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chapter xithe round of life anne was back in avonlea with the luster ofthe thorburn scholarship on her brow. people told her she hadn't changed much, ina tone which hinted they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn't. avonlea had not changed, either.at least, so it seemed at first. but as anne sat in the green gables pew, onthe first sunday after her return, and looked over the congregation, she sawseveral little changes which, all coming home to her at once, made her realize that time did not quite stand still, even inavonlea.

a new minister was in the pulpit.in the pews more than one familiar face was missing forever. old "uncle abe," his prophesying over anddone with, mrs. peter sloane, who had sighed, it was to be hoped, for the lasttime, timothy cotton, who, as mrs. rachel lynde said "had actually managed to die at last after practicing at it for twentyyears," and old josiah sloane, whom nobody knew in his coffin because he had hiswhiskers neatly trimmed, were all sleeping in the little graveyard behind the church. and billy andrews was married to nettieblewett!

they "appeared out" that sunday. when billy, beaming with pride andhappiness, showed his be-plumed and be- silked bride into the harmon andrews' pew,anne dropped her lids to hide her dancing eyes. she recalled the stormy winter night of thechristmas holidays when jane had proposed for billy.he certainly had not broken his heart over his rejection. anne wondered if jane had also proposed tonettie for him, or if he had mustered enough spunk to ask the fateful questionhimself.

all the andrews family seemed to share inhis pride and pleasure, from mrs. harmon in the pew to jane in the choir.jane had resigned from the avonlea school and intended to go west in the fall. "can't get a beau in avonlea, that's what,"said mrs. rachel lynde scornfully. "says she thinks she'll have better healthout west. i never heard her health was poor before." "jane is a nice girl," anne had saidloyally. "she never tried to attract attention, assome did." "oh, she never chased the boys, if that'swhat you mean," said mrs. rachel.

"but she'd like to be married, just as muchas anybody, that's what. what else would take her out west to someforsaken place whose only recommendation is that men are plenty and women scarce?don't you tell me!" but it was not at jane, anne gazed that dayin dismay and surprise. it was at ruby gillis, who sat beside herin the choir. what had happened to ruby? she was even handsomer than ever; but herblue eyes were too bright and lustrous, and the color of her cheeks was hecticallybrilliant; besides, she was very thin; the hands that held her hymn-book were almosttransparent in their delicacy.

"is ruby gillis ill?"anne asked of mrs. lynde, as they went home from church. "ruby gillis is dying of gallopingconsumption," said mrs. lynde bluntly. "everybody knows it except herself and herfamily. they won't give in. if you ask them, she's perfectly well. she hasn't been able to teach since she hadthat attack of congestion in the winter, but she says she's going to teach again inthe fall, and she's after the white sands school.

she'll be in her grave, poor girl, whenwhite sands school opens, that's what." anne listened in shocked silence.ruby gillis, her old school-chum, dying? could it be possible? of late years they had grown apart; but theold tie of school-girl intimacy was there, and made itself felt sharply in the tug thenews gave at anne's heartstrings. ruby, the brilliant, the merry, thecoquettish! it was impossible to associate the thoughtof her with anything like death. she had greeted anne with gay cordialityafter church, and urged her to come up the next evening."i'll be away tuesday and wednesday

evenings," she had whispered triumphantly. "there's a concert at carmody and a partyat white sands. herb spencer's going to take me.he's my latest. be sure to come up tomorrow. i'm dying for a good talk with you.i want to hear all about your doings at redmond." anne knew that ruby meant that she wantedto tell anne all about her own recent flirtations, but she promised to go, anddiana offered to go with her. "i've been wanting to go to see ruby for along while," she told anne, when they left

green gables the next evening, "but ireally couldn't go alone. it's so awful to hear ruby rattling on asshe does, and pretending there is nothing the matter with her, even when she canhardly speak for coughing. she's fighting so hard for her life, andyet she hasn't any chance at all, they say."the girls walked silently down the red, twilit road. the robins were singing vespers in the hightreetops, filling the golden air with their jubilant voices. the silver fluting of the frogs came frommarshes and ponds, over fields where seeds

were beginning to stir with life and thrillto the sunshine and rain that had drifted over them. the air was fragrant with the wild, sweet,wholesome smell of young raspberry copses. white mists were hovering in the silenthollows and violet stars were shining bluely on the brooklands. "what a beautiful sunset," said diana."look, anne, it's just like a land in itself, isn't it? that long, low back of purple cloud is theshore, and the clear sky further on is like a golden sea."

"if we could sail to it in the moonshineboat paul wrote of in his old composition-- you remember?--how nice it would be," saidanne, rousing from her reverie. "do you think we could find all ouryesterdays there, diana--all our old springs and blossoms? the beds of flowers that paul saw there arethe roses that have bloomed for us in the past?""don't!" said diana. "you make me feel as if we were old womenwith everything in life behind us." "i think i've almost felt as if we weresince i heard about poor ruby," said anne. "if it is true that she is dying any othersad thing might be true, too."

"you don't mind calling in at elishawright's for a moment, do you?" asked diana. "mother asked me to leave this little dishof jelly for aunt atossa." "who is aunt atossa?""oh, haven't you heard? she's mrs. samson coates of spencervale--mrs. elisha wright's aunt. she's father's aunt, too. her husband died last winter and she wasleft very poor and lonely, so the wrights took her to live with them.mother thought we ought to take her, but father put his foot down.

live with aunt atossa he would not.""is she so terrible?" asked anne absently. "you'll probably see what she's like beforewe can get away," said diana significantly. "father says she has a face like a hatchet--it cuts the air. but her tongue is sharper still."late as it was aunt atossa was cutting potato sets in the wright kitchen. she wore a faded old wrapper, and her grayhair was decidedly untidy. aunt atossa did not like being "caught in akilter," so she went out of her way to be disagreeable. "oh, so you're anne shirley?" she said,when diana introduced anne.

"i've heard of you."her tone implied that she had heard nothing good. "mrs. andrews was telling me you were home.she said you had improved a good deal." there was no doubt aunt atossa thoughtthere was plenty of room for further improvement. she ceased not from cutting sets with muchenergy. "is it any use to ask you to sit down?" sheinquired sarcastically. "of course, there's nothing veryentertaining here for you. the rest are all away.""mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb

jelly," said diana pleasantly. "she made it today and thought you mightlike some." "oh, thanks," said aunt atossa sourly."i never fancy your mother's jelly--she always makes it too sweet. however, i'll try to worry some down.my appetite's been dreadful poor this spring.i'm far from well," continued aunt atossa solemnly, "but still i keep a-doing. people who can't work aren't wanted here.if it isn't too much trouble will you be condescending enough to set the jelly inthe pantry?

i'm in a hurry to get these spuds donetonight. i suppose you two ladies never do anythinglike this. you'd be afraid of spoiling your hands." "i used to cut potato sets before we rentedthe farm," smiled anne. "i do it yet," laughed diana."i cut sets three days last week. of course," she added teasingly, "i did myhands up in lemon juice and kid gloves every night after it."aunt atossa sniffed. "i suppose you got that notion out of someof those silly magazines you read so many of.i wonder your mother allows you.

but she always spoiled you. we all thought when george married her shewouldn't be a suitable wife for him." aunt atossa sighed heavily, as if allforebodings upon the occasion of george barry's marriage had been amply and darklyfulfilled. "going, are you?" she inquired, as thegirls rose. "well, i suppose you can't find muchamusement talking to an old woman like me. it's such a pity the boys ain't home." "we want to run in and see ruby gillis alittle while," explained diana. "oh, anything does for an excuse, ofcourse," said aunt atossa, amiably.

"just whip in and whip out before you havetime to say how-do decently. it's college airs, i s'pose.you'd be wiser to keep away from ruby gillis. the doctors say consumption's catching.i always knew ruby'd get something, gadding off to boston last fall for a visit.people who ain't content to stay home always catch something." "people who don't go visiting catch things,too. sometimes they even die," said dianasolemnly. "then they don't have themselves to blamefor it," retorted aunt atossa triumphantly.

"i hear you are to be married in june,diana." "there is no truth in that report," saiddiana, blushing. "well, don't put it off too long," saidaunt atossa significantly. "you'll fade soon--you're all complexionand hair. and the wrights are terrible fickle.you ought to wear a hat, miss shirley. your nose is freckling scandalous. my, but you are redheaded!well, i s'pose we're all as the lord made us!give marilla cuthbert my respects. she's never been to see me since i come toavonlea, but i s'pose i oughtn't to

complain.the cuthberts always did think themselves a cut higher than any one else round here." "oh, isn't she dreadful?" gasped diana, asthey escaped down the lane. "she's worse than miss eliza andrews," saidanne. "but then think of living all your lifewith a name like atossa! wouldn't it sour almost any one?she should have tried to imagine her name was cordelia. it might have helped her a great deal.it certainly helped me in the days when i didn't like anne.""josie pye will be just like her when she

grows up," said diana. "josie's mother and aunt atossa arecousins, you know. oh, dear, i'm glad that's over.she's so malicious--she seems to put a bad flavor in everything. father tells such a funny story about her.one time they had a minister in spencervale who was a very good, spiritual man but verydeaf. he couldn't hear any ordinary conversationat all. well, they used to have a prayer meeting onsunday evenings, and all the church members present would get up and pray in turn, orsay a few words on some bible verse.

but one evening aunt atossa bounced up. she didn't either pray or preach. instead, she lit into everybody else in thechurch and gave them a fearful raking down, calling them right out by name and tellingthem how they all had behaved, and casting up all the quarrels and scandals of thepast ten years. finally she wound up by saying that she wasdisgusted with spencervale church and she never meant to darken its door again, andshe hoped a fearful judgment would come upon it. then she sat down out of breath, and theminister, who hadn't heard a word she said,

immediately remarked, in a very devoutvoice, 'amen! the lord grant our dear sister's prayer!' you ought to hear father tell the story." "speaking of stories, diana," remarkedanne, in a significant, confidential tone, "do you know that lately i have beenwondering if i could write a short story--a story that would be good enough to bepublished?" "why, of course you could," said diana,after she had grasped the amazing suggestion. "you used to write perfectly thrillingstories years ago in our old story club."

"well, i hardly meant one of that kind ofstories," smiled anne. "i've been thinking about it a little oflate, but i'm almost afraid to try, for, if i should fail, it would be toohumiliating." "i heard priscilla say once that all mrs.morgan's first stories were rejected. but i'm sure yours wouldn't be, anne, forit's likely editors have more sense nowadays." "margaret burton, one of the junior girlsat redmond, wrote a story last winter and it was published in the canadian woman.i really do think i could write one at least as good."

"and will you have it published in thecanadian woman?" "i might try one of the bigger magazinesfirst. it all depends on what kind of a story iwrite." "what is it to be about?""i don't know yet. i want to get hold of a good plot. i believe this is very necessary from aneditor's point of view. the only thing i've settled on is theheroine's name. it is to be averil lester. rather pretty, don't you think?don't mention this to any one, diana.

i haven't told anybody but you and mr.harrison. he wasn't very encouraging--he said therewas far too much trash written nowadays as it was, and he'd expected something betterof me, after a year at college." "what does mr. harrison know about it?"demanded diana scornfully. they found the gillis home gay with lightsand callers. leonard kimball, of spencervale, and morganbell, of carmody, were glaring at each other across the parlor.several merry girls had dropped in. ruby was dressed in white and her eyes andcheeks were very brilliant. she laughed and chattered incessantly, andafter the other girls had gone she took

anne upstairs to display her new summerdresses. "i've a blue silk to make up yet, but it'sa little heavy for summer wear. i think i'll leave it until the fall.i'm going to teach in white sands, you know. how do you like my hat?that one you had on in church yesterday was real dinky.but i like something brighter for myself. did you notice those two ridiculous boysdownstairs? they've both come determined to sit eachother out. i don't care a single bit about either ofthem, you know.

herb spencer is the one i like.sometimes i really do think he's mr. right. at christmas i thought the spencervaleschoolmaster was that. but i found out something about him thatturned me against him. he nearly went insane when i turned himdown. i wish those two boys hadn't come tonight.i wanted to have a nice good talk with you, anne, and tell you such heaps of things. you and i were always good chums, weren'twe?" ruby slipped her arm about anne's waistwith a shallow little laugh. but just for a moment their eyes met, and,behind all the luster of ruby's, anne saw

something that made her heart ache."come up often, won't you, anne?" whispered ruby. "come alone--i want you.""are you feeling quite well, ruby?" "me!why, i'm perfectly well. i never felt better in my life. of course, that congestion last winterpulled me down a little. but just see my color.i don't look much like an invalid, i'm sure." ruby's voice was almost sharp.

she pulled her arm away from anne, as if inresentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever, apparently so muchabsorbed in bantering her two swains that diana and anne felt rather out of it andsoon went away. > chapter xii"averil's atonement" "what are you dreaming of, anne?"the two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the brook. ferns nodded in it, and little grasses weregreen, and wild pears hung finely-scented, white curtains around it.anne roused herself from her reverie with a

happy sigh. "i was thinking out my story, diana.""oh, have you really begun it?" cried diana, all alight with eager interest in amoment. "yes, i have only a few pages written, buti have it all pretty well thought out. i've had such a time to get a suitableplot. none of the plots that suggested themselvessuited a girl named averil." "couldn't you have changed her name?""no, the thing was impossible. i tried to, but i couldn't do it, any morethan i could change yours. averil was so real to me that no matterwhat other name i tried to give her i just

thought of her as averil behind it all. but finally i got a plot that matched her.then came the excitement of choosing names for all my characters.you have no idea how fascinating that is. i've lain awake for hours thinking overthose names. the hero's name is perceval dalrymple.""have you named all the characters?" asked diana wistfully. "if you hadn't i was going to ask you tolet me name one--just some unimportant person.i'd feel as if i had a share in the story then."

"you may name the little hired boy wholived with the lesters," conceded anne. "he is not very important, but he is theonly one left unnamed." "call him raymond fitzosborne," suggesteddiana, who had a store of such names laid away in her memory, relics of the old"story club," which she and anne and jane andrews and ruby gillis had had in theirschooldays. anne shook her head doubtfully."i'm afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, diana. i couldn't imagine a fitzosborne feedingpigs and picking up chips, could you?" diana didn't see why, if you had animagination at all, you couldn't stretch it

to that extent; but probably anne knewbest, and the chore boy was finally christened robert ray, to be called bobbyshould occasion require. "how much do you suppose you'll get forit?" asked diana. but anne had not thought about this at all. she was in pursuit of fame, not filthylucre, and her literary dreams were as yet untainted by mercenary considerations."you'll let me read it, won't you?" pleaded "when it is finished i'll read it to youand mr. harrison, and i shall want you to criticize it severely.no one else shall see it until it is published."

"how are you going to end it--happily orunhappily?" "i'm not sure.i'd like it to end unhappily, because that would be so much more romantic. but i understand editors have a prejudiceagainst sad endings. i heard professor hamilton say once thatnobody but a genius should try to write an unhappy ending. and," concluded anne modestly, "i'manything but a genius." "oh i like happy endings best. you'd better let him marry her," saiddiana, who, especially since her engagement

to fred, thought this was how every storyshould end. "but you like to cry over stories?" "oh, yes, in the middle of them.but i like everything to come right at last.""i must have one pathetic scene in it," said anne thoughtfully. "i might let robert ray be injured in anaccident and have a death scene." "no, you mustn't kill bobby off," declareddiana, laughing. "he belongs to me and i want him to liveand flourish. kill somebody else if you have to."

for the next fortnight anne writhed orreveled, according to mood, in her literary pursuits. now she would be jubilant over a brilliantidea, now despairing because some contrary character would not behave properly.diana could not understand this. "make them do as you want them to," shesaid. "i can't," mourned anne."averil is such an unmanageable heroine. she will do and say things i never meanther to. then that spoils everything that wentbefore and i have to write it all over again."

finally, however, the story was finished,and anne read it to diana in the seclusion of the porch gable. she had achieved her "pathetic scene"without sacrificing robert ray, and she kept a watchful eye on diana as she readit. diana rose to the occasion and criedproperly; but, when the end came, she looked a little disappointed."why did you kill maurice lennox?" she asked reproachfully. "he was the villain," protested anne."he had to be punished." "i like him best of them all," saidunreasonable diana.

"well, he's dead, and he'll have to staydead," said anne, rather resentfully. "if i had let him live he'd have gone onpersecuting averil and perceval." "yes--unless you had reformed him." "that wouldn't have been romantic, and,besides, it would have made the story too long." "well, anyway, it's a perfectly elegantstory, anne, and will make you famous, of that i'm sure.have you got a title for it?" "oh, i decided on the title long ago. i call it averil's atonement.doesn't that sound nice and alliterative?

now, diana, tell me candidly, do you seeany faults in my story?" "well," hesitated diana, "that part whereaveril makes the cake doesn't seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest.it's just what anybody might do. heroines shouldn't do cooking, i think." "why, that is where the humor comes in, andit's one of the best parts of the whole story," said anne.and it may be stated that in this she was quite right. diana prudently refrained from any furthercriticism, but mr. harrison was much harder to please.first he told her there was entirely too

much description in the story. "cut out all those flowery passages," hesaid unfeelingly. anne had an uncomfortable conviction thatmr. harrison was right, and she forced herself to expunge most of her beloveddescriptions, though it took three re- writings before the story could be pruneddown to please the fastidious mr. harrison. "i've left out all the descriptions but thesunset," she said at last. "i simply couldn't let it go. it was the best of them all.""it hasn't anything to do with the story," said mr. harrison, "and you shouldn't havelaid the scene among rich city people.

what do you know of them? why didn't you lay it right here inavonlea--changing the name, of course, or else mrs. rachel lynde would probably thinkshe was the heroine." "oh, that would never have done," protestedanne. "avonlea is the dearest place in the world,but it isn't quite romantic enough for the scene of a story." "i daresay there's been many a romance inavonlea--and many a tragedy, too," said mr. harrison drily."but your folks ain't like real folks anywhere.

they talk too much and use too high-flownlanguage. there's one place where that dalrymple chaptalks even on for two pages, and never lets the girl get a word in edgewise. if he'd done that in real life she'd havepitched him." "i don't believe it," said anne flatly. in her secret soul she thought that thebeautiful, poetical things said to averil would win any girl's heart completely. besides, it was gruesome to hear of averil,the stately, queen-like averil, "pitching" any one.averil "declined her suitors."

"anyhow," resumed the merciless mr.harrison, "i don't see why maurice lennox didn't get her.he was twice the man the other is. he did bad things, but he did them. perceval hadn't time for anything butmooning." "mooning."that was even worse than "pitching!" "maurice lennox was the villain," said anneindignantly. "i don't see why every one likes him betterthan perceval." "perceval is too good. he's aggravating.next time you write about a hero put a

little spice of human nature in him.""averil couldn't have married maurice. he was bad." "she'd have reformed him.you can reform a man; you can't reform a jelly-fish, of course.your story isn't bad--it's kind of interesting, i'll admit. but you're too young to write a story thatwould be worth while. wait ten years." anne made up her mind that the next timeshe wrote a story she wouldn't ask anybody to criticize it.it was too discouraging.

she would not read the story to gilbert,although she told him about it. "if it is a success you'll see it when itis published, gilbert, but if it is a failure nobody shall ever see it." marilla knew nothing about the venture. in imagination anne saw herself reading astory out of a magazine to marilla, entrapping her into praise of it--for inimagination all things are possible--and then triumphantly announcing herself theauthor. one day anne took to the post office along, bulky envelope, addressed, with the delightful confidence of youth andinexperience, to the very biggest of the

"big" magazines. diana was as excited over it as anneherself. "how long do you suppose it will be beforeyou hear from it?" she asked. "it shouldn't be longer than a fortnight. oh, how happy and proud i shall be if it isaccepted!" "of course it will be accepted, and theywill likely ask you to send them more. you may be as famous as mrs. morgan someday, anne, and then how proud i'll be of knowing you," said diana, who possessed, atleast, the striking merit of an unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces of herfriends.

a week of delightful dreaming followed, andthen came a bitter awakening. one evening diana found anne in the porchgable, with suspicious-looking eyes. on the table lay a long envelope and acrumpled manuscript. "anne, your story hasn't come back?" crieddiana incredulously. "yes, it has," said anne shortly."well, that editor must be crazy. what reason did he give?" "no reason at all.there is just a printed slip saying that it wasn't found acceptable.""i never thought much of that magazine, anyway," said diana hotly.

"the stories in it are not half asinteresting as those in the canadian woman, although it costs so much more.i suppose the editor is prejudiced against any one who isn't a yankee. don't be discouraged, anne.remember how mrs. morgan's stories came back.send yours to the canadian woman." "i believe i will," said anne, plucking upheart. "and if it is published i'll send thatamerican editor a marked copy. but i'll cut the sunset out. i believe mr. harrison was right."

out came the sunset; but in spite of thisheroic mutilation the editor of the canadian woman sent averil's atonement backso promptly that the indignant diana declared that it couldn't have been read at all, and vowed she was going to stop hersubscription immediately. anne took this second rejection with thecalmness of despair. she locked the story away in the garrettrunk where the old story club tales reposed; but first she yielded to diana'sentreaties and gave her a copy. "this is the end of my literary ambitions,"she said bitterly. she never mentioned the matter to mr.harrison, but one evening he asked her

bluntly if her story had been accepted. "no, the editor wouldn't take it," sheanswered briefly. mr. harrison looked sidewise at theflushed, delicate profile. "well, i suppose you'll keep on writingthem," he said encouragingly. "no, i shall never try to write a storyagain," declared anne, with the hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut inits face. "i wouldn't give up altogether," said mr.harrison reflectively. "i'd write a story once in a while, but iwouldn't pester editors with it. i'd write of people and places like i knew,and i'd make my characters talk everyday

english; and i'd let the sun rise and setin the usual quiet way without much fuss over the fact. if i had to have villains at all, i'd givethem a chance, anne--i'd give them a chance. there are some terrible bad men in theworld, i suppose, but you'd have to go a long piece to find them--though mrs. lyndebelieves we're all bad. but most of us have got a little decencysomewhere in us. keep on writing, anne.""no. it was very foolish of me to attempt it.

when i'm through redmond i'll stick toteaching. i can teach.i can't write stories." "it'll be time for you to be getting ahusband when you're through redmond," said mr. harrison."i don't believe in putting marrying off too long--like i did." anne got up and marched home.there were times when mr. harrison was really intolerable."pitching," "mooning," and "getting a husband." ow!!

chapter xiiithe way of transgressors davy and dora were ready for sunday school.they were going alone, which did not often happen, for mrs. lynde always attendedsunday school. but mrs. lynde had twisted her ankle andwas lame, so she was staying home this morning. the twins were also to represent the familyat church, for anne had gone away the evening before to spend sunday with friendsin carmody, and marilla had one of her headaches. davy came downstairs slowly.dora was waiting in the hall for him,

having been made ready by mrs. lynde.davy had attended to his own preparations. he had a cent in his pocket for the sundayschool collection, and a five-cent piece for the church collection; he carried hisbible in one hand and his sunday school quarterly in the other; he knew his lesson and his golden text and his catechismquestion perfectly. had he not studied them--perforce--in mrs.lynde's kitchen, all last sunday afternoon? davy, therefore, should have been in aplacid frame of mind. as a matter of fact, despite text andcatechism, he was inwardly as a ravening wolf.

mrs. lynde limped out of her kitchen as hejoined dora. "are you clean?" she demanded severely."yes--all of me that shows," davy answered with a defiant scowl. mrs. rachel sighed.she had her suspicions about davy's neck and ears. but she knew that if she attempted to makea personal examination davy would likely take to his heels and she could not pursuehim today. "well, be sure you behave yourselves," shewarned them. "don't walk in the dust.don't stop in the porch to talk to the

other children. don't squirm or wriggle in your places.don't forget the golden text. don't lose your collection or forget to putit in. don't whisper at prayer time, and don'tforget to pay attention to the sermon." davy deigned no response.he marched away down the lane, followed by the meek dora. but his soul seethed within. davy had suffered, or thought he hadsuffered, many things at the hands and tongue of mrs. rachel lynde since she hadcome to green gables, for mrs. lynde could

not live with anybody, whether they were nine or ninety, without trying to bringthem up properly. and it was only the preceding afternoonthat she had interfered to influence marilla against allowing davy to go fishingwith the timothy cottons. davy was still boiling over this. as soon as he was out of the lane davystopped and twisted his countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortionthat dora, although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest he should never in the world be able to get itstraightened out again.

"darn her," exploded davy."oh, davy, don't swear," gasped dora in dismay. "'darn' isn't swearing--not real swearing.and i don't care if it is," retorted davy recklessly."well, if you must say dreadful words don't say them on sunday," pleaded dora. davy was as yet far from repentance, but inhis secret soul he felt that, perhaps, he had gone a little too far."i'm going to invent a swear word of my own," he declared. "god will punish you if you do," said dorasolemnly.

"then i think god is a mean old scamp,"retorted davy. "doesn't he know a fellow must have someway of 'spressing his feelings?" "davy!!!" said dora.she expected that davy would be struck down dead on the spot. but nothing happened."anyway, i ain't going to stand any more of mrs. lynde's bossing," spluttered davy."anne and marilla may have the right to boss me, but she hasn't. i'm going to do every single thing she toldme not to do. you watch me."

in grim, deliberate silence, while dorawatched him with the fascination of horror, davy stepped off the green grass of theroadside, ankle deep into the fine dust which four weeks of rainless weather had made on the road, and marched along in it,shuffling his feet viciously until he was enveloped in a hazy cloud."that's the beginning," he announced triumphantly. "and i'm going to stop in the porch andtalk as long as there's anybody there to talk to. i'm going to squirm and wriggle andwhisper, and i'm going to say i don't know

the golden text.and i'm going to throw away both of my collections right now." and davy hurled cent and nickel over mr.barry's fence with fierce delight. "satan made you do that," said dorareproachfully. "he didn't," cried davy indignantly. "i just thought it out for myself.and i've thought of something else. i'm not going to sunday school or church atall. i'm going up to play with the cottons. they told me yesterday they weren't goingto sunday school today, 'cause their mother

was away and there was nobody to make them.come along, dora, we'll have a great time." "i don't want to go," protested dora. "you've got to," said davy."if you don't come i'll tell marilla that frank bell kissed you in school lastmonday." "i couldn't help it. i didn't know he was going to," cried dora,blushing scarlet. "well, you didn't slap him or seem a bitcross," retorted davy. "i'll tell her that, too, if you don'tcome. we'll take the short cut up this field.""i'm afraid of those cows," protested poor

dora, seeing a prospect of escape. "the very idea of your being scared ofthose cows," scoffed davy. "why, they're both younger than you.""they're bigger," said dora. "they won't hurt you. come along, now.this is great. when i grow up i ain't going to bothergoing to church at all. i believe i can get to heaven by myself." "you'll go to the other place if you breakthe sabbath day," said unhappy dora, following him sorely against her will.but davy was not scared--yet.

hell was very far off, and the delights ofa fishing expedition with the cottons were very near.he wished dora had more spunk. she kept looking back as if she were goingto cry every minute, and that spoiled a fellow's fun.hang girls, anyway. davy did not say "darn" this time, even inthought. he was not sorry--yet--that he had said itonce, but it might be as well not to tempt the unknown powers too far on one day. the small cottons were playing in theirback yard, and hailed davy's appearance with whoops of delight.pete, tommy, adolphus, and mirabel cotton

were all alone. their mother and older sisters were away.dora was thankful mirabel was there, at least.she had been afraid she would be alone in a crowd of boys. mirabel was almost as bad as a boy--she wasso noisy and sunburned and reckless. but at least she wore dresses."we've come to go fishing," announced davy. "whoop," yelled the cottons. they rushed away to dig worms at once,mirabel leading the van with a tin can. dora could have sat down and cried.oh, if only that hateful frank bell had

never kissed her! then she could have defied davy, and goneto her beloved sunday school. they dared not, of course, go fishing onthe pond, where they would be seen by people going to church. they had to resort to the brook in thewoods behind the cotton house. but it was full of trout, and they had aglorious time that morning--at least the cottons certainly had, and davy seemed tohave it. not being entirely bereft of prudence, hehad discarded boots and stockings and borrowed tommy cotton's overalls.thus accoutered, bog and marsh and

undergrowth had no terrors for him. dora was frankly and manifestly miserable. she followed the others in theirperegrinations from pool to pool, clasping her bible and quarterly tightly andthinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved class where she should be sitting that very moment, before a teacher sheadored. instead, here she was roaming the woodswith those half-wild cottons, trying to keep her boots clean and her pretty whitedress free from rents and stains. mirabel had offered the loan of an apronbut dora had scornfully refused.

the trout bit as they always do on sundays. in an hour the transgressors had all thefish they wanted, so they returned to the house, much to dora's relief. she sat primly on a hencoop in the yardwhile the others played an uproarious game of tag; and then they all climbed to thetop of the pig-house roof and cut their initials on the saddleboard. the flat-roofed henhouse and a pile ofstraw beneath gave davy another inspiration. they spent a splendid half hour climbing onthe roof and diving off into the straw with

whoops and yells.but even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. when the rumble of wheels over the pondbridge told that people were going home from church davy knew they must go. he discarded tommy's overalls, resumed hisown rightful attire, and turned away from his string of trout with a sigh.no use to think of taking them home. "well, hadn't we a splendid time?" hedemanded defiantly, as they went down the hill field."i hadn't," said dora flatly. "and i don't believe you had--really--either," she added, with a flash of insight

that was not to be expected of her."i had so," cried davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too much. "no wonder you hadn't--just sitting therelike a--like a mule." "i ain't going to, 'sociate with thecottons," said dora loftily. "the cottons are all right," retorted davy. "and they have far better times than wehave. they do just as they please and say justwhat they like before everybody. i'm going to do that, too, after this." "there are lots of things you wouldn't daresay before everybody," averred dora.

"no, there isn't.""there is, too. would you," demanded dora gravely, "wouldyou say 'tomcat' before the minister?" this was a staggerer.davy was not prepared for such a concrete example of the freedom of speech. but one did not have to be consistent withdora. "of course not," he admitted sulkily."'tomcat' isn't a holy word. i wouldn't mention such an animal before aminister at all." "but if you had to?" persisted dora."i'd call it a thomas pussy," said davy. "i think 'gentleman cat' would be morepolite," reflected dora.

"you thinking!" retorted davy withwithering scorn. davy was not feeling comfortable, though hewould have died before he admitted it to dora. now that the exhilaration of truantdelights had died away, his conscience was beginning to give him salutary twinges. after all, perhaps it would have beenbetter to have gone to sunday school and church. mrs. lynde might be bossy; but there wasalways a box of cookies in her kitchen cupboard and she was not stingy.

at this inconvenient moment davy rememberedthat when he had torn his new school pants the week before, mrs. lynde had mended thembeautifully and never said a word to marilla about them. but davy's cup of iniquity was not yetfull. he was to discover that one sin demandsanother to cover it. they had dinner with mrs. lynde that day,and the first thing she asked davy was, "were all your class in sunday schooltoday?" "yes'm," said davy with a gulp. "all were there--'cept one.""did you say your golden text and

catechism?""yes'm." "did you put your collection in?" "yes'm.""was mrs. malcolm macpherson in church?" "i don't know."this, at least, was the truth, thought wretched davy. "was the ladies' aid announced for nextweek?" "yes'm"--quakingly."was prayer-meeting?" "i--i don't know." "you should know.you should listen more attentively to the

announcements.what was mr. harvey's text?" davy took a frantic gulp of water andswallowed it and the last protest of conscience together.he glibly recited an old golden text learned several weeks ago. fortunately mrs. lynde now stoppedquestioning him; but davy did not enjoy his dinner.he could only eat one helping of pudding. "what's the matter with you?" demandedjustly astonished mrs. lynde. "are you sick?""no," muttered davy. "you look pale.

you'd better keep out of the sun thisafternoon," admonished mrs. lynde. "do you know how many lies you told mrs.lynde?" asked dora reproachfully, as soon as they were alone after dinner. davy, goaded to desperation, turnedfiercely. "i don't know and i don't care," he said."you just shut up, dora keith." then poor davy betook himself to a secludedretreat behind the woodpile to think over the way of transgressors.green gables was wrapped in darkness and silence when anne reached home. she lost no time going to bed, for she wasvery tired and sleepy.

there had been several avonleajollifications the preceding week, involving rather late hours. anne's head was hardly on her pillow beforeshe was half asleep; but just then her door was softly opened and a pleading voicesaid, "anne." anne sat up drowsily. "davy, is that you?what is the matter?" a white-clad figure flung itself across thefloor and on to the bed. "anne," sobbed davy, getting his arms abouther neck. "i'm awful glad you're home.i couldn't go to sleep till i'd told

somebody." "told somebody what?""how mis'rubul i am." "why are you miserable, dear?""'cause i was so bad today, anne. oh, i was awful bad--badder'n i've everbeen yet." "what did you do?""oh, i'm afraid to tell you. you'll never like me again, anne. i couldn't say my prayers tonight.i couldn't tell god what i'd done. i was 'shamed to have him know.""but he knew anyway, davy." "that's what dora said.

but i thought p'raps he mightn't havenoticed just at the time. anyway, i'd rather tell you first.""what is it you did?" out it all came in a rush. "i run away from sunday school--and wentfishing with the cottons--and i told ever so many whoppers to mrs. lynde--oh! 'most half a dozen--and--and--i--i said aswear word, anne--a pretty near swear word, anyhow--and i called god names."there was silence. davy didn't know what to make of it. was anne so shocked that she never wouldspeak to him again?

"anne, what are you going to do to me?" hewhispered. "nothing, dear. you've been punished already, i think.""no, i haven't. nothing's been done to me.""you've been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven't you?" "you bet!" said davy emphatically."that was your conscience punishing you, davy.""what's my conscience? i want to know." "it's something in you, davy, that alwaystells you when you are doing wrong and

makes you unhappy if you persist in doingit. haven't you noticed that?" "yes, but i didn't know what it was.i wish i didn't have it. i'd have lots more fun.where is my conscience, anne? i want to know. is it in my stomach?""no, it's in your soul," answered anne, thankful for the darkness, since gravitymust be preserved in serious matters. "i s'pose i can't get clear of it then,"said davy with a sigh. "are you going to tell marilla and mrs.lynde on me, anne?"

"no, dear, i'm not going to tell any one. you are sorry you were naughty, aren'tyou?" "you bet!""and you'll never be bad like that again." "no, but--" added davy cautiously, "i mightbe bad some other way." "you won't say naughty words, or run awayon sundays, or tell falsehoods to cover up your sins?" "no. it doesn't pay," said davy."well, davy, just tell god you are sorry and ask him to forgive you.""have you forgiven me, anne?" "yes, dear."

"then," said davy joyously, "i don't caremuch whether god does or not." "davy!" "oh--i'll ask him--i'll ask him," said davyquickly, scrambling off the bed, convinced by anne's tone that he must have saidsomething dreadful. "i don't mind asking him, anne.--please,god, i'm awful sorry i behaved bad today and i'll try to be good on sundays alwaysand please forgive me.--there now, anne." "well, now, run off to bed like a goodboy." "all right.say, i don't feel mis'rubul any more. i feel fine.

good night.""good night." anne slipped down on her pillows with asigh of relief. oh--how sleepy--she was! in another second--"anne!" davy was back again by her bed.anne dragged her eyes open. "what is it now, dear?" she asked, tryingto keep a note of impatience out of her voice."anne, have you ever noticed how mr. harrison spits? do you s'pose, if i practice hard, i canlearn to spit just like him?"

anne sat up. "davy keith," she said, "go straight toyour bed and don't let me catch you out of it again tonight!go, now!" davy went, and stood not upon the order ofhis going. chapter xivthe summons anne was sitting with ruby gillis in thegillis' garden after the day had crept lingeringly through it and was gone.it had been a warm, smoky summer afternoon. the world was in a splendor of out-flowering. the idle valleys were full of hazes.the woodways were pranked with shadows and

the fields with the purple of the asters. anne had given up a moonlight drive to thewhite sands beach that she might spend the evening with ruby. she had so spent many evenings that summer,although she often wondered what good it did any one, and sometimes went homedeciding that she could not go again. ruby grew paler as the summer waned; thewhite sands school was given up--"her father thought it better that she shouldn'tteach till new year's"--and the fancy work she loved oftener and oftener fell fromhands grown too weary for it. but she was always gay, always hopeful,always chattering and whispering of her

beaux, and their rivalries and despairs. it was this that made anne's visits hardfor her. what had once been silly or amusing wasgruesome, now; it was death peering through a wilful mask of life. yet ruby seemed to cling to her, and neverlet her go until she had promised to come again soon. mrs. lynde grumbled about anne's frequentvisits, and declared she would catch consumption; even marilla was dubious."every time you go to see ruby you come home looking tired out," she said.

"it's so very sad and dreadful," said annein a low tone. "ruby doesn't seem to realize her conditionin the least. and yet i somehow feel she needs help--craves it--and i want to give it to her and can't. all the time i'm with her i feel as if iwere watching her struggle with an invisible foe--trying to push it back withsuch feeble resistance as she has. that is why i come home tired." but tonight anne did not feel this sokeenly. ruby was strangely quiet.she said not a word about parties and

drives and dresses and "fellows." she lay in the hammock, with her untouchedwork beside her, and a white shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. her long yellow braids of hair--how annehad envied those beautiful braids in old schooldays!--lay on either side of her.she had taken the pins out--they made her head ache, she said. the hectic flush was gone for the time,leaving her pale and childlike. the moon rose in the silvery sky,empearling the clouds around her. below, the pond shimmered in its hazyradiance.

just beyond the gillis homestead was thechurch, with the old graveyard beside it. the moonlight shone on the white stones,bringing them out in clear-cut relief against the dark trees behind."how strange the graveyard looks by moonlight!" said ruby suddenly. "how ghostly!" she shuddered."anne, it won't be long now before i'll be lying over there. you and diana and all the rest will begoing about, full of life--and i'll be there--in the old graveyard--dead!"the surprise of it bewildered anne. for a few moments she could not speak.

"you know it's so, don't you?" said rubyinsistently. "yes, i know," answered anne in a low tone."dear ruby, i know." "everybody knows it," said ruby bitterly. "i know it--i've known it all summer,though i wouldn't give in. and, oh, anne"--she reached out and caughtanne's hand pleadingly, impulsively--"i don't want to die. i'm afraid to die.""why should you be afraid, ruby?" asked anne quietly."because--because--oh, i'm not afraid but that i'll go to heaven, anne.

i'm a church member.but--it'll be all so different. i think--and think--and i get sofrightened--and--and--homesick. heaven must be very beautiful, of course,the bible says so--but, anne, it won't be what i've been used to." through anne's mind drifted an intrusiverecollection of a funny story she had heard philippa gordon tell--the story of some oldman who had said very much the same thing about the world to come. it had sounded funny then--she rememberedhow she and priscilla had laughed over it. but it did not seem in the least humorousnow, coming from ruby's pale, trembling

lips. it was sad, tragic--and true!heaven could not be what ruby had been used to. there had been nothing in her gay,frivolous life, her shallow ideals and aspirations, to fit her for that greatchange, or make the life to come seem to her anything but alien and unreal andundesirable. anne wondered helplessly what she could saythat would help her. could she say anything? "i think, ruby," she began hesitatingly--for it was difficult for anne to speak to

any one of the deepest thoughts of herheart, or the new ideas that had vaguely begun to shape themselves in her mind, concerning the great mysteries of life hereand hereafter, superseding her old childish conceptions, and it was hardest of all tospeak of them to such as ruby gillis--"i think, perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about heaven--what it is and what it holdsfor us. i don't think it can be so very differentfrom life here as most people seem to think. i believe we'll just go on living, a gooddeal as we live here--and be ourselves just

the same--only it will be easier to be goodand to--follow the highest. all the hindrances and perplexities will betaken away, and we shall see clearly. don't be afraid, ruby.""i can't help it," said ruby pitifully. "even if what you say about heaven is true--and you can't be sure--it may be only that imagination of yours--it won't be just thesame. it can't be. i want to go on living here.i'm so young, anne. i haven't had my life. i've fought so hard to live--and it isn'tany use--i have to die--and leave

everything i care for."anne sat in a pain that was almost intolerable. she could not tell comforting falsehoods;and all that ruby said was so horribly true.she was leaving everything she cared for. she had laid up her treasures on earthonly; she had lived solely for the little things of life--the things that pass--forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity, bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a merepassing from one dwelling to the other-- from twilight to unclouded day.

god would take care of her there--annebelieved--she would learn--but now it was no wonder her soul clung, in blindhelplessness, to the only things she knew and loved. ruby raised herself on her arm and liftedup her bright, beautiful blue eyes to the moonlit skies."i want to live," she said, in a trembling voice. "i want to live like other girls.i--i want to be married, anne--and--and-- have little children.you know i always loved babies, anne. i couldn't say this to any one but you.

i know you understand.and then poor herb--he--he loves me and i love him, anne. the others meant nothing to me, but hedoes--and if i could live i would be his wife and be so happy.oh, anne, it's hard." ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbedconvulsively. anne pressed her hand in an agony ofsympathy--silent sympathy, which perhaps helped ruby more than broken, imperfectwords could have done; for presently she grew calmer and her sobs ceased. "i'm glad i've told you this, anne," shewhispered.

"it has helped me just to say it all out.i've wanted to all summer--every time you came. i wanted to talk it over with you--but icouldn't. it seemed as if it would make death so sureif i said i was going to die, or if any one else said it or hinted it. i wouldn't say it, or even think it.in the daytime, when people were around me and everything was cheerful, it wasn't sohard to keep from thinking of it. but in the night, when i couldn't sleep--itwas so dreadful, anne. i couldn't get away from it then.

death just came and stared me in the face,until i got so frightened i could have screamed."but you won't be frightened any more, ruby, will you? you'll be brave, and believe that all isgoing to be well with you." "i'll try.i'll think over what you have said, and try to believe it. and you'll come up as often as you can,won't you, anne?" "yes, dear.""it--it won't be very long now, anne. i feel sure of that.

and i'd rather have you than any one else.i always liked you best of all the girls i went to school with.you were never jealous, or mean, like some of them were. poor em white was up to see me yesterday.you remember em and i were such chums for three years when we went to school?and then we quarrelled the time of the school concert. we've never spoken to each other since.wasn't it silly? anything like that seems silly now.but em and i made up the old quarrel yesterday.

she said she'd have spoken years ago, onlyshe thought i wouldn't. and i never spoke to her because i was sureshe wouldn't speak to me. isn't it strange how people misunderstandeach other, anne?" "most of the trouble in life comes frommisunderstanding, i think," said anne. "i must go now, ruby. it's getting late--and you shouldn't be outin the damp." "you'll come up soon again.""yes, very soon. and if there's anything i can do to helpyou i'll be so glad." "i know.you have helped me already.

nothing seems quite so dreadful now. good night, anne.""good night, dear." anne walked home very slowly in themoonlight. the evening had changed something for her. life held a different meaning, a deeperpurpose. on the surface it would go on just thesame; but the deeps had been stirred. it must not be with her as with poorbutterfly ruby. when she came to the end of one life itmust not be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something whollydifferent--something for which accustomed

thought and ideal and aspiration hadunfitted her. the little things of life, sweet andexcellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must besought and followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth. that good night in the garden was for alltime. anne never saw ruby in life again. the next night the a.v.i.s. gave a farewellparty to jane andrews before her departure for the west. and, while light feet danced and brighteyes laughed and merry tongues chattered,

there came a summons to a soul in avonleathat might not be disregarded or evaded. the next morning the word went from houseto house that ruby gillis was dead. she had died in her sleep, painlessly andcalmly, and on her face was a smile--as if, after all, death had come as a kindlyfriend to lead her over the threshold, instead of the grisly phantom she haddreaded. mrs. rachel lynde said emphatically afterthe funeral that ruby gillis was the handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. her loveliness, as she lay, white-clad,among the delicate flowers that anne had placed about her, was remembered and talkedof for years in avonlea.

ruby had always been beautiful; but herbeauty had been of the earth, earthy; it had had a certain insolent quality in it,as if it flaunted itself in the beholder's eye; spirit had never shone through it,intellect had never refined it. but death had touched it and consecratedit, bringing out delicate modelings and purity of outline never seen before--doingwhat life and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have done forruby. anne, looking down through a mist of tears,at her old playfellow, thought she saw the face god had meant ruby to have, andremembered it so always. mrs. gillis called anne aside into a vacantroom before the funeral procession left the

house, and gave her a small packet."i want you to have this," she sobbed. "ruby would have liked you to have it. it's the embroidered centerpiece she wasworking at. it isn't quite finished--the needle issticking in it just where her poor little fingers put it the last time she laid itdown, the afternoon before she died." "there's always a piece of unfinished workleft," said mrs. lynde, with tears in her eyes."but i suppose there's always some one to finish it." "how difficult it is to realize that one wehave always known can really be dead," said

anne, as she and diana walked home."ruby is the first of our schoolmates to go. one by one, sooner or later, all the restof us must follow." "yes, i suppose so," said dianauncomfortably. she did not want to talk of that. she would have preferred to have discussedthe details of the funeral--the splendid white velvet casket mr. gillis had insistedon having for ruby--"the gillises must always make a splurge, even at funerals," quoth mrs. rachel lynde--herb spencer's sadface, the uncontrolled, hysteric grief of

one of ruby's sisters--but anne would nottalk of these things. she seemed wrapped in a reverie in whichdiana felt lonesomely that she had neither lot nor part."ruby gillis was a great girl to laugh," said davy suddenly. "will she laugh as much in heaven as shedid in avonlea, anne? i want to know.""yes, i think she will," said anne. "oh, anne," protested diana, with a rathershocked smile. "well, why not, diana?" asked anneseriously. "do you think we'll never laugh in heaven?"

"oh--i--i don't know" floundered diana."it doesn't seem just right, somehow. you know it's rather dreadful to laugh inchurch." "but heaven won't be like church--all thetime," said anne. "i hope it ain't," said davy emphatically."if it is i don't want to go. church is awful dull. anyway, i don't mean to go for ever solong. i mean to live to be a hundred years old,like mr. thomas blewett of white sands. he says he's lived so long 'cause he alwayssmoked tobacco and it killed all the germs. can i smoke tobacco pretty soon, anne?""no, davy, i hope you'll never use

tobacco," said anne absently. "what'll you feel like if the germs kill methen?" demanded davy. chapter xva dream turned upside down "just one more week and we go back toredmond," said anne. she was happy at the thought of returningto work, classes and redmond friends. pleasing visions were also being wovenaround patty's place. there was a warm pleasant sense of home inthe thought of it, even though she had never lived there. but the summer had been a very happy one,too--a time of glad living with summer suns

and skies, a time of keen delight inwholesome things; a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which she had learned to live more nobly,to work more patiently, to play more heartily."all life lessons are not learned at college," she thought. "life teaches them everywhere."but alas, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for anne, by one ofthose impish happenings which are like a dream turned upside down. "been writing any more stories lately?"inquired mr. harrison genially one evening

when anne was taking tea with him and mrs.harrison. "no," answered anne, rather crisply. "well, no offense meant. mrs. hiram sloane told me the other daythat a big envelope addressed to the rollings reliable baking powder company ofmontreal had been dropped into the post office box a month ago, and she suspicioned that somebody was trying for the prizethey'd offered for the best story that introduced the name of their baking powder.she said it wasn't addressed in your writing, but i thought maybe it was you."

"indeed, no!i saw the prize offer, but i'd never dream of competing for it. i think it would be perfectly disgracefulto write a story to advertise a baking powder.it would be almost as bad as judson parker's patent medicine fence." so spake anne loftily, little dreaming ofthe valley of humiliation awaiting her. that very evening diana popped into theporch gable, bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, carrying a letter. "oh, anne, here's a letter for you.i was at the office, so i thought i'd bring

it along.do open it quick. if it is what i believe it is i shall justbe wild with delight." anne, puzzled, opened the letter andglanced over the typewritten contents. miss anne shirley, green gables,avonlea, p.e. island. "dear madam: we have much pleasure ininforming you that your charming story 'averil's atonement' has won the prize oftwenty-five dollars offered in our recent competition. we enclose the check herewith.

we are arranging for the publication of thestory in several prominent canadian newspapers, and we also intend to have itprinted in pamphlet form for distribution among our patrons. thanking you for the interest you haveshown in our enterprise, we remain, "yours very truly,"the rollings reliable "baking powder co." "i don't understand," said anne, blankly.diana clapped her hands. "oh, i knew it would win the prize--i wassure of it. i sent your story into the competition,anne."

"diana--barry!""yes, i did," said diana gleefully, perching herself on the bed. "when i saw the offer i thought of yourstory in a minute, and at first i thought i'd ask you to send it in.but then i was afraid you wouldn't--you had so little faith left in it. so i just decided i'd send the copy yougave me, and say nothing about it. then, if it didn't win the prize, you'dnever know and you wouldn't feel badly over it, because the stories that failed werenot to be returned, and if it did you'd have such a delightful surprise."

diana was not the most discerning ofmortals, but just at this moment it struck her that anne was not looking exactlyoverjoyed. the surprise was there, beyond doubt--butwhere was the delight? "why, anne, you don't seem a bit pleased!"she exclaimed. anne instantly manufactured a smile and putit on. "of course i couldn't be anything butpleased over your unselfish wish to give me pleasure," she said slowly. "but you know--i'm so amazed--i can'trealize it--and i don't understand. there wasn't a word in my story about--about--" anne choked a little over the

word--"baking powder." "oh, i put that in," said diana, reassured."it was as easy as wink--and of course my experience in our old story club helped me.you know the scene where averil makes the cake? well, i just stated that she used therollings reliable in it, and that was why it turned out so well; and then, in thelast paragraph, where perceval clasps averil in his arms and says, 'sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will bring usthe fulfilment of our home of dreams,' i added, 'in which we will never use anybaking powder except rollings reliable.'"

"oh," gasped poor anne, as if some one haddashed cold water on her. "and you've won the twenty-five dollars,"continued diana jubilantly. "why, i heard priscilla say once that thecanadian woman only pays five dollars for a story!"anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers. "i can't take it--it's yours by right,diana. you sent the story in and made thealterations. i--i would certainly never have sent it. so you must take the check.""i'd like to see myself," said diana

scornfully."why, what i did wasn't any trouble. the honor of being a friend of theprizewinner is enough for me. well, i must go.i should have gone straight home from the post office for we have company. but i simply had to come and hear the news.i'm so glad for your sake, anne." anne suddenly bent forward, put her armsabout diana, and kissed her cheek. "i think you are the sweetest and truestfriend in the world, diana," she said, with a little tremble in her voice, "and iassure you i appreciate the motive of what you've done."

diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herselfaway, and poor anne, after flinging the innocent check into her bureau drawer as ifit were blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and outragedsensibility. oh, she could never live this down--never! gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over withcongratulations, for he had called at orchard slope and heard the news.but his congratulations died on his lips at sight of anne's face. "why, anne, what is the matter?i expected to find you radiant over winning rollings reliable prize.good for you!"

"oh, gilbert, not you," implored anne, inan et-tu brute tone. "i thought you would understand.can't you see how awful it is?" "i must confess i can't. what is wrong?""everything," moaned anne. "i feel as if i were disgraced forever. what do you think a mother would feel likeif she found her child tattooed over with a baking powder advertisement?i feel just the same. i loved my poor little story, and i wroteit out of the best that was in me. and it is sacrilege to have it degraded tothe level of a baking powder advertisement.

don't you remember what professor hamiltonused to tell us in the literature class at queen's? he said we were never to write a word for alow or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the very highest ideals. what will he think when he hears i'vewritten a story to advertise rollings reliable?and, oh, when it gets out at redmond! think how i'll be teased and laughed at!" "that you won't," said gilbert, wonderinguneasily if it were that confounded junior's opinion in particular over whichanne was worried.

"the reds will think just as i thought--that you, being like nine out of ten of us, not overburdened with worldly wealth, hadtaken this way of earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year. i don't see that there's anything low orunworthy about that, or anything ridiculous either. one would rather write masterpieces ofliterature no doubt--but meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid."this commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case cheered anne a little. at least it removed her dread of beinglaughed at, though the deeper hurt of an

outraged ideal remained. chapter xviadjusted relationships "it's the homiest spot i ever saw--it'shomier than home," avowed philippa gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. they were all assembled at twilight in thebig living-room at patty's place--anne and priscilla, phil and stella, aunt jamesina,rusty, joseph, the sarah-cat, and gog and magog. the firelight shadows were dancing over thewalls; the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent tophil by one of the victims, shone through

the golden gloom like creamy moons. it was three weeks since they hadconsidered themselves settled, and already all believed the experiment would be asuccess. the first fortnight after their return hadbeen a pleasantly exciting one; they had been busy setting up their household goods,organizing their little establishment, and adjusting different opinions. anne was not over-sorry to leave avonleawhen the time came to return to college. the last few days of her vacation had notbeen pleasant. her prize story had been published in theisland papers; and mr. william blair had,

upon the counter of his store, a huge pileof pink, green and yellow pamphlets, containing it, one of which he gave toevery customer. he sent a complimentary bundle to anne, whopromptly dropped them all in the kitchen stove. her humiliation was the consequence of herown ideals only, for avonlea folks thought it quite splendid that she should have wonthe prize. her many friends regarded her with honestadmiration; her few foes with scornful envy. josie pye said she believed anne shirleyhad just copied the story; she was sure she

remembered reading it in a paper yearsbefore. the sloanes, who had found out or guessedthat charlie had been "turned down," said they didn't think it was much to be proudof; almost any one could have done it, if she tried. aunt atossa told anne she was very sorry tohear she had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in avonlea would doit; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where, with goodnessknew what kind of parents. even mrs. rachel lynde was darkly dubiousabout the propriety of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled to it bythat twenty-five dollar check.

"it is perfectly amazing, the price theypay for such lies, that's what," she said, half-proudly, half-severely.all things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. and it was very jolly to be back atredmond, a wise, experienced soph with hosts of friends to greet on the merryopening day. pris and stella and gilbert were there,charlie sloane, looking more important than ever a sophomore looked before, phil, withthe alec-and-alonzo question still unsettled, and moody spurgeon macpherson. moody spurgeon had been teaching schoolever since leaving queen's, but his mother

had concluded it was high time he gave itup and turned his attention to learning how to be a minister. poor moody spurgeon fell on hard luck atthe very beginning of his college career. half a dozen ruthless sophs, who were amonghis fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and shaved half of his head. in this guise the luckless moody spurgeonhad to go about until his hair grew again. he told anne bitterly that there were timeswhen he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to be a minister. aunt jamesina did not come until the girlshad patty's place ready for her.

miss patty had sent the key to anne, with aletter in which she said gog and magog were packed in a box under the spare-room bed,but might be taken out when wanted; in a postscript she added that she hoped the girls would be careful about putting uppictures. the living room had been newly papered fiveyears before and she and miss maria did not want any more holes made in that new paperthan was absolutely necessary. for the rest she trusted everything toanne. how those girls enjoyed putting their nestin order! as phil said, it was almost as good asgetting married.

you had the fun of homemaking without thebother of a husband. all brought something with them to adorn ormake comfortable the little house. pris and phil and stella had knick-knacksand pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to hang according to taste, inreckless disregard of miss patty's new paper. "we'll putty the holes up when we leave,dear--she'll never know," they said to protesting anne. diana had given anne a pine needle cushionand miss ada had given both her and priscilla a fearfully and wonderfullyembroidered one.

marilla had sent a big box of preserves,and darkly hinted at a hamper for thanksgiving, and mrs. lynde gave anne apatchwork quilt and loaned her five more. "you take them," she said authoritatively. "they might as well be in use as packedaway in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw." no moths would ever have ventured nearthose quilts, for they reeked of mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hungin the orchard of patty's place a full fortnight before they could be enduredindoors. verily, aristocratic spofford avenue hadrarely beheld such a display.

the gruff old millionaire who lived "nextdoor" came over and wanted to buy the gorgeous red and yellow "tulip-pattern" onewhich mrs. rachel had given anne. he said his mother used to make quilts likethat, and by jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. anne would not sell it, much to hisdisappointment, but she wrote all about it to mrs. lynde. that highly-gratified lady sent word backthat she had one just like it to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all,and insisted on having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionablewife.

mrs. lynde's quilts served a very usefulpurpose that winter. patty's place for all its many virtues, hadits faults also. it was really a rather cold house; and whenthe frosty nights came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under mrs. lynde'squilts, and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted unto her forrighteousness. anne had the blue room she had coveted atsight. priscilla and stella had the large one. phil was blissfully content with the littleone over the kitchen; and aunt jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room.

rusty at first slept on the doorstep. anne, walking home from redmond a few daysafter her return, became aware that the people that she met surveyed her with acovert, indulgent smile. anne wondered uneasily what was the matterwith her. was her hat crooked?was her belt loose? craning her head to investigate, anne, forthe first time, saw rusty. trotting along behind her, close to herheels, was quite the most forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. the animal was well past kitten-hood, lank,thin, disreputable looking.

pieces of both ears were lacking, one eyewas temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen. as for color, if a once black cat had beenwell and thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif's thin,draggled, unsightly fur. anne "shooed," but the cat would not"shoo." as long as she stood he sat back on hishaunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good eye; when she resumed herwalk he followed. anne resigned herself to his company untilshe reached the gate of patty's place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondlysupposing she had seen the last of him.

but when, fifteen minutes later, philopened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on the step. more, he promptly darted in and sprang uponanne's lap with a half-pleading, half- triumphant "miaow.""anne," said stella severely, "do you own that animal?" "no, i do not," protested disgusted anne."the creature followed me home from somewhere.i couldn't get rid of him. ugh, get down. i like decent cats reasonably well; but idon't like beasties of your complexion."

pussy, however, refused to get down.he coolly curled up in anne's lap and began to purr. "he has evidently adopted you," laughedpriscilla. "i won't be adopted," said anne stubbornly."the poor creature is starving," said phil pityingly. "why, his bones are almost coming throughhis skin." "well, i'll give him a square meal and thenhe must return to whence he came," said anne resolutely. the cat was fed and put out.in the morning he was still on the

doorstep.on the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the door was opened. no coolness of welcome had the least effecton him; of nobody save anne did he take the least notice. out of compassion the girls fed him; butwhen a week had passed they decided that something must be done.the cat's appearance had improved. his eye and cheek had resumed their normalappearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had been seen washing his face."but for all that we can't keep him," said stella.

"aunt jimsie is coming next week and shewill bring the sarah-cat with her. we can't keep two cats; and if we did thisrusty coat would fight all the time with the sarah-cat. he's a fighter by nature.he had a pitched battle last evening with the tobacco-king's cat and routed him,horse, foot and artillery." "we must get rid of him," agreed anne,looking darkly at the subject of their discussion, who was purring on the hearthrug with an air of lamb-like meekness. "but the question is--how? how can four unprotected females get rid ofa cat who won't be got rid of?"

"we must chloroform him," said philbriskly. "that is the most humane way." "who of us knows anything aboutchloroforming a cat?" demanded anne gloomily."i do, honey. it's one of my few--sadly few--usefulaccomplishments. i've disposed of several at home.you take the cat in the morning and give him a good breakfast. then you take an old burlap bag--there'sone in the back porch--put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box.

then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform,uncork it, and slip it under the edge of the box.put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it till evening. the cat will be dead, curled up peacefullyas if he were asleep. no pain--no struggle.""it sounds easy," said anne dubiously. "it is easy. just leave it to me.i'll see to it," said phil reassuringly. accordingly the chloroform was procured,and the next morning rusty was lured to his doom.

he ate his breakfast, licked his chops, andclimbed into anne's lap. anne's heart misgave her.this poor creature loved her--trusted her. how could she be a party to thisdestruction? "here, take him," she said hastily to phil."i feel like a murderess." "he won't suffer, you know," comfortedphil, but anne had fled. the fatal deed was done in the back porch.nobody went near it that day. but at dusk phil declared that rusty mustbe buried. "pris and stella must dig his grave in theorchard," declared phil, "and anne must come with me to lift the box off.

that's the part i always hate."the two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch.phil gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. suddenly, faint but distinct, sounded anunmistakable mew under the box. "he--he isn't dead," gasped anne, sittingblankly down on the kitchen doorstep. "he must be," said phil incredulously. another tiny mew proved that he wasn't.the two girls stared at each other. "what will we do?" questioned anne."why in the world don't you come?" demanded stella, appearing in the doorway.

"we've got the grave ready.'what silent still and silent all?'" she quoted teasingly. "'oh, no, the voices of the dead sound likethe distant torrent's fall,'" promptly counter-quoted anne, pointing solemnly tothe box. a burst of laughter broke the tension. "we must leave him here till morning," saidphil, replacing the stone. "he hasn't mewed for five minutes.perhaps the mews we heard were his dying groan. or perhaps we merely imagined them, underthe strain of our guilty consciences."

but, when the box was lifted in themorning, rusty bounded at one gay leap to anne's shoulder where he began to lick herface affectionately. never was there a cat more decidedly alive. "here's a knot hole in the box," groanedphil. "i never saw it.that's why he didn't die. now, we've got to do it all over again." "no, we haven't," declared anne suddenly."rusty isn't going to be killed again. he's my cat--and you've just got to makethe best of it." "oh, well, if you'll settle with auntjimsie and the sarah-cat," said stella,

with the air of one washing her hands ofthe whole affair. from that time rusty was one of the family. he slept o'nights on the scrubbing cushionin the back porch and lived on the fat of the land.by the time aunt jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably respectable. but, like kipling's cat, he "walked byhimself." his paw was against every cat, and everycat's paw against him. one by one he vanquished the aristocraticfelines of spofford avenue. as for human beings, he loved anne and annealone.

nobody else even dared stroke him. an angry spit and something that soundedmuch like very improper language greeted any one who did."the airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable," declared stella. "him was a nice old pussens, him was,"vowed anne, cuddling her pet defiantly. "well, i don't know how he and the sarah-cat will ever make out to live together," said stella pesimistically. "cat-fights in the orchard o'nights are badenough. but cat-fights here in the livingroom areunthinkable."

in due time aunt jamesina arrived. anne and priscilla and phil had awaited heradvent rather dubiously; but when aunt jamesina was enthroned in the rocking chairbefore the open fire they figuratively bowed down and worshipped her. aunt jamesina was a tiny old woman with alittle, softly-triangular face, and large, soft blue eyes that were alight withunquenchable youth, and as full of hopes as a girl's. she had pink cheeks and snow-white hairwhich she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears.

"it's a very old-fashioned way," she said,knitting industriously at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud."but i am old-fashioned. my clothes are, and it stands to reason myopinions are, too. i don't say they're any the better of that,mind you. in fact, i daresay they're a good deal theworse. but they've worn nice and easy.new shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more comfortable. i'm old enough to indulge myself in thematter of shoes and opinions. i mean to take it real easy here.

i know you expect me to look after you andkeep you proper, but i'm not going to do it.you're old enough to know how to behave if you're ever going to be. so, as far as i am concerned," concludedaunt jamesina, with a twinkle in her young eyes, "you can all go to destruction inyour own way." "oh, will somebody separate those cats?"pleaded stella, shudderingly. aunt jamesina had brought with her not onlythe sarah-cat but joseph. joseph, she explained, had belonged to adear friend of hers who had gone to live in vancouver."she couldn't take joseph with her so she

begged me to take him. i really couldn't refuse.he's a beautiful cat--that is, his disposition is beautiful.she called him joseph because his coat is of many colors." it certainly was.joseph, as the disgusted stella said, looked like a walking rag-bag.it was impossible to say what his ground color was. his legs were white with black spots onthem. his back was gray with a huge patch ofyellow on one side and a black patch on the

other. his tail was yellow with a gray tip.one ear was black and one yellow. a black patch over one eye gave him afearfully rakish look. in reality he was meek and inoffensive, ofa sociable disposition. in one respect, if in no other, joseph waslike a lily of the field. he toiled not neither did he spin or catchmice. yet solomon in all his glory slept not onsofter cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things. joseph and the sarah-cat arrived by expressin separate boxes.

after they had been released and fed,joseph selected the cushion and corner which appealed to him, and the sarah-catgravely sat herself down before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. she was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat,with an enormous dignity which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of herplebian origin. she had been given to aunt jamesina by herwasherwoman. "her name was sarah, so my husband alwayscalled puss the sarah-cat," explained aunt jamesina. "she is eight years old, and a remarkablemouser.

don't worry, stella.the sarah-cat never fights and joseph rarely." "they'll have to fight here in self-defense," said stella. at this juncture rusty arrived on thescene. he bounded joyously half way across theroom before he saw the intruders. then he stopped short; his tail expandeduntil it was as big as three tails. the fur on his back rose up in a defiantarch; rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, andlaunched himself at the sarah-cat. the stately animal had stopped washing herface and was looking at him curiously.

she met his onslaught with one contemptuoussweep of her capable paw. rusty went rolling helplessly over on therug; he picked himself up dazedly. what sort of a cat was this who had boxedhis ears? he looked dubiously at the sarah-cat. would he or would he not?the sarah-cat deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet operations.rusty decided that he would not. he never did. from that time on the sarah-cat ruled theroost. rusty never again interfered with her.but joseph rashly sat up and yawned.

rusty, burning to avenge his disgrace,swooped down upon him. joseph, pacific by nature, could fight uponoccasion and fight well. the result was a series of drawn battles. every day rusty and joseph fought at sight.anne took rusty's part and detested joseph. stella was in despair.but aunt jamesina only laughed. "let them fight it out," she saidtolerantly. "they'll make friends after a bit.joseph needs some exercise--he was getting too fat. and rusty has to learn he isn't the onlycat in the world."

eventually joseph and rusty accepted thesituation and from sworn enemies became sworn friends. they slept on the same cushion with theirpaws about each other, and gravely washed each other's faces."we've all got used to each other," said phil. "and i've learned how to wash dishes andsweep a floor." "but you needn't try to make us believe youcan chloroform a cat," laughed anne. "it was all the fault of the knothole,"protested phil. "it was a good thing the knothole wasthere," said aunt jamesina rather severely.

"kittens have to be drowned, i admit, orthe world would be overrun. but no decent, grown-up cat should be doneto death--unless he sucks eggs." "you wouldn't have thought rusty verydecent if you'd seen him when he came here," said stella."he positively looked like the old nick." "i don't believe old nick can be so very,ugly" said aunt jamesina reflectively. "he wouldn't do so much harm if he was.i always think of him as a rather handsome gentleman." chapter xviia letter from davy "it's beginning to snow, girls," said phil,coming in one november evening, "and there

are the loveliest little stars and crossesall over the garden walk. i never noticed before what exquisitethings snowflakes really are. one has time to notice things like that inthe simple life. bless you all for permitting me to live it. it's really delightful to feel worriedbecause butter has gone up five cents a pound.""has it?" demanded stella, who kept the household accounts. "it has--and here's your butter.i'm getting quite expert at marketing. it's better fun than flirting," concludedphil gravely.

"everything is going up scandalously,"sighed stella. "never mind.thank goodness air and salvation are still free," said aunt jamesina. "and so is laughter," added anne."there's no tax on it yet and that is well, because you're all going to laughpresently. i'm going to read you davy's letter. his spelling has improved immensely thispast year, though he is not strong on apostrophes, and he certainly possesses thegift of writing an interesting letter. listen and laugh, before we settle down tothe evening's study-grind."

"dear anne," ran davy's letter, "i take mypen to tell you that we are all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. it's snowing some today and marilla saysthe old woman in the sky is shaking her feather beds.is the old woman in the sky god's wife, anne? i want to know."mrs. lynde has been real sick but she is better now.she fell down the cellar stairs last week. when she fell she grabbed hold of the shelfwith all the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it gave way and went down with her andmade a splendid crash.

marilla thought it was an earthquake atfirst. "one of the stewpans was all dinged up andmrs. lynde straned her ribs. the doctor came and gave her medicine torub on her ribs but she didn't under stand him and took it all inside instead. the doctor said it was a wonder it didentkill her but it dident and it cured her ribs and mrs. lynde says doctors dont knowmuch anyhow. but we couldent fix up the stewpan. marilla had to throw it out.thanksgiving was last week. there was no school and we had a greatdinner.

i et mince pie and rost turkey and frutcake and donuts and cheese and jam and choklut cake.marilla said i'd die but i dident. dora had earake after it, only it wasent inher ears it was in her stummick. i dident have earake anywhere."our new teacher is a man. he does things for jokes. last week he made all us third-class boyswrite a composishun on what kind of a wife we'd like to have and the girls on whatkind of a husband. he laughed fit to kill when he read them. this was mine.i thought youd like to see it.

"'the kind of a wife i'd like to have. "'she must have good manners and get mymeals on time and do what i tell her and always be very polite to me.she must be fifteen yers old. she must be good to the poor and keep herhouse tidy and be good tempered and go to church regularly.she must be very handsome and have curly hair. if i get a wife that is just what i likeill be an awful good husband to her. i think a woman ought to be awful good toher husband. some poor women haven't any husbands.

"'the end.'""i was at mrs. isaac wrights funeral at white sands last week.the husband of the corpse felt real sorry. mrs. lynde says mrs. wrights grandfatherstole a sheep but marilla says we mustent speak ill of the dead.why mustent we, anne? it's pretty safe, ain't it?"mrs. lynde was awful mad the other day because i asked her if she was alive innoah's time. i dident mean to hurt her feelings. i just wanted to know.was she, anne? "mr. harrison wanted to get rid of his dog.

so he hunged him once but he come to lifeand scooted for the barn while mr. harrison was digging the grave, so he hunged himagain and he stayed dead that time. mr. harrison has a new man working for him. he's awful okward.mr. harrison says he is left handed in both his feet.mr. barry's hired man is lazy. mrs. barry says that but mr. barry says heaint lazy exactly only he thinks it easier to pray for things than to work for them."mrs. harmon andrews prize pig that she talked so much of died in a fit. mrs. lynde says it was a judgment on herfor pride.

but i think it was hard on the pig.milty boulter has been sick. the doctor gave him medicine and it tastedhorrid. i offered to take it for him for a quarterbut the boulters are so mean. milty says he'd rather take it himself andsave his money. i asked mrs. boulter how a person would goabout catching a man and she got awful mad and said she dident know, shed never chasedmen. "the a.v.i.s. is going to paint the hallagain. they're tired of having it blue."the new minister was here to tea last night.

he took three pieces of pie.if i did that mrs. lynde would call me piggy. and he et fast and took big bites andmarilla is always telling me not to do that.why can ministers do what boys can't? "i haven't any more news.here are six kisses. xxxxxx. dora sends one.heres hers. x. "your loving friend david keith" "p.s. anne, who was the devils father?i want to know." chapter xviiimiss josepine remembers the anne-girl

when christmas holidays came the girls ofpatty's place scattered to their respective homes, but aunt jamesina elected to staywhere she was. "i couldn't go to any of the places i'vebeen invited and take those three cats," she said. "and i'm not going to leave the poorcreatures here alone for nearly three weeks. if we had any decent neighbors who wouldfeed them i might, but there's nothing except millionaires on this street.so i'll stay here and keep patty's place warm for you."

anne went home with the usual joyousanticipations--which were not wholly fulfilled. she found avonlea in the grip of such anearly, cold, and stormy winter as even the "oldest inhabitant" could not recall.green gables was literally hemmed in by huge drifts. almost every day of that ill-starredvacation it stormed fiercely; and even on fine days it drifted unceasingly.no sooner were the roads broken than they filled in again. it was almost impossible to stir out.

the a.v.i.s. tried, on three evenings, tohave a party in honor of the college students, and on each evening the storm wasso wild that nobody could go, so they gave up the attempt in despair. anne, despite her love of and loyalty togreen gables, could not help thinking longingly of patty's place, its cosy openfire, aunt jamesina's mirthful eyes, the three cats, the merry chatter of the girls, the pleasantness of friday evenings whencollege friends dropped in to talk of grave and gay. anne was lonely; diana, during the whole ofthe holidays, was imprisoned at home with a

bad attack of bronchitis. she could not come to green gables and itwas rarely anne could get to orchard slope, for the old way through the haunted woodwas impassable with drifts, and the long way over the frozen lake of shining waterswas almost as bad. ruby gillis was sleeping in the white-heaped graveyard; jane andrews was teaching a school on western prairies. gilbert, to be sure, was still faithful,and waded up to green gables every possible evening.but gilbert's visits were not what they once were.

anne almost dreaded them. it was very disconcerting to look up in themidst of a sudden silence and find gilbert's hazel eyes fixed upon her with aquite unmistakable expression in their grave depths; and it was still more disconcerting to find herself blushinghotly and uncomfortably under his gaze, just as if--just as if--well, it was veryembarrassing. anne wished herself back at patty's place,where there was always somebody else about to take the edge off a delicate situation. at green gables marilla went promptly tomrs. lynde's domain when gilbert came and

insisted on taking the twins with her.the significance of this was unmistakable and anne was in a helpless fury over it. davy, however, was perfectly happy.he reveled in getting out in the morning and shoveling out the paths to the well andhenhouse. he gloried in the christmas-tide delicacieswhich marilla and mrs. lynde vied with each other in preparing for anne, and he wasreading an enthralling tale, in a school library book, of a wonderful hero who seemed blessed with a miraculous facultyfor getting into scrapes from which he was usually delivered by an earthquake or avolcanic explosion, which blew him high and

dry out of his troubles, landed him in a fortune, and closed the story with propereclat. "i tell you it's a bully story, anne," hesaid ecstatically. "i'd ever so much rather read it than thebible." "would you?" smiled anne.davy peered curiously at her. "you don't seem a bit shocked, anne. mrs. lynde was awful shocked when i said itto her." "no, i'm not shocked, davy. i think it's quite natural that a nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure

story than the bible. but when you are older i hope and thinkthat you will realize what a wonderful book the bible is.""oh, i think some parts of it are fine," conceded davy. "that story about joseph now--it's bully.but if i'd been joseph i wouldn't have forgive the brothers.no, siree, anne. i'd have cut all their heads off. mrs. lynde was awful mad when i said thatand shut the bible up and said she'd never read me any more of it if i talked likethat.

so i don't talk now when she reads itsunday afternoons; i just think things and say them to milty boulter next day inschool. i told milty the story about elisha and thebears and it scared him so he's never made fun of mr. harrison's bald head once.are there any bears on p.e. island, anne? "not nowadays," said anne, absently, as thewind blew a scud of snow against the window."oh, dear, will it ever stop storming." "god knows," said davy airily, preparing toresume his reading. anne was shocked this time."davy!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "mrs. lynde says that," protested davy.

"one night last week marilla said 'willludovic speed and theodora dix ever get married?" and mrs. lynde said, "'godknows'--just like that." "well, it wasn't right for her to say it,"said anne, promptly deciding upon which horn of this dilemma to empale herself."it isn't right for anybody to take that name in vain or speak it lightly, davy. don't ever do it again.""not if i say it slow and solemn, like the minister?" queried davy gravely."no, not even then." "well, i won't. ludovic speed and theodora dix live inmiddle grafton and mrs. rachel says he has

been courting her for a hundred years.won't they soon be too old to get married, i hope gilbert won't court you that long.when are you going to be married, anne? mrs. lynde says it's a sure thing.""mrs. lynde is a--" began anne hotly; then stopped. "awful old gossip," completed davy calmly."that's what every one calls her. but is it a sure thing, anne?i want to know." "you're a very silly little boy, davy,"said anne, stalking haughtily out of the room. the kitchen was deserted and she sat downby the window in the fast falling wintry

twilight.the sun had set and the wind had died down. a pale chilly moon looked out behind a bankof purple clouds in the west. the sky faded out, but the strip of yellowalong the western horizon grew brighter and fiercer, as if all the stray gleams oflight were concentrating in one spot; the distant hills, rimmed with priest-like firs, stood out in dark distinctnessagainst it. anne looked across the still, white fields,cold and lifeless in the harsh light of that grim sunset, and sighed. she was very lonely; and she was sad atheart; for she was wondering if she would

be able to return to redmond next year.it did not seem likely. the only scholarship possible in thesophomore year was a very small affair. she would not take marilla's money; andthere seemed little prospect of being able to earn enough in the summer vacation. "i suppose i'll just have to drop out nextyear," she thought drearily, "and teach a district school again until i earn enoughto finish my course. and by that time all my old class will havegraduated and patty's place will be out of the question.but there! i'm not going to be a coward.

i'm thankful i can earn my way through ifnecessary." "here's mr. harrison wading up the lane,"announced davy, running out. "i hope he's brought the mail. it's three days since we got it.i want to see what them pesky grits are doing.i'm a conservative, anne. and i tell you, you have to keep your eyeon them grits." mr. harrison had brought the mail, andmerry letters from stella and priscilla and phil soon dissipated anne's blues. aunt jamesina, too, had written, sayingthat she was keeping the hearth-fire

alight, and that the cats were all well,and the house plants doing fine. "the weather has been real cold," shewrote, "so i let the cats sleep in the house--rusty and joseph on the sofa in theliving-room, and the sarah-cat on the foot of my bed. it's real company to hear her purring wheni wake up in the night and think of my poor daughter in the foreign field. if it was anywhere but in india i wouldn'tworry, but they say the snakes out there are terrible.it takes all the sarah-cats's purring to drive away the thought of those snakes.

i have enough faith for everything but thesnakes. i can't think why providence ever madethem. sometimes i don't think he did. i'm inclined to believe the old harry had ahand in making them." anne had left a thin, typewrittencommunication till the last, thinking it unimportant. when she had read it she sat very still,with tears in her eyes. "what is the matter, anne?" asked marilla."miss josephine barry is dead," said anne, in a low tone.

"so she has gone at last," said marilla."well, she has been sick for over a year, and the barrys have been expecting to hearof her death any time. it is well she is at rest for she hassuffered dreadfully, anne. she was always kind to you.""she has been kind to the last, marilla. this letter is from her lawyer. she has left me a thousand dollars in herwill." "gracious, ain't that an awful lot ofmoney," exclaimed davy. "she's the woman you and diana lit on whenyou jumped into the spare room bed, ain't she?diana told me that story.

is that why she left you so much?" "hush, davy," said anne gently.she slipped away to the porch gable with a full heart, leaving marilla and mrs. lyndeto talk over the news to their hearts' content. "do you s'pose anne will ever get marriednow?" speculated davy anxiously. "when dorcas sloane got married last summershe said if she'd had enough money to live on she'd never have been bothered with aman, but even a widower with eight children was better'n living with a sister-in-law." "davy keith, do hold your tongue," saidmrs. rachel severely.

"the way you talk is scandalous for a smallboy, that's what." chapter xixan interlude "to think that this is my twentiethbirthday, and that i've left my teens behind me forever," said anne, who wascurled up on the hearth-rug with rusty in her lap, to aunt jamesina who was readingin her pet chair. they were alone in the living room. stella and priscilla had gone to acommittee meeting and phil was upstairs adorning herself for a party."i suppose you feel kind of, sorry" said aunt jamesina.

"the teens are such a nice part of life.i'm glad i've never gone out of them myself."anne laughed. "you never will, aunty. you'll be eighteen when you should be ahundred. yes, i'm sorry, and a little dissatisfiedas well. miss stacy told me long ago that by thetime i was twenty my character would be formed, for good or evil.i don't feel that it's what it should be. it's full of flaws." "so's everybody's," said aunt jamesinacheerfully.

"mine's cracked in a hundred places. your miss stacy likely meant that when youare twenty your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or'tother, and would go on developing in that line. don't worry over it, anne.do your duty by god and your neighbor and yourself, and have a good time.that's my philosophy and it's always worked pretty well. where's phil off to tonight?""she's going to a dance, and she's got the sweetest dress for it--creamy yellow silkand cobwebby lace.

it just suits those brown tints of hers." "there's magic in the words 'silk' and'lace,' isn't there?" said aunt jamesina. "the very sound of them makes me feel likeskipping off to a dance. and yellow silk. it makes one think of a dress of sunshine.i always wanted a yellow silk dress, but first my mother and then my husbandwouldn't hear of it. the very first thing i'm going to do when iget to heaven is to get a yellow silk dress." amid anne's peal of laughter phil camedownstairs, trailing clouds of glory, and

surveyed herself in the long oval mirror onthe wall. "a flattering looking glass is a promoterof amiability," she said. "the one in my room does certainly make megreen. do i look pretty nice, anne?" "do you really know how pretty you are,phil?" asked anne, in honest admiration. "of course i do.what are looking glasses and men for? that wasn't what i meant. are all my ends tucked in?is my skirt straight? and would this rose look better lower down?i'm afraid it's too high--it will make me

look lop-sided. but i hate things tickling my ears.""everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is lovely.""anne, there's one thing in particular i like about you--you're so ungrudging. there isn't a particle of envy in you.""why should she be envious?" demanded aunt jamesina."she's not quite as goodlooking as you, maybe, but she's got a far handsomer nose." "i know it," conceded phil."my nose always has been a great comfort to me," confessed anne."and i love the way your hair grows on your

forehead, anne. and that one wee curl, always looking as ifit were going to drop, but never dropping, is delicious.but as for noses, mine is a dreadful worry to me. i know by the time i'm forty it will bebyrney. what do you think i'll look like when i'mforty, anne?" "like an old, matronly, married woman,"teased anne. "i won't," said phil, sitting downcomfortably to wait for her escort. "joseph, you calico beastie, don't you darejump on my lap.

i won't go to a dance all over cat hairs.no, anne, i won't look matronly. but no doubt i'll be married." "to alec or alonzo?" asked anne."to one of them, i suppose," sighed phil, "if i can ever decide which.""it shouldn't be hard to decide," scolded "i was born a see-saw aunty, and nothingcan ever prevent me from teetering." "you ought to be more levelheaded,philippa." "it's best to be levelheaded, of course,"agreed philippa, "but you miss lots of fun. as for alec and alonzo, if you knew themyou'd understand why it's difficult to choose between them.

they're equally nice.""then take somebody who is nicer" suggested aunt jamesina."there's that senior who is so devoted to you--will leslie. he has such nice, large, mild eyes.""they're a little bit too large and too mild--like a cow's," said phil cruelly."what do you say about george parker?" "there's nothing to say about him exceptthat he always looks as if he had just been starched and ironed.""marr holworthy then. you can't find a fault with him." "no, he would do if he wasn't poor.i must marry a rich man, aunt jamesina.

that--and good looks--is an indispensablequalification. i'd marry gilbert blythe if he were rich." "oh, would you?" said anne, ratherviciously. "we don't like that idea a little bit,although we don't want gilbert ourselves, oh, no," mocked phil. "but don't let's talk of disagreeablesubjects. i'll have to marry sometime, i suppose, buti shall put off the evil day as long as i can." "you mustn't marry anybody you don't love,phil, when all's said and done," said aunt

"'oh, hearts that loved in the good old wayhave been out o' the fashion this many a day.'" trilled phil mockingly."there's the carriage. i fly--bi-bi, you two old-fashioneddarlings." when phil had gone aunt jamesina lookedsolemnly at anne. "that girl is pretty and sweet andgoodhearted, but do you think she is quite right in her mind, by spells, anne?" "oh, i don't think there's anything thematter with phil's mind," said anne, hiding a smile."it's just her way of talking." aunt jamesina shook her head.

"well, i hope so, anne.i do hope so, because i love her. but i can't understand her--she beats me.she isn't like any of the girls i ever knew, or any of the girls i was myself." "how many girls were you, aunt jimsie?""about half a dozen, my dear." chapter xxgilbert speaks "this has been a dull, prosy day," yawnedphil, stretching herself idly on the sofa, having previously dispossessed twoexceedingly indignant cats. anne looked up from pickwick papers. now that spring examinations were over shewas treating herself to dickens.

"it has been a prosy day for us," she saidthoughtfully, "but to some people it has been a wonderful day. some one has been rapturously happy in it.perhaps a great deed has been done somewhere today--or a great poem written--or a great man born. and some heart has been broken, phil." "why did you spoil your pretty thought bytagging that last sentence on, honey?" grumbled phil."i don't like to think of broken hearts--or anything unpleasant." "do you think you'll be able to shirkunpleasant things all your life, phil?"

"dear me, no.am i not up against them now? you don't call alec and alonzo pleasantthings, do you, when they simply plague my life out?""you never take anything seriously, phil." "why should i? there are enough folks who do.the world needs people like me, anne, just to amuse it. it would be a terrible place if everybodywere intellectual and serious and in deep, deadly earnest.my mission is, as josiah allen says, 'to charm and allure.'

confess now.hasn't life at patty's place been really much brighter and pleasanter this pastwinter because i've been here to leaven you?" "yes, it has," owned anne."and you all love me--even aunt jamesina, who thinks i'm stark mad.so why should i try to be different? oh, dear, i'm so sleepy. i was awake until one last night, reading aharrowing ghost story. i read it in bed, and after i had finishedit do you suppose i could get out of bed to put the light out?

no! and if stella had not fortunately comein late that lamp would have burned good and bright till morning. when i heard stella i called her in,explained my predicament, and got her to put out the light. if i had got out myself to do it i knewsomething would grab me by the feet when i was getting in again.by the way, anne, has aunt jamesina decided what to do this summer?" "yes, she's going to stay here.i know she's doing it for the sake of those blessed cats, although she says it's toomuch trouble to open her own house, and she

hates visiting." "what are you reading?""pickwick." "that's a book that always makes mehungry," said phil. "there's so much good eating in it. the characters seem always to be revelingon ham and eggs and milk punch. i generally go on a cupboard rummage afterreading pickwick. the mere thought reminds me that i'mstarving. is there any tidbit in the pantry, queenanne?" "i made a lemon pie this morning.

you may have a piece of it."phil dashed out to the pantry and anne betook herself to the orchard in companywith rusty. it was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night inearly spring. the snow was not quite all gone from thepark; a little dingy bank of it yet lay under the pines of the harbor road,screened from the influence of april suns. it kept the harbor road muddy, and chilledthe evening air. but grass was growing green in shelteredspots and gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. he came up from the park, his hands full ofit.

anne was sitting on the big gray boulder inthe orchard looking at the poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale redsunset with the very perfection of grace. she was building a castle in air--awondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in araby'sperfume, and where she reigned queen and chatelaine. she frowned as she saw gilbert comingthrough the orchard. of late she had managed not to be leftalone with gilbert. but he had caught her fairly now; and evenrusty had deserted her. gilbert sat down beside her on the boulderand held out his mayflowers.

"don't these remind you of home and our oldschoolday picnics, anne?" anne took them and buried her face in them."i'm in mr. silas sloane's barrens this very minute," she said rapturously. "i suppose you will be there in reality ina few days?" "no, not for a fortnight.i'm going to visit with phil in bolingbroke before i go home. you'll be in avonlea before i will.""no, i shall not be in avonlea at all this summer, anne.i've been offered a job in the daily news office and i'm going to take it."

"oh," said anne vaguely.she wondered what a whole avonlea summer would be like without gilbert.somehow she did not like the prospect. "well," she concluded flatly, "it is a goodthing for you, of course." "yes, i've been hoping i would get it.it will help me out next year." "you mustn't work too hard," said anne,without any very clear idea of what she was saying.she wished desperately that phil would come out. "you've studied very constantly thiswinter. isn't this a delightful evening?

do you know, i found a cluster of whiteviolets under that old twisted tree over there today?i felt as if i had discovered a gold mine." "you are always discovering gold mines,"said gilbert--also absently. "let us go and see if we can find somemore," suggested anne eagerly. "i'll call phil and--" "never mind phil and the violets just now,anne," said gilbert quietly, taking her hand in a clasp from which she could notfree it. "there is something i want to say to you." "oh, don't say it," cried anne, pleadingly."don't--please, gilbert."

"i must.things can't go on like this any longer. anne, i love you. you know i do.i--i can't tell you how much. will you promise me that some day you'll bemy wife?" "i--i can't," said anne miserably. "oh, gilbert--you--you've spoiledeverything." "don't you care for me at all?"gilbert asked after a very dreadful pause, during which anne had not dared to look up. "not--not in that way.i do care a great deal for you as a friend.

but i don't love you, gilbert.""but can't you give me some hope that you will--yet?" "no, i can't," exclaimed anne desperately."i never, never can love you--in that way-- gilbert.you must never speak of this to me again." there was another pause--so long and sodreadful that anne was driven at last to look up.gilbert's face was white to the lips. and his eyes--but anne shuddered and lookedaway. there was nothing romantic about this.must proposals be either grotesque or-- horrible?

could she ever forget gilbert's face?"is there anybody else?" he asked at last in a low voice."no--no," said anne eagerly. "i don't care for any one like that--and ilike you better than anybody else in the world, gilbert.and we must--we must go on being friends, gilbert." gilbert gave a bitter little laugh."friends! your friendship can't satisfy me, anne.i want your love--and you tell me i can never have that." "i'm sorry.forgive me, gilbert," was all anne could

say. where, oh, where were all the gracious andgraceful speeches wherewith, in imagination, she had been wont to dismissrejected suitors? gilbert released her hand gently. "there isn't anything to forgive.there have been times when i thought you did care.i've deceived myself, that's all. goodbye, anne." anne got herself to her room, sat down onher window seat behind the pines, and cried bitterly.she felt as if something incalculably

precious had gone out of her life. it was gilbert's friendship, of course.oh, why must she lose it after this fashion?"what is the matter, honey?" asked phil, coming in through the moonlit gloom. anne did not answer.at that moment she wished phil were a thousand miles away."i suppose you've gone and refused gilbert blythe. you are an idiot, anne shirley!""do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man i don't love?" said anne coldly,goaded to reply.

"you don't know love when you see it. you've tricked something out with yourimagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that.there, that's the first sensible thing i've ever said in my life. i wonder how i managed it?""phil," pleaded anne, "please go away and leave me alone for a little while.my world has tumbled into pieces. i want to reconstruct it." "without any gilbert in it?" said phil,going. a world without any gilbert in it!anne repeated the words drearily.

would it not be a very lonely, forlornplace? well, it was all gilbert's fault.he had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. she must just learn to live without it. chapter xxiroses of yesterday the fortnight anne spent in bolingbroke wasa very pleasant one, with a little under current of vague pain and dissatisfactionrunning through it whenever she thought about gilbert. there was not, however, much time to thinkabout him. "mount holly," the beautiful old gordonhomestead, was a very gay place, overrun by

phil's friends of both sexes. there was quite a bewildering succession ofdrives, dances, picnics and boating parties, all expressively lumped togetherby phil under the head of "jamborees"; alec and alonzo were so constantly on hand that anne wondered if they ever did anything butdance attendance on that will-o'-the-wisp of a phil. they were both nice, manly fellows, butanne would not be drawn into any opinion as to which was the nicer. "and i depended so on you to help me makeup my mind which of them i should promise

to marry," mourned phil."you must do that for yourself. you are quite expert at making up your mindas to whom other people should marry," retorted anne, rather caustically."oh, that's a very different thing," said phil, truly. but the sweetest incident of anne's sojournin bolingbroke was the visit to her birthplace--the little shabby yellow housein an out-of-the-way street she had so often dreamed about. she looked at it with delighted eyes, asshe and phil turned in at the gate. "it's almost exactly as i've pictured it,"she said.

"there is no honeysuckle over the windows,but there is a lilac tree by the gate, and- -yes, there are the muslin curtains in thewindows. how glad i am it is still painted yellow." a very tall, very thin woman opened thedoor. "yes, the shirleys lived here twenty yearsago," she said, in answer to anne's question. "they had it rented.i remember 'em. they both died of fever at onct.it was turrible sad. they left a baby.

i guess it's dead long ago.it was a sickly thing. old thomas and his wife took it--as if theyhadn't enough of their own." "it didn't die," said anne, smiling. "i was that baby.""you don't say so! why, you have grown," exclaimed the woman,as if she were much surprised that anne was not still a baby. "come to look at you, i see theresemblance. you're complected like your pa.he had red hair. but you favor your ma in your eyes andmouth.

she was a nice little thing.my darter went to school to her and was nigh crazy about her. they was buried in the one grave and theschool board put up a tombstone to them as a reward for faithful service.will you come in?" "will you let me go all over the house?"asked anne eagerly. "laws, yes, you can if you like.'twon't take you long--there ain't much of it. i keep at my man to build a new kitchen,but he ain't one of your hustlers. the parlor's in there and there's two roomsupstairs.

just prowl about yourselves. i've got to see to the baby.the east room was the one you were born in. i remember your ma saying she loved to seethe sunrise; and i mind hearing that you was born just as the sun was rising and itslight on your face was the first thing your ma saw." anne went up the narrow stairs and intothat little east room with a full heart. it was as a shrine to her. here her mother had dreamed the exquisite,happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; here that red sunrise light had fallen overthem both in the sacred hour of birth; here

her mother had died. anne looked about her reverently, her eyeswith tears. it was for her one of the jeweled hours oflife that gleam out radiantly forever in memory. "just to think of it--mother was youngerthan i am now when i was born," she whispered.when anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall. she held out a dusty little packet tiedwith faded blue ribbon. "here's a bundle of old letters i found inthat closet upstairs when i came here," she

said. "i dunno what they are--i never bothered tolook in 'em, but the address on the top one is 'miss bertha willis,' and that was yourma's maiden name. you can take 'em if you'd keer to have'em." "oh, thank you--thank you," cried anne,clasping the packet rapturously. "that was all that was in the house," saidher hostess. "the furniture was all sold to pay thedoctor bills, and mrs. thomas got your ma's clothes and little things. i reckon they didn't last long among thatdrove of thomas youngsters.

they was destructive young animals, as imind 'em." "i haven't one thing that belonged to mymother," said anne, chokily. "i--i can never thank you enough for theseletters." "you're quite welcome. laws, but your eyes is like your ma's.she could just about talk with hers. your father was sorter homely but awfulnice. i mind hearing folks say when they wasmarried that there never was two people more in love with each other--porecreatures, they didn't live much longer; but they was awful happy while they was

alive, and i s'pose that counts for a gooddeal." anne longed to get home to read herprecious letters; but she made one little pilgrimage first. she went alone to the green corner of the"old" bolingbroke cemetery where her father and mother were buried, and left on theirgrave the white flowers she carried. then she hastened back to mount holly, shutherself up in her room, and read the letters.some were written by her father, some by her mother. there were not many--only a dozen in all--for walter and bertha shirley had not been

often separated during their courtship.the letters were yellow and faded and dim, blurred with the touch of passing years. no profound words of wisdom were traced onthe stained and wrinkled pages, but only lines of love and trust. the sweetness of forgotten things clung tothem--the far-off, fond imaginings of those long-dead lovers. bertha shirley had possessed the gift ofwriting letters which embodied the charming personality of the writer in words andthoughts that retained their beauty and fragrance after the lapse of time.

the letters were tender, intimate, sacred.to anne, the sweetest of all was the one written after her birth to the father on abrief absence. it was full of a proud young mother'saccounts of "baby"--her cleverness, her brightness, her thousand sweetnesses. "i love her best when she is asleep andbetter still when she is awake," bertha shirley had written in the postscript.probably it was the last sentence she had ever penned. the end was very near for her."this has been the most beautiful day of my life," anne said to phil that night."i've found my father and mother.

those letters have made them real to me. i'm not an orphan any longer.i feel as if i had opened a book and found roses of yesterday, sweet and beloved,between its leaves." chapter xxiispring and anne return to green gables the firelight shadows were dancing over thekitchen walls at green gables, for the spring evening was chilly; through the openeast window drifted in the subtly sweet voices of the night. marilla was sitting by the fire--at least,in body. in spirit she was roaming olden ways, withfeet grown young.

of late marilla had thus spent many anhour, when she thought she should have been knitting for the twins."i suppose i'm growing old," she said. yet marilla had changed but little in thepast nine years, save to grow something thinner, and even more angular; there was alittle more gray in the hair that was still twisted up in the same hard knot, with two hairpins--were they the same hairpins?--still stuck through it. but her expression was very different; thesomething about the mouth which had hinted at a sense of humor had developedwonderfully; her eyes were gentler and milder, her smile more frequent and tender.

marilla was thinking of her whole pastlife, her cramped but not unhappy childhood, the jealously hidden dreams andthe blighted hopes of her girlhood, the long, gray, narrow, monotonous years ofdull middle life that followed. and the coming of anne--the vivid,imaginative, impetuous child with her heart of love, and her world of fancy, bringingwith her color and warmth and radiance, until the wilderness of existence hadblossomed like the rose. marilla felt that out of her sixty yearsshe had lived only the nine that had followed the advent of anne. and anne would be home tomorrow night.the kitchen door opened.

marilla looked up expecting to see mrs.lynde. anne stood before her, tall and starry-eyed, with her hands full of mayflowers and violets."anne shirley!" exclaimed marilla. for once in her life she was surprised outof her reserve; she caught her girl in her arms and crushed her and her flowersagainst her heart, kissing the bright hair and sweet face warmly. "i never looked for you till tomorrownight. how did you get from carmody?""walked, dearest of marillas. haven't i done it a score of times in thequeen's days?

the mailman is to bring my trunk tomorrow;i just got homesick all at once, and came a day earlier. and oh! i've had such a lovely walk in the maytwilight; i stopped by the barrens and picked these mayflowers; i came throughviolet-vale; it's just a big bowlful of violets now--the dear, sky-tinted things. smell them, marilla--drink them in."marilla sniffed obligingly, but she was more interested in anne than in drinkingviolets. "sit down, child.

you must be real tired.i'm going to get you some supper." "there's a darling moonrise behind thehills tonight, marilla, and oh, how the frogs sang me home from carmody! i do love the music of the frogs.it seems bound up with all my happiest recollections of old spring evenings.and it always reminds me of the night i came here first. do you remember it, marilla?""well, yes," said marilla with emphasis. "i'm not likely to forget it ever.""they used to sing so madly in the marsh and brook that year.

i would listen to them at my window in thedusk, and wonder how they could seem so glad and so sad at the same time.oh, but it's good to be home again! redmond was splendid and bolingbrokedelightful--but green gables is home." "gilbert isn't coming home this summer, ihear," said marilla. "no." something in anne's tone made marillaglance at her sharply, but anne was apparently absorbed in arranging herviolets in a bowl. "see, aren't they sweet?" she went onhurriedly. "the year is a book, isn't it, marilla?

spring's pages are written in mayflowersand violets, summer's in roses, autumn's in red maple leaves, and winter in holly andevergreen." "did gilbert do well in his examinations?"persisted marilla. "excellently well.he led his class. but where are the twins and mrs. lynde?" "rachel and dora are over at mr.harrison's. davy is down at boulters'.i think i hear him coming now." davy burst in, saw anne, stopped, and thenhurled himself upon her with a joyful yell. "oh, anne, ain't i glad to see you!say, anne, i've grown two inches since last

fall. mrs. lynde measured me with her tape today,and say, anne, see my front tooth. it's gone. mrs. lynde tied one end of a string to itand the other end to the door, and then shut the door.i sold it to milty for two cents. milty's collecting teeth." "what in the world does he want teeth for?"asked marilla. "to make a necklace for playing indianchief," explained davy, climbing upon anne's lap.

"he's got fifteen already, and everybody'selse's promised, so there's no use in the rest of us starting to collect, too.i tell you the boulters are great business people." "were you a good boy at mrs. boulter's?"asked marilla severely. "yes; but say, marilla, i'm tired of beinggood." "you'd get tired of being bad much sooner,davy-boy," said anne. "well, it'd be fun while it lasted,wouldn't it?" persisted davy. "i could be sorry for it afterwards,couldn't i?" "being sorry wouldn't do away with theconsequences of being bad, davy.

don't you remember the sunday last summerwhen you ran away from sunday school? you told me then that being bad wasn'tworth while. what were you and milty doing today?" "oh, we fished and chased the cat, andhunted for eggs, and yelled at the echo. there's a great echo in the bush behind theboulter barn. say, what is echo, anne; i want to know." "echo is a beautiful nymph, davy, livingfar away in the woods, and laughing at the world from among the hills.""what does she look like?" "her hair and eyes are dark, but her neckand arms are white as snow.

no mortal can ever see how fair she is. she is fleeter than a deer, and thatmocking voice of hers is all we can know of her.you can hear her calling at night; you can hear her laughing under the stars. but you can never see her.she flies afar if you follow her, and laughs at you always just over the nexthill." "is that true, anne? or is it a whopper?" demanded davy staring."davy," said anne despairingly, "haven't you sense enough to distinguish between afairytale and a falsehood?"

"then what is it that sasses back from theboulter bush? i want to know," insisted davy."when you are a little older, davy, i'll explain it all to you." the mention of age evidently gave a newturn to davy's thoughts for after a few moments of reflection, he whisperedsolemnly: "anne, i'm going to be married." "when?" asked anne with equal solemnity."oh, not until i'm grown-up, of course." "well, that's a relief, davy.who is the lady?" "stella fletcher; she's in my class atschool.

and say, anne, she's the prettiest girl youever saw. if i die before i grow up you'll keep aneye on her, won't you?" "davy keith, do stop talking suchnonsense," said marilla severely. "'tisn't nonsense," protested davy in aninjured tone. "she's my promised wife, and if i was todie she'd be my promised widow, wouldn't she? and she hasn't got a soul to look after herexcept her old grandmother." "come and have your supper, anne," saidmarilla, "and don't encourage that child in his absurd talk."

chapter xxiiipaul cannot find the rock people life was very pleasant in avonlea thatsummer, although anne, amid all her vacation joys, was haunted by a sense of"something gone which should be there." she would not admit, even in her inmostreflections, that this was caused by gilbert's absence. but when she had to walk home alone fromprayer meetings and a.v.i.s. pow-wows, while diana and fred, and many other gaycouples, loitered along the dusky, starlit country roads, there was a queer, lonely ache in her heart which she could notexplain away.

gilbert did not even write to her, as shethought he might have done. she knew he wrote to diana occasionally,but she would not inquire about him; and diana, supposing that anne heard from him,volunteered no information. gilbert's mother, who was a gay, frank,light-hearted lady, but not overburdened with tact, had a very embarrassing habit ofasking anne, always in a painfully distinct voice and always in the presence of a crowd, if she had heard from gilbertlately. poor anne could only blush horribly andmurmur, "not very lately," which was taken by all, mrs. blythe included, to be merelya maidenly evasion.

apart from this, anne enjoyed her summer. priscilla came for a merry visit in june;and, when she had gone, mr. and mrs. irving, paul and charlotta the fourth came"home" for july and august. echo lodge was the scene of gaieties oncemore, and the echoes over the river were kept busy mimicking the laughter that rangin the old garden behind the spruces. "miss lavendar" had not changed, except togrow even sweeter and prettier. paul adored her, and the companionshipbetween them was beautiful to see. "but i don't call her 'mother' just byitself," he explained to anne. "you see, that name belongs just to my ownlittle mother, and i can't give it to any

one else. you know, teacher.but i call her 'mother lavendar' and i love her next best to father.i--i even love her a little better than you, teacher." "which is just as it ought to be," answeredanne. paul was thirteen now and very tall for hisyears. his face and eyes were as beautiful asever, and his fancy was still like a prism, separating everything that fell upon itinto rainbows. he and anne had delightful rambles to woodand field and shore.

never were there two more thoroughly"kindred spirits." charlotta the fourth had blossomed out intoyoung ladyhood. she wore her hair now in an enormouspompador and had discarded the blue ribbon bows of auld lang syne, but her face was asfreckled, her nose as snubbed, and her mouth and smiles as wide as ever. "you don't think i talk with a yankeeaccent, do you, miss shirley, ma'am?" she demanded anxiously."i don't notice it, charlotta." "i'm real glad of that. they said i did at home, but i thoughtlikely they just wanted to aggravate me.

i don't want no yankee accent.not that i've a word to say against the yankees, miss shirley, ma'am. they're real civilized.but give me old p.e. island every time." paul spent his first fortnight with hisgrandmother irving in avonlea. anne was there to meet him when he came,and found him wild with eagerness to get to the shore--nora and the golden lady and thetwin sailors would be there. he could hardly wait to eat his supper. could he not see nora's elfin face peeringaround the point, watching for him wistfully?but it was a very sober paul who came back

from the shore in the twilight. "didn't you find your rock people?" askedanne. paul shook his chestnut curls sorrowfully."the twin sailors and the golden lady never came at all," he said. "nora was there--but nora is not the same,teacher. she is changed.""oh, paul, it is you who are changed," said anne. "you have grown too old for the rockpeople. they like only children for playfellows.

i am afraid the twin sailors will neveragain come to you in the pearly, enchanted boat with the sail of moonshine; and thegolden lady will play no more for you on her golden harp. even nora will not meet you much longer.you must pay the penalty of growing-up, paul.you must leave fairyland behind you." "you two talk as much foolishness as everyou did," said old mrs. irving, half- indulgently, half-reprovingly."oh, no, we don't," said anne, shaking her head gravely. "we are getting very, very wise, and it issuch a pity.

we are never half so interesting when wehave learned that language is given us to enable us to conceal our thoughts." "but it isn't--it is given us to exchangeour thoughts," said mrs. irving seriously. she had never heard of tallyrand and didnot understand epigrams. anne spent a fortnight of halcyon days atecho lodge in the golden prime of august. while there she incidentally contrived tohurry ludovic speed in his leisurely courting of theodora dix, as related dulyin another chronicle of her history.(1) arnold sherman, an elderly friend of the irvings, was there at the same time, andadded not a little to the general

pleasantness of life.(1 chronicles of avonlea.) "what a nice play-time this has been," saidanne. "i feel like a giant refreshed. and it's only a fortnight more till i goback to kingsport, and redmond and patty's place.patty's place is the dearest spot, miss lavendar. i feel as if i had two homes--one at greengables and one at patty's place. but where has the summer gone?it doesn't seem a day since i came home that spring evening with the mayflowers.

when i was little i couldn't see from oneend of the summer to the other. it stretched before me like an unendingseason. now, ''tis a handbreadth, 'tis a tale.'" "anne, are you and gilbert blythe as goodfriends as you used to be?" asked miss lavendar quietly."i am just as much gilbert's friend as ever i was, miss lavendar." miss lavendar shook her head."i see something's gone wrong, anne. i'm going to be impertinent and ask what.have you quarrelled?" "no; it's only that gilbert wants more thanfriendship and i can't give him more."

"are you sure of that, anne?""perfectly sure." "i'm very, very sorry." "i wonder why everybody seems to think iought to marry gilbert blythe," said anne petulantly."because you were made and meant for each other, anne--that is why. you needn't toss that young head of yours.it's a fact."