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"Perhaps after a while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid
concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why
Marilla disapproves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman.
It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don't
believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, because they are
so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no danger of my ever
being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may
grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I'm
tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long. I
just lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again.
That's one splendid thing about such affairs--it's so lovely to
look back to them."

Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old
groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert
left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over
a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at
the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was
broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three
months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's
bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking
its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have
any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that
the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes
had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little
they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody
Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne
Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon
was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May,
would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter.
With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss
Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness.

The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter,
with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly
every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were
tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all
their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon
write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it
behooved them to be observant.

"Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne
in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens.
When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be
different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it
doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes
life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be
really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able
to use big words then without being laughed at."

"Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen,"
said Diana.

"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus," said Anne disdainfully.
"She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a
take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that
is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make
uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you
think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without
making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all.
You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like
Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect.
Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships
the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it
right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal
being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their
besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an
interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last
Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to
talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin
is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving
very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps
I'll get on better."

"In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana.
"Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think
that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen."

"If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly,
"I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because
it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with
my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about
my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago.
It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a
rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition.
I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in
summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep
and dreaming pretty dreams."

"I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes,"
sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the
one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy
telling us to write a story out of our own heads!"

"Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne.

"It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted
Diana, "but what would you do if you had been born without one?
I suppose you have your composition all done?"

Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and
failing miserably.

"I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called `The Jealous Rival;
or In Death Not Divided.' I read it to Marilla and she said it was
stuff and nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine.
That is the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. I just
cried like a child while I was writing it. It's about two beautiful
maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived
in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other.
Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and
duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like
spun gold and velvety purple eyes."

"I never saw anybody with purple eyes," said Diana dubiously.

"Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the
common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I've found out what an
alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen.
You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve."

"Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?" asked Diana,
who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate.

"They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then
Bertram DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with
the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away
with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he
carried her home three miles; because, you understand, the
carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine
the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby
Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed because I
thought she'd likely be an authority on the subject, having so
many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall
pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She
said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in
his own name and then said, `What do you say, darling pet, if we
get hitched this fall?' And Susan said, `Yes--no--I don't
know--let me see'--and there they were, engaged as quick as that.
But I didn't think that sort of a proposal was a very romantic one,
so in the end I had to imagine it out as well as I could. I made
it very flowery and poetical and Bertram went on his knees,
although Ruby Gillis says it isn't done nowadays. Geraldine
accepted him in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a
lot of trouble with that speech. I rewrote it five times and I
look upon it as my masterpiece. Bertram gave her a diamond ring
and a ruby necklace and told her they would go to Europe for a
wedding tour, for he was immensely wealthy. But then, alas,
shadows began to darken over their path. Cordelia was secretly
in love with Bertram herself and when Geraldine told her about
the engagement she was simply furious, especially when she saw
the necklace and the diamond ring. All her affection for
Geraldine turned to bitter hate and she vowed that she should
never marry Bertram. But she pretended to be Geraldine's friend
the same as ever. One evening they were standing on the bridge
over a rushing turbulent stream and Cordelia, thinking they were
alone, pushed Geraldine over the brink with a wild, mocking, `Ha,
ha, ha.' But Bertram saw it all and he at once plunged into the
current, exclaiming, `I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine.'
But alas, he had forgotten he couldn't swim, and they were both
drowned, clasped in each other's arms. Their bodies were washed
ashore soon afterwards. They were buried in the one grave and
their funeral was most imposing, Diana. It's so much more romantic
to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding. As for Cordelia,
she went insane with remorse and was shut up in a lunatic asylum.
I thought that was a poetical retribution for her crime."

"How perfectly lovely!" sighed Diana, who belonged to Matthew's
school of critics. "I don't see how you can make up such
thrilling things out of your own head, Anne. I wish my
imagination was as good as yours."

"It would be if you'd only cultivate it," said Anne cheeringly.
"I've just thought of a plan, Diana. Let you and me have a story
club all our own and write stories for practice. I'll help you
along until you can do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate
your imagination, you know. Miss Stacy says so. Only we must
take the right way. I told her about the Haunted Wood, but she
said we went the wrong way about it in that."

This was how the story club came into existence. It was limited
to Diana and Anne at first, but soon it was extended to include
Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis and one or two others who felt that
their imaginations needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in
it--although Ruby Gillis opined that their admission would make
it more exciting--and each member had to produce one story a week.

"It's extremely interesting," Anne told Marilla. "Each girl has
to read her story out loud and then we talk it over. We are going
to keep them all sacredly and have them to read to our descendants.
We each write under a nom-de-plume. Mine is Rosamond Montmorency.
All the girls do pretty well. Ruby Gillis is rather sentimental.
She puts too much lovemaking into her stories and you know too much
is worse than too little. Jane never puts any because she says
it makes her feel so silly when she had to read it out loud.
Jane's stories are extremely sensible. Then Diana puts too many
murders into hers. She says most of the time she doesn't know what
to do with the people so she kills them off to get rid of them.
I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, but that
isn't hard for I've millions of ideas."

"I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet,"
scoffed Marilla. "You'll get a pack of nonsense into your
heads and waste time that should be put on your lessons.
Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse."

"But we're so careful to put a moral into them all, Marilla,"
explained Anne. "I insist upon that. All the good people are
rewarded and all the bad ones are suitably punished. I'm sure
that must have a wholesome effect. The moral is the great thing.
Mr. Allan says so. I read one of my stories to him and Mrs. Allan
and they both agreed that the moral was excellent. Only they laughed
in the wrong places. I like it better when people cry. Jane and Ruby
almost always cry when I come to the pathetic parts. Diana wrote her
Aunt Josephine about our club and her Aunt Josephine wrote back that
we were to send her some of our stories. So we copied out four of
our very best and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry wrote back that
she had never read anything so amusing in her life. That kind of
puzzled us because the stories were all very pathetic and almost
everybody died. But I'm glad Miss Barry liked them. It shows our
club is doing some good in the world. Mrs. Allan says that ought
to be our object in everything. I do really try to make it my
object but I forget so often when I'm having fun. I hope I shall
be a little like Mrs. Allan when I grow up. Do you think there is
any prospect of it, Marilla?"

"I shouldn't say there was a great deal" was Marilla's
encouraging answer. "I'm sure Mrs. Allan was never such a
silly, forgetful little girl as you are."

"No; but she wasn't always so good as she is now either," said
Anne seriously. "She told me so herself--that is, she said she
was a dreadful mischief when she was a girl and was always
getting into scrapes. I felt so encouraged when I heard that.
Is it very wicked of me, Marilla, to feel encouraged when I hear
that other people have been bad and mischievous? Mrs. Lynde says
it is. Mrs. Lynde says she always feels shocked when she hears
of anyone ever having been naughty, no matter how small they were.
Mrs. Lynde says she once heard a minister confess that when he was
a boy he stole a strawberry tart out of his aunt's pantry and she
never had any respect for that minister again. Now, I wouldn't
have felt that way. I'd have thought that it was real noble of him
to confess it, and I'd have thought what an encouraging thing it
would be for small boys nowadays who do naughty things and are
sorry for them to know that perhaps they may grow up to be ministers
in spite of it. That's how I'd feel, Marilla."

"The way I feel at present, Anne," said Marilla, "is that it's
high time you had those dishes washed. You've taken half an hour
longer than you should with all your chattering. Learn to work
first and talk afterwards."

CHAPTER XXVII

Vanity and Vexation of Spirit

Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting,
realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of
delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and
saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not
given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She
probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their
missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under
these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields
smoking into pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long,
sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the meadow beyond the
brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirrorlike wood
pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses
under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and
Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because
of its deep, primal gladness.

Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through
its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its
windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she
picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really
a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly
snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of
to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had
come to Green Gables.

Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire
black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly
disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and
have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take
off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against
Matthew's return from plowing.

"I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly,
as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim
than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting
patiently for his tea in his corner. "She's gadding off somewhere
with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such
tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties.
She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing.
I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest
child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head
is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll
break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak
she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very
thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today.
I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't
I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody.
Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from
me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd
pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea.
Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when
I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things.
I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or
untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise
and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk
her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she
got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not
delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too
hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure
she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a
great hand at explaining."

"She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I
reckon she'll find it hard to explain THAT to my satisfaction.
Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing
her up, not you."

It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne,
coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane,
breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties.
Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a
candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the
east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table.
Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed,
face downward among the pillows.

"Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?"

"No," was the muffled reply.

"Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed.

Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself
forever from mortal eyes.

"No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in
the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or
writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir
any more. Little things like that are of no importance now
because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again.
My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me."

"Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know.
"Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done?
Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now,
what is it?"

Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience.

"Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered.

Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly
at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly
had a very strange appearance.

"Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's GREEN!"

Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer,
dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original
red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had
Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment.

"Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as
bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have
green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am."

"I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find
out," said Marilla. "Come right down to the kitchen--it's too
cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been
expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into
any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was
due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?"

"I dyed it."

"Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a
wicked thing to do?"

"Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I
thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of
red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be
extra good in other ways to make up for it."

"Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth
while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I
wouldn't have dyed it green."

"But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne
dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some
purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven
black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt
his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word
doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of
not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're not.
I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I
hadn't then and I believed every word he said IMPLICITLY."

"Who said? Who are you talking about?"

"The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him."

"Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those
Italians in the house! I don't believe in encouraging them to come
around at all."

"Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told
me, and I went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his
things on the step. Besides, he wasn't an Italian--he was a
German Jew. He had a big box full of very interesting things and
he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his
wife and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about
them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from
him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at once I saw
the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was warranted to dye
any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a
trice I saw myself with beautiful raven-black hair and the
temptation was irresistible. But the price of the bottle was
seventy-five cents and I had only fifty cents left out of my
chicken money. I think the peddler had a very kind heart, for he
said that, seeing it was me, he'd sell it for fifty cents and
that was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as he
had gone I came up here and applied it with an old hairbrush as
the directions said. I used up the whole bottle, and oh,
Marilla, when I saw the dreadful color it turned my hair I
repented of being wicked, I can tell you. And I've been
repenting ever since."

"Well, I hope you'll repent to good purpose," said Marilla
severely, "and that you've got your eyes opened to where your
vanity has led you, Anne. Goodness knows what's to be done. I
suppose the first thing is to give your hair a good washing and
see if that will do any good."

Accordingly, Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with
soap and water, but for all the difference it made she might as
well have been scouring its original red. The peddler had
certainly spoken the truth when he declared that the dye wouldn't
wash off, however his veracity might be impeached in other
respects.

"Oh, Marilla, what shall I do?" questioned Anne in tears.
"I can never live this down. People have pretty well forgotten
my other mistakes--the liniment cake and setting Diana drunk and
flying into a temper with Mrs. Lynde. But they'll never forget this.
They will think I am not respectable. Oh, Marilla, `what a tangled
web we weave when first we practice to deceive.' That is poetry,
but it is true. And oh, how Josie Pye will laugh! Marilla, I CANNOT
face Josie Pye. I am the unhappiest girl in Prince Edward Island."

Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she
went nowhere and shampooed her hair every day. Diana alone of
outsiders knew the fatal secret, but she promised solemnly never
to tell, and it may be stated here and now that she kept her
word. At the end of the week Marilla said decidedly:

"It's no use, Anne. That is fast dye if ever there was any.
Your hair must be cut off; there is no other way. You can't go
out with it looking like that."

Anne's lips quivered, but she realized the bitter truth of
Marilla's remarks. With a dismal sigh she went for the scissors.

"Please cut it off at once, Marilla, and have it over. Oh, I
feel that my heart is broken. This is such an unromantic
affliction. The girls in books lose their hair in fevers or sell
it to get money for some good deed, and I'm sure I wouldn't mind
losing my hair in some such fashion half so much. But there is
nothing comforting in having your hair cut off because you've
dyed it a dreadful color, is there? I'm going to weep all the
time you're cutting it off, if it won't interfere. It seems such
a tragic thing."

Anne wept then, but later on, when she went upstairs and looked
in the glass, she was calm with despair. Marilla had done her work
thoroughly and it had been necessary to shingle the hair as closely
as possible. The result was not becoming, to state the case as mildly
as may be. Anne promptly turned her glass to the wall.

"I'll never, never look at myself again until my hair grows," she
exclaimed passionately.

Then she suddenly righted the glass.

"Yes, I will, too. I'd do penance for being wicked that way.
I'll look at myself every time I come to my room and see how ugly
I am. And I won't try to imagine it away, either. I never
thought I was vain about my hair, of all things, but now I know I
was, in spite of its being red, because it was so long and thick
and curly. I expect something will happen to my nose next."

Anne's clipped head made a sensation in school on the following
Monday, but to her relief nobody guessed the real reason for it,
not even Josie Pye, who, however, did not fail to inform Anne
that she looked like a perfect scarecrow.

"I didn't say anything when Josie said that to me," Anne confided
that evening to Marilla, who was lying on the sofa after one of
her headaches, "because I thought it was part of my punishment
and I ought to bear it patiently. It's hard to be told you look
like a scarecrow and I wanted to say something back. But I didn't.
I just swept her one scornful look and then I forgave her.
It makes you feel very virtuous when you forgive people,
doesn't it? I mean to devote all my energies to being good after
this and I shall never try to be beautiful again. Of course it's
better to be good. I know it is, but it's sometimes so hard to
believe a thing even when you know it. I do really want to be
good, Marilla, like you and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy, and grow
up to be a credit to you. Diana says when my hair begins to grow
to tie a black velvet ribbon around my head with a bow at one
side. She says she thinks it will be very becoming. I will call
it a snood--that sounds so romantic. But am I talking too much,
Marilla? Does it hurt your head?"

"My head is better now. It was terrible bad this afternoon,
though. These headaches of mine are getting worse and worse.
I'll have to see a doctor about them. As for your chatter, I
don't know that I mind it--I've got so used to it."

Which was Marilla's way of saying that she liked to hear it.

CHAPTER XXVIII

An Unfortunate Lily Maid

OF course you must be Elaine, Anne," said Diana. "I could never
have the courage to float down there."

"Nor I," said Ruby Gillis, with a shiver. "I don't mind floating
down when there's two or three of us in the flat and we can sit up.
It's fun then. But to lie down and pretend I was dead--I just couldn't.
I'd die really of fright."

"Of course it would be romantic," conceded Jane Andrews, "but I
know I couldn't keep still. I'd be popping up every minute or so
to see where I was and if I wasn't drifting too far out. And you
know, Anne, that would spoil the effect."

"But it's so ridiculous to have a redheaded Elaine," mourned
Anne. "I'm not afraid to float down and I'd love to be Elaine.
But it's ridiculous just the same. Ruby ought to be Elaine
because she is so fair and has such lovely long golden hair--
Elaine had `all her bright hair streaming down,' you know.
And Elaine was the lily maid. Now, a red-haired person cannot
be a lily maid."

"Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's," said Diana
earnestly, "and your hair is ever so much darker than it used to
be before you cut it."

"Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Anne, flushing
sensitively with delight. "I've sometimes thought it was
myself--but I never dared to ask anyone for fear she would tell
me it wasn't. Do you think it could be called auburn now, Diana?"

"Yes, and I think it is real pretty," said Diana, looking
admiringly at the short, silky curls that clustered over
Anne's head and were held in place by a very jaunty black
velvet ribbon and bow.

They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope,
where a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the
bank; at its tip was a small wooden platform built out into the
water for the convenience of fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby
and Jane were spending the midsummer afternoon with Diana, and
Anne had come over to play with them.

Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on
and about the pond. Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell
having ruthlessly cut down the little circle of trees in his back
pasture in the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and wept,
not without an eye to the romance of it; but she was speedily
consoled, for, after all, as she and Diana said, big girls of
thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for such childish
amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports
to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout
over the bridge and the two girls learned to row themselves about
in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting.

It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied
Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent
of Education having prescribed it in the English course for the
Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it
and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there
was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the
fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had
become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by
secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those
days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present.

Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered
that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would
drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand
itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in
the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could
be more convenient for playing Elaine.

"Well, I'll be Elaine," said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for,
although she would have been delighted to play the principal
character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and
this, she felt, her limitations made impossible. "Ruby, you must
be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot.
But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have
the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat
when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length
in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will
be just the thing, Diana."

The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the
flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands
folded over her breast.

"Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously,
watching the still, white little face under the flickering
shadows of the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls.
Do you suppose it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde
says that all play-acting is abominably wicked."

"Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely.
"It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before
Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for
Elaine to be talking when she's dead."

Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was
none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an
excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then,
but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's folded
hands was all that could be desired.

"Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must kiss her quiet brows
and, Diana, you say, `Sister, farewell forever,' and Ruby, you say,
`Farewell, sweet sister,' both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can.
Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine `lay as though
she smiled.' That's better. Now push the flat off."

The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old
embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited
long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge
before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to
the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King,
they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid.

For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance
of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all
romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was
necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth
of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at
a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water
was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn
off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know
this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a
dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long
before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the
oars? Left behind at the landing!

Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she
was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession.
There was one chance--just one.

"I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day,
"and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the
bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs.
Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I
knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float
close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it.
You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of
knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but
I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I
just said, `Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and
I'll do the rest,' over and over again. Under such circumstances
you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was
answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and
I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up
on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan,
clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or
down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think
about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when
you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful
prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on
tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid
to get back to dry land."

The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in
midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the
lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had
not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment
they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the
tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they
started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as
they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge.
Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their
flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but
meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one.

The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate
lily maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone?
Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came!
Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no
longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her,
wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination
began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her.

Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in
her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing
under the bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory!

Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little
white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened
but also scornful gray eyes.

"Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed.

Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and
extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to
Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she
sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of
dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely
difficult to be dignified under the circumstances!

"What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars.
"We were playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even
looking at her rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in
the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed
out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind
enough to row me to the landing?"

Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining
assistance, sprang nimbly on shore.

"I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away.
But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining
hand on her arm.

"Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends?
I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't
mean to vex you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so
long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do.
Let's be friends."

For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened
consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy,
half-eager expression in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that
was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat.
But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her
wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed
back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place
yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had brought
about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment,
which to other and older people might be as laughable as its
cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly.
She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him!

"No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you,
Gilbert Blythe; and I don't want to be!"

"All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in
his cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley.
And I don't care either!"

He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the
steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head
very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret.
She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of
course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether,
Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a
good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from
her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt.

Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond
in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found
nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away.
Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to
recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew
through the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green Gables.
There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to
Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field.

"Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and
weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you
were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had
made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how
did you escape?"

"I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and
Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land."

"Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!" said Jane,
finding breath enough for utterance at last. "Of course you'll speak
to him after this."

"Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her
old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word `romantic' again,
Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is
all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything
I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost
your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not
be allowed to row on the pond any more."

Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are
apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert
households when the events of the afternoon became known.

"Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla.

"Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically.
A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable,
had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness.
"I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever"

"I don't see how," said Marilla.

"Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today.
Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each
mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair
of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't
belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my
imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured
me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity.
I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom.
And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic.
I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be
romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered
Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now.
I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me
in this respect, Marilla."

"I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically.

But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a
hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out.

"Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly,
"a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but
keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it."

CHAPTER XXIX

An Epoch in Anne's Life

Anne was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of
Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and
clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light.
Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most
part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the
spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like
airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no
sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir
trees at evening.

The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them
dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from MARMION--which
had also been part of their English course the preceding winter
and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and
exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its
imagery. When she came to the lines

The stubborn spearsmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,

she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better
fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them
again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led
into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly
divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager
curiosity she would not.

"Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me
so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings
are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still."

"It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such
news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses."

"Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all
and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.

"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever
has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem
too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun.
Guess again."

"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?"

Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment.

"I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless
it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer
meeting last night. Did he?"

"I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't
be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew
you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine
today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next
Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!"

"Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against
a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid
Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage
gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited
me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American
concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla
said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane.
I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that
I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of
that and got up in the middle of the night and said them."

"I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla.
She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll
have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an
Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls
talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and
they're going this year again."

"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I
can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was
disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I
do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time.
Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one
would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be
satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty,
Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes
my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend
to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad.
It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are
fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it
doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But
Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely
piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real
dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and
I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on
Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right
to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite
of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we
were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones
that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat
is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into
church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were
my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so
much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it
is such an interesting subject, isn't it?"

Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that
Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As
Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go
and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early
start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on
Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the
day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the
Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in
the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard
Slope, a token that Diana was also up.

Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the
breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was
much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and
jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up
through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were
waiting for her, and they were soon on the road.

It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it.
It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early
red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields.
The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists
curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills.
Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning
to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on
bridges that made Anne's flesh cringe with the old,
half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbor shore and
passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing huts; again it
mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or
misty-blue sky could be seen; but wherever it went there was much
of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached
town and found their way to "Beechwood." It was quite a fine old
mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms
and branching beeches. Miss Barry met them at the door with a
twinkle in her sharp black eyes.

"So you've come to see me at last, you Anne-girl," she said.
"Mercy, child, how you have grown! You're taller than I am, I
declare. And you're ever so much better looking than you used to
be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told."

"Indeed I didn't," said Anne radiantly. "I know I'm not so
freckled as I used to be, so I've much to be thankful for, but
I really hadn't dared to hope there was any other improvement.
I'm so glad you think there is, Miss Barry." Miss Barry's house
was furnished with "great magnificence," as Anne told Marilla
afterward. The two little country girls were rather abashed by
the splendor of the parlor where Miss Barry left them when she
went to see about dinner.

"Isn't it just like a palace?" whispered Diana. "I never was in
Aunt Josephine's house before, and I'd no idea it was so grand.
I just wish Julia Bell could see this--she puts on such airs
about her mother's parlor."

"Velvet carpet," sighed Anne luxuriously, "and silk curtains!
I've dreamed of such things, Diana. But do you know I don't
believe I feel very comfortable with them after all. There are
so many things in this room and all so splendid that there is no
scope for imagination. That is one consolation when you are
poor--there are so many more things you can imagine about."

Their sojourn in town was something that Anne and Diana dated
from for years. From first to last it was crowded with delights.

On Wednesday Miss Barry took them to the Exhibition grounds and
kept them there all day.

"It was splendid," Anne related to Marilla later on. "I never
imagined anything so interesting. I don't really know which
department was the most interesting. I think I liked the horses
and the flowers and the fancywork best. Josie Pye took first
prize for knitted lace. I was real glad she did. And I was glad
that I felt glad, for it shows I'm improving, don't you think,
Marilla, when I can rejoice in Josie's success? Mr. Harmon
Andrews took second prize for Gravenstein apples and Mr. Bell
took first prize for a pig. Diana said she thought it was
ridiculous for a Sunday-school superintendent to take a prize in
pigs, but I don't see why. Do you? She said she would always
think of it after this when he was praying so solemnly. Clara
Louise MacPherson took a prize for painting, and Mrs. Lynde got
first prize for homemade butter and cheese. So Avonlea was
pretty well represented, wasn't it? Mrs. Lynde was there that
day, and I never knew how much I really liked her until I saw her
familiar face among all those strangers. There were thousands of
people there, Marilla. It made me feel dreadfully insignificant.
And Miss Barry took us up to the grandstand to see the horse
races. Mrs. Lynde wouldn't go; she said horse racing was an
abomination and, she being a church member, thought it her
bounden duty to set a good example by staying away. But there
were so many there I don't believe Mrs. Lynde's absence would
ever be noticed. I don't think, though, that I ought to go very
often to horse races, because they ARE awfully fascinating.
Diana got so excited that she offered to bet me ten cents that
the red horse would win. I didn't believe he would, but I
refused to bet, because I wanted to tell Mrs. Allan all about
everything, and I felt sure it wouldn't do to tell her that.
It's always wrong to do anything you can't tell the minister's
wife. It's as good as an extra conscience to have a minister's
wife for your friend. And I was very glad I didn't bet, because
the red horse DID win, and I would have lost ten cents. So you
see that virtue was its own reward. We saw a man go up in a
balloon. I'd love to go up in a balloon, Marilla; it would be
simply thrilling; and we saw a man selling fortunes. You paid
him ten cents and a little bird picked out your fortune for you.
Miss Barry gave Diana and me ten cents each to have our fortunes
told. Mine was that I would marry a dark-complected man who was
very wealthy, and I would go across water to live. I looked
carefully at all the dark men I saw after that, but I didn't care
much for any of them, and anyhow I suppose it's too early to be
looking out for him yet. Oh, it was a never-to-be-forgotten day,
Marilla. I was so tired I couldn't sleep at night. Miss Barry
put us in the spare room, according to promise. It was an
elegant room, Marilla, but somehow sleeping in a spare room isn't
what I used to think it was. That's the worst of growing up, and
I'm beginning to realize it. The things you wanted so much when you
were a child don't seem half so wonderful to you when you get them."

Thursday the girls had a drive in the park, and in the evening
Miss Barry took them to a concert in the Academy of Music, where
a noted prima donna was to sing. To Anne the evening was a
glittering vision of delight.

"Oh, Marilla, it was beyond description. I was so excited I
couldn't even talk, so you may know what it was like. I just sat
in enraptured silence. Madame Selitsky was perfectly beautiful,
and wore white satin and diamonds. But when she began to sing I
never thought about anything else. Oh, I can't tell you how I
felt. But it seemed to me that it could never be hard to be good
any more. I felt like I do when I look up to the stars. Tears
came into my eyes, but, oh, they were such happy tears. I was so
sorry when it was all over, and I told Miss Barry I didn't see
how I was ever to return to common life again. She said she
thought if we went over to the restaurant across the street and
had an ice cream it might help me. That sounded so prosaic; but
to my surprise I found it true. The ice cream was delicious,
Marilla, and it was so lovely and dissipated to be sitting there
eating it at eleven o'clock at night. Diana said she believed
she was born for city life. Miss Barry asked me what my opinion
was, but I said I would have to think it over very seriously
before I could tell her what I really thought. So I thought it
over after I went to bed. That is the best time to think things out.
And I came to the conclusion, Marilla, that I wasn't born for city life
and that I was glad of it. It's nice to be eating ice cream at
brilliant restaurants at eleven o'clock at night once in a while;
but as a regular thing I'd rather be in the east gable at eleven,
sound asleep, but kind of knowing even in my sleep that the stars
were shining outside and that the wind was blowing in the firs
across the brook. I told Miss Barry so at breakfast the next
morning and she laughed. Miss Barry generally laughed at
anything I said, even when I said the most solemn things.
I don't think I liked it, Marilla, because I wasn't trying to be
funny. But she is a most hospitable lady and treated us royally."

Friday brought going-home time, and Mr. Barry drove in for the girls.

"Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourselves," said Miss Barry, as she
bade them good-bye.

"Indeed we have," said Diana.

"And you, Anne-girl?"

"I've enjoyed every minute of the time," said Anne, throwing her
arms impulsively about the old woman's neck and kissing her
wrinkled cheek. Diana would never have dared to do such a thing
and felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss Barry was
pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out
of sight. Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It
seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry
was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had
never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued people only
as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused
her, and consequently stood high in the old lady's good graces.
But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint
speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions,
her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips.

"I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd
adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum," she said to herself,
"but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I'd
a child like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better and
happier woman."

Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the
drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful
consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset
when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road.
Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky.
Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant
and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving
road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft
swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the
strong, fresh air.

"Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home," breathed Anne.

When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of
Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the
open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow
athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill
and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table.

"So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting.

"Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously. "I
could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled
chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"

"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after
such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take
off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in.
I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome
here without you, and I never put in four longer days."

After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and
Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit.

"I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel
that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was
the coming home."

CHAPTER XXX

The Queens Class Is Organized

Marilla laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair.
Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see
about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town,
for her eyes had grown tired very often of late.

It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen
around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from
the dancing red flames in the stove.

Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into
that joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was
being distilled from the maple cordwood. She had been reading,
but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she was dreaming,
with a smile on her parted lips. Glittering castles in Spain
were shaping themselves out of the mists and rainbows of her
lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling were happening
to her in cloudland--adventures that always turned out triumphantly
and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual life.

Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have
been suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that
soft mingling of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that
should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one
Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this
slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and
stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love made her
afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy
feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely
on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she
performed a sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter
and more critical than if the girl had been less dear to her.
Certainly Anne herself had no idea how Marilla loved her.
She sometimes thought wistfully that Marilla was very hard
to please and distinctly lacking in sympathy and understanding.
But she always checked the thought reproachfully, remembering what
she owed to Marilla.

"Anne," said Marilla abruptly, "Miss Stacy was here this
afternoon when you were out with Diana."

Anne came back from her other world with a start and a sigh.

"Was she? Oh, I'm so sorry I wasn't in. Why didn't you call me,
Marilla? Diana and I were only over in the Haunted Wood. It's
lovely in the woods now. All the little wood things--the ferns
and the satin leaves and the crackerberries--have gone to sleep,
just as if somebody had tucked them away until spring under a
blanket of leaves. I think it was a little gray fairy with a
rainbow scarf that came tiptoeing along the last moonlight night
and did it. Diana wouldn't say much about that, though. Diana
has never forgotten the scolding her mother gave her about
imagining ghosts into the Haunted Wood. It had a very bad effect
on Diana's imagination. It blighted it. Mrs. Lynde says Myrtle
Bell is a blighted being. I asked Ruby Gillis why Myrtle was
blighted, and Ruby said she guessed it was because her young man
had gone back on her. Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but young men,
and the older she gets the worse she is. Young men are all very
well in their place, but it doesn't do to drag them into
everything, does it? Diana and I are thinking seriously of
promising each other that we will never marry but be nice old
maids and live together forever. Diana hasn't quite made up her
mind though, because she thinks perhaps it would be nobler to
marry some wild, dashing, wicked young man and reform him. Diana
and I talk a great deal about serious subjects now, you know. We
feel that we are so much older than we used to be that it isn't
becoming to talk of childish matters. It's such a solemn thing
to be almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took all us girls who
are in our teens down to the brook last Wednesday, and talked to
us about it. She said we couldn't be too careful what habits we
formed and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because by the
time we were twenty our characters would be developed and the
foundation laid for our whole future life. And she said if the
foundation was shaky we could never build anything really worth
while on it. Diana and I talked the matter over coming home from
school. We felt extremely solemn, Marilla. And we decided that
we would try to be very careful indeed and form respectable
habits and learn all we could and be as sensible as possible, so
that by the time we were twenty our characters would be properly
developed. It's perfectly appalling to think of being twenty,
Marilla. It sounds so fearfully old and grown up. But why was
Miss Stacy here this afternoon?"

"That is what I want to tell you, Anne, if you'll ever give me a
chance to get a word in edgewise. She was talking about you."

"About me?" Anne looked rather scared. Then she flushed and exclaimed:

"Oh, I know what she was saying. I meant to tell you, Marilla,
honestly I did, but I forgot. Miss Stacy caught me reading Ben
Hur in school yesterday afternoon when I should have been studying
my Canadian history. Jane Andrews lent it to me. I was reading
it at dinner hour, and I had just got to the chariot race when
school went in. I was simply wild to know how it turned out--
although I felt sure Ben Hur must win, because it wouldn't be
poetical justice if he didn't--so I spread the history open on
my desk lid and then tucked Ben Hur between the desk and my knee.
I just looked as if I were studying Canadian history, you know,
while all the while I was reveling in Ben Hur. I was so
interested in it that I never noticed Miss Stacy coming down the
aisle until all at once I just looked up and there she was
looking down at me, so reproachful-like. I can't tell you how
ashamed I felt, Marilla, especially when I heard Josie Pye
giggling. Miss Stacy took Ben Hur away, but she never said a
word then. She kept me in at recess and talked to me. She said
I had done very wrong in two respects. First, I was wasting the
time I ought to have put on my studies; and secondly, I was
deceiving my teacher in trying to make it appear I was reading a
history when it was a storybook instead. I had never realized
until that moment, Marilla, that what I was doing was deceitful.
I was shocked. I cried bitterly, and asked Miss Stacy to forgive
me and I'd never do such a thing again; and I offered to do
penance by never so much as looking at Ben Hur for a whole week,
not even to see how the chariot race turned out. But Miss Stacy
said she wouldn't require that, and she forgave me freely. So I
think it wasn't very kind of her to come up here to you about it
after all."

"Miss Stacy never mentioned such a thing to me, Anne, and its
only your guilty conscience that's the matter with you. You have
no business to be taking storybooks to school. You read too many
novels anyhow. When I was a girl I wasn't so much as allowed to
look at a novel."

"Oh, how can you call Ben Hur a novel when it's really such a
religious book?" protested Anne. "Of course it's a little too
exciting to be proper reading for Sunday, and I only read it on
weekdays. And I never read ANY book now unless either Miss Stacy
or Mrs. Allan thinks it is a proper book for a girl thirteen and
three-quarters to read. Miss Stacy made me promise that. She
found me reading a book one day called, The Lurid Mystery of the
Haunted Hall. It was one Ruby Gillis had lent me, and, oh,
Marilla, it was so fascinating and creepy. It just curdled the
blood in my veins. But Miss Stacy said it was a very silly,
unwholesome book, and she asked me not to read any more of it or
any like it. I didn't mind promising not to read any more like
it, but it was AGONIZING to give back that book without knowing
how it turned out. But my love for Miss Stacy stood the test and
I did. It's really wonderful, Marilla, what you can do when
you're truly anxious to please a certain person."

"Well, I guess I'll light the lamp and get to work," said
Marilla. "I see plainly that you don't want to hear what Miss
Stacy had to say. You're more interested in the sound of your
own tongue than in anything else."

"Oh, indeed, Marilla, I do want to hear it," cried Anne contritely.
"I won't say another word--not one. I know I talk too much, but I
am really trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much,
yet if you only knew how many things I want to say and don't,
you'd give me some credit for it. Please tell me, Marilla."

"Well, Miss Stacy wants to organize a class among her advanced
students who mean to study for the entrance examination into
Queen's. She intends to give them extra lessons for an hour
after school. And she came to ask Matthew and me if we would
like to have you join it. What do you think about it yourself,
Anne? Would you like to go to Queen's and pass for a teacher?"

"Oh, Marilla!" Anne straightened to her knees and clasped her
hands. "It's been the dream of my life--that is, for the last
six months, ever since Ruby and Jane began to talk of studying
for the Entrance. But I didn't say anything about it, because I
supposed it would be perfectly useless. I'd love to be a teacher.
But won't it be dreadfully expensive? Mr. Andrews says it cost
him one hundred and fifty dollars to put Prissy through, and
Prissy wasn't a dunce in geometry."

"I guess you needn't worry about that part of it. When Matthew
and I took you to bring up we resolved we would do the best we
could for you and give you a good education. I believe in a girl
being fitted to earn her own living whether she ever has to or not.
You'll always have a home at Green Gables as long as Matthew and
I are here, but nobody knows what is going to happen in this
uncertain world, and it's just as well to be prepared.
So you can join the Queen's class if you like, Anne."

"Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne flung her arms about Marilla's
waist and looked up earnestly into her face. "I'm extremely
grateful to you and Matthew. And I'll study as hard as I can and
do my very best to be a credit to you. I warn you not to expect
much in geometry, but I think I can hold my own in anything else
if I work hard."

"I dare say you'll get along well enough. Miss Stacy says you
are bright and diligent." Not for worlds would Marilla have told
Anne just what Miss Stacy had said about her; that would have
been to pamper vanity. "You needn't rush to any extreme of
killing yourself over your books. There is no hurry. You won't
be ready to try the Entrance for a year and a half yet. But it's
well to begin in time and be thoroughly grounded, Miss Stacy says."

"I shall take more interest than ever in my studies now," said
Anne blissfully, "because I have a purpose in life. Mr. Allan
says everybody should have a purpose in life and pursue it
faithfully. Only he says we must first make sure that it is a
worthy purpose. I would call it a worthy purpose to want to be a
teacher like Miss Stacy, wouldn't you, Marilla? I think it's a
very noble profession."

The Queen's class was organized in due time. Gilbert Blythe,
Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie
Sloane, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson joined it. Diana Barry did
not, as her parents did not intend to send her to Queen's. This
seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, since the
night on which Minnie May had had the croup, had she and Diana
been separated in anything. On the evening when the Queen's
class first remained in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw
Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through
the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to
keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum.
A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the
pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes.
Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye
see those tears.

"But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness
of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I
saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I
thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been
going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things
perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde
isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no
doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the
Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and
Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height
of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years
after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane
says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never
marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband
won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the
egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful
experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old
crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is
just going to college for education's sake, because she won't
have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different
with orphans who are living on charity--THEY have to hustle.
Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he
couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to.
I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of
Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a
funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue
eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will
be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane
says he's going to go into politics and be a member of
Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that,
because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals
that get on in politics nowadays."

"What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing
that Anne was opening her Caesar.

"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--
if he has any," said Anne scornfully.

There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously
the rivalry had been rather onesided, but there was no longer any
doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was.
He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class
tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying
to compete with them.

Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his
plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined
rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of
Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged
books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes
walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or
Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found
out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that
she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care.
Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that
she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of
Shining Waters again she would answer very differently.
All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she
found that the old resentment she had cherished against him
was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power.
It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of
that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger.
That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker.
Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it.
But it was too late.

And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana,
should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she
hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her
feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now
that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was
not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself
with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only
poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane,
unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly.

Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties
and studies. For Anne the days slipped by like golden beads on
the necklace of the year. She was happy, eager, interested;
there were lessons to be learned and honor to be won; delightful
books to read; new pieces to be practiced for the Sunday-school
choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at the manse with Mrs. Allan;
and then, almost before Anne realized it, spring had come again
to Green Gables and all the world was abloom once more.

Studies palled just a wee bit then; the Queen's class, left
behind in school while the others scattered to green lanes and
leafy wood cuts and meadow byways, looked wistfully out of the
windows and discovered that Latin verbs and French exercises had
somehow lost the tang and zest they had possessed in the crisp
winter months. Even Anne and Gilbert lagged and grew indifferent.
Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term was ended and the
glad vacation days stretched rosily before them.

"But you've done good work this past year," Miss Stacy told them
on the last evening, "and you deserve a good, jolly vacation.
Have the best time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a
good stock of health and vitality and ambition to carry you
through next year. It will be the tug of war, you know--the last
year before the Entrance."

"Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?" asked Josie Pye.

Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions; in this instance the
rest of the class felt grateful to her; none of them would have
dared to ask it of Miss Stacy, but all wanted to, for there had
been alarming rumors running at large through the school for some
time that Miss Stacy was not coming back the next year--that she
had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home
district and meant to accept. The Queen's class listened in
breathless suspense for her answer.

"Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking
another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To
tell the truth, I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I
found I couldn't leave them. So I'll stay and see you through."

"Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so
carried away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably
every time he thought about it for a week.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Anne, with shining eyes. "Dear Stacy, it would
be perfectly dreadful if you didn't come back. I don't believe I could
have the heart to go on with my studies at all if another teacher came here."

When Anne got home that night she stacked all her textbooks away
in an old trunk in the attic, locked it, and threw the key into
the blanket box.

"I'm not even going to look at a schoolbook in vacation," she
told Marilla. "I've studied as hard all the term as I possibly
could and I've pored over that geometry until I know every
proposition in the first book off by heart, even when the letters
ARE changed. I just feel tired of everything sensible and I'm
going to let my imagination run riot for the summer. Oh, you
needn't be alarmed, Marilla. I'll only let it run riot within
reasonable limits. But I want to have a real good jolly time
this summer, for maybe it's the last summer I'll be a little
girl. Mrs. Lynde says that if I keep stretching out next year
as I've done this I'll have to put on longer skirts. She says
I'm all running to legs and eyes. And when I put on longer skirts
I shall feel that I have to live up to them and be very dignified.
It won't even do to believe in fairies then, I'm afraid; so I'm
going to believe in them with all my whole heart this summer.
I think we're going to have a very gay vacation. Ruby Gillis
is going to have a birthday party soon and there's the Sunday
school picnic and the missionary concert next month.
And Mrs. Barry says that some evening he'll take Diana and me
over to the White Sands Hotel and have dinner there. They have
dinner there in the evening, you know. Jane Andrews was over
once last summer and she says it was a dazzling sight to see the
electric lights and the flowers and all the lady guests in such
beautiful dresses. Jane says it was her first glimpse into high
life and she'll never forget it to her dying day."

Mrs. Lynde came up the next afternoon to find out why Marilla had
not been at the Aid meeting on Thursday. When Marilla was not at
Aid meeting people knew there was something wrong at Green Gables.

"Matthew had a bad spell with his heart Thursday," Marilla
explained, "and I didn't feel like leaving him. Oh, yes, he's
all right again now, but he takes them spells oftener than he
used to and I'm anxious about him. The doctor says he must be
careful to avoid excitement. That's easy enough, for Matthew
doesn't go about looking for excitement by any means and never did,
but he's not to do any very heavy work either and you might as well
tell Matthew not to breathe as not to work. Come and lay off your
things, Rachel. You'll stay to tea?"

"Well, seeing you're so pressing, perhaps I might as well, stay"
said Mrs. Rachel, who had not the slightest intention of doing
anything else.

Mrs. Rachel and Marilla sat comfortably in the parlor while Anne
got the tea and made hot biscuits that were light and white
enough to defy even Mrs. Rachel's criticism.

"I must say Anne has turned out a real smart girl," admitted
Mrs. Rachel, as Marilla accompanied her to the end of the lane
at sunset. "She must be a great help to you."

"She is," said Marilla, "and she's real steady and reliable now.
I used to be afraid she'd never get over her featherbrained ways,
but she has and I wouldn't be afraid to trust her in anything now."

"I never would have thought she'd have turned out so well that
first day I was here three years ago," said Mrs. Rachel.
"Lawful heart, shall I ever forget that tantrum of hers!
When I went home that night I says to Thomas, says I, `Mark my words,
Thomas, Marilla Cuthbert'll live to rue the step she's took.' But
I was mistaken and I'm real glad of it. I ain't one of those
kind of people, Marilla, as can never be brought to own up that
they've made a mistake. No, that never was my way, thank goodness.
I did make a mistake in judging Anne, but it weren't no wonder,
for an odder, unexpecteder witch of a child there never was in
this world, that's what. There was no ciphering her out by
the rules that worked with other children. It's nothing
short of wonderful how she's improved these three years, but
especially in looks. She's a real pretty girl got to be, though I
can't say I'm overly partial to that pale, big-eyed style myself.
I like more snap and color, like Diana Barry has or Ruby Gillis.
Ruby Gillis's looks are real showy. But somehow--I don't know
how it is but when Anne and them are together, though she ain't
half as handsome, she makes them look kind of common and overdone--
something like them white June lilies she calls narcissus alongside
of the big, red peonies, that's what."

CHAPTER XXXI

Where the Brook and River Meet

Anne had her "good" summer and enjoyed it wholeheartedly. She
and Diana fairly lived outdoors, reveling in all the delights
that Lover's Lane and the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and
Victoria Island afforded. Marilla offered no objections to
Anne's gypsyings. The Spencervale doctor who had come the night
Minnie May had the croup met Anne at the house of a patient one
afternoon early in vacation, looked her over sharply, screwed up
his mouth, shook his head, and sent a message to Marilla Cuthbert
by another person. It was:

"Keep that redheaded girl of yours in the open air all summer and
don't let her read books until she gets more spring into her step."

This message frightened Marilla wholesomely. She read Anne's death
warrant by consumption in it unless it was scrupulously obeyed.
As a result, Anne had the golden summer of her life as far as
freedom and frolic went. She walked, rowed, berried, and dreamed
to her heart's content; and when September came she was bright-eyed
and alert, with a step that would have satisfied the Spencervale
doctor and a heart full of ambition and zest once more.

"I feel just like studying with might and main," she declared as
she brought her books down from the attic. "Oh, you good old
friends, I'm glad to see your honest faces once more--yes, even
you, geometry. I've had a perfectly beautiful summer, Marilla,
and now I'm rejoicing as a strong man to run a race, as Mr. Allan
said last Sunday. Doesn't Mr. Allan preach magnificent sermons?
Mrs. Lynde says he is improving every day and the first thing we
know some city church will gobble him up and then we'll be left
and have to turn to and break in another green preacher. But I
don't see the use of meeting trouble halfway, do you, Marilla? I
think it would be better just to enjoy Mr. Allan while we have him.
If I were a man I think I'd be a minister. They can have such
an influence for good, if their theology is sound; and it
must be thrilling to preach splendid sermons and stir your
hearers' hearts. Why can't women be ministers, Marilla? I asked
Mrs. Lynde that and she was shocked and said it would be a
scandalous thing. She said there might be female ministers in
the States and she believed there was, but thank goodness we hadn't
got to that stage in Canada yet and she hoped we never would.
But I don't see why. I think women would make splendid ministers.
When there is a social to be got up or a church tea or anything
else to raise money the women have to turn to and do the work.
I'm sure Mrs. Lynde can pray every bit as well as Superintendent
Bell and I've no doubt she could preach too with a little practice."

"Yes, I believe she could," said Marilla dryly. "She does plenty
of unofficial preaching as it is. Nobody has much of a chance to
go wrong in Avonlea with Rachel to oversee them."

"Marilla," said Anne in a burst of confidence, "I want to tell
you something and ask you what you think about it. It has
worried me terribly--on Sunday afternoons, that is, when I think
specially about such matters. I do really want to be good; and
when I'm with you or Mrs. Allan or Miss Stacy I want it more
than ever and I want to do just what would please you and what
you would approve of. But mostly when I'm with Mrs. Lynde I
feel desperately wicked and as if I wanted to go and do the very
thing she tells me I oughtn't to do. I feel irresistibly tempted
to do it. Now, what do you think is the reason I feel like that?
Do you think it's because I'm really bad and unregenerate?"

Marilla looked dubious for a moment. Then she laughed.

"If you are I guess I am too, Anne, for Rachel often has that
very effect on me. I sometimes think she'd have more of an
influence for good, as you say yourself, if she didn't keep
nagging people to do right. There should have been a special
commandment against nagging. But there, I shouldn't talk so.
Rachel is a good Christian woman and she means well. There isn't
a kinder soul in Avonlea and she never shirks her share of work."

"I'm very glad you feel the same," said Anne decidedly. "It's so
encouraging. I shan't worry so much over that after this. But I
dare say there'll be other things to worry me. They keep coming
up new all the time--things to perplex you, you know. You settle
one question and there's another right after. There are so many
things to be thought over and decided when you're beginning to
grow up. It keeps me busy all the time thinking them over and
deciding what is right. It's a serious thing to grow up, isn't
it, Marilla? But when I have such good friends as you and
Matthew and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy I ought to grow up
successfully, and I'm sure it will be my own fault if I don't.
I feel it's a great responsibility because I have only the one
chance. If I don't grow up right I can't go back and begin over
again. I've grown two inches this summer, Marilla. Mr. Gillis
measured me at Ruby's party. I'm so glad you made my new dresses
longer. That dark-green one is so pretty and it was sweet of you
to put on the flounce. Of course I know it wasn't really
necessary, but flounces are so stylish this fall and Josie Pye
has flounces on all her dresses. I know I'll be able to study
better because of mine. I shall have such a comfortable feeling
deep down in my mind about that flounce."

"It's worth something to have that," admitted Marilla.

Miss Stacy came back to Avonlea school and found all her pupils
eager for work once more. Especially did the Queen's class gird
up their loins for the fray, for at the end of the coming year,
dimly shadowing their pathway already, loomed up that fateful
thing known as "the Entrance," at the thought of which one and
all felt their hearts sink into their very shoes. Suppose they
did not pass! That thought was doomed to haunt Anne through the
waking hours of that winter, Sunday afternoons inclusive, to the
almost entire exclusion of moral and theological problems. When
Anne had bad dreams she found herself staring miserably at pass
lists of the Entrance exams, where Gilbert Blythe's name was
blazoned at the top and in which hers did not appear at all.

But it was a jolly, busy, happy swift-flying winter. Schoolwork
was as interesting, class rivalry as absorbing, as of yore. New
worlds of thought, feeling, and ambition, fresh, fascinating
fields of unexplored knowledge seemed to be opening out before
Anne's eager eyes.

"Hills peeped o'er hill and Alps on Alps arose."

Much of all this was due to Miss Stacy's tactful, careful,
broadminded guidance. She led her class to think and explore and
discover for themselves and encouraged straying from the old
beaten paths to a degree that quite shocked Mrs. Lynde and the
school trustees, who viewed all innovations on established
methods rather dubiously.

Apart from her studies Anne expanded socially, for Marilla,
mindful of the Spencervale doctor's dictum, no longer vetoed
occasional outings. The Debating Club flourished and gave
several concerts; there were one or two parties almost verging on
grown-up affairs; there were sleigh drives and skating frolics galore.

Betweentimes Anne grew, shooting up so rapidly that Marilla was
astonished one day, when they were standing side by side, to find
the girl was taller than herself.

"Why, Anne, how you've grown!" she said, almost unbelievingly. A
sigh followed on the words. Marilla felt a queer regret over
Anne's inches. The child she had learned to love had vanished
somehow and here was this tall, serious-eyed girl of fifteen,
with the thoughtful brows and the proudly poised little head, in
her place. Marilla loved the girl as much as she had loved the
child, but she was conscious of a queer sorrowful sense of loss.
And that night, when Anne had gone to prayer meeting with Diana,
Marilla sat alone in the wintry twilight and indulged in the
weakness of a cry. Matthew, coming in with a lantern, caught her
at it and gazed at her in such consternation that Marilla had to
laugh through her tears.

"I was thinking about Anne," she explained. "She's got to be
such a big girl--and she'll probably be away from us next winter.
I'll miss her terrible."

"She'll be able to come home often," comforted Matthew, to whom
Anne was as yet and always would be the little, eager girl he had
brought home from Bright River on that June evening four years before.
"The branch railroad will be built to Carmody by that time."

"It won't be the same thing as having her here all the time,"
sighed Marilla gloomily, determined to enjoy her luxury of grief
uncomforted. "But there--men can't understand these things!"

There were other changes in Anne no less real than the physical change.
For one thing, she became much quieter. Perhaps she thought all the
more and dreamed as much as ever, but she certainly talked less.
Marilla noticed and commented on this also.

"You don't chatter half as much as you used to, Anne, nor use
half as many big words. What has come over you?"

Anne colored and laughed a little, as she dropped her book and looked
dreamily out of the window, where big fat red buds were bursting out
on the creeper in response to the lure of the spring sunshine.

"I don't know--I don't want to talk as much," she said, denting her
chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. "It's nicer to think dear,
pretty thoughts and keep them in one's heart, like treasures.
I don't like to have them laughed at or wondered over.
And somehow I don't want to use big words any more.
It's almost a pity, isn't it, now that I'm really growing
big enough to say them if I did want to. It's fun to be
almost grown up in some ways, but it's not the kind of fun
I expected, Marilla. There's so much to learn and do and think
that there isn't time for big words. Besides, Miss Stacy says
the short ones are much stronger and better. She makes us write
all our essays as simply as possible. It was hard at first.
I was so used to crowding in all the fine big words I could
think of--and I thought of any number of them. But I've got
used to it now and I see it's so much better."

"What has become of your story club? I haven't heard you speak
of it for a long time."

"The story club isn't in existence any longer. We hadn't time
for it--and anyhow I think we had got tired of it. It was silly
to be writing about love and murder and elopements and mysteries.
Miss Stacy sometimes has us write a story for training in
composition, but she won't let us write anything but what might
happen in Avonlea in our own lives, and she criticizes it very
sharply and makes us criticize our own too. I never thought my
compositions had so many faults until I began to look for them
myself. I felt so ashamed I wanted to give up altogether, but
Miss Stacy said I could learn to write well if I only trained
myself to be my own severest critic. And so I am trying to."

"You've only two more months before the Entrance," said Marilla.
"Do you think you'll be able to get through?"

Anne shivered.

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I'll be all right--and then I
get horribly afraid. We've studied hard and Miss Stacy has
drilled us thoroughly, but we mayn't get through for all that.
We've each got a stumbling block. Mine is geometry of course,
and Jane's is Latin, and Ruby and Charlie's is algebra, and
Josie's is arithmetic. Moody Spurgeon says he feels it in his
bones that he is going to fail in English history. Miss Stacy is
going to give us examinations in June just as hard as we'll have at
the Entrance and mark us just as strictly, so we'll have some idea.
I wish it was all over, Marilla. It haunts me. Sometimes I wake up
in the night and wonder what I'll do if I don't pass."

"Why, go to school next year and try again," said Marilla unconcernedly.

"Oh, I don't believe I'd have the heart for it. It would be such
a disgrace to fail, especially if Gil--if the others passed. And
I get so nervous in an examination that I'm likely to make a mess
of it. I wish I had nerves like Jane Andrews. Nothing rattles her."

Anne sighed and, dragging her eyes from the witcheries of the
spring world, the beckoning day of breeze and blue, and the green
things upspringing in the garden, buried herself resolutely in
her book. There would be other springs, but if she did not
succeed in passing the Entrance, Anne felt convinced that she
would never recover sufficiently to enjoy them.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Pass List Is Out

With the end of June came the close of the term and the close of
Miss Stacy's rule in Avonlea school. Anne and Diana walked home that
evening feeling very sober indeed. Red eyes and damp handkerchiefs
bore convincing testimony to the fact that Miss Stacy's farewell words
must have been quite as touching as Mr. Phillips's had been under
similar circumstances three years before. Diana looked back at the
schoolhouse from the foot of the spruce hill and sighed deeply.

"It does seem as if it was the end of everything, doesn't it?"
she said dismally.

"You oughtn't to feel half as badly as I do," said Anne, hunting
vainly for a dry spot on her handkerchief. "You'll be back again
next winter, but I suppose I've left the dear old school forever--
if I have good luck, that is."

"It won't be a bit the same. Miss Stacy won't be there, nor you
nor Jane nor Ruby probably. I shall have to sit all alone, for I
couldn't bear to have another deskmate after you. Oh, we have had
jolly times, haven't we, Anne? It's dreadful to think they're all over."

Two big tears rolled down by Diana's nose.

"If you would stop crying I could," said Anne imploringly. "Just
as soon as I put away my hanky I see you brimming up and that
starts me off again. As Mrs. Lynde says, `If you can't be cheerful,
be as cheerful as you can.' After all, I dare say I'll be back
next year. This is one of the times I KNOW I'm not going to pass.
They're getting alarmingly frequent."

"Why, you came out splendidly in the exams Miss Stacy gave."

"Yes, but those exams didn't make me nervous. When I think of
the real thing you can't imagine what a horrid cold fluttery
feeling comes round my heart. And then my number is thirteen and
Josie Pye says it's so unlucky. I am NOT superstitious and I know
it can make no difference. But still I wish it wasn't thirteen."

"I do wish I was going in with you," said Diana. "Wouldn't we
have a perfectly elegant time? But I suppose you'll have to cram
in the evenings."

"No; Miss Stacy has made us promise not to open a book at all.
She says it would only tire and confuse us and we are to go out
walking and not think about the exams at all and go to bed early.
It's good advice, but I expect it will be hard to follow; good
advice is apt to be, I think. Prissy Andrews told me that she
sat up half the night every night of her Entrance week and
crammed for dear life; and I had determined to sit up AT LEAST as
long as she did. It was so kind of your Aunt Josephine to ask me
to stay at Beechwood while I'm in town."

"You'll write to me while you're in, won't you?"

"I'll write Tuesday night and tell you how the first day goes,"
promised Anne.

"I'll be haunting the post office Wednesday," vowed Diana.

Anne went to town the following Monday and on Wednesday Diana
haunted the post office, as agreed, and got her letter.

"Dearest Diana" [wrote Anne],

"Here it is Tuesday night and I'm writing this in the library at
Beechwood. Last night I was horribly lonesome all alone in my
room and wished so much you were with me. I couldn't "cram"
because I'd promised Miss Stacy not to, but it was as hard to
keep from opening my history as it used to be to keep from
reading a story before my lessons were learned.

"This morning Miss Stacy came for me and we went to the Academy,
calling for Jane and Ruby and Josie on our way. Ruby asked me to
feel her hands and they were as cold as ice. Josie said I looked
as if I hadn't slept a wink and she didn't believe I was strong
enough to stand the grind of the teacher's course even if I did get
through. There are times and seasons even yet when I don't feel
that I've made any great headway in learning to like Josie Pye!

"When we reached the Academy there were scores of students there
from all over the Island. The first person we saw was Moody
Spurgeon sitting on the steps and muttering away to himself.
Jane asked him what on earth he was doing and he said he was
repeating the multiplication table over and over to steady his
nerves and for pity's sake not to interrupt him, because if he
stopped for a moment he got frightened and forgot everything he
ever knew, but the multiplication table kept all his facts firmly
in their proper place!

"When we were assigned to our rooms Miss Stacy had to leave us.
Jane and I sat together and Jane was so composed that I envied her.
No need of the multiplication table for good, steady,
sensible Jane! I wondered if I looked as I felt and
if they could hear my heart thumping clear across the room.
Then a man came in and began distributing the English
examination sheets. My hands grew cold then and my head
fairly whirled around as I picked it up. Just one awful
moment--Diana, I felt exactly as I did four years ago when
I asked Marilla if I might stay at Green Gables--and then
everything cleared up in my mind and my heart began beating
again--I forgot to say that it had stopped altogether!--for
I knew I could do something with THAT paper anyhow.

"At noon we went home for dinner and then back again for history
in the afternoon. The history was a pretty hard paper and I got
dreadfully mixed up in the dates. Still, I think I did fairly
well today. But oh, Diana, tomorrow the geometry exam comes off
and when I think of it it takes every bit of determination I
possess to keep from opening my Euclid. If I thought the
multiplication table would help me any I would recite it
from now till tomorrow morning.

"I went down to see the other girls this evening. On my way I met
Moody Spurgeon wandering distractedly around. He said he knew he
had failed in history and he was born to be a disappointment to
his parents and he was going home on the morning train; and it
would be easier to be a carpenter than a minister, anyhow. I
cheered him up and persuaded him to stay to the end because it
would be unfair to Miss Stacy if he didn't. Sometimes I have
wished I was born a boy, but when I see Moody Spurgeon I'm always
glad I'm a girl and not his sister.

"Ruby was in hysterics when I reached their boardinghouse; she had
just discovered a fearful mistake she had made in her English
paper. When she recovered we went uptown and had an ice cream.
How we wished you had been with us.

"Oh, Diana, if only the geometry examination were over!
But there, as Mrs. Lynde would say, the sun will go on
rising and setting whether I fail in geometry or not.
That is true but not especially comforting. I think I'd
rather it didn't go on if I failed!

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