Part 2 out of 6
Anne Says Her Prayers
When Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly:
"Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your
clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That
is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow it at all. As
soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly
and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for
little girls who aren't neat."
"I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't
think about my clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold
them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the
asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a
hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things."
"You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here,"
admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like.
Say your prayers now and get into bed."
"I never say any prayers," announced Anne.
Marilla looked horrified astonishment.
"Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to
say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say
their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?"
"`God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in
His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness,
and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly.
Marilla looked rather relieved.
"So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're
not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?"
"Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn
the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's
something splendid about some of the words. `Infinite,
eternal and unchangeable.' Isn't that grand? It has such a
roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't
quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like
it, doesn't it?"
"We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking
about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible
wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm
afraid you are a very bad little girl."
"You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red
hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red
hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that
God made my hair red ON PURPOSE, and I've never cared about
Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night
to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after
twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do
you honestly think they can?"
Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be
begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost.
"You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."
"Why, of course, if you want me to," assented Anne cheerfully.
"I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what
to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a
real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite
interesting, now that I come to think of it."
"You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment.
Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely.
"Why must people kneel down to pray?" If I really wanted
to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great
big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd
look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky
that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then
I'd just FEEL a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?"
Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended
to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to
sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings
of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a
sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her
that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed
childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited
to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing
bout God's love, since she had never had it translated to
her through the medium of human love.
"You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said
finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him
humbly for the things you want."
"Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face
in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the
way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all
right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting
her head for a moment.
"Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White
Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny
and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for
them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just
now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want,
they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of
time to name them all so I will only mention the two
most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables;
and please let me be good-looking when I grow up.
"There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up.
"I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little
more time to think it over."
Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by
remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply
spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible
for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in
bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the
very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when
Anne called her back.
"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, `Amen' in
place of `yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the
ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should
be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do
you suppose it will make any difference?"
"I--I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep
now like a good child. Good night."
"I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience,"
said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows.
Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly
on the table, and glared at Matthew.
"Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that
child and taught her something. She's next door to a
perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a
prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the manse
tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's what
I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as
I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee
that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get
through this world without our share of trouble. I've had
a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at
last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it."
Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun
For reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell
Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next
afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy
with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye
while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne
was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn;
her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall
into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about
it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a
reprimand or a catastrophe.
When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she
suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of
one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin
little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and
her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped
her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice:
"Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to
send me away or not?" I've tried to be patient all the morning,
but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer.
It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."
"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I
told you to do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do
it before you ask any more questions, Anne."
Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned
to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face.
"Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring
her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you.
Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will
try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful.
Why, child, whatever is the matter?"
"I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't
think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, GLAD doesn't seem
the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and
the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than
glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be
uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was
desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can
you tell me why I'm crying?"
"I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up,"
said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and
try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh
far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to
do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a
fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to
start before it opens again in September."
"What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say
Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?"
"No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to
being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous."
"It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla,"
"I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're
careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old,
in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says
Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it."
"I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully.
"I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a
grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged
to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?"
"No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling
people names that don't belong to them."
"But we could imagine you were my aunt."
"I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.
"Do you never imagine things different from what they
really are?" asked Anne wide-eyed.
"Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla,
how much you miss!"
"I don't believe in imagining things different from what
they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us
in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine
them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting
room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any
flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on
the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll
devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by
heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard
"I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically,
"but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You
couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first
time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer
after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was
nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would
you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke
up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think
out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good
when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever
"Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell
you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not
stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and
do as I bid you."
Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall;
she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid
down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression.
She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on
the wall between the two windows, with her eyes astar with
dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees
and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure
with a half-unearthly radiance.
"Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply.
Anne came back to earth with a start.
"That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid
chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--"and I
was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little
girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the
corner as if she didn't belong to anybody, like me. She
looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't
any father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be
blessed, too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of
the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her--except Him. I'm
sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and
her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked you
if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn't notice her.
But it's likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying
to imagine it all out--her edging a little nearer all the
time until she was quite close to Him; and then He would
look at her and put His hand on her hair and oh, such a
thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist
hadn't painted Him so sorrowful looking. All His pictures
are like that, if you've noticed. But I don't believe He
could really have looked so sad or the children would have
been afraid of Him."
"Anne," said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken
into this speech long before, "you shouldn't talk that
way. It's irreverent--positively irreverent."
Anne's eyes marveled.
"Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I
didn't mean to be irreverent."
"Well I don't suppose you did--but it doesn't sound right
to talk so familiarly about such things. And another
thing, Anne, when I send you after something you're to
bring it at once and not fall into mooning and imagining
before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come
right to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and
learn that prayer off by heart."
Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms
she had brought in to decorate the dinnertable--Marilla
had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing--
propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it
intently for several silent minutes.
"I like this," she announced at length. "It's beautiful.
I've heard it before--I heard the superintendent of the
asylum Sunday school say it over once. But I didn't like it
then. He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so
mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a
disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel
just the same way poetry does. `Our Father who art in heaven
hallowed be Thy name.' That is just like a line of music.
Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making me learn this, Miss--
"Well, learn it and hold your tongue," said Marilla shortly.
Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow
a soft kiss on a pink-cupped but, and then studied
diligently for some moments longer.
"Marilla," she demanded presently, "do you think that I
shall ever have a bosom friend in Avonlea?"
"A--a what kind of friend?"
"A bosom friend--an intimate friend, you know--a really
kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've
dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed
I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true
all at once that perhaps this one will, too. Do you think
"Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope and she's about
your age. She's a very nice little girl, and perhaps she
will be a playmate for you when she comes home. She's
visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now. You'll have
to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry
is a very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with
any little girl who isn't nice and good."
Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, her
eyes aglow with interest.
"What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope
not. It's bad enough to have red hair myself, but I
positively couldn't endure it in a bosom friend."
"Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes
and hair and rosy cheeks. And she is good and smart, which
is better than being pretty."
Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland,
and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to
every remark made to a child who was being brought up.
But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside and seized
only on the delightful possibilities before it.
"Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being beautiful
oneself--and that's impossible in my case--it would be
best to have a beautiful bosom friend. When I lived with
Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase in her sitting room with
glass doors. There weren't any books in it; Mrs. Thomas
kept her best china and her preserves there--when she
had any preserves to keep. One of the doors was broken.
Mr. Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly
intoxicated. But the other was whole and I used to
pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who
lived in it. I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very
intimate. I used to talk to her by the hour, especially on
Sunday, and tell her everything. Katie was the comfort
and consolation of my life. We used to pretend that the
bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell
I could open the door and step right into the room where
Katie Maurice lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves
of preserves and china. And then Katie Maurice would have
taken me by the hand and led me out into a wonderful place,
all flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would have
lived there happy for ever after. When I went to live with
Mrs. Hammond it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice.
She felt it dreadfully, too, I know she did, for she was
crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase
door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up
the river a little way from the house there was a long
green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there.
It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk
a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called
Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as
well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you
know. The night before I went to the asylum I said
good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me
in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her
that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the
asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there."
"I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily.
"I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe
your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real
live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't
let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and
your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories."
"Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their
memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to
have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just
tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely
place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep
in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human
girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers."
"Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla.
"I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn
that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you
to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to
you. So go up to your room and learn it."
"Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the
"Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and
finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you
down to help me get tea."
"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"
"No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers.
You should have left them on the tree in the first place."
"I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of
felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking
them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom.
But the temptation was IRRESISTIBLE. What do you do when
you meet with an irresistible temptation?"
"Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?"
Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a
chair by the window.
"There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence
coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this
room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is
covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over
it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls
are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The
furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it
does sound SO luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with
gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and
gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my
reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall.
I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace,
with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My
hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory
pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it
isn't--I can't make THAT seem real."
She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into
it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered
back at her.
"You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly,
"and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I
try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million
times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of
nowhere in particular, isn't it?"
She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately,
and betook herself to the open window
"Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon
dear birches down in the hollow. And good afternoon,
dear gray house up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to
be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love
her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice
and Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd
hate to hurt anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase
girl's or a little echo girl's. I must be careful to
remember them and send them a kiss every day."
Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips
past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin in her
hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams.
Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified
Anne had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs.
Lynde arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her
justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unseason
-able attack of grippe had confined that good lady to her
house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green
Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-
defined contempt for people who were; but grippe, she
asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could
only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of
Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her
foot out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting
with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla's orphan,
concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had
gone abroad in Avonlea.
Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight.
Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the
place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple
orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland; and she had
explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of
brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick
with fern, and branching byways of maple and mountain ash.
She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow--
that wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set
about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great
palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was a log
bridge over the brook.
That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded
hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the
straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers
there were myriads of delicate "June bells," those shyest
and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial
starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms.
Gossamers glimmered like threads of silver among the trees
and the fir boughs and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech.
All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the
odd half hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne
talked Matthew and Marilla halfdeaf over her discoveries.
Not that Matthew complained, to be sure; he listened to
it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his face;
Marilla permitted the "chatter" until she found herself
becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly
quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue.
Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came,
wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremu-
lous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine; so that
good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully
over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such
evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must
bring its compensations. When details were exhausted
Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call.
"I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew."
"I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself,"
said Marilla. "I'm getting over my surprise now."
"It was too bad there was such a mistake," said Mrs.
Rachel sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent her back?"
"I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew
took a fancy to her. And I must say I like her myself--
although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a
different place already. She's a real bright little thing."
Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began,
for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression.
"It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself,"
said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had
any experience with children. You don't know much about
her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no
guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't
want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla."
"I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response.
"when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up.
I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in."
Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with
the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding
the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger,
she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an
odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress
she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs
seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous
and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless
hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked
redder than at that moment.
"Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure
and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment.
Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular
people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without
fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla.
Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful
heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red
as carrots! Come here, child, I say."
Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel
expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor
and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger,
her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling
from head to foot.
"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her
foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--"
a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare
you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled
and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!"
"Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation.
But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly,
head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate
indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere.
"How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated
vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said
about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat
and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in
you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so!
I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they
were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated
husband. And I'll NEVER forgive you for it, never, never!"
"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified
"Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up,"
said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty.
Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door,
slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled
in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs
like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door
of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence.
"Well, I don't envy you your job bringing THAT up,
Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity.
Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology
or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself
then and ever afterwards.
"You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel."
"Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are
upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've
just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly.
"No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's
been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about
it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been
taught what is right. And you WERE too hard on her, Rachel."
Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence,
although she was again surprised at herself for doing it.
Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity.
"Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say
after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans,
brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered
before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed--don't worry
yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger
in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child.
But if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't
do, although I've brought up ten children and buried
two--you'll do that `talking to' you mention with a fair-
sized birch switch. I should think THAT would be the most
effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper
matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla.
I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you
can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm
liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion.
It's something new in MY experience."
Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away--if a fat woman who
always waddled COULD be said to sweep away--and Marilla with
a very solemn face betook herself to the east gable.
On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what
she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over the
scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that
Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs. Rachel
Lynde, of all people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware
of an uncomfortable and rebuking consciousness that she
felt more humiliation over this than sorrow over the
discovery of such a serious defect in Anne's disposition.
And how was she to punish her? The amiable suggestion of
the birch switch--to the efficiency of which all of Mrs.
Rachel's own children could have borne smarting testimony--
did not appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could
whip a child. No, some other method of punishment must
be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the
enormity of her offense.
Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying
bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean
"Anne," she said not ungently.
"Anne," with greater severity, "get off that bed this
minute and listen to what I have to say to you."
Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair
beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained and her eyes
fixed stubbornly on the floor.
"This is a nice way for you to behave. Anne! Aren't you
ashamed of yourself?"
"She hadn't any right to call me ugly and redheaded,"
retorted Anne, evasive and defiant.
"You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and talk the
way you did to her, Anne. I was ashamed of you--
thoroughly ashamed of you. I wanted you to behave nicely
to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you have disgraced me.
I'm sure I don't know why you should lose your temper
like that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were redhaired
and homely. You say it yourself often enough."
"Oh, but there's such a difference between saying a
thing yourself and hearing other people say it," wailed
Anne. "You may know a thing is so, but you can't help
hoping other people don't quite think it is. I suppose you
think I have an awful temper, but I couldn't help it.
When she said those things something just rose right up in
me and choked me. I HAD to fly out at her."
"Well, you made a fine exhibition of yourself I must say.
Mrs. Lynde will have a nice story to tell about you
everywhere--and she'll tell it, too. It was a dreadful thing
for you to lose your temper like that, Anne."
"Just imagine how you would feel if somebody told you to your
face that you were skinny and ugly," pleaded Anne tearfully.
An old remembrance suddenly rose up before Marilla.
She had been a very small child when she had heard one
aunt say of her to another, "What a pity she is such a dark,
homely little thing." Marilla was every day of fifty before
the sting had gone out of that memory.
"I don't say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly right in
saying what she did to you, Anne," she admitted in a softer
tone. "Rachel is too outspoken. But that is no excuse for
such behavior on your part. She was a stranger and an
elderly person and my visitor--all three very good reasons
why you should have been respectful to her. You were
rude and saucy and"--Marilla had a saving inspiration of
punishment--"you must go to her and tell her you are
very sorry for your bad temper and ask her to forgive you."
"I can never do that," said Anne determinedly and darkly.
"You can punish me in any way you like, Marilla. You can
shut me up in a dark, damp dungeon inhabited by snakes
and toads and feed me only on bread and water and I shall
not complain. But I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to forgive me."
"We're not in the habit of shutting people up in dark
damp dungeons," said Marilla drily, "especially as they're
rather scarce in Avonlea. But apologize to Mrs. Lynde
you must and shall and you'll stay here in your room until
you can tell me you're willing to do it."
"I shall have to stay here forever then," said Anne
mournfully, "because I can't tell Mrs. Lynde I'm sorry I
said those things to her. How can I? I'm NOT sorry. I'm
sorry I've vexed you; but I'm GLAD I told her just what I did.
It was a great satisfaction. I can't say I'm sorry when I'm
not, can I? I can't even IMAGINE I'm sorry."
"Perhaps your imagination will be in better working
order by the morning," said Marilla, rising to depart.
"You'll have the night to think over your conduct in and
come to a better frame of mind. You said you would try
to be a very good girl if we kept you at Green Gables, but
I must say it hasn't seemed very much like it this evening."
Leaving this Parthian shaft to rankle in Anne's stormy
bosom, Marilla descended to the kitchen, grievously
troubled in mind and vexed in soul. She was as angry with
herself as with Anne, because, whenever she recalled Mrs.
Rachel's dumbfounded countenance her lips twitched with
amusement and she felt a most reprehensible desire to laugh.
Marilla said nothing to Matthew about the affair that
evening; but when Anne proved still refractory the next
morning an explanation had to be made to account for her
absence from the breakfast table. Marilla told Matthew
the whole story, taking pains to impress him with a due
sense of the enormity of Anne's behavior.
"It's a good thing Rachel Lynde got a calling down; she's a
meddlesome old gossip," was Matthew's consolatory rejoinder.
"Matthew Cuthbert, I'm astonished at you. You know that
Anne's behavior was dreadful, and yet you take her part!
I suppose you'll be saying next thing that she oughtn't
to be punished at all!"
"Well now--no--not exactly," said Matthew uneasily. I
reckon she ought to be punished a little. But don't be
too hard on her, Marilla. Recollect she hasn't ever had
anyone to teach her right. You're--you're going to give
her something to eat, aren't you?"
"When did you ever hear of me starving people into good
behavior?" demanded Marilla indignantly. "She'll have
her meals regular, and I'll carry them up to her myself.
But she'll stay up there until she's willing to apologize
to Mrs. Lynde, and that's final, Matthew."
Breakfast, dinner, and supper were very silent meals--for
Anne still remained obdurate. After each meal Marilla
carried a well-filled tray to the east gable and brought it
down later on not noticeably depleted. Matthew eyed its last
descent with a troubled eye. Had Anne eaten anything at all?
When Marilla went out that evening to bring the cows
from the back pasture, Matthew, who had been hanging
about the barns and watching, slipped into the house with
the air of a burglar and crept upstairs. As a general thing
Matthew gravitated between the kitchen and the little
bedroom off the hall where he slept; once in a while he
ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when
the minister came to tea. But he had never been upstairs
in his own house since the spring he helped Marilla paper
the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago.
He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes
outside the door of the east gable before he summoned
courage to tap on it with his fingers and then open the
door to peep in.
Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window
gazing mournfully out into the garden. Very small and
unhappy she looked, and Matthew's heart smote him.
He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her.
"Anne," he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard,
"how are you making it, Anne?"
Anne smiled wanly.
"Pretty well. I imagine a good deal, and that helps to
pass the time. Of course, it's rather lonesome. But then,
I may as well get used to that."
Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of
solitary imprisonment before her.
Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come
to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely.
"Well now, Anne, don't you think you'd better do it and
have it over with?" he whispered. "It'll have to be done
sooner or later, you know, for Marilla's a dreadful deter-
mined woman--dreadful determined, Anne. Do it right off,
I say, and have it over."
"Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?"
"Yes--apologize--that's the very word," said Matthew eagerly.
"Just smooth it over so to speak. That's what I was trying
to get at."
"I suppose I could do it to oblige you," said Anne
thoughtfully. "It would be true enough to say I am sorry,
because I AM sorry now. I wasn't a bit sorry last night.
I was mad clear through, and I stayed mad all night. I know
I did because I woke up three times and I was just furious
every time. But this morning it was over. I wasn't in a
temper anymore--and it left a dreadful sort of goneness,
too. I felt so ashamed of myself. But I just couldn't think
of going and telling Mrs. Lynde so. It would be so humili-
ating. I made up my mind I'd stay shut up here forever
rather than do that. But still--I'd do anything for you--if
you really want me to--"
"Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome
downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--
that's a good girl."
"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as
soon as she comes in I've repented."
"That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I
said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar
in and I promised not to do that."
"Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne
solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a
But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled
hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest
Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself,
upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a
plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters.
"Well?" she said, going into the hall.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and
I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so."
"Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her
relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she
should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down
Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne
walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant,
the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's
dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her
head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the
sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her.
Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no
meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the
presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde.
"What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply.
"I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde,"
answered Anne dreamily.
This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla
could not rid herself of the notion that something in her
scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business
to look so rapt and radiant.
Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the
very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by
her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful
penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was
spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the
astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she said
with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all
my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You
must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and
I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who
have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy.
I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve
to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever.
It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you
told me the truth. It WAS the truth; every word you said
was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and
ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't
have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me.
If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little
orphan girl would you, even if she had a dreadful temper?
Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me,
Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and
waited for the word of judgment.
There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in
every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde
recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-
stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley
of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her
abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon
which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned
it into a species of positive pleasure.
Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception,
did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had
made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished
from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart.
"There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course
I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you,
anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't
mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is
terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with
her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours
when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened
to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised
if yours did, too--not a mite."
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose
to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel
that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I
only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I
grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's
hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now
may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under
the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is
so much more scope for imagination out there."
"Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet
of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like."
As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly
up to light a lamp.
"She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla;
it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the
hired boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child,
but there is something kind of taking about her after all.
I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as
I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all
right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--
a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but
she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among
civilized folks. And then, her temper's pretty quick, I
guess; but there's one comfort, a child that has a quick
temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to
be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's
what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her."
When Marilla went home Anne came out of the fragrant twilight
of the orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands.
"I apologized pretty well, didn't I?" she said proudly as
they went down the lane. "I thought since I had to do it
I might as well do it thoroughly."
"You did it thoroughly, all right enough," was Marilla's
comment. Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined
to laugh over the recollection. She had also an uneasy
feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well;
but then, that was ridiculous! She compromised with her
conscience by saying severely:
"I hope you won't have occasion to make many more such
apologies. I hope you'll try to control your temper now, Anne."
"That wouldn't be so hard if people wouldn't twit me about
my looks," said Anne with a sigh. "I don't get cross about
other things; but I'm SO tired of being twitted about my hair
and it just makes me boil right over. Do you suppose
my hair will really be a handsome auburn when I grow up?"
"You shouldn't think so much about your looks, Anne. I'm
afraid you are a very vain little girl."
"How can I be vain when I know I'm homely?" protested
Anne. "I love pretty things; and I hate to look in
the glass and see something that isn't pretty. It makes me
feel so sorrowful--just as I feel when I look at any ugly
thing. I pity it because it isn't beautiful."
"Handsome is as handsome does," quoted Marilla.
"I've had that said to me before, but I have my doubts
about it," remarked skeptical Anne, sniffing at her narcissi.
"Oh, aren't these flowers sweet! It was lovely of Mrs.
Lynde to give them to me. I have no hard feelings against
Mrs. Lynde now. It gives you a lovely, comfortable feeling
to apologize and be forgiven, doesn't it? Aren't the stars
bright tonight? If you could live in a star, which one would
you pick? I'd like that lovely clear big one away over there
above that dark hill."
"Anne, do hold your tongue." said Marilla, thoroughly
worn out trying to follow the gyrations of Anne's thoughts.
Anne said no more until they turned into their own lane.
A little gypsy wind came down it to meet them, laden
with the spicy perfume of young dew-wet ferns. Far up
in the shadows a cheerful light gleamed out through the
trees from the kitchen at Green Gables. Anne suddenly
came close to Marilla and slipped her hand into the older
woman's hard palm.
"It's lovely to be going home and know it's home," she said.
"I love Green Gables already, and I never loved any place before.
No place ever seemed like home. Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy.
I could pray right now and not find it a bit hard."
Something warm and pleasant welled up in Marilla's heart
at touch of that thin little hand in her own--a throb
of the maternity she had missed, perhaps. Its very
unaccustomedness and sweetness disturbed her. She
hastened to restore her sensations to their normal
calm by inculcating a moral.
"If you'll be a good girl you'll always be happy, Anne.
And you should never find it hard to say your prayers."
"Saying one's prayers isn't exactly the same thing as praying,"
said Anne meditatively. "But I'm going to imagine that I'm
the wind that is blowing up there in those tree tops. When I
get tired of the trees I'll imagine I'm gently waving down here
in the ferns--and then I'll fly over to Mrs. Lynde's garden and
set the flowers dancing--and then I'll go with one great swoop
over the clover field--and then I'll blow over the Lake of
Shining Waters and ripple it all up into little sparkling waves.
Oh, there's so much scope for imagination in a wind! So I'll not
talk any more just now, Marilla."
"Thanks be to goodness for that," breathed Marilla in
Anne's Impressions of Sunday-School
"Well, how do you like them?" said Marilla.
Anne was standing in the gable room, looking solemnly
at three new dresses spread out on the bed. One was of
snuffy colored gingham which Marilla had been tempted to
buy from a peddler the preceding summer because it looked
so serviceable; one was of black-and-white checkered
sateen which she had picked up at a bargain counter in the
winter; and one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade
which she had purchased that week at a Carmody store.
She had made them up herself, and they were all made
alike--plain skirts fulled tightly to plain waists, with
sleeves as plain as waist and skirt and tight as sleeves
"I'll imagine that I like them," said Anne soberly.
"I don't want you to imagine it," said Marilla, offended.
"Oh, I can see you don't like the dresses! What is the
matter with them? Aren't they neat and clean and new?"
"Then why don't you like them?"
"They're--they're not--pretty," said Anne reluctantly.
"Pretty!" Marilla sniffed. "I didn't trouble my head about
getting pretty dresses for you. I don't believe in pampering
vanity, Anne, I'll tell you that right off. Those dresses
are good, sensible, serviceable dresses, without any frills
or furbelows about them, and they're all you'll get this
summer. The brown gingham and the blue print will do
you for school when you begin to go. The sateen is for
church and Sunday school. I'll expect you to keep them
neat and clean and not to tear them. I should think you'd
be grateful to get most anything after those skimpy wincey
things you've been wearing."
"Oh, I AM grateful," protested Anne. "But I'd be ever
so much gratefuller if--if you'd made just one of them
with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves are so fashionable now.
It would give me such a thrill, Marilla, just to wear a dress
with puffed sleeves."
"Well, you'll have to do without your thrill. I hadn't any
material to waste on puffed sleeves. I think they are
ridiculous-looking things anyhow. I prefer the plain,
"But I'd rather look ridiculous when everybody else does than
plain and sensible all by myself," persisted Anne mournfully.
"Trust you for that! Well, hang those dresses carefully
up in your closet, and then sit down and learn the Sunday
school lesson. I got a quarterly from Mr. Bell for you and
you'll go to Sunday school tomorrow," said Marilla, disap-
pearing downstairs in high dudgeon.
Anne clasped her hands and looked at the dresses.
"I did hope there would be a white one with puffed
sleeves," she whispered disconsolately. "I prayed for one,
but I didn't much expect it on that account. I didn't
suppose God would have time to bother about a little
orphan girl's dress. I knew I'd just have to depend on
Marilla for it. Well, fortunately I can imagine that one
of them is of snow-white muslin with lovely lace frills and
The next morning warnings of a sick headache prevented
Marilla from going to Sunday-school with Anne.
"You'll have to go down and call for Mrs. Lynde, Anne."
she said. "She'll see that you get into the right class.
Now, mind you behave yourself properly. Stay to preaching
afterwards and ask Mrs. Lynde to show you our pew. Here's
a cent for collection. Don't stare at people and don't fidget.
I shall expect you to tell me the text when you come home."
Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff black-
and-white sateen, which, while decent as regards length
and certainly not open to the charge of skimpiness, contrived
to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure.
Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the
extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed
Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon
and flowers. The latter, however, were supplied before
Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway
down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred buttercups
and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally
garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever
other people might have thought of the result it satisfied
Anne, and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ruddy
head with its decoration of pink and yellow very proudly.
When she had reached Mrs. Lynde's house she found that
lady gone. Nothing daunted, Anne proceeded onward to the
church alone. In the porch she found a crowd of little
girls, all more or less gaily attired in whites and blues
and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at this stranger
in their midst, with her extraordinary head adornment. Avonlea
little girls had already heard queer stories about Anne.
Mrs. Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the
hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the time
to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy girl.
They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their
quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later on
when the opening exercises were over and Anne found herself in
Miss Rogerson's class.
Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a
Sunday-school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching
was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and
look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl
she thought ought to answer the question. She looked very
often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Marilla's drilling,
answered promptly; but it may be questioned if she understood
very much about either question or answer.
She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt
very miserable; every other little girl in the class had
puffed sleeves. Anne felt that life was really not worth
living without puffed sleeves.
"Well, how did you like Sunday school?" Marilla wanted
to know when Anne came home. Her wreath having faded,
Anne had discarded it in the lane, so Marilla was spared
the knowledge of that for a time.
"I didn't like it a bit. It was horrid."
"Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly.
Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of
Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia.
"They might have been lonesome while I was away," she
explained. "And now about the Sunday school. I behaved
well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynde was gone, but I
went right on myself. I went into the church, with a
lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew
by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell
made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully
tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting by
that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of
Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all
sorts of splendid things."
"You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should
have listened to Mr. Bell."
"But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was
talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much inter-
ested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off
though. There was long row of white birches hanging over
the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, 'way, 'way
down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a
beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said,
`Thank you for it, God,' two or three times."
"Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously.
"Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through
at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss
Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it.
They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine
were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was
as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was
alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there
among the others who had really truly puffs."
"You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in
Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson.
I hope you knew it."
"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson
asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her
to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her,
but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred
spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase.
She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could
recite, `The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked.
That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly
religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy
that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she
told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday.
I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There
are two lines in particular that just thrill me.
"`Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell
In Midian's evil day.'
I don't know what `squadrons' means nor `Midian,' either,
but it sounds SO tragical. I can hardly wait until next
Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After
Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was
too far away--to show me your pew. I sat just as still as
I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second
and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a
minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was
awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to match it
to the text. I didn't think he was a bit interesting. The
trouble with him seems to be that he hasn't enough imagination.
I didn't listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts
run and I thought of the most surprising things."
Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly
reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact
that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the
minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers, were what she
herself had really thought deep down in her heart for
years, but had never given expression to. It almost seemed
to her that those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts
had suddenly taken visible and accusing shape and form in
the person of this outspoken morsel of neglected humanity.
A Solemn Vow and Promise
It was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the
story of the flower-wreathed hat. She came home from
Mrs. Lynde's and called Anne to account.
"Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last Sunday
with your hat rigged out ridiculous with roses and
buttercups. What on earth put you up to such a caper?
A pretty-looking object you must have been!"
"Oh. I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to me," began Anne.
"Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on your
hat at all, no matter what color they were, that was
ridiculous. You are the most aggravating child!"
"I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear flowers
on your hat than on your dress," protested Anne. "Lots of
little girls there had bouquets pinned on their dresses.
What's the difference?"
Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into
dubious paths of the abstract.
"Don't answer me back like that, Anne. It was very silly
of you to do such a thing. Never let me catch you at such a
trick again. Mrs. Rachel says she thought she would sink
through the floor when she come in all rigged out like
that. She couldn't get near enough to tell you to take
them off till it was too late. She says people talked about
it something dreadful. Of course they would think I had no
better sense than to let you go decked out like that."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne, tears welling into her eyes.
"I never thought you'd mind. The roses and buttercups
were so sweet and pretty I thought they'd look lovely
on my hat. Lots of the little girls had artificial flowers
on their hats. I'm afraid I'm going to be a dreadful trial
to you. Maybe you'd better send me back to the asylum.
That would be terrible; I don't think I could endure it;
most likely I would go into consumption; I'm so thin as it is,
you see. But that would be better than being a trial to you."
"Nonsense," said Marilla, vexed at herself for having
made the child cry. "I don't want to send you back to the
asylum, I'm sure. All I want is that you should behave like
other little girls and not make yourself ridiculous. Don't
cry any more. I've got some news for you. Diana Barry came
home this afternoon. I'm going up to see if I can borrow a
skirt pattern from Mrs. Barry, and if you like you can
come with me and get acquainted with Diana."
Anne rose to her feet, with clasped hands, the tears still
glistening on her cheeks; the dish towel she had been
hemming slipped unheeded to the floor.
"Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened--now that it has come I'm
actually frightened. What if she shouldn't like me! It
would be the most tragical disappointment of my life."
"Now, don't get into a fluster. And I do wish you wouldn't
use such long words. It sounds so funny in a little girl.
I guess Diana'll like you well enough. It's her mother
you've got to reckon with. If she doesn't like you it won't
matter how much Diana does. If she has heard about your
outburst to Mrs. Lynde and going to church with buttercups
round your hat I don't know what she'll think of you. You
must be polite and well behaved, and don't make any of your
startling speeches. For pity's sake, if the child isn't
Anne WAS trembling. Her face was pale and tense.
"Oh, Marilla, you'd be excited, too, if you were going to
meet a little girl you hoped to be your bosom friend and
whose mother mightn't like you," she said as she hastened
to get her hat.
They went over to Orchard Slope by the short cut across
the brook and up the firry hill grove. Mrs. Barry came
to the kitchen door in answer to Marilla's knock. She
was a tall black-eyed, black-haired woman, with a very
resolute mouth. She had the reputation of being very
strict with her children.
"How do you do, Marilla?" she said cordially. "Come in.
And this is the little girl you have adopted, I suppose?"
"Yes, this is Anne Shirley," said Marilla.
"Spelled with an E," gasped Anne, who, tremulous and
excited as she was, was determined there should be no
misunderstanding on that important point.
Mrs. Barry, not hearing or not comprehending, merely
shook hands and said kindly:
"How are you?"
"I am well in body although considerable rumpled up in
spirit, thank you ma'am," said Anne gravely. Then aside
to Marilla in an audible whisper, "There wasn't anything
startling in that, was there, Marilla?"
Diana was sitting on the sofa, reading a book which she
dropped when the callers entered. She was a very pretty
little girl, with her mother's black eyes and hair, and
rosy cheeks, and the merry expression which was her
inheritance from her father.
"This is my little girl Diana," said Mrs. Barry. "Diana,
you might take Anne out into the garden and show her
your flowers. It will be better for you than straining your
eyes over that book. She reads entirely too much--" this
to Marilla as the little girls went out--"and I can't prevent
her, for her father aids and abets her. She's always poring
over a book. I'm glad she has the prospect of a playmate--
perhaps it will take her more out-of-doors."
Outside in the garden, which was full of mellow sunset
light streaming through the dark old firs to the west of it,
stood Anne and Diana, gazing bashfully at each other over
a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies.
The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers
which would have delighted Anne's heart at any time less
fraught with destiny. It was encircled by huge old willows
and tall firs, beneath which flourished flowers that loved
the shade. Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered with
clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the
beds between old-fashioned flowers ran riot. There were
rosy bleeding-hearts and great splendid crimson peonies;
white, fragrant narcissi and thorny, sweet Scotch roses;
pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted Bouncing
Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint;
purple Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover
white with its delicate, fragrant, feathery sprays;
scarlet lightning that shot its fiery lances over prim white
musk-flowers; a garden it was where sunshine lingered and
bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering, purred
"Oh, Diana," said Anne at last, clasping her hands and
speaking almost in a whisper, "oh, do you think you can
like me a little--enough to be my bosom friend?"
Diana laughed. Diana always laughed before she spoke.
"Why, I guess so," she said frankly. "I'm awfully glad you've
come to live at Green Gables. It will be jolly to have somebody
to play with. There isn't any other girl who lives near enough
to play with, and I've no sisters big enough."
"Will you swear to be my friend forever and ever?" demanded
Diana looked shocked.
"Why it's dreadfully wicked to swear," she said rebukingly.
"Oh no, not my kind of swearing. There are two kinds, you know."
"I never heard of but one kind," said Diana doubtfully.
"There really is another. Oh, it isn't wicked at all. It
just means vowing and promising solemnly."
"Well, I don't mind doing that," agreed Diana, relieved.
"How do you do it?"
"We must join hands--so," said Anne gravely. "It ought
to be over running water. We'll just imagine this path is
running water. I'll repeat the oath first. I solemnly swear
to be faithful to my bosom friend, Diana Barry, as long as the
sun and moon shall endure. Now you say it and put my name in."
Diana repeated the "oath" with a laugh fore and aft. Then
"You're a queer girl, Anne. I heard before that you were
queer. But I believe I'm going to like you real well."
When Marilla and Anne went home Diana went with them as
for as the log bridge. The two little girls walked with
their arms about each other. At the brook they parted with
many promises to spend the next afternoon together.
"Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit?" asked Marilla
as they went up through the garden of Green Gables.
"Oh yes," sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of any
sarcasm on Marilla's part. "Oh Marilla, I'm the happiest
girl on Prince Edward Island this very moment. I assure
you I'll say my prayers with a right good-will tonight.
Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr. William
Bell's birch grove tomorrow. Can I have those broken
pieces of china that are out in the woodshed? Diana's
birthday is in February and mine is in March. Don't you
think that is a very strange coincidence? Diana is
going to lend me a book to read. She says it's perfectly
splendid and tremendously exciting. She's going to show me
a place back in the woods where rice lilies grow. Don't
you think Diana has got very soulful eyes? I wish I had
soulful eyes. Diana is going to teach me to sing a song
called `Nelly in the Hazel Dell.' She's going to give me
a picture to put up in my room; it's a perfectly beautiful
picture, she says--a lovely lady in a pale blue silk dress.
A sewing-machine agent gave it to her. I wish I had something
to give Diana. I'm an inch taller than Diana, but she is ever
so much fatter; she says she'd like to be thin because it's so
much more graceful, but I'm afraid she only said it to soothe my
feelings. We're going to the shore some day to gather shells.
We have agreed to call the spring down by the log bridge the
Dryad's Bubble. Isn't that a perfectly elegant name? I read a
story once about a spring called that. A dryad is sort of a
grown-up fairy, I think."
"Well, all I hope is you won't talk Diana to death," said
Marilla. "But remember this in all your planning, Anne.
You're not going to play all the time nor most of it. You'll
have your work to do and it'll have to be done first."
Anne's cup of happiness was full, and Matthew caused it
to overflow. He had just got home from a trip to the store
at Carmody, and he sheepishly produced a small parcel
from his pocket and handed it to Anne, with a deprecatory
look at Marilla.
"I heard you say you liked chocolate sweeties, so I got
you some," he said.
"Humph," sniffed Marilla. "It'll ruin her teeth and stomach.
There, there, child, don't look so dismal. You can eat
those, since Matthew has gone and got them. He'd better
have brought you peppermints. They're wholesomer. Don't
sicken yourself eating all them at once now."
"Oh, no, indeed, I won't," said Anne eagerly. "I'll just
eat one tonight, Marilla. And I can give Diana half of
them, can't I? The other half will taste twice as sweet to
me if I give some to her. It's delightful to think I have
something to give her."
"I will say it for the child," said Marilla when Anne had
gone to her gable, "she isn't stingy. I'm glad, for of all
faults I detest stinginess in a child. Dear me, it's only
three weeks since she came, and it seems as if she'd been
here always. I can't imagine the place without her. Now,
don't be looking I told-you-so, Matthew. That's bad enough
in a woman, but it isn't to be endured in a man. I'm
perfectly willing to own up that I'm glad I consented to keep
the child and that I'm getting fond of her, but don't you
rub it in, Matthew Cuthbert."
The Delights of Anticipation
"It's time Anne was in to do her sewing," said Marilla, glancing
at the clock and then out into the yellow August afternoon where
everything drowsed in the heat. "She stayed playing with Diana
more than half an hour more'n I gave her leave to; and now she's
perched out there on the woodpile talking to Matthew, nineteen to
the dozen, when she knows perfectly well she ought to be at her
work. And of course he's listening to her like a perfect ninny.
I never saw such an infatuated man. The more she talks and the
odder the things she says, the more he's delighted evidently.
Anne Shirley, you come right in here this minute, do you hear me!"
A series of staccato taps on the west window brought Anne flying
in from the yard, eyes shining, cheeks faintly flushed with pink,
unbraided hair streaming behind her in a torrent of brightness.
"Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed breathlessly, "there's going to be a
Sunday-school picnic next week--in Mr. Harmon Andrews's field,
right near the lake of Shining Waters. And Mrs. Superintendent
Bell and Mrs. Rachel Lynde are going to make ice cream--think of
it, Marilla--ICE CREAM! And, oh, Marilla, can I go to it?"
"Just look at the clock, if you please, Anne. What time did I
tell you to come in?"
"Two o'clock--but isn't it splendid about the picnic, Marilla?
Please can I go? Oh, I've never been to a picnic--I've dreamed of
picnics, but I've never--"
"Yes, I told you to come at two o'clock. And it's a quarter to
three. I'd like to know why you didn't obey me, Anne."
"Why, I meant to, Marilla, as much as could be. But you have no
idea how fascinating Idlewild is. And then, of course, I had to
tell Matthew about the picnic. Matthew is such a sympathetic
listener. Please can I go?"
"You'll have to learn to resist the fascination of Idlewhatever-
you-call-it. When I tell you to come in at a certain time I
mean that time and not half an hour later. And you needn't
stop to discourse with sympathetic listeners on your way, either.
As for the picnic, of course you can go. You're a Sunday-school
scholar, and it's not likely I'd refuse to let you go when all
the other little girls are going."
"But--but," faltered Anne, "Diana says that everybody must take a
basket of things to eat. I can't cook, as you know, Marilla,
and--and--I don't mind going to a picnic without puffed sleeves
so much, but I'd feel terribly humiliated if I had to go without
a basket. It's been preying on my mind ever since Diana told me."
"Well, it needn't prey any longer. I'll bake you a basket."
"Oh, you dear good Marilla. Oh, you are so kind to me. Oh, I'm
so much obliged to you."
Getting through with her "ohs" Anne cast herself into Marilla's
arms and rapturously kissed her sallow cheek. It was the first
time in her whole life that childish lips had voluntarily touched
Marilla's face. Again that sudden sensation of startling
sweetness thrilled her. She was secretly vastly pleased at
Anne's impulsive caress, which was probably the reason why she
"There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense. I'd sooner see
you doing strictly as you're told. As for cooking, I mean to
begin giving you lessons in that some of these days. But you're
so featherbrained, Anne, I've been waiting to see if you'd sober
down a little and learn to be steady before I begin. You've got
to keep your wits about you in cooking and not stop in the middle
of things to let your thoughts rove all over creation. Now, get
out your patchwork and have your square done before teatime."
"I do NOT like patchwork," said Anne dolefully, hunting out her
workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white
diamonds with a sigh. "I think some kinds of sewing would be
nice; but there's no scope for imagination in patchwork. It's
just one little seam after another and you never seem to be
getting anywhere. But of course I'd rather be Anne of Green
Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing
to do but play. I wish time went as quick sewing patches as it
does when I'm playing with Diana, though. Oh, we do have such
elegant times, Marilla. I have to furnish most of the
imagination, but I'm well able to do that. Diana is simply
perfect in every other way. You know that little piece of land
across the brook that runs up between our farm and Mr. Barry's.
It belongs to Mr. William Bell, and right in the corner there is
a little ring of white birch trees--the most romantic spot,
Marilla. Diana and I have our playhouse there. We call it
Idlewild. Isn't that a poetical name? I assure you it took me
some time to think it out. I stayed awake nearly a whole night
before I invented it. Then, just as I was dropping off to sleep,
it came like an inspiration. Diana was ENRAPTURED when she heard
it. We have got our house fixed up elegantly. You must come and
see it, Marilla--won't you? We have great big stones, all
covered with moss, for seats, and boards from tree to tree for
shelves. And we have all our dishes on them. Of course, they're
all broken but it's the easiest thing in the world to imagine
that they are whole. There's a piece of a plate with a spray of
red and yellow ivy on it that is especially beautiful. We keep
it in the parlor and we have the fairy glass there, too. The
fairy glass is as lovely as a dream. Diana found it out in the
woods behind their chicken house. It's all full of
rainbows--just little young rainbows that haven't grown big
yet--and Diana's mother told her it was broken off a hanging lamp
they once had. But it's nice to imagine the fairies lost it one
night when they had a ball, so we call it the fairy glass.
Matthew is going to make us a table. Oh, we have named that
little round pool over in Mr. Barry's field Willowmere. I got
that name out of the book Diana lent me. That was a thrilling
book, Marilla. The heroine had five lovers. I'd be satisfied
with one, wouldn't you? She was very handsome and she went
through great tribulations. She could faint as easy as anything.
I'd love to be able to faint, wouldn't you, Marilla? It's so
romantic. But I'm really very healthy for all I'm so thin.
I believe I'm getting fatter, though. Don't you think I am?
I look at my elbows every morning when I get up to see if any
dimples are coming. Diana is having a new dress made with elbow
sleeves. She is going to wear it to the picnic. Oh, I do hope
it will be fine next Wednesday. I don't feel that I could endure
the disappointment if anything happened to prevent me from
getting to the picnic. I suppose I'd live through it, but I'm
certain it would be a lifelong sorrow. It wouldn't matter if I
got to a hundred picnics in after years; they wouldn't make up
for missing this one. They're going to have boats on the Lake of
Shining Waters--and ice cream, as I told you. I have never
tasted ice cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I
guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination."
"Anne, you have talked even on for ten minutes by the clock,"
said Marilla. "Now, just for curiosity's sake, see if you can
hold your tongue for the same length of time."
Anne held her tongue as desired. But for the rest of the week
she talked picnic and thought picnic and dreamed picnic. On
Saturday it rained and she worked herself up into such a frantic
state lest it should keep on raining until and over Wednesday
that Marilla made her sew an extra patchwork square by way of
steadying her nerves.
On Sunday Anne confided to Marilla on the way home from church
that she grew actually cold all over with excitement when the
minister announced the picnic from the pulpit.
"Such a thrill as went up and down my back, Marilla! I don't
think I'd ever really believed until then that there was honestly
going to be a picnic. I couldn't help fearing I'd only imagined it.
But when a minister says a thing in the pulpit you just have to
"You set your heart too much on things, Anne," said Marilla, with
a sigh. "I'm afraid there'll be a great many disappointments in
store for you through life."
"Oh, Marilla, looking forward to things is half the pleasure of
them," exclaimed Anne. "You mayn't get the things themselves;
but nothing can prevent you from having the fun of looking
forward to them. Mrs. Lynde says, `Blessed are they who expect
nothing for they shall not be disappointed.' But I think it would
be worse to expect nothing than to be disappointed."
Marilla wore her amethyst brooch to church that day as usual.
Marilla always wore her amethyst brooch to church. She would
have thought it rather sacrilegious to leave it off--as bad as
forgetting her Bible or her collection dime. That amethyst
brooch was Marilla's most treasured possession. A seafaring
uncle had given it to her mother who in turn had bequeathed it to
Marilla. It was an old-fashioned oval, containing a braid of her
mother's hair, surrounded by a border of very fine amethysts.
Marilla knew too little about precious stones to realize how fine
the amethysts actually were; but she thought them very beautiful
and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet shimmer at
her throat, above her good brown satin dress, even although she
could not see it.
Anne had been smitten with delighted admiration when she first
saw that brooch.
"Oh, Marilla, it's a perfectly elegant brooch. I don't know how
you can pay attention to the sermon or the prayers when you have
it on. I couldn't, I know. I think amethysts are just sweet.
They are what I used to think diamonds were like. Long ago,
before I had ever seen a diamond, I read about them and I tried
to imagine what they would be like. I thought they would be
lovely glimmering purple stones. When I saw a real diamond in a
lady's ring one day I was so disappointed I cried. Of course, it
was very lovely but it wasn't my idea of a diamond. Will you let
me hold the brooch for one minute, Marilla? Do you think
amethysts can be the souls of good violets?"
ON the Monday evening before the picnic Marilla came down from
her room with a troubled face.
"Anne," she said to that small personage, who was shelling peas
by the spotless table and singing, "Nelly of the Hazel Dell" with
a vigor and expression that did credit to Diana's teaching, "did
you see anything of my amethyst brooch? I thought I stuck it in
my pincushion when I came home from church yesterday evening, but
I can't find it anywhere."
"I--I saw it this afternoon when you were away at the Aid
Society," said Anne, a little slowly. "I was passing your door
when I saw it on the cushion, so I went in to look at it."
"Did you touch it?" said Marilla sternly.
"Y-e-e-s," admitted Anne, "I took it up and I pinned it on my
breast just to see how it would look."
"You had no business to do anything of the sort. It's very wrong
in a little girl to meddle. You shouldn't have gone into my room
in the first place and you shouldn't have touched a brooch that
didn't belong to you in the second. Where did you put it?"
"Oh, I put it back on the bureau. I hadn't it on a minute.
Truly, I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla. I didn't think about
its being wrong to go in and try on the brooch; but I see now
that it was and I'll never do it again. That's one good thing
about me. I never do the same naughty thing twice."
"You didn't put it back," said Marilla. "That brooch isn't
anywhere on the bureau. You've taken it out or something, Anne."
"I did put it back," said Anne quickly--pertly, Marilla thought.
"I don't just remember whether I stuck it on the pincushion or laid
it in the china tray. But I'm perfectly certain I put it back."
"I'll go and have another look," said Marilla, determining to be
just. "If you put that brooch back it's there still. If it
isn't I'll know you didn't, that's all!"
Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search, not only
over the bureau but in every other place she thought the brooch
might possibly be. It was not to be found and she returned to
"Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the
last person to handle it. Now, what have you done with it?
Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it?"
"No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry gaze
squarely. "I never took the brooch out of your room and that is
the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it--although I'm
not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla."
Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize her assertion,
but Marilla took it as a display of defiance.
"I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said
sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't say anything more
unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room
and stay there until you are ready to confess."
"Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly.
"No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you."
When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very
disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable
brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child
to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have!
With such an innocent face, too!
"I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought
Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas. "Of course, I don't
suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just
taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers.
She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a
soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I
went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer.
I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll
be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods.
It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful
responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust.
Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed.
I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If
she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."
Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and
searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to
the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying
that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the
more firmly convinced that she did.
She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was
confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in
Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her.
"You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" was the only
suggestion he could offer.
"I've moved the bureau and I've taken out the drawers and I've
looked in every crack and cranny" was Marilla's positive answer.
"The brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it.
That's the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as
well look it in the face."
"Well now, what are you going to do about it?" Matthew asked
forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had
to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in
"She'll stay in her room until she confesses," said Marilla
grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former
case. "Then we'll see. Perhaps we'll be able to find the brooch
if she'll only tell where she took it; but in any case she'll
have to be severely punished, Matthew."
"Well now, you'll have to punish her," said Matthew, reaching for
his hat. "I've nothing to do with it, remember. You warned me
Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs.
Lynde for advice. She went up to the east gable with a very
serious face and left it with a face more serious still. Anne
steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that
she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been
crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly
repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat out."
"You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make
up your mind to that," she said firmly.
"But the picnic is tomorrow, Marilla," cried Anne. "You won't
keep me from going to that, will you? You'll just let me out for
the afternoon, won't you? Then I'll stay here as long as you
like AFTERWARDS cheerfully. But I MUST go to the picnic."
"You'll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until you've
"Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne.
But Marilla had gone out and shut the door.
Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made
to order for the picnic. Birds sang around Green Gables; the
Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that
entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and
wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction.
The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if watching for
Anne's usual morning greeting from the east gable. But Anne was
not at her window. When Marilla took her breakfast up to her she
found the child sitting primly on her bed, pale and resolute,
with tight-shut lips and gleaming eyes.
"Marilla, I'm ready to confess."
"Ah!" Marilla laid down her tray. Once again her method had
succeeded; but her success was very bitter to her. "Let me hear
what you have to say then, Anne."