 24. Miss Stacy and her pupils cut up a concert. It was October again, when Anne was ready to go back to school. A glorious October, all red and gold, with the mallow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists, as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain. Amityst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that it feels glistened like cloth of silver, and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The birch path was a canopy of yellow, and the ferns were sear and brown all along it. There was a tangam the very air, that inspired the hearts of small maidens tripping, unlike snails, swiftly unwillingly to school, and it was jolly to be back again at the little-brown desk beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis nodding across the aisle, and Carrie Sloane sending up notes, and Julia Bell passing a chew of gum down from the back-seed. Anne drew a long breath of happiness as she sharpened her pencil, and arranged her picture-cards in her desk. Life was certainly very interesting. In the new teacher she found another true and helpful friend. Miss Stacy was a bride sympathetic young woman, with a happy gift of winning and holding the affections of her pupils, and bringing out the best that was in the mentally and morally. Anne expanded like a flower under this wholesome influence, and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the critical Marilla, glowing accounts of schoolwork and aims. I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. She is so ladylike, and she has such a sweet voice. When she pronounces my name, I feel instinctively that she is spelling it with an E. We had recitations this afternoon. I just wish it could have been there to hear me recite Mary Queen of Scots. I just put my whole soul into it. Ruby Gillis told me coming home that the way I said the line, now for my father's arm, she said, my woman's heart fare well, just made a blood run cold. Well, now, you might recite it for me some of these days out in the barn, suggested Matthew. Of course I will, said Anne, meditatively, but I won't be able to do it so well, I know. It won't be so exciting as it is when you have a whore schoolful, before you're hanging breathlessly on your words. I know I won't be able to make your blood run cold. Mrs. Lin says it made her blood run cold, to see the boys climbing to the very tops of those big trees on Bell's Hill after Krausnests last Friday, said Marilla. I wonder if Miss Stacy were encouraging it. Where do you want at Krausnests for nature's study? explained Anne. That was on our field afternoon. Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla, and Miss Stacy explains everything so beautifully. We have to write compositions on our field afternoons, and I write the best ones. It is very vain of you to say so, then. You'd better let your teacher say it. But she did say it, Marilla, and indeed I am not vain about it. How can I be, when I'm such a dunge of geometry? Although I'm really beginning to see through it a little, too. Miss Stacy makes it so clear. Still, I'll never be good at it, and I assure you it is a humbling reflection. But I love writing compositions. Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose our own poets, but next week we are to write a composition on some remarkable person. It's hard to choose among so many remarkable people who have lived. Wasn't it be splendid to be remarkable and have compositions written about you after you're dead? Oh, I would daily love to be remarkable. I think, when I grow up, I'll be a trained nurse and go with the Red Crosses to the field of battle as a messenger of mercy. That is, if I don't go out as a foreign missionary, that would be very romantic. But one would have to be very good to be a missionary, and that would be a stumbling block. We have physical culture exercises every day, too. They make you graceful and promote digestion. Bremen mode, fiddlesticks, said Morella, who honestly thought it was all nonsense. But all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays and physical culture contortions paled before a project, which Miss Stacy brought forward in November. This was, that the scholars of Avonlea School should get up a concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas night for the laudable purpose of helping to pay for a schoolhouse flag. The pupils, one and all, taking graciously to this plan, the preparations for a programme were begun at once, and of all the excited performers elect, none were so excited as Anne Shirley, who threw herself into the undertaking heart and soul, hampered as she was by Morella's disapproval. Morella thought it all rank foolishness. It's just filling your heads up with nonsense, and taking time that ought to be put on your lessons, she grumbled. I don't approve of children's getting up concerts and racing about practices. It makes them vain and forward, and fond of getting. But think of the worthy object pleaded Anne. A flag will cultivate the spirit of patriotism, Morella. Fudge, there's precious little patriotism and the thought of any of you. All you want is good time. Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, isn't it all right? Of course it's real nice to be getting up a concert. We're going to have six choruses and Diana is to sing a solo. I'm in two dialogues, the Society for the Suppression of Gossip and the Fairy Queen. The boys are going to have a dialogue too, and I'm to have two recitations, Morella. I just tremble when I think of it, but it's a nice, thrilling kind of tremble, and we're to have a tableau at last, faith, hope and charity. Diana and Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with flowing hair. I'm to be hoped with my hands clasped, so and my eyes uplifted. I'm going to practice my recitations and garret. Don't be alarmed if you hear me groaning. I have to groan heart-rendingly in one of them, and it's really hard to get up a good artistic groan, Morella. Josie Pie is salky, because she didn't get the part she wanted in the dialogue. She wanted to be the Fairy Queen. That would have been ridiculous, for who ever heard of a Fairy Queen as fat as Josie? Fairy Queens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be the Queen, and I am to be one of her maids of honour. Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is just as ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind what Josie says. I'm to have a wreath of white roses on my hair, and Ruby Gillis is going to lend me her slippers, because I haven't any of my own. It's necessary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You couldn't imagine a fairy wearing boots, could you? Especially with copper toes. We're going to decorate the hall with creeping sprues and fair mottos with pink tissue paper roses in them, and we're all to march in two by two after the audience has seated, while Emma White plays a march on the organ. Oh, Morella, I know you're not so enthusiastic about it as I am, but don't you hope you're let alone what distinguished herself? All I hope is that you'll behave yourself. I'll be heartily glad when all of this fuss is over, and you'll be able to settle down. You're simply good for nothing just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and groans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it's a marvel, it's not clean worn out. Anne sighed, and betook herself to the backyard, over which a young new moon was shining through the leafless poplar boughs from an apple-green western sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne purged herself on a block, and talked to concert over with him, sure of an appreciative and sympathetic listener in this instance at least. Well now, I reckon it's going to be a pretty good concert, and I expect you'll do your part fine, he said, smiling down into her eager, vivacious little face, and smile back at him. Those two were the best of friends, and Matthew thanked his stars many a time and oft that he had nothing to do with bringing her up. That was Marilla's exclusive duty. If it had been his, he would have been worried over frequent conflicts between inclination and sad duty. As it was, he was free to spoil Anne, Marilla's phrasing, as much as he liked. But it was not such a bad arrangement, after all. A little appreciation, sometimes as quite as much good as all the consentures bringing up in the world. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Morton Comrie Matthew was having a bad time minute of it. He had come into the kitchen in the twilight of a cold grey December evening, and had sat down in the woodbox corner to take off his heavy boots, unconscious of the fact that Anne and a bevy of a schoolmate were having a practice of the fairy queen in the sitting-room. Presently they came dropping through the hall and out into the kitchen, laughing and chattering gaily. They did not see Matthew, who shrank basherly back into the shadows beyond the woodbox with a boot in one hand and a boot jack in the other, and he watched them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes, as they put on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue and the concert. Anne stood among them, bright-eyed and denomated as they. But Matthew suddenly became conscious that there was something about a different from her mates, and what worried Matthew was that a difference impressed him as being something that should not exist. Anne had a brighter face and bigger, starier eyes, and more delicate features than the other. Even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to take no disease at things. But the difference that disturbed him did not consist in any of these respects. Then in what did it consist? Matthew was haunted by this question, long after the girls had gone arm in arm down the long, hard frozen lane, and Anne had be taken herself to her books. He could not refer it to Marilla, who he felt would be quite sure to sniff scornfully and remark that the only difference she saw between Anne and the other girls was that they sometimes kept their tongues quiet while Anne never did. This, Matthew felt, would be no great help. He had resource to his pipe that evening to help him study it out, much to Marilla's disgust. After two hours of smoking and heart reflection, Matthew arrived at the solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed like the other girls. The more Matthew thought about the matter, the more he was convinced that Anne never had been dressed like the other girls, never since she had come to Green Gables. Marilla kept it clothed in plain dark dresses, all made after the same and varying pattern. If Matthew knew there was such a thing as fashion and dress, it was as much as he did, but he was quite sure that Anne's sleeve did not look at all like the sleeve the other girl's wore. He recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen around her that evening, all gay in wastes of red and blue and pink and white, and he wondered why Marilla always kept a so plainly and soberly gowned. Of course it must be all right. Marilla knew best, and Marilla was bringing her up. Probably some wise and scrutable motive was to be served thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the chart have one pretty dress, something like Diana Barry always wore. Matthew decided that he would give her one, that surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted putting in of his all. Christmas was only a fortnight off. A nice new dress would be the very thing for a present. Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe and went to bed, while Marilla opened all the doors and aired his house. The very next evening, Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy him the dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it. It would be, he felt assured, no trifling or deal. There were some things Matthew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer, but he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl's dress. After much cogitation, Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson's door, instead of William Blair's. To be sure, the cut birds always had gone to William Blair's. It was almost as much a matter of conscience with them as to attend the Presbyterian Church and vote Conservative. But William Blair's two daughters frequently waited on customers there, and Matthew held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal with them when he knew exactly what he wanted and could point it out, but in such a matter as at this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he would go to Lawson's, where Samuel or his son would wait on him. Alas, Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady clerk also. She was a niece of his wife's, and a varied dashing young person, indeed, with a huge, drooping pompadour, big, rolling brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile. She was dressed with exceeding smartness, and wore several bangle bracelets that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands. Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all, and those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop. What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cutford? Mr. Lucila Harris inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands. I have you any—any—any—any—well now, say, any garden rakes? Stammered Matthew. Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December. I believe we have one or two left over, she said, but there upstairs in the lumber room I'll go and see. During her absence Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort. When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired, anything else tonight, Mr. Cutford? Matthew took his courage in both hands and replied, Well now, since you suggested, I might as well take—that is, look at—by some hayseed. Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cutford called odd. She now concluded that he was entirely crazy. We only keep hayseed in the spring, she explained loftily. We've none on hand just now. Oh! certainly—certainly, just as you say, stammered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making foot at all. At the threshold, he recollected that he had not paid for it, and he turned miserably back. While Miss Harris was counting out his change, he rallied his powers for a final desperate attempt. Well now, if it isn't too much trouble, I might as well—that is, I'd like to look at—at—some sugar. White or brown? queried Miss Harris patiently. Oh! well now, brown! said Matthew feebly. There's a barrel of it over there, said Miss Harris, shaking her bangles at it. It's the only kind we have. I'll—I'll take twenty pounds of it, said Matthew, with a beat of perspiration standing on us for it. Matthew had driven half-way home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange stall. When he reached home, he had the rake in the tall house, but the sugar he carried into Marilla. Brown sugar? exclaimed Marilla. Whatever possessed you to get so much? You know I never used it except for to hide a man's porridge or black fruit-cake. Jerry's gone, and I've made my cake long ago. It's not good sugar either. It's coarse and dark. William Blair doesn't usually keep sugar like that. I—I thought it might come in handy some time, said Matthew, making good his escape. When Matthew came to think the matter over, he decided that a woman was required to cope with the situation. Marilla was out of the question. Matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his projected ones. Remained only Mrs. Lynde, for of no other woman in Avonlea would Matthew hold dare to ask it twice. To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man's hand. Pick out a dress for you to give Anne, to be sure I will. I'm going to come over to you to-morrow, and I'll attend to it. Have you something particularly in mind? No? Well, I'll just go about my own judgment, then. I believe a nice, rich bram would just soot Anne, and William Blair has some new gloria in that's real pretty. Perhaps you'd like me to make it up for her, too, seeing that if Marilla was to make it, Anne would probably get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise. Well, I'll do it. No, it isn't a might of trouble. I like sewing. I'll make it fit to my niece, Jenny Gillies, for she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figgy goes. Well, now, I'm much obliged, said Matthew, and-and I don't know, but I'd like- I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If it wouldn't be asking too much, I-I'd like them made in the new way. Pulse? Of course. You needn't worry as much about it, Matthew. I'll make it up in the very latest fashion, said Mrs. Lind. To herself she added when Matthew had gone. It'll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous, that's what, and I've ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I've held my tongue, though, for I can see Marilla doesn't want advice, as she thinks she knows more about bringing children up than I do, for all she's an old maid. But that's always a way. Forks that has brought up children know that there's no hard and fast message in the world that'll suit every child. But them, as never have, think it's all as plain and easy as rule of three. Just set your three terms down so fashion, and the sum will work out correct. But flesh and blood don't come under the head of arithmetic, and that's where Marilla Cutwood makes a mistake. I suppose she's trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by dressing her as she does. But it's more likely to cultivate envy and discontent. I'm sure the child must feel the difference between her clothes and the other girls. But you think of Matthew taking notice of it. That man is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years. Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Matthew had something on his mind. But what it was she could not guess, until Christmas Eve, when Mrs. Linn brought up the new dress. Marilla behaved pretty well on the whole. Although it is very likely she distrusted Mrs. Linn's diplomatic explanation that she had made the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne would find out about it too soon if Marilla made it. So this is what Matthew has been looking so mysterious over, and grinning about to himself for two weeks, is it? She sat a little stiffly, but tolerantly. I knew he was up to some foolishness. Well, I must say I don't think Anne needed any more dresses. I made her three good warm serviceable ones this fall, and anything more is sheer extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist, I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew, and she is as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The poofs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along. They're as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways. Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December. And people had looked forward to a green Christmas. But just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The furs and the hoarded wood were all feathery and wonderful. The birches and wild charioteers were outlined in pearl. The plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples, and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. Anne ran downstairs singing, until her voice re-echoed through grain-gables. Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it? I don't like green Christmases. They're not green. They're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why? Why, Matthew! Isn't that for me? Oh, Matthew! Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper-swordings, and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interesting air. Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was! A lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk, with skirt, with dainty frills and cherrings, a waist elaborately pentucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck, but as sleeves they were the crowning glory, long elbow-cuffs and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bowels of brown silk ribbon. That's a Christmas present for you, Anne, said Matthew Shiley. Why? Why, Anne, don't you like it? Well now, well now! For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. Like it! Oh, Matthew! Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite! Oh, I can never thank you enough! Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream! Well, well! Let us have breakfast, interrupted Marilla. I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress, but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair-ribbon Mrs. Linde left for you. It's brown to match up the dress. Come now, sit in. I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast! said Anne rapturably. Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on the dress. I'm so glad that poofed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Linde to give me the ribbon, too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl, indeed. It had times like this. I'm sorry I'm not a model, little girl, and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's harder to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make extra effort after this. When the commonplace breakfast was over, Diana appeared, crossing the wide-log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in a crimson oster, and flew down the slope to meet her. Merry Christmas, Diana, and oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress with such sleeves I couldn't even imagine any nicer. I've got something more for you, said Diana breathlessly. Here, this box, and Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it, and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the haunted wood in the dark now. Anne opened the box and peeped in. First, a cart, with four The End Girl and Merry Christmas written on it, and then a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and set-and-bows in glistening buckles. Oh, said Anne, Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming. I called it providential, said Diana. You won't have to borrow ruby slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they are too size to pick for you, and it would be awful to hear a fair reshuffling. Josie Pie would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pie from the breakfast night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that? All the Evernice scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, but a hall had to be decorated, and the last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening, and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded, all the performers it excellently well, but Anne was a bright particular star of the occasion, as even Envy, in the shape of Josie Pie, dared not deny. Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening, cite Anne, when it was all over, and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. Everything went off very well, said Diana practically. I guess who must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allen is going to send an account of it to the Charlatown papers. Oh, Diana! Will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrilled to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was on court. I just said to myself, it is my dear bosom friend who is so honoured. While your recitations just brought down the house, Anne, that sad one was simply splendid. Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allen called out my name, I really cannot tell how I ever caught up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and threw me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely poofed sleaze and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practised those recitations, so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right? Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely, assured Diana. I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Ah, it's been a very memorable occasion indeed. Wasn't a boy's dialogue fine? said Diana. Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it's often mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you, when you run off the platform after the fairy dialogue, one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now? You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that. It's nothing to me whether that person does, said Anne loftily. I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana. That night, Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire, after Anne had gone to bed. Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them, said Matthew proudly. Yes, she did, admitted Marilla. She's a bright child, Matthew, and she looked real nice too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of Anne tonight, although I'm not going to tell her so. Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so, for she went upstairs, said Matthew. We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea's call by and by. There's time enough to think of that, said Marilla. She's only thirteen in March, though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lent made that dress of mine too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn, and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen's afterspell, but nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet. Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on, said Matthew. Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over. End of Chapter 25. Chapter 26 of Anne of Green Gables This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 26. The Story Club is Formed Junior Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence again. To Anne in particular, things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and unprofitable after the gobbler of excitement she had been sipping for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet pleasures of those far away days before the concert? At first, as she told Diana, she did not really think she could. I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the same again as it was in those olden days, she said mournfully, as if referring to a period of at least 50 years back. Perhaps after a while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why Marilla disapproves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman. It must be a great deal better to be sensible. But still, I don't believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Linde says there is no danger of my ever being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I'm tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long, I just lay awake and imagine the concert over and over again. That's one splendid thing about such affairs, it's so lovely to look back to them. Eventually, however, Avenley School slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and the promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not speak for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloans would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloans had too much to do in the programme, and the Sloans had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloan fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was licked. Consequently, Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not speak to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, working Miss Stacy's Little Kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the birch path. On Anne's birthday, they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on a winter's walk in the woods, and it behooved them to be observant. Just think, Diana, I'm 13 years old today, remarked Anne, in an odd voice. I can scarcely realise that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning, it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been 13 for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you, as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years, I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words, then, without being laughed at. Ruby Gillis says she means to have a bow as soon as she's 15, said Diana. Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but bows, said Anne disdainfully. She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take notice, for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allen says we should never make uncharitable speeches, but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pie without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allen as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allen thinks so too. Mrs. Lind says he just worships the ground she treads on, and she doesn't really think it right for a minster to set his affection so much on a mortal being. But then Diana even ministers a human and have their besetting sins, just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allen about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays, and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it, and now that I'm really 13, perhaps I'll get on better. In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up, said Diana. Alice Bell is only 16, and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm 17. If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose, said Anne decidedly, I wouldn't, but there. I won't say what I was going to, because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose, and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose, ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look there's a rabbit. Look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams. I wouldn't mind writing that composition when it's time comes, said Diana. I can manage to write about the woods, but the one where to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads. Why, it's as easy as wink, said Anne. It's easy for you because you have an imagination, retorted Diana. But what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you have your composition all done? Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtually complacent and failing miserably. I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called The Jealous Rival or In Death Not Divided. I read it to Marilla and she said it was stuff and nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. That is the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. I just cried like a child while I was writing it. It's about two beautiful maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other. Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvety purple eyes. I never saw anybody with purple eyes, said Diana dubiously. Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I found out what an alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen. You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve. Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine, asked Diana, who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate. They grew up in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then Bertram Devere came to their native village and fell in love with the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms, and he carried her home three miles because you understand, the carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed, because I thought she'd likely be an authority on the subject, having so many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in his own name and then said, What do you say, darling pet, if we get hitched this fall? And Susan said, Yes, no, I don't know, let me see. And there they were engaged as quick as that. But I didn't think that sort of a proposal was a very romantic one, so in the end I had to imagine it out as well as I could. I made it very flowery and poetical and Bertram went on his knees, although Ruby Gillis says it isn't done nowadays. Geraldine accepted him in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a lot of trouble with that speech. I rewrote it five times, and I look upon it as my masterpiece. Bertram gave her a diamond ring and a ruby necklace, and told her they would go to Europe for a wedding tour, for he was immensely wealthy. But then, alas, shadows began to darken over their path. Cordelia was secretly in love with Bertram herself, and when Geraldine told her about the engagement, she was simply furious, especially when she saw the necklace and the diamond ring. All her affection for Geraldine turned to bitter hate, and she vowed that she should never marry Bertram. But she pretended to be Geraldine's friend, the same as ever. One evening they were standing on the bridge over a rushing turbulent stream, and Cordelia, thinking they were alone, pushed Geraldine over the brink with a wild mocking. But Bertram saw it all, and he at once plunged into the current, exclaiming, I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine. But, alas, he had forgotten he couldn't swim, and they were both drowned, clasped in each other's arms. Their bodies were washed ashore soon afterwards. They were buried in the one grave, and their funeral was most imposing, Diana. It's so much more romantic to end the story up with a funeral than a wedding. As for Cordelia, she went insane with remorse, and was shut up in a lunatic asylum. I thought that was a poetical retribution for her crime. How perfectly lovely, sighed Diana, who belonged to Matthew's School of Critics. I don't see how you can make up such thrilling things out of your own head, Anne. I wish my imagination was as good as yours. It would be if you'd only cultivate it, said Anne cheeringly. I've just thought of a plan, Diana, let you and me have a story club, all our own, and write stories for practice. I'll help you along, until you can do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate your imagination, you know. Miss Stacy says so. Only we must take the right way. I told her about the haunted wood. But she said we went the wrong way about it in that. This was how the story club came into existence. It was limited to Diana and Anne at first, but soon it was extended to include Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis, and one or two others, who felt that their imaginations needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in it, although Ruby Gillis opined that their admission would make it more exciting, and each member had to produce one story a week. It's extremely interesting, Anne told Marilla. Each girl has to read her story out loud, and then we talk it over. We are going to keep them all sacredly, and have them to read to our descendants. We each write under a nom de plume. Mine is Rosamond Montmorency. All the girls do pretty well. Ruby Gillis is rather sentimental. She puts too much love making into her stories, and you know too much is worse than too little. Jane never puts any, because she says it makes her feel so silly when she had to read it out loud. Jane's stories are extremely sensible. Then Diana puts too many murders into hers. She says most of the time she doesn't know what to do with the people, so she kills them off to get rid of them. I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, but that isn't hard, for I've millions of ideas. I think this story writing business is the foolishest yet scoffed Marilla. You'll get a pack of nonsense into your heads, and waste time that should be put on your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough, but writing them is worse. But we're so careful to put a moral into them all, Marilla, explained Anne. I insist upon that. All the good people are rewarded, and all the bad ones are suitably punished. I'm sure that must have a wholesome effect. The moral is the great thing. Mr. Allen says so. I read one of my stories to him and Mrs. Allen, and they both agreed that the moral was excellent. Only they laughed in the wrong places. I like it better when people cry. Jane and Ruby almost always cry when I come to the pathetic parts. Diana wrote to her Aunt Josephine about our club, and her Aunt Josephine wrote back that we were to send her some of our stories. So we copied out four of our very best and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry wrote back that she had never read anything so amusing in her life. That kind of puzzled us, because the stories were all very pathetic, and almost everybody died. But I'm glad Miss Barry liked them. It shows our club is doing some good in the world. Mrs. Allen says that ought to be our object in everything. I do really try to make it my object, but I forget so often when I'm having fun. I hope I shall be a little like Mrs. Allen when I grow up. Do you think there is any prospect of it, Marilla? I shouldn't say there was a great deal, was Marilla's encouraging answer. I'm sure Mrs. Allen was never such a silly, forgetful little girl as you are. No. But she wasn't always as good as she is now either, said Anne seriously. She told me so herself. That is, she said she was a dreadful mischief when she was a girl, and was always getting into scrapes. I felt so encouraged when I heard that. Is it very wicked of me, Marilla, to feel encouraged when I hear that other people have been bad and mischievous? Mrs. Lynn says it is. Mrs. Lynn says she always feels shocked when she hears of anyone ever having been naughty, no matter how small they were. Mrs. Lynn says she once heard a minister confess that when he was a boy, he stole a strawberry tart out of his aunt's pantry, and she never had any respect for that minister again. Now I wouldn't have felt that way. I'd have thought that it was real noble of him to confess it, and I'd have thought what an encouraging thing it would be for small boys nowadays who do naughty things and are sorry for them to know that perhaps they may grow up to be ministers in spite of it. That's how I'd feel, Marilla. The way I feel at present hand, said Marilla, is that it's high time you had those dishes washed. You've taken half an hour longer than you should with all your chattering. Learn to work first and talk afterwards. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 of Anne of Green Gables This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ewan Bayless Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 27 Vanity and vexation of spirit Marilla walking home one late April evening from an aid meeting. Realised that the winter was over and gone was the thrill of delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest, as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She probably imagined that she was thinking about the aids and their missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room. But under these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields smoking into pale purple mists in the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fur shadows falling over the meadow beyond the brook, of still crimson-budded maples around the mirror-like wood pool, of awakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses under the grey sod. The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of his deep, primal gladness. Her eyes dwelt affectionately on green gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and the table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old-aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to green gables. Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home, said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife, and with more of them than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner. She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allen does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense, and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak, she takes up with another. But there, here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lind for saying at the aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allen spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't, I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of fault, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it, but I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lind, who'd pick faults in the angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before, and I'm real sorry to find her so now. Well now I don't know, said Matthew, who, being patient and wise, and above all hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. Perhaps you're judging her too hasty Marilla, don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Maybe it can all be explained, Anne's a great-handed explaining. She's not here when I told her to stay, retorted Marilla. I reckon she'll find it hard to explain that to my satisfaction. Of course, I knew you'd take her part, Matthew, but I'm bringing her up, not you. It was dark when supple was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge, or up lover's lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable, for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. Mercy on us, said astonished Marilla. Have you been asleep, Anne? No, was the muffled reply. Are you sick then? demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows, as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair, and I don't care who gets head in class, or writes the best composition, or sings in the Sunday school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now, because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. Did anyone ever hear the like? the mystified Marilla wanted to know. Anne surely, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me, this minute I say, there now, what is it? Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. Look at my hair, Marilla! she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle, and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. Anne surely, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's green! Green, it might be called, if it were any earthly colour. A queer dull bronzy green would streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. Yes, it's green, moaned Anne. I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair, but now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am. I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out, said Marilla. Come right down to the kitchen. It's too cold up here, and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now then, what did you do to your hair? I dyed it. Died it? Died your hair, and surely, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do? Yes, I knew it was a little wicked, admitted Anne, but I thought it was worthwhile to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it. Well, said Marilla sarcastically, if I'd decided it was worthwhile to dye my hair, I'd have dyed it a decent colour, at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green. But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla, protested and dejectedly. If I was wicked, I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black. He positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allen said we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof now green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I hadn't then, and I believed every word he said implicitly. Who said? Who are you talking about? The peddler that was here this afternoon, I bought the dye from him. And surely, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians in the house? I don't believe in encouraging them to come around at all. Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told me. And I went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, he wasn't an Italian. He was a German Jew. He had a big box full of very interesting things, and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at once, I saw the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was warranted to dye any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a trice, I saw myself with beautiful raven black hair, and the temptation was irresistible. But the price of the bottle was seventy-five cents, and I had only fifty cents left out of my chicken money. I think the peddler had a very kind heart, for he said that, seeing it was me, he'd sell it for fifty cents, and that was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as he had gone, I came up here and applied it with an old hairbrush, as the directions said. I used up the whole bottle, and oh, Marilla, when I saw the dreadful colour it turned my hair, I repented of being wicked, I can tell you. And I've been repenting ever since. Well, I hope you'll repent a good purpose, said Marilla severely, and that you've got your eyes opened to where your vanity has led you on. Goodness knows what to be done. I suppose the first thing is to give your hair a good washing, and see if that will do any good. Accordingly Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with soap and water. But for all the difference it made she might as well have been scouring its original red. The peddler had certainly spoken the truth, when he declared that the dye wouldn't wash off. However, his veracity might be impeached in other respects. Oh, Marilla, what shall I do? questioned Anne into it. I can never live this down. People have pretty well forgotten my other mistakes. The liniment cake, and setting Diana drunk, and flying into a temple with Mrs. Lind. But they'll never forget this. They will think I am not respectable. Oh, Marilla, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive, that is poetry, but it is true. And oh, how Josie Pie will laugh. Marilla, I cannot face Josie Pie. I am the unhappiest girl in Prince Edward Island. Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she went nowhere and shampooed her hair every day. Diana, alone of outsiders, knew the fatal secret. But she promised solemnly never to tell. And it may be stated here and now that she kept her word. At the end of the week Marilla said decidedly, It's no use, Anne. That is fast dye if ever there was any. Your hair must be cut off. There is no other way. You can't go out with it looking like that. Anne's lips quivered, but she realised the bitter truth of Marilla's remarks. With a dismal sigh she went to the scissors. Please cut it off at once, Marilla, and have it over. Oh, I feel that my heart is broken. This is such an unromantic affliction. The girls in books lose their hair in fevers or sell it to get money for some good deed. And I'm sure I wouldn't mind losing my hair in some such fashion half so much. But there is nothing comforting in having your hair cut off because you've dyed it a dreadful colour, is there? I'm going to weep all the time you're cutting it off, if it won't interfere. It seems such a tragic thing. Anne wept then, but later on when she went upstairs and looked in the glass she was calm with despair. Marilla had done her work thoroughly and it had been necessary to shingle the hair as closely as possible. The result was not becoming to state the case as mildly as may be. Anne promptly turned her glass to the wall. I'll never never look at myself again until my hair grows, she exclaimed passionately. Then she suddenly righted the glass. Yes, I will too. I do penance for being wicked that way. I'll look at myself every time I come to my room and see how ugly I am. And I won't try to imagine it away, either. I never thought I was vain about my hair of all things, but now I know I was, in spite of its being red, because it was so long and thick and curly. I expect something will happen to my nose next. Anne's clipped head made a sensation in school on the following Monday, but to her relief nobody guessed the real reason for it, not even Josie Pie, who, however, did not fail to inform Anne that she looked like a perfect scarecrow. I didn't say anything when Josie said that to me and confided that evening to Marilla, who was lying on the sofa after one of her headaches, because I thought it was part of my punishment and I ought to bear it patiently. It's hard to be told you look like a scarecrow and I wanted to say something back, but I didn't. I just swept her one scornful look and then I forgave her. It makes you feel very virtuous when you forgive people, doesn't it? I mean to devote all my energies to being good after this and I shall never try to be beautiful again. Of course, it's better to be good, I know it is, but it's sometimes so hard to believe a thing, even when you know it. I do really want to be good, Marilla, like you and Mrs. Stacey, and grow up to be a credit to you. Diana says when my hair begins to grow, to tie a black velvet ribbon around my head with a bow at one side. She says she thinks it will be very becoming. I will call it a snood. That sounds so romantic. But am I talking too much, Marilla? Does it hurt your head? My head is better now. It was terrible bad this afternoon, though. These headaches of mine are getting worse and worse. I'll have to see a doctor about them. As for your chatter, I don't know that I mind it. I've got so used to it. Which was Marilla's way of saying that she liked to hear it. End of Chapter 27 Of course you must be Elaine, Anne, said Diana. I could never have the courage to float down there. Nor I, said Ruby Gillis, with a shiver. I don't mind floating down when there's two or three of us in the flat and we can sit up. It's fun, then. But to lie down and pretend I was dead, I just couldn't. I'd die, really, of fright. Of course it would be romantic, conceded Jane Andrews. But I know I couldn't keep still. I'd be popping up every minute or so to see where I was, and if I wasn't drifting too far out. And you know, Anne, that would spoil the effect. But it's so ridiculous to have a red-headed Elaine, mourned Anne. I'm not afraid to float down and I'd love to be Elaine, but it's ridiculous just the same. Ruby ought to be Elaine because she is so fair and has such lovely long golden hair. Elaine had all her bright hair streaming down, you know, and Elaine was the lily-maid. Now a red-haired person could not be a lily-maid. Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's, said Diana earnestly, and your hair is ever so much darker than it used to be before you cut it. Oh, do you really think so? exclaimed Anne, flushing sensitively with delight. I've sometimes thought it was myself, but I never dared to ask anyone for fear she would tell me it wasn't. Do you think it could be called Auburn now, Diana? Yes, and I think it is real pretty, said Diana, looking admiringly at the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne's head and were held in place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow. They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank, at its tip was a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience of fishermen and duck-hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the mid-summer afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them. Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about the pond. Idolwild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the romance of it, but she was speedily consoled, for after all, as she and Diana said, big girls of thirteen going on fourteen were too old for such childish amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout over the bridge, and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck-shooting. It was Anne's idea that they dramatize a lane. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the superintendent of education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general, until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them. But at least the fair Lilymaid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing-place it would drift down with the current under the bridge, and finally strand itself on another headland lower down, which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing a lane. Well, I'll be a lane, said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it, and this she felt her limitations made impossible. Ruby, you must be King Arthur, and Jane will be Guinevere, and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor, because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must paw the barge all its length in blackest same-ight. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana. The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat, and then laid down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. Oh, she does really look dead! whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really all right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked. Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde, said Anne severely. It spoils the effect, because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this, it's silly for Elaine to be talking when she's dead. Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's folded hands was all that could be desired. Now she's all ready, said Jane. We must kiss her quiet brows, and Diana, you say, sister, farewell, for ever. And Ruby, you say, farewell, sweet sister, both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for goodness sake, smile a little. You know Elaine lay as though she smiled. That's better. Now push the flat off. The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current, and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods across the road, and down to the lower headland, where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily-maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then, something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest same-ite, and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed onto the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing. Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard. She was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance, just one. I was horribly frightened, she told Mrs. Allen the next day, and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in at every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allen, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge-piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks, and there are lots of knots and old branch-stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and write well I knew it. I just said, Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile, and I'll do the rest, over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute, and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. There I was, Mrs. Allen, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once, and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land. The flat drifted under the bridge, and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes, and had not a doubt that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy. Then shrieking at the tops of their voices they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate Lilymaid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all. Suppose nobody ever came. Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer. Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she could really not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrew's dory. Gilbert glanced up, and much to his amazement beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him, with big frightened but also scornful gray eyes. Anne, surely! How on earth did you get up there? he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it. Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances. What has happened, Anne? asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. We were playing Elaine, explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge. I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing? Gilbert obligingly rode to the landing, and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. I'm very much obliged to you," she said hotly as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm. Anne, he said hurriedly, look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you, and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now. Honest, I do. Let's be friends. For a moment, Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert's haze lies was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her carrots, and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no wit allayed and softened by time, seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe. She would never forgive him. No, she said coldly. I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe, and I don't want to be. All right! Gilbert sprang into his skiff with angry color in his cheeks. I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley, and I don't care either. He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course he had insulted her terribly, but still. Altogether Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrong, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond, in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at orchard slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them, as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the haunted wood in across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody, and Matthew was making hay in the back field. Oh, Anne! gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight. Oh, Anne! we thought—you were drowned, and we felt like murderers because we had made you be a lane, and Ruby is in hysterics. Oh, Anne, how did you escape? I climbed up one of the piles, explained Anne wearily, and Gilbert Blythe came along and Mr. Andrew's Dory and brought me back to land. Oh, Anne! how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic! said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last. Of course she'll speak to him after this. Of course I won't! flashed Anne with a momentary return of her old spirit, and I don't ever want to hear the word romantic again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that will not be allowed to row on the pond any more. Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households, when the events of the afternoon became known. Will you ever have any sense, Anne? groaned Marilla. Oh yes, I think I will, Marilla, returned Anne optimistically. A good cry indulged in the grateful solitude of the East Gable had soothed her nerves and restored her to her won'ted cheerfulness. I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever. I don't see how, said Marilla. Well, explained Anne, I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The haunted wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness and cooking. Dying my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now. At least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla. I'm sure I hope so, said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. Don't give up all your romance, Anne. He whispered shyly. A little of it is a good thing. Not too much, of course. But keep a little of it, Anne. Keep a little of it. Anne was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of lover's lane. It was a September evening, and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunsat light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the furs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle-canto from Marmian, which had also been part of their English course, the preceding winter, and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart, and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines, the stubborn spearsmen still made good their dark impenetrable wood. She stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again, it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the berry field, and looking so important that Anne instantly divineed there was news to be told, but betray too eager curiosity she would not. Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best, but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still. It's a very fine evening, said Diana, but oh I have such news, Anne. Guess, you can have three guesses. Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all, and Mrs. Allen wants us to decorate it, cried Anne. No, Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again? Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party? Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. I can't think what it can be, said Anne, in despair. Unless it's that moody Spurgeon McPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night, did he? I should think not, exclaimed Diana indignantly. I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did the horrid creature. I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the exhibition. There. Oh Diana! whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support. Do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy, to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home, learning my lessons, and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that, and got up in the middle of the night and said them. I'll tell you, said Diana. We'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then, and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again. I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not, said Anne resolutely. If I did, and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go, I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter, and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana. Navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynn to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me, for my cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday, my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it? Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Berry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away, and Mr. Berry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the furs of the haunted wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard's Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the furs to Orchard's Slope. Mr. Berry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road. It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn-harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills. Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners. Sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne's flesh cringe with the old, half-delightful fear. Sometimes it wound along a harbor shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing-huts. Again it mounted to hills, whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty-blue sky could be seen. But wherever it went there was much of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way to beechwood. It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green alms and branching beaches. Miss Berry met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes. "'So you've come to see me at last, you Anne girl,' she said. "'Mercy child, how you've grown. You're taller than I am, I declare. And you're ever so much better looking than you used to be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told.' "'Indeed I didn't,' said Anne radiantly. "'I know I'm not so freckled as I used to be, so I've much to be thankful for. But I really hadn't dared to hope there was any other improvement. I'm so glad you think there is, Miss Berry.' Miss Berry's house was furnished with great magnificence, as Anne told Marilla afterward. The two little country girls were rather abashed by the splendor of the parlor, where Miss Berry left them when she went to see about dinner. "'Isn't it just like a palace?' whispered Diana. "'I never was in Aunt Josephine's house before, and I'd no idea it was so grand. I just wish Julia Bell could see this.' She puts on such airs about her mother's parlor.' "'Velvet, carpet!' sighed Anne luxuriously, and silk curtains. "'I've dreamed of such things, Diana. But do you know I don't believe I feel very comfortable with them after all. There are so many things in this room, and also splendid, that there is no scope for imagination. That is one consolation when you are poor. There are so many more things you can imagine about.' Their sojourn in town was something that Anne and Diana dated from for years. From first to last it was crowded with delights. On Wednesday Miss Berry took them to the exhibition grounds and kept them there all day. It was splendid and related to Marilla later on. I never imagined anything so interesting. I don't really know which department was the most interesting. I think I liked the horses and the flowers and the fancy work best. Josie Pie took first prize for Knitted Lace. I was real glad she did, and I was glad that I felt glad, for it shows I'm improving, don't you think, Marilla, when I can rejoice in Josie's success?' Mr. Harmon Andrews took second prize for Gravenstein Apples, and Mr. Bell took first prize for a pig. Diana said she thought it was ridiculous for a Sunday school superintendent to take a prize in pigs, but I don't see why, do you? She said she would always think of it after this when he was praying so solemnly. Clara Louise McPherson took a prize for painting, and Mrs. Lynde got first prize for homemade butter and cheese. So Avonlea was pretty well represented, wasn't it? Mrs. Lynde was there that day, and I never knew how much I really liked her, until I saw her familiar face among all those strangers. There were thousands of people there, Marilla. It made me feel dreadfully insignificant. And Miss Berry took us up to the grandstand to see the horse races. Mrs. Lynde wouldn't go. She said horse racing was an abomination, and she, being a church member, thought at her bound in duty to set a good example by staying away. But there were so many there I don't believe Mrs. Lynde's absence would ever be noticed. I don't think, though, that I ought to go very often to horse races because they are awfully fascinating. Diana got so excited that she offered to bet me ten cents that the Red Horse would win. I didn't believe he would, but I refused to bet, because I wanted to tell Mrs. Allen all about everything, and I felt sure it wouldn't do to tell her that. It's always wrong to do anything you can't tell the minister's wife. It's as good as an extra conscience to have a minister's wife for your friend. And I was very glad I didn't bet, because the Red Horse did win, and I would have lost ten cents. So you see that virtue was its own reward. We saw a man go up in a balloon. I'd love to go up in a balloon, Marilla. It would be simply thrilling. And we saw a man selling fortunes. You paid him ten cents, and a little bird picked out your fortune for you. Miss Berry gave Diana and me ten cents each to have our fortunes told. Mine was that I would marry a dark, complexed man who was very wealthy, and I would go across water to live. I looked carefully at all the dark men I saw after that, but I didn't care much for any of them, and anyhow I suppose it's too early to be looking out for him yet. Oh, it was a never-to-be-forgotten day, Marilla. I was so tired I couldn't sleep at night. Miss Berry put us in the spare room, according to promise. It was an elegant room, Marilla, but somehow sleeping in a spare room isn't what I used to think it was. That's the worst of growing up, and I'm beginning to realize it. The things you wanted so much when you were a child don't seem half so wonderful to you when you get them. Thursday the girls had a drive in the park, and in the evening Miss Berry took them to a concert in the Academy of Music, where a noted prima donna was to sing. To Anne the evening was a glittering vision of delight. Oh, Marilla, it was beyond description. I was so excited I couldn't even talk, so you may know what it was like. I just sat in enraptured silence. Madame Solitsky was perfectly beautiful and wore white satin and diamonds, but when she began to sing I never thought about anything else. Oh, I can't tell you how I felt, but it seemed to me that it could never be hard to be good any more. I felt like I do when I look up to the stars. Tears came into my eyes, but oh, they were such happy tears. I was so sorry when it was all over, and I told Miss Berry I didn't see how I was ever to return to common life again. She said she thought if we went over to the restaurant across the street and had an ice cream it might help me. That sounded so prosaic, but to my surprise I found it true. The ice cream was delicious, Marilla, and it was so lovely and dissipated, to be sitting there eating it at eleven o'clock at night. Diana said she believed she was born for city life. Miss Berry asked me what my opinion was, but I said I would have to think it over very seriously before I could tell her what I really thought. So I thought it over after I went to bed. That is the best time to think things out. And I came to the conclusion, Marilla, that I wasn't born for city life and that I was glad of it. It's nice to be eating ice cream at brilliant restaurants at eleven o'clock at night once in a while, but as a regular thing I'd rather be in the East Gable at eleven, sound asleep, but kind of knowing, even in my sleep, that the stars were shining outside and that the wind was blowing in the furs across the brook. I told Miss Berry so at breakfast the next morning, and she laughed. Miss Berry generally laughed at anything I said, even when I said the most solemn things. I don't think I liked it, Marilla, because I wasn't trying to be funny, but she is a most hospitable lady and treated us royally. Friday brought going home time, and Mr. Berry drove in for the girls. Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourselves, said Miss Berry, as she bade them good-bye. Indeed we have, said Diana. And you, Anne-girl? I've enjoyed every minute of the time, said Anne, throwing her arms impulsively about the old woman's neck and kissing her wrinkled cheek. Diana would never have dared to do such a thing, and felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss Berry was pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out of sight. Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Berry was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued people only as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused her, and consequently stood high in the old lady's good graces. But Miss Berry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint speeches than of her fresh enthusiasm, her transparent emotions, her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips. I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum, she said to herself, but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I had a child like Anne in the house all the time, I'd be a better and happier woman. Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the drive in. Pleasanter indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through white sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea Hills came out darkly against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea, that grew all radiant and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air. Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home, breathed Anne. When she crossed the log bridge over the brook, the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow a thwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. So you've got back, said Marilla, folding up her knitting. Yes, and it's oh so good to be back, said Anne joyously. I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken. You don't mean to say you cooked that for me. Yes, I did, said Marilla. I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days. After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. I've had a splendid time, she concluded happily, and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life, but the best of it all was the coming home.