 CHAPTER 1 Mrs. Rachel Lind is surprised. Mrs. Rachel Lind lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops, and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert Place. It was reputed to be an intricate headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade. But by the time it reached Lind's hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lind's door without due regard for decency and decorum. It probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the wise and wherefores thereof. There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own. But Mrs. Rachel Lind was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife. Her work was always done and well done. She ran the sewing-circle, helped run the Sunday school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting cotton-warp quilts. She had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in odd voices, and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow, and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied little triangular peninsula jutting out into the gulf of St. Lawrence, with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it, or into it, had to pass over that hill road, and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window, warm and bright. The orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lind, a meek little man whom Avonlea people called Rachel Lind's husband, was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill-field beyond the barn. And Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook-field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought, because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before, in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody, that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet, here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill. Moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea. And he had the buggy and the sorrel mare which betoken that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going, and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him. He was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponderous she might, could make nothing of it, and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why. The worthy woman finally concluded. He doesn't generally go to town this time of year, and he never visits. If he'd run out of turnip seat he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more. He wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea to-day. Accordingly, after tea Mrs. Rachel set out. She had not far to go. The big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynn's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land, and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lind did not call living in such a place living at all. It's just staying, that's what she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose-bushes. It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd rather look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough, but then I suppose they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said. With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the back yard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows, and the other with prim lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel wrapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bitten to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment, or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west, through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight. But the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom, white cherry trees in the left orchard, and nodding slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously. And here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea. But the dishes were everyday dishes, and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar in the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmisterious green gables. Good evening, Rachel! Marilla said briskly. This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks? Saying that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuffbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of—or perhaps because of—their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves. Her dark hair showed some gray streak, some was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind, with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was. But there was a saving something about her mouth, which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humour. We're all pretty well, said Mrs. Rachel. I was kind of afraid you weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off to-day. I thought maybe he was going to the doctors. Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up. She had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbour's curiosity. Oh, no! I'm quite well, although I had a bad headache yesterday, she said. Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia, and he's coming down the train to-night. If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia, Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. Are you an earnest Marilla? She demanded when voice returned to her. Yes, of course, said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea Farm, instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points, a boy? Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy. From an orphan asylum? Well, the world was certainly turning upside down. She would be surprised at nothing after this. Nothing. What on earth put such a notion into your head, she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must per force be disproved. Well, we've been thinking about it for some time. All winter, in fact, returned Marilla. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas, and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there, and Mrs. Spencer has visited her and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over, often on, ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew's getting up in years, you know. He's sixty, and he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal, and you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys, and as soon as you do get one broken to your ways and taught something, he's up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a homeboy, but I said no, flat to that. They may be all right, I'm not saying they're not, but no London Street Arabs for me, I said. Give me a native-born at least. There'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at night if we get a born Canadian. So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best date. Old enough to be of some use in doing chores, right off, and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer to-day, the mailman brought it from the station, saying they were coming on the five-thirty train to-night. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course, she goes on to White Sand Station herself. Mrs. Rachel prided herself and always speaking her mind. She proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news. Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish thing—a risky thing, that's what. You don't know what you're getting. You're bringing a strange child into your house and home, and you don't know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is like, nor what sort of parents he had, nor how he's likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man in his wife up west of the island took a boy out of an orphan asylum, and he set fire to the house at night, set it on purpose, Marilla, and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs. They couldn't break him of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter—which you didn't do, Marilla—I'd have said, for mercy's sake, not to think of such a thing, that's what. This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on. I don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. It's so seldom, Matthew, sets his mind on anything, that when he does I always feel it's my duty to give in. And as for the risk, there's risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world. There's risks in peoples having children of their own, if it comes to that. They don't always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia's right close to the island. It isn't as if we were getting him from England or the States. He can't be much different from ourselves. Well, I hope it will turn out all right," said Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts. Only don't say I didn't warn you if he burns green gables down or puts strychnine in the well. I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan asylum child did that, and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only it was a girl in that instance. Well, we're not getting a girl," said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were a purely feminine accomplishment, and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head. Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan. But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival, she concluded to go up the road to Robert Bell's and tell the news. It would certainly make a sensation second to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she took herself away, somewhat to Marilla's relief, for the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the influence of Mrs. Rachel's pessimism. Well, of all things that ever were or will be, ejaculated Mrs. Rachel when she was safely out in the lane, it does really seem as if I must be dreaming. Well, I'm sorry for that poor young one and no mistake. Matthew and Marilla don't know anything about children, and they'll expect him to be wiser and steadier than his own grandfather, if so busy's ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think of a child that Green Gables somehow. There's never been one there, for Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built. If they ever were children, which is hard to believe when one looks at them, I wouldn't be in that orphan's shoes for anything. My, but I pity him, that's what. So said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fullness of her heart. But if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the Bright River Station at that very moment, her pity would have been still deeper and more profound. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 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, March 2007. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Mald Montgomery Chapter 2 Matthew Cuthbert is surprised Matthew Cuthbert and the Sorrel mare jogged comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River. It was a pretty road, running along between snug farmsteads with, now and again, a bit of balsamie firwood to drive through, or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom. The air was sweet with the breath of many apple orchards, and the meadows sloped away in the distance to horizon mists of pearl and purple, while the little birds sang as if it were the one day of summer and all the year. Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, except during the moments when he met women and had to nod to them. For in Prince Edward Island you are supposed to nod to all and sundry you meet on the road, whether you know them or not. Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and Mrs. Rachel. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the mysterious creatures were secretly laughing at him. He may have been quite right in thinking so, for he was an odd looking personage, with an ungainly figure and long iron gray hair that touched his stooping shoulders, and a full soft brown beard which he had worn ever since he was twenty. In fact, he had looked at twenty very much as he looked at sixty, lacking a little of the grayness. When he reached Bright River there was no sign of any train. He thought he was too early, so he tied his horse in the yard of the small Bright River Hotel and went over to the station house. The long platform was almost deserted, the only living creature in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end. Matthew, barely noticing that it was a girl, sidled past her as quickly as possible without looking at her. Had he looked, he could hardly have failed to notice the tense rigidity and expectation of her attitude and expression. She was sitting there waiting for something or somebody, and, since sitting and waiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her might in main. Matthew encountered the station master locking up the ticket office preparatory to going home for supper, and asked him if the five-thirty train would soon be along. The five-thirty train has been in and gone half an hour ago, answered that brisk official. But there was a passenger dropped off for you, a little girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her to go into the lady's waiting room, but she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside. There was more scope for the imagination, she said. She's a case, I should say. I'm not expecting a girl, said Matthew blankly. It's a boy I've come for. He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me. The station master whistled. Guess there's some mistake, he said. Mrs. Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her into my charge. Said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum, and that you would be along for her presently. That's all I know about it, and I haven't got any more orphans concealed hereabouts. I don't understand, said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla was at hand to cope with the situation. Well, you'd better question the girl, said the station master carelessly. I daresay she'll be able to explain. She's got a tongue of her own, that's certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand you wanted. He walked jontally away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in its den. Walk up to a girl—a strange girl, an orphan girl—and demand of her why she wasn't a boy. Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuffled gently down the platform towards her. She had been watching him ever since he had passed her, and she had her eyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her, and he would not have seen what she was really like if he had been. But an ordinary observer would have seen this. A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey. She wore a faded brown sailor hat, and beneath the hat, extending down her back, where two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white, and thin, also much freckled. Her mouth was large, and so were her eyes, which looked green in some lights and moods, and gray in others. So far the ordinary observer. An extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced, that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity, that the mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive, that the forehead was broad and full. In short, our discerning, extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray woman-child of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid. Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her, she stood up, grasping with one thin, brown hand the handle of a shabby, old fashioned carpet-bag, the other she held out to him. I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables." She said in a peculiarly clear, sweet voice. I am very glad to see you. I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me, and I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you. I had made up my mind that if you didn't come for me to-night, I'd go down the track to that big, wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it and stay all night. I wouldn't be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don't you think? You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn't you? And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning if you didn't tonight. Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his. Then and there he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with the glowing eyes that there had been a mistake. He would take her home and let Marilla do that. She couldn't be left at Bright River anyhow, no matter what mistake had been made, so all questions and explanations might as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green Gables. I'm sorry I was late, he said shyly. Come along. The horse is over in the yard. Give me your bag. Oh, I can carry it," the child responded cheerfully. It isn't heavy. I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn't carried in just a certain way, the handle pulls out, so I better keep it because I know the exact knack of it. It's an extremely old carpet bag. Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree. We've got to drive along peace, haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles. I'm glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody, not really. But the asylum was the worst. I've only been in it for four months, but that was enough. I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so you can't possibly understand what it is like. It's worse than anything you can imagine. Mrs. Spencer said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but I didn't mean to be wicked. It's so easy to be wicked without knowing, isn't it? They were good. You know, the asylum people. But there is so little scope for the imagination in an asylum, only just in the other orphans. It was pretty interesting to imagine things about them, to imagine that perhaps the girl who sat next to you was really the daughter of a belted earl who had been stolen away from her parents in her infancy by a cruel nurse who died before she could confess. I used to lie awake at night and imagine things like that because I didn't have time in the day. I guess that's why I'm so thin. I am dreadful, say, nay-dye. There isn't a pig on my bones. I do love to imagine I'm nice and plump with dimples in my elbows. With this Matthew's companions stopped talking, partly because she was out of breath and partly because they had reached the buggy. Not another word did she say until they had left the village and were driving down a steep little hill, the road part of which had been cut so deeply into the soft soil that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry trees and slim white birches, were several feet above their heads. The child put out her hand and broke off a branch of wild plum that brushed against the side of the buggy. Isn't that beautiful? What did that tree, leaning out from the bank, all white and lacy, make you think of, she asked? Well, now? I don't know, said Matthew. Why a bride, of course, a bride all in white with a lovely misty veil. I've never seen one, but I can imagine what she would look like. I don't ever expect to be a bride myself. I'm so homely nobody will ever want to unless it might be a foreign missionary. I suppose a foreign missionary might be very particular. But I do hope that someday I shall have a white dress. That is my highest ideal of earthly bliss. I just love pretty clothes. And I've never had a pretty dress in my life that I can remember. But, of course, it's all the more to look forward to, isn't it? And then I can imagine that I'm dressed gorgeously. This morning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I had to wear this horrid old wincy dress. All the orphans had to wear them, you know. A merchant in Hopeson last winter donated three hundred yards of wincy to the asylum. Some people said it was because he couldn't sell it. But I'd rather believe that it was out of the kindness of his heart, wouldn't you? When we got on the train I felt as if everybody must be looking at me and pitying me. But I just went to work and imagine that I had on the most beautiful pale blue silk dress. Because when you are imagining you might as well imagine something worthwhile. And a big hat, all flowers and knotting plumes and a gold watch and kid gloves and boots. I felt cheered up right away and I enjoyed my trip to the island with all my might. I wasn't a bit sick coming over in the boat. Neither was Mrs. Spencer, although she generally is. She said she hadn't time to get sick, watching to see that I didn't fall overboard. She said she never saw the beat of me for prowling about. But if it kept her from being sea sick it's a mercy I did prowl, isn't it? And I wanted to see everything that was to be seen on that boat because I didn't know whether I'd ever have another opportunity. Oh, there are a lot more cherry trees all in bloom. This island is the bloomiest place. I just love it already and I'm so glad I'm going to live here. I've always heard that Prince Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world and I used to imagine I was living here. But I never really expected I would. It's delightful when your imaginations come true, isn't it? But those red roads are so funny. When we got into the train at Charlottetown and the red roads began to flash past, I asked Mrs. Spencer what made them red and she said she didn't know and for pity's sake not to ask her any more questions. She said I must have asked her a thousand already. I suppose I had too but how are you going to find out about things if you don't ask questions? And what does make the roads red? Well now? I don't know, said Matthew. Well that is one of the things to find out sometime. Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive. It's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if when you all about everything would it? There'd be no scope for the imagination then, would there? But am I talking too much? People are always telling me I do. Would you rather I didn't talk? If you say so, I'll stop. I can stop when I make up my mind to it, although it's difficult. Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself. Like most quiet folks, he liked talkative people when they were willing to do the talking themselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it. But he had never expected to enjoy the society of a little girl. Women were bad enough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested the way they had of sideling past him timidly with side-wise glances as if they expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. That was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. But this freckled wish was very different, and although he found it rather difficult for his slower intelligence to keep up with her brisk mental processes, he thought that he kind of liked her chatter. So he said, as shyly as usual, oh, you can talk as much as you like. I don't mind. Oh, I'm so glad. I know you and I are going to get along together fine. It's such a relief to talk when one wants to and not be told that children should be seen and not heard. I've had that said to me a million times if I have once, and people laugh at me because I use big words. But if you have big ideas, you have to use big words to express them, haven't you? Well, now? That seems reasonable, said Matthew. Mrs. Spencer said that my tongue must be hung in the middle. But it isn't. It's firmly fastened at one end. Mrs. Spencer said your place was named Green Gables. I asked her all about it. And she said there were trees all around it. I was gladder than ever. I just love trees. And there weren't any at all about the asylum. Only a few poor, weeny, teeny things out in front with little whitewashed, cagey things about them. They just looked like orphans themselves those trees did. It used to make me want to cry to look at them. I used to say to them, oh, you poor little things. If you were out in the great big woods with other trees all around you and little mosses and Junebells growing over your roots and a brook not far away and birds singing in your branches, you could grow, couldn't you? But you can't where you are. I know just exactly how you feel, little trees. I felt sorry to leave them behind this morning. You do get so attached to things like that, don't you? Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer that. Well, now? Yes. There's one right below the house. Fancy. It's always been one of my dreams to live near a brook. I never expected I would, though. Dreams don't often come true, do they? Wouldn't it be nice if they did? But just now I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly happy because, well, what color would you call this? She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes. Matthew was not used to deciding on the tints of Lady's tresses, but in this case there couldn't be much doubt. It's red, ain't it? he said. The girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages. Yes, it's red, she said resignedly. Now you see why I can't be perfectly happy. Nobody could who has red hair. I don't mind the other things so much—the freckles and the green eyes and my skinniness. I can imagine them away. I can imagine I have a beautiful rose-leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes, but I cannot imagine that red hair away. I do my best. I think to myself, now my hair is a glorious black. Black is the raven's wing. But all the time I know it is just plain red, and it breaks my heart. It will be my lifelong sorrow. I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow, but it wasn't red hair. Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow. What is an alabaster brow? I never could find out. Can you tell me? Well, now? I'm afraid I can't, said Matthew, who was getting a little dizzy. He felt as he had once felt in his rash youth when another boy had enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic. Well, whatever it was, it must have been something nice, because she was divinely beautiful. Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful? Well now? No, I haven't, confessed Matthew ingenuously. I have often. Which would you rather be if you had the choice? Divinely beautiful, or dazzlingly clever, or angelically good? Well now? I don't know exactly. Neither do I. I can never decide. But it doesn't make much real difference, for it isn't likely I'll ever be either. It's certain I'll never be angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says, Oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert! That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said. Neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy, nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road, and found themselves in the avenue. The avenue, so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple trees planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy, fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight, and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy. Her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out, and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge, she never moved or spoke. Still with wrapped face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted, and curious faces peered from the windows they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them, the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry, Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. But we haven't very far to go now, only another mile. She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh, and looked at him with a dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wandering afar, star-led. Oh, Mr. Cuthbert, she whispered, that place we came through, that white place. What was it? Well now, you must mean the avenue, said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. It is a kind of pretty place. Pretty? Oh, pretty doesn't seem the right word to use, nor beautiful either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful, wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here. She put one hand on her breast. It made a queer, funny ache, and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert? Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had. I have it lots of times, whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the avenue. There's no meaning in a name like that. They should call it, let me see, the white way of delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person, I always imagine a new one, and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hephseba Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia Devere. Other people may call that place the avenue, but I shall always call it the white way of delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant, and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Still, something still pleasanter may come after. But you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming home into a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty? They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway, and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues, the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fur and maple, and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tiptoeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little grey house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond, and although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. That's Barry's pond, said Matthew. Oh, I don't like that name either. I shall call it—let me see—the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that shoots exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill? Matthew ruminated. Well, now? Yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them. Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond? I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard slopes the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see green gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further. Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little, either, about my size. He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana. With a long in-drawing of breath. What a perfectly lovely name. Well, now, I don't know. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd rather Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her. And he called her Diana. I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps, just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like a jackknife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, if the bridge did crumple up I'd want to see it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes. I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There, we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, dear lake of shining waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it were smiling at me. When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthew said, We're pretty near home now. That's Green Gables over— Oh, don't tell me! she interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. Let me guess. I'm sure I'll guess right. She opened her eyes and looked about her. They were on the crest of a hill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was still clear in the mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church-spire rose up against a marigold sky. Below was a little valley and beyond a long, gently rising slope with snug farmstead scattered along it. From one to another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last they lingered on one away to the left, far back from the road, dimly white with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal white star was shining like a lamp of guidance and promise. That's it, isn't it? she said, pointing. Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrows back delightedly. Well now, you guessed it. But I reckon Mrs. Spencer described it so as you could tell. No, she didn't. Really she didn't. All she said might just as well have been about most of those other places. I hadn't any real idea what it looked like, but just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know, my arm must be black and blue from the elbow up for I've pinched myself so many times today. Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me and I'd be so afraid it was all a dream then I'd pinch myself to see if it was real until suddenly I remembered that even supposing it was only a dream I'd better go on dreaming as long as I could. So I stopped pinching. But it is real and we're nearly home. With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. Matthew stirred uneasily. He felt glad that it would be Marilla and not he who would have to tell this wave of the world that the home she longed for was not to be hers after all. They drove over Lynn's Hollow, where it was already quite dark, but not so dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see them from her window vantage, and up the hill and into the long lane of green gables. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew was shrinking from the approaching revelation with an energy he did not understand. It was not of Marilla or himself who was thinking of the trouble this mistake was probably going to make for them, but of the child's disappointment. When he thought of that wrapped light being quenched in her eyes he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to assist at murdering something, much the same feeling that came over him when he had to kill a lamb or calf or any other innocent little creature. The yard was quite dark as they turned into it, and the poplar leaves were rustling silkily all around it. Listen to the trees stalking in their sleep, she whispered as he lifted her to the ground. What nice dreams they must have. Then holding tightly to the carpet bag which contained all her worldly goods, she followed him into the house. But when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff ugly dress with the long braids of red hair and the eager luminous eyes she stopped short in amazement. Matthew Cuthbert, who's that? she ejaculated. Where's the boy? There wasn't any boy, said Matthew wretchedly. There was only her. He nodded at the child remembering that he had never even asked her name. No boy? But there must have been a boy, insisted Marilla. We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy. Well, she didn't. She brought her. I asked the station master, and I had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there no matter where the mistake had come in. Well, this is a pretty piece of business, ejaculated Marilla. During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. You don't want me, she cried. You don't want me because I'm not a boy. I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears. Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it. Yes, there is need. The child raised her head quickly revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. You would cry too if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most tragic thing that has ever happened to me. Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression. Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out of doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name? The child hesitated for a moment. Will you please call me Cordelia? She said eagerly. Call you Cordelia? Is that your name? No, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name. I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is? Anne Shirley reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name. But oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name. Unromantic fiddlesticks, said the unsympathetic Marilla. Anne is a real good, plain, sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it. Oh, I'm not ashamed of it, explained Anne. Only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia. At least I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne, please call me Anne spelled with an E. What difference does it make how it's spelled? Ask Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. Oh, it makes such a difference. It looks so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced, can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can. And A-N-N looks dreadful, but A-N-N-E looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E, I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia. Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E. Can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We send word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum? Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said distinctly that you wanted a girl about eleven years old, and the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh, she added reproachfully turning to Matthew. Why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the white way of delight in the lake of shining waters, it wouldn't be so hard. What on earth does she mean? demanded Marilla staring at Matthew. She—she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road, said Matthew hastily. I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back. Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you? continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old, and she is very beautiful, and has nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair, would you keep me? No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it on your bag on the hall table. Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently, and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. You're not eating anything, said Marilla sharply, eyeing her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you're in the depths of despair? I have never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say, responded Marilla. Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to imagine you were in the depths of despair? No, I didn't. Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's a very uncomfortable feeling, indeed. When you try to eat, a lump comes right up in your throat, and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago, and it was simply delicious. I've often dreamed since then that I've had a lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I'm going to eat them. I do hope you won't be offended because I can't eat. Everything is extremely nice. But still I cannot eat. I guess she's tired, said Matthew, who hadn't spoken since his return from the barn. Best put her to bed, Marilla. Marilla had been wondering where Anne should be put to bed. She had prepared a couch in the kitchen chamber for the desired and expected boy. But although it was neat and clean, it did not seem quite the thing to put a girl there somehow. But the spare room was out of the question for such a stray wave, so there remained only the east gable room. Marilla lighted a candle and told Anne to follow her, which Anne spiritlessly did, taking her hat and carpet bag from the hall table as she passed. The hall was fearsomely clean. The little gable chamber in which she presently found herself seemed still cleaner. Marilla set the candle on a three-legged three-corner table and turned down the bed clothes. I suppose you have a nightgown, she questioned. Anne nodded. Yes, I have, too. The matron of the asylum made them for me. They're fearfully skimpy. There's never enough to go around in an asylum, so things are always skimpy, at least in a poor asylum like ours. I hate skimpy night dresses, but one can dream just as well in them as in lovely trailing ones with frills around the neck. That's one consolation. Well, undress as quick as you can and go to bed. I'll come back in a few minutes for the candle. I dare not trust you to put it out yourself. You'd likely set the place on fire. When Marilla had gone, Anne looked around her wistfully. The white-washed walls were so painfully bare and staring that she thought they must ache over their own bareness. The floor was bare, too, except for a round, braided mat in the middle such as Anne had never seen before. In one corner was the bed, a high, old-fashioned one with four dark, low-turned posts. In the other corner was the aforesaid three-corner table adorned with a fat red velvet pin-cushion hard enough to turn the point of the most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little six-by-eight mirror. Midway between table and bed was the window, with an icy white muslin frill over it, and opposite it was the wash-stand. The whole apartment was of rigidity not to be described in words, but which scented shiver to the very marrow of Anne's bones. With a sob she hastily discarded her garments, put on the skimpy nightgown, and sprang into bed, where she burrowed face downward into the pillow and pulled the clothes over her head. When Marilla came up for the light, various skimpy articles of raiment scattered most untidily over the floor, and a certain tempestuous appearance of the bed, were the only indications of any presence save her own. She deliberately picked up Anne's clothes, placed them neatly on a prim yellow chair, and then, taking up the candle, went over to the bed. Good night, she said, a little awkwardly, but not unkindly. Anne's white face and big eyes appeared over the bed-clothes with a startling suddenness. How could you call it a good night, when you know it must be the very worst night I've ever had? She said reproachfully. Then she dived down into invisibility again. Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen, and proceeded to wash the supper-dishes. Matthew was smoking, a sure sign of perturbation of mind. He seldom smoked, for Marilla set her face against it as a filthy habit, but at certain times and seasons he felt driven to it, and then Marilla winked at the practice, realizing that a mere man must have some vent for his emotions. Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish, she said, rothfully. This is what comes of sending word instead of going ourselves. Richard Spencer's folks have twisted that message somehow. One of us will have to drive over and see Mrs. Spencer tomorrow, that's certain. This girl will have to be sent back to the asylum. Yes, I suppose so, said Matthew reluctantly. You suppose so? Don't you know it? Well, now, she's a real nice little thing, Marilla. It's kind of a pity to send her back when she's so set on staying here. Matthew Cuthbert, you don't mean to say you think we ought to keep her. Marilla's astonishment could not have been greater if Matthew had expressed a predilection for standing on his head. Well, now, no, I suppose not. Not exactly, stammered Matthew, uncomfortably driven into a corner for his precise meaning. I suppose we could hardly be expected to keep her. I should say not. What good would she be to us? We might be some good to her, said Matthew suddenly and unexpectedly. Matthew Cuthbert, I believe that child has bewitched you. I can see as plain as plain that you want to keep her. Well, now, she's a real interesting little thing, persisted Matthew. You should have heard her talk come in from the station. Oh, she can talk fast enough. I saw that at once. It's nothing in her favour, either. I don't like children who have so much to say. I don't want an orphan girl, and if I did, she isn't the style I'd pick out. There's something I don't understand about her. No, she's got to be dispatched straight way back to where she came from. I could hire a French boy to help me, said Matthew, and she'd be company for you. I'm not suffering for company, said Marilla shortly, and I'm not going to keep her. Well, now it's just as you say, of course, Marilla, said Matthew, rising and putting his pipe away. I'm going to bed. To bed went Matthew, and to bed, when she had put her dishes away, went Marilla, frowning most resolutely, and upstairs in the East Gable, a lonely, hard-hungry, friendless child, cried herself to sleep. CHAPTER IV MORNING AT GREEN GABELS It was broad daylight when Anne awoke and sat up in bed, staring confusedly at the window through which a flood of cheery sunshine was pouring, and outside of which something white and feathery waved across glimpses of blue sky. For a moment you could not remember where she was. First came a delightful thrill as if something very pleasant, than a horrible remembrance. This was green gables, and they didn't want her because she wasn't a boy. But it was morning, and yes, it was a cherry tree in full bloom outside of her window. With a bound she was out of bed and across the floor. She pushed up the sash, it went up stiffly and creakily as if it hadn't been open for a long time, which was the case, and it stuck so tight that nothing was needed to hold it up. Anne dropped on her knees and gazed out into the June morning, her eyes glistening with delight. Oh, wasn't it beautiful? Wasn't it a lovely place? Suppose she wasn't really going to stay here. She would imagine she was. There was scope for imagination here. A huge cherry tree grew outside, so close that its boughs tapped against the house, and it was so fixed that with blossoms that hardly a leaf was to be seen. On both sides of the house was a big orchard. One of apple trees and one of cherry trees, also showered over with blossoms, and their grass was all sprinkled with dandelions. In the garden below were lilac trees purple with flowers, and their dizzily sweet fragrance drifted up to the window on the morning wind. Below the garden, a green field lush with clover sloped down to the hollow where the brook ran, and where scores of white birches grew, upspringing airily out of an undergrowth suggestive of delightful possibilities in ferns and mosses and woodsy things generally. Beyond it was a hill, green and feathery with spruce and fir. There was a gap in it, where the gray gable end of the little house she had seen from the other side of the lake of shining waters was visible. Off to the left were the big barns, and beyond them, a way down over green, low-sloping fields, was a sparkling blue glimpse of sea. Anne's beauty-loving eyes lingered on it all, taking everything greedily in. She had looked on so many unlovely places in her life, poor child, but this was as lovely as anything she had ever dreamed. She knelt there, lost to everything but the loveliness around her, until she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. Marilla had come in unheard by the small dreamer. It's time you were dressed, she said curtly. Marilla really did not know how to talk to the child, and her uncomfortable ignorance made her crisp and curt when she did not mean to be. Anne stood up and drew a long breath. Isn't it wonderful? She said, waving her hand, comprehensively at the good world outside. It's a big tree, said Marilla, and it blooms great, but the fruit don't amount to much never, small and wormy. Oh, I don't mean just the tree. Of course, it's lovely, yes, it's radiantly lovely. It blooms as if it meant it, but I meant everything. The garden and the orchard and the brook and the woods, the whole big dear world. Don't you feel as if you just loved the world on a morning like this? And I can hear the brook laughing all the way up here. Have you ever noticed what cheerful things brooks are? They're always laughing, even in winter time I've heard them under the ice. I'm so glad there's a brook near Green Gables. Perhaps you think it doesn't make any difference to me when you're not going to keep me, but it does. I shall always like to remember that there is a brook at Green Gables, even if I never see it again. If there wasn't a brook, I'd be haunted by the uncomfortable feeling that there ought to be one. I'm not in the depths of despair this morning. I never can be in the morning. Isn't it a splendid thing that there are mornings? But I feel very sad. I've just been imagining that it was really me you wanted after all, and that I was to stay here forever and ever. It was a great comfort while it lasted. But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop, and that hurts. You'd better get dressed and come downstairs and never mind your imaginings," said Marilla, as soon as she could get a word in edgewise. Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window up and turn your bedclothes back over the foot of the bed. Be as smart as you can. Anne could evidently be smart to some purpose, for she was downstairs in ten minutes time with her clothes neatly on, her hair brushed and braided, her face washed, and a comfortable consciousness pervading her soul that she had fulfilled all Marilla's requirements. As a matter of fact, however, she had forgotten to turn back the bedclothes. I'm pretty hungry this morning, she announced as she slipped into the chair Marilla placed for her. The world doesn't seem such a howling wilderness as it did last night. I'm so glad it's a sunshiney morning, but I like rainy mornings real well too. All sorts of mornings are interesting, don't you think? You don't know what's going to happen through the day, and there's so much scope for imagination. But I'm glad it's not rainy today because it's easier to be cheerful and bear up under reflection on a sunshiney day. I feel that I have a good deal to bear up under. It's all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it's not so nice when you really come to have them, is it? For pity's sake, hold your tongue, said Marilla. You talk entirely too much for a little girl. Thereupon Anne held her tongue so obediently and thoroughly that her continued silence made Marilla rather nervous, as if in the presence of something not exactly natural. Matthew also held his tongue, but this was natural, so that the meal was a very silent one. As it progressed, Anne became more and more abstracted, eating mechanically with her big eyes fixed unswervingly and unseeingly on the sky outside the window. This made Marilla more nervous than ever. She had an uncomfortable feeling that while this odd child's body might be there at the table, her spirit was far away in some remote, airy, cloudland, borne aloft on the wings of imagination. Who would want such a child about the place? Yet Matthew wished to keep her of all unaccountable things. Marilla felt that he wanted it just as much this morning as he had the night before, and that he would go on wanting it. That was Matthew's way. Take a whim into his head and cling to it with the most amazing silent persistency—a persistency ten times more potent and effectual in its very silence than if he had talked it out. When the meal was ended, Anne came out of a reverie and offered to wash the dishes. Can you wash dishes right? asked Marilla distrustfully. Pretty well. I'm better at looking after children, though. I've had so much experience at that. It's such a pity you haven't any here for me to look after. I don't feel as if I wanted any more children to look after than I've got at present. Your problem enough in all conscience. What's to be done with you? I don't know. Matthew is a most ridiculous man. I think he's lovely, said Anne reproachfully. He's so very sympathetic. He didn't mind how much I talked. He seemed to like it. I felt that he was a kindred spirit as soon as ever I saw him. You're both queer enough, if that's what you mean by kindred spirits, said Marilla, with a sniff. Yes, you may wash the dishes. Take plenty of hot water, and be sure you dry them well. I've got enough to attend to this morning, for I'll have to drive over to White Sands in the afternoon and see Mrs. Spencer. You'll come with me, and we'll settle what's to be done with you. After you finish the dishes, go upstairs and make your bed. Anne washed the dishes deftly enough, as Marilla, who kept a sharp eye on the process, discerned. Later on she made her bed less successfully, for she had never learned the art of wrestling with a feather-tick. But it was done somehow and smoothed down, and then Marilla, to get rid of her, told her she might go out of doors and amuse herself until dinner time. Anne flew to the door, face a light, eyes glowing. On the very threshold she stopped short, wheeled about, came back and sat down by the table. Light and glow was effectually blotted out as if someone had clapped an extinguisher on her. What's the matter now? demanded Marilla. I don't dare go out, said Anne, in the tone of a martyr relinquishing all earthly joys. If I can't stay here, there's no use in my loving green gables, and if I go out there and get acquainted with all those trees and flowers and the orchard in the brook, I'll not be able to help loving it. It's hard enough now, so I won't make it any harder. I want to go out so much. Everything seems to be calling to me. Anne! Anne! Come out to us! Anne! Anne! We want a playmate. But it's better not. There is no use in loving things if you have to be torn from them, is there? And it's so hard to keep from loving things, isn't it? That was why I was so glad when I thought I was going to live here. I thought I'd have so many things to love and nothing to hinder me. But that brief dream is over. I am resigned to my fate now, so I don't think I'll go out. For fear I'll get unresigned again. What is the name of that geranium on the window sill, please? That's the apple-scented geranium. Oh, I don't mean that sort of a name. I mean, just a name you gave it yourself. Didn't you give it a name? May I give it one then? May I call it—let me see. Bonnie would do. May I call it Bonnie while I'm here? Oh, do let me. Goodness, I don't care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a geranium? Oh, I like things to have handles, even if they're only geraniums. It makes them seem more like people. How do you know but that it hurts a geranium's feelings just to be called a geranium and nothing else? You wouldn't like to be called nothing but a woman all the time. Yes. I shall call it Bonnie. I named that cherry-tree outside my bedroom window this morning. I called it Snow Queen because it was so white. Of course it won't always be in blossom, but one can imagine that it is, can't one. I never in all my life saw or heard anything to equal her, muttered Marilla, beating a retreat down to the cellar after potatoes. She is kind of interesting, as Matthew says. I can feel already that I'm wondering what on earth she'll say next. She'll be casting a spell over me, too. She's casted over Matthew. That look he gave me when he went out said everything he said or hinted last night over again. I wish he was like other men and would talk things out. A body could answer back then and argue him into reason. But what's to be done with a man who just looks? Anne had relapsed into reverie with her chin in her hands and her eyes on the sky, when Marilla returned from her cellar pilgrimage. There Marilla left her until the early dinner was on the table. I suppose I can have the mare and buggy this afternoon, Matthew, said Marilla. Matthew nodded and looked wistfully at Anne. Marilla intercepted the look and said, grimly, I'm going to drive over to White Sands and settle this thing. I'll take Anne with me and Mrs. Spencer will probably make arrangements to send her back to Nova Scotia at once. I'll set your tea out for you, and I'll be home in time to milk the cows. Still, Matthew said nothing, and Marilla had a sense of having wasted words and breath. There is nothing more aggravating than a man who won't talk back, unless it is a woman who won't. Matthew hitched the sorrel into the buggy in due time, and Marilla and Anne set off. Matthew opened the yard gate for them, and as they drove slowly through, he said to nobody in particular as it seemed. Little Jerry Boat from the creek was here this morning, and I told him I guessed I'd hired him for the summer. Marilla made no reply. But she hit the unlucky sorrel such a vicious clip with the whip that the fat mare, unused to such treatment, whizzed indignantly down the lane at an alarming pace. Marilla looked back once as the buggy bounced along and saw that aggravating Matthew, leaning over the gate, looking wistfully after them. Anne's History Do you know, said Anne confidentially, I've made up my mind to enjoy this drive. It's been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will. Of course, you must make it up firmly. I am not going to think about going back to the asylum while we're having our drive. I am just going to think about the drive. Oh, look! There's one little early wild rose out. Isn't it lovely? Don't you think it must be glad to be a rose? Wouldn't it be nice if roses could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely things. And isn't pink the most bewitching color in the world? I love it, but I can't wear it. Red-headed people can't wear pink, not even an imagination. Did you ever know of anybody whose hair was red when she was young but got to be another color when she grew up? No, I don't know as I ever did, said Marilla mercilessly, and I shouldn't think it likely to happen in your case, either. And sighed. Well, that is another hope gone. My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes. That's a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it over to comfort myself whenever I'm disappointed in anything. I don't see where the comforting comes in myself, said Marilla. Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic, just as if I were a heroine in a book, you know. I'm so fond of romantic things, and a graveyard full of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one can imagine, isn't it? I'm rather glad I have one. Are we going across the Lake of Shining Waters today? We're not going over Barry's Pond, if that's what you mean by your Lake of Shining Waters. We're going by the Shore Road. Shore Road sounds nice, said Anne dreamily. Is it as nice as it sounds? Just when you said Shore Road, I saw it in a picture in my mind as quick as that. And White Sands is a pretty name, too. But I don't like it as well as Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely name. It just sounds like music. How far is it to White Sands? It's five miles. And as you're evidently bent on talking, you might as well talk to some purpose by telling me what you know about yourself. Oh, what I know about myself isn't really worth telling, said Anne eagerly. If you'll only let me tell you what I imagine about myself, you'll think it ever so much more interesting. No, I don't want any of your imaginings. Just you stick to bald facts. Begin at the beginning. Where were you born, and how old are you? I was eleven last March, said Anne, resigning herself to bald facts with a little sigh. And I was born in Bowlingbroke, Nova Scotia. My father's name was Walter Shirley, and he was a teacher in the Bowlingbroke High School. My mother's name was Bertha Shirley. Aren't Walter and Bertha lovely names? I'm so glad my parents had nice names. It would be a real disgrace to have a father named—well, say, Jedediah, wouldn't it? I guess it doesn't matter what a person's name is as long as he behaves himself, said Marilla, feeling herself called upon to inculcate a good and useful moral. Well, I don't know. Anne looked thoughtful. I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose would be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage. I suppose my father could have been a good man, even if he had been called Jedediah. But I'm sure it would have been a cross. Well, my mother was a teacher in the High School, too, but when she married father she gave up teaching, of course. A husband was enough responsibility. Mrs. Thomas said that they were a pair of babies and as poor as church mice. They went to live in a weeny, teeny little yellow house in Bowlingbroke. I've never seen that house, but I've imagined it thousands of times. I think it must have had honeysuckle over the parlor window, and lilacs in the front yard, and lilies of the valley just inside the gate. Yes, and muslin curtains in all the windows. Muslin curtains gave a house such an air. I was born in that house. Mrs. Thomas said I was the homeliest baby she ever saw. I was so scrawny and tiny and nothing but eyes, but that mother thought I was perfectly beautiful. I should think a mother would be a better judge than a poor woman who came in to scrub, wouldn't you? I'm glad she was satisfied with me anyhow. I would feel so sad if I thought I was a disappointment to her, because she didn't live very long after that, you see. She died of fever when I was just three months old. I do wish she'd lived long enough for me to remember calling her mother. I think it would be so sweet to say mother, don't you? And father died four days afterwards from fever too. That left me an orphan, and folks were at their wit's end, so Mrs. Thomas said, what to do with me? You see, nobody wanted me even then. It seems to be my fate. Father and mother had both come from places far away, and it was well known they hadn't any relatives living. Finally Mrs. Thomas said she'd take me, though she was poor and had a drunken husband. She brought me up by hand. Do you know if there is anything in being brought up by hand that ought to make a people who are brought up that way better than other people? Because whenever I was naughty Mrs. Thomas would ask me how I could be such a bad girl when she had brought me up by hand, reproachful like. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Bowlingbrook to Marysville, and I lived with them until I was eight years old. I helped look after the Thomas children. There were four of them younger than me, and I can tell you they took a lot of looking after. Then Mr. Thomas was killed falling under a train, and his mother offered to take Mrs. Thomas and the children, but she didn't want me. Mrs. Thomas would sit her wit's end, so she said what to do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond from up the river came down and said she'd take me, seeing I was handy with children, and I went up the river to live with her in a little clearing among the stumps. It was a very lonely place. I'm sure I could never have lived there if I hadn't had an imagination. Mr. Hammond worked a little sawmill up there, and Mrs. Hammond had eight children. She had twins three times. I like babies in moderation, but twins three times in succession is too much. I told Mrs. Hammond so firmly when the last pair came. I used to get so dreadfully tired of carrying them about. I lived up river with Mrs. Hammond over two years, and then Mr. Hammond died, and Mrs. Hammond broke up housekeeping. She divided her children among her relatives, and went to the States. I had to go to the asylum at Hopeton because nobody would take me. They didn't want me at the asylum either. They said they were overcrowded as it was, but they had to take me, and I was there four months until Mrs. Spencer came. Anne finished up with another sigh of relief this time. Evidently she did not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not wanted her. Did you ever go to school? demanded Marilla, turning the sorrel mare down the shore road. Not a great deal. I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs. Thomas. When I went up river we were so far from a school that I couldn't walk it in winter, and there was a vacation in summer, so I could only go in the spring and fall. But of course I went when I was at the asylum. I can read pretty well, and I know ever so many pieces of poetry off by heart. The Battle of Hohenlinden, and Edinburgh after Flooden, and Bingen of the Rhine, and Most of the Lady of the Lake, and Most of the Seasons by James Thompson. Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a piece in the Fifth Reader, the downfall of Poland, that is just full of thrills. Of course I wasn't in the Fifth Reader, I was only in the Fourth, but the big girls used to let me theirs to read. Were those women? Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond, good to you? asked Marilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye. Oh! faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed Scarlett, and embarrassment sat on her brow. Oh! they meant to be! I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not quite, always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's very trying to have a drunken husband, you see, and it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don't you think? But I feel sure they meant to be good to me. Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road, and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly while she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child. What a starved, unloved life she had had. A life of drudgery and poverty and neglect. For Marilla was shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been so delighted that the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable whim and let her stay? He was said on it, and the child seemed a nice, teachable little thing. She's got too much to say, thought Marilla, but she might be trained out of that. And there's nothing rude or slangy in what she does say. She's ladylike. It's likely her people were nice folks. The shore was woodsy and wild and lonesome. On the right hand, scrub first, their spirits quite unbroken by long years of tussle with the gulf winds, grew thickly. On the left were the steep red sandstone cliffs, so near the track in places that a mare of less steadiness than the sorrel might have tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down at the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks, or little sandy coves inlaid with pebbles as with ocean jewels. Beyond lay the sea, shimmering and blue, and over it soared the gulls, their pinions flashing silvery in the sunlight. Isn't the sea wonderful? said Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed silence. Once when I lived in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the children all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore. Aren't those gulls splendid? Would you like to be a gull? I think I would. That is, if I couldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water in a way over that lovely blue wall day, and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just a head-place? That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirk runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right. I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. I don't want to get there. Somehow it will seem like the end of everything. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 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, May 2007. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 6 Marilla Makes Up Her Mind Get there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. Dear, dear, she exclaimed, you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne? I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne, smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare, said Marilla, but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see what it is. We sent word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old. Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so! said Mrs. Spencer in distress. Why, Robert sent down word by his daughter Nancy, and she said you wanted a girl. Didn't she, Flora Jane? Appealing to her daughter would come out to the steps. She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert, corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. I'm dreadfully sorry, said Mrs. Spencer. It's too bad, but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could, and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I have often had to scold her well for her heedlessness. It was our own fault, said Marilla, resignedly. We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made, and the only thing to do is set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they? I suppose so, said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully. But I don't think it will be necessary to spend her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help, and will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential. Marilla did not look as if she thought providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight, as a small, shrewish-faced woman, without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard of her. A terrible worker and driver, Mrs. Peter was said to be, and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temperance, dinginess, and her family of perked, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a quam of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. Well, I'll go in, and we'll talk the matter over, she said. And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute, exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds, that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. That is real lucky, for we can settle the matter straight away. Take the armchair, Miss Cuthbert, and you sit here on the ottoman and don't wiggle. Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora Jane to take the buns out of the oven. Mrs. Spencer whisked away after pulling up the blinds. Anne, sitting mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs. Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat, and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to be afraid she couldn't keep back the tears when Mrs. Spencer returned, flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any and every difficulty, physical, mental, or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out of hand. It seems there's been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett, she said. I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a boy they wanted. So if you're still of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll be just the thing for you. Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. How old are you and what's your name? she demanded. Anne surely faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, and I'm eleven years old. You don't look as if there was much to you, but you're wiry. I don't know, but the wiry ones are the best, after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know, good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out, attending to him. If you like, I can take her home right now. Marilla looked at Anne and softened at the sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery. The misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, high-strung child over to such a woman. No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that. Well, I don't know, she said slowly. I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact, I may say that Matthew was disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her, we'll bring or send her over to you to-morrow night. If we don't, you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett? I suppose it will have to, said Mrs. Blewett, ungraciously. During Marilla's speech, a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First look of despair faded out. Then came a faint flush of hope. Her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured. And a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow, she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables? She said in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did? I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't, said Marilla crossly. Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet, and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you more than I do. I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne, passionately. She looks exactly like a—like a gymlet. Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger, she said severely. Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should. I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if only you'll keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening, Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought Anne back with her. But she said nothing to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that bluid woman," said Matthew with unusual whim. I don't fancy her style myself, admitted Marilla. But it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew, and since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing, or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I daresay I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So as far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay. Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. Well, now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. She's such an interesting little thing. It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing, retorted Marilla. But I'll make it my business to see she's chained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail, it'll be time enough to put your ore in. There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly, only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sorts you can do anything with if only you get her to love you. Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pales. I won't tell her to-night that she can stay, she reflected as she strained the milk into the creamers. She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough, but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment, and goodness only knows what will become of it. CHAPTER 7 Ann of Green Gables When Marilla took Ann up to bed that night, she said stiffly, Now Ann, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing, fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat. I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all, said Ann. I'll fold them nicely to-night. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things. You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here, admonished Marilla. There, that looks something like, say your prayers now and get into bed. I never say any prayers, announced Ann. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. Why, Ann, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Ann? God is a spirit infinite eternal and unchangeable in his being wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth, responded Ann promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. So you do know something, then. Thank goodness. You're not quite a-heaven. Where did you learn that? Oh, at the asylum Sunday school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable. Isn't that grand? It has such a role to it, just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it? We're not talking about poetry, Ann. We are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl. You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair, said Ann reproachfully. People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red on purpose, and I've never cared about him since. And anyhow, I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now do you honestly think they can? Marilla decided that Ann's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly, there was no time to be lost. You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Ann. Why, of course, if you want me to, assented Ann cheerfully, I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting now that I come to think of it. You must kneel down, said Marilla in embarrassment. Ann knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray, I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep woods and I'd look up into the sky, up, up, up into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness, and then I'd just feel a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say? Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Ann the childish classic Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor, which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things. And it suddenly occurred to her that the simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood, lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. You're old enough to pray for yourself, Ann," she said finally. Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want. Well, I'll do my best," promised Ann, burying her face in Marilla's lap. Gracious Heavenly Father—that's the way ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it? She interjected, lifting her head for a moment. Gracious Heavenly Father, I thank thee for the white way of delight and the lake of shining waters and Bonnie and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all, so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables, and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain yours respectfully and surely. There—did I do all right? she asked, eagerly getting up. I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over. Poor Marilla was only preserved from a complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Ann that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Ann called her back. I've just thought of it now. I should have said amen in place of yours respectfully, shouldn't I, the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference? I—I don't suppose it will, said Marilla. Go to sleep now, like a good child. Good night. I can say good night tonight with a clear conscience, said Ann, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. Matthew Cuthbert—it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never set a prayer in her life till to-night? I'll send her to the man's to-morrow and borrow the peep of the day series—that's what I'll do—and she shall go to Sunday school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last, and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it. CHAPTER VIII. Ann's Bringing Up Is Begun For reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Ann that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the four-noon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Ann was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn. Her most serious shortcomings seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to worth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Ann had finished washing the dinner-dishes, she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot, her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black. She clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice, Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me. You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do, said Marilla immovably. Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Ann. Ann went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes on the latter's face. Well, said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation any longer. I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you. That is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter? I'm crying, said Ann in a tone of bewilderment. I can't think why. I'm as glad as can be. Oh, glad doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the white way and the cherry blossoms. But this—oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying? I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up, said Marilla disapprovingly. Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here, and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school, but it's only a fortnight till vacation, so it isn't worthwhile for you to start before it opens again in September. What am I to call you? asked Ann. Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla? No, you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert, and it would make me nervous. It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla, protested Ann. I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody young and old and avidly calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert, when he thinks of it. I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla, said Ann wistfully. I've never had an Aunt or any relation at all, not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla? No, I am not your Aunt, and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them. But we could imagine you were my Aunt. I couldn't, said Marilla grimly. Do you never imagine things different from what they really are? asked Ann, wide-eyed. No. Oh! Ann drew a long breath. Oh, Miss Marilla! How much you miss? I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are, retorted Marilla. When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances he doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me—going to the sitting-room, Ann, be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in, and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's prayer is on it, and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night. I suppose I was very awkward, said Ann apologetically, but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer, after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning, and I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things are never so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that? Here is something for you to notice, Ann. When I tell you to do a thing, I want you to obey me at once, and not stand stock still in discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you. Ann promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall. She failed to return. After waiting ten minutes, Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Ann standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes as star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple-trees and clustering vines outside fell over the wrapped little figure with a half unearthly radiance. Ann, whatever are you thinking of? demanded Marilla sharply. Ann came back to work with a start. That, she said, pointing to the picture, a rather vivid chromo entitled Christ's Blessing Little Children. And I was just imagining, I was one of them, that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't any father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her, except him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked her if I could stay. She was afraid he might not notice her. But it's likely he did, don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it all out—her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to him—and then he would look at her, and put his hand on her hair, and—oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist hadn't painted him so sorrowful looking. All his pictures are like that, if you've noticed. But I don't believe he could really have looked so sad, or the children would have been afraid of him. Anne, said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before. You shouldn't talk that way. It's irreverent—positively irreverent." Anne's eyes marveled. Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to be irreverent. Well, I don't suppose you did. But it doesn't sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something you're to bring it back at once, and not fall into mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen. Now sit down in the corner, and learn that prayer off by heart. Anne set the card up against the jug full of apple blossom she had brought in to decorate the dinner-table. Marilla had eyed that decoration a scans, but had said nothing, propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes. I like this, she announced at length. It's beautiful. I've heard it before. I heard the superintendent of the Asylum Sunday School say it over once. But I didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice, and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same way poetry does. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. That is just like a line of music. Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making me learn this, Ms. Marilla. Well, learn it, and hold your tongue, said Marilla, shortly. Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow a soft kiss on a pink cupped bud, and then studied diligently for some moments longer. Marilla, she demanded presently, do you think that I shall ever have a bosom friend in Avonlea? Uh, a what kind of friend? A bosom friend. An intimate friend, you know, a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will too. Do you think it's possible? Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope, and she's about your age. She's a very nice little girl, and perhaps she will be a playmate for you when she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now. You'll have to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry is a very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with any little girl who isn't nice and good. Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms. Her eyes aglow with interest. What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It's bad enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a bosom friend. Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks, and she is good and smart, which is better than being pretty. Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a child who was being brought up. But Anne waved the moral inconsequentially aside, and seized only on the delightful possibilities before it. Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself—and that's impossible in my case—it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas, she had a bookcase in her sitting-room with glass doors. There weren't any books in it. Mrs. Thomas kept her best china and her preserves there, when she had any preserves to keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly intoxicated. But the other was whole, and I used to pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who lived in it. I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very intimate. I used to talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her everything. Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to pretend that the bookcase was enchanted, and that if I only knew the spell, I could open the door and step right into the room where Katie Maurice lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves in china. And then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into the wonderful place of flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would have lived there happy forever after. When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond, it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it dreadfully, too. I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me goodbye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's, but just up the river a little away from the house, there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta, and we were great friends, and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice—not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said goodbye to Violetta, and, oh, her goodbye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend of the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there. I think it's just as well there wasn't, said Marilla Dryley. I don't approve of such goings on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurice's and your Violetta's, or she'll think you tell stories. Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody. Their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look! There's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live in an apple blossom. Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl, I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers. Yesterday you wanted to be a seagull, sniffed Marilla. I think you are very fickle-minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it. Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now. All but just the last line. Well, never mind. Do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea. Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company? pleaded Anne. No. You don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place. I did feel a little that way, too, said Anne. I kind of felt that I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them. I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was irresistible. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation? Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room? Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. There. I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it, and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound so luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast, and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness, and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't. I can't make that seem real. She danced up to the little looking glass and peered into it. Her pointed, freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. You're only Anne of Green Gables, she said earnestly, and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it? She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook herself to the open window. Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon, and good afternoon, dear birches down in the hollow, and good afternoon, dear Grey House up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice and Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did, and I'd hate to hurt anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase girls or a little echo girls. I must be careful to remember them and send them a kiss every day. Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry blossoms, and then, with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 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, May 2007. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 9 Mrs. Rachel Lind is properly horrified. Anne had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lind arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unseasonable attack of group had confined that good lady to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick, and had a well-defined contempt for people who were, but grip, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth, and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out of doors, she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea. Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard, and ran up through a belt of woodland, and she had explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fur coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern and branching byways of maple and mountain ash. She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow, that wonderful deep, clear, icy cold spring. It was set about with smooth red sandstones, and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water-fern, and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight rained under the straight, thick-growing furs and spruces. The only flowers there were myriads of delicate june bells, those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale aerial starflowers like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossimmers glimmered like threads of silver among the trees, and the furbows and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech. All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half-hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla half-death over her discoveries. Not that Matthew complained to be sure. He listened to it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his face. Marilla permitted the chatter until she found herself becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue. Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine, so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse-speed with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grip must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call. I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew. I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself, said Marilla. I'm getting over my surprise now. It was too bad there was such a mistake, said Mrs. Rachel sympathetically. Couldn't you have sent her back? I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her, and I must say I like her myself, although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a different place already. She's a real bright little thing. Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself, said that lady gloomily, especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, but there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you, I'm sure, Marilla. I'm not feeling discouraged, was Marilla's dry response. When I make up my mind to do a thing, it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in. Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings. But abashed at finding herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short, tight, wincy dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever. The wind had ruffled her hapless hair into over-brilliant disorder. It had never looked redder than at that moment. Well, they didn't pick you for your looks. That, sure and certain, was Mrs. Rachel Lynn's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pried themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favour. She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart! Did anyone ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say. Anne came there, but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. I hate you! she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! A louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. How dare you call me skinny and ugly! How dare you say I'm freckled and red-headed! You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman! Anne! exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. How dare you say such things about me! she repeated vehemently. How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so. I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before, even by Mrs. Thomas's intoxicated husband, and I'll never forgive you for it, never, never! Stamp, stamp! Did anybody ever see such a temper? exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. Anne, go to your room and stay there until I come up, said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. Well, I don't envy you your job bringing that up, Marilla, said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself, then and ever afterwards. You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel. Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen, demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. No, said Marilla slowly. I am not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty, and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right, and you were too hard on her, Rachel. Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans brought from goodness knows where have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no! I'm not vexed. Don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice, which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two, you'll do that talking to you mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think that would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair, I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual, but you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in my experience. Where at, Mrs. Rachel, swept out and away. If a fat woman who always waddled could be said to sweep away. And, Marilla, with a very solemn face, betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs. Rachel Lynde of all people. Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable and rebuking consciousness that she felt more humiliation over this than sorrow over the discovery of such a serious defect in Anne's disposition. And how was she to punish her? The amiable suggestion of the birch switch, to the efficiency of which all of Mrs. Rachel's own children could have borne smarting testimony, did not appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a child. No, some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the enormity of her offence. Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane. Anne, she said, not un-gently. No answer. Anne, with greater severity, get off that bed this minute and listen to what I have to say to you. Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained, and her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. This is a nice way for you to behave. Anne, aren't you ashamed of yourself? She hadn't any right to call me ugly and red-headed, retorted Anne, evasive and defiant. You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way you did to her, Anne. I was ashamed of you. Thoroughly ashamed of you. I wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you have disgraced me. I'm sure I don't know why you should lose your tempered like that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely. You say it yourself often enough. Oh, but there's such a difference between saying a thing yourself and hearing other people say it. Well, Anne, you may know a thing is so, but you can't help hoping other people don't quite think it is. I suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I couldn't help it. When she said those things something just rose right up in me and choked me. I had to fly out at her. Well, you made a fine exhibition of yourself, I must say. Mrs. Lynde will have a nice story to tell about you everywhere, and she'll tell it too. It was a dreadful thing for you to lose your temper like that, Anne. Just imagine how you would feel if somebody told you to your face that you were skinny and ugly, pleaded Anne tearfully. An old remembrance suddenly rose up before Marilla. She had been a very small child when she had heard one aunt say of her to another. What a pity she is such a dark, homely little thing. Marilla was every day of fifty before the sting had gone out of that memory. I don't say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly right in saying what she did to you, Anne. She admitted in a softer tone. Rachel is too outspoken. But that is no excuse for such behaviour on your part. She was a stranger and an elderly person and my visitor. All three very good reasons why you should have been respectful to her. You were rude and saucy, and Marilla had a saving inspiration of punishment. You must go to her and tell her you are very sorry for your bad temper and ask her to forgive you. I can never do that, said Anne, determinately and darkly. You can punish me in any way you like, Marilla. You can shove me up in a dark, damp dungeon inhabited by snakes and toads, and feed me only on bread and water, and I shall not complain. But I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to forgive me. We are not in the habit of shutting people up in dark, damp dungeons, said Marilla dryly, especially as they are rather scarce in Avonlea. But apologize to Mrs. Lynde you must and shall, and you'll stay here in your room until you can tell me you're willing to do it. I shall have to stay here forever, then, said Anne mournfully, because I can't tell Mrs. Lynde I'm sorry I said those things to her. How can I? I'm not sorry. I'm sorry I vexed you, but I'm glad I told her just what I did. It was a great satisfaction. I can't say I'm sorry when I'm not, can I? I can't even imagine I'm sorry. Perhaps your imagination will be in better working order by the morning, said Marilla, rising to depart. You'll have the night to think over your conduct in, and come to a better frame of mind. You said you would try to be a very good girl if we kept you at Green Gables, but I must say it hasn't seemed very much like it this evening. Leaving this Parthian shaft to wrangle in Anne's stormy bosom, Marilla descended to the kitchen, grievously troubled in mind, and vexed in soul. She was as angry with herself as with Anne, because whenever she recalled Mrs. Rachel's dumb-founded countenance, her lips twitched with amusement, and she felt a most reprehensible desire to laugh.