CHAPTER IX of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Mrs. Rachel Lind is properly horrified. Anne had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lind arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unreasonable attack of Grip had confined the good lady to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt for people who were. But Grip, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out of doors, she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea. Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened up below the apple orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland, and she had explored it to its furthest end, in all its delicious vagaries, and brook and bridge, fir, coppice, and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways made of maple and mountain ash. She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow of that wonderful deep clear icy cold spring. It was set about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern, and beyond it was a log bridge over by the brook. The bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight rained under the straight thick growing firs and spruces. The only flowers there were myriad and delicate june bells, those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale aerial star flowers like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glittered like threads of silver among the trees, and verb bows and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech. All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla half-death over her discoveries. Not that Matthew complained, to be sure. He listened to it all with a worldless smile of enjoyment on his face. Marilla permitted the chatter until she found herself becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue. Anne, without an orchard, and Mrs. Rachel came in, wandering at her own sweet will through the lush tremulous grasses splashed with a ruddy evening sunshine, so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse-beat with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grip must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted, Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call. I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew. I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself, said Marilla. I'm getting over my surprise now. It was too bad there was such a mistake, said Mrs. Rachel sympathetically. Couldn't you have sent her back? I suppose we could, but we said I did not, too. Matthew took a fancy to her, and I must say I like her myself, although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a different place already.  Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourselves, that Lady Gloomily, especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition. I suppose there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out, but I don't want to discourage you, I'm sure Marilla. I'm not feeling discouraged, was Marilla's dry response. When I make up my mind to do a thing, it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in. Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings, but abashed at finding the delights herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger. She halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature, and short, tight, winty dress she'd worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever. The wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder, and it never looked redder than at that moment. Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's certain, that was Mrs. Rachel Lynn's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. She's terrible, skinny, and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lothel, heart, did you ever see such freckles? And hair is red as carrots. Come here, child, I say. Anne came there, but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor instead of performing Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from hand to foot.   A louder stamp with each assertion of hatred.    Anne exclaimed Marilla in consternation. The Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. How dare you say such things about me? She repeated vehemently. How would you like to have such things said about you?  I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so. I hope I hurt them. You've hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before by Mrs. Thomas's intoxicated husband, and I'll never forgive you for it. Never, never. Stamp, stamp. Did anybody see such a temper? exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. Anne, go to your room and stay there until I come up, said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall, slammed it until the tins on the porch walls outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. Well, I don't envy your job in bringing that up, Marilla, said Mrs. Rachel, with unspeakable salinity. Marilla opened her lips to say what she knew not of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and afterwards. You shouldn't have tweeted her about her looks, Rachel. Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say you're upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen, demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. No, said Marilla slowly, I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty, and I'll have to give her talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right, and you were too hard on her, Rachel. Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans brought from goodness knows where have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed, don't you wear yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You have your own troubles with that child, but if you'll take my advice, which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two, you'll do that talking to you mentioned with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think that would be the most effective language for that kind of child. Her temper matches her hair, I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you come down and see me often as usual, but you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in my experience. Where at, Mrs. Rachel swept out, and away, if a fat woman, who always waddled, could be said to sweep away. And Marilla, with a very solemn face, betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs, she pondered uneasily as what to do. She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should display such temper before Mrs. Rachel Linde of all people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable and rebuking conscious, that she felt more humiliation over than sorrow over the discovery of such serious defect in Anne's disposition. And how was she to punish her, the amiable suggestion of a vert switch to the efficiency of which all Mrs. Rachel's own children could have borne smarting testimony, did not appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a child. No, some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the enormity of her offence. Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying verbitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane. Anne, she said, not un-gently. No answer.  Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained, and her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. This is a nice way to for you to behave, Anne. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?  You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way you did to her, Anne.  I wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that, you have disgraced me. I'm sure I don't know why you should lose your temper like that, just because Mrs. Lynde said you had red hair and homely. You say it often enough yourself. Oh, but there's such a difference between saying a thing yourself and hearing other people say it. Well, Anne, you may know a thing is so, but you can't help hoping that other people don't quite think it is. I suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I couldn't help it when she said those things. Something just rose right up and choked me, and I had to fly out at her. Well, you made a fine exhibition of yourself, I must say. Mrs. Lynde will have a nice story to tell everywhere about you, and she'll tell it too. It was a dreadful thing for you to lose your temper like that, Anne.  An old remembrance suddenly rose up before Marilla.  Marilla was every day of fifty before the sting had gone out of that memory. I don't say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly right in saying what she did to you, Anne, she admitted in a softer tone. Rachel's too outspoken. But that is no excuse for such behavior on your part. She was a stranger and an elderly person in my visitor, all three very good reasons why you should have been respectful to her. You were rude and saucy, and Marilla had a saving inspiration of punishment. You must go to her and tell her you were very sorry for your bad temper, and ask her to forgive you. I can never do that, said Anne determinedly and darkly. You can punish me in any way you like, Marilla. You can shut me up in a dark, damp dungeon inhabited by snakes and toads and feed me only on bread and water, and I shall not complain, but I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to forgive me. We're not in the habit of shutting people up in dark, damp dungeons, said Marilla dryly, especially as there are rather scarce in Avonlea. But apologize to Mrs. Lynde, you must, and shall, and you'll stay here in your room until you can tell me you're willing to do it. I shall have to be in here forever, then, said Anne more fully, because I can't tell Mrs. Lynde I'm sorry. I said those things to her. How can I? I'm not sorry. I'm sorry I vexed you, but I'm glad I told her just what I did. It was a great satisfaction. I can't say I'm sorry when I'm not, can I? I can't even imagine I'm sorry. Perhaps your imagination will be in better working order by the morning, said Marilla, rising to depart. You have the night to think over your conduct and come to a better frame of mind. You say you would try to be a very good girl if we kept you at Green Gables, but I must say it hasn't seemed very much like it this evening. Leaving this Parthian shaft to wrinkle in Anne's stormy bosom, Marilla descended to the kitchen, grievously troubled in mind, and vexed in soul. She was as angry with herself as with Anne. Because whenever she recalled Mrs. Rachel's dumb-found incontinence, her lips twitched with amusement, and she felt a most reprehensible desire to laugh. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Anne of Green Gables This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Evelyn Clark Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 10 Anne's Apology Marilla said nothing to Matthew about the affair that evening, but when Anne proved still refractory the next morning, an explanation had to be made to account for her absence from the breakfast table. Marilla told Matthew the whole story, taking pains to impress him with a due sense of the enormity of Anne's behavior. It's a good thing Rachel Lynn got a calling down. She's a meddlesome old gossip. Was Matthew's Consulatory rejoinder? Matthew Cothbert I'm astonished at you. You know that Anne's behavior was dreadful, and yet you take her part. I suppose you'll be saying next thing that she oughtn't be punished at all. Well, now, no, not exactly, said Matthew uneasily. I reckon she ought to be punished a little. But don't be too hard on her, Marilla. Recollect she hasn't had anyone to teach her right. You're going to give her something to eat, aren't you? When did you ever hear of me starving people into good behavior, demanded Marilla indignantly? She'll have her meals regular, and I'll carry them up to her myself. But she'll stay up there until she's willing to apologize to Mrs. Linde. And that's final, Matthew. Breakfast, dinner, and supper were very silent meals, for Anne still remained objurate. After each meal, Marilla carried a well-filled tray to the East Gable, and brought it down later on, not noticeably depleted. Matthew eyed its last descent with a troubled eye. Had Anne eaten anything at all? When Marilla went out that evening to bring the cows from the back pasture, Matthew, who had been hanging around the barns and watching, slipped into the house with the air of a burglar and crept upstairs. As a general thing, Matthew gravitated between the kitchen and the little bedroom off the hall where he slept. Once in a while, he ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting-room when the minister came to tea. But he had never been upstairs in his own house, since the spring he helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom. And that was four years ago. He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes outside the door of the East Gable before he summoned courage to tap on it with his fingers and then open the door to peep in. Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window, gazing mournfully out into the garden. Very small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew's heart smote him. He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her. Anne, he whispered as if afraid of being overheard. How were you making it, Anne? Anne smiled wainely. Pretty well. I imagine a good deal, and that helps to pass the time. Of course it's rather lonesome, but then I may as well get used to that. Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary imprisonment before her. Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely. Well now, Anne, don't you think you'd better do it and have it over with, he whispered? It'll have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Marilla's a dreadful determined woman, dreadful determined Anne, do it right off, I say, and have it over. Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Linde? Yes, apologize. That's the very word, said Matthew eagerly. Just smooth it over, so to speak. That's what I was trying to get at. I suppose I could do it to oblige you, said Anne thoughtfully. It would be true enough to say I am sorry because I am sorry now. I wasn't a bit sorry last night. I was mad clear through and I stayed mad all night.  I wasn't in a temper anymore and it left a dreadful sort of gone-ness too. I felt so ashamed of myself, but I just couldn't think of going and telling Mrs. Linde so. It would be so humiliating.  But still, I'd do anything for you if you really want me to. Well now, of course I do. It's terrible alone some downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over. That's a good girl. Very well, said Anne, resignedly. I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in. I've repented. That's right. That's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promise not to do that. Wild horses won't drag the secret from me, promised Anne solemnly. How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow? But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture. At least Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling Marilla over the banisters. Well, she said, going into the hall. I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynn so. Very well, Marilla's Christmas gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. I'll take you down after milking. Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down, Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky, and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek pentonent, such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynn. What are you thinking of, Anne? she asked sharply. I'm imagining out what I must say to Ms. Lynn, answered Anne dreamily. That was satisfactory, or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so wrapped and radiant. Wrapped and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynn, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful pentonance appeared on every feature before a word was spoken, Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly. Oh, Mrs. Lynn, I am so extremely sorry, she said with a quiver in her voice. I could never express all my sorrow. No, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I have behaved terribly to you, and I've disgraced my dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables, although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It was the truth. Every word you said was true. My hair is red, and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynn, please, please forgive me.  Would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynn. Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity. It breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynn recognized its unmistakable ring, but the former understood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynn, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology, and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious heart. There, there, get up, child, she said heartily. Of course I forgive you.  You mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red. But I knew a girl once, went to school with her in fact, whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young. But when she grew up, it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did too, not a mite. Oh, Mrs. Lynn, Anne drew a long breath that she rose to her feet. You have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under the apple trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out there. Laws, yes. Run along, child, and you can pick a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like. As the door closed behind Anne, Mrs. Lynn got bristly up to light a lamp. She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla. It's easier than the one you've got. I just keep that for the hired boy to sit on. Yes, she's an odd child, but there is something kind of taking about her after all. I don't feel so surprised that you and Matthew keeping her as I did, nor so sorry for you either. She may turn out all right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself. A little too, well, too kind of forcible, you know, but she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among civilized folks. And then her temper's pretty quick. I guess there's one comfort. A child that has a quick temper just blaze up and cool down. Ain't never likely to be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her. When Marilla went home, Anne came out of the fragrant twilight of the orchard with a sheaf of white Narcissi in her hands. I apologized pretty well, didn't I? She said proudly as they went down the lane. I thought since I had to do it, I might as well do it thoroughly. You did it thoroughly all right enough, was Marilla's comment. Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined to laugh over the recollection. She had also an uneasy feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well, but then that was ridiculous. She compromised with her conscious by saying severely, I hope you won't have occasion to make any more such apologies. I hope you'll try to control your temper now, Anne. That wouldn't be so hard if people wouldn't twit me about my looks, said Anne with a sigh. I don't get cross about other things, but I'm so tired of being twitted about my hair and it just makes me boil right over.  You shouldn't think so much about your looks, Anne. I'm afraid you are a very vain little girl. How can I be vain when I know I'm homely? protested Anne. I love pretty things and I hate to look in the glass and see something that isn't pretty. It makes me feel so sorrowful. Just as I feel when I look at any ugly thing, I pity it because it isn't beautiful. Handsome is as handsome does, quoted Marilla. I've had that said to me before, but I have my doubts about it remarked skeptical Anne sniffing at her Narcissus. Oh, aren't these flowers sweet? It was lovely of Mrs. Lynn to give them to me. I have no hard feelings against Mrs. Lynn now. It gives you a lovely comfortable feeling to apologize and be forgiven, doesn't it? Aren't the stars bright tonight? If you would live in a star, which one would you pick? I'd like that lovely clear big one, a way over there above that dark hill. Anne, do hold your tongue, said Marilla, thoroughly worn out trying to follow the gyrations of Anne's thoughts. Anne said no more until they turned into their own lane. A little gypsy wind came down to meet them, laden with the spicy perfume of young duet ferns. Far up in the shadows, a cheerful light gleamed out through the trees from the kitchen at Green Gables. Anne suddenly came close to Marilla and slipped her hands into the older woman's hard palm. It's lovely to be going home and know it's home, she said. I love Green Gables already and I never loved any place before. No place ever seemed like home. Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy. I could pray right now and not find it a bit hard. Something warm and pleasant welled up in Marilla's heart at the touch of that thin little hand in her own, a throb of maternity she had missed perhaps. It's very unaccustomedness and sweetness disturbed her. She hastened to restore her sensations to their normal calm by inculcating a moral. If you'll be a good girl, you'll always be happy, Anne, and you should never find it hard to say your prayers. Saying one's prayers isn't exactly the same thing as praying, said Anne meditatively. But I'm going to imagine that I'm the wind that is blowing up there in those treetops. When I get tired of the trees, I'll imagine I'm gently waving down here in the ferns. And then I'll fly over to Mrs. Lynn's garden and set the flowers dancing. And then I'll go with one great swoop over the clover field.  Oh, there's so much scope for imagination in a wind. So I'll not talk anymore just now, Marilla. Thanks be to goodness for that. Breathe, Marilla, in the vout relief. End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Anne of Green Gables. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Robin on December 23rd of 2008. Chapter 11 of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Anne's impressions of Sunday School. Well, how do you like them? said Marilla. Anne was standing in the gable room looking solemnly at three new dresses spread out on the bed. One was a snuffy-colored gingham which Marilla had been tempted to buy from a peddler the preceding summer because it looked so serviceable. One was of black and white checkered satin, which she had picked up at a bargain counter in the winter. And one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade which she had purchased that week at a Carmody store. She had made them up herself and they were all made alike. Plain skirts pulled tightly to plain waists. The sleeves as plain as waist and skirt and tight as sleeves could be. I'll imagine that I like them, said Anne soberly. I don't want you to imagine it, said Marilla offended. Oh, I can see you don't like the dresses. What does the matter with them? Aren't they neat and clean and new? Yes. Then why don't you like them? They're not pretty, said Anne reluctantly. Pretty, sniffed Marilla. I didn't trouble my head about getting pretty dresses for you. I don't believe in pampering vanity, Anne. I'll tell you that right off. Those dresses are good, sensible, serviceable dresses without any frills or furblows about them. And they're all you'll get this summer. The brown gingham and the blueprint will do for you for school when you begin to go. The satin is for church and Sunday school. I'll expect you to keep them neat and clean and not to tear them. I should think you'd be grateful to get most anything after those skimpy, winty things you've been wearing. Oh, I am grateful for tasting Anne, but I'd be even so much more grateful if you'd made just one of them with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves are so fashionable now. It would give me such a thrill, Marilla, just to wear a dress with puffed sleeves. Well, you'll have to do without your thrill. I have any material to waste on puffed sleeves. I think they're ridiculous looking things anyhow. I prefer the plain, sensible ones.  Trust you for that. Well, hang those dresses carefully up in your closet and then sit down and learn the Sunday school lesson. I got a quarterly from Mr. Bell for you. You'll go to Sunday school tomorrow, said Marilla, disappearing downstairs in high dudgeon. Anne clasped her hands and looked at her dresses. I did hope there would be a white one with puffed sleeves. She whispered disconsolently. I prayed for one, but I didn't expect it on that account. I didn't suppose God would have time to bother about a little orphan girl's dress. I knew I'd just have to depend on Marilla for it. Well, fortunately, I can imagine that one of them is a snow-white muslin with lovely lace frills and three puffed sleeves. The next morning, warning of a stick headache prevented Marilla from going to Sunday school with Anne. We'll have to go down and call for Mrs. Linde, Anne, she said. She'll say that you get into the right class.  State of preaching afterward and ask Mrs. Linde to show you our pew. Here's a scent for collection. Don't stare at people and don't fidget. I shall expect you to tell me the text when you come home. Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in stiff black and white satine, which, while decent as regard, length and certainty, and not open to charge of skimpiness, contrived to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure. Her hat was little, flat-glossing new sailor, the extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon and flowers. She later, however, were supplied before Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred butter-cups and a glory of wild roses, and promptly and liberally garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever other people might have thought of the result that satisfies Anne, when she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ready head with decorations of pink and yellow very proudly. When she had reached Mrs. Lynn's house she found a lady gone, nothing daunted and proceeded onward to the church alone, and the porch she found a crowd of little girls, all more or less gaily attired in whites and blues and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at the stranger in their mitts, with the extraordinary head adornment.  They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later, when the opening exercises were over, and Anne found herself in Mrs. Rodgerson's class. Ms. Rodgerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a Sunday school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl she thought should answer the question. She looked very often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Merle's drilling, answered promptly. But it may be questioned if she understood very much about either question or answer. She did not think that she liked Ms. Rodgerson, and she felt very miserable. Every other little girl in the class had puffed sleeves, and felt that life was really not worth living without puffed sleeves. Well, how did you like Sunday school? Merle wanted to know when Anne came home, her wreath having faded, and had discarded it in the lane, so Merle was spared the knowledge of that for a time. I didn't like it a bit, it was hoard. Anne, surely, said Merle rebukingly. Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonnie's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. They might have been lonesome along the way, she explained, and now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynn was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church with a lot of other little girls, and sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through it if I hadn't been sitting by that window, but it looked right out on the lake of shining waters, so I just gazed and that imagined all sorts of splendid things. You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell. But he wasn't talking to me, protested Anne. He was talking to God, and he didn't seem to be very much interested in it, either. I think he thought that God was too far off, though. There was a long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them way, way down deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream. It gave me a thrill, and I just said thank you for it, God, two or three times. Not out loud, I hope, said Marilla anxiously. Oh no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through it last, and they told me to go into the classroom with Mrs. Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it, and they all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was just as easy to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the East Gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really, truly puffed sleeves. You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it. Oh yes, I answered a lot of questions. Mrs. Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any, and I told her I didn't, but I could recite the dog at its master's grade if she liked. That's in the third-world reader. It isn't a truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melaconly that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do, and she told me to learn the 19th paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards, and it splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me. Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell in Midian's evil day. I don't know what squadron means, nor Midian, either, but it sounds so tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Mrs. Rogerson, because Mrs. Lynn was too far away, to show me your pew. I just sat as still as I could, but the text was revelations third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was the minister, I'd pick the short snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn't think he was a very bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts run, and I thought of the most surprising things. Marilla felt helpless that all this should be so sternly perfued, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the minister's servants and Mrs. Bell's prayers, or what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for years, but had never given expression to. It almost seemed to her that those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible and accusing shape in form of a person's outspoken morsel of neglected humanity. END OF CHAPTER XI It was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the story of the flowered wreathed hat. She came home from Mrs. Lin's and called Anne to account.   Oh, I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to me, said Anne. Becoming fiddlesticks. It was putting flowers on your hat at all, no matter what color. They were. That was ridiculous. You were the most aggravating child. I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear flowers on your hat than on your dress, protested Anne. Lots of little girls there had bouquets pinned to their dresses. What's the difference? Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of the abstract. Don't answer me back like that, Anne. It's very still of you to do such a thing. Never let me catch you at such a trick again. Mrs. Rachel says that she thought she would sink to the floor when she saw you come in all rigged out like that. She couldn't get near enough to tell you to take them off till it was too late. She says people talked about it something dreadful. Of course, they would think I had no better sense than to let you go decked out like that. Oh, I'm so sorry, said Anne, tears willing in her eyes. I never thought you'd mind. The roses and buttercups were so sweet and pretty. I thought they looked lovely on my hat. Lots of little girls had artificial flowers on their hat. I'm afraid I'm going to be a dreadful trial to you. Maybe you'd better send me back to the asylum. That would be terrible. I don't think I could endure it. Most likely I'd go into consumption. I'm so thin as it isn't, you see. But that would be better than being a trial to you. Nonsense, said Marilla. Vex said herself for having made the child cry. I don't want to send you back to the asylum. I'm sure.  Don't cry anymore. I've got some news for you. Diana Berry came home this afternoon. I'm going out to see if I can borrow a skirt pattern from Mrs. Berry.  Anne rose to her feet with clasped hands. The tears still glistening on her cheeks. The dish towel she had been hemming slipped unheated to the floor. Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened. Now that it's come, I'm actually frightened. What if she didn't like me? It would be the most tragic disappointment of my life. Now don't get into a fluster. And I do wish you wouldn't use such long words. It sounds so funny in a little girl. I guess Diana will like you well enough. It's her mother you've got to reckon with. If she doesn't like you, it won't matter how much Diana does. If she has heard about your outburst to Mrs. Lynde and going to church with buttercups around your hat, I don't know what she'll think of you. You must be polite and well behaved, and don't make any of your startling speeches. For pity's sake, if the child isn't actually trembling. Anne was trembling. Her face was pale and tense.  She said she hastened to get her hat. They went over to orchard soap by the shortcut across the brook and filled up the furry hill's grove. Mrs. Barry came to the kitchen door in answer to Marilla's knock. She was a tall, black-eyed, black-haired woman with a very resolute mouth. She had a reputation of being very strict with her children. How do you do, Marilla? She said cordially. Come in. And this is the little girl you've adopted, I suppose. Yes, this is Anne Shirley, said Marilla. Spelled with an E, gasped Anne, who, tremulous and excited as she was, was determined that there should be no misunderstanding on that important point. Miss Barry, not hearing or not comprehending, merely shook hands and said kindly, How are you? I am well embodied, though considerably rumbled in spirit. Thank you, ma'am, said Anne gravely. Then aside to Marilla and an audible whisper, there wasn't anything startling in that, was there, Marilla? Diana was sitting on the sofa, reading a book which she dropped when the colors entered. She was a very pretty girl, with her mother's black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks, and the mere expression which was her inheritance from her father. This is my little girl Diana, said Miss Barry. Diana, you might take Anne out into the garden and show her your flowers. It would be better for you than straining your eyes over that book. She reads entirely too much, this to Marilla, as the little girls went out. And I can't prevent her, for her father aids and abets her. She's always pouring over her books. I'm glad she has the prospect of a playmate. Perhaps it'll take her more out of doors. Outside in the garden, which was full of mellow sunlight, streaming through the dark old furs to the west of it, stood Anne and Diana, gazing bashfully at each other over a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies. The very garden was a bowery wilderness, which would have delighted Anne's heart at any time less fraught with destiny. It was encircled by huge old willows and tall furs, beneath which flourish flowers that loved the shade. Prim right angled paths, neatly bordered with clam shells, intersected it like moist red ribbons, and in the beds between old fashioned flowers ran riot. There were rosy bleeding hearts and great splendid crimson peonies, white fragrant narcissy and thorny sweet scotch rose, pink and blue in white Columbines, and lilac tinted bouncing bets, clumps of southern wood and ribbon grass and mint, purple Adam and Eve daffodils, and masses of sweet clover, white with its delicate fragrant feathery sprays, scarlet lighting that shot its violences over prim white musk flowers. A garden it was where sunshine lingered, and bees hummed and winds beguiled into laudering, purred and rustled. Oh, Diana, said Anne at last, clapping her hands and speaking almost in a whisper. Oh, do you think you can like me little? Enough to be my bosom friend? Diana laughed. Diana always laughed before she spoke. Well, I guess so, she said frankly.  It would be so jolly to have someone to play with. There isn't any other girl who lives near enough to play with, and I have no sisters big enough. Will you swear to be my friend forever and ever? demanded Anne eagerly. Diana looked shocked. Why, it's dreadfully wicked to swear, she said rebukingly. Oh, no, not my kind of swearing. There are two kinds you know. I've never heard of but one kind, said Diana doubtfully. There really is another. Oh, it isn't wicked at all. It just means vowing and promising solemnly. Well, I don't mind doing that, agreed Diana relieved. How do you do it? Well, we must join hands, so said Anne gravely. It ought to be overrunning water. We'll just imagine the path is running water. I'll repeat the oath first. I solemnly swear to be faithful to my bosom friend Diana Berry, as long as the sun and moon shall endure. Now you say it and put my name in. Diana repeated the oath with a laugh for a naft.  I heard before the two are queer, but I believe I'm going to like you real well. When Marilla and Anne went home, Diana went with them as far as the log bridge.  At the brook, they parted with many promises to spend the next afternoon together. Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit, asked Marilla as they went up through the Garden of Green Gables? Oh yes, sighed Anne blissfully, unconscious of any sarcasm in Marilla's part. Oh Marilla, I'm the happiest girl on Prince Edward Island this very moment. I assure you, I'll say my prayers with the right goodwill tonight. Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr. William Bell's birch grove tomorrow. Can I have those broken pieces of china that are out in the woodshed? Diana's birthday is in February and mine is in March. Don't you think that is very strange coincidence? Diana's going to lend me a book to read. She says it's perfectly splendid and tremendously exciting. She's going to show me a place back in the woods where rice dillies grow. Don't you think Diana has got very soulful eyes? I wish I had soulful eyes. Diana's going to teach me to sing a song called Nelly in the Hazel Doll. She's going to give me a picture to put up in my room. It's a perfectly beautiful picture, she says, a lovely lady in a pale blue silk dress. A sewing machine agent gave it to her. I wish I had something to give Diana. I'm an inch taller than Diana, but she's ever so much fatter. She said she liked me thin because it's much more graceful, but I'm afraid she only said it to soothe my feelings. We're going to the shore someday to gather shells. We've agreed to call the spring down by the log bridge, the dryad's bubble. Isn't that a perfectly elegant name? I read a story once about a spring called that. A dryad is sort of a grown-up fairy, I think. Well, all I hope is you won't talk Diana to death, said Marilla. Remember, this is all you're planning, Anne. You're not going to play it all the time, nor most of it. You'll have your work to do, and it'll have to be done first. Anne's cup of happiness was full, and math, you cost it to overflow. He just got home from a trip to the store at Carmody, and he sheeplessly produced a small parcel from his pocket and handed it to Anne with a depreciatory look at Marilla. I heard you said you like chocolate sweeties, so I got you some. He said, hmm, sniffed Marilla. It'll ruin her teeth and stomach. There, there, child, don't look so dismal. You can eat those since Matthew was gone and got them for you. He'd better have brought you peppermints. They're wholesome-er. Don't stick in yourself eating all of them at once now. Oh, no indeed I won't, said Anne equally. I'll just eat once tonight, Marilla. And I can give half of them to Diana. I can't die. The other half will taste twice as sweet to me if I give some to her. It's delightful to think I have something to give her. I will say it for the child, said Marilla. When Anne had gone to her gable, she isn't stingy. I'm glad, for of all faults, I detest stingy-ness in a child. Dear me, it's only three weeks since she came, and it seems like she's been here always. I can't imagine a place without her.  That's bad enough than a woman, but it isn't to be endured in a man. I'm perfectly willing to own up that I'm glad I consent to keep her. And that I'm getting fond of her. But don't you rub it in, Matthew, cupboard. END OF CHAPTER XIII of Anne of Greengables CHAPTER XIII of Anne of Greengables by Lucy Maud Montgomery The Delights of Anticipation It's time Anne was in to do her sewing, said Marilla, glancing at the clock and then out into the yellow August afternoon, where everything drowsed in the heat. She stayed playing with Diana more than half an hour more, and I gave her to leave to. And now she's perched out there on the wood-pile, talking to Matthew, nineteen to the dozen. When she knows perfectly well, she ought to be at her work. And of course, he's listening to her like a perfect nanny. I never saw such an infatuated man. The more she talks, the more she thinks she says, the more he's delighted, evidently.  Do you hear me? A series of staccato tops on the west window brought Anne flying in from the yard, eyes shining, cheeks faintly flushed with pink, unbraided hair streaming behind her in a torrent of brightness. Oh, Marilla, she exclaimed breathlessly. There's going to be a Sunday school picnic next week in Mr. Harmon Andrewsfield, right near the lake of shining waters. And Mrs. Superintendent Bell and Mrs. Rachel Lander are going to make ice cream. Think of it, Marilla, ice cream. And, oh, Marilla, can I go to it? Just look at the clock, if you please, Anne. What time did I tell you to come in? Two o'clock. But isn't it splendid about the picnic, Marilla? Please, can I go? Oh, I've never been to a picnic before. I've dreamed of picnics, but I've never—yes. I told you to come at two o'clock, and it's a quarter to three. I'd like to know why you didn't obey me, Anne. What it meant to, Marilla, as much as could be, but you have no idea how fascinating idle wild is. And then, of course, I had to tell Matthew about the picnic. Matthew is such a sympathetic listener. Please, can I go? You'll have to learn to resist the fascination of idle whatever you called it. When I tell you to come in at a certain time, I mean that time and not a half an hour later. And you need to stop to discourse with sympathetic listeners on your way, either. It's for the picnic, of course you can go.  But—but—Falzaldane, Diana says that everyone must take a basket of things to eat. I can't cook, as you know, Marilla, and—and I don't mind going to a picnic without puff sleeves so much, but I feel terribly humiliated if I had to go without a basket. It's been preying on my mind ever since Diana told me. Well, it needn't pray any longer. I'll bake you a basket. Oh, you dear good Marilla, you are so kind to me. Oh, I'm so much obliged to you. Getting through with her o's, Anne cast herself into Marilla's arms and rapturously kissed her shallow cheeks. It was the first time in her whole life that the child's lips had voluntarily touched Marilla's face. Again, that sudden sensation of startling sweetness thrilled her. She was secretly vastly pleased at Anne's impulsive caress, which was probably the reason why she said brusquely, There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense. I'd sooner see you doing strictly as you're told. As for cooking, I mean to giving you a lesson in that some of these days, but you're so feather-brained, Anne. I've been waiting to see if you'd sober down a little and learn to be steady before I begin. You've got to keep your wits about you in cooking and not stop in the middle of things to let your thoughts rove all over creation.  I do not like patchwork, said Anne dofully, hunting out her work basket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white diamonds with a sigh. I think some kinds of sewing would be nice, but there's no scope for imagination in patchwork. It's just one little seam after another, and you never seem to be getting anywhere. But of course, I'd rather be Anne of Green Gable sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing to do but play. I wish time went as quick sewing patches as it does when I'm playing with Diana, though. Oh, we do have such elegant times, Merle. I have to furnish most of the imagination, but I'm well able to do that. Diana's simply perfect in every other way. You know, that little piece of land across the book that runs up between our farm and Mr. Berry's, it belongs to Mr. William Bale, and right in the corner is a little ring of white birch trees, the most romantic spot in Merle. Diana and I have our playhouse there. We call it Idle Wild. Isn't that a poetical name? I assure you it took me some time to think it out. I stayed awake nearly a whole night before I invented it. Then just as I was dropping off the sleeve, it came like an inspiration. Diana was enraptured when she heard it. We have to get our house fixed up elegantly. You must come and see it, Merle, won't you? We have great big stones all covered with moss for seats and boards from tree to tree for shelves, and we have all our dishes on them. Of course, they're all broken, but it's the easiest thing in the world to imagine their whole. There's a piece of plate with a spray of red and yellow ivy on it that is especially beautiful. We keep it in the parlor, and we have fairy glass there, too. The fairy glass is just as lovely as a dream. Diana found it out in the woods behind their chicken house.  But it's nice to imagine the fairies lost it one night when they had a ball, so we call it the fairy glass. Matthew's going to make us a table. Oh, we've named that little round pullover in Barry's field Willowmere. I got that name out of a book that Diana let me. That was a thrilling book, Merle. The heroine had five lovers. Ivy sat aside with one, wouldn't you? She was very handsome, and she went through with great tribulations. She could faint as easy as anything. I'd love to be able to faint when you, Merle. It's so romantic, but I'm really healthy for all I'm so thin. I believe I'm getting fatter, though. Don't you think I am? I look at my elbows every morning when I get up to see if any dimples are coming. Diana's having a new dress made with elbow sleeves. She's going to wear it to the picnic. I do hope it will be fine next Wednesday. I don't feel that I can endure the disappointment if anything happened to prevent me from going to the picnic. I suppose I'd live through it, but I'm certain it would be like a lifelong sorrow. It wouldn't matter if I got to a hundred picnics in years after. They wouldn't make up for missing this one. They're going to have boats on the lake of shining waters and ice cream, as I told you. I've never tasted ice cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination. Anne, you've been talking even for 10 minutes by the clock, said Merle. Now, just for curiosity's sake, see if you can hold your tongue for the same length of time. Anne held her tongue as desired, but for the rest of the week she talked picnic and thought picnic and dreamed picnic. On Saturday it rained, and she worked herself into such a frantic state lest that she keep on raining until over Wednesday that Merle made her sew an extra patchwork square by way of steadying her nerves. On Sunday, Anne confided to Merle on the way home from church that she grew actually cold all over with excitement when the minister announced the picnic from the pulpit. Such a thrill went up and down my back, Merle. I don't think I'd ever really believed until then that there was honestly going to be a picnic. I couldn't help fearing I'd only imagined it, but when a minister says a thing in the pulpit, you just have to believe it. You set your heart too much on things, Anne, said Merle with a sigh. I'm afraid there'll be a great many disappointments in store for you through life. Oh, Merle, looking forward to things is half the pleasure of them, exclaimed Anne. You may get the things themselves, but nothing can prevent you from having the fun of looking forward to them. Mrs. Lynn said, Blessed are they who expect nothing for they should not be disappointed, but I think it'd be worse to expect nothing than to be disappointed. Merle wore her amethyst brooch to church that day as usual. Merle always wore her amethyst brooch to church. She would have thought it rather sacrilegious to leave it off, or as bad as forgetting her Bible or her collection dime. That amethyst brooch was Merle's most treasured possession. A seafaring uncle had given it to her mother who in turn had bequeathed it to Merle. It was an old-fashioned oval containing a braid of her mother's hair, surrounded by a border of very fine amethysts. Merle knew too little about precious stones to realize how fine the amethyst actually were, but she thought them very beautiful and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet shimmer at her throat above her good-brown satin dress, even although she could not see it. Anne had been smitten with delighted admiration when she first saw the brooch. Oh, Merle, it's a perfectly elegant brooch. I don't know how you can pay attention to the sermon or the prayers when you have it on. I couldn't, I know. I think amethysts are just sweet. They are what I used to think diamonds were like. Long ago, before I had ever seen a diamond, I read about them, and I tried to imagine what they were like. I thought they'd be lovely, glimmering purple stones. When I saw a real diamond in a lady's ring one day, I was so disappointed I cried. Of course, it was very lovely, but it wasn't my idea of a diamond. Will you let me hold the brooch for one minute, Merle? Do you think amethysts can be the soul of good violets? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 14 Anne's Confession On the Monday evening before the picnic, Merle came down from a room with a troubled face. Anne, she said to that small personage, who was shelling peace by the spotless table and singing Nelly of the Hazel Dell with a vigor and expression that did credit to Diana's teaching. Did you see anything of my amethyst brooch? I thought I stuck it in my pin-cushion when I came home from church yesterday evening, but I can't find it anywhere. I—I saw it this afternoon when you were away at the Aid Society, said Anne a little slowly. I was passing your door when I saw it on the cushion, so I went in to look at it. Did you touch it? said Merle sternly. Yes, admitted Anne. I took it up and I pinned it on my breast just to see how it would look. You had no business to do anything of the sort. It's very wrong in the little girl to meddle. You shouldn't have gone into my room in the first place, and you shouldn't have touched a brooch that didn't belong to you in the second. Where did you put it? Oh, I put it back on the bureau. I handed it on a minute. Truly, I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla. I didn't think about its being wrong to go in and try on the brooch, but I see now that it was and I'll never do it again. That's one good thing about me. I never do the same naughty thing twice. You didn't put it back, said Marilla. That brooch isn't anywhere on the bureau.  I did put it back, said Anne quickly, pertly, Marilla thought. I just don't remember whether I stuck it on the pin-cushion or laid it in the china tray, but I'm perfectly certain I put it back. I'll go and have another look, said Marilla, determining to be just. If you put that brooch back, it's there still. If it isn't, I'll know you didn't, that's all. Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search. Not only over the bureau, but in every other place, she thought the brooch might possibly be. It was not to be found, and she returned to the kitchen. Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the last person to handle it. Now what have you done with it? Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it? No, I didn't, said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry, gay, squarely. I never took the brooch out of your room, and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it.  So there, Marilla. Anne, so there, was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne, she said sharply. I know you are. There now, don't say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth.  Will I take the peas with me? said Anne meekly. No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you. When Anne had gone, Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the childhood and I having taken it, when anybody could have seen she must have, with such an innocent face too. I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen, thought Marilla as she nervously shelled the peas. Of course I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with, or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it by her own story, until I went up to-night. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing sure. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper.  Sli-ness and untruthfulness, that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much. Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the East Gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch, but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled. He could not so quickly lose faith in Anne, but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau? Was the only suggestion he could offer. I've moved the bureau and taken out the drawers and I've looked in every crack and cranny, was Marilla's positive answer. That brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it. That's the plain ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as well look it in the face. Well now, what are you going to do about it? Matthew asked for Lorneley, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in this time. She'll stay in her room until she confesses, said Marilla grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former case. Then we'll see. Perhaps we'll be able to find the brooch if she'll only tell where she took it, but in any case she'll have to be severely punished, Matthew. Well now, you'll have to punish her, said Matthew, reaching for his hat. I've nothing to do with it, remember?  Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs. Lind for advice. She went up to the East Gable with a very serious face and left it with the face more serious still, and steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been crying, and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, beat out. You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make up your mind to that, she said firmly. But the picnic is to-morrow, Marilla, cried Anne. You won't keep me from going to that, will you? You'll just let me out for the afternoon, won't you? Then I'll stay here as long as you like afterwards cheerfully, but I must go to the picnic. You'll not go to the picnic or anywhere else until you've confessed, Anne. Oh, Marilla! gasped Anne.  Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made to order for the picnic. Birds sang around green gables. The Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction. The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands, as if watching for Anne's usual morning greeting from the east gable. But Anne was not at her window.  Marilla, I'm ready to confess. Ah! Marilla laid down her tray. Once again her method had succeeded, but her success was very bitter to her. Let me hear what you have to say, then, Anne. I took the amethyst brooch, said Anne, as if repeating a lesson she had learned. I took it, just as you said. I didn't mean to take it when I went in. But it did look so beautiful, Marilla, when I pinned it on my breast, that I was overcome by an irresistible temptation. I imagined how perfectly thrilling it would be to take it to idle wild, and play I was the Lady Cordelia of its Gerald. It would be so much easier to imagine I was the Lady Cordelia if I had a real amethyst brooch on. Diana and I make necklaces of rose-berries, but what are rose-berries compared to amethysts? So I took the brooch. I thought I could put it back before you came home. I went all the way round by the road to lengthen out the time. When I was going over the bridge across the lake of shining waters, I took the brooch off to have another look at it. Oh! how it did shine in the sunlight! And then when I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through my fingers, sew, and went down, down, down, all purply sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the lake of shining waters. And that's the best I can do at confessing, Marilla. Marilla felt hot anger surge up into her heart again. This child had taken and lost her treasured amethyst brooch, and now sat there calmly reciting the details thereof without the least apparent compunction or repentance. Anne, this is terrible, she said, trying to speak calmly. You are the very wickedest girl I ever heard of. Yes, I suppose I am, agreed Anne tranquilly, and I now will have to be punished. It'll be your duty to punish me, Marilla.  Picnic, indeed! You'll go to no picnic to-day, Anne Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn't half severe enough, either, for what you've done. Not go to the picnic! Anne sprang to her feet and clutched Marilla's hand. But you promised me I might. Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That was why I confessed. Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream. For anything you know, I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again. Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hand stonely. You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic, and that's final. No, not a word. Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved.  For the land's sake! gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't, she's utterly bad. Oh, dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I put my hand to the plow, and I won't look back. That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it, but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. Come down to your dinner, Anne. I don't want any dinner, Marilla, said Anne sobbingly. I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience some day I expect for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction. Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it. He admitted, mournfully surveying his plate full of unromantic pork and greens, as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling. But she's such a little thing. Such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it? Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all. That's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry, it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it neither. You're making excuses for her all the time to yourself. I can see that. Well now, she's such a little thing, feebly reiterated Matthew. And there should be allowances made, Marilla.  Well, she's having it now, retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew, if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread spun set and her hens fed, Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon, on returning from the lady's aid. She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it out, the sunlight, falling through the vines that clustered thickly about the window, struck upon something caught in the shawl, something that glittered and sparkled in facets of violet light. Marilla snatched at it with a gasp. It was the amethyst brooch, hanging to a thread of the lace by its catch. Dear life and heart, said Marilla blankly. What does this mean? Here's my brooch safe and sound that I thought was at the bottom of Barry's pond. Whatever did that girl mean by saying she took it and lost it? I declare, I believe, green gables as bewitched. I remember now that when I took off my shawl Monday afternoon, I laid it on the bureau for a minute. I suppose the brooch got caught in it somehow. Well— Marilla betook herself to the east gable brooch in hand, Anne had cried herself out and was sitting dejectedly by the window. Anne surely, said Marilla solemnly, I've just found my brooch hanging to my black lace shawl. Now I want to know what that rigamarole you told me this morning meant. Why, you said you'd keep me here till I confessed—returned Anne wearily. And so I decided to confess because I was bound to get to the picnic. I thought out a confession last night after I went to bed, and made it as interesting as I could, and I said it over and over so that I wouldn't forget it. But she wouldn't let me to go to the picnic after all, so all my trouble was wasted. Marilla had to laugh in spite of herself, but her conscience pricked her. Anne, you do beat all. But I was wrong, I see that now. I shouldn't have doubted your word when I'd never known you to tell a story. Of course, it wasn't right for you to confess to a thing you hadn't done. It was very wrong to do so. But I drove you to it. So if you'll forgive me, Anne, I'll forgive you, and we'll start square again. And now get yourself ready for the picnic. Anne flew up like a rocket. Oh, Marilla! Isn't it too late? No, it's only two o'clock. They won't be more than well-gathered, yet it'll be an hour before they have tea.  I'll fill a basket for you. There's plenty of stuff baked in the house, and I'll get Jerry to hitch up the sorrel and drive you down to the picnic ground. Oh, Marilla! exclaimed Anne, flying to the wash stand. Five minutes ago I was so miserable I was wishing I'd never been born, and now I wouldn't change places with an angel. That night, a thoroughly happy, completely tired-out Anne returned to Green Gables in a state of beatification impossible to describe. Oh, Marilla! I've had a perfectly scrumptious time. Scrumptious is a new word I learned today. I heard Mary Alice Bell use it. Isn't it very expressive? Everything was lovely. We had a splendid tea, and then Mr. Harmon Andrews took us all for a row on the lake of shining waters, six of us at a time. And Jane Andrews nearly fell overboard. She was leaning out to pick water lilies, and Mr. Andrews hadn't caught her by her sash just in the nick of time she'd fallen in and probably been drowned. I wish it had been me. It would have been such a romantic experience to have been nearly drowned. It would be such a thrilling tale to tell. Anne, we had the ice cream. Words fail me to describe that ice cream. Marilla, I assure you, it was sublime. That evening Marilla told the whole story to Matthew over her stalking basket. I'm willing to own up that I made a mistake. She concluded candidly. But I've learned a lesson. I have to laugh when I think of Anne's confession, although I suppose I shouldn't for it really was a falsehood. But it doesn't seem as bad as the other would have been somehow. And anyway, I'm responsible for it. That child is hard to understand in some respects. But I believe she'll turn out all right yet. And there is one thing certain. No house will ever be dull that she's in. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Anne of Green Gables This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Robin on January 1st of 2009. Chapter 15 of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery A Tempest in the School Teapot What a splendid day said Anne, drawing in a long breath. Isn't it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren't born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one. And it's splendid there still to have such a lovely way to go to school by, isn't it? It's a lot nicer than going round by the road that is so dusty and hot, said Diana, practically. Pipping in here a dinner basket and mentally calculating if the three juicy, toothsome raspberry tarts reposing there were divided among ten girls, how many bites each girl would have. The little girls of Avonlea School always pulled their lunches, and to eat three raspberry tarts all alone or even to share them only with one's best chum would have forever and ever branded as awful mean the girl who did it. And yet, when the tarts were divided among ten girls, you just got enough to tantalize you. The way Anne and Diana went to school was a pretty one, and thought those walks to and from school with Diana couldn't be improved upon, even by imagination. Going around by the main road would have been so unromantic, but to go by Lovers Lane and Willowmere and Violet Vale and the Birch Path was romantic if ever anything was. Lovers Lane opened up below the orchard at Green Gables and stretched far into the woods to end the Cuthbert farm. It was the way by which the cows were taken to the back pasture in the wood hauled home in winter. Anne had named it Lovers Lane before she had been a month at Green Gables. Not that Lovers ever really walked there, she explained to Merlup, but Diana and I are reading a perfectly magnificent book and there's a Lovers Lane in it, so we want to have one too. And it's a very pretty name, don't you think? So romantic. We can't imagine the Lovers into it, you know. I like that lane because you can think out loud there without people calling you crazy. Anne started out alone in the morning, went down to Lovers Lane as far as the brook. Here Diana met her and the two little girls went up on the lane under the leafy arch of Maples. Maples are such sociable trees, Anne. They're always rustling and whispering to you until they came to a rustic bridge. When they left the lane and walked through Mr. Berry's backfield and passed Willowmere. Beyond Willowmere came Violet Vale, a little green dimple in the shallow of Mr. Andrew Bell's big woods. Of course there are no violets there now, Anne told Merlup, but Diana says there are millions of them in spring.  It actually takes my breath away. I named it Violet Vale. Diana says she's never saw the beat of me for hitting on fancy names for places. It's nice to be clever at something, isn't it? But Diana named the birch path. She wanted to, so I let her, but I'm sure I could have found something more poetical than plain birch path. Anybody can think of a name like that. But the birch path is one of the prettiest places in the world, Merlula. It was. Other people besides Anne thought so when they stumbled on it. It was a little narrow twisting path winding down over Long Hill, straight through Mr. Bell's woods, where the light came down sifting through so many emerald screens that it was as flawless as the heat of a diamond. It was fringed in all its length with slim young birches. White stemmed and listened bowels, ferns and starflowers, and wild lilies of the valley, and scarlet tufts of Paganberries grew thickly along it. And always there were delightful spiciness in the air, and music of bird calls, and the murmur of laugh of wood winds in the trees overhead. Now and then you might see a rabbit skipping across the road if you were quiet, which when Anne and Diana happened about in Once a Blue Moon. Down in the valley the path came out to the main road, and then it was just up the spruce hill to school. The Avonlead School was a whitewashed building, low in the eaves and wide in the windows, furnished inside with comfortable, substantial old-fashioned desks. That opened and shut, and they were carved all over their lids with the initials and hieroglyphics of three generations of school children. The schoolhouse was set back from the road, and behind it was a dusky firwood and a brook, where all the children put their bottles of milk in the morning to keep cool and sweet until dinner hour. Merle had seen Anne start off to school on the first day of September with many secret misgivings. Anne was such an odd girl. How would she get on with other children, and how on earth would she ever manage to hold her tongue during school hours? Things went better than Merle feared, however, and came home in high spirits that evening. I think I'm going to like school here, she announced. I don't think much of the master, though. He's all the time curling his mustache and making eyes at Prissy Andrews. Prissy's grown up, you know. She's 16, and she's studying for the entrance examination into Queens Academy at Charlottetown next year.  She's got a beautiful complexion and curly brown hair, and she does it up so elegantly. She sits in a long seat at the back, and he sits there too, most of the time, to explain her lessons, he says. But Ruby Gillis says she saw him writing something on her slate. When Prissy read it, she blushed as red as a beat and giggled, and Ruby Gillis said that she doesn't believe it had anything to do with the lesson. Anne, surely. Still let me hear you talking about your teacher in that way again, said Merle sharply. You don't go to school to criticize the master. I guess he can teach you something, and it's your business to learn. And I want you to understand right off that you're not to come home telling tales about him. That is something I won't encourage. I hope you were a good little girl. Indeed I was, said Anne comfortably. It wasn't so hard as you might imagine either. I sit with Diana. Our seat is right by the window, and we can look down to the lake of shining waters. There are a lot of nice girls in school, and we had scrumptious fun playing at dinner. So nice to have a lot of little girls to play with, but of course I like Diana best and always will. I adore Diana. I'm dreadfully far behind the others. They're all in the fifth book, and I'm only in the fourth. I feel that it's kind of a disgrace, but it's not one of them has such imagination as I have, and I soon found that out. We had reading and geography and Canadian history and dictation today. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful, and held up my slates so everybody could see it, all marked over. I felt so mortified, Marilla. He might have been polite or too a stranger, I think. Ruby Gillis gave me an apple, and Sophia Sloan let me lovely pink cards with May I See You Home on it. I'm to give it back to her tomorrow, and Silly Bolster let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. Can I have some of those pearl beads out the old pin cushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla. Jane Andrews told me that Minnie McPherson told her that she her prissy Andrews tells Sarah Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I've had ever in my life, and you can't imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose? I know you'll tell me the truth. Your nose is well enough, said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne Nose was a remarkably pretty one, but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago, and all had gone smoothly so far. And now this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping Blythly down the birch path, to the happiest little girls in Avonlea. I guess Gilbert Blyth will be in school today, said Diana. He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer, and he only came home Saturday night. He's awfully handsome, Anne, and he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out. Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having the life tormented out than not. Gilbert Blyth, said Anne, isn't his name that's written up on the porch while with Julia Bells and a big take notice over them? Yes, said Diana, tossing her head, but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say that he studied the multiplication tables by her freckles. Oh, don't speak about freckles to me, implored Anne. It isn't delicate when I've got so many, but I do think that writing take notices up on the wall about boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to scene when dare to write my name up with the boys, not of course, she hasten to add, that anybody would. Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written up, but it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it. Nonsense, said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch while in half a dozen take notices. It's only meant as a joke, and don't you be too sure that your name won't ever be written up.  He told his mother, his mother mind you, that you were the smartest school in school, that's being better than good looking. No it isn't, said Anne feminine to the core.  I can't bear a boy with goggle eyes. If anybody wrote my name up with his, I'd never get over it, Diana Barry. But it is nice to keep head of your class. You'll have Gilbert in your class after this, said Diana. And he's used to being head of his class, I can tell you. He's only in fourth book, although he's nearly 14. Four years ago his father was sick and had to go out to Alberta for his health, and Gilbert went with him. They were there three years, and Gilbert didn't go to school hardly any until they came back. You won't find it so easy to keep head after this, Anne. I'm glad, said Anne quickly. I couldn't really feel proud of keeping head of the little boys and girls of just nine or ten. I got up yesterday spelling ebullition.  Master Phillips didn't see her, but he was looking at Prissy Andrews, but I did. I just swept her a look of freezing scorn, and she got as red as a beat and spilled it wrong after all. Those pie girls are cheats all around, said Diana indignantly. As they climbed the fence of the main road, Gertie Pie actually went and put her milk bottle in my place in the brook yesterday. Did you ever? I don't speak to her now. But Mr. Phillips was in the back of the room hearing Prissy Andrews, the Latin. Diana whispered to Anne, That's Gilbert Bly, sitting right across the aisle from you, Anne. Just look at him and see if you don't think he's handsome. Anne looked accordingly. She had a good chance to do so, for the said Gilbert Bly was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long yellow braid of Ruby Gillis who sat in front of him to the back of her seat. He was a tall boy with curly brown hair, Ruby's hazel eyes, and a mouth twisted into a teasing smile. Presently Ruby Gillis started to take a sum to the master.  Everybody looked at her, and Master Phillips glared so sternly that Ruby began to cry. Gilbert had whisked the pin out of sight and was setting his history with a soberest face in the world, but when the commotion subsided he looked at Anne and winked with an expressible drollery. I think your Gilbert Bly is handsome, confided Anne to Diana, but I think he's very bold. It isn't good manners to wink at a strange girl. But it was not until that afternoon that things really began to happen. Mr. Phillips was back in the corner, explaining a problem in Algebra to Prissy Andrews, and the rest of the scholars were doing pretty much as they pleased, eating green apples, whispering, drawing pictures on their slates, and driving crickets, harnessed to strings, up and down the aisle. Gilbert Bly was trying to make Anne surely look at him, and failing utterly because Anne was at that moment totally oblivious, not only to the very existence of Gilbert Bly, but of every other scholar in Avonlea's school itself. For their chin propped on her hand, and her eyes fixed on the blue glimpse of the lake of shining waters, that the west window afforded, she was far away in a gorgeous dreamland, hearing and seeing nothing save her own wonderful visions. Gilbert Bly wasn't used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him, and meeting him with failure.  Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne's long braid, held it out at arm's length, and said in a piercing whisper, Carrots! Carrots! Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance. She did more than look. She sprang to her feet. Her bright fancies fallen into a cruelest ruin.  You mean hateful boy! She exclaimed passionately.  And then flack! Anne had brought her sleight down on Gilbert's head and cracked it. Sleight, not head. Clear across. Avonlea's school always enjoyed a scene. This was an especially enjoyable one. Everyone said, oh, and horrified delight. Diana gasped. Ruby Gillis, who was inclined to be hysterical, began to cry. Tommy Sloan, let his team of crickets escape him altogether, while he stared open-mouth at the table view. Mr. Phillips stalked down the aisle and laid his hand heavily on Anne's shoulder. Anne, surely, what does this mean? He said angrily, and returned no answer. It was asking too much of flesh and blood to expect her to tell the whole school that she had been called Carrots. Gilbert, it was who, spoke up stoutly. It was my fault. Mr. Phillips, I teased her. Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert.  Anne, go stand on the platform in front of the Blackboard for the rest of the afternoon. Anne would have infinitely preferred a whipping to this punishment, under which her sensitive spirit quivered as from a whiplash. With a white set face she obeyed. Mr. Phillips took a chalk crayon and rode on the Blackboard above her head. Anne, surely, has a very bad temper. Anne surely must learn to control her temper, and then read it out loud so that even the primer class who couldn't read writing should understand it. Anne stood there the rest of the afternoon with that legend above her. She did not cry or hang her head. Anger was still too hot in her heart for that, and it sustained her amid all her agony of humiliation, with resentful eyes and passion and red cheeks. She confronted a like Diana's sympathetic gaze, and Charlie Sloan's indignant nods and Josie Pie's malicious smiles. As for Gilbert Bly's, she would not even look at him. She would never look at him again. She would never speak to him. When school was dismissed, Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Bly tried to intercept her at the porch door. I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne, whose birth contritely honest I am. Don't be mad for keeps now. Anne swept by disdainfully, without looking or sign of hearing. Oh, how could you, Anne? breathed Diana, as they went down the road half-approachfully, half-admiringly. Diana felt that she never could have resisted Gilbert Bly. I shall never forgive Gilbert Bly, said Anne firmly. And Mr. Phillips spelled my name without an E, too. The iron has entered my soul, Diana. Diana had an elite idea what Anne meant, but she understood it with something terrible. You mustn't mind Gilbert making fun of your hair, she said soothingly. Why, he makes fun of all the girls. He laughs at mine because it's so black. He called me a crow a dozen times, and I never heard him apologize for anything before either. There's a great deal of difference between calling a crow and being called carrot, said Anne with dignity. Gilbert Bly has hurt my feelings excruciatingly, Diana. It isn't possible that the matter might have blown over without more excruciation if nothing else happened, but when things began to happen, they kept on happening. Avonlea scholars often spent noons hour picking gum in Mr. Bell's spruce grove over the hill and across his big pasture field. From there they could keep an eye on Eben Wright's house, where the master boarded. When they saw Master Phillips emerging there from, they ran for the schoolhouse, but the distance being about three times longer than Mr. Wright's lane, they were apt to arrive there breathless and gasping, some three minutes too late. On the following day, Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic fits of reform, and announced before going home to dinner that he should expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone who came in late would be punished. All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell's spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to pick a chew. But spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling. They picked and loitered and strayed, and as usual, the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a patriarchal old spruce, Master's coming! The girls who were on the ground started first and managed to reach schoolhouse in time, but without a second spare. The boys who had to wriggle down hastily from trees were later, and Anne, who had not been picking gum at all, but was wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist-deep among the break, and singing softly to herself with a wreath of rice lilies on her hair, as if she were some wild divinity of the shadowy places was latest of all, and could run like a deer, however, run she did with impish result that she overtook the boys at the door and swept into the schoolhouse among them just as Mr. Phillips was in the act of hanging up his hat. Mr. Phillips briefly reforming energy was over, but he didn't want to bother punishing a dozen peoples, but it was necessary to do something to save his word. So he looked about for a scapegoat and found it in Anne, who had dropped in her seat, gasping for breath, with a forgotten lily-wreath, hanging a skew over one ear, and giving her a particularly rake-ish and disheveled appearance. Anne, surely, since you seem to be so fond of the boys' company, wish I'll indulge your taste for it this afternoon, he said sarcastically. Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe. The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the wreath from Anne's hair and squeezed her hand. Anne stared as if the master as if turned to stone. Did you hear what I said, Anne? queried Mr. Phillips sternly. Yes, sir, said Anne Solay, but I didn't suppose you really meant it. I assure you I did, still with the sarcastic inflection which all the children in Anne especially hated. It flicked on the raw. Obey me at once. For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey, then realizing that there was no help for it, she rose hotly, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe and buried her face and her arms on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down, told the other girls going home from school that she'd actually never seen anything like it. It was so white, with awful little red spots in it. To Anne, this was the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones. It was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that boy should be Gilbert Blythe with heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it, and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seeded with shame and anger and humiliation. At first the older scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged, but as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own task and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class out, Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses to Priscilla before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still, and never missed her. Once when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold model on it. You are so sweet. And slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm, whereupon Anne Rose took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the ground, ground it to hide her beneath her heel, and resumed her position without daining to the stow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out, Anne marched to her desk, obstinately took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. What are you taking all those for, home Anne? Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out of the road, she had not dared to ask the question before. I'm not coming back to school anymore, said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. Will Marilla let you stay? she asked. She'll have to, said Anne. I'll never go back to school to that man again. Oh, Anne! Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. I do think you're mean. What shall I do? Mr.  I know she'll because she's sitting alone. Do come back, Anne. I'll do almost anything in the world for you, Diana, said Anne sadly. I'd let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good, but I cannot do this, so please don't ask it.  Just think of all the fun you'll miss, mourn Diana. We're going to build the loveliest new house down by the brook, and we'll be playing ball next week, and you've never played ball, Anne. It's tremendously exciting, and we're going to learn a new song. Jane Andrews is practicing up now. And Alice Andrews is going to bring a new pansy book next week, and we're all going to read it out loud, chapter about, down by the brook, and you know you're so fond of reading out loud, Anne. Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was made of. She was not going to school to Mr. Phillips again. She told Marilla so when she got home. Nonsense, said Marilla. It isn't nonsense at all, said Anne, gazing at Marilla with a solemn, approachable eyes. Don't you understand, Marilla? I've been insulted. Insulted fiddlesticks, you'll go to school tomorrow, as usual. Oh, no. Anne shook her head gently. I'm not going back, Marilla. I'll learn my lessons at home, and I'll be as good as I can be and hold my tongue all the time if it's possible at all. But I will not go back to school, I assure you. Marilla saw something remarkably like a yielding stubbornness, looking out of Anne's small face. She understood that she would have trouble in overcoming it, but she resolved wisely to say nothing more just then. I'll run down and see Rachel about it this evening, she thought. There's no use reasoning with Anne now. She's too worked up, and I have an idea as she can be awful stubborn if she takes the notion. For as I can make out from her story, Mr. Phillips has been caring matters with a rather high hand, but it would never do to say so to her. I'll just talk it over with Rachel. She sent ten children to school, and she not to know something about it. She'll have to hear the whole story by this time, too. Marilla's found Mrs. Lynn needing quilts as industriously and cheerfully as usual.  Mrs. Rachel nodded. About Anne's fuss in school, I reckon, she said. Tilly Bolter was on her way home from school and told me about it. I don't know what to do with her, said Marilla.  I never saw a child so worked up. I've been expecting trouble ever since the start of school. I knew things were going too smooth to laugh. She's so high strong. What would you advise, Rachel? Well, since you've asked my advice, Marilla, said Mrs. Lynn amably. Mrs. Lynn dearly loved to be asked for advice. I just humor her a little at first. That's what I do. It's my belief that Master Phillips was in the wrong. Of course, it doesn't do so to say it is to children, you know. And, of course, he did right to punish her yesterday for giving way to temper. But today he was different. The other boys who were late should have been punished as well, as Anne. That's wet. And I don't believe in making girls sit with the boys for punishment. It isn't modest. Tilly Bolter was real indignant. She took Anne's part right through and said all the scholars did too. Anne seemed real popular among them, somehow. I never thought she'd take with them so well. Then you really think I'd better let her stay home, said Marilla in amazement. Yes, that is. I wouldn't say school to her again until she said it herself. Depend upon it, Marilla. She'll cool off in a week or so and be ready enough to go back on her own accord. That's wet. Well, if you were just to make her go back right off, dears know what freak or tantrum she'd take next and make more trouble than ever. The less fuss made the better, in my opinion. She won't miss much by not going to that school as far as that goes. Mr. Phillip isn't any good at all as a teacher. The order he keeps is scandalous, that's wet. And he neglects the young fry and puts all his time on those big scholars he's getting ready for Queens. He'd never have got to the school for another year if his uncle hadn't been a trustee. THE trustee. But he just leads the other two around by the nose. That's wet. I declare I don't know what education on this island is coming to. Marilla took Mrs. Rachel's advice and not another word was said to Anne about going back to school. She learned her lessons at home, did her chores, and played with Diana in the chilly purple autumn twilight. But when she met Gilbert Blythe on the road or encountered him in Sunday school, she passed him with an icy contempt that was no wit thawed by his evident desire to appease her. Even Diana's efforts as a peacemaker were to have no avail, and had evidently made up her mind to hate Gilbert Blythe to the end of life. As much as she hated Gilbert, however, she did love Diana with all the love of her passionate little heart, equally intense in its likes and dislikes. One evening, Marilla, coming in from the orchard with a basket of apples, found Anne sitting alone by the east window in the twilight, crying bitterly. What ever's the matter now, Anne, she asked. It's about Diana, sobbed Anne luxuriously. I love Diana so, Marilla. I cannot ever live without her. But I know very well when we grow up that Diana will get married and go away and leave me. Oh, what shall I do?  I just hate him furiously. I've been imagining it all out, the wedding and everything. Diana dressed in snowy garments with a veil and looking as beautiful and regal as a queen. And me, the bride's maid, with a lovely dress, too, and puffed sleeves with a breaking heart hid beneath my smiling face. And then, bidding Diana goodbye, here Anne broke down entirely and wept with increasing bitterness. Marilla turned quickly away to hide her twitching face, but it was of no use. She clouds down the nearest chair and bursts in such a hearty and unusual peel of laughter that Matthew, crossing the yard outside, halted in amazement when he heard— When had he heard Marilla life like that before? Well, Anne surely, said Marilla, as soon as she could speak. If you must borrow trouble for pity's sake, borrow it handier, home. I think you had an imagination, sure enough. End of Chapter 15