 Chapter 1 The Shadow of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery, read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island. To all the girls all over the world who have wanted more about Anne. All precious things discovered late to those that seek them issue forth, for love and sequel works with fate and draws the veil from hidden worth. Chapter 1 The Shadow of Change Harvest is ended and summer is gone, code and Anne Shirley gazing across the shorn field streamly. She and Ianna Barry had been picking apples in the green gables orchard, but were now resting from their labours in a sunny corner where airy fleets of thistle-down drifted by on wings of a wind that was still summer-sweet with the incense of ferns in the haunted wood. But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn. The sea was roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare and sear, scarred with gold and rod, the brook valley below green gables overflowed with asters of ethereal purple, and the lake of shining waters was blue, blue, blue. Not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, steadfast, serene blue, as if the water were past all moods and tenses of emotion, and had settled down to a tranquility unbroken by fickle dreams. It has been a nice summer, said Diana, twisting the new ring on her left hand with a smile, and Miss Lavender's wedding seemed to come as a sort of crown to it. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving are on the Pacific Coast now. It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the world, sighed Anne. I can't believe it is only a week since they were married. Everything has changed. Miss Lavender and Mr. and Mrs. Allen gone? How lonely the mass looks with the shutters all closed! I went past it last night, and it made me feel as if everybody in it had died. We'll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allen, said Diana, with gloomy conviction. I suppose we'll have all kinds of supplies this winter, and half the Sundays, no preaching at all, and you and Gilbert gone. It will be awfully dull. Fred will be here, insinuated Anne slyly. When is Mrs. Lynn going to move up? asked Diana, as if she had not heard Anne's remark. Tomorrow. I'm glad she's coming, but it will be another change. Marilla and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday. Do you know I hated to do it? Of course it was silly, but it did seem as if we were committing sacrilege. That old spare room has always seemed like a shrine to me. When I was a child I thought of the most wonderful apartment in the world. You remember what a consuming desire I had to sleep in a spare room bed? But not the Green Gable spare room. Oh, no, never there. It would have been too terrible. I couldn't have slept a wink from all. I never walked through that room when Marilla sent me in on an errand. No, indeed. I tiptoed through it and held my breath as if I were in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it. The pictures of George Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington hung there, one on each side of the mirror, and frowned so sternly at me all the time I was in, especially if I dared peep in the mirror, which was the only one in the house that didn't twist my face a little. I always wondered how Marilla dared house-clean that room, and now it's not only cleaned but stripped bare. George Whitefield and the Duke have been relegated to the upstairs hall. So passes the glory of this world, concluded Anne with a laugh in which there was a little note of regret. It is never pleasant to have our old shrines desecrated, even when we have outgrown them. I'll be so lonesome when you go, moan Diana for the hundredth time, and to think you go next week. But we're together still, said Anne cheerily. We mustn't let next week rob us of this week's joy. I hate the thought of going myself. Home and I are such good friends. Talk of being lonesome, it's I who should groan. You'll be here with any number of your old friends and Fred, while I shall be alone among strangers, not knowing a soul. Except Gilbert and Charlie Sloan, said Diana, imitating Anne's italics and slinus. Charlie Sloan will be a great comfort, of course, agreed Anne sarcastically, whereupon both those irresponsible damsels laughed. Diana knew exactly what Anne thought of Charlie Sloan, but despite sundry confidential talks she did not know just what Anne thought of Gilbert's life. To be sure, Anne herself did not know that. The boys may be boarding at the other end of Kingsport for all I know, Anne went on. I'm glad I'm going to Redmond, and I'm sure I shall like it after a while, but for the first few weeks I know I won't. I shan't even have the comfort of looking forward to the weekend visit home as I had when I went to Queens. Christmas will seem like a thousand years away. Everything is changing, or going to change, said Diana sadly. I have a feeling that things will never be the same again, Anne. We have come to a parting of the ways, I suppose, said Anne thoughtfully. We had to come to it. Do you think, Diana, that being grown up as really as nice as we used to imagine it would be when we were children? I don't know. There are some nice things about it, answered Diana, again caressing her ring with that little smile which always had the effect of making Anne feel suddenly left out and inexperienced. But there are so many puzzling things, too. Sometimes I feel as if being grown up just frightened me, and then I would give anything to be a little girl again. I suppose we'll get used to being grown up in time, said Anne cheerfully. There won't be so many unexpected things about it by and by, though after all, I fancy it's the unexpected things that give spice to life. We are eighteen, Diana. In two more years we'll be twenty. When I was ten I thought twenty was a green old age. In no time you'll be a staid, middle-aged matron, and I shall be nice, old maid aunt Anne, coming to visit you on vacations. You'll always keep a corner for me, won't you, die, darling? Not the spare-room, of course. Old maids can't aspire to spare-rooms. And I shall be as humble as your Ayaheep, and quite content with a little over-the-porcher, off-the-parler cubby-hole. What nonsense you do talk, Anne, laughed Diana. You'll marry somebody splendid and handsome and rich, and no spare-room in Avonlea will be half gorgeous enough for you, and you'll turn up your nose at all the friends of your youth. That would be a pity. My nose is quite nice, but I fear turning it up would spoil it, said Anne, patting that shapely organ. I haven't so many good features that I could afford to spoil those I have. So even if I should marry the king of the cannibal islands, I promise you I won't turn up my nose at you, Diana. With another gay laugh the girls separated. Diana, to return to orchard's slope, Anne, to walk to the post-office. She found a letter awaiting her there, and when Gilbert Blythe overtook her on the bridge over the lake-go-shining waters, she was sparkling with the excitement of it. Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too, she exclaimed. Isn't that splendid? I hoped she would, but she didn't think her father would consent. He has, however, and we're to board together. I feel that I can face an army with banners, or all the professors of Redmond in one fell phalanx with a chum like Priscilla by my side. I think we'll like Kingsport, said Gilbert. It's a nice old burg, they tell me, and has the finest natural park in the world. I've heard that the scenery in it is magnificent. I wonder if it will be—can be—any more beautiful than this, murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving and raptured eyes of those to whom home must always be the loveliest spot in the world, no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars. They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of the enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed from her sinking dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot. The fine and purpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies, but the moon was rising and the water lay like a great silver dream in her light. Remembrance rove a sweet and subtle spell over the two young creatures. You're very quiet, Anne, said Gilbert at last. I'm afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty will vanish just like a broken silence, breathed Anne. Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying on the rail of the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still boyish lips open to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled his soul, but Anne snatched her hand away and turned quickly. The spell of the dusk was broken for her. I must go home," she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness. Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I'm sure the twins will be in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really shouldn't have stayed away so long. She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached the Green Gables Lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get a word in edgewise. Anne felt rather relieved when they parted. There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert, ever since that fleeting moment of revelation in the Garden of Echo Lodge. Something alien had intruded into the old, perfect school-day comradeship. Something that threatened to mar it. I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before. She thought, half resentfully, half sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane. Our friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense. It mustn't be spoiled. I won't let it. Oh, why can't boys be just sensible? Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly sensible that she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert's as distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had rested there, and still less sensible that the sensation was far from being an unpleasant one, very different from that which had attended a similar demonstration on Charlie Sloan's part when she had been sitting out at dance with him at a white sands party three nights before, and shivered over the disagreeable recollection. But all problems connected with infatuated swings vanished from her mind when she entered the homely, unsentimental atmosphere of the Green Gables kitchen, where an eight-year-old boy was crying grievously on the sofa. What is the matter, Davey? asked Anne, taking him up in her arms. Where am I, Roland Dora? Where will us putting Dora to bed? Saw Davey, and I'm crying, cause Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heeled overhead, and scraped all the skin off her nose, and—oh, well, don't cry about it, dear. Of course you're sorry for her, but crying won't help her any. She'll be all right tomorrow. Crying never helps anyone, Davey boy, and— I ain't crying cause Dora fell down cellar, said Davey, cutting short Anne's well-meant preachment with increasing bitterness. I'm crying cause I wasn't there to see her fall. I'm always missing some fun or other scenes to me. Oh, Davey! Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter. Would you call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the steps and get hurt? She wasn't much hurt, said Davey defiantly. Of course if she'd been killed I'd have been real sorry, Anne, but the Keiths ain't so easy killed. They're like the blue-its, I guess. Her blue-it fell off the hail off last Wednesday, and rolled right down through the turnip chute into the box stall, where they had a fearful wild cross-horse, and rolled right under his heels. And still he got out alive, with only three bones broke. Mrs. Linn says there are some folks you can't kill with a meat axe. Is Mrs. Linn coming here tomorrow, Anne? Yes, Davey, and I hope you'll be always very nice and good to her. I'll be nice and good. But will she ever put me to bed at night, Anne? Perhaps. Why? Kuz, said Davey very decidedly, if she does I won't see my prayers before her like I do before you, Anne. Why not? Kuz, I don't think it would be nice to talk to God before strangers, Anne. Dora can say hers to Mrs. Linn if she likes, but I won't. I'll wait till she's gone and then say them. Won't that be all right, Anne? Yes. If you're sure you won't forget to say them, Davey boy. Oh, I won't forget you bet. I think saying my prayers is great fun. But it won't be as good fun saying them alone as saying them to you. I wish you'd stay home, Anne. I don't see what you want to go away and leave us for. I don't exactly want to, Davey, but I feel I ought to go. If you don't want to, you needn't. You're grown up. When I'm grown up, I'm not going to do one single thing I don't want to do, Anne. All your life, Davey, you'll find yourself doing things you don't want to do. I won't, said Davey flatly, catch me. I have to do things I don't want to now because you and Marilla'll send me to bed if I don't. But when I grow up, you can't do that, and there'll be nobody to tell me not to do things. Won't I have the time? Say, Anne, milty Bolter says his mother says you're going to college to see if you can catch a man. Are you, Anne? I want to know. For a second Anne burned with resentment. Then she laughed, reminding herself that Mrs. Bolter's crude vulgarity of thought and speech could not harm her. No, Davey, I'm not. I'm going to study and grow and learn about many things. What things? Shoes and ships and ceiling wax and cabbages and kings. Quoted Anne. But if you did want to catch a man, how would you go about it? I want to know, persisted Davey, for whom this subject evidently possessed a certain fascination. You'd better ask Mrs. Bolter, said Anne thoughtlessly. I think it's likely she knows more about the process than I do. I will, next time I see her, said Davey gravely. Davey, if you do! cried Anne, realizing her mistake. But you just told me to, protested Davey, aggrieved. It's time you went to bed, decreed Anne by way of getting out of the scrape. After Davey had gone to bed, Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind. Anne had always loved that brook. Many a dream had she spent over its sparkling water in days gone by. She forgot lovelorn youths and the cayenne speeches of malicious neighbors and all the problems of her girlish existence. In imagination she sailed over storied seas that washed the distant shining shores of fairy lands forlorn where lost Atlantis and Elysium lie, with the evening star for pilot till the land of heart's desire. And she was richer in those dreams than in realities, for things seen pass away, but the things that are unseen are eternal. The following week sped swiftly, crowded with innumerable last things, as Anne called them. Goodbye calls had to be made and received, being pleasant or otherwise, according to whether collars and called-upon were heartily in sympathy with Anne's hopes, or thought she was too much puffed up over going to college, and that it was their duty to take her down. The avis gave a farewell party in honour of Anne and Gilbert, one evening at the home of Josie Pye, choosing that place, partly because Mr. Pye's house was large and convenient, partly because it was strongly suspected that the Pye girls would have nothing to do with the affair if their offer of the house for the party was not accepted. It was a very pleasant little time, for the Pye girls were gracious and said and did nothing to mar the harmony of the occasion, which was not according to their want. Josie was unusually amiable, so much so that she even remarked condescendingly to Anne, your new dress is rather becoming to you, Anne—really, you look almost pretty in it! How kind of you to say so, responded Anne, with dancing eyes. Her sense of humour was developing, and the speeches that would have hurt her at fourteen were becoming merely food for amusement now. Josie suspected that Anne was laughing at her behind those wicked eyes, but she contented herself with whispering to Gertie as they went downstairs that Anne surely would put on more airs than ever now that she was going to college. You'd see. All the old crowd was there, full of mirth and zest and youthful light-heartedness. Diana Barry, Rosie and Dimple, shadowed by the faithful Fred, Jane Andrews, neat and sensible and plain, rubed looking her handsomest and brightest in a cream silk blouse with red geraniums in her golden hair. Gilbert Glythe and Charlie Sloan, both trying to keep as near the elusive Anne as possible, Carrie Sloan looking pale and melancholy because, so it was reported, her father would not allow Oliver Kimball to come near the place. Moody, Spurgeon McPherson, whose round face and objectionable ears were as round and objectionable as ever, and Billy Andrews, who sat in a corner all the evening, chuckled when any one spoke to him, and watched Anne surely with a grin of pleasure on his broad, freckled countenance. Anne had known beforehand of the party, but she had not known that she and Gilbert were, as the founders of the society, to be presented with a very complementary address and tokens of respect, in her case a volume of Shakespeare's plays in Gilbert's fountain pen. She was so taken by surprise and pleased by the nice things said in the address, read in Moody, Spurgeon's most solemn and ministerial tones, that the tears quite drowned the sparkle of her big grey eyes. She had worked hard and faithfully for the avus, and it warmed the cockles of her heart that the members appreciated her efforts so sincerely, and they were all so nice and friendly and jolly, even the pie girls had their merits. At that moment Anne loved all the world. She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather spoiled all. Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something sentimental to her as they ate their supper on the moonlit veranda, and Anne, to punish him, was gracious to Charlie Sloan, and allowed the latter to walk home with her. She found, however, that revenge hurts nobody quite so much as the one who tries to inflict it. Gilbert walked eerily off with Ruby Gillis, and Anne could hear them laughing and talking gaily as they loitered along in the still, crisp autumn air. They were evidently having the best of good times, while she was horribly bored by Charlie Sloan, who talked unbrokenly on and never, even by accident, said one thing that was worth listening to. Anne gave an occasional absent yes or no, and thought how beautiful Ruby had looked that night, how very goggly Charlie's eyes were in the moonlight, worse even than by daylight, and that the world, somehow, wasn't quite such a nice place as she had believed it to be earlier in the evening. I'm just tired out. That is what is the matter with me, she said, when she thankfully found herself alone in her own room, and she honestly believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy, as from some secret unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart the next evening when she saw Gilbert striding down through the haunted wood and crossing the old log bridge with that firm, quick step of his. So, Gilbert was not going to spend this last evening with Ruby Gillis after all. You look tired, Anne, he said. I am tired, and worse than that I'm disgruntled. I'm tired because I've been packing my trunk and sewing all day, but I'm disgruntled because six women have been here to say goodbye to me, and every one of the six managed to say something that seemed to take the colour right out of life and leave it as grey and dismal and cheerless as a November morning. Spiteful though, cats, was Gilbert's elegant comment. Oh, no, they weren't, said Anne seriously, and that is just the trouble. If they had been spiteful cats I wouldn't have minded them, but they are all nice, kind, motherly souls who like me and whom I like, and that is why what they said, or hinted, had such undue weight with me. They led me see they thought I was crazy going to Redmond and trying to take a B.A., and ever since I've been wondering if I am. Mrs. Peter Sloan sighed and said she hoped my strength would hold out till I got through, and at once I saw myself a hopeless victim of nervous prostration at the end of my third year. Mrs. Eben Wright said it must cost an awful lot to put in four years at Redmond, and I felt all over me that it was unpardonable of me to squander Marilla's money and my own on such a folly. Mrs. Jasper Bell said she hoped I wouldn't let college spoil me, as it did some people, and I felt in my bones that the end of my four Redmond years would see me a most insufferable creature, thinking I knew it all and looking down on everything and everybody in Avonlea. Mrs. Elisha Wright said she understood that Redmond girls, especially those who belonged to Kingsport, were dreadfully dressy and stuck up, and she guessed I wouldn't feel much at home among them, and I saw myself a snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country girl shuffling through Redmond's classic halls in copper-toned boots. Anne ended with a laugh and a sigh commingled. With her sensitive nature all disapproval had weighed, even the disapproval of those for whose opinion she had scant respect. For the time being, life was saverless, and ambition had gone out like a snuffed candle. You surely don't care for what they said, protested Gilbert, you know exactly how narrow their outlook on life is, excellent creatures though they are. To do anything they have never done is anathema maranatha. You are the first Avonlea girl who has ever gone to college, and you know that all pioneers are considered to be afflicted with moonstruck madness. Oh, I know. But feeling is so different from knowing. My common sense tells me all you can say, but there are times when common sense has no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of my soul. Really, after Mrs. Elisha went away, I hardly had the heart to finish packing. You're just tired, Anne. Come, forget it all and take a walk with me. A ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh. There should be something there I want to show you. Should be. Don't you know if it is there? No, I only know it should be from something I saw there in spring. Come on, we'll pretend we are two children again, and we'll go the way of the wind." They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of the preceding evening, was very nice to Gilbert, and Gilbert, who was learning wisdom, took care to be nothing save the schoolboy comrade again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla watched them from the kitchen window. That'll be a match some day, Mrs. Lynde said approvingly. Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it went against her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde's gossipy, matter-of-fact way. They're only children yet, she said shortly. Mrs. Lynde laughed goodnaturally. Anne is eighteen. I was married when I was that age. We old folks, Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never grow up, that's what. Anne is a young woman, and Gilbert's a man, and he worships the ground she walks on, as anyone can see. He's a fine fellow, and Anne can't do better. I hope she won't get any romantic nonsense into her head at Redmond. I don't approve of them co-educational places, and never did, that's what. I don't believe, concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, that the students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt. They must study a little, said Marilla with a smile. Precious little, sniffed Mrs. Rachel. However, I think Anne will. She never was flirtatious. But she doesn't appreciate Gilbert at his full value, that's what. Oh, I know girls. Charlie's Sloan is wild about her too, but I'd never advise her to marry a Sloan. The Sloans are good, honest, respectable people, of course. But when all's said and done, they're Sloans. Marilla nodded. To an outsider the statement that Sloans were Sloans might not be very illuminating, but she understood. Every village has such a family. Good, honest, respectable people they may be, but Sloans they are and must ever remain, though they speak with the tongues of men and angels. Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the haunted wood. Beyond the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset radiance under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The distant spruce groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows barred the upland meadows. But around them a little wind sang among the fur tassels, and in it there was the note of autumn. This wood really is haunted now. By old memories, said Anne, stooping to gather a spray of ferns bleached to wax in whiteness by frost. It seems to me that the little girl's Diana and I used to be play here still, and sit by the dryad's bubble in the twilight's, tristing with the ghosts. Do you know? I can never go up this path in the dusk without feeling a bit of the old frightened shiver. There was one especially horrifying phantom which we created—the ghost of the murdered child that crept up behind you in late cold fingers on yours. I confess that to this day I cannot help fancying its little furtive footsteps behind me when I come here after nightfall. I'm not afraid of the White Lady or the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never imagined that baby's ghost into existence. How angry Marilla and Mrs. Barry were over that affair, concluded Anne with reminiscent laughter. The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas threaded with gossimmers. Past a doer plantation of gnarled spruces and a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley, they found the something Gilbert was looking for. Ah, here it is, he said with satisfaction. An apple-tree! And a way back here? exclaimed Anne delightedly. Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple-tree, too, here in the very midst of pines and beaches, a mile away from any orchard. I was here one day last spring and found it all white with blossom, so I resolved I'd come again in the fall and see if it had been apples. See, it's loaded. They look good, too. Tawny as russets, but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild seedlings are green and uninviting. I suppose it sprang years ago from some chantsone seed, said Anne dreamily, and how it has grown and flourished and held its own here all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing. Here's a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, Anne. It will serve for a woodland throne. I'll climb for some apples. They all grow high. The tree had to reach up to the sunlight. The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a white, white flesh, faintly veined with red, and besides their own proper apple taste, they had a certain wild, delightful tang no orchard-grown apple ever possessed. The fatal apple of Eden couldn't have had a rarer flavour, commented Anne, but it's time we were going home. See, it was twilight three minutes ago, and now it's moonlight. What a pity we couldn't have caught the moment of transformation, but such moments never are caught, I suppose. Let's go back around the marsh and home by way of Lovers Lane. Do you feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne? Not I. Those apples have been as manner to a hungry soul. I feel that I shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there. And after those four years, what? Oh, there's another bend in the road at their end, answered Anne lightly. I've no idea what may be around it. I don't want to have. It's nicer not to know. Lovers Lane was a dear place that night, still and mysteriously dim in the pale radiance of the moonlight. They loitered through it in a pleasant, chummy silence, neither caring to talk. If Gilbert were always as he has been this evening, how nice and simple everything would be, reflected Anne. Gilbert was looking at Anne as she walked along. In her light dress, with her slender delicacy, she made him think of a white iris. I wonder if I can ever make her care for me, he thought, with a pang of self-distressed. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island. Chapter 3. Greeting and Farewell Charlie Sloan, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the following Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana was to drive her to the station, and they wanted this, their last drive together for some time, to be a pleasant one. But when Anne went to bed Sunday night, the east wind was moaning around green gables with an ominous prophecy which was fulfilled in the morning. Anne awoke to find raindrops pattering against her window, and shadowing the pond's grey surface with widening rings. Hills and sea were hidden in mist, and the whole world seemed dim and dreary. Anne dressed in the cheerless grey dawn, for an early start was necessary to catch the boat-train. She struggled against the tears that would well up in her eyes in spite of herself. She was leaving the home that was so dear to her, and something told her that she was leaving it forever, save as a holiday refuge. Things would never be the same again. Coming back for vacations would not be living there. And oh, how dear and beloved everything was! That little white porch room, sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the old snow queen at the window, the brook in the hollow, the dryad's bubble, the haunted woods and lovers' lane—all the thousand and one dear spots were memories of the old years bided. Could she ever be really happy anywhere else? Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal. Davey, for the first time in his life probably, could not eat, but blubbered shamelessly over his porridge. Nobody else seemed to have much appetite, save Dora, who tucked away her rations comfortably. Dora, like the immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who went on cutting bread and butter when her frenzied lover's body had been carried past on a shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures who are seldom disturbed by anything. Even at eight, it took a great deal to ruffle Dora's placidity. She was sorry Alma's going away, of course, but was that any reason why she should fail to appreciate a poached egg on toast? Not at all. And seeing that Davey could not eat his, Dora ate it for him. Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy face glowing above her raincoat. The goodbyes had to be said then somehow. Mrs. Lynde came in from her quarters to give Anne a hearty embrace and warn her to be careful of her health, whatever she did. Marilla, brusque and tearless, pecked Anne's cheek and said she supposed they'd hear from her when she got settled. A casual observer might have concluded that Anne's going mattered very little to her, unless said observer had happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne primly and squeezed out two decorous little tears, but Davey, who had been crying on the back porch step ever since they rose from the table, refused to say good-bye at all. When he saw Anne coming towards him, he sprang to his feet, bolted up the back stairs and hid in a clothes closet, out of which he would not come. His muffled howls were the last sounds Anne heard as she left Green Gables. It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, through which station they had to go, since the branch line train from Carmody did not connect with the boat train. Charlie and Gilbert were on the station platform when they reached it, and the train was whistling. Anne had just time to get her ticket and trunk check, say a hurried farewell to Diana and hasten on board. She wished she were going back with Diana to Avonlea. She knew she was going to die of homesickness, and oh, if only that dismal rain would stop pouring down as if the whole world were weeping over summer vanished and joys departed. Even Gilbert's presence brought her no comfort, for Charlie Sloan was there too, and Sloanishness could be tolerated only in fine weather. It was absolutely insufferable in rain. But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbour, things took a turn for the better. The rain ceased, and the sun began to burst out goldenly now and again between the wrents and the clouds, burnishing the grey seas with copper-hued radiance, and lighting up the mists that curtain the island's red shores with gleams of gold for tokening a fine day after all. Besides, Charlie Sloan promptly became so seasick that he had to go below, and Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck. I am very glad that all Sloans get seasick as soon as they go on water, thought Anne mercilessly. I am sure I couldn't take my farewell look at the old sod with Charlie standing there pretending to look sentimentally at it too. Well, we're off, remarked Gilbert unsentimentally. Yes. I feel like Byron's child Harold. Only it isn't really my native shore that I'm watching, said Anne, winking her grey eyes vigorously. Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one's native shore is the land one loves the best, and that's good old PEI for me. I can't believe I didn't always live here. Those eleven years before I came seemed like a bad dream. It's seven years since I crossed on this boat. The evening Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself in that dreadful old wincy dress and faded sailor hat exploring decks and cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine evening. And how those red island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now I'm crossing the strait again. Oh, Gilbert. I do hope I'll like Redmond and Kingsport, but I'm sure I won't. Where's all your philosophy gone, Anne? It's all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness and homesickness. I've longed for three years to go to Redmond, and now I'm going, and I wish I weren't. Never mind. I shall be cheerful and philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I must have that as a wint, and I'll have to wait until I get into my boarding-house bed tonight wherever it may be before I can have it. Then Anne will be herself again. I wonder if Davies came out of the closet yet? It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by Priscilla Grant who had come to Kingsport on Saturday. Here you are, beloved, and I suppose you're as tired as I was when I got here Saturday night. Tired? Priscilla, don't talk of it. I'm tired and green and provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake, take your poor broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think. I'll take you right up to our boarding-house. I've a cab ready outside. It's such a blessing you're here, Prissy. If you weren't, I think I should just sit down on my suitcase here and now and weep bitter tears. What a comfort one familiar faces in a howling wilderness of strangers. Is that Gilbert Blyke over there, Anne? How he has grown up this past year. He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. And of course that's Charlie Sloan. He hasn't changed. Couldn't. He looked just like that when he was born, and he'll look like that when he's eighty. This way, dear, we'll be home in twenty minutes. Home, groaned Anne, you mean we'll be in some horrible boarding-house in a still more horrible hall-bedroom looking out on a dingy backyard. It isn't a horrible boarding-house, Anne, girl. Here's our cab. Hop in. The driver will get your trunk. Oh yes, the boarding-house. It's really a very nice place of its kind, as you'll admit tomorrow morning when a good night's sleep has turned your blues-rosy pink. It's a big, old-fashioned grey stone house on St. John Street, just a nice little constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the residence of great folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street, and its houses only dream now of better days. They're so big that people living in them have to take borders just to fill up. At least, that is the reason our landlady's are very anxious to impress on us. They're delicious, Anne. Our landlady's, I mean. How many are there? Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins about fifty years ago. I can't get away from twins, it seems, smiled Anne, wherever I go they confront me. Oh, they're not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of thirty they were never twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old, not too gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less gracefully still. I don't know whether Miss Hannah can smile or not. I have never caught her at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all the time, and that's worse. However, they're nice, kind souls, and they take two borders every year because Miss Hannah's economical soul cannot bear to waste room space, not because they need to or have to as Miss Ada has told me seven times since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are hall bedrooms, and mine does look out on the backyard. Your room is a front one, and looks out on Old St. John's graveyard, which is just across the street. That sounds gruesome, shivered Anne. I think I'd rather have the backyard view. Oh, no you wouldn't. Wait and see. Old St. John's is a darling place. It's been a graveyard so long that it ceased to be one, and has become one of the sites of Kingsport. I was all through it yesterday for a pleasure exertion. There's a big stone wall and a row of enormous trees all around it, and rows of trees all through it, and the queerest old tombstones with the queerest and quaintest inscriptions. You'll go there to study, Anne, see if you don't. Of course, nobody has ever buried there now, but a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument to the memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. It is just opposite the entrance gates, and there's scope for imagination in it, as you used to say. Here's your trunk at last, and the boy's coming to say good night. Must I really shake hands with Charlie Sloan, Anne? His hands are always so cold and fishy-feeling. We must ask him to call occasionally. Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have young gentlemen call there's two evenings in the week if they went away at a reasonable hour, and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, pleased to be sure they didn't sit on her beautiful cushions. I promise to see to it, but goodness knows where else they can sit, unless they sit on the floor, for there are cushions on everything. Miss Ada even has an elaborate Baddenberg one on top of the piano. Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla's gay chatter had the intended effect of cheering her up. Homesickness vanished for the time being, and did not even return in full force when she finally found herself alone in her little bedroom. She went to her window and looked out. The street below was dim and quiet. Across it the moon was shining above the trees and old St. John's, just behind the great dark head of the line on the monument. Anne wondered if it could have been only that morning that she had left Green Gables. She had the sense of a long passage of time which one day of change and travel gives. I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now, she mused. But I won't think about it. That way homesickness lies. I'm not even going to have my good cry. I'll put that off to a more convenient season, and just now I'll go calmly and sensibly to bed and to sleep. CHAPTER IV. APRIL'S LADY Then it grew to be a bone of contention between the British and the French, being occupied now by the one and now by the other, emerging from each occupation with some fresh scar of battling nations branded on it. It has in its park a Martello Tower, autographed all over by tourists, a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond the town, and several antiquated cannon in its public squares. It has other historic spots also, which may be hunted out by the curious, and none is more quaint and delightful than old St. John's cemetery at the very core of the town, with streets of quiet, old-time houses on two sides, and busy, bustling modern thoroughfares on the others. Every citizen of Kingsport feels a thrill of possessive pride in old St. John's, for if he be of any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with a queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively over the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are recorded. For the most part, no great art or skill was lavished on those old tombstones. The larger number are a roughly chiseled, brown or gray native stone, and only in a few cases is there any attempt at ornamentation. Some are adorned with skull and crossbones, and this grisly decoration is frequently coupled with a cherub's head. Many are prostrate and in ruins. Into almost all times Tooth has been gnawing, until some inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can only be deciphered with difficulty. The graveyard is very full and very bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly, for ever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite undisturbed by the clamour of traffic just beyond. Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John's the next afternoon. She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and registered to students, after which there was nothing more to do that day. The girls gladly made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to be surrounded by crowds of strangers, most of whom had a rather alien appearance, as if not quite sure where they belonged. The freshettes stood about in detached groups of two or three, looking ascanced at each other. The freshies, wiser in their day in generation, had banded themselves together on the big staircase of the entrance hall, where they were shouting out glies with all the vigor of youthful lungs, as a species of defiance to their traditional enemies, the sophomores, a few of whom were prowling loftily about, looking properly disdainful of the unlicked cubs on the stairs. Gilbert and Charlie were nowhere to be seen. Little did I think the day would ever come when I'd be glad at the sight of a slone, said Priscilla, as they crossed the campus. But I'd welcome Charlie's goggle-eyes almost ecstatically. At least they'd be familiar eyes. Oh, side-an, I can't describe how I felt when I was standing there waiting my turn to be registered, as insignificant as the teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket. It's bad enough to feel insignificant, but it's unbearable to have it greened into your soul that you will never, can never be anything but insignificant, and that is how I did feel, as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of those softs might step on me. I knew I would go down to my grave unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Wait till next year, comforted Priscilla. Then we'll be able to look as bored and sophisticated as any sophomore of them all. No doubt it is rather dreadful to feel insignificant. But I think it's better than to feel as big and awkward as I did, as if I were sprawled all over Redmond. That's how I felt. I suppose because I was a good two inches taller than anyone else in the crowd. I wasn't afraid a soft might walk over me. I was afraid they'd take me for an elephant or an overgrown sample of a potato-fed islander. I suppose the trouble is—we can't forgive Big Redmond for not being little queens," said Anne, gathering about her the shreds of her old tearful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit. When we left Queens, we knew everybody and had a place of our own. I suppose we have been unconsciously expecting to take life up at Redmond just where we left off at Queens, and now we feel as if the ground had slipped from under our feet. I'm thankful that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha Wright know or ever will know my state of mind at present. They would exult in saying, I told you so, and be convinced it was the beginning of the end—whereas it is just the end of the beginning. Exactly. That sounds more annish. In a little while we'll be acclimated and acquainted and all will be well. Anne, did you notice the girl who stood alone just outside the door of the co-eds dressing room all morning—the pretty one with the brown eyes and crooked mouth? Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the only creature there who looked as lonely and friendless as I felt. I had you, but she had no one. I think she felt pretty all by herselfish, too. Several times I saw her make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never did it—too shy, I suppose. I wished she would come. If I hadn't felt so much like the aforesaid elephant I'd have gone to her, but I couldn't lumber across that big hall with all those boys howling on the stairs. She was the prettiest freshette I saw to-day, but probably favour is deceitful, and even beauty is vain on your first day at Redmond, concluded Priscilla with a laugh. I'm going across to Old St. John's after lunch, said Anne. I don't know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get cheered up, but it seems the only get-addable place where there are trees—and trees I must have. I'll sit on one of those old slabs and shut my eyes and imagine I'm in the Avonlea Woods. Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest in Old St. John's to keep her eyes wide open. They went in by the entrance gates, past the simple, massive stone arch surmounted by the great Lion of England. And on increment yet the wild bramble is gory, and those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story, quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill. They found themselves in a dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring. Up and down the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the quaint, voluminous epitaphs carved in an age that had more leisure than our own. Here lie the body of Albert Crawford Esquire, read Anne from a worn, grey slab, for many years keeper of his Majesty's ordinance at Kingsport. He served in the army till the peace of 1763 when he retired from bad health. He was a brave officer, the best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of friends. He died October 29, 1792, aged eighty-four years. There's an epitaph for you, Prissy. There is certainly some scope for imagination in it. How full such a life must have been of adventure! And as for his personal qualities, I am sure human eulogy couldn't go further. I wonder if they told him he was all those best things while he was alive. Here's another, said Priscilla. Listen. To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, 1840, aged forty-three years. This is raised as a tribute of affection by one whom he served so faithfully for twenty-seven years that he was regarded as a friend deserving the fullest confidence and attachment. A very good epitaph, commented Anne thoughtfully. I couldn't wish a better. We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact that we are faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones, nothing more need be added. Here's a sorrowful little grey stone, Prissy, to the memory of a favourite child. And here is another, erected to the memory of one who is buried elsewhere. I wonder where that unknown grave is. Really, Prissy, the graveyards of today will never be as interesting as this. You were right. I shall come here often. I love it already. I see we are not alone here. There's a girl down at the end of this avenue. Yes, and I believe it's the very girl we saw at Redmond this morning. I've been watching her for five minutes. She has started to come up the avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times she has turned and gone back. Either she's dreadfully shy, or she's got something on her conscience. Let's go and meet her. It's easier to get acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe. They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger who was sitting on a grey slab under an enormous willow. She was certainly very pretty, with a vivid, irregular, bewitching type of prettiness. There was a gloss as of brown nuts on her satin-smooth hair, and a soft ripe glow on her round cheeks. Her eyes were big and brown and velvety, under oddly pointed black brows, and her crooked mouth was rose red. She wore a smart brown suit, with two very modish little shoes peeping from beneath it, and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed with golden brown poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable error which pertains to the creation of an artist in millinery. Priscilla had a sudden stinging consciousness that her own hat had been trimmed by her village store milliner, and Anne wondered uncomfortably if the blouse she had made herself, and which Mrs. Lind had fitted, looked very counterfeit in homemade beside the stranger's smart attire. For a moment both girls felt like turning back, but they had already stopped and turned towards the grey slab. It was too late to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently concluded that they were coming to speak to her. Instantly she sprang up and came forward with outstretched hand and a gay, friendly smile in which there seemed not a shadow of either shyness or burdened conscience. Oh! I want to know who you two girls are, she exclaimed eagerly. I've been dying to know. I saw you at Redmond this morning. Say, wasn't it awful there? For the time I wished I had stayed home and got married. Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this unexpected conclusion. The brown-eyed girl laughed, too. I really did. I could have, you know. Come, let's all sit down on this gravestone and get acquainted. It won't be hard. I know we're going to adore each other. I knew it as soon as I saw you at Redmond this morning. I wanted so much to go right over and hug you both. Why didn't you? asked Priscilla. Because I simply couldn't make up my mind to do it. I never can make up my mind about anything myself. I'm always afflicted with indecision. Just as soon as I decide to do something, I feel in my bones that another course would be the correct one. It's a dreadful misfortune, but I was born that way, and there is no use in blaming me for it, as some people do. So I couldn't make up my mind to go and speak to you, much as I wanted to. We thought you were too shy, said Anne. No, no, dear. Shyness isn't among the many failings or virtues of Philippa Gordon. Fill for short. Do call me Fill right off. Now, what are your handles? She's Priscilla Grant, said Anne, pointing, and she's Anne Shirley, said Priscilla, pointing in turn, and we're from the island, said both together. I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia, said Philippa. Bolingbroke? exclaimed Anne. Why, that is where I was born. Do you really mean it? Why, that makes you a blue-nosed after all. No, it doesn't, retorted Anne. Wasn't it Dan O'Connell who said that if a man was born in a stable it didn't make him a horse? I'm island to the core. Well, I'm glad you were born in Bolingbroke, anyway. It makes us kind of neighbors, doesn't it? And I like that, because when I tell you secrets it won't be as if I were telling them to a stranger. I have to tell them. I can't keep secrets. It's no use to try. That's my worst failing—that an indecision, as aforesaid. Would you believe it? It took me half an hour to decide which hat to wear when I was coming here—here—to a graveyard. At first I inclined to my brown one with the feather, but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with the floppy brim would be more becoming. When I got it pinned in place I liked the brown one better. At last I put them close together on the bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin. The pin speared the pink one, so I put it on. It is becoming, isn't it? Tell me, what do you think of my looks? At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla laughed again, but Anne said impulsively squeezing Philippa's hand. We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw at Redmond. Philippa's crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile over very white little teeth. I thought that myself—was her next astounding statement—but I wanted someone else's opinion to bolster mine up. I can't decide even on my own appearance. Just as soon as I've decided that I'm pretty I begin to feel miserably that I am not. Besides, I have a horrible old great-aunt who is always saying to me with a mournful sigh, You were such a pretty baby. It's strange how children change when they grow up. I adore aunts, but I detest great aunts. Please tell me quite often that I am pretty if you don't mind. I feel so much more comfortable when I believe I'm pretty. And I'll be just as obliging to you if you want me to. I can be with a clear conscience." Thanks! laughed Anne. But Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced of our own good looks that we don't need any assurance about them, so you needn't trouble. Oh, you're laughing at me. I know you think I'm a dominably vain, but I'm not. There really isn't one spark of vanity in me. And I'm never a bit grudging about paying compliments to other girls when they deserve them. I'm so glad I know you folks. I came up on Saturday and I've nearly died of homesickness ever since. It's a horrible feeling, isn't it? In Bowlingbroke I'm an important personage, and in Kingsport I'm just nobody. There were times when I could feel my soul turning a delicate blue. Where do you hang out? 38th St. John Street? Better and better! Why, I'm just around the corner on Wallace Street. I don't like my boarding-house, though. It's bleak and lonesome, and my room looks out on such an unholy backyard. It's the ugliest place in the world. As for cats—well, surely all the Kingsport cats can't congregate there at night, but half of them must. I adore cats on hearthrugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires. But cats in backyards at midnight are totally different animals. The first night I was here I cried all night, and so did the cats. You should have seen my nose in the morning—how I wished I had never left home. I don't know how you managed to make up your mind to come to Redmond at all, if you're a really such an undecided person. Bless your heart, honey, I didn't. It was father who wanted me to come here. His heart was set on it. Why, I don't know. It seems perfectly ridiculous to think of me studying for a BA degree, doesn't it? Not but what I can do it all right. I have heaps of brains. Oh! said Priscilla vaguely. Yes, but it's such hard work to use them. And BA's are such learned, dignified, wise, solemn creatures. They must be. Oh! I didn't want to come to Redmond. I did it just to oblige father. He is such a duck. Besides, I knew if I stayed home I'd have to get married. Mother wanted that. Wanted it decidedly. Mother has plenty of decision. But I really hated the thought of being married for a few years yet. I want to have heaps of fun before I settle down. And ridiculous as the idea of my being a BA is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still more absurd, isn't it? I'm only eighteen. No, I concluded I would rather come to Redmond than be married. Besides, how could I ever have made up my mind which meant to marry? Were there so many? laughed Anne. Heaps. The boys like me awfully. They really do. But there were only two that mattered. The rest were all too young and too poor. I must marry a rich man, you know. Why must you? Honey! You couldn't imagine me being a poor man's wife, could you? I can't do a single useful thing, and I am very extravagant. Oh, no. My husband must have heaps of money. So that narrowed them down to two. But I couldn't decide between two any easier than between two hundred. I knew perfectly well that whichever one I'd chose I'd regret all my life that I hadn't married the other. Didn't you love either of them? asked Anne a little hesitatingly. It was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the great mystery and transformation of life. Goodness no. I couldn't love anybody. It isn't in me. Besides, I wouldn't want to. Being in love makes you a perfect slave, I think. And it would give a man such power to hurt you. I'd be afraid. No, no. Alec and Alonzo were two dear boys, and I like them both so much that I really don't know which I like the better. That is the trouble. Alec is the best looking, of course, and I simply couldn't marry a man who wasn't handsome. He is good tempered, too, and has lovely curly black hair. He's rather too perfect. I don't believe I like a perfect husband, somebody I could never find fault with. Then why not marry Alonzo? asked Priscilla gravely. Think of marrying a name like Alonzo! said Phil dolefully. I don't believe I could endure it. But he has a classic nose, and it would be a comfort to have a nose in the family that could be depended on. I can't depend on mine. So far it takes after the Gordon pattern, but I am so afraid it will develop burn tendencies as I grow older. I examine it every day anxiously to make sure it's still Gordon. Mother was a burn, and has the burn nose in the burnest degree. Wait till you see it. I adore nice noses. Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley. Alonzo's nose nearly turned the balance in his favour, but Alonzo—no, I couldn't decide. If I could have done as I did with the hats, stood them both up together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hatpin, it would have been quite easy. What did Alonzo and Alonzo feel like when you came away? queried Priscilla. Oh, they still have hope. I told them they'd have to wait till I could make up my mind. They're quite willing to wait. They both worship me, you know. Meanwhile, I intend to have a good time. I expect I shall have heaps of bows at Redmond. I can't be happy unless I have, you know. But don't you think the freshmen are fearfully homely? I saw only one really handsome fellow among them. He went away before you came. I heard his chum call him Gilbert. His chum had eyes that stuck out that far. But you're not going yet, girls. Don't go yet. I think we must," said Anne rather coldly. It's getting late, and I have some work to do. But you'll both come to see me, won't you?" asked Philippa, getting up and putting an arm around each. And let me come to see you. I want to be chummy with you. I've taken such a fancy to you both. And I haven't quite disgusted you with my frivolity, have I? Not quite, laughed Anne, responding to Phil's squeeze with a return of cordiality. Because I'm not half so silly as I see him on the surface, you know. You just accept Philippa Gordon as the Lord made her, with all her faults, and I believe you'll come to like her. Isn't this graveyard a sweet place? I'd love to be buried here. Here's a grave I didn't see before. This one in the iron railing. Oh, girls, look, see! The stone says it's the grave of a middy who was killed in the fight between the Shannon and the Chesapeake. Just fancy. Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses thrilling with sudden excitement. The old graveyard, with its overarching trees and long aisles of shadows, faded from her sight. Instead she saw the Kingsport harbour of nearly a century ago. Out of the mist came slowly a great frigate, brilliant with the meteor flag of England. Behind her was another, with a still heroic form wrapped in his own starry flag, lying on the quarter-deck, the gallant Lawrence. Time's finger had turned back his pages, and that was the Shannon sailing triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize. Come back, Anne Shirley, come back! laughed Philippa, pulling her arm. You're a hundred years away from us. Come back! Anne came back with a sigh. Her eyes were shining softly. I've always loved that old story, she said, and although the English won that victory, I think it was because of the brave, defeated commander I love it. This grave seems to bring it so near and make it so real. This poor little middy was only eighteen. He died of desperate wounds received in gallant action, so reads his epitaph. It is such as a soldier might wish for. Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of purple pansy she wore, and dropped it softly on the grave of the boy who had perished in the great sea-duel. Well, what do you think of our new friend? asked Priscilla when Phil had left them. I like her. There is something very lovable about her in spite of all her nonsense. I believe, as she says herself, that she isn't half as silly as she sounds. She's a dear, kissable baby, and I don't know that she'll ever really grow up. I like her too," said Priscilla decidedly. She talks as much about boys as Ruby Gillis does, but it always enrages or sickens me to hear Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at Phil. Now what is the why of that? There is a difference," said Anne meditatively. I think it's because Ruby is really so conscious of boys. She plays at love and love-making. Besides, you feel when she is boasting of her bows that she is doing it to rub it well into you that you haven't half so many. Now when Phil talks of her bows, it sounds as if she were just speaking of chums. She really looks upon boys as good comrades, and she is pleased when she has dozens of them tagging around, simply because she likes to be popular and to be thought popular. Even Alec and Alonso—I'll never be able to think of those two names separately after this—are to her just two playfellows who want her to play with them all their lives. I'm glad we met her. And I'm glad we went to Old St. John's. I believe I've put forth a tiny soul-root into King'sport soil this afternoon. I hope so. I hate to feel transplanted. End of Chapter 4 All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Chapter 5 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Mod Montgomery. Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island Chapter 5 Letters from Home For the next three weeks Anne and Priscilla continued to feel as strangers in a strange land. Then suddenly everything seemed to fall into focus. Redmond, professors, classes, students, studies, social doings. Life became homogeneous again instead of being made up of detached fragments. The freshman, instead of being a collection of unrelated individuals, found themselves a class, with a class spirit, a class yell, class interest, class antipathies, and class ambitions. They won the day in the annual arts rush against the sophomores, and thereby gained the respect of all the classes and an enormous confidence-giving opinion of themselves. For three years the sophomores had won in the rush, that the victory of this year perched upon the freshman's banner was attributed to the strategic generalship of Gilbert Blythe, who marshaled the campaign and originated certain new tactics which demoralized the sophomores and swept the freshman to triumph. As a reward of merit he was elected president of the freshman class, a position of honor and responsibility, from a freshman point of view at least, coveted by many. He was also invited to join the lambs, red moneys for Lambda Theta, a compliment rarely paid to a freshman. As a preparatory initiation ordeal he had to parade the principal business streets of Kingsport for a whole day wearing a sun-bonnet and a voluminous kitchen apron of godly, flowered calico. This he did cheerfully, doffing his sun-bonnet with courtly grace when he met ladies of his acquaintance. Charlie Sloan, who had not been asked to join the lambs, told Anne he did not see how life could do it, and he, for his part, could never humiliate himself so. Fancy Charlie Sloan in a calico apron and a sun-bonnet, giggled Priscilla, he'd look exactly like his old grandmother Sloan. Gilbert now looked as much like a man in them as in his own proper habiliments. Anne and Priscilla found themselves in the thick of the social life of Redmond. That this came about so speedily was due in great measure to Philippa Gordon. Philippa was the daughter of a rich and well-known man, and belonged to an old and exclusive blue-nose family. This, combined with her beauty and charm, a charm acknowledged by all who met her, promptly opened the gates of all cliques, clubs, and classes in Redmond to her, and where she went, Anne and Priscilla went too. Phil adored Anne and Priscilla, especially Anne. She was a loyal little soul, crystal-free from any form of snobbishness. Love me, love my friend seemed to be her unconscious motto. Without effort she took them with her into her ever-widening circle of acquaintanceship, and the two Avonlea girls found their social pathway at Redmond made very easy and pleasant for them, to the envy and wonderment of the other freshettes, who, lacking Philippa's sponsorship, were doomed to remain rather on the fringe of things during their first college year. To Anne and Priscilla, with their more serious views of life, Phil remained the amusing, lovable baby she had seemed on their first meeting. Yet, as she said herself, she had heaps of brains. When or where she found time to study was a mystery, for she seemed always in demand for some kind of fun, and her home evenings were crowded with collars. She had all the bows that Hart could desire, for nine-tenths of the freshman, and a big fraction of all the other classes, were rivals for her smiles. She was naively delighted over this, and gleefully recounted each new conquest to Anne and Priscilla, with comments that might have made the unlucky lover's ears burn fiercely. Alec and Alonzo don't seem to have any serious rival yet, remarked Anne teasingly. Not one, agreed Philippa. I write them both every week, and tell them all about my young men here. I'm sure it must amuse them. But, of course, the one I like best I can't get. Gilbert Blythe won't take any notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a nice little kitten he'd like to pat. Too well I know the reason. I owe you a grudge, Queen Anne. I really ought to hate you, and instead I love you madly, and I'm miserable if I don't see you every day. You're different from any girl I ever knew before. When you look at me in a certain way I feel what an insignificant, frivolous little beast I am, and I long to be better and wiser and stronger. And then I make good resolutions, but the first nice-looking manny who comes my way knocks them all out of my head. Isn't college life magnificent? It's so funny to think I hated it that first day. But if I hadn't, I might never got really acquainted with you. Anne, please tell me over again that you like me a little bit. I yearn to hear it. I like you a big bit, and I think you're a dear, sweet, adorable, velvety, clawless little kitten, laughed Anne. But I don't see when you ever get time to learn your lessons. Phil must have found time, for she held her own in every class of her year. Even the grumpy old professor of mathematics, who detested coeds and had bitterly opposed their admission to Redmond, couldn't floor her. She led the freshettes everywhere, except in English, where Anne surely left her far behind. Anne herself found the studies of her freshman year very easy, thanks in great part to the study work she and Gilbert had put in during those two past years in Avonlea. This left her more time for a social life which she thoroughly enjoyed. But never for a moment did she forget Avonlea and the friends there. To her the happiest moments in each week were those in which letters came from home. It was not until she had got her first letters that she began to think she could ever like Kingsport or feel at home there. Before they came, Avonlea had seemed thousands of miles away. Those letters brought it near and linked the old life to the new so closely that they began to seem one and the same, instead of two hopelessly segregated existences. The first batch contained six letters, from Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis, Diana Barry, Marilla, Mrs. Lind and Davie. Jane's was a copper plate production, with every T nicely crossed and every I precisely dotted, and not an interesting sentence in it. She never mentioned the school concerning which Anne was avid to hear. She never answered one of the questions Anne had asked in her letter. But she told Anne how many yards of lace she had recently crocheted, and the kind of weather they were having in Avonlea, and how she intended to have her new dress made, and the way she felt when her head ached. Ruby Gillis wrote a gushing epistle deploring Anne's absence, assuring her she was horribly missed in everything, asking what the Redmond Fellows were like, and filling the rest with accounts of her own harrowing experiences with her numerous admirers. It was a silly, harmless letter, and Anne would have laughed over it had it not been for the post-script. Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters, wrote Ruby, I don't think Charlie is so stuck on it. So Gilbert was writing to Ruby. Very well. He had a perfect right to, of course, only— Anne did not know that Ruby had written the first letter, and that Gilbert had answered it from mere courtesy. She tossed Ruby's letter aside contemptuously. But it took all Diana's breezy, newsy, delightful epistle to banish the sting of Ruby's post-script. Diana's letter contained a little too much thread, but was otherwise crowded and crossed with items of interest, and Anne almost felt herself back in Avonlea while reading it. Morrillas was a rather prim and colourless epistle, severely innocent of gossip or emotion, yet somehow it conveyed to Anne a whiff of the wholesome, simple life at Green Gables with its savor of ancient peace and the steadfast abiding love that was there for her. Mrs. Lynn's letter was full of church news. Having broken up housekeeping, Mrs. Lynn had more time than ever to devote to church affairs, and had flung herself into them heart and soul. She was at present much worked up over the poor supplies they were having in the vacant Avonlea pulpit. I don't believe any but fools enter the ministry nowadays, she wrote bitterly. Such candidates as they have sent us, and such stuff as they preach. Half of it ain't true, and what's worse, it ain't sound doctrine. The one we have now was the worst of the lot. He mostly takes a text and preaches about something else, and he says he doesn't believe all the heathen will be eternally lost—the idea. If they won't, all the money we've been giving to foreign missions will be clean wasted, that's what. Last Sunday night he announced that next Sunday he'd preach on the axe-head that swam. I think he'd better confine himself to the Bible and leave sensational subjects alone. Things have come to a pretty pass if a minister can't find enough in holy writ to preach about, that's what. What church do you attend, Anne? I hope you go regularly. People are apt to get so careless about church going away from home, and I understand college students are great sinners in this respect. I'm told many of them actually study their lessons on Sunday. I hope you'll never sink that low, Anne. Remember how you were brought up, and be very careful what friends you make. You never know what sort of creatures are in them colleges. Outwardly they may be as whited sepulchres, and inwardly as ravening wolves, that's what. You'd better not have anything to say to any young man who isn't from the island. I forgot to tell you what happened the day the minister called here. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. I said to Marilla, if Anne had been here wouldn't she have had a laugh, even Marilla laughed? You know he's a very short, fat little man with bow-legs. Well, that old pig of Mr. Harrison's, the big, tall one, had wandered over here that day again, and broke into the yard and it got into the back porch, unbeknownst to us, and it was there when the minister appeared in the doorway. It made one wild boat to get out, but there was nowhere to bolt except between them bow-legs. So there it went, and being as it was so big and the minister so little, it took him clean off his feet and carried him away. His hat went one way and his cane another, just as Marilla and I got to the door. I'll never forget the look of him, and that poor pig was nearscared to death. I'll never be able to read that account in the Bible of the swine that rushed madly down the steep place into the sea without seeing Mr. Harrison's pig careering down the hill with that minister. I guess the pig thought he had the old boy on his back instead of inside of him. I was thankful the twins weren't about. It wouldn't have been the right thing for them to have seen a minister in such an undignified predicament. Just before they got to the brook, the minister jumped off or fell off. The pig rushed through the brook like mad and up through the woods. Marilla and I run down and help the minister get up and brush his coat. He wasn't hurt, but he was mad. He seemed to hold Marilla and me responsible for it all. Though we told them the pig didn't belong to us and had been pestering us all summer, besides, what did he come to the back door for? You'd never have caught Mr. Allen doing that. It'll be a long time before we get a man like Mr. Allen, but it's an ill wind that blows no good. We've never seen hoof or hair of that pig since, and it's my belief we never will. Things is pretty quiet and avanly. I don't find Green Gables as lonesome as I expected. I think I'll start another cotton warp quilt this winter. Mrs. Silas Sloan has a handsome new apple leaf pattern. When I feel that I must have some excitement, I read the murder trials in that Boston paper my niece sends me. I never used to do it, but they're real interesting. The States must be an awful place. I hope you'll never go there, Anne. But the way girls roam over the earth now is something terrible, and it always makes me think of Satan in the book of Job, going to and fro and walking up and down. I don't believe the Lord ever intended it, that's what. Davey has been pretty good since you went away. One day he was bad and Marilla punished him by making him wear Dora's apron all day, and then he went and cut all Dora's aprons up. I spanked him for that, and then he went and chased my rooster to death. The McPherson's have moved down to my place. She's a great housekeeper in very particular. She's rooted all my June lilies up because she says they make a garden look so untidy. Thomas set them lilies out when we were married. Her husband seems a nice sort of man, but she can't get over being an old maid, that's what. Don't study too hard, and be sure and put your winter underclothes on as soon as the weather gets cool. Marilla worries a lot about you, but I tell you you've got more sense than I ever thought you would have at one time, and that you'll be all right. Davey's letter plunged into a grievance at the start. Dear Anne, please write and tell Marilla not to tie me to the rail of the bridge when I go fishing. The boys make fun of me when she does. It's awful lonesome here without you, but great fun in school. Jane Andrews is crosser than you. I scared Mrs. Lynde with a Jackie Lantern last night. She was awful mad, and she was mad because I chased her old rooster round the yard till he fell down dead. I didn't mean to make him fall down dead. What made him die, Anne? I want to know. Mrs. Lynde threw him into the pigpen she might have sold him to Mr. Blair. Mr. Blair is giving fifty cents apiece for a good dead rooster's now. I heard Mrs. Lynde asking the minister to pray for her. What did she do that was so bad, Anne? I want to know. I've got a kite with a magnificent tail, Anne. Milty Bolter told me a great story in school yesterday. It is true. Old Joe, Mosey, and Leon were playing cards one night last week in the woods. The cards were on a stump, and a big black man bigger than the trees come along and grabbed the cards in the stump and disappeared with a noise like thunder. I'll bet they were scared. Milty says the black man was the old Harry. Was he, Anne? I want to know. Mr. Kimball over at Spencervale is very sick and will have to go to the hospitable. Please excuse me while I ask Marilla if that's spelled right. Marilla says it's the asylum he has to go to, not the other place. He thinks he has a snake inside of him. What's it like to have a snake inside of you, Anne? I want to know. Mrs. Lawrence Bell is sick too. Mrs. Lynde says that all that is the matter with her is that she thinks too much about her insides. I wonder, said Anne, as she folded up her letters, what Mrs. Lynde would think of Philippa. End of chapter five. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Chapter six of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island. Chapter six. In the park. What are you going to do with yourselves today, girls? asked Philippa, popping into Anne's room one Saturday afternoon. We're going for a walk in the park, answered Anne. I ought to stay in and finish my blouse, but I couldn't so on a day like this. There's something in the air that gets into my blood and makes a sort of glory in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I'd sew a crooked seam. So it's hoe for the park and the pines. Does we include any one but yourself and Priscilla? Yes. It includes Gilbert and Charlie, and we'll be very glad if it will include you also. But, said Philippa dolefully, if I go I'll have to be gooseberry, and that will be a new experience for Philippa Gordon. While new experiences are broadening, come along and you'll be able to sympathize with all poor souls who have to play gooseberry often. But where are all the victims? Oh, I was tired of them all and simply couldn't be bothered with any of them today. Besides, I've been feeling a little blue—just a pale, elusive azure. It isn't serious enough for anything darker. I wrote Alec and Alonzo last week. I put the letters into envelopes and dressed them, but I didn't seal them up. That evening something funny happened. That is, Alec would think it funny, but Alonzo wouldn't be likely to. I was in a hurry, so I snatched Alec's letter, as I thought, out of the envelope and scribbled down a post-script. Then I mailed both letters. I got Alonzo's reply this morning. Girls, I had put that post-script to his letter and he was furious. Of course he'll get over it, and I don't care if he doesn't. But it spoiled my day. So I thought I'd come to you, darlings, to get cheered up. After the football season opens I won't have any spare Saturday afternoons. I adore football. I've got the most gorgeous cap and sweaters striped in redmen colours to wear to the games. To be sure, a little way off I look like a walking barber's pole. Do you know that that Gilbert of yours has been elected captain of the freshman football team? Yes, he told us so last evening, said Priscilla, seeing that outraged Anne would not answer. He and Charlie were down. We knew they were coming, so we painstakingly put out of sight or out of reach all Miss Ada's cushions. That very elaborate one with the raised embroidery I dropped on the floor in the corner behind the chair it was on. I thought it would be safe there. But would you believe it? Charlie Sloan, made for that chair, noticed the cushion behind it, solemnly fished it up and sat on it the whole evening. Such a wreck of a cushion as it was. Poor Miss Ada asked me to-day, still smiling, but oh, so reproachfully, why I had allowed it to be sat upon. I told her I hadn't, that it was a matter of predestination coupled with inveterate slownishness, and I wasn't a match for both combined. Miss Ada's cushions are really getting on my nerves, said Anne. She finished two new ones last week, stuffed and embroidered within an inch of their lives. There being absolutely no other cushionless place to put them, she stood them up against the wall on the stair-landing. They topple over half the time, and if we come up or down the stairs in the dark, we fall over them. Last Sunday, when Mr. Davis prayed for all those exposed to the perils of the sea, I added in thought, and for all those who live in houses where cushions are loved not wisely but too well. There, we're ready, and I see the boys coming through Alts and Johns. Do you cast in your lot with us, Phil? I'll go, if I can walk with Priscilla and Charlie. That will be a bearable degree of gooseberry. That Gilbert of yours is a darling Anne, but why does he go around so much with goggle eyes? Anne stiffened. She had no great liking for Charlie Sloan, but he was of Avonlea, so no outsider had any business to laugh at him. Charlie and Gilbert have always been friends, she said coldly. Charlie is a nice boy. He's not to blame for his eyes. Don't tell me that. He is. He must have done something dreadful in a previous existence to be punished with such eyes. Priscilla and I are going to have such sport with him this afternoon. We'll make fun of him to his face, and he'll never know it. Doubtless the abandoned peas, as Anne called them, did carry out their amiable intentions. But Sloan was blissfully ignorant. He thought he was quite a fine fellow to be walking with two such coeds, especially Philippa Gordon, the class beauty in Bell. It must surely impress Anne. She would see that some people appreciated him at his real value. Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying the calm, still beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of the park, on the road that climbed and twisted round the harbour shore. The silence here is like a prayer, isn't it? said Anne, her face upturned to the shining sky. How I love the pines. They seem to strike their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. It is so comforting to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. I always feel so happy out here. And so, when the mountain solitudes are taken as by some spell divine, their cares drop from them like the needles shaken from out the gusty pine, quoted Gilbert. They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don't they, Anne? I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines for comfort, said Anne dreamily. I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne, said Gilbert, who could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous creature beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the highest height can also plunge to the deepest depths, and that the natures which enjoy most keenly are those which also suffer most sharply. But there must, some time, mused Anne. Life seems like a cup of glory held to my lips just now, but there must be some bitterness in it. There is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day. Well, I hope I shall be strong and brave to meet it, and I hope it won't be through my own fault that it will come. Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday evening, that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn't talk of sorrow and an afternoon like this. It's meant for the sheer joy of living, isn't it? If I had my way, I'd shut everything out of your life but happiness and pleasure, Anne, said Gilbert, in the tone that meant danger ahead. Then you would be very unwise, rejoined Anne hastily. I'm sure no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and sorrow, though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that we admit it. Come, the others have got to the pavilion and are beckoning to us. They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn sunset of deep red fire and pallet gold. To their left lay Kingsport, its roofs inspire steam in their shroud of violet smoke. To their right lay the harbour, taking on tints of rose and copper as it stretched out into the sunset. Before them the water shimmered, sat in smooth and silver grey, and beyond clean shaven Williams Island, loomed out of the mist, guarding the town like a sturdy bulldog. Its lighthouse beacon flared through the mist like a baleful star, and was answered by another in the far horizon. Did you ever see such a strong-looking place? asked Philippa. I don't want Williams Island especially, but I'm sure I couldn't get it if I did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort, right beside the flag. Doesn't he look as if he had stepped out of a romance? Speaking of romance, said Priscilla, we've been looking for Heather, but of course we couldn't find any. It's too late in the season, I suppose. Heather, exclaimed Anne, Heather doesn't grow in America, does it? There are just two patches of it in the whole continent, said Phil, one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, I forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the black watch camped here one year, and when the men shook out the straw of their beds in the spring, some seeds of Heather took root. Oh, how delightful, said enchanted Anne. Let's go home around by Spofford Avenue, suggested Gilbert. We can see all the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell. Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport. Nobody can build on it unless he's a millionaire. Oh, do, said Phil. There's a perfectly killing little place I want to show you, Anne. It wasn't built by a millionaire. It's the first place after you leave the park, and must have grown while Spofford Avenue was still a country road. It did grow, it wasn't built. I don't care for the houses on the avenue. They're too brand new and plate-glassy. But this little spot is a dream, and its name—but wait till you see it. They saw it as they walked at the pine-fringed hill from the park. Just on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a plain road, was a little white frame house with groups of pines on either side of it, stretching their arms protectingly over its low roof. It was covered with red and gold vines, through which its green-shuttered windows peeped. Before it was a tiny garden, surrounded by a low stone wall. October, though it was, the garden was still very sweet, with deer, old-fashioned, unworldly flowers and shrubs—sweet may, southern wood, lemon verbena, alism, petunias, marigolds, and chrysanthemums. A tiny brick walk in herring-bone pattern led from the gate to the front porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some remote country village. Yet there was something about it that made its nearest neighbor, the big, long and circled palace of a tobacco-king, look exceedingly crude and showy and ill-bred by contrast. As Phil said, it was the difference between being born and being made. It's the dearest place I ever saw, said Anne, delightedly. It gives me one of my old, delightful, funny aches. It's dearer and quainter than even Miss Lavender's stone house. It's the name I want you to notice especially, said Phil. Look, in white letters around the archway over the gate. Patti's place. Isn't that killing? Especially on this avenue of pine-hursts and elm-wolds and cedar-crofts? Patti's place, if you please. I adore it. Have you any idea who Patti is? asked Priscilla. Patti Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I've discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they've lived there for hundreds of years, more or less—maybe a little less, Anne. Exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot time and again. It's really worth a small fortune now, you know, but Patti won't sell upon any consideration. And there's an apple orchard behind the house in place of a backyard. You'll see it when we get a little past—a real apple orchard on Spofford Avenue. I'm going to dream about Patti's place tonight, said Anne. Why, I feel as if I belong to it. I wonder if by any chance we'll ever see the inside of it. It isn't likely, said Priscilla. Anne smiled mysteriously. No, it isn't likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a queer, creepy, crawly feeling. You can call it a presentiment, if you like, that Patti's place and I are going to be better acquainted yet. CHAPTER VII. HOME AGAIN I can't really believe that this time tomorrow I'll be in Green Gables, said Anne on the night before departure, but I shall be, and you, Phil, will be in bowling-broke with Alec and Alonso. I'm longing to see them, admitted Phil, between the chocolate she was nibbling. They really are such dear boys, you know. There's to be no end of dances and drives and general jamborees. I shall never forgive you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with me for the holidays. Never means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you to ask me, and I'd love to go to bowling-broke some day. But I can't go this year. I must go home. You don't know how my heart longs for it. You won't have much of a time, said Phil scornfully. There'll be one or two quilting-parties, I suppose, and all the old gossips will talk you over to your face and behind your back. You'll die of lonesomeness, child. It happened, Lee, said Anne, highly amused. Now, if you'd come with me, you'd have a perfectly gorgeous time. Bowling-broke would go wild over you, Queen Anne. Your hair and your style and—oh, everything! You're so different. You'd be such a success, and I would bask in reflected glory. Not the rose, but near the rose. Do come, after all, Anne. Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but I'll paint one tuft set it. I'm going home to an old country farmhouse, once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple orchards. There is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond, where I've heard harps swept by the fingers of rain and wind. There is a pond nearby that will be gray and brooding now. There will be two oldish ladies in the house, one tall and thin, one short and fat, and there will be two twins, one a perfect model, the other what Mrs. Lind calls a holy terror. There will be a little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang thick, and a big, fat, glorious feather bed, which will almost seem the height of luxury after a boarding-house mattress. How do you like my picture, Phil? It seems a very dull one, said Phil with a grimace. Oh, but I've left out the transforming thing, said Anne softly. There'll be love there, Phil—faithful, tender love, such as I'll never find anywhere else in the world—love that's waiting for me. That makes my picture a masterpiece, doesn't it, even if the colours are not very brilliant? Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up to Anne, and put her arms about her. Anne, I wish I was like you, she said soberly. Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they drove home together under silent, star-sown depths of sky. Green Gables had a very festal appearance as they drove up the lane. There was a light in every window, the glow breaking out through the darkness like flame-red blossoms swung against the dark background of the haunted wood. And in the yard was a brave bonfire with two gay little figures dancing around it, one of which gave an unearthly yell as the buggy turned in under the poplars. Davey means that for an Indian war-woop, said Diana. Mr. Harrison's hired boy taught it to him, and he's been practicing it up to welcome you with. Mrs. Lin says it has worn her nerves to a frazzle. He creeps up behind her, you know, and then lets go. He was determined to have a bonfire for you, too. He's been piling up branches for a fortnight and pestering Marilla to be let pour some kerosene oil over it before setting it on fire. I guess she did by the smell, though Mrs. Lin set up to the last that Davey would blow himself and everybody else up if he was let. Anne was out of the buggy by this time, and Davey was rapturously hugging her knees while even Dora was clinging to her hand. Isn't that a bully bonfire, Anne? Just let me show you how to poke it. See the sparks? I did it for you, Anne, because I was so glad you were coming home. The kitchen door opened, and Marilla's spare form darkened against the inner light. She preferred to meet Anne in the shadows, for she was horribly afraid that she was going to cry with joy. She, stern, repressed Marilla, who thought all display of deep emotion unseemly. Mrs. Lin was behind her, sauncey, kindly, matronly, as if your—the love that Anne had told Phil was waiting for her surrounded her and enfolded her with its blessing and its sweetness. Nothing, after all, could compare with old ties, old friends, and old green gables—how starry Anne's eyes were as they sat down to the loaded supper-table, how pink her cheeks, how silver-clear her laughter. And Diana was going to stay all night, too—how like the dear old times it was—and the rose-bud tea-set graced the table, with Marilla the force of nature could no further go. I suppose you and Diana will now proceed to talk all night," said Marilla sarcastically as the girls went upstairs. Marilla was always sarcastic after any self-betrayal. Yes, agreed Anne gaily, but I'm going to put Davy to bed first. He insists on that. You bet, said Davy, as they went along the hall, I want somebody to say my prayers to again. It's no fun saying them alone. You don't say them alone, Davy. God is always with you to hear you. Well, I can't see him, objected Davy. I don't want to pray to somebody I can see, but I won't say them to Mrs. Lind or Marilla, there now. Nevertheless, when Davy was garbed in his gray flannel nighty, he did not seem in a hurry to begin. He stood before Anne, shuffling one bare foot over the other and looked undecided. Come, dear, kneel down, said Anne. Davy came and buried his head in Anne's lap, but he did not kneel down. Anne, he said in a muffled voice, I don't feel like praying after all. I haven't felt like it for a week now. I—I didn't pray last night, nor the night before. Why not, Davy? asked Anne gently. You—you won't be mad if I tell you? implored Davy. Anne lifted the little gray flanneled body on her knee and cuddled his head on her arm. Do I ever get mad when you tell me things, Davy? No, you never do. But you get sorry, and that's worse. You'll be awful sorry when I tell you this, Anne, and you'll be shamed in me, I suppose. Have you done something naughty, Davy, and is that why you can't say your prayers? No, I haven't done anything naughty, yet. But I want to do it. What is it, Davy? I—I want to say a bad word, Anne, blurted out Davy with a desperate effort. I heard Mr. Harrison's hired boy say it one day last week and ever since I've been wanting to say it all the time, even when I'm saying my prayers. Say it, then, Davy. Davy lifted his flushed face in amazement. But Anne, it's an awful bad word. Say it. Davy gave her another incredulous look. Then, in a low voice, he said the dreadful word. The next minute, his face was burrowing against her. Oh, Anne, I'll never say it again. Never—I'll never want to say it again. I knew it was bad, but I didn't suppose it was so—so I didn't suppose it was like that. No. I don't think you'll ever want to say it again, Davy, or think it either. And I wouldn't go about much with Mr. Harrison's hired boy if I were you. He can make bully war-woops, said Davy a little regretfully. But you don't want your mind filled with bad words, do you, Davy? Words that will poison it and drive out all that is good and manly? No, said Davy, owl-eyed with introspection. Then don't go with those people who use them. And now do you feel as if you could say your prayers, Davy? Oh, yes, said Davy, eagerly wriggling down on his knees. I can say them now, all right. I ain't scared now to say if I should die before I wake like I was when I was wanting to say that word. Probably Anne and Diana did empty out their souls to each other that night, but no record of their confidences has been preserved. They both looked as fresh and bright-eyed at breakfast as only youth can look after unlawful hours of revelry and confession. There had been no snow up to this time, but as Diana crossed the old log bridge on her homeward way the white flakes were beginning to flutter down over the fields and woods, rusted in gray in their dreamless sleep. Soon the faraway slopes and hills were dim and wraith-like through their gauzy scarfing as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her hair and was waiting for her wintry bridegroom. So they had a white Christmas after all, and a very pleasant day it was. In the forenoon letters and gifts came from Miss Lavender and Paul. Anne opened them in the cheerful Green Gables kitchen which was filled with what Davy, sniffing an ecstasy, called Pretty Smells. Miss Lavender and Mr. Irving are settled in their new home now, reported Anne. I'm sure Miss Lavender is perfectly happy. I know it by the general tone of her letter. But there's a note from Carlotta IV. She doesn't like Boston at all, and she is fearfully homesick. Miss Lavender wants me to go through to Echo Lodge some day while I'm home in light of fire to air it and see that the cushions aren't getting moldy. I think I'll get Diana to go over with me next week, and we can spend the evening with Theodora Dix. I want to see Theodora. By the way, is Ludovic's speed still going to see her?" They say so, said Marilla, and he's likely to continue it. Folks have given up expecting that that courtship will ever arrive anywhere. I'd hurry him up a bit if I was Theodora, that's what, said Mrs. Lind, and there is not the slightest doubt but that she would. There was also a characteristic scrawl from Philippa full of Alec and Alonzo, what they said and what they did and how they looked when they saw her. But I can't make up my mind yet which to marry, wrote Phil. I do wish you had come with me to decide for me. Someone will have to. When I saw Alec my heart gave a great thump and I thought he might be the right one. And then when Alonzo came, thump went my heart again, so that's no guide though it should be according to all the novels I've ever read. Now Anne, your heart wouldn't thump for anybody but the genuine Prince Charming, would it? There must be something radically wrong with mine. But I'm having a perfectly gorgeous time. How I wish you were here. It's snowing today and I'm rapturous. I was so afraid we'd have a green Christmas and I loathe them. You know, when Christmas is a dirty, gray, brownie affair, looking as if it had been left over a hundred years ago and had been in soak ever since, it is called a green Christmas. Don't ask me why. As Lord Dundreary says, there are some things no fellow can understand. Anne, did you ever get on a streetcar and then discover that you hadn't any money with you to pay your fare? I did the other day. It's quite awful. I had a nickel with me when I got on the car. I thought it was in the left pocket of my coat. When I got settled down comfortably I felt for it. It wasn't there. I had a cold chill. I felt in the other pocket. Not there. I had another chill. Then I felt in a little inside pocket. All in vain. I had two chills at once. I took off my gloves, laid them on the seat, and went all over my pockets again. It was not there. I stood up and shook myself, and then looked on the floor. The car was full of people who were going home from the opera, and they all stared at me. But I was past caring for a little thing like that. But I could not find my fare. I concluded I must have put it in my mouth and swallowed it inadvertently. I didn't know what to do. With the conductor I wandered, stopped the car, and put me off in ignominy and shame. Was it possible that I could convince him that I was merely the victim of my own absent-mindedness and not an unprincipled creature trying to obtain a ride upon false pretenses? How I wished that Alec Orlanso were there. But they weren't, because I wanted them. If I hadn't wanted them, they would have been there by the dozen. And I couldn't decide what to say to the conductor when he came around. As soon as I got one sentence of explanation mapped out in my mind, I felt nobody could believe it, and I must compose another. It seemed there was nothing to do but trust in providence, and for all the comfort that gave me I might as well have been the old lady who, when told by the captain during a storm that she must put her trust in the Almighty, exclaimed, Oh, Captain, is it as bad as that? Just at the conventional moment, when all hope had fled, and the conductor was holding out his box to the passenger next to me, I suddenly remembered where I had put that wretched coin of the realm. I hadn't swallowed it after all. I meekly fished it out of the index finger of my glove and poked it in the box. I smiled at everybody and felt that it was a beautiful world. The visit to Echo Lodge was not the least pleasant of many pleasant holiday outings. Anne and Diana went back to it by the old way of the beach woods, carrying a lunch-basket with them. Echo Lodge, which had been closed ever since Miss Lavender's wedding, was briefly thrown open to wind and sunshine once more, and firelight glimmered again in the little rooms. The perfume of Miss Lavender's rose-bowl still filled the air. It was hardly possible to believe that Miss Lavender would not come tripping in presently, with her brown eyes a star with welcome, and that Carlotta IV, blue of bow and wide of smile, would not pop through the door. Paul, too, seemed hovering around with his fairy fancies. It really makes me feel a little bit like a ghost revisiting the old-time glimpses of the moon, laughed Anne. Let's go out and see if the Echoes were at home. Bring the old horn, it is still behind the kitchen door. The Echoes were at home, over the white river as silver-clear and multitudinous as ever, and when they had ceased to answer, the girls locked up Echo Lodge again and went away in the perfect half-hour that follows the rose and saffron of a winter sunset. Anne's First Proposal The old year did not slip away in a green twilight, with a pinky-yellow sunset. Instead it went out with a wild, white bluster and blow. It was one of the nights when the storm wind hurtles over the frozen meadows and black hollows, and moans around the eaves like a lost creature, and drives the snow sharply against the shaking panes. Just the sort of night people like to cuddle down between their blankets and count their mercies, said Anne to Jane Andrews, who had come up to spend the afternoon and stay all night. But when they were cuddle between their blankets in Anne's little porch-room, it was not her mercies of which Jane was thinking. Anne, she said very solemnly, I want to tell you something. May I? Anne was feeling rather sleepy after the party Ruby Gillis had given the night before. She would much rather have gone to sleep than listen to Jane's confidences, which she were sure would bore her. She had no prophetic inkling of what was coming. Probably Jane was engaged too. Rumor averred that Ruby Gillis was engaged to the Spencer Vale schoolteacher, about whom all the girls were said to be quite wild. I'll soon be the only fancy freemaden of our old quartet, thought Anne drowsily. Allowed, she said, of course. Anne, said Jane, still more solemnly, what do you think of my brother Billy? Anne gasped over this unexpected question, and floundered helplessly in her thoughts. Goodness! What did she think of Billy Andrews? She had never thought anything about him. Round-faced, stupid, perpetually smiling, good-natured Billy Andrews. Did anybody ever think about Billy Andrews? I—I don't understand, Jane, she stammered. What do you mean, exactly? Do you like Billy? asked Jane bluntly. Why—why—yes, I like him, of course, gasped Anne, wondering if she were telling the literal truth. Certainly she did not dislike Billy. But could the indifferent tolerance with which she regarded him when he happened to be in her range of vision be considered positive enough for liking? What was Jane trying to elucidate? Would you like him for a husband? asked Jane calmly. A husband? Anne had been sitting up in bed the better to wrestle with the problem of her exact opinion of Billy Andrews. Now she fell flatly back on her pillows, the very breath gone out of her. Whose husband? Yours, of course, answered Jane. Billy wants to marry you. He's always been crazy about you, and now father has given him the upper farm in his own name and there's nothing to prevent him from getting married. But he's so shy he couldn't ask you himself if you'd have him, so he got me to do it. I'd rather not have, but he gave me no peace till I said I would if I got a good chance. What do you think about it, Anne? Was it a dream? Was it one of those nightmare things in which you find yourself engaged or married to someone you hate or don't? No. She, Anne Shirley, was lying there, wide awake in her own bed, and Jane Andrews was beside her, calmly proposing for her brother Billy. Anne did not know whether she wanted to writhe or laugh, but she could do neither, for Jane's feelings must not be hurt. I—I couldn't marry Billy, you know Jane. She managed to gasp. Why, such an idea never occurred to me. Never! I don't suppose it did, agreed Jane. Billy has always been far too shy to think of courting. But you might think it over, Anne. Billy is a good fellow. I must say that if he is my brother. He has no bad habits, and he's a great worker, and you can depend on him. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. He told me to tell you he'd be quite willing to wait till you got through college if you insisted, though he'd rather get married this spring before the planting begins. He'd always be very good to you, I'm sure, and you know, Anne, I'd love to have you for a sister. I can't marry Billy, said Anne decidedly. She had recovered her wits, and was even feeling a little angry. It was all so ridiculous. There is no use thinking of it, Jane. I don't care anything for him in that way, and you must tell him so. Well, I didn't suppose you would, said Jane with a resigned sigh, feeling that she had done her best. I told Billy I didn't believe it was a bit of use to ask you, but he insisted. Well, you've made your decision, Anne, and I hope you won't regret it. Jane spoke rather coldly. She had been perfectly sure that the enamoured Billy had no chance at all of inducing Anne to marry him. Nevertheless, she felt a little resentment that Anne, surely, who was, after all, merely an adopted orphan without kith or kin, should refuse her brother, one of the Avon Lee Andrews. Well, pride sometimes goes before a fall, Jane reflected ominously. Anne permitted herself to smile in the darkness over the idea that she might ever regret not marrying Billy Andrews. I hope Billy won't feel very badly over it, she said nicely. Jane made a movement as if she were tossing her head on her pillow. Oh, he won't break his heart. Billy has too much good sense for that. He likes Nettie Blewitt pretty well, too, and mother would rather he married her than anyone. She's such a good manager and saver. I think when Billy is once sure you won't have him, he'll take Nettie. Please don't mention this to anyone, will you, Anne? Certainly not, said Anne, who had no desire whatever to publish abroad the fact that Billy Andrews wanted to marry her, preferring her when all was said and done to Nettie Blewitt. Nettie Blewitt! And now I suppose we'd better go to sleep, suggested Jane. To sleep went Jane easily and speedily. But though very unlike Macbeth in most respects, she had certainly contrived to murder sleep for Anne. That proposed to damsel lay on a wakeful pillow until the wee smiles, but her meditations were far from being romantic. It was not, however, until the next morning that she had an opportunity to indulge in a good laugh over the whole affair. When Jane had gone home, still with a hint of frost and voice and manner, because Anne had declined so ungrateful and decidedly the honour of an alliance with the House of Andrews, Anne retreated to the porch room, shut the door, and had her laugh out at last. If I could only share the joke with someone, she thought. But I can't. Diana is the only one I'd want to tell, and even if I hadn't sworn secrecy to Jane, I can't tell Diana things now. She tells everything to Fred. I know she does. Well, I've had my first proposal. I supposed it would come some day, but I certainly never thought it would be by proxy. It's awfully funny. And yet there's a sting in it, too, somehow. Anne knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she did not put it into words. She had had her secret dreams of the first time someone would ask her the great question, and it had, in those dreams, always been very romantic and beautiful, and the someone was to be very handsome and dark-eyed and distinguished-looking and eloquent, whether he were Prince Charming to be enraptured with yes, or one to whom a regretful, beautifully worded but hopeless refusal must be given. If the latter the refusal was to be expressed so delicately that it would be next best thing to acceptance, and he would go away after kissing her hand, assuring her of his unalterable, lifelong devotion, and it would always be a beautiful memory to be proud of and a little sad about also. And now this thrilling experience had turned out to be merely grotesque. Billy Andrews had got his sister to propose for him because his father had given him the upper farm, and if Anne wouldn't have him, Netty Bluid would. There was romance for you with a vengeance. Anne laughed, and then sighed. The bloom had been brushed from one more little maiden dream. Would the painful process go on until everything became prosaic and humdrum? End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Mod Montgomery. Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island. Chapter 9. An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend. The second term at Redmond's sped as quickly as had the first—actually whizzed away, Philippe said. Anne enjoyed it thoroughly in all its phases—the stimulating class rivalry, the making and deepening of new and helpful friendships, the gay little social stunts, the doings of the various societies of which she was a member, the widening of horizons and interests. She studied hard, for she had made up her mind to win the Thorburn Scholarship in English. This being one meant that she could come back to Redmond the next year without trenching on Marilla's small savings—something Anne was determined she would not do. Gilbert, too, was in full chase after a scholarship, but found plenty of time for frequent calls at thirty-eight St. John's. He was Anne's escort at nearly all the college affairs, and she knew that their names were coupled in Redmond gossip. Anne raged over this, but was helpless. She could not cast an old friend like Gilbert aside, especially when he had grown suddenly wise and wary, as behooved him in the dangerous proximity of more than one Redmond youth, who would gladly have taken his place by the side of the slender red-haired co-ed whose grey eyes were as alluring as stars of evening. Anne was never attended by the crowd of willing victims who hovered around Philippa's conquering march through her freshman year, but there was a lanky, brainy, freshy, a jolly little round sophomore, and a tall, learned junior, who all liked to call at thirty-eight St. John's, and talk over oligies and isms, as well as lighter subjects with Anne, in the becushioned parlor of that domicile. Gilbert did not love any of them, and he was exceedingly careful to give none of them the advantage over him by any untimely display of his real feelings and word. To her he had become again the boy-comrade of Avonlea days, and as such could hold his own against any spit and swain who had so far entered the lists against him. As a companion, Anne honestly acknowledged nobody could be so satisfactory as Gilbert. She was very glad, so she told herself, that he had evidently dropped all nonsensical ideas, though she spent considerable time secretly wondering why. Only one disagreeable incident marred that winter. Charlie Sloan, sitting bold upright on Miseda's most dearly beloved cushion, asked Anne one night if she would promise to become Mrs. Charlie Sloan some day. Coming after Billy Andrew's proxy effort, this was not quite the shock to Anne's romantic sensibilities that it would otherwise have been, but it was certainly another heart-rending disillusion. She was angry, too, for she felt that she had never given Charlie the slightest encouragement to suppose such a thing possible. But what could you expect of a Sloan, as Mrs. Rachel Lind would ask scornfully? Charlie's whole attitude, tone, air, words, fairly reeked with slownishness. He was conferring a great honour, no doubt whatever about that. And when Anne, utterly insensible to the honour, refused him as delicately and considerably as she could, for even a Sloan had feelings which ought not to be unduly lacerated, Sloanishness still further betrayed itself. Charlie certainly did not take his dismissal as Anne's imaginary rejected suitors did. Instead he became angry and showed it. He said two or three quite nasty things. Anne's temper flashed up mutinously, and she retorted with a cutting little speech whose keenness pierced even Charlie's protective slownishness, and reached the quick. He caught up his hat and flung himself out of the house with a very red face. Anne rushed upstairs, falling twice over Miss Aida's cushions on the way, and threw herself on her bed, in tears of humiliation and rage. Had she actually stooped to quarrel with a Sloan? Was it possible anything Charlie Sloan could say had power to make her angry? Oh, this was degradation indeed, worse even than being the rival of netty blue-it. I wish I never see the horrible creature again, she sobbed vindictively into her pillows. She could not avoid seeing him again, but the outraged Charlie took care that it should not be at very close quarters. Miss Aida's cushions were henceforth safe from his depredations, and when he met Anne on the street, or in Redmond's halls, his bow was icy in the extreme. Relations between these two old schoolmates continued to be thus strained for nearly a year. Then Charlie transferred his blighted affections to a round, rosy, snub-nosed, blue-eyed little sophomore, who appreciated them as they deserved, whereupon he forgave Anne and condescended to be civil to her again, in a patronizing manner intended to show her just what she had lost. One day Anne scurried excitedly into Priscilla's room. Read that, she cried, tossing Priscilla a letter. It's from Stella, and she's coming to Redmond next year. And what do you think of her idea? I think it's a perfectly splendid one if we can only carry it out. Do you suppose we can, Priss? I'll be better able to tell you what I find out what it is," said Priscilla, casting aside a Greek lexicon and taking up Stella's letter. Stella Maynard had been one of their chums at Queen's Academy, and had been teaching school ever since. But I'm going to give it up, Anne, dear," she wrote, and go to college next year. As I took the third year at Queen's, I can enter the sophomore year. I'm tired of teaching at a back-country school. Some day I'm going to write a treatise on the trials of a country schoolmarm. It will be a harrowing bit of realism. It seems to be the prevailing impression that we live in clover, and have nothing to do but draw our quarter salary. My Tweety shall tell the truth about us. Why, if a week should pass without someone telling me that I am doing easy work for big pay, I would conclude that I might as well order my ascension-robe immediately and to once. Well, you get your money easy. Some rate-payer will tell me condescendingly. All you have to do is sit there and hear lessons. I used to argue the matter at first, but I am wiser now. Facts are stubborn things. But as someone has wisely said, not half so stubborn as fallacies. So I only smile loftily now in eloquent silence. Why, I have nine grades in my school, and I have to teach a little of everything from investigating the interiors of earthworms to the study of the solar system. My youngest pupil is four. His mother sends him to school to get him out of the way, and my oldest, twenty, it suddenly struck him that it would be easier to go to school and get an education than follow the plow any longer. In the wild effort to cram all sorts of research into six hours a day, I don't wonder if the children feel a little like the boy who was taken to see the Biograph. I have to look for what's coming next before I know what went last, he complained. I feel like that myself. And the letters I get, Anne! Tommy's mother writes me that Tommy is not coming on in arithmetic as fast as she would like. He is only in simple reduction yet, and Johnny Johnson is in fractions, and Johnny isn't half as smart as her, Tommy, and she can't understand it. And Susie's father wants to know why Susie can't write a letter without misspelling half the words, and Dick's aunt wants me to change his seat because that bad brown boy he is sitting with is teaching him to say naughty words. As to the financial part. But I'll not begin on that. Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make country school marms. There, I feel better after that growl. After all, I've enjoyed these past two years. But I'm coming to Redmond. And now, Anne, I have a little plan. You know how I loathe boarding. I've boarded for four years, and I'm so tired of it. I don't feel like enduring three years more of it. Now, why can't you and Priscilla and I club together, rent a little house somewhere in Kingsport, and board ourselves? It would be cheaper than any other way. Of course, we would have to have a housekeeper, and I have one ready on the spot. You've heard me speak of Aunt Jamesina. She's the sweetest aunt that ever lived, in spite of her name. She can't help that. She was called Jamesina because her father, whose name was James, was drowned at sea a month before she was born. I always call her Aunt Jimsy. Well, her only daughter has recently married and gone to the foreign mission field. Aunt Jamesina is left alone in a great big house, and she is horribly lonesome. She will come to Kingsport and keep house for us if we want her. And I know you'll both love her. The more I think of the plan, the more I like it. We could have such good independent times. Now, if you and Priscilla agree to it, wouldn't it be a good idea for you, who are on the spot, to look around and see if you can find a suitable house this spring? That would be better than leaving it till the fall. If you could get a furnished one, so much the better, but if not, we could scare up a few sticks of furniture between us and old family friends with addicts. Anyhow, decide as soon as you can and write me so that Aunt Jamesina will know what plans to make for next year. I think it's a good idea, said Priscilla. So do I, agreed, Aunt, delightedly. Of course, we have a nice boarding-house here, but when all is said and done, a boarding-house isn't home. So let's go house-hunting at once before exams come on. I'm afraid it will be hard enough to get a really suitable house, warned Priscilla. Don't expect too much, Aunt. Nice houses and nice localities will probably be a way beyond our means. We'll likely have to content ourselves with a shabby little place on some street whereon live people whom to know is to be unknown and make life inside compensate for the outside. Accordingly they went house-hunting, but to find just what they wanted proved even harder than Priscilla had feared. Houses there were galore, furnished and unfurnished, but one was too big, another too small, this one too expensive, that one too far from Redmond. Exams were on and over. The last week of the term came, and still their house-dreams, as Aunt called it, remained a castle in the air. We shall have to give up and wait till the fall, I suppose, said Priscilla wearily, as they rambled through the park on one of April's daring days of breeze and blue when the harbour was creaming and shimmering beneath the pearl-hued mists floating over it. We may find some shack to shelter us then, and if not, boarding-houses we shall have always with us. I'm not going to worry about it just now anyway and spoil this lovely afternoon, said Anne, gazing around her with delight. The fresh chill air was faintly charged with the aroma of pine balsam, and the sky above was crystal clear and blue, a great inverted cup of blessing. Spring is singing in my blood today, and the lure of April is abroad on the air. I'm seeing visions and dreaming dreams, Pris. That's because the wind is from the west. I do love the west wind. It sings of hope and gladness, doesn't it? When the east wind blows, I always think of sorrowful rain on the eaves and sad waves on a grey shore. When I get old, I shall have rheumatism when the wind is east. And isn't it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments for the first time and sally forth like this in spring attire, laughed Priscilla? Don't you feel as if you had been made over new? Everything is new in the spring, said Anne. Springs themselves are always so new too. No spring is ever just like any other spring. It always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness. See how green the grass is around that little pond and how the willow buds are bursting. And exams are over and gone. The time of convocation will come soon, next Wednesday. This day next week will be home. I'm glad, said Anne dreamily. There are so many things I want to do. I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze blowing down over Mr. Harrison's fields. I want to hunt ferns in the haunted wood and gather violets in Violet Vale. Do you remember the day of our golden picnic, Priscilla? I want to hear the frogs singing and the poplars whispering. But I've learnt to love Kingsport too. And I'm glad I'm coming back next fall. If I hadn't won the Thorburn, I don't believe I could have. I couldn't take any of Marilla's little hoard. If we could only find a house, sighed Priscilla. Look over there at Kingsport, Anne. Houses, houses, everywhere, and not one for us. Stop it, Priss. The best is yet to be. Like the old Roman, we'll find a house or build one. On a day like this there's no such word as fail in my bright lexicon. They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing miracle and glory and wonder of the spring tide, and they went home as usual by way of Spofford Avenue that they might have the delight of looking at Patti's place. I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right away by the pricking of my thumbs, said Anne, as they went up the slope. It's a nice story-bookish feeling. Why—why—why—why Priscilla Grant, look over there and tell me if it is true where am I seeing things? Priscilla looked. Anne's thumbs and eyes had not deceived her. Over the arched gateway of Patti's place dangled a little modest sign. It said, To let furnished, inquire within. Priscilla, said Anne in a whisper, Do you suppose it's possible that we could rent Patti's place? No, I don't, avert Priscilla. It would be too good to be true. Fairy tales don't happen nowadays. I won't hope, Anne. The disappointment would be too awful to bear. There's sure to want more for it than we can afford. Remember, it's on Spofford Avenue. We must find out anyhow, said Anne resolutely. It's too late to call this evening, but we'll come to-morrow. Oh, Priss, if we can get this darling spot, I've always felt that my fortunes were linked with Patti's place ever since I saw it first. End of Chapter 9. All LibriBox recordings are in the public domain.