one broke into your ways and taught something. He's up and off to the lobster canneries of the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a homeboy, but I said no flat to that. They may be all right, and I'm not saying they're not, but no London Streets Arabs for me, I said. Give me a native boy, at least. There'll be a risk no matter who we get, but I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at night if we get a born Canadian. So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmine to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that that'd be the best age, old enough to be of some use in doing chores right off, and young enough to be trained up proper. It seemed to give him a good home in schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today. The mailman brought it from the station, saying that they were coming on the 530 train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to White Sand station herself. Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind. She proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news. Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing mighty foolish thing, a risky thing, that's what. You don't know what you're getting. You're bringing a strange child into your house at home, and you don't know a single thing about him, know what his disposition is, like nor what sort of parents he had, or how he's likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife, up west of the island, took a boy at an orphan asylum, and he set fire to the house at night, set it on purpose, Marilla, and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where adopted boy, to suck eggs, they couldn't break them of it. If you ask my advice in the matter, which you didn't do, Marilla, I'd have said for mercy's sake not to think of such a thing, that's what. This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla, she knitted steadily on. I don't deny there is something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some qualms myself, but Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything, that when he does, I always feel it's my duty to give in. And as for the risk, there's risk in pretty near everything about he does in this world. There's risks in people having children of their own, if it comes to that. They don't always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia's right close to the island, it isn't that if we're getting him from England or the states, he can't be much different from ourself. Well, I hope it all turns out right, said Mrs. Rachel, in a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts. Only don't say I didn't warn you if he burns green gables down or put strict nine in the well. I had a case of that over in New Brunswick, where an orphan asylum child did that, and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only was a girl in that instance. Well, we're not getting a girl, said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were purely feminine accomplishment, and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it in her head. Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with this imported orphan, but reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival, she concluded to go up the road to Robert Bells and tell him the news. It certainly would make a sensation second to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she took herself away, somewhat to Marilla's relief, for the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the influence of Mrs. Rachel's pessimans. Well, of all things that ever were or will be ejaculated, Mrs. Rachel, when she was safely out on the lane, it does really seem as if I must be dreaming. Well, I'm sorry for that poor young one, and no mistake, Matthew and Marilla don't know anything about children, and they'll expect him to be wiser and steadier than his own grandfather. If so, bees, he ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green Gable somehow. There's never been one there, for Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built, if they ever were children, which is hard to believe when one looks at them. I wouldn't be in that orphan's shoes for anything, my bet I pity him, that's what, so said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fullness of her heart. But if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at Bright River Station at that very moment, her pity would have been still steeper and more profound. End of chapter one. Chapter two of Anne 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. Recording by Margo Zinberg. Anne of Green Gables. By Lucy Mod Montgomery. Chapter two. Matthew Cuthbert is surprised. Matthew Cuthbert and the sorrel mayor jogged comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River. It was a pretty road running along between snug farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy fir wood to drive through or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom. The air was sweet with the breath of many apple orchards and the meadows sloped away in the distance to horizon mists of pearl and purple, while the little birds sang as if it were the one day of summer and all the year. Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, except during the moments when he met women and had to nod to them. For in Prince Edward Island, you're supposed to nod to all and sundry you meet on the road, whether you know them or not. Matthew dreaded all women, except Marilla and Mrs. Rachel. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the mysterious creatures were secretly laughing at him. He may have been quite right in thinking so, for he was an odd-looking personage with an ungainly figure and long iron gray hair that touched his stooping shoulders and a full soft brown beard, which he'd worn ever since he was 20. In fact, he looked at 20 very much as he looked at 60, lacking a little of the grayness. When he reached Bright River, there was no sign of any train. He thought he was too early, so he tied his horse in the yard of the small Bright River hotel and went over to the station house. The long platform was almost deserted, the only living creature in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end. Matthew, barely noting that it was a girl, sidled past her as quickly as possible without looking at her. Had he looked, he could hardly have failed to notice the tense rigidity and expectation of her attitude and expression. She was sitting there waiting for something or somebody, and since sitting and waiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her might in Maine. Matthew encountered the station master locking up the ticket office preparatory to going home for supper and asked him if the 530 train would soon be along. The 530 train has been in and gone half an hour ago, answered that brisk official, but there was a passenger dropped off for you, a little girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her to go into the lady's waiting room, but she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside. There was more scope for imagination, she said. She's a case, I should say. I'm not expecting a girl, said Matthew blankly. It's a boy I've come for. He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me. The station master whistled. Guess there's some mistake, he said. Mrs. Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her into my charge, said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum, and that you'd be along for her presently. That's all I know about it, and I haven't got any more orphans concealed hereabouts. I don't understand, said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla was at hand to cope with the situation. Well, you'd better question the girl, said the station master carelessly. I dare say she'll be able to explain. She's got a tongue of her own, that's certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand you wanted. He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in its den, walk up to a girl, a strange girl, an orphan girl, and demand of her why she wasn't a boy. But Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuffled gently down the platform toward her. She'd been watching him ever since he'd passed her, and she had her eyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her, and would not have seen what she was really like if he had been, but an ordinary observer would have seen this. A child of about eleven, garbed in a short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincy. She wore a faded brown sailor hat, and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white, and thin, also much freckled. Her mouth was large, and so were her eyes, which looked green in some lights and moods and gray in others. So far the ordinary observer. An extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced, that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity, that the mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive, that the forehead was broad and full. In short, our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray woman-child, of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid. Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her, she stood up, grasping with one thin brown hand the handle of a shabby old-fashioned carpet bag, the other she held out to him. I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables. She said, in a peculiarly sweet voice, I'm very glad to see you. I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me, and I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you. I'd made up my mind that if you didn't come for me tonight, I'd go down the track to that big wild cherry tree at the bend and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn't be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry tree, all white with bloom and the moonshine, don't you think? You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn't you? And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning if you didn't tonight. Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his. Then and there he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with the glowing eyes that there'd been a mistake. He would take her home and let Marilla do that. She couldn't be left at Bright River, anyhow, no matter what mistake had been made. So all questions and explanations might as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green Gables. I'm sorry I was late, he said, shyly. Come along. The horse is over in the yard. Give me your bag. Oh, I can carry it. The child responded cheerfully. It isn't heavy. I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn't carried in just a certain way, the handle pulls out. So I better keep it because I know the exact knack of it. It's an extremely old carpet bag. Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry tree. We've got to drive a long piece, haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles. I'm glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody, not really. But the asylum was the worst. I've only been in it four months, but that was enough. I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum so you can't possibly understand what it's like. It's worse than anything you could imagine. Mrs. Spencer said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but I didn't mean to be wicked. It's so easy to be wicked without knowing it, isn't it? They were good, you know, the asylum people, but there's so little scope for the imagination in an asylum, only just in the other orphans. It was pretty interesting to imagine things about them, to imagine that perhaps the girl who sat next to you was really the daughter of a belted earl who'd been stolen away from her parents in her infancy by a cruel nurse who died before she could confess. I used to lie awake at nights and imagine things like that because I didn't have time in the day. I guess that's why I'm so thin. I am dreadfully thin, ain't I? There isn't a pick on my bones. I do love to imagine I'm nice and plump with dimples in my elbows. With this Matthew's companions stopped talking, partly because she was out of breath and partly because they'd reached the buggy. Not another word did she say until they left the village and were driving down a steep little hill, the road part of which had been cut so deeply into the soft soil that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry trees and slim white birches, were several feet above their heads. The child put out her hand and broke off a branch of wild plum that brushed against the side of the buggy. Isn't that beautiful? What did that tree leaning out from the bank all white and lacy make you think of? She asked. Well now, I don't know, said Matthew. Why a bride, of course! A bride all in white with a lovely misty veil. I've never seen one, but I can imagine what she would look like. I don't ever expect to be a bride myself. I'm so homely nobody will ever want to marry me unless it might be a foreign missionary. I suppose a foreign missionary might be very particular, but I do hope that someday I shall have a white dress. That is my highest ideal of earthly bliss. I just love pretty clothes. And I've never had a pretty dress in my life that I can remember, but of course it's all the more to look forward to, isn't it? And then I can imagine that I'm dressed gorgeously. This morning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I had to wear this horrid old wincy dress. All the orphans had to wear them, you know. I merchant and hoped unless winter donated 300 yards of wincy to the asylum. Some people said it was because he couldn't sell it. But I'd rather believe it was out of the kindness of his heart, wouldn't you? When we got on the train I felt as if everybody must be looking at me and pitying me. But I just went to work and imagined that I had on the most beautiful pale blue silk dress because when you are imagining, you might as well imagine something worthwhile, and a big hat, all flowers and knotting plumes and a gold watch and kid gloves and boots, I felt cheered up right away. And I enjoyed my trip to the island with all my might. I wasn't a bit sick coming over in the boat. Neither was Mrs. Spencer, although she generally is. She said she hadn't time to get sick watching to see that I didn't fall overboard. She said she never saw the beat of me for prowling about. But if I kept her from being seasick, it's a mercy I did prowl, isn't it? And I wanted to see everything that was to be seen on that boat because I didn't know whether I'd ever have another opportunity. Oh, there are a lot more cherry trees all in bloom. This island is the bloomingest place. I just love it already. And I'm so glad I'm going to live here. I've always heard that Prince Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world. And I used to imagine I was living here. But I never really expected I would. It's delightful when your imaginations come true, isn't it? But those red roads are so funny. When we got into the train at Charlottetown and the red roads began to flash past, I asked Mrs. Spencer what made them red. And she said she didn't know. And for pity's sake, not to ask her any more questions. She said I must have asked her a thousand already. I suppose I had, too. But how are you going to find out about things if you don't ask questions? And what does make the roads red? Well, no, I don't know, said Matthew. Well, that's one of the things to find out sometime. Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive. It's such an interesting world. Wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would it? There'd be no scope for imagination, then, would there? But am I talking too much? People are always telling me I do. Would you rather I didn't talk? If you say so, I'll stop. I can stop when I make my mind to it, although it's difficult. Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself. Like most quiet folks, he liked talking to people when they were willing to do the talking themselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it, but he'd never expected to enjoy the society of a little girl. Women were bad enough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested the way they had of sidling past him timidly, with sidewise glances, as if they expected him to gobble him up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. That was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. But this freckled witch was very different, and although he found it rather difficult for his slower intelligence to keep up with her brisk mental processes, he thought that he kind of liked her chatter. So he said as shyly as usual. Oh, you can talk as much as you like. I don't mind. Oh, I'm so glad. I know you and I are going to get along together fine. It's such a relief to talk when one wants to, and not be told that children should be seen and not heard. I've had that said to me a million times if I have once, and people laugh at me because I use big words. But if you have big ideas, you have to use big words to express them, haven't you? Well, now that seems reasonable, said Matthew. Mrs. Spencer said my tongue must be hung in the middle. But it isn't. It's firmly fastened at one end. Mrs. Spencer said your place was named Green Gables. I asked her all about it, and she said there were trees all around it. I was gladder than ever. I just love trees. And there weren't any at all about the asylum. Only a few weeny, teeny things out in front with little whitewashed, cagey things about them. They just look like orphans themselves those trees did. He used to make me want to cry to look at them. I used to say to them, oh, you poor little things. If you were out in great big woods with the other trees all around you, and little mosses and Junebells growing over your roots, and a brook not far away and birds singing in your branches, you could grow, couldn't you? But you can't where you are. I know how exactly you feel those trees. I feel sorry to leave them behind this morning. You do get so attached to things like that, don't you? Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer that. Well, no, yes, there's one right below the house. Fancy. It's always been one of my dreams to live near a brook. I never expected I would, though. Dreams don't often come true, do they? Wouldn't it be nice if they did? But just now I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly happy because, well, what color would you call this? She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes. Matthew was not used to deciding on the tints of ladies' tresses, but in this case there couldn't be much doubt. It's red, ain't it? He said the girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages. Yes, it's red, she said, resignedly. Now you can see why I can't be perfectly happy. Nobody could who has red hair. I don't mind the other things so much, the freckles in the green eyes, and my skinniness. I can imagine them away. I can imagine that I have a beautiful rose leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes, but I cannot imagine that red hair away. I do my best. I think to myself, now my hair is a glorious black. Black is the raven's wing, but all the time I know it's just plain red, and it breaks my heart. It will be my lifelong sorrow. I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow, but it wasn't red hair. Her hair was pure gold, rippling back from her alabaster brow. What is an alabaster brow? I never could find out. Can you tell me? Well now I'm afraid I can't, said Matthew, who was getting a little dizzy. He felt as he had felt once in his rash youth when another boy had enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic. Well, whatever it was, it must have been something nice, because she was divinely beautiful. Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful? Well, no I haven't, confessed Matthew ingenuously. I have often. Which would you rather be if you had the choice? Divinely beautiful, or dazzlingly clever, or angelically good? Well, now I don't know exactly. Neither do I. I can never decide. But it doesn't make much real difference, for it isn't likely I'll ever be either. It's certain I'll never be angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says, oh, Mr. Cuthbert, oh, Mr. Cuthbert, Mr. Cuthbert! That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said. Neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy, nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the avenue. The avenue, so-called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy, fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight, and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge, she never moved or spoke. Still with wrapped face, she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village, where dogs barked at them, and small boys hooded in curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them, the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry, Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. But we haven't very far to go now, only another mile. She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh, and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wandering afar, star-led. Oh, Mr. Cuthbert, she whispered, that place we came through, that white place, what was it? Well, now you must mean the avenue, said Matthew, after a moment's profound reflection. It is kind of a pretty place. Pretty? Oh, pretty doesn't seem the right word to use, nor beautiful either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful, wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here. She put one hand on her breast. It made a queer, funny ache, and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert? Well now I just can't recollect that I ever had. I have it lots of time. Never I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the avenue. There's no meaning in a name like that. They should call it, let me see, the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person, I always imagine a new one, and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibat Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia de Verre. Other people may call that place the avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant, and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Some things still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. It's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That's been my experience anyhow, but I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again, just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty? They'd driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding, was it? A bridge spanned it midway, and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand hill shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond. The water was a glory of many shifting hues, the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into the fringing groves of fur and maple, and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank, like a white-clad girl tiptoeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little grey house peering around a white-apple orchard on a slope beyond, and although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of the windows. That's Barry's pond, said Matthew. Oh, I don't like that name either. I shall call it, let me see. The Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that's the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly, it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill? Well, no, yes, it always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them. Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond? I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard slopes the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it, you could see green gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further. Has Mr. Barry any little girls—well, not so very little, either—about my size? He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana. Oh! With a long in-drawing of breath. What a perfectly lovely name! Well, now I don't know. There's something dreadful he-vanish about, it seems to me. I'd rather Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her. And he called her Diana. I wish there'd been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born then. Oh! Here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps, just as we get to the middle, they'll crumble up like a jackknife and nip us. But I always have to open them for all when I see we're getting near the middle. Because you see, if the bridge did crumble up, I'd want to see it crumble. What a jolly rumble it makes. I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, dear lake of shining waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me. When they'd driven up the further hill and around a corner, Matthew said, We're pretty near home now. That's green gables over. Oh! Don't tell me! She interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. Let me guess. I'm sure I'll guess right. She opened her eyes and looked about her. They were on the crest of the hill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was still clear in the mellow after-light. To the west, a dark church-spire rose up against a marigold sky. Below was a little valley, and beyond a long, gently rising slope, with snug farmsteads scattered along it. From one to another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last they lingered on one way to the left, far back from the road, dimly white, with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was shining like a lamp of guidance and promise. "'That's it, isn't it?' she said, pointing. Matthew slapped the reins on the sorals back delightedly. "'Well, now you've guessed it. But I reckon Mrs. Spencer described it so as you could tell.' "'No, she didn't. Really she didn't. All she said might just as well have been about most of those other places. I hadn't any real idea what it looked like, but just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know my arm must be black and blue from the elbow up, for I've pinched myself so many times today. Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me, and I'd be so afraid it was all a dream, that I'd pinched myself to see if it was real, until suddenly I remembered that even supposing it only was a dream, I'd better go on dreaming as long as I could. So I stopped pinching, but it is real, and we're nearly home.' With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. You stirred uneasily. He felt glad that it would be Marilla and not he who would have to tell this wave of the world that the home she longed for was not to be hers after all. They drove over Lynn's Hollow, where it was already quite dark, but not so dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see them from her window vantage, and up the hill and into the long lane of green gables. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew was shrinking from the approaching revelation with an energy he did not understand. It was not if Marilla or herself he was thinking of the trouble this mistake was probably going to make for them, but of the child's disappointment. When he thought of that rapt light being quenched in her eyes, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to assist at murdering something, much the same feeling that came over him when he had to kill a lamb, or calf, or any other innocent little creature. The yard was quite dark as they turned into it, and the poplar leaves were rustling silkily all around it. Into the trees talking in their sleep, she whispered, as he lifted her to the ground. What nice dreams they must have! Then holding tightly to the carpet-bag, which contained all her worldly goods, she followed him into the house. CHAPTER III of ANNA OF GREEN GABLES CHAPTER III of ANNA OF GREEN GABLES by Lucy Maud Montgomery Marilla Cuthbert is surprised. Marilla came briskly forward as Matthew opened the door, but when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short in amazement. Matthew Cuthbert, who's that? she ejaculated. Where's the boy? There wasn't any boy, said Matthew wretchedly. There was only her. He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never asked her name. No boy, but there must have been a boy, insisted Marilla. He sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy. Well, she didn't. She brought her. I asked the station master, and I had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there, no matter where the mistake had come in. Well, this is a pretty piece of business, ejaculated Marilla. During this dialogue, the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet bag, she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. You don't want me, she cried. You don't want me because I'm not a boy. I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears. Burst into tears, she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other depreciatingly across the stove. Neither knew what to say or do. Finally, Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it. Yes, there is need. The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. You would cry too if you weren't an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and family didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most tragical thing that's ever happened to me. Something like a reluctant smile, rather dusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression. Well, don't cry anymore. We're not going to turn you out of doors tonight. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What is your name? The child hesitated for a moment. Will you please call me Cordelia? She said eagerly. Call you Cordelia. Is that your name? No, it's not exactly my name. But I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name. I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is? Anne Shirley reluctantly faltered forth from the owner of that name. But oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an own romantic name. Unromantic fiddle sticks, said the unsympathetic Marilla. Anne is a real good, plain, sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it. Oh, I'm not ashamed of it, explained Anne. I only like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia. At least I always have of late years. When I was young, I used to imagine it was Geraldine. But I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne, please call me Anne spelled with an E. What difference does it make how it's spelled, asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. I would make such a difference. It looks so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced, can't you always see it in your mind just as if it was printed out? I can, and A-N-N looks dreadful, but A-N-N-E looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E, I shall try to reconcile myself of not being called Cordelia. Very well then, Anne spelled with an E. Can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum? Oh yes, there was an abundance of them, but Mrs. Spencer said distinctly that you wanted a girl about 11 years old, and the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh, she added, reproachfully, turning to Matthew. Why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the white way of the light in the lake of shining waters, it wouldn't be so hard. What on earth does she mean? demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. She's just referring to some conversation we had on the road, said Matthew hastily. I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back. Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you, continued Marilla, when Matthew had gone out? She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old, and she's very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I were very beautiful and had nut-brown hair, would you keep me? No, we want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it on your bag on the hall table. Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper, but Anne could not eat. In vain, she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crap out of her reserves out of the little scalloped dish by our plate. She did not really make any headway at all. You're not eating anything, said Marilla sharply, eyeing her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed, I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you're in the depths of despair? I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say, responded Marilla. Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to imagine you were in the depths of despair? No, I didn't. But I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's very uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat, a lump comes right up in your throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I once had one chocolate caramel two years ago and it was simply delicious. I've often dreamed since then that I had lots of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I'm going to eat them. I do hope you won't be offended because I can't eat. Everything is extremely nice, but still, I cannot eat. I guess she's tired, said Matthew, who hadn't spoken since his turn from the barn. Best put her to bed, Marilla. Marilla had been wondering where Anne should be put to bed. She prepared a couch in the kitchen chamber for the desired unexpected boy, but although it was neat and clean, it did not seem quite the thing to put a girl there somehow. But the spare room was out of the question for such a stray wave, so there remained only the east gable room. Marilla lighted a candle and told Anne to follow her, which Anne spiritlessly did, taking her hat and carpet bag from the hall as she passed. The hall was fearsomely clean. The little gable chamber in which she presently found herself seemed still cleaner. Marilla set the candle on a three-legged, three-cornered table and turned down the bedclothes. I suppose you have a nightgown, she questioned, and nodded. Yes, I have two. The major of the asylum made them for me. They're fearful skimpy. There's never enough to go around in an asylum so things are always skimpy, at least in a poor asylum like ours. I hate skimpy night dresses, but one can dream just as well in them as in lovely trailing ones with frills around the neck. That's one consolation. Well, undress as quick as you can and go to bed. I'll come back in a few minutes for the candle. I darent trust you put it out yourself. You'd likely set the place on fire. When Marilla had gone, Anne looked around her wistfully. The white-washed walls were so painfully barren that she thought they was ache over their own bareness. The floor was bare, too, except for one round braided mat in the middle, such as Anne had never seen before. In one corner was a bed, a high old-fashioned one with four dark, low-turned posts. In the other corner was a four-set, three-cornered table adorned with a fat red velvet pincushion, hard enough to turn the point of most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little six-by-eight mirror, midway between table and bed was the window with an icy white muslin furl over it. And opposite it was the wash stand. The whole apartment was made of a rigidity, not to be described in words. With a sob, she hastily discarded her garment, put on the skipping nightgown, and sprang into bed where she buried her face, downward into the pillow and pulled the clothes over her head. When Marilla came up for the light, various skimpy articles of raiment scattered most untitledly over the floor, and a certain tempestuous appearance of the bed for the only indications of any presence save her own. She deliberately picked up Ann's clothes, placed them neatly on a primed yellow chair, and then taking up the candle went over to the bed. Good night, she said a little awkwardly, but not in kindly. Ann's white face and big eyes appeared over the bed clothes with startling suddenness. How can you call it a good night when you know it must be the very worst night I've ever had? She said reproachfully. Then she dived into invisibility again. Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen and proceeded to wash the supper dishes. Matthew was smoking, a sure sign of pervitation of mind. He seldom smoked, for Marilla set her face against it as a filthy habit. But at certain times and seasons, he felt driven to it, and then Marilla wrinkled at the practice, realizing that a mere man must have some vent for his emotions. Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish, she said, wrathfully. This is what comes of sending word instead of going ourselves. Richard Spencer's folks have twisted that message somehow. One of us will have to drive over and see Mrs. Spencer tomorrow. That's certain this girl will have to be sent back to the asylum. Yes, I suppose so, said Matthew reluctantly. You suppose so, don't you know it? Well, now, she's a real nice little thing, Marilla. It's kind of a pity to send her back when she's so sad on staying here. Matthew Cuthbert, you don't mean to say you think we ought to keep her. Marilla's astonishment could not have been greater if Matthew had expressed a predilection for standing on his head. Well, now, no, I suppose not. Not exactly, stammered Matthew uncomfortably, driven into a corner for his precise meaning. I suppose we could hardly be expected to keep her. I should say not. What good would she be to us? Well, we might be some good to her, said Matthew suddenly and unexpectedly. Matthew Cuthbert, I believe that child has bewitched you. I can see it's plain as plain that you want to keep her. Well, now, she's a real interesting little thing, persisted Matthew. You should have heard her talk coming from the station. Oh, she can talk fast enough. I saw that at once. It's nothing in her favor either. I don't like children who have so much to say. I don't want an orphan girl. And if I did, she isn't the style I'd pick out. There's something I don't understand about her. No, she's got to be dispatched straight way back to where she came from. I could hire a French boy to help me, said Matthew, and she'd be a good company for you. I'm not suffering for company, said Marilla shortly. And I'm not going to keep her. Well, now, it's just as you say, of course, Marilla, said Matthew, rising and putting his pipe away. I'm going to bed. To bed went Matthew. And to bed, when she'd finished her dishes, went Marilla, fronting most resolutely. And upstairs in the East Gable, a lonely, heart-hungry, friendless child, cried herself to sleep. End of chapter three. Anne of Green Gables, chapter four. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Chapter four of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Morning at Green Gables. It was broad daylight when Anna woke and sat up in bed staring confusingly at the windows as a flood of chilly sunshine was pouring and outside with something white and feathery waved across glimpses of the sky. For a moment, you cannot remember where she was. First came a delightful thrill at something very pleasant than a horrible remembrance. This was Green Gables, and they didn't want her because she wasn't a boy. But it was morning, and yes, it was a cherry tree in full bloom outside her window. With a bound, she was out of bed and across the floor. She pushed up the sash. It went up stiffly and creakly as it hadn't opened for a long time, which was the case, and stuck so tight that nothing was needed to hold it up. Anne dropped on her knees and gazed out into the dream morning, her eyes glistening with delight. Oh, wasn't it beautiful? Wasn't it a lovely place? I suppose she wasn't really going to stay here. She would imagine she was. There was scope for imagination here. A huge cherry tree grew outside, so close that a spouse tapped against the house. It was so thick set with blossoms that hardly a leaf was to be seen. On both sides of the house was a big orchard. One of the apple trees and one of the cherry trees also showered over the blossoms, and their grass was all sprinkled with dandelion. In the garden below were lilac trees, purple with flowers, and their dizzily sweet fragrance drifted up to the window on the morning wind. Below the garden, a green field lush with clover and sloped down to the hollow where the brook ran, and where scores of white birches grew, up springing and airy out of the undergrowth, suggesting of delightful possibilities and ferns and mosses and woodsy things, generally. Beyond it was a hill green in feathery with spruce and fur. There was a gap in it where the gray gable end of the little house she had seen from the other side of the lake of shiny waters was visible. Off to the left were the big barns and beyond them a way down over the green low sloping field was a sparkling blue glimpse of sea, and beauty-loving eyes lingered on it. And taking everything greedyly in, she had looked on so many unlovely places in her life. She was a beautiful child, but this was as lovely as anything she'd ever dreamed. She'd now there, lost everything but the loveliness around her until she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. Marilla had come and then heard by the small dreamer. It's time you were dressed, she said curtly. Marilla really did not know how to talk to the child, and her uncomfortable ignorance made her crisp and curt when she did not need to be. Anne stood up and drew a long breath. Isn't it wonderful? She said, waving her hand comprehensively at the good world outside. It's a big tree, said Marilla, and it blooms great, but the fruit don't amount to much, never small and wormy. Oh, I don't mean just the tree, of course it's lovely. Yes, it's radiantly lovely. It's bloomed as if it meant it, but I meant everything, the garden and the orchard and the brook and the woods, the whole big dear world. Don't you feel as if you just loved the world in a morning like this? Then I can hear the brook laughing all the way up here. Have you ever noticed what a cheerful thing brooks are? They're always laughing, even in wintertime. I've heard them under the ice. I'm so glad there's a brook near Green Gables. Perhaps you think it doesn't make any difference to me when you're not going to keep me, but it does. I shall always like to remember that there was a brook at Green Gables, even if I never see it again. If there wasn't a brook, I'd be haunted by the uncomfortable feeling that there ought to be one. I'm not in the depths of despair this morning. I never can be in the morning. Isn't it a splendid thing that there are mornings? But I feel very sad. I've just been imagining that it was really me you wanted after all and that I was to stay here forever and ever. It was a great comfort while it lasted, but the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts. You better get dressed and comb downstairs and never mind your imagining, said Marilla, as soon as she could get a word in edgewise. Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window up and turn your bled clothes back over the foot of the bed. Be as smart as you can. And could evidently be smart to some purpose, for she was downstairs in 10 minutes. With her clothes neatly on, her hair brushed and braided, her face washed and the comfortable conscience pervading her soul that she had fulfilled all Marilla's requirements. As a matter of fact, however, she'd forgotten to turn back the beds closed. I'm pretty hungry this morning, she announced that she slipped into a chair and Marilla placed for her. This world doesn't seem such a howling wilderness as it did last night. I'm so glad it's a sunshiney morning, but I like rainy mornings real well too. All sorts of mornings are interesting, don't you think? You don't know what's going to happen through the day and there's so much scope for imagination, but I'm glad it's not rainy today because it's easier to be cheerful and bear up under affliction on the sunshiney day. I feel that I have a good deal to bear up under. It's all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it's not so nice when you really come to have them, is it? For pity's sake, hold your tongue, said Marilla. You talk entirely too much for a little girl. Bear upon Anne held her tongue so obediently and thoroughly that her continued silence made Marilla rather nervous, as if in the presence of something not exactly natural. Matthew also held his tongue, but this was natural, so that the meal was a very silent one. As it progressed, Anne became more and more abstracted, eating mechanically with her big eyes fixed unswervingly and unseeingly across the sky outside the window. This made Marilla more nervous than ever. She had an uncomfortable feeling that while this odd child's body might be there at the table, her spirit was far away in some remote, airy cloudland, born aloft on the wings of imagination. Who would want such a child about the place? Yet Matthew wished to keep her. Of all unaccountable things, Marilla felt that he wanted it just as much this morning as he had the night before, and that he would go on wanting it. That was Matthew's way. Take a whim into his head and cling to it with the most amazing silent persistency, persistency 10 times more potent and effectual in its very silence than if he had talked it out. When the meal was ended, Anne came out of her reverie and offered to wash the dishes. Can you wash dishes white? asked Marilla distressfully. Pretty well. I'm better at looking after children, though. I've had so much experience with that. It's such a pity you haven't been here for me to look after. I don't feel as if I wanted any more children to look after than I've got at the present. Your problem enough in all conscience. What's to be done with you, I don't know. Matthew's a most ridiculous man. I think he's lovely, said Anne approachingly. He's so very sympathetic. He didn't mind how much I talked. He seemed to like it. I thought that he was a kindred spirit as soon as I ever saw him. You're both queer enough, if that's what you mean by kindred spirits. So Marilla with a sniff. Yes, you may wash the dishes, take plenty of hot water and be sure you dry them well. I've got enough to attend to this morning for I have to drive over to White Stand in the afternoon and see Mrs. Spencer. He'll come with me and we'll settle what's to be done with you. I've to finish the dishes go upstairs and make your bed. Anne washed the dishes deathly enough as Marilla who kept sharp eye on the process discerned. Later on she made her bed less successfully for she'd never learned the art of wrestling with a feather tick. But he was done somehow and smoothed down and then Marilla to get rid of her. Told her she might go out of doors and amuse herself until dinner time. Anne flew to the door, face of light, eyes glowing on the very threshold. She stopped short, wheeled back, came back and sat down by the table. Lights and glow as effectually blotted out as if someone had clapped her on extinguisher on her. What's the matter now? Demanded Marilla. I don't dare go out, said Anne. In a tone of murder, really going to see all earthly joys. As I can't stay here, there's no use in my loving green gables. And if I go out there and get acquainted with all those trees and flowers and the orchard in the brook, I'll not be able to help loving it. It's hard enough now, so I won't make it any harder. I want to go out so much. Everything seems to be calling to me. Anne, Anne, come out to us. Anne, Anne, we want a playmate. But it's better not. There's no use in loving things if you have to be torn from there, is there? And it's so hard to keep from loving things, isn't it? That was why I was so glad when I thought I was going to live here. I thought I'd have so many things to love and nothing to hinder me, but that brief dream is over. I'm designed to my fate now, so I don't think I'll go out in fear. I'll get undefined again. What is the name of that geranium on the window sill, please? That's the Applescented Geranium. Oh no, I don't mean that sort of name. I mean, just the name as you gave it yourself. Didn't you give it a name? Me, I gave it one then. May I call it, let me see. Bonnie would do. May I call it Bonnie while I'm here? Oh, do let me. Goodness sakes, I don't care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a geranium? Oh, I like things to have handles, even if they're only geraniums. It makes them seem more like people. How do you know, but it hurts a geranium's feelings just because a geranium and nothing else. You wouldn't like it if someone called you nothing but a woman all the time. Yes, I shall call it Bonnie. I named the cherry tree up in my bedroom winning this morning. I called it Snow Queen, because it was so white. Of course, it won't always be blossom, but one can imagine that it is can fun. I never, in all my life, say I heard anything to equal her, murdered Marilla, beating her a cheat down to the cellar after potatoes. She is kind of interesting, as Matthew says. I can feel already that I'm wondering what on earth she'll say next. She'll be casting spell over me too. She's casted over Matthew. That look he gave me when he went out said everything, he said, or hinted last night over again. I wish he was like other men who would talk things out. A body could answer back then and argue him into reason. What's to be done with a man who just looks? Anne had relapsed into reverie when her chin and her hands and her eyes on the sky, when Marilla returned from her cellar pilgrimage, where Marilla left her until the early dinner was on the table. I suppose I could have the mare and buggy this afternoon, Matthew, said Marilla. Matthew nodded and looked wistfully at Anne. Marilla intercepted the look and said, grumbling, I'm going to drive over to White Stans and settle this thing. I'll take Anne with me and Mrs. Spencer will probably make arrangements to send her back to know the sky shed once. I'll set your tea out for you and I'll be home in time to milk the cows. Still Matthew said nothing and Marilla had a sense of having wasted words and breath. There's nothing more aggravating than a man who won't talk back unless it's a woman who won't. Matthew hitched the sorrel into the buggy in due time and Marilla and Anne set off. Matthew opened the yard gate for them and as they drove slowly through, he said to nobody in particular at the scene, little Jerry Boop from the creek was here this morning and I told him I'd guess I'd hire him for the summer. Marilla made no reply but she hit the unlucky sorrel with a vicious clip with a whip that a fat mare unused to such treatment whizzed indignantly down the lane at an alarming pace. Marilla looked back once as the buggy bounced along and saw the aggravating Matthew leaning over the gate looking worthfully at them. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of Anne of Green Gables. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 5 of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Anne's History. Do you know, said Anne confidentially, I've made up my mind to enjoy this drive. It's been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will. Of course you must make it up firmly. I'm not going to think about going back to the asylum while we're having our drive. I'm just going to think about the drive. Oh look, there's one little early wild rose out. Isn't it lovely? Don't you think it must be glad to be a rose? Wouldn't it be nice if roses could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely things. And isn't pink the most bewitching color in the world? I love it, but I can't wear it. Red-headed people can't wear pink, not even in imagination. Did you ever know of anybody whose hair was red when she was young but got to be another color when she grew up? No, I don't know as if I ever did, said Marula mercilessly, and I shouldn't think it likely to happen in your case either. And sighed, well, that is another hope gone. My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes. That's a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it over to comfort myself when I am disappointed in anything. I don't see where the comforting comes in myself, said Marula. Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic just as if I was a heroine in a book. You know, I am so fond of romantic things, and a graveyard full of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one can imagine, isn't it? I'm rather glad I have one. Are we going across the lake of shining waters today? We're not going over to Barry's pond if that's what you mean by your lake of shining waters. We're going by the shore road. Shore road sounds nice, said Andremly. Is it as nice as it sounds? Just when you said shore road, I saw a picture in my mind as quick as that. And White Sands is a pretty name too, but I don't like it as well as Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely name. It sounds just like music. How far is it to White Sands? It's five miles, and as you're evidently bent on talking, you might as well talk to some purpose by telling me what you know about yourself. Oh, what I know about myself isn't really worth telling, said Anne Irgley. But if you only let me tell you what I imagine about myself, you'll think it ever so much more interesting. No, I don't want any of your imaginings. Just you stick to bald facts. Begin at the beginning, where you were born. And how old are you? I was 11 last March, said Anne, resigning herself to bald facts with a little sigh. And I was born in Bowlingbrook, Nova Scotia. My father's name was Walter Shirley, and he was a teacher in Bowlingbrook High School. My mother's name was Bertha Shirley. Aren't Walter and Bertha lovely names? I'm so glad my parents had nice names. It would really be a disgrace to have a father named, well, say, Jedediah, wouldn't it? I guess it doesn't matter what a person's name is, as long as he behaves himself, said Morella, filling herself, called upon to inculate a good and infused moral. Well, I don't know, Anne thoughtfully. I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose would be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage. I suppose my father would have been a good man, even if his name had been Jedediah, that I'm sure would have been a cross. Well, my mother was a teacher in the high school too, but when she married father, she gave up teaching, of course. A husband was enough responsibility. Mrs. Thomas said that they were a pair of babies and as poor as church mice. They went to live in a weeny, teeny little house in Bowlingbrook. I've never seen that house, but I've imagined it a thousand times. I think it must have had honeysuckle over the parlor window and lilacs in the front yard and lilies of the valley just inside the gate. Yes, and muslin curtains in all the windows. Muslin curtains give a house such an air. I was born in that house. Mrs. Thomas said I was the homeliest baby she ever saw. I was so scrawny and tiny and nothing but eyes, but that mother thought I was perfectly beautiful. I should think a mother would be a better judge than the poor woman who came in to scrub, wouldn't you? I'm glad she was satisfied with me anyhow. I feel so sad if I thought I was a disappointment to her because she didn't live very long after that, you see. She died of fever when I was just three months old. I do wish she lived long enough for me to remember calling her mother. I think it would be so sweet to say mother, don't you? And father died four days after words from fever, too. That left me an orphan and folks were at their wit's end, so Mrs. Thomas said what to do with me? You see, nobody wanted me even then. It seems to me my fate. Father and mother had both come from places far away and was well known they hadn't any relatives. Finally, Mrs. Thomas said she'd take me though she was poor and had a drunken husband. She brought me up by hand. Do you know if there is anything in being brought up by hand that ought to make people who are brought up that way better than other people? Because whenever I was naughty, Mrs. Thomas would ask me how I could be such a bad girl when she'd brought me up by hand, reproachful like. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Bowlingbrook to Marysville and I lived with them until I was eight years old. I helped look after the Thomas children. They were four of them younger than me and I can tell you they took a lot of looking after. Then Mr. Thomas was killed falling under a train and his mother offered to take Mrs. Thomas and the children but she didn't want me. Mrs. Thomas was at her wit's end so she said what to do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond from out the river came down and she said she'd take me seeing all his handy with children and I went up the river to live with her and a little clearing among the stumps. It was a very lonesome place. I'm sure I could have never lived there if I hadn't an imagination. Mr. Hammond worked a little somal up there and Mrs. Hammond had eight children. She had twins three times. I like babies in moderation but twins three times at succession is too much. I told Mrs. Hammond so firmly when the last pair came I used to get so dreadfully tired carrying them about. I lived out the river with Mrs. Hammond over two years and then Mr. Hammond died and Mrs. Hammond broke up housekeeping. She divided her children among her relatives and went to the states. I had to go to the asylum at Hopetown because nobody would take me. They didn't want me at the asylum either. They said they were overcrowded as it is but they had to take me and I was there for four months until Mrs. Spencer came and finished up with another sigh of relief this time. Evidently she did not like talking about her experience in a world that had not wanted her. Did you ever go to school? demanded Marilla turning the swirl mail down the shore road. Not a great deal. I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs. Thomas. When I went up the river we were so far from a school that I couldn't walk it in the winter and there was a vacation in the summer so I could only go in the spring and fall. But of course I went while I was at the asylum. I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of poetry off my heart. The Battle of Hohendelin, the Edinburgh after Flotten and Bingen of the Rhine and most of Lady of the Lake and most of the Seasons by James Thompson. Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There's a piece in the fifth reader, the downfall of Poland that is just full of thrills. Of course I wasn't in the fifth reader. I was only in the fourth but the big girls used to lend me to read theirs. Were the women Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond good to you? Asked Marilla looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye. Oh, faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed Scarlett and embarrassment sat on her brow. Oh, they meant to be good. I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you you don't mind very much when they're not quite always. They had a good deal to worry about them. You know, it's very trying to have a drunken husband, you see. And it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don't you think? But I feel sure they meant to be good to me. Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel male abstractly while she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child. What a starved, unloved life she had. A life of dread-dream, poverty, neglect. For Marilla was so shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been so delayed at the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable whim and let her stay? He was set on it and the child seemed a nice teachable little thing. She's got too much to say, thought Marilla. But she might be trained out of that. And there's nothing rude or slingy in what she does say. She's ladylike. It's likely her people will nice folks. The shore road was woodsy and wild and lonesome. On the right hand, scrubbers, their spirits quiet and broken by long years of tassel with golf-winds grew thickly. On the left were the steep red sandstone cliffs, so near the track in places that a mare of less steadiness than the sorrel might have tried the nerve of the people behind her. Down at the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks, or little sandy coves, and laid with pebbles, as with ocean jewels, beyond lay the sea, shimmering in blue, and over it soared the gulls, their opinions flashing silver in the sunlight. Isn't the sea wonderful? said Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed silence. Once when I lived in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore, 10 miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the children all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore. Aren't those gulls splendid? Would you like to be a gull? I think I would, that is, if I couldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water, and away out over the lovely blue all day, and then at night fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that, just abroad, please? That's the White Sands Hotel. Mrs. Kirk runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans coming there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right. I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place, said Anne mournfully. I don't want to get there. Somehow it will seem like the end of everything. End of chapter five. Chapter six of Anne of Green Gables. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Robin. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter six. Get there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcomed mingled on her benevolent face. Dear, dear, Shakespeare, and you, the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. Will you put your horse in, and how are you, Anne? I'm as well as can be expected. Thank you, said Anne, smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare, said Marilla, but I promise Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come to see where it is. We sent word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother, Roberto, to tell you we wanted a boy 10 or 11 years old. Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say, said Mrs. Spencer in distress. While Robert sent word down by his daughter, Nancy, she said you wanted a girl. Didn't she floor Jane, appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps? She certainly did, Ms. Cuthbert, corroborated floor Jane earnestly. I'm dreadfully sorry, said Mrs. Spencer. It's too bad, but it certainly wasn't my fault you see, Ms. Cuthbert. I did the best I could, and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible, flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness. It was my own fault, said Marilla, resignedly. We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made. The only thing to do is set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they? I suppose so, said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, but I don't think it'll be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was telling me how much she wished she had sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. It'll be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential. Marilla did not look as though she thought providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan up her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones, but she had heard of her, a terrible worker and driver. Mrs. Peter was said to be, and his charged servant girls told fearsome tales of her tempers and stendiness and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscious at the thought of hitting Anne over to her tender mercies. Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over, she said. And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute, exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bestling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a dull, deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blind that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. That is real lucky, but we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, Ms. Cuthbert, and you sit here on the ottoman and don't wiggle. Let me take your hats. Floor Jane, go out and put up the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Bluett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies, Mrs. Bluett, Ms. Cuthbert. Please excuse me for a moment. I forgot to tell Floor Jane to take the buns out of the oven. Mrs. Spencer whisked away after pulling at the blinds and sitting mutely on the ottoman with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs. Bluett as one fascinated. Was she going to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to be afraid she couldn't keep the tears back when Mrs. Spencer returned. Flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any in every difficulty, physical, mental, or spiritual into consideration and suddenly out of hand. It seems there's been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Bluett, she said. I was under the impression that Mr. and Ms. Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so, but it seems it was a boy they wanted. So if you're still the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll be just the thing for you. Mrs. Bluett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. How old are you and what's your name? She demanded. Anne, surely, faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof. And I'm 11 years old. Hmm, you don't look as if there's much to you. But you're wiry, I don't know, but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you, you'll have to be a good girl, you know, good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take you off her hands. Ms. Cuthbert, the baby's awful fractured and I'm clean worn out, attending to him. If you like, I can take her home right now. Really looked at Anne and softened a side of the child's pillow face with its look of mute misery, the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Rilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did not fancy Mrs. Bluett to have this sensitive high strung child over to such a woman. No, she cannot take the responsibility of doing that. Well, I don't know, she said slowly. I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact, I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her, we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't, you may know that she's going to stay with us. Well, that's so gee, Mrs. Bluett. I suppose it'll have to, said Mrs. Bluett, ungraciously. During Marilla's speech, a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First a look of despair faded out. Then came a faint flush of hope. Her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured. And a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Bluett went out on the quest of a recipe, the latter had come to borrow. She sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. Oh, Mrs. Casper, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables? She said in a breathless whisper, as the speaking aloud might shadow the glorious possibility. Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did? I think you better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne. If you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't, said Marilla Crossley. Yes, you did hear me say that, and no more. It isn't decided yet, and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Bluett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do. I'd rather go back to the asylum than go live with her, said Anne passionately. She looks exactly like a gimlet. Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be prepwed for such a speech. A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger, she said severely. Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should. I'll try to do anything you want me if you only keep me, said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening, Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had knitted him prowling along and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing to him, relative to the fair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history in the result of the interview with the dispenser. I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Bluett woman, said Matthew, with unusual venom. I don't fancy her style myself, admitted Marilla. But it's that, or keeping her ourselves, Matthew, and since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing, or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I make a terrible mess of it, but I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may say. Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. Well, now, I reckon you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla, he said. She's such an interesting little thing. It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing, retorted Marilla. But I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. In my math, you're not going to interfere with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to the manager. When I fail, it'll be time enough to put your oar in. There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way, said Matthew reassuringly. Only be as good as kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if only you get her to love you. Marilla sniffed to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine and walked off to the dairy with the pails. I won't tell her tonight that she can stay. She reflected as she strained the milk into the creamers. She'd be so excited she wouldn't sleep a week. Marilla, cutthroat, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough, but not so surprising that Matthew should be at the bottom of it. Him, that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it. End of chapter six. Chapter seven, a 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. Chapter seven of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Anne says her prayers. When Marilla took Anne up to bed that night, she said stiffly, now Anne, I noticed that last night that when you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off, that is a very untidy habit and I can't allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing, fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat. I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all, said Anne. I'll fold them nicely tonight. Though he's made us do that in the asylum, half the time though I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things. You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here admonished Marilla. There, that looks something like, say your prayers now and get into bed. I never say any prayers, announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. Why Anne, what do you mean? Well you never taught to say your prayers. God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne? God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable. In his being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth. Responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. So you do know something then, thank goodness. You're not quite a heathen. What did you learn that? Oh, at the asylum Sunday school, they made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words. Infinite, eternal and unchangeable. Isn't that grand? It has such a role to it, just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it? We're not talking about poetry, Anne, we're talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible, wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you're a very bad little girl. You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair, said Anne reproachfully. People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble it is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red on purpose and I've never cared about him since. And anyhow, I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now do you honestly think they can? Merleau decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly, there was no time to be lost. You must say your prayers while you're under my roof, Anne. Oh, why, of course, if you want me to, said that Anne cheerfully, I'll do anything to oblige you, but you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed, I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it'll be quite interesting now that I come to think of it. You must kneel down, said a minute, Merleau, in embarrassment, and knelt down at Merleau's knee and looked up gravely. Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray, I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep woods and I'd look up into the sky, up, up, up into that lovely blue sky and it looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I just feel a prayer. Well, I'm ready, what am I to say? Merleau felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, now I lay me down to sleep. But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor, which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things. And it suddenly occurred to her that the simple little player, sacred to a white-robed childhood lisping at mother's knees, was entirely unsuited to the freckle which of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne, she said finally. Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want. Well, I'll do my best, promised Anne, bearing her face in Merleau's lap. Graciously heavenly Father, that's the way the ministers say it in church. I suppose it's a right for a private prayer, isn't it? She interjected lifting her head for a moment. Graciously heavenly Father, I thank thee for the white wave delight and the lake of shining waters and Bonnie and Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank thee for. As for the things I want, there's so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all, so I'll only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain yours respectfully and surely. There, did I do all right? She asked, eerily, getting up. I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over. Poor Merleau was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not a reverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She took the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day and was leaving the room with a light when Anne called her back. I've just thought of it now. I should have said amen in place of yours respectfully. Shouldn't have I? The way the ministers do, I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose we'll make any difference? I don't suppose it will, said Merleau. Go to sleep now like a good child, good night. I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience that Anne cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Merleau retreated to the kitchen to set the candle firmly on the table and glared at Matthew. Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the man's tomorrow and borrow the peep of the day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our shared troubles. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I shall have to make the best of it. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight of Anne 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. Recording by Evelyn Clark. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter eight. Anne's bringing up is begun. For reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the four noon, she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon, she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn. Her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes, she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot. Her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black. She clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice, oh please Mrs. Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling, please tell me. You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do, said Marilla immovably. Just go and do it before you ask any more questions Anne. Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes on the latter's face. Well, said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you. That is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why child, whatever is the matter? I'm crying, said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, glad doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the white way and the cherry blossoms, but this, oh, is something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work I expect for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying? I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up, said Marilla disapprovingly. Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school, but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worthwhile for you to start before it opens again in September. What am I to call you? Asked Anne. Shall I always say Ms. Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla? No, you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Ms. Cuthbert and it would make me nervous. It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla, protested Anne. I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old in Avon Lea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Ms. Cuthbert when he thinks of it. I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla, said Anne wistfully. I've never had an aunt or any relation at all, not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla? No, I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in people calling names that don't belong to them. But we could imagine you were my aunt. I couldn't, said Marilla grimly. Do you never imagine things different from what they really are? Asked Anne wide eyed. No. Oh, Anne drew a long breath. Oh, Ms. Marilla, how much you miss? I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are, retorted Marilla. When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances, he doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me, go into the sitting room, Anne, be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night. I suppose I was very awkward, said Anne apologetically, but then you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning and I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that? Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing, I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you. Anne promptly departed for the sitting room across the hall. She failed to return after waiting 10 minutes. Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows with her eyes a star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the wrapped little figure with a half unearthly radiance. Anne, what are you thinking of? Demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. That, she said, pointing to the picture, a rather vivid promo entitled, Christ, Blessing Little Children. And I was just imagining I was one of them. That I was the little girl in the blue dress standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody like me. She looks lonely and sad. Don't you think? I guess she hadn't any father or mother of her own, but she wanted to be blessed too. So she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd hoping no one would notice her except him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. She was afraid he might notice her, but it's likely he did. Don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it all out. Her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to him and then he would look at her and put his hand on her hair and, oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her. But I wish the artist hadn't painted him so sorrowful looking. All his pictures are like that if you've noticed, but I don't believe he could really have looked so sad or the children would have been afraid of him. Anne, said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before. You shouldn't talk that way. It's irreverent, positively irreverent. Anne's eyes marveled. Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to be irreverent. Well, I don't suppose you did, but it doesn't sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something, you're to bring it at once and not fall into moaning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen. Now sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by heart. Anne set the card up against the jug full of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner table. Marilla had eyed that decoration a scant, but had said nothing, propped her chin on her hands and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes. I like this, she announced at length. It's beautiful. I've heard it before. I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it over once, but I didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same way poetry does. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. That is just like a line of music. Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making me learn this, Miss Marilla. Well, learn it and hold your tongue, said Marilla shortly. Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow a soft kiss on a pink cupped bud and then studied diligently for some moments longer. Marilla, she demanded presently, do you think that I shall ever have a bosom friend in Avon Lea? A, what kind of friend? A bosom friend, an intimate friend, you know. A really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will too. Do you think it's possible? Diana Berry lives over at Orchard Slope and she's about your age. She's a very nice little girl and perhaps she will be a playmate for you when she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at Kermudi just now. You'll have to be careful how you behave yourself though. Mrs. Berry is a very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with any little girl who isn't nice and good. Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms. Her eyes glow with interest. What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It's bad enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a bosom friend. Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks and she is good and smart, which is better than being pretty. Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a child who was being brought up. But Anne waved the moral and consequently aside and seized only on the delightful possibilities before it. Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself, and that's impossible in my case, it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas, she had a bookcase in her sitting room with glass doors. There weren't any books in it. Mrs. Thomas kept her best china and her preserves there when she had any preserves to keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly intoxicated, but the other was whole. And I used to pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who lived in it. I called her Katie Maurice and we were very intimate. I used to talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday and tell her everything. Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to pretend that the bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell, I could open the door and step right into the room where Katie Maurice lived instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves in China. And then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into a wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies. And we would have lived there happy forever after. When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond, it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it dreadfully too. I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me goodbye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's, but just up the river a little way from the house, there was a long green little valley and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl named Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice. Not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum, I said goodbye to Violetta and oh, her goodbye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there. I think it's just as well there wasn't, said Marilla Dryley. I don't approve of such goings on. You seem to have believed your own imagination. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurice's and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories. Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody. Their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, there's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live in an apple blossom. Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl, I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers. Yesterday you wanted to be a seagull, sniffed Marilla. I think you are very fickle-minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it. Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now. All but just the last line. Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea. Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company? Plead it in? No, you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place. I did feel a little that way too, said Anne. I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lies by picking them. I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom, but the temptation was irresistible. What do you do when you meet an irresistible temptation? Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room? Anne sighed, retreated to the East Gable and sat down in a chair by the window. There, I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it. And there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw mahogany, but it does sound so luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions. Pink and blue and crimson and gold and I'm reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is a midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't. I can't make that seem real. She danced up to the little looking glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. You're only Anne of Green Gables, she said earnestly. And I see you just as you are looking now. Whenever I try to imagine I'm the lady Cordelia, but it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of Nowhere in particular, isn't it? She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately and betook herself to the open window. Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon, dear Birches down in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear Gray House up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will. And I shall love her very much, but I must never quite forget Katie Maurice and Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd hate to hurt anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase girls or a little echo girls. I must be careful to remember them and send them a kiss every day. Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry blossoms, and then with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams. Anne of Chapter Eight.