 CHAPTER XVIII. All things great are wound up with all things little. At first glance it might not seem that the decision of a certain Canadian Premier to include Prince Edward Island in a political tour could have much or anything to do with the fortunes of little Anne Shirley at Green Gables. But it had. It was a January the Premier came, to address his loyal supporters and such of his non-supporters as chose to be present at the monster mass meeting held in Charlottetown. Most of the Avonlea people were on the Premier's side of politics, hence, on the night of the meeting, nearly all the men and a goodly proportion of the women had gone to town thirty miles away. Mrs. Rachel Lind had gone too. Mrs. Rachel Lind was a red-hot politician and couldn't have believed that the political rally could be carried through without her, although she was on the opposite side of politics. So she went to town and took her husband—Thomas would be useful in looking after the horse—and Marilla Cuthbert with her. Marilla had a sneaking interest in politics herself, and as she thought it might be her only chance to see a real-life Premier, she promptly took it, leaving Anne and Matthew to keep house until her return the following day. Hence, while Marilla and Mrs. Rachel were enjoying themselves hugely at the mass meeting, Anne and Matthew had the cheerful kitchen at Green Gables all to themselves. A bright fire was glowing in the old-fashioned water-lose stove, and blue-white frost crystals were shining on the window panes. Matthew nodded over a farmer's advocate on the sofa, and Anne, at the table, studied her lessons with grim determination, despite sundry, wistful glances at the clock-shell for lay a new book that Jane Andrews had lent her that day. Jane had assured her that it was warranted to produce any number of thrills, or words to that effect, and Anne's fingers tingled to reach out for it. But that would mean Gilbert Blythe's triumph on the morrow. Anne turned her back on the clock-shelf and tried to imagine it wasn't there. Matthew, did you ever study geometry when you went to school? Well, now—no, I didn't, said Matthew, coming out of his doze with a start. I wish you had, sighed Anne, because then you'd be able to sympathize with me. You can't sympathize properly if you've never studied it. It is casting a cloud over my whole life. I'm such a dunce at it, Matthew. Well, now I don't know, said Matthew soothingly. I guess you're all right at anything. Mr. Phillips told me last week in Blair's store at Carmody that you was the smartest scholar in school, and was making rapid progress. Rapid progress was his very words. There's them as runs down, Teddy Phillips, and says he ain't much of a teacher, but I guess he's all right. Matthew would have thought anyone who praised Anne was all right. I'm sure I'd get on better with geometry if only he wouldn't change the letters, complained Anne. I learned the proposition off by heart, and then he draws it on the blackboard and puts different letters from what are in the book, and I get all mixed up. I don't think a teacher should take such a mean advantage to you. We're studying agriculture now, and I've found out at last what makes the roads red. It's a great comfort. I wonder how Marilla and Mrs. Linde are enjoying themselves. Mrs. Linde says Canada is going to the dogs the way things are being run at Ottawa, and that it's an awful warning to the electors. She says if women were allowed to vote we would soon see a blessed change. What way do you vote, Matthew? Conservative, said Matthew promptly. To vote conservative was part of Matthew's religion. Then I'm conservative, too, said Anne, decidedly. I'm glad because Gil—because some of the boys in school are grits. I guess Mr. Phillips is a grit, too, because Chrissy Andrew's father is one, and Ruby Gillis says that when a man is courting he always has to agree with a girl's mother-in-religion and her father-in-politics. Is that true, Matthew? Well, now I don't know, said Matthew. Did you ever go courting, Matthew? Well, now? No, I don't know as I ever did, said Matthew, who had certainly never thought of such a thing in his old existence, and reflected with her chin in her hands. It must be rather interesting, don't you think, Matthew? Ruby Gillis says when she grows up she is going to have ever so many bows on the string and have them all crazy about her. But I think that would be too exciting. I'd rather have just one in his right mind. But Ruby Gillis knows a great deal about such matters because she has so many big sisters, and Mrs. Lin says the Gillis girls have gone off like hotcakes. Mr. Phillips goes up to see Chrissy Andrews nearly every evening. He says it is to help her with her lessons, but Miranda Sloan is studying for Queens, too, and I should think she needed help a lot more than Chrissy because she's ever so much stupider, but he never goes to help her in the evenings at all. There are great many things in this world that I can't understand very well, Matthew. Well, now I don't know as I comprehend them all myself, acknowledged Matthew. Well, I suppose I must finish up my lessons. I won't allow myself to open that new book Jane Lettne until I'm through, but it's a terrible temptation, Matthew. Even when I turn my back on it I can see it there just as plain. Jane said she cried herself sick over it. I love a book that makes me cry, but I think I'll carry that book into the sitting-room and lock it in the jam-closet and give you the key. And you must not give it to me, Matthew, until my lessons are done, not even if I implore you on my bended knees. It's all very well to say resist temptation, but it's ever so much easier to resist it if you can't get the key. And then shall I run down the cellar and get some russets, Matthew? Wouldn't you like some russets? Well, now, I don't know but what I would, said Matthew, who never ate russets, but knew Anne's weakness for them. Just as Anne emerged triumphantly from the cellar with her plate full of russets came the sound of flying footsteps on the icy boardwalk outside, and the next moment the kitchen door was flung open and in rushed Diana Barry, white-faced and breathless with a shawl wrapped hastily around her head. Anne promptly let go of her candle and plate in her surprise, and plate, candle and apples crashed together down the cellar ladder and were found at the bottom embedded in melted grease the next day by Marilla, who gathered them up and thanked Mercy the house hadn't been set on fire. Whatever is the matter, Diana, cried Anne, has your mother relented at last? Oh, Anne, do come quick! implored Diana nervously. Minnie May is awful sick. She's got croup, young Mary Jo says, and Father and Mother are away to town and there's nobody to go for the doctor. Minnie May is awful bad, and young Mary Jo doesn't know what to do, and oh, Anne, I'm so scared! Matthew, without a word, reached out for cap and coat, slipped past Diana and away into the darkness of the yard. He's gone to harness the sorrel mare to go to Carmody for the doctor, said Anne, who was hurrying on hood and jacket. I know it as well as if he'd said so. Matthew and I are such kindred spirits I can read his thoughts without words at all. I don't believe you'll find the doctor at Carmody, sobbed Diana. I know that Dr. Blair went to town and I guess Dr. Spencer would go too. Young Mary Jo never saw anybody with croup and Mrs. Linda's away. Oh, Anne! Don't cry, Di, said Anne cheerily. I know exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. Hammond had twins three times. When you look after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of experience. They all had croup regularly. Just wait till I get the Ipacac bottle. You may have any at your house. Come on now. The two little girls hastened out hand in hand and hurried through lovers' lane and across the crusted field beyond, for the snow was too deep to go by the shorter woodway. Anne, although sincerely sorry for Minnie May, was far from being insensible to the romance of the situation and to the sweetness of once more sharing that romance with a kindred spirit. The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope. Big stars were shining over the silent fields. Here and there, the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them. Anne thought it was truly delightful to go skimming through all this mystery and loveliness with your bosom friend who had been so long estranged. Minnie May, aged three, was really very sick. She lay on the kitchen sofa feverish and restless while her horse breathing could be heard all over the house. Young Mary Jo, a buxom broad-faced French girl from the creek, whom Mrs. Berry had engaged to stay with the children during her absence, was helpless and bewildered, quite incapable of thinking what to do or doing it if she thought of it. Anne went to work with skill and promptness. Minnie May has croup all right. She's pretty bad, but I've seen them worse. First we must have lots of hot water. I declare, Diana, there isn't more than a cupful in the kettle. There, I've filled it up, and, Mary Jo, you may put some wood in the stove. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but it seems to me you might have thought of this before if you'd had any imagination. Now I'll undress Minnie May and put her to bed, and you try to find some soft flannel cloths, Diana. I'm going to give her a dose of Ipacac, first of all. Minnie May did not take kindly to the Ipacac, but Anne had not brought up three pairs of twins for nothing. Down that Ipacac went, not only once, but many times during the long, anxious night when the two little girls worked patiently over the suffering Minnie May and young Mary Jo, honestly anxious to do all she could, kept up a roaring fire and heated more water than would have been needed for a hospital of groupie babies. It was three o'clock when Matthew came with a doctor, for he had been obliged to go all the way to Spencer Vale for one. But the pressing need for assistance was passed. Minnie May was much better and was sleeping soundly. I was awfully near giving up in despair, explained Anne. She got worse and worse until she was sicker than ever the Hammond twins were, even the last pair. I actually thought she was going to choke to death. I gave her every drop of Ipacac in that bottle, and when the last dose went down I said to myself, not to Diana or young Mary Jo, because I didn't want to worry them any more than they were worried, but I had to say it to myself just to relieve my feelings. This is the last lingering hope, and I feared as a vain one. But in about three minutes she coughed up the phlegm and began to get better right away. You must just imagine my relief doctor, because I can't express it in words. You know, there are some things that cannot be expressed in words. Yes, I know, not at the doctor. He looked at Anne as if he were thinking some things about her that couldn't be expressed in words. Later on, however, he expressed them to Mr. and Mrs. Berry. That little red-headed girl they have over at Cuthberts is as smart as they make them. I tell you, she saved that baby's life, for it would have been too late by the time I got there. She seems to have a skill and presence of mind perfectly wonderful in a child of her age. I never saw anything like the eyes of her when she was explaining the case to me. Anne had gone home in the wonderful white-frosted winter morning, heavy-eyed from loss of sleep but still talking unwiredly to Matthew as they crossed the long white field and walked under the glittering fairy-arch of the lover's lane maples. Oh, Matthew, isn't it a wonderful morning? The world looks like something God had just imagined for his own pleasure, doesn't it? Those trees look as if I could blow them away with a breath. Poof! I'm so glad I live in a world where there are white frosts, aren't you? And I'm so glad Mrs. Hammond had three pairs of twins, after all. If she hadn't, I might not have known what to do for Minnie May. I'm real sorry I was ever crossed with Mrs. Hammond for having twins. But, oh, Matthew, I'm so sleepy. I can't go to school. I just know I couldn't keep my eyes open that I'd be so stupid. But I hate to stay home, for guilt some of the others will get head of the class, and it's so hard to get up again. Although, of course, the harder it is, more satisfaction you have when you do get up, haven't you? Well, now I guess you'll manage all right, said Matthew, looking at Anne's white little face in the dark shadows under her eyes. You just go right to bed and have a good sleep. I'll do all the chores. Anne accordingly went to bed, and slept so long and soundly that it was well on in the white and rosy winter afternoon when she awoke, and descended to the kitchen where Marilla, who had arrived home in the meantime, was sitting, knitting. Oh, did you see the Premier? exclaimed Anne at once. What did he look like, Marilla? Well, he never got to be Premier on account of his looks, said Marilla. Such a nose as that man had. But he can speak. I was proud of being a conservative. Rachel Lind, of course, being a liberal, had no use for him. Your dinner is in the oven, Anne, and you can get yourself some blue plum preserve out of the pantry. I guess you're hungry. Matthew has been telling me about last night. I must say it was fortunate you knew what to do. I wouldn't have had any idea myself, for I never saw a case of croup. There now, never mind talking till you've had your dinner. I can tell by the look of you that you're just full up with speeches. But they'll keep. Marilla had something to tell Anne. But she did not tell it just then, for she knew that if she did, Anne's consequent excitement would lift her clear out of the region of such material matters as appetite or dinner. Not until Anne had finished her saucer of blue plums, did Marilla say, Mrs. Barry was here this afternoon, Anne. She wanted to see you, but I wouldn't wake you up. She says you saved Minnie May's life, and she is very sorry she acted as she did in that affair of the current wine. She says she knows now you didn't mean to set Diana drunk, and she hopes you'll forgive her and be good friends with Diana again. You're to go over this evening, if you like, for Diana can't stir outside on account of a bad cold she caught last night. Now, Anne, surely, for pity's sake, don't fly up into the air. The warning seemed not unnecessary. So uplifted and aerial was Anne's expression, a attitude as she sprang to her feet, her face irradiated with the flame of her spirit. Oh, Marilla, can I go right now, without washing my dishes? I'll wash them when I come back, but I cannot tie myself down to anything so unromantic as dishwashing at this thrilling moment. Yes, yes, run along, said Marilla indulgently. Anne, surely, are you crazy? Come back this instant and put something on you. I might as well call to the wind. She's gone without cap or wrap. Look at her tearing through the orchard with her hair streaming. It'll be a mercy if she doesn't catch her death of cold. Anne came dancing home in the purple winter twilight across the snowy places. A far in the southwest was the great shimmering, pearl-like sparkle of an evening star in a sky that was pale golden and ethereal rose over gleaming white spaces and dark glens of spruce. The tinkles of sleigh bells among the snowy hills came like elfin chimes through the frosty air, but their music was not sweeter than the song in Anne's heart and on her lips. You see before you a perfectly happy person, Marilla, she announced. I'm perfectly happy, yes, in spite of my red hair. Just at present I have a soul above red hair. Mrs. Berry kissed me and cried and said she was so sorry and she could never repay me. I felt fearfully embarrassed, Marilla, but I just said as politely as I could. I have no hard feelings for you, Mrs. Berry. I assure you once and for all I did not mean to intoxicate Diana, and henceforth I shall cover the past with a mantle of oblivion. That was a pretty dignified way of speaking, wasn't it, Marilla? I felt that I was heaping coals of fire on Mrs. Berry's head, and Diana and I had a lovely afternoon. Diana showed me a new fancy crochet stitch her aunt over at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal it to anyone else. Diana gave me a beautiful card with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry. If you love me as I love you, nothing but death can part us too. And that is true, Marilla. We're going to ask Mr. Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and Gertie Pie can go with Mini Andrews. We had an elegant tea. Mrs. Berry had the very best china set out, Marilla, just as if I moved real company. I can't tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used their best china on my account before. And we had fruit cake and pound cake and donuts and two kinds of preserves, Marilla. And Mrs. Berry asked me if I took tea and said, Pa, why don't you pass the biscuits to Anne? It must be lovely to be grown up, Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so nice. I don't know about that, said Marilla, with a brief sigh. Well, anyway, when I am grown up, said Anne decidedly, I'm always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea, Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good. I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates, and I forgot and let it burn. And then when we set it out on the platform to cool, the cat walked over one plate, and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home, Mrs. Berry asked me to come over as often as I could, and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight, and I'm going to think out a special, brand new prayer in honour of the occasion. CHAPTER 19 A CONCERT, A CATASTROPHY, AND A CONFESSION Marilla, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute? asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the East Gable one February evening. I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for, said Marilla shortly. You and Diana walked home from school together, and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again. But she wants to see me, pleaded Anne. She has something very important to tell me. How do you know she has? Because she just signalled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill, and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla. I'll warrant you it was, said Marilla, emphatically. And the next thing, you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signalling nonsense. Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, are you there? Three mean, yes, and four, no. Five mean, come over as soon as possible because I have something important to reveal. Diana has just signalled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is. Well, you needn't suffer any longer, said Marilla sarcastically. You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that? Anne did remember it, and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her, and her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung slay to go to the debating club concert at the hall tomorrow night, and they are going to take Diana and me to the concert, if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited. You can calm down, then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all. I'm sure the debating club is a most respectable affair, pleaded Anne. I'm not saying it isn't, but you're not going to begin gating about to concerts and staying out all hours of the night. Pretty doings for children. I'm surprised at Mrs. Berry's letting Diana go. But it's such a very special occasion, mourned Anne on the verge of tears. Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn't as if birthdays were common things, Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going to recite, Curfew must not ring to-night. That is such a good moral piece, Marilla. I'm sure it would do me lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as good as hymns. And, oh, Marilla, the minister's going to take part. Yes, indeed he is. He's going to give an address. That will be just about the same thing as a sermon. Please, main tygo, Marilla. You heard what I said, Anne, didn't you? Take off your boots now and go to bed. It's past eight. There's just one more thing, Marilla, said Anne, with the air of producing the last shot in her locker. Mrs. Berry told Diana that we might sleep in the spare room bed. Think of the honor of your little Anne being put in the spare room bed. It's an honor you'll have to get along without. Go to bed, Anne, and don't let me hear another word out of you. When Anne, with tears rolling over her cheeks, had sorrowfully gone upstairs, Matthew, who had been apparently sound asleep on the lounge during the whole dialogue, opened his eyes and said decidedly, Well, now, Marilla, I think you ought to let Anne go. I don't, then, retorted Marilla. Who's bringing this child up, Matthew? You or me? Well, now, you, admitted Matthew, don't interfere, then. Well, now I ain't interfering. It ain't interfering to have your own opinion, and my opinion is that you ought to let Anne go. You'd think I ought to let Anne go to the moon if she took the notion, I've no doubt, was Marilla's amiable rejoinder. I might have let her spend the night with Diana, if that was all, but I don't approve of this concert plan. She'd go there and catch cold like, is not, and have her head, filled up with nonsense and excitement. It would unsettle her for a week. I understand that child's disposition and what's good for it better than you, Matthew. I think you ought to let Anne go, repeated Matthew firmly. Argument was not his strong point, but holding fast to his opinion certainly was. Marilla gave a gasp of helplessness and took refuge in silence. The next morning, when Anne was washing the breakfast-dishes in the pantry, Matthew paused on his way out to the barn to say to Marilla again, I think you ought to let Anne go, Marilla. For a moment, Marilla looked things not lawful to be uttered. Then she yielded to the inevitable and said tartly, Very well, she can go, since nothing else will please you. Anne flew out of the pantry, dripping dishcloth in hand. Oh, Marilla! Marilla, say those blessed words again! I guess once is enough to say them. This is Matthew's doing, and I wash my hands of it. If you catch pneumonia sleeping in a strange bed or coming out of that hot hall in the middle of the night, don't blame me, blame Matthew. And, surely, you're dripping greasy water all over the floor. I never saw such a careless child. Oh, I know I'm a great trial to you, Marilla, said Anne repentently. I make so many mistakes. But then just think of all the mistakes I don't make, although I might. I'll get some sand and scrub up the spots before I go to school. Oh, Marilla, my heart was just set on going to that concert. I never was to a concert in my life, and when the other girls talk about them in school I feel so out of it. You didn't know just how I felt about it, but you see Matthew did. Matthew understands me, and it's so nice to be understood, Marilla. Anne was too excited to do herself justice as to lessons that morning in school. Gilbert Blythe spelled her down in class and left her clear out of sight and mental arithmetic. Anne's consequent humiliation was less than it might have been, however, in view of the concert and the spare room bed. She and Diana talked so constantly about it all day that with a stricter teacher than Mr. Phillips, dire disgrace must have inevitably have been their portion. Anne felt that she could not have borne it if she had not been going to the concert, for nothing else was discussed that day in school. The Avonlea Debating Club, which met fortnightly all winter, had had several smaller free entertainments, but this was to be a big affair, admission ten cents in aid of the library. The Avonlea young people had been practicing for weeks, and all the scholars were especially interested in it by reason of older brothers and sisters who were going to take part. Everybody in school over nine years of age expected to go, except Carey Sloan, whose father shared Marilla's opinions about small girls going out to night concerts. Carey Sloan cried into her grammar all the afternoon and felt that life was not worth living. For Anne the real excitement began with the dismissal of school, and increased their from in crescendo until it reached to a crash with positive ecstasy in the concert itself. They had a perfectly elegant tee, and then came the delicious occupation of dressing in Diana's little room upstairs. Diana did Anne's front hair in the new pompadour style, and Anne tied Diana's bows with the especial knack she possessed, and they experimented with at least half a dozen different ways of arranging their back hair. At last they were ready, cheeks, scarlet, and eyes glowing with excitement. True, Anne could not help a little pang when she contrasted her plain black tam and shapeless tight-sleeved homemade gray cloth coat with Diana's jaunty fur cap and smart little jacket, but she remembered in time that she had an imagination and could use it. Then Diana's cousins, the Murrays from Newbridge, came. They all crowded into the big pung sleigh, amongst straw and furry robes. Anne reveled in the drive to the hall, slipping along over the satin smooth roads with the snow crisping under the runners. There was a magnificent sunset, and the snowy hills and deep blue water of the St. Lawrence gulf seemed to rim in the splendor like a huge bowl of pearl and sapphire brimmed with white and fire. Tinkles of sleigh bells and distant laughter that seemed like the mirth of wood elves came from every quarter. Oh, Diana, breathed Anne, squeezing Diana's mitten hand under the fur robe. Isn't it all like a beautiful dream? Do I really look the same as usual? I feel so different that it seems to me it must show in my looks. You look awfully nice, said Diana, who, having just received a compliment from one of her cousins, felt that she ought to pass it on. You've got the loveliest color. The program that night was a series of thrills for at least one listener in the audience, and as Anne assured Diana every succeeding thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews attired in a new pink silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white throat and real carnations in her hair, rumor whispered that the master had sent all the weight in town for them for her, climbed the slimy ladder dark without one ray of light, Anne shivered in luxurious sympathy. When the choir sang far above the gentle daisies, Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels. When Sam Sloan proceeded to explain and illustrate how soccary set a hen, Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea. And when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's aeration over the dead body of Caesar in the most heart-staring tones, looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence, Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way. Only one number on the programme failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited Bingen on the Rhine, Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long, narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. Let's undress here, said Diana. It's so nice and warm. Hasn't it been a delightful time, sighed Anne rapturously. It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana? Yes, of course, some day. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line, there's another, not a sister. He looked right down at you. Diana, said Anne with dignity, you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first. The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room through the spare room door and bounded on the bed at the same moment, and then something moved beneath them. There was a gasp and a cry and somebody said in muffled accents, Merciful Goodness! Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. Oh, who was it? What was it? whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright. It was Aunt Josephine, said Diana, gasping with laughter. Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It's dreadful. It's really dreadful. But did you ever know anything so funny, Anne? Who is your Aunt Josephine? She's father's aunt, and she lives in Charlottetown. She's awfully old, seventy anyhow, and I don't believe she was ever a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim and proper, and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May, and you can't think how she kicks. Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls. Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come, and that you would have to go upstairs after all. But I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn't disturb your aunt, Diana. Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne exchanged furtive smiles of guilty amusement across the table. Anne hurried home after breakfast, and so remained in blissful ignorance of the disturbance which presently resulted in the Barry household, until the late afternoon when she went down to Mrs. Lynn's on an errand for Marilla. So you and Diana nearly frightened poor old Miss Barry to death last night, said Mrs. Lynn severely, but with a twinkle in her eye. Mrs. Barry was here a few minutes ago on her way to Carmody. She's feeling real worried over it. Old Miss Barry was in a terrible temper when she got up this morning, and Josephine Barry's temper is no joke, I can tell you that. She wouldn't speak to Diana at all. It wasn't Diana's fault, said Anne contritely. It was mine. I suggested racing to see who would get into bed first. I knew it, said Mrs. Lynn with the exaltation of a correct guesser. I knew that idea came out of your head. Well, it's made a nice lot of trouble, that's what. Old Miss Barry came out to stay for a month, but she declared she won't stay another day, and is going right back to town tomorrow, Sunday and all as it is. She'd have gone today if they could have taken her. She had promised to pay for a quarter's music lessons for Diana, but now she is determined to do nothing at all for such a tomboy. Oh, I guess they had a lively time of it there this morning. The berries must feel cut up. Old Miss Barry is rich, and they'd like to keep on the good side of her. Of course, Mrs. Barry didn't say just that to me, but I am a pretty good judge of human nature, that's what. I'm such an unlucky girl, mourned Anne. I'm always getting into scrapes myself, and getting my best friends, people I'd shed my heart's blood for into them too. Can you tell me why it is so, Mrs. Linde? It's because you're too heedless and impulsive, child, that's what. You never stop to think. Whatever comes into your head to say or do, you say or do it without a moment's reflection. Oh, but that's the best of it, protested Anne. Something just flashes into your mind, so exciting, and you must out with it. If you stop to think it over, you spoil it all. Haven't you never felt that yourself, Mrs. Linde? No, Mrs. Linde had not. She shook her head, sagely. You must learn to think a little, Anne, that's what. The proverb you need to go by is look before you leap, especially in despair-room beds. Mrs. Linde laughed comfortably over her mild joke, but Anne remained pensive. She saw nothing to laugh at in the situation, which to her eyes appeared very serious. When she left Mrs. Linde, she took her way across the crusted fields towards its slope. Diana met her at the kitchen door. Your Aunt Josephine was very cross about it, wasn't she? Whispered Anne. Yes? Answered Diana, stifling a giggle with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder at the closed sitting-room door. She was fairly dancing with rage, Anne. Oh, how she scolded! She said I was the worst-behaved girl she ever saw, and that my parents ought to be ashamed of the way they had brought me up. She says she won't stay, and I'm sure I don't care. But father and mother do. Why didn't you tell them it was my fault? demanded Anne. It's likely I'd do such a thing, isn't it? said Diana with just scorn. I'm no tell-tale, Anne Shirley, and anyhow I was just as much to blame as you. Well, I'm going in to tell her myself, said Anne resolutely. Diana stared. Anne Shirley, you'd never! Why, she'll eat you alive! Don't frighten me any more than I am frightened, implored Anne. I'd rather walk up to a cannon's mouth. But I've got to do it, Diana. It was my fault, and I've got to confess. I've had practice in confessing, fortunately. Well, she's in the room, said Diana. You can go in if you want to, I wouldn't dare, and I don't believe you'll do a bit of good. With this encouragement Anne bearded the lion in its den, that is to say, walked resolutely up to the sitting-room door and knocked faintly. A sharp, come in, followed. Miss Josephine Barry, thin, prim and rigid, was knitting fiercely by the fire, her wrath quite unappeased, and her eyes snapping through her gold-rimmed glasses. She wheeled around in her chair, expecting to see Diana, and beheld a white-faced girl whose great eyes were brimmed up with a mixture of desperate courage and shrinking terror. Who are you? demanded Miss Josephine Barry without ceremony. I'm Anne of Green Gables, said the small visitor tremulously, clasping her hands with her characteristic gesture. And I've come to confess, if you please. Confess what? That it was all my fault about jumping into bed on you last night. I suggested it. Diana would never have thought of such a thing, I'm sure. Diana is a very ladylike girl, Miss Barry, so you must see how unjust it is to blame her. Oh, I must, hey! I rather think Diana did her share of the jumping, at least. Such carrying's on in a respectable house. But we were only in fun, persisted Anne. I think you ought to forgive us, Miss Barry, now that we've apologized. And anyhow, please forgive Diana and let her have her music lessons. Diana's heart is set on her music lessons, Miss Barry, and I know too well what it is to set your heart on a thing and not get it. If you must be crossed with anyone, be crossed with me. I've been so used in my early days to having people cross at me that I can endure it much better than Diana can. Much of the snap had gone out of the old lady's eyes by this time, and was replaced by a twinkle of amused interest. But she still said severely, I don't think it is any excuse for you that you were only in fun. Little girls never indulged in that kind of fun when I was young. You don't know what it is to be awakened out of a sound sleep after a long and arduous journey by two great girls coming bouncing down on you. I don't know, but I can imagine, said Anne eagerly. I'm sure it must have been very disturbing. But then there is our side of it too. Have you any imagination, Miss Barry? If you have, just put yourself in our place. We didn't know there was anybody in that bed, and you nearly scared us to death. It was simply awful the way we felt. And then we couldn't sleep in the spare room after being promised. I suppose you are used to sleeping in spare rooms. But just imagine what you would feel like if you were a little orphan girl who never had such an honour. All the snap had gone by this time. Miss Barry actually laughed, a sound which caused Diana, waiting in speechless anxiety in the kitchen outside, to give a great gasp of relief. I'm afraid my imagination is a little rusty. It's so long since I used it, she said. I daresay your claim to sympathy is just as strong as mine. It all depends on the way we look at it. Sit down here and tell me about yourself. I am very sorry. I can't," said Anne, firmly. I would like to, because you seem like an interesting lady, and you might even be a kindred spirit, although you don't look very much like it. But it is my duty to go home to Miss Marilla Cuthbert. Miss Marilla Cuthbert is a very kind lady who has taken me to bring up properly. She is doing her best, but it is very discouraging work. You must not blame her because I jumped on the bed. But before I go, I do wish you would tell me if you'll forgive Diana and stay just as long as you meant to in Avonlea. I think perhaps I will, if you will come over and talk to me occasionally," said Miss Berry. That evening Miss Berry gave Diana a silver-bangle bracelet, and told the senior members of the household that she had unpacked her valise. I've made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better acquainted with that Anne girl, she said frankly. She amuses me, and at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity. Marilla's only comment when she heard the story was, I told you so. This was for Matthew's benefit. Miss Berry stayed her month out and over. She was a more agreeable guest than usual, for Anne kept her in good humour. They became firm friends. When Miss Berry went away she said, Remember you, Anne girl, when you come to town you're to visit me, and I'll put you in my very spareest spare room bed to sleep in. Miss Berry was a kindred spirit after all. Anne confided to Marilla. You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she is. You don't find it out right at first, as in Matthew's case. But after a while you come to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 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, read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, June 2007. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 20 A Good Imagination Gone Wrong Spring had come once more to Green Gables, the beautiful capricious reluctant Canadian spring lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples and lover's lane were red-budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the dryad's bubble. A way up in the barrens behind Mr. Silas Sloan's place, the Mayflowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweetness under their brown leaves. All the schoolgirls and boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming home in the clear echoing twilight with arms and baskets full of flowery spoil. I'm so sorry for people who live in lands where there are no Mayflowers, said Anne. Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't be anything better than Mayflowers, could they, Marilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they're like they don't miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it would be tragic, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and not to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer, and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our lunch down in a big, mossy hollow by an old well. Such a romantic spot. Charlie Sloan dared Artie Gillis to jump over it, and Artie Gillis did because he wouldn't take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very fashionable to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Percy Andrews, and I heard him to say, sweets to the sweet. He got that out of a book, I know, but it shows he has some imagination. I was offered some Mayflowers, too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can't tell you the person's name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We made wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats, and when the time came to go home we marched in procession down the road, two by two, with our bouquets and wreaths, singing My Home on the Hill. Oh, it was so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloan's folks rushed out to see us, and everybody we met on the road stopped and stared at us. We made a real sensation. Not much wonder. Such silly doings, was Marilla's response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was impurpled with them, and walked through it on her way to school with reverent steps and worshiping eyes as if she trod on holy ground. Somehow, she told Diana, when I'm going through here, I don't really care whether gill—whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But when I'm up in school it's all different, and I care as much as ever. There's such a lot of different Anne's in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne, it would be ever so much more comfortable. But then it wouldn't be half so interesting. One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the lake of shining waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic firwoods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestowed with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the ping-cushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever, yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new, vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant, had taken a visible, although unmaterial form, and had tapestryed the bare room with splendid, filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and tuckered out as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake. I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest, said Marilla. You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs, and most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. Bet that doesn't seem to be your way, evidently. Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. Oh, I'm so sorry, said Anne penitently. I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt instinctively that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved when you left me in charge this morning not to imagine anything but keep my thoughts on fats. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a cold black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it, and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal, but I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good to-day because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla? No, I can't think of anything special. Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla? No, I can't say I'm sorry, said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables. No, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern. Oh, it's— It's too dark, cried Anne. Too dark? Why, it's only twilight, and goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark. I'll go over early in the morning, said Anne, eagerly. I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla. What has got into your head now, Anne, Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart, too. I'll have to go around by the road, then, said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. Go by the road and waste half an hour. I'd like to catch you. I can't go through the haunted wood, Marilla, cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. The haunted wood? Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the haunted wood? The spruce wood over the brook, said Anne in a whisper. Fiddlesticks. There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff? Nobody, confessed Anne. Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so—so—common place. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There is a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and rings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild. It creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand. So, oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to think of it. And there's a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn't go through the haunted wood after dark now for anything. I'd be sure that white things would reach out from behind the trees and grab me. Did ever anyone hear the like, ejaculated Marilla, who had listened in dumb amazement. Anne, Shirley, do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked nonsense of your own imagination? Not believe exactly, faltered Anne. At least I don't believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, it's different. That is when ghosts walk. There are no such things as ghosts, Anne. Oh, but there are, Marilla, cried Anne eagerly. I know people who have seen them, and they are respectable people. Charlie Sloan says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. You know Charlie Sloan's grandmother wouldn't tell a story for anything. She's a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas' father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn't, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true. And Ruby Gillis says, Anne, surely, interrupted Marilla firmly, I never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. I've had my doubts about that imagination of yours right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of it I won't countenance any such doings. You'll go right over to Barry's, and you'll go through that spruce grove just for a lesson and a warning to you, and never let me hear a word out of your head about haunted woods again. Anne might plead and cry as she liked, and did, for her terror was very real. Her imagination had run away with her, and she held the spruce grove in mortal dread after nightfall. But Marilla was inexorable. She marched the shrinking ghost seer down to the spring, and ordered her to proceed straight away over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing ladies and headless specters beyond. Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel? sobbed Anne. What would you feel like if a white thing did snatch me up and carry me off? I'll risk it, said Marilla unfeelingly. You know I always mean what I say. I'll cure you of imagining ghosts into places. March, now! Anne marched. That is, she stumbled over the bridge and went shuttering up the horrible dim path beyond. Anne never forgot that walk. Bitterly did she repent the license she had given to her imagination. The goblins of her fancy lurked in every shadow about her, reaching out their cold, fleshless hands to grasp the terrified small girl who had called them into being. A white strip of birch bark blowing up from the hollow over the brown floor of the grove made her heart stand still. The long-drawn wail of two old bows rubbing against each other brought out the perspiration and beads on her forehead. The soup of bats in the darkness over her was as the wings of unearthly creatures. When she reached Mr. William Bell's field she fled across it as if pursued by an army of white things, and arrived at the berry kitchen door so out of breath that she could hardly gasp out her request for the apron pattern. Diana was away so that she had no excuse to linger. The dreadful return journey had to be faced. Anne went back over it with shut eyes, preferring to take the risk of dashing her brains out among the bows to that of seeing a white thing. When she finally stumbled over the log bridge she drew one long shivering breath of relief. Well, so nothing caught you, said Marilla unsympathetically. Oh, ma-ma-Marilla, chattered Anne, I'll-be-be contented with common places-places after this. A New Departure in Flavorings Dear me, there is nothing but meetings and partings in this world, as Mrs. Lynde says, remarked Anne plaintively, putting her slate and books down on the kitchen table on the last day of June, and wiping her red eyes with a very damp handkerchief. Wasn't it fortunate, Marilla, that I took an extra handkerchief to school today? I had a presentiment that it would be needed. I never thought you were so fond of Mr. Phillips that you'd require two handkerchiefs to dry your tears just because he was going away, said Marilla. I don't think I was crying because I was really so very fond of him, reflected Anne. I just cried because all the others did. It was Ruby Gillis started it. Ruby Gillis has always declared she hated Mr. Phillips, but just as soon as he got up to make his farewell speech she burst into tears. Then all the girls began to cry one after the other. I tried to hold out, Marilla. I tried to remember the time Mr. Phillips made me sit with a boy, and the time he spelled my name without an E on the blackboard, and how he said I was the worst dunce he ever saw at Geometry, and laughed at my spelling, and all the times he had been so horrid and sarcastic. But somehow I couldn't, Marilla, and I just had to cry too. Jane Andrews has been talking for a month about how glad she'd be when Mr. Phillips went away, and she declared she'd never shed a tear. While she was worse than any of us, and had to borrow a handkerchief from her brother, of course the boys didn't cry, because she hadn't brought one of her own not expecting to need it. Oh, Marilla, it was heart-rending. Mr. Phillips made such a beautiful farewell speech beginning, the time has come for us to part. It was very affecting, and he had tears in his eyes too, Marilla. Oh, I felt dreadfully sorry and remorseful for all the times I'd talked in school and drawn pictures of him on my slate and made fun of him and Prissy. I can tell you, I wish I'd been a model pupil like Mini Andrews. She hadn't anything on her conscience. The girls cried all the way home from school. Carrie Sloan kept saying every few minutes, the time has come for us to part, and that would start us off again whenever we were in any danger of cheering up. I do feel dreadfully sad, Marilla, but one can't feel quiet in the depths of despair with two months' vacation before them, can they, Marilla? And besides, we met the new minister and his wife coming from the station. For all I was feeling so bad about Mr. Phillips going away, I couldn't help taking a little interested in a new minister, could I? His wife is very pretty, not exactly regally lovely, of course. It wouldn't do, I suppose, for a minister to have a regally lovely wife, because it might set a bad example. Mrs. Lin says the minister's wife over at Newbridge sets a very bad example, because she dresses so fashionably. Our new minister's wife was dressed in blue muslin with lovely puffed sleeves and a hat trimmed with roses. Jane Andrews said she thought puffed sleeves were too worldly for a minister's wife, but I didn't make any such uncharitable remark, Marilla, because I know what it is too long for puffed sleeves. Besides, she's only been a minister's wife for a little while, so one should make allowances, shouldn't they? They are going to board with Mrs. Lin until the manse is ready. If Marilla, and going down to Mrs. Lin's that evening, was actuated by any motive save her a vowed one of returning the quilting frame she had borrowed the preceding winter, it was an amiable weakness shared by most of the Avonlea people. Many a thing Mrs. Lin had lent, sometimes never expecting to see it again, came home that night in charge of the borrower's thereof. A new minister, and moreover, a minister with a wife, was a lawful object of curiosity in a quiet little country settlement where sensations were few and far between. Old Mr. Bentley, the minister whom Anne had found lacking in imagination, had been pastor of Avonlea for eighteen years. He was a widower when he came, and a widower he remained, despite the fact that gossip regularly married him to this, that or the other one, every year of his sojourn. In the preceding February he had resigned his charge and departed amid the regrets of his people, most of whom had the affection born of long intercourse for their good old minister in spite of his shortcomings as an orator. Since then, the Avonlea church had enjoyed a variety of religious dissipation in listening to the many and various candidates and supplies who came Sunday after Sunday to preach on trial. These stood or fell by the judgment of the fathers and mothers in Israel, but a certain small red-haired girl who sat meekly in the corner of the old Cuthbert pew also had her opinions about them and discussed the same in full with Matthew, Marilla always declining from principle to criticize ministers in any shape or form. I don't think Mr. Smith would have done Matthew, was Anne's final summing up. Mrs. Lynde says his delivery was so poor, but I think his worst fault was just like Mr. Bentley's. He had no imagination, and Mr. Terry had too much. He led it run away with him just as I did mine in the matter of the haunted wood. Besides, Mrs. Lynde says his theology wasn't sound. Mr. Gresham was a very good man and a very religious man, but he told too many funny stories and made the people laugh in church. He was undignified, and you must have some dignity about a minister, mustn't you, Matthew? I thought Mr. Marshall was decidedly attractive, but Mrs. Lynde says he isn't married or even engaged, because she made special inquiries about him, and she says it would never do to have a young unmarried minister in Avonlea, because he might marry in the congregation, and that would make trouble. Mrs. Lynde is a very far-seeing woman, isn't she, Matthew? I'm very glad they've called Mr. Allen. I liked him because his sermon was interesting, and he prayed as if he meant it, and not just as if he did it because he was in the habit of it. Mrs. Lynde says he isn't perfect, but she says she supposes we couldn't expect a perfect minister for $750 a year, and anyhow his theology is sound because she questioned him thoroughly on all the points of doctrine, and she knows his wife's people, and they are most respectable, and the women are all good housekeepers. Mrs. Lynde says that sound doctrine in the man and good housekeeping in the woman make an ideal combination for a minister's family. The new minister and his wife were a young, pleasant-faced couple, still on their honeymoon, and full of all good and beautiful enthousiasms for their chosen life work. Avonlea opened its heart to them from the start. Old and young liked the frank, cheerful young man with his eye ideals, and the bright, gentle little lady who assumed the mistership of the man's. With Mrs. Allen, Anne felt promptly and wholeheartedly in love. She had discovered another kindred spirit. Mrs. Allen is perfectly lovely, she announced one Sunday afternoon. She has taken our class, and she's a splendid teacher. She said right away she didn't think it was fair for the teacher to ask all the questions, and you know, Marilla, that is exactly what I've always thought. She said we could ask her any question we liked, and I asked ever so many. I'm good at asking questions, Marilla." I believe you, was Marilla's emphatic comment. Nobody else asked any except Ruby Gillis, and she asked if there was to be a Sunday school picnic this summer. I didn't think that was a very proper question to ask because it hadn't any connection with the lesson. The lesson was about Daniel and Lynde's den. But Mrs. Allen just smiled and said she thought there would be. Mrs. Allen has a lovely smile. She has such exquisite dimples in her cheeks. I wish I had dimples in my cheeks, Marilla. I'm not half so skinny as I was when I came here, but I have no dimples yet. If I had, perhaps I could influence people for good. Mrs. Allen said we ought always to try to influence other people for good. She talked so nice about everything. I never knew before that religion was such a cheerful thing. I always thought it was kind of melancholy, but Mrs. Allen's isn't, and I'd like to be a Christian if I could be one like her. I wouldn't want to be one like Mr. Superintendent Bell. It's very naughty of you to speak so about Mr. Bell, said Marilla severely. Mr. Bell is a real good man. Oh, of course he's good, agreed Anne, but he doesn't seem to get any comfort out of it. If I could be good, I'd dance and sing all day because I was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allen is too old to dance and sing, and, of course, it wouldn't be dignified in a minister's wife. But I can just feel she's glad she's a Christian and that she'd be one even if she could get to heaven without it. I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allen up to tea some day soon, said Marilla reflectively. They've been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he'd find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death. I'll be as secret as the dead, assured Anne. But, oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allen, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time. You can make a layer cake, promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on the big red stones by the dryets bubble, and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fur balsam. Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake, which I'm to make in the morning, and the baking powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before tea time. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having a minister's family to tea. I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied chicken and cold tongue. We're to have two kinds of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and lemon pie and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies and fruit cake, and Marilla's famous yellow plum preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and pound cake and layer cake and biscuits, as aforesaid, and new bread and old both in case the minister is dyspectic and can't eat new. Mrs. Lynn says ministers are dyspectic, but I don't think Mr. Allen has been a minister long enough for it to have had a bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn't be good? I dreamed last night that I was chased all around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a head. It'll be good all right, assured Diana, who was a very comfortable sort of friend. I'm sure that piece of the one you made that we had for lunch and idle while two weeks ago was perfectly elegant. Yes, but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good, sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-balsome twig of float. However, I suppose I shall just have to trust a Providence and be careful to put in the flower. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go away and take it for a scarf? You know there is no such thing as a dryad, said Diana. Diana's mother had found out about the haunted wood, and had been decidedly angry over it. As a result, Diana had abstained from any further imitative flights imagination, and did not think it prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless dryads. But it's so easy to imagine there is, said Anne. Every night before I go to bed I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring of for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad. Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sunrise because she was too excited to sleep. She had got a severe cold in the head by reason of her dabbling in the spring on the proceeding evening, but nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have quenched her interest in culinary matters that morning. After breakfast she proceeded to make her cake. When she finally shut the oven door upon it she drew a long breath. I'm sure I haven't forgotten anything this time, Arula. But do you think it will rise? Just suppose perhaps the baking powder isn't good. I used it out of the new can, and Mrs. Lin says you can never be sure of getting good baking powder nowadays when everything is so adulterated. Mrs. Lin says the government ought to take the matter up, but she says we'll never see the day when a Tory government will do it. Marilla, what if that cake doesn't rise? We'll have plenty without it, was Marilla's unimpassioned weight of looking at the subject. The cake did rise, however, and came out of the oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers of ruby jelly, and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allen eating it and possibly asking for another piece. You'll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla, she said. Can I fix the table with ferns and wild roses? I think that's all nonsense, sniffed Marilla. In my opinion, it's the eatables that matter, not flummery decorations. Mrs. Berry had her table decorated, said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palette. Well, do as you like, said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Berry or anybody else. Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food. Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Berry's nowhere. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea-table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it, they exclaimed in chorus over its loveliness. It's Anne's doings, said Marilla, grimly just, and Anne felt that Mrs. Allen's approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes in white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a word to Mrs. Allen, but that, perhaps, was not to be expected. All went Mary as a marriage bell until Anne's layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allen, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it, but Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly, oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allen, and made it on purpose for you. In that case I must sample it, laughed Mrs. Allen, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister in Marilla. Mrs. Allen took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face. Not her word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. Anne surely, she exclaimed, what on earth did you put into that cake? Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla, cried Anne with a look of anguish. Oh, isn't it all right? All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allen, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use? Vanilla, said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that baking powder fiddlesticks. Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used. Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, best vanilla. Marilla took it, uncorked it, and smelled it. Mercy on us, Anne! You flavored that cake with anodyne liniment. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault, I should have warned you, but for pity's sake, why couldn't you have smelled it? Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace. I couldn't! I had such a cold! And with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. Oh, Marilla! sobbed Anne without looking up. I'm disgraced forever. I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out. Things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Guilt—the boys in school will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla! If you have a spark of Christian pity, don't tell me that I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I'll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allen in the face again. Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynn says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor, but the liniment isn't poisonous. It's meant to be taken internally, although not in cakes. Won't you tell Mrs. Allen so, Marilla? Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself, said a merry voice. Anne flew up to find Mrs. Allen standing by her bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. My dear little girl, you mustn't cry like this, she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne's tragic face. Why, it's all just a funny mistake that anybody might make. Oh, no! It takes me to make such a mistake, said Anne forlornly. And I wanted to have that cake so nice for you, Mrs. Allen. Yes, I know, dear, and I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now you mustn't cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden. Ms. Cuthbert tells me you have a little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very much interested in flowers. Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allen was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away, Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident. Nevertheless, she sighed deeply. Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet? I warned you'll make plenty in it, said Marilla. I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne. Yes, and well I know it, admitted Anne mournfully, but have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice. I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones. Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought. Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs, said Marilla. It isn't fit for any human tweet, not even Jerry Butte. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 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. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, June 2007 Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Mod Montgomery Chapter 22 Anne is invited out to tea And what are your eyes popping out of your head about now? Asked Marilla when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. Have you discovered another kindred spirit? Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, Sean in her eyes kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane like a wind-blown sprite through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I'm invited to tea at the man's tomorrow afternoon. Mrs. Allen left the letter for me at the post office. Just look at it, Marilla. Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables. That is the first time I was ever called Miss. Such a thrill as it gave me. I shall cherish it forever among my choice's treasures. Mrs. Allen told me she meant to have all the members of her Sunday-school class to tea and turn, said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very coolly. You needn't get in such a fever over it. Do learn to take things calmly, child. For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All spirit and fire and dew as she was, the pleasures and pains of life came to her with troubled intensity. Marilla felt this, and was vaguely troubled over it, realizing that the ups and downs of existence would probably bear hardly on this impulsive soul and not sufficiently understanding that the equally great capacity for delight might more than compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived it to be her duty to drill Anne into a tranquil uniformity of disposition as impossible and alien to her as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the Brooks Shallows. She did not make much headway, as she sorrowfully admitted to herself. The downfall of some dear hope or plan plunged Anne into deeps of affliction. The fulfillment thereof exalted her into dizzy realms of delight. Marilla had almost begun to despair of ever fashioning this wave of the world into her model little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. Neither would she have believed that she really liked Anne much better as she was. Anne went to bed that night, speechless with misery, because Matthew had said the wind was round northeast and he feared it would be a rainy day to-morrow. The rustle of the poplar leaves about the house worried her. It sounded so like pattering raindrops and the full faraway roar of the gulf to which she listened delightedly at other times, loving its strange, sonorous, haunting rhythm, now seemed like a prophecy of storm and disaster to a small maiden who particularly wanted a fine day. Anne thought that the morning would never come. But all things have an end, even nights before the day on which you were invited to take tea at the man's. The morning, in spite of Matthew's predictions, was fine, and Anne's spirits soared to their highest. Oh, Marilla, there is something in me today that makes me just love everybody I see, she exclaimed as she washed the breakfast dishes. You don't know how good I feel. Wouldn't it be nice if it could last? I believe I could be a model child if I were just invited out to tea every day. But, oh, Marilla, it's a solemn occasion, too. I feel so anxious. What if I shouldn't behave properly? You know I never had tea at a man's before, and I'm not sure that I know all the rules of etiquette, although I've been studying the rules given in the etiquette department of the family Herald ever since I came here. I'm so afraid I'll do something silly or forget to do something I should do. Would it be good to take a second helping of anything if you wanted to very much? The trouble with you, Anne, is that you're thinking too much about yourself. You should just think of Mrs. Allen and what would be nicest and most agreeable to her, said Marilla, hitting for once in her life on a very sound and pithy piece of advice. Anne instantly realized this. You're right, Marilla. I'll try not to think about myself at all. Anne evidently got through her visit without any serious breach of etiquette, for she came home through the twilight under a great high-sprung sky gloried over with trails of saffron and rosy cloud in a beatified state of mind, and told Marilla all about it happily, sitting on the big red sandstone slab at the kitchen door with her tired, curly head in Marilla's gingham lap. A cool wind was blowing down over the long harvest fields from the rims of furry western hills, and whistling through the poplars. One clear star hung over the orchard, and the fireflies were flitting over in Lover's Lane, in and out among the ferns and rustling boughs. Anne watched them as she talked, and somehow felt that wind and stars and fireflies were all tangled up together into something unutterably sweet and enchanting. Oh, Marilla, I've had a most fascinating time. I feel that I shall not have lived in vain, and I shall always feel like that even if I should never be invited to tea at a man's again. When I got there Mrs. Allen met me at the door. She was dressed in the sweetest dress of pale pink organ-dee with dozens of frills and elbow sleeves, and she looked just like a serif. I really think I'd like to be a minister's wife when I grow up, Marilla. A minister might in mind my red hair because he wouldn't be thinking of such worldly things. But then, of course, one would have to be naturally good, and I'll never be that, so I suppose there's no use thinking about it. Some people are naturally good, you know, and others are not. I'm one of the others. Mrs. Lin says I'm full of original sin. No matter how hard I try to be good, I can never make such a success of it as those who are naturally good. It's a good deal like geometry, I expect. But don't you think the trying so hard ought to count for something? Mrs. Allen is one of the naturally good people. I love her passionately. You know there are some people like Matthew and Mrs. Allen that you can love right off without any trouble. And there are others like Mrs. Lin that you have to try very hard to love. You know you ought to love them because they know so much and are such active workers in the church, but you have to keep reminding yourself of it all the time or else you forget. There was another little girl at the Manchester Tea from the White Sand Sunday School. Her name was Loretta Bradley and she was a very nice little girl. Not exactly a kindred spirit, you know, but still very nice. We had an elegant tea, and I think I kept all the rules of etiquette pretty well. After tea Mrs. Allen played and sang, and she got Loretta and me to sing too. Mrs. Allen says I have a good voice and she says I must sing in the Sunday School choir after this. You can't think how I was thrilled at the mere thought. I've so longed to sing in the Sunday School choir as Diana does, but I feared it was an honor I could never aspire to. Loretta had to go home early because there is a big concert in the White Sands Hotel tonight and her sister is to recited it. Loretta says that the Americans at the hotel give a concert every fortnight in eight of the Charlottetown hospital, and they ask lots of the White Sands people to recite. Loretta said she expected to be asked herself someday. I just gazed at her in awe. After she had gone Mrs. Allen and I had a heart-to-heart talk. I told her everything about Mrs. Thomas and the twins and Katie Maurice and Violetta and coming to Green Gables and my troubles over geometry, and would you believe it, Marilla? Mrs. Allen told me she was a dunce at geometry, too. You don't know how that encouraged me. Mrs. Lynn came to the man's just before I left, and what do you think, Marilla? The trustees have hired a new teacher and it's a lady. Her name is Miss Muriel Stacey. Isn't that a romantic name? Mrs. Lynn says they'd never had a female teacher in Avonlea before and she thinks it is a dangerous innovation. But I think it will be splendid to have a lady teacher and I really don't see how I'm going to live through the two weeks before school begins. I'm so impatient to see her. CHAPTER XXIII Anne had to live through more than two weeks as it happened. Almost a month having elapsed since the liniment cake episode it was high time for her to get into fresh trouble of some sort. Little mistakes such as absentmindedly emptying a pan of skim milk into a basket of yarn balls in the pantry instead of into the pig's bucket and walking clean over the edge of the log bridge into the brook while wrapped in imaginative reverie not really being worth counting. A week after the tea at the man's Diana Barry gave a party. Small and select, Anne assured Marilla, just the girls in our class. They had a very good time and nothing untoward happened until after tea when they found themselves in the Barry garden a little tired of all their games and ripe for any enticing form of mischief which might present itself. This presently took the form of daring. Daring was the fashionable amusement among the Avonlea small fry just then. It had begun among the boys but soon spread to the girls and all the silly things that were done in Avonlea that summer because the doers thereof were dared to do them would fill a book by themselves. First of all Carrie Sloan dared Ruby Gillis to climb to a certain point in the huge old willow tree before the front door, which Ruby Gillis, albeit in mortal dread of the fat green caterpillars with which said tree was infested and with the fear of her mother before her eyes if she should tear her new muslin dress, nimbly did, to the discomforture of the aforesaid Carrie Sloan. Then Josie Pye dared Jane Andrews to hop on her left leg around the garden without stopping once or putting her right foot to the ground, which Jane Andrews gamely tried to do, but gave out at the third corner and had to confess herself defeated. Josie's triumph being rather more pronounced than good taste permitted and surely dared her to walk along the top of the board fence which bounded the garden to the east. Now to walk board fences requires more skill and steadiness of head and heel than one might suppose who has never tried it. But Josie Pye, if deficient in some qualities that make for popularity, had at least a natural and inborn gift, duly cultivated, for walking board fences. Josie walked the very fence with an airy unconcern, which seemed to imply that a little thing like that wasn't worth a dare. Reluctant admiration greeted her exploit, for most of the other girls could appreciate it having suffered many things themselves in their efforts to walk fences. Josie descended from her perch, flushed with victory, and darted a defiant glance at Anne. Anne tossed her red braids. I don't think it's such a very wonderful thing to walk a little low board fence, she said. I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridgepole of a roof. I don't believe it, said Josie flatly. I don't believe anybody could walk a ridgepole. You couldn't, anyhow. Couldn't die, cried Anne rashly. Then I dare you to do it, said Josie defiantly. I dare you to climb up there and walk the ridgepole of Mr. Barry's kitchen roof. Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one thing to be done. She walked toward the house where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen roof. All the fifth-class girl said, Oh! partly in excitement, partly in dismay. Don't you do it, Anne, and treated Diana. You'll fall off and be killed. Never mind, Josie Pie, it isn't fair to dare anybody to do anything so dangerous. I must do it. My honour is at stake, said Anne solemnly. I shall walk that ridgepole, Diana, or perish in the attempt. If I am killed, you are to have my pearl bead ring." Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, gained the ridgepole, balanced herself uprightly on that precarious footing, and started to walk along it, dizzily conscious that she was uncomfortably high up in the world, and that walking ridgepoles was not a thing in which your imagination helped you out much. Nevertheless, she managed to take several steps before the catastrophe came. Then she swayed, lost her balance, stumbled, staggered, and fell, sliding down over the sun-baked roof and crashing off it through the tangle of Virginia creeper beneath, all before the dismayed circle below could give a simultaneous terrified shriek. If Anne had tumbled off the roof on the side up which she had ascended, Diana would probably have fallen air to the pearl bead ring then and there. Fortunately, she fell on the other side, where the roof extended down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a fall therefrom was a much less serious thing. Nevertheless, when Diana and the other girls had rushed frantically around the house, except Ruby Gillis, who remained as if rooted to the ground and went into hysterics, they found Anne lying all white and limp among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia creeper. Anne, are you killed? shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees beside her friend. Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if you're killed. To the immense relief of all the girls, and especially of Josie Pye, who in spite of lack of imagination had been seized with horrible visions of a future branded as the girl who was the cause of Anne Shirley's early and tragic death, Anne sat dizzily up and answered uncertainly, No, Diana, I am not killed, but I think I am rendered unconscious. Where? sobbed Carrie Sloan. Oh, where, Anne? Before Anne could answer, Mrs. Berry appeared on the scene. At sight of her, Anne tried to scramble to her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry of pain. What's the matter? Where have you hurt yourself? demanded Mrs. Berry. My ankle! gasped Anne. Oh, Diana, please find your father and ask him to take me home. I know I can never walk there, and I'm sure I couldn't hop so far on one foot when Jane couldn't even hop around the garden. Marilla was out in the orchard picking a pan full of summer apples when she saw Mr. Berry coming over the log bridge and up the slope, with Mrs. Berry beside him, and a whole procession of little girls trailing after him. In his arms he carried Anne, whose head lay limply against his shoulder. At that moment Marilla had a revelation. In the sudden stab of fear that pierced her very hard, she realized what Anne had come to mean to her. She would have admitted that she liked Anne, nay, that she was very fond of Anne. But now she knew as she hurried wildly down the slope that Anne was dearer to her than anything else on earth. Mr. Berry, what has happened to her? she gasped, more white and shaken than the self-contained, sensible Marilla had been for many years. Anne herself answered, lifting her head. Don't be very frightened, Marilla. I was walking the ridge pole and I fell off. I expect I've sprained my ankle. But, Marilla, I might have broken my neck. Let us look on the bright side of things. I might have known you'd go and do something of the sort when I let you go to that party, said Marilla, sharp and truish in her very relief. Bring her in here, Mr. Berry, and lay her on the sofa. Mercy, me, the child has gone and fainted. It was quite true. Overcome by the pain of her injury, Anne had one more of her wishes granted to her. She had fainted dead away. Matthew, hastily summoned from the harvest field, was straight away dispatched for the doctor, who in due time came to discover that the injury was more serious than they had supposed. Anne's ankle was broken. That night, when Marilla went up to the east gable, where a white faced girl was lying, a plaintive voice greeted her from the bed. Aren't you very sorry for me, Marilla? It was your own fault, said Marilla, twitching down the blind and lighting a lamp. And that is just why you should be sorry for me, said Anne. Because the thought that it is all my fault is what makes it so hard. If I could blame it on anybody, I would feel so much better. But what would you have done, Marilla, if you'd been dared to walk a ridge pole? I'd have stayed on good firm ground and let them dare away. Such absurdity, said Marilla. Anne sighed. But you have such strength of mind, Marilla. I haven't. I just felt that I couldn't bear Josie Pie's scorn. She would have crowed over me all my life. And I think I've been punished so much that you needn't be very cross with me, Marilla. It's not a bit nice to faint, after all. And the doctor heard me dreadfully when he was setting my ankle. I won't be able to go around for six or seven weeks, and I'll miss the new lady teacher. She won't be new any more by the time I'm able to go to school. And, guilt, everybody will get ahead of me in class. Oh, I am an afflicted mortal. But I'll try to bear it all bravely if only you won't be cross with me, Marilla. There, there, I am not cross, said Marilla. You're an unlucky child, there's no doubt about that. But, as you say, you'll have the suffering of it. Here now, try and eat some supper. Isn't it fortunate I've got such an imagination, said Anne. It will help me through splendidly, I expect. What do people who haven't any imagination do when they break their bones, do you suppose, Marilla? Anne had good reason to bless her imagination many a time and off during the tedious seven weeks that followed. But she was not solely dependent on it. She had many visitors, and not a day past without one or more of the schoolgirls dropping in to bring her flowers and books and tell her all the happenings in the juvenile world of Avonlea. Everyone has been so good and kind, Marilla, sighed Anne happily on the day when she could first limp across the floor. It isn't very pleasant to be laid up. But there is a bright side to it, Marilla. You find out how many friends you have. Why, even Superintendent Bell came to see me, and he's really a very fine man. Not a kindred spirit, of course. But still, I like him, and I'm awfully sorry I've recriticized his prayers. I believe now he really does mean them, only he has gotten into the habit of saying them as if he didn't. He could get over it if he'd take a little trouble. I gave him a good broad hint. I told him how hard I'd try to make my own little private prayers interesting. He told me all about the time he broke his ankle when he was a boy. It does seem so strange to think of Superintendent Bell ever being a boy. Even my imagination has its limits, for I can't imagine that. When I try to imagine him as a boy I see him with gray whiskers and spectacles, just as he looks in Sunday school, only small. Now it's so easy to imagine Mrs. Allen as a little girl. Mrs. Allen has been to see me fourteen times. Isn't that something to be proud of, Marilla, when a minister's wife has so many claims on her time? She is such a tearful person to have visit you too. She never tells you it is your own fault, and she hopes you'll be a better girl on account of it. Mrs. Lind always told me that when she came to see me, and she said it in a kind of way that made me feel she might hope I'd be a better girl but didn't really believe I would. Even Josie Pye came to see me. I received her as politely as I could because I think she was sorry she dared me to walk a ridgepole. If I had been killed she would have had to carry a dark burden of remorse all her life. Diana has been a faithful friend. She's been over every day to cheer my lonely pillow. But oh! I shall be so glad when I can go to school for I've heard such exciting things about the new teacher. The girls all think she is perfectly sweet. Diana says she has the loveliest fair curly hair and such fascinating eyes. She dresses beautifully, and her sleeve puffs are bigger than anybody else's in Avonlea. Every other Friday afternoon she has recitations, and everybody has to say a piece or take apart in a dialogue. Oh! It's just glorious to think of it. Josie Pye says she hates it, but that is just because Josie has so little imagination. Diana and Ruby Gillis and Jane Andrews are preparing a dialogue called A Morning Visit for Next Friday, and the Friday afternoons they don't have recitations, Miss Stacy takes them all to the woods for a field day, and they study ferns and flowers and birds, and they have physical culture exercises every morning and evening. Mrs. Lin says she never heard of such goings-on, and it all comes of having a lady teacher. But I think it must be splendid, and I believe I shall find that Miss Stacy is a kindred spirit. There's one thing plain to be seen, Anne," said Marilla, and that is that your fall off the berry-roof hasn't injured your tongue at all. CHAPTER 24 Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert It was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school, a glorious October, all red and gold with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain, amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth of silver, and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many stemmed woods to run crisply through. The birch path was a canopy of yellow, and the ferns were sear and brown all along it. There was a tang in the very air that inspired the hearts of small maidens tripping, unlike snails, swiftly and willingly to school. And it was jolly to be back again at the little brown desk beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis nodding across the aisle and Carrie Sloan sending up notes and Julia Bell passing a chew of gum down from the back seat. Anne drew a long breath of happiness as she sharpened her pencil and arranged her picture cards in her desk. Life was certainly very interesting. In the new teacher she found another true and helpful friend. Miss Stacy was a bright, sympathetic young woman with the happy gift of winning and holding the affections of her pupils and bringing out the best that was in them mentally and morally. Anne expanded like a flower under this wholesome influence and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the critical Marilla, glowing accounts of schoolwork and aims. I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. She is so ladylike and has such a sweet voice. When she pronounces my name I feel instinctively that she's spelling it with an E. We had recitations this afternoon. I just wish you could have been there to hear me recite Mary Queen of Scots. I just put my whole soul into it. Ruby Gillis told me coming home that the way I set the line, now for my father's arm, she said, my woman's heart farewell just made her blood run cold. Well, now, you might recite it for me some of these days out in the barn, suggested Matthew. Of course I will, said Anne meditatively. But I won't be able to do it so well, I know. It won't be so exciting as it is when you have a whole schoolful before you hanging breathlessly on your words. I know I won't be able to make your blood run cold. Mrs. Lynn said it made her blood run cold to see the boys clumming to the very top of those big trees on Belle's Hill after crow's nest last Friday, said Marilla. I wonder at Miss Stacy for encouraging it. But we wanted a crow's nest for nature study, explained Anne. That was on our field afternoon. Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla, and Miss Stacy explains everything so beautifully. We have to write compositions on our field afternoons, and I write the best ones. It's very vain of you to say so, then. You'd better let your teacher say it. But she did say it, Marilla, and indeed I'm not vain about it. How can I be when I'm such a dunce at geometry? Although I'm really beginning to see through it a little too. Miss Stacy makes it so clear. Still, I'll never be good at it, and I assure you it is a humbling reflection. But I love writing compositions. Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose our own subjects, but next week we are to write a composition on some remarkable person. It's hard to choose among so many remarkable people who have lived. Mustn't it be splendid to be remarkable and have compositions written about you after you're dead? Oh, I would dearly love to be remarkable. I think when I grow up I'll be a trained nurse and go with the Red Crosses to the field of battle as a messenger of mercy. That is, if I don't go out as a foreign missionary. That would be very romantic, but one would have to be very good to be a missionary, and that would be a stumbling block. We have physical culture exercises every day too. They make you graceful and promote digestion. Promote fiddlesticks, said Marilla, who honestly thought it was all nonsense. But all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays in physical culture contortions, paled before a project with Miss Stacy, brought forward in November. This was that the scholars of Avonlea School should get up a concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas night for the laudable purpose of helping to pay for a schoolhouse flag. The pupils won and all taking graciously to this plan, the preparations for program were begun at once. And of all the excited performers elect, none was so excited as Anne Shirley, who threw herself into the undertaking heart and soul, hampered as she was by Marilla's disapproval. Marilla thought it all rank foolishness. It's just filling your heads up with nonsense and taking time that ought to be put on your lessons, she grumbled. I don't approve of children's getting up concerts and racing about to practices. It makes them vain and forward and fond of guiding. But think of the worthy object, pleaded Anne, a flag will cultivate a spirit of patriotism, Marilla. Fudge. There's precious little patriotism in the thoughts of any of you. All you want is a good time. Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, isn't it all right? Of course it's real nice to be getting up a concert. We're going to have six choruses and Diana is going to sing a solo. I'm in two dialogues, the Society for the Suppression of Gossip and the Fairy Queen. The boys are going to have a dialogue, too. And I'm to have two recitations, Marilla. I just tremble when I think of it. But it's a nice, thrilling kind of tremble. And we're to have a tableau at the last. Faith, hope, and charity. Diana and Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with flowing hair. I'm to be hoped with my hands clasped so, and my eyes uplifted. I'm going to practice my recitations in the garret. Don't be alarmed if you hear me groaning. I have to groan heart-rendingly in one of them, and it's really hard to get up a good artistic groan, Marilla. Josie Pie is sulky because she didn't get the part she wanted in the dialogue. She wanted to be the Fairy Queen. That would have been ridiculous for whoever heard of a Fairy Queen as fat as Josie. Fairy Queens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be the Queen, and I am to be one of her maids of honour. Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is just as ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind what Josie says. I'm to have a wreath of white roses on my hair, and Ruby Gillis is going to lend me her slippers, because I haven't any of my own. It's necessary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You couldn't imagine a fairy wearing boots, could you? Especially with copper toes. We are going to decorate the hall with creeping spruce and firmottos with pink tissue paper roses in them, and we are all to march in two by two after the audience is seated, while Emma White plays a march on the organ. Oh, Marilla, I know you are not so enthusiastic about it as I am, but don't you hope your little am will distinguish yourself? All I hope is that you'll behave yourself. I'll be heartily glad when all this fuss is over, and you'll be able to settle down. You are simply good for nothing just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and groans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it's a marvel it's not clean worn out. Anne sighed and betook herself to the backyard, over which a young new moon was shining through the leafless popular boughs from an apple-green western sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne perched herself on a block and talked the concert over with him, sure of an appreciative and sympathetic listener in this instance at least. Well, now, I reckon it's going to be a pretty good concert, and I expect you'll do your part fine, he said, smiling down into her eager, vivacious little face. Anne smiled back at him. Those two were the best of friends, and Matthew thanked his stars many a time and oft that he had nothing to do with bringing her up. That was Marilla's exclusive duty. If it had been his he would have been worried over frequent conflicts between inclination and said duty. As it was, he was free to spoil Anne, Marilla's phrasing, as much as he liked. But it was not such a bad arrangement after all. A little appreciation sometimes does quite as much good as all the conscientious bringing up in the world. END OF CHAPTER XXV Matthew was having a bad ten minutes of it. He had come into the kitchen in the twilight of a cold, gray, December evening, and had sat down in the wood-box corner to take off his heavy boots, unconscious of the fact that Anne and a bevy of her schoolmates were having a practice of the fairy queen in the sitting-room. Presently they came trooping through the hall and out into the kitchen, laughing and chattering gaily. They did not see Matthew, who shrank bashfully back into the shadows beyond the wood-box, with a boot in one hand and a boot jack of the other, and watched them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes as they put on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue in the concert. Anne stood among them, bright-eyed and animated as they, but Matthew suddenly became conscious that there was something about her different from her mates, and what worried Matthew was that the difference impressed him as being something that should not exist. Anne had a brighter face and bigger, starier eyes and more delicate features than the others. Even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to take note of these things, but the difference that disturbed him did not consist in any of these respects. Then in what did it consist? Matthew was haunted by this question long after the girls had gone, arm in arm, down the long, hard-frozen lane, and Anne had betaken herself to her books. He could not refer it to Marilla, who he felt would be quite sure to stiff scornfully and remark that the only difference she saw between Anne and the other girls was that they sometimes kept their tongues quiet while Anne never did. This, Matthew felt, would be no great help. He had recourse to his pipe that evening to help him study it out, much to Marilla's disgust. After two hours of smoking and hard reflection Matthew arrived at a solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed like the other girls. The more Matthew thought about the matter, the more he was convinced that Anne never had been dressed like the other girls, never since she came to Green Gables. Marilla kept her clothed in plain dark dresses all made after the same unvarying pattern. If Matthew knew there was such a thing as fashion and dress, it was as much as he did. But he was quite sure that Anne's sleeves did not look at all like the sleeves the other girls wore. He recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen around her that evening, all gay in wastes of red and blue and pink and white, and he wondered why Marilla always kept her so plainly and soberly gowned. Of course it must be all right. Marilla knew best, and Marilla was bringing her up. Probably some wise, inscrutable motive was to be served thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the child have one pretty dress, something like Diana Barry always wore. Matthew decided that he would give her one. That surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted putting in of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight off. A nice new dress would be the very thing for a present. Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe and went to bed, while Marilla opened all the doors and aired the house. The very next evening Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy the dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it. It would be, he felt assured, no trifling ordeal. There were some things Matthew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer, but he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl's dress. After much cogitation Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson's store instead of William Blair's. To be sure the Cuthberts always had gone to William Blair's. It was almost as much a matter of conscious with them as to attend the Presbyterian Church and vote Conservative. But William Blair's two daughters frequently waited on customers there, and Matthew held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal with them when he knew exactly what he wanted and could point it out. But in such a matter as this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he would go to Lawson's, where Samuel or his son would wait on him. Alas, Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady clerk also. She was a niece of his wife's, and a very dashing young person indeed, with a huge drooping pompadour, big, rolling, brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile. She was dressed with exceeding smartness, and wore several bangle bracelets that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands. Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all, and those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop. What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuthbert? Miss Lucilla Harris inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands. Have you any—any—any—well, say—any—garden rakes? stammered Matthew. Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December. I believe we have one or two left over, she said, but they're upstairs in the lumber room. I'll go and see. During her absence, Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort. When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired, anything else tonight, Mr. Cuthbert? Matthew took his courage in both hands and replied, Well, now, since you suggested— I might as well take—that is, look at—by some— some hay-seed. Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called odd. She now concluded that he was entirely crazy. We only keep hay-seed in the spring, she explained loftily. We've not on hand just now. Oh, certainly, certainly, just as you say, stammered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making for the door. At the threshold he recollected that he had not paid for it, and he turned miserably back. While Miss Harris was counting out his change, he rallied his powers for a final, desperate attempt. Well, now, if it isn't too much trouble, I might as well— that is, I'd like to look at—at—some sugar. White or brown, queried Miss Harris patiently. Oh, well, now— Brown, said Matthew feebly. There's a barrel a little bit over there, said Miss Harris, shaking her bangles at it. It's the only kind we have. I'll—I'll take twenty pounds of it, said Matthew, with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. Matthew had driven half-way home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange store. When he reached home he hid the rake in the tool-house, but the sugar he carried into Marilla. Brown's sugar, exclaimed Marilla, whatever possessed you to get so much. You know I never use it except for the hired man's porridge or black fruit-cake. Jerry's gone and I've made my cake long ago. It's not good sugar, either. It's coarse and dark. William Blair doesn't usually keep sugar like that. I—I thought it might come in handy some time, said Matthew, making good his escape. When Matthew came to think the matter over, he decided that a woman was required to cope with the situation. Marilla was out of the question. Matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his project at once. Remained only Mrs. Lynde, for of no other woman in Avonleet would Matthew have dared to ask advice. To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man's hands. Pick out a dress for you to give Anne? To be sure I will. I'm going to comedy tomorrow and I'll attend to it. Have you something particular in mind? No? Well, I'll just go by my own judgment then. I believe a nice rich brown would just suit Anne, and William Blair has some new Gloria in that's real pretty. Perhaps you'd like me to make it up for her too, seeing that if Marilla was to make it Anne would probably get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise. Well, I'll do it. No, it isn't a might of trouble. I like sewing. I'll make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis, for she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figure goes. Well now, I'm much obliged, said Matthew, and—and—I don't know. But I'd like—I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If it wouldn't be asking too much, I—I'd like them made in the new way. Puffs? Of course. You needn't worry aspec more about it, Matthew. I'll make it up in the very latest fashion, said Mrs. Linde. To herself she added when Matthew had gone. It'll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous, that's what, and I've ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I've held my tongue, though, for I can see Marilla doesn't want advice, and she thinks she knows more about bringing up children than I do, for all she's an old maid. But that's always the way. Folks that has brought up children know there's no hard and fast method in the world that'll suit every child. But them as never have think it's all plain and easy as rule of three. Just set your three terms down so fashion, and the sum will work out correct. But flesh and blood don't come under the head of arithmetic, and that's where Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake. I suppose she's trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by dressing her as she does. But it's more likely to cultivate envy and discontent. I'm sure the child must feel the difference between her clothes and the other girls. But to think of Matthew taking notice of it, that man is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years. Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Matthew had something on his mind. But what it was she could not guess, until Christmas Eve, when Mrs. Lind brought up the new dress. Marilla behaved pretty well on the whole, although it is very likely she distrusted Mrs. Lind's diplomatic explanation that she had made the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne would find out about it too soon if Marilla made it. So this is what Matthew has been looking so mysterious over and grinning about to himself for two weeks, is it? She said a little stiffly but tolerantly. I knew he was up to some foolishness. While I must say I don't think Anne needed any more dresses. I made her three good warm serviceable ones this fall, and anything more as sheer extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew, and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along. They're as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways. Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December, and people had looked forward to a green Christmas, but just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The furs in the haunted wood were all feathery and wonderful. The birches and wild cherry trees were outlined in pearl. The plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples, and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice re-echoed through green gables. Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it? I don't like green Christmases. They're not green. They're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why—why—Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew! Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings, and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air. Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was! A lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk. A skirt with dainty frills and shirrings, a waist elaborately pin-tucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves! They were the crowning glory. Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs, divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown silk ribbon. That's a Christmas present for you, Anne, said Matthew shyly. Why—why, Anne, don't you like it? Well now—well now. For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. Like it? Oh, Matthew! Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream. Well, well, let's have breakfast, interrupted Marilla. I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress, but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair-ribbon, Mrs. Lynde, left for you. It's brown to match the dress. Come now. Sit in. I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast, said Anne rapturously. Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting time. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon, too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl, and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this. When the commonplace breakfast was over, Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas! I've something splendid to show you! Matthew has given me the loveliest dress with such sleeves! I couldn't even imagine any nicer. I've got something more for you, said Diana breathlessly. Here, this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it, and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the haunted wood in the dark now. Anne opened the box and peeped in, first a card with, for the Anne girl and Merry Christmas, written on it, and then a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. Oh, said Anne, Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming. I call it providential, said Diana. You won't have to borrow ruby slippers now, and that's a blessing, for their two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pie would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Bright went home with Gertie Pie from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that? All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded, all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright, particular star of the occasion, as even Envy in the shape of Josie Pie dared not deny. Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening, sighed Anne, when it was all over, and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. Everything went off very well, said Diana practically. I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allen is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers. Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrilled to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was on-cord. I just said to myself, it is my dear bosom friend who is so honoured. Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid. Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allen called out my name, I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practice those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right? Yes, indeed. You groaned lovely, assured Diana. I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable occasion indeed. Wasn't the boy's dialogue fine, said Diana? Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue, one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now. You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that. It's nothing to me what that person does, said Anne loftily. I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana. That night, Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them, said Matthew proudly. Yes, she did, admitted Marilla. She's a bright child, Matthew, and she looked real nice, too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of Anne to-night, although I'm not going to tell her so. Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so for she went upstairs, said Matthew. We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea's school by and by. There's time enough to think of that, said Marilla. She's only thirteen in March. Though to-night it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynt made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn, and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queens after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet. Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on, said Matthew. Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over.