DEDICATION To my former teacher, Hattie Gordon Smith, in grateful remembrance of her sympathy and encouragement, flowers spring to blossom where she walks the careful ways of duty, our hard stiff lines of life with her are flowing curves of beauty. Wittier. CHAPTER 1 An I-Rate-Neighbour A tall, slim girl, half past sixteen, with serious grey eyes and hair which her friends called Auburn, had sat down on the broad red sandstone doorstep of a Prince Edward Island farmhouse one ripe afternoon in August, firmly resolved to construe so many lines of Virgil. But an August afternoon, with blue hazes scarfing the harvest slopes, little winds whispering elfishly in the poplars, and a dancing splendour of red poppies outflaming against the dark coppice of young furs in a corner of the cherry orchard, was fitter for dreams than dead languages. The Virgil soon slipped unheeded to the ground, and Anne, her chin propped on her clasped hands, and her eyes on the splendid mass of fluffy clouds that were heaping up just over Mr. J. A. Harrison's house, like a great white mountain, was far away in a delicious world where a certain schoolteacher was doing a wonderful work, shaping the destinies of future statesmen, and inspiring youthful minds and hearts with high and lofty ambitions. To be sure, if you came down to harsh facts, which it must be confessed Anne seldom did until she had to, it did not seem likely that there was much promising material for celebrities in Avonlea's school, but you could never tell what might happen if a teacher used her influence for good. Anne had certain rose-tinted ideals of what a teacher might accomplish if she only went the right way about it, and she was in the midst of a delightful scene, forty years hence, with a famous personage—just exactly what he was to be famous for was left in convenient haziness—but Anne thought it would be rather nice to have him a college president, or a Canadian premier, bowing low over her wrinkled hand and assuring her that it was she who had first kindled his ambition, and that all his success in life was due to the lessons she had instilled so long ago in Avonlea's school. This pleasant vision was shattered by a most unpleasant interruption.  He bounced over the fence without waiting to open the gate, and angrily confronted astonished Anne, who had risen to her feet and stood looking at him in some bewilderment. Mr. Harrison was their new right-hand neighbour, and she had never met him before, although she had seen him once or twice. In early April, before Anne had come home from Queens, Mr. Robert Bell, whose farm had joined the Cuthbert Place on the west, had sold out and moved to Charlottetown. His farm had been bought by a certain Mr. J. A. Harrison, whose name—and the fact that he was a new Brunswick man—were all that was known about him. But before he had been a month in Avonlea, he had won the reputation of being an odd person—a crank, Mrs. Rachel Lynn said. Mrs. Rachel was an outspoken lady, as those of you who may have already made her acquaintance will remember. Mr. Harrison was certainly different from other people, and that is the essential characteristic of a crank, as everybody knows. In the first place, he kept house for himself, and had publicly stated that he wanted no fools of women around his diggings. Feminine Avonlea took its revenge by the gruesome tales it related about his housekeeping and cooking. He had hired little John Henry Carter of White Sands, and John Henry started the stories. For one thing, there was never any stated time for meals in the Harrison establishment. Mr. Harrison got a bite when he felt hungry, and if John Henry were around at the time he came in for a share, but if he were not, he had to wait until Mr. Harrison's next hungry spell. John Henry mournedfully avert that he would have starved to death if it wasn't that he got home on Sundays and got a good filling up, and that his mother always gave him a basket of grub to take back with him on Monday mornings. As for washing dishes, Mr. Harrison never made any pretense of doing it unless a rainy Sunday came. Then he went to work and washed them all at once in the rainwater hogshead, and left them to drain dry. Again, Mr. Harrison was close. When he was asked to subscribe to the Reverend Mr. Allen's salary, he said he'd wait and see how many dollars worth of good he got out of his preaching first. He didn't believe in buying a pig and a poke. And when Mrs. Lynde went to ask for a contribution to missions, and incidentally to see the inside of the house, he told her there were more heathens among the old women gossips in Avonlea than anywhere else he knew of, and he cheerfully contributed to a mission for Christianizing them if she'd undertake it. Mrs. Rachel got herself away and said it was a mercy poor Mrs. Robert Bell was safe in her grave, for it would have broken her heart to see the state of her house in which she used to take so much pride. Why, she scrubbed the kitchen floor every second day, Mrs. Lynde told Marilla Cuthbert indignantly, and if you could see it now, I had to hold up my skirts as I walked across it. Finally, Mr. Harrison kept a parrot called Ginger. Nobody in Avonlea had ever kept a parrot before. Consequently, that proceeding was considered barely respectable. And such a parrot! If you took John Henry Carter's word for it, never was such an unholy bird. It swore terribly. Mrs. Carter would have taken John Henry away at once if she had been sure she could get another place for him. Besides, Ginger had bitten a piece right out of the back of John Henry's neck one day when he had stooped down too near the cage. Mrs. Carter showed everybody the mark when the luckless John Henry went home on Sundays. All these things flashed through Anne's mind as Mr. Harrison stood quite speechless with wrath apparently before her. In his most amiable mood Mr. Harrison could not have been considered a handsome man.  All at once Mr. Harrison found his voice. I'm not going to put up with this, he spluttered. Not a day longer do you hear, Miss? Bless my soul, this is a third time, Miss, the third time. Patience has ceased to be a virtue, Miss. I warned your aunt the last time not to let it occur again, and she's let it, she's done it. What does she mean by it? That's what I want to know. That is what I'm here about, Miss." "'Will you explain what the trouble is?' asked Anne in her most dignified manner. She had been practicing it considerably of late to have it in good working order when school began, but it had no apparent effect on the eye-rate J. A. Harrison. Trouble is it. Bless my soul. Trouble enough, I should think. Trouble is, Miss, that I found that jersey cow of your aunts in my oats again not half an hour ago. The third time, Mark, you. I found her in last Tuesday, and I found her in yesterday. I came here and told your aunt not to let it occur again. She has let it occur again. Where's your aunt, Miss? I just want to see her for a minute and give her a piece of my mind, a piece of J. A. Harrison's mind, Miss." "'If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she is not my aunt, and she has gone down to East Grafton to see a distant relative of hers who is very ill,' said Anne, with due increase of dignity at every word. I am very sorry that my cow should have broken into your oats. She is my cow, and not Miss Cuthbert's. Matthew gave her to me three years ago when she was a little calf, and he bought her from Mr. Bell.' "'Sorry, Miss. Sorry isn't going to help matters any. You'd better go and look at the havoc that animal has made in my oats. Trampled them from centre to circumference, Miss.' "'I am very sorry,' repeated Anne, firmly. But perhaps if you kept your fences in better repair, Dolly might not have broken in. It is your part of the line fence that separates your oat field from our pasture, and I noticed the other day that it was not in very good condition.' "'My fence is all right,' snapped Mr. Harrison, angrier than ever at this carrying of the war into the enemy's country. The jail fence couldn't keep a demon of a cow like that out, and I can tell you, you red-headed snippet, that if that cow is yours as you say, you'd be better employed in watching her out of other people's grain than in sitting round reading yellow-covered novels, with a scathing glance at the innocent tan-coloured Virgil by Anne's feet. Something at that moment was red besides Anne's hair, which had always been a very tender point with her. I'd rather have red hair than none at all except a little fringe round my ears,' she flashed. The shot told, for Mr. Harrison was really very sensitive about his bald head. His anger choked him up again, and he could only glare speechlessly at Anne, who recovered her temper, and followed up her advantage. "'I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison, because I have an imagination. I can easily imagine how varied trying it must be to find a cow in your oats, and I shall not cherish any hard feelings against you for the things you've said. I promise you that, dolly, she'll never break into your oats again. I give you my word of honour on that point.' "'Well, mind you she doesn't,' muttered Mr. Harrison in a somewhat subdued tone, but he stamped off angrily enough, and Anne hurt him growling to himself until he was out of earshot.  She can't possibly get out of that unless she tears the fence down,' she reflected. She looks pretty quiet now. I daresay she has sickened herself on those oats. I wish I'd sold her to Mr. Shearer when he wanted her last week, but I thought it was just as well to wait until we had the auction of the stock and let them all go together. I believe it is true about Mr. Harrison being a crank. Certainly there's nothing of the kindred spirit about him. Anne had always a weather eye open for kindred spirits. Marilla Cuthbert was driving into the yard as Anne returned from the house, and the latter flew to get tea ready. They discussed the matter at the tea-table. "'I'll be glad when the auction is over,' said Marilla. It is too much responsibility having so much stock about the place and nobody but that unreliable Martin to look after them.  I don't know how many aunts he is, God, I am sure. That's the fourth that's died since he hired here a year ago. I'll be more than thankful when the crop is in and Mr. Barry takes over the farm. We'll have to keep Dolly shut up in the pen till Martin comes, for she must be put back in the pasture, and the fences there have to be fixed. I declare it is a world of trouble, as Rachel says. Here's poor Mary Keith dying, and what is to become of those two children of hers is more than I know. She has a brother in British Columbia, and she has written to him about them, but she hasn't heard from him yet. What are the children like? How old are they?" Six passed. They're twins. Oh, I've always been especially interested in twins ever since Mrs. Hammond had so many, said Anne eagerly. Are they pretty? Goodness! You couldn't tell! They were too dirty. Davy had been out making mud pies, and Dora went out to call him in. Davy pushed her head first into the biggest pie, and then, because she cried, he got into it himself and wallowed in it to show her it was nothing to cry about.  He has never had any bringing up, you might say. His father died when he was a baby, and Mary has been sick almost ever since. I'm always sorry for children that have no bringing up, said Anne soberly. You know, I hadn't any until you took me in hand. I hope their uncle will look after them. Just what relation is Mrs. Keith to you? Mary? None in the world. It was her husband. He was our third cousin. There's Mrs. Lynde coming through the yard. I thought she'd be up to hear about Mary. Don't tell her about Mr. Harrison and the cow, implored Anne. Marilla promised, but the promise was quite unnecessary, for Mrs. Lynde was no sooner fairly seated than she said. I saw Mr. Harrison chasing your jersey out of his oats today when I was coming home from Carmody. I thought he looked pretty mad. Did he make much of a rumpus? Anne and Marilla furtively exchanged amused smiles. Few things in Avonlea ever escaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morning, Anne had said, if you went to your own room at midnight, locked the door, pulled down the blind, and sneezed, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the next day how you're cold was. I believe he did, admitted Marilla. I was away.  I think he is a very disagreeable man, said Anne, with a resentful toss of her ruddy head. You never said a truer word, said Mrs. Rachel solemnly. I knew there'd be trouble when Robert Bell sold his place to a new Brunswick man. That's what. I don't know what Avonlea's coming to with so many strange people rushing into it. It'll soon not be safe to go to sleep in our beds. Why, what other strangers are coming in? asked Marilla. Have you heard? Well, there's a family of donnels for one thing. They've rented Peter Sloan's old house. Peter has hired the man to run his mill. They belong down east, and nobody knows anything about them. Then that shiftless Timothy Cotton family are going to move up from White Sands, and they'll simply be a burden on the public.  She watches her dishes sitting down. Mrs. George Pie has taken her husband's orphan nephew, Anthony Pie. He'll be going to school to you, Anne, so you may expect trouble, that's what. And you'll have another strange pupil, too. Paul Irving is coming from the state to live with his grandmother. You remember his father, Marilla? Stephen Irving? Him that jilted Lavender Lewis over at Grafton? I don't think he jilted her. There was a quarrel. I suppose there was blame on both sides. Well, anyway, he didn't marry her, and she's been as queer as possible ever since, they say, living all by herself in that little stone house she calls Echo Lodge. Stephen went after the states and went into business with his uncle and married a Yankee. He's never been home since, though his mother has been up to see him once or twice.  He's ten years old, and I don't know if he'll be a very desirable pupil. You can never tell about those Yankees. Mrs. Lynde looked upon all people who had the misfortune to be born or brought up elsewhere than in Prince Edward Island, with the decided, can any good thing come out of Nazareth air? They might be good people, of course, but you were on the safe side in doubting it. She had a special prejudice against Yankees. Her husband had been cheated out of ten dollars by an employer for whom he had once worked in Boston, and neither angels nor principalities nor powers could have convinced Mrs. Rachel that the whole United States was not responsible for it. Avonlea's school won't be the worst for a little new blood, said Marilla Dryley, and if this boy is anything like his father, he'll be all right. Steve Irving was the nicest boy that was ever raised in these parts, though some people did call him proud. I should think Mrs. Irving would be very glad to have the child. She's been very lonesome since her husband died. Oh, the boy may be well enough, but he'll be different from Avonlea's children, said Mrs. Rachel, as if that clinched the matter. Mrs. Rachel's opinions concerning any person, place or thing were always warranted to wear. What's this I hear about your going to start up a village improvement society, Anne? I was just talking it over with some of the girls and boys at the last debating club, said Anne, flushing. They thought it would be rather nice. And so do Mr. and Mrs. Allen. Lots of villages have them now. Well, you'll get into no end of hot water if you do. Better leave it alone, Anne, that's what. People don't like being improved. Oh, we're not going to try and improve the people. It is Avonlea itself. There are lots of things which might be done to make it prettier. For instance, if we could coax Mr. Levi Bolter to pull down that dreadful old house on his upper farm, wouldn't that be an improvement? It certainly would, admitted Mrs. Rachel. That old ruin has been an eyesore to the settlement for years. But if you improvers can coax Levi Bolter to do anything for the public that he isn't to be paid for doing, may I be there to see and hear the process, that's what. I don't want to discourage you, Anne, but there may be something in your idea. Though I suppose you did get it out of some rubbishy yanking magazine. But you'll have your hands full with your school, and I advise you as a friend not to bother with your improvements, that's what. But there, I know you'll go ahead with it if you've set your mind on it. You were always one to carry a thing through somehow. Something about the firm outlines of Anne's lips told that Mrs. Rachel was not far astray in this estimate. Anne's heart was bent on forming the Improvement Society. Gilbert Blythe, who was to teach him white sense, but would always be home from Friday night to Monday morning, was enthusiastic about it, and most of the other folks were willing to go in for anything that meant occasional meetings and consequently some fun. As for what the improvements were to be, nobody had any very clear idea except Anne and Gilbert. They had talked them over and planned them out until an ideal Avon Lee existed in their minds, if nowhere else. Mrs. Rachel had still another item of news. They've given the Carmody School to a Priscilla Grant. Didn't you go to Queens with a girl of that name, Anne? Yes, indeed. Priscilla to teach at Carmody? How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Anne, her gray eyes lighting up until they looked like evening stars, causing Mrs. Lynn to wonder anew if she would ever get it subtle to her satisfaction whether Anne Shirley were really a pretty girl or not. January 2008 Anne drove over to Carmody on a shopping expedition the next afternoon and took Diana Barry with her. Diana was, of course, a pledged member of the Improvement Society, and the two girls talked about little else all the way to Carmody and back. The very first thing we ought to do when we get started is to have that hall painted, said Diana, as they drove past the Avon Lee Hall, a rather shabby building set down in a wooded hollow with spruce trees hooding it about on all sides. It's a disgraceful looking place, and we must attend to it even before we try to get Mr. Levi Bolter to pull his house down. Father says we'll never succeed in doing that. Levi Bolter is too mean to spend the time it would take. Perhaps he'll let the boys take it down if they promise to haul the boards and split them up for him for Kindlingwood, said Anne, hopefully. We must do our best and be content to go slowly at first. We can't expect to improve everything all at once. We'll have to educate public sentiment first, of course. Diana wasn't exactly sure what educating public sentiment meant, but it sounded fine, and she felt rather proud that she was going to belong to a society with such an aim and view. I thought of something last night that we could do, Anne. You know that three-cornered piece of ground where the roads from Carmody and Newbridge and White Sands meet? It's all grown over with young spruce, but wouldn't it be nice to have them all cleared out and just leave the two or three birch trees that are on it? Splendid, agreed Anne gaily, and have a rustic seat put under the birches, and when spring comes we'll have a flower bed made in the middle of it and plant geraniums. Yes.  Laugh, Diana. I begin to see what you mean by educating public sentiment, Anne. There's the old Bolter House now. Did you ever see such a rookery, and perched right close to the road, too? An old house with its windows gone always makes me think of something dead with its eyes picked out. I think an old deserted house is such a sad sight, said Anne dreamily. It always seems to me to be thinking about its past and mourning for its old time joys. Morilla says that a large family was raised in that old house long ago, and that it was a real pretty place with a lovely garden and roses climbing all over it. It was full of little children and laughter and songs, and now it is empty, and nothing ever wanders through it but the wind. How lonely and sorrowful it must feel. Perhaps they all come back on moonlit nights, the ghosts of the little children of long ago and the roses and the songs, and for a little while the old house can dream it is young and joyous again. Diana shook her head. I never imagined things like that about places now, Anne. Don't you remember how cross mother and Morilla were when we imagined ghosts into the haunted wood? To this day I can't go through that bush comfortably after dark, and if I began imagining such things about the old Bolter House I'd be frightened to pass it, too. Besides, those children aren't dead. They're all grown up and doing well, and one of them is a butcher, and flowers and songs couldn't have ghosts anyhow. Anne smothered a little sigh. She loved Diana dearly, and they had always been good comrades, but she had long ago learned that when she wandered into the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was by an enchanted path where not even her dearest might follow her. A thunder-shower came up while the girls were at Carmody. It did not last long, however, and the drive home, through lanes where the raindrops sparkled on the boughs and leafy little valleys where the drenched ferns gave out spicy odours, was delightful. But just as they turned into the Cuthbert Lane, Anne saw something that spoiled the beauty of the landscape for her. Before them on the right extended Mr. Harrison's broad, gray-green feel of late oats, wet and luxuriant, and there, standing squarely in the middle of it, up to her sleek sides in the lush growth and blinking at them calmly over the intervening tassels, was a jersey cow. Anne dropped the reins and stood up with a tightening of the lips that boated no good to the predatory quadruped. Not a word said she, but she climbed nimbly down over the wheels and whisked across the fence before Diana understood what had happened. Anne, come back! shrieked the latter as soon as she found her voice. You'll ruin your dress in that wet grain. Ruin it! She doesn't hear me. Well, she'll never get that cow out by herself. I must go and help her, of course. Anne was charging through the grain like a mad thing. Diana hopped briskly down, tied the horse securely to a post, turned the skirt of her pretty gingham dress over her shoulders, mounted the fence and started in pursuit of her frantic friend. She could run faster than Anne, who was hampered by her clinging and drenched skirt, and soon overtook her. Behind them they left a trail that would break Mr. Harrison's heart when he should see it. Anne, for mercy's sake, stop, panted Diana. I'm right out of breath and you are wet to the skin. I must get that cow out before Mr. Harrison sees her gasp, Anne. I don't care if I'm drowned if we can only do that. But the Jersey Cow appeared to see no good reason for being hustled out of her luscious browsing-ground. No sooner had the two breathless girls got near her than she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite corner of the field. Had her off! screamed Anne, run, Diana, run! Diana did run. Anne tried to, and the wicked Jersey went round the field as if she were possessed. Privately Diana thought she was.  There is no denying that Anne was in anything but an angelic temper at that precise moment, nor did it soothe her in the least to behold a buggy halted just outside the Lane wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmody and his son, both of whom were a broad smile. I guess you'd better have sold me that cow when I wanted to buy her last weekend, chuckled Mr. Shearer. I'll sell her to you now if you want her, said her flushed and disheveled owner. You may have her this very minute. Done. I'll give you twenty for her as I offered before, and Jim here can drive her right over to Carmody. She'll go to town with the rest of the shipment this evening. Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a Jersey Cow. Five minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey Cow were marching up the road, and impulsive Anne was driving along the Green Gables Lane with her twenty dollars. What will Marilla say? asked Diana. Oh, she won't care. Dolly was my own cow, and it isn't likely she'd bring more than twenty dollars to the auction. But oh, dear, if Mr. Harrison sees that grain he will know she has been in again, and after my giving him my word of honour that I'd never let it happen. Well, it has taught me a lesson not to give my word of honour about cows. A cow that could jump over or break through our milk-pen fence couldn't be trusted anywhere. Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Linnce, and when she returned knew all about Dolly's sail and transfer, for Mrs. Linnce had seen most of the transaction from her window and guessed the rest. I suppose it's just as well she's gone, though you do do things in a dreadful headlong fashion, Anne. I don't see how she got out of the pen, though. She must have broken some of the boards off. I didn't think of looking, said Anne. But I'll go and see now. Martin has never come back yet. Perhaps some more of his aunts have died. I think it's something like Mr. Peter Sloan and the octogenarians. The other evening Mrs. Sloan was reading a newspaper, and she said to Mr. Sloan, I see here that another octogenarian has just died. What is an octogenarian, Peter? And Mr. Sloan said he didn't know, but they must be very sickly creatures, for you never heard tell of them, but they were dying. That's the way with Martin's aunts. Martin's just like the rest of those French, said Marilla, and disgust. You can't depend on them for a day. Marilla was looking over Anne's Carmody purchases when she heard a shrill shriek in the barnyard. A minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wringing her hands. And, surely, what's the matter now? Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This is terrible, and it's all my fault. Oh, will I ever learn to stop and reflect a little before doing reckless things? Mrs. Lind always told me I would do something dreadful some day, and now I've done it. And you are the most exasperating girl. What is it you've done? Sold Mr. Harrison's jersey cow, the one he bought from Mr. Bell, to Mr. Shearer. Dolly is out in the milking pen this very minute. Anne, surely, are you dreaming? I only wish I were. There's no dream about it, though. It's very like a nightmare. And Mr. Harrison's cow is in Charlotte town by this time. Oh, Marilla, I thought I'd finished getting into scrapes, and here I am in the very worst one I ever was in my life. What can I do? Do? There's nothing to do, child, except go and see Mr. Harrison about it. We can offer him our jersey in exchange if he doesn't want to take the money. She's just as good as his. I'm sure he'll be awfully cross and disagreeable about it, though, moaned Anne. I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritable sort of a man. I'll go and explain to him if you like. No, indeed. I'm not as mean as that, exclaimed Anne. This is all my fault, and I'm certainly not going to let you take my punishment. I'll go myself, and I'll go at once. The sooner it's over, the better, for it will be terribly humiliating. Poor Anne got her hat and her twenty dollars, and was passing out when she happened to glance through the open pantry door. On the table reposed a nut-cake which she had baked that morning—a particularly toothsome concoction iced with pink icing and adorned with walnuts. Anne had intended it for Friday evening when the use of Avonlea were to meet at Green Gables to organize the improvement society. But what were they compared to the justly offended Mr. Harrison? Anne thought that cake ought to soften the heart of any man, especially one who had to do his own cooking, and she promptly popped it into a box. She would take it to Mr. Harrison as a peace offering. That is, if he gives me a chance to say anything at all, she thought ruefully as she climbed the lane fence and started on a shortcut across the fields, golden in the light of the dreamy August evening. I know now just how people feel who are being led to execution. Mr. Harrison's house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashed structure set against a thick, spruce grove. Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vine-shaded veranda in his shirt sleeves, enjoying his evening pipe.  This was merely the uncomfortable result of his surprise, mingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of temper the day before, but it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from Anne's heart. If he's so cross now, what will he be when he hears what I've done? She reflected miserably as she wrapped on the door. But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to enter in a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He had laid aside his pipe and daunt his coat. He offered Anne a very dusty chair very politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly enough if it had not been for the tell-tale of a parrot who was peering through the bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had Anne seated herself than Ginger exclaimed, Bless my soul!  It would be hard to say whose face was the redder Mr. Harrison's or Anne's. Don't you mind that parrot, said Mr. Harrison, casting a furious glance at Ginger. He's—he's always talking nonsense. I got him from my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don't always use the choicest language in parrots or very imitative birds. So I should think, said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errand quelling her resentment. She couldn't afford to snub Mr. Harrison under the circumstances, that was certain. When you had just sold a man's Jersey cow offhand without his knowledge or consent, you must not mind if his parrot repeated uncomplementary things. Nevertheless, the red-headed snippet was not quite so meek as she might otherwise have been. I've come to confess something to you, Mr. Harrison, she said resolutely. It's—it's about that Jersey cow. Bless my soul! exclaimed Mr. Harrison nervously. Has she gone and broken into my oats again? Well, never mind. Never mind if she has. It's no difference, not at all. I—I—I was too hasty yesterday. That's a fact. Never mind if she has. Oh, if it were only that, sighed Anne. But it's ten times worse. I don't—bless my soul. Do you mean to say that she's gotten to my wheat? No. No, no, not the wheat, but—then it's the cabbages. She's broken into my cabbages that I was raising for exhibition, eh? It's not the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I'll tell you everything. That is what I came for, but please don't interrupt me. It makes me so nervous. Just let me tell my story and don't say anything till I get through. And then no doubt you'll say plenty. Anne concluded. But in thought only. I won't say another word, said Mr. Harrison, and he didn't. But ginger was not bound by any contract of silence and kept ejaculating red-headed snippet at intervals until Anne felt quite wild.  This morning I went to Carmody, and when I came back I saw Jersey cow in your oats. Diane and I chased her out, and you can't imagine what a hard time we had. I was so dreadfully wet and tired and vexed, and Mr. Shearer came by that very minute and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot for twenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should have waited and consulted Marilla, of course, but I'm dreadfully given to doing things without thinking. Everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. Shearer took the cow right away to ship her on the afternoon train. Red-headed snippet, quoted ginger in a tone of profound contempt.  Ginger's shrieked, swore, and otherwise conducted himself in keeping with his reputation, but finding himself left alone relapsed into sulky silence. Excuse me, and go on, said Mr. Harrison, sitting down again. My brother the sailor never taught that bird any manners. I went home, and after tea I went out to the milking-pen. Mr. Harrison, Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands with her old childish gesture, while her big grey eyes gazed imploringly into Mr. Harrison's embarrassed face.  It was your cow I had sold to Mr. Shearer. Bless my soul, exclaimed Mr. Harrison in blank amazement at this unlooked-for conclusion. What a very extraordinary thing! Oh, it isn't in the least extraordinary that I should be getting myself another people into scrapes, said Anne mournfully. I'm noted for that. You might suppose I'd have grown out of it by this time. I'll be seventeen next March. But it seems that I haven't. Mr. Harrison, is it too much to hope that you'll forgive me? I'm afraid it's too late to get your cow back, but here's the money for her, or you can have mine in exchange if you'd rather. She's a very good cow, and I can't express how sorry I am for it all. Tutt-tutt, said Mr. Harrison briskly. Don't say another word about it, Miss. It's of no consequence. No consequence whatever. Accidents will happen. I'm too hasty myself sometimes, Miss. Far too hasty. But I can't help speaking out just what I think, and folks must take me as they find me. If that cow had been in my cabbages now—but never mind, she wasn't—so it's all right. I think I'd rather have your cow in exchange since you want to be rid of her. Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I'm so glad you're not vexed. I was afraid you would be.  But you mustn't mind me. I'm a terrible, outspoken old fellow, that's all. Awful app to tell the truth, no matter if it's a bit plain. So is Mrs. Lynde, said Anne, before she could prevent herself. Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don't you tell me I'm like that old gossip, said Mr. Harrison irritably. I'm not—not a bit. What have you got in that box? A cake, said Anne, archly. In her relief, at Mr. Harrison's unexpected amiability, her spirit soared upward feather-light. I brought it over for you. I thought perhaps you didn't have cake very often. I don't, that's a fact. And I'm mighty fond of it too. I'm much obliged to you. It looks good on top. I hope it's good all the way through. It is, said Anne, gaily confident. I have made cakes in my time that were not, as Mrs. Allen could tell you, but this one is all right. I made it for the Improvement Society, but I can make another for them. Well, I'll tell you what, Miss. You must help me eat it. I'll put the kettle on. We'll have a cup of tea. How will that do? Will you let me make the tea? said Anne dubiously. Mr. Harrison chuckled. I see you haven't much confidence in my ability to make tea. You're wrong. I can brew up as good a drum of tea as you ever drank, but go ahead yourself. Fortunately, it rained last Sunday, so there's plenty of clean dishes. Anne hopped briskly up and went to work. She washed the teapot in several waters before she put the tea to steep. Then she swept the stove and set the table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The state of that pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said nothing. Mr. Harrison told her where to find the bread and butter in a can of peaches. Anne adorned the table with a bouquet from the garden and shut her eyes to the stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready, and Anne found herself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison at his own table, pouring his tea for him and chatting freely to him about her school and friends and plans. She could hardly believe the evidence of her senses. Mr. Harrison had brought ginger back, averring that the poor bird would be lonesome, and Anne, feeling that she could forgive everybody and everything, offered him a walnut. But ginger's feelings had been grievously hurt, and he rejected all overtures of friendship. He sat moodily on his perch and ruffled his feathers up until he looked like a mere ball of green and gold. Why do you call him ginger? asked Anne, who liked appropriate names and thought ginger recorded not at all with such gorgeous plumage. My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had some reference to his temper. I think a lot of that bird, though. You'd be surprised if you knew how much. He has his faults, of course. That bird has cost me a good deal one way and another. Some people object to his swearing habits, but he can't be broken of them. I've tried. Other people have tried. Some folks have prejudices against parrots. Silly ain't it. I like them myself. Ginger's a lot of company to me. Nothing would induce me to give that bird up. Nothing in the world, miss? Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as explosively as if he suspected her of some latent design of persuading him to give ginger up. Anne, however, was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety little man, and before the meal was over they were quite good friends. Mr. Harrison found out about the improvement society and was disposed to approve of it. That's right. Go ahead. There's lots of room for improvement in this settlement and in the people, too. Oh, I don't know, flashed Anne. To herself or to her particular crony she might admit that there were some small imperfections easily removable in Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear a practical outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely different thing, I think Avonlea is a lovely place and the people in it are very nice, too. I guess you've got a spice of temper, commented Mr. Harrison, surveying the flushed cheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. It goes with hair like yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place, or I wouldn't have located here.  I like it all the better for them," said loyal Anne. I don't like places or people, either, that haven't any faults. I think a truly perfect person would be very uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she never met a perfect person, but she's heard enough about one, her husband's first wife. Don't you think it must be very uncomfortable to be married to a man whose first wife was perfect? It would be more uncomfortable to be married to the perfect wife, declared Mr. Harrison with a sudden and inexplicable warmth. When tea was over Anne insisted on washing the dishes, although Mr. Harrison assured her that there were enough in the house to do for weeks yet. She would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but no broom was visible, and she did not like to ask where it was, for fear there wasn't one at all. You might run across and talk to me once in a while," suggested Mr. Harrison when she was leaving. It isn't far, and folks ought to be neighbourly. I'm kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to me there'll be some fun in it. Who are you going to tackle first? We are not going to meddle with people. It is only places we mean to improve," said Anne in a dignified tone. She rather suspected that Mr. Harrison was making fun of the project. When she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from the window, a lithe, girlish shape, tripping lightheartedly across the fields in the sunset afterglow. I'm a crusty, lonesome, crapped old chap, he said aloud, but there's something about that little girl makes me feel young again, and it's such a pleasant sensation I'd like to have it repeated once in a while. Red-headed snippet, croaked ginger mockingly. Mr. Harrison took his fist at the parrot. You, ornery bird, he muttered. I almost wish I'd wrung your neck when my brother the sailor brought you home. Will you never be done getting me into trouble?" Anne ran home blithely and recounted to her adventures to Marilla, who had not been a little alarmed by her long absence and was on the point of starting out to look for her. It's a pretty good world after all, isn't it, Marilla? Concluded Anne happily. Mrs. Lynde was complaining the other day that it wasn't much of a world. She said whenever you looked forward to anything pleasant you were sure to be more or less disappointed. Perhaps that is true. But there is a good side to it, too. The bad things don't always come up to your expectations either. They nearly always turn out ever so much better than you think. I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasant experience when I went over to Mr. Harrison's to-night, and instead he was quite kind, and I almost had a nice time. I think we're going to be real good friends if we make plenty of allowances for each other, and everything has turned out for the best. But all the same, Marilla. I shall certainly never again sell a cow before making sure to whom she belongs. And I do not like parrots. CHAPTER IV. Different Opinions. One evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, Gilbert Blythe, and Anne Shirley were lingering by a fence in the shadow of gently swaying sprue-spouse where a woodcut known as the Birch Path joined the main road. Jane had been up to spend the afternoon with Anne, who walked part of the way home with her. At the fence they met Gilbert, and all three were now talking about the fateful Morrow, for that Morrow was the first of September and the schools would open. Jane would go to Newbridge and Gilbert to White Sands. You both have the advantage of me, side Anne.  But I have to teach my own old schoolmates. And Mrs. Lynn says she's afraid they won't respect me as they would a stranger, unless I'm very cross from the first. But I don't believe a teacher should be cross. Oh, it seems to me such a responsibility. I guess we'll get on all right, said Jane comfortably. Jane was not troubled by any aspirations to be an influence for good. She meant to earn her salary fairly, please the trustees, and get her name on the school inspector's rule of honour. Further ambitions, Jane had none. The main thing will be to keep order, and a teacher has to be a little cross to do that. If my pupils won't do as I tell them, I shall punish them. How? Give them a good whipping, of course. Oh, Jane, you wouldn't! cried Anne, shocked. Jane, you couldn't! Indeed I could and would if they deserved it, said Jane decidedly. I could never whip a child, said Anne with equal decision. I don't believe in it at all. Miss Stacy never whipped any of us, and she had perfect order. And Mr. Phillips was always whipping, and he had no order at all. No. If I can't get along without whipping, I shall not try to teach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win my pupils' affections, and then they will want to do what I tell them. But suppose they don't, said practical Jane. I wouldn't whip them anyhow. I'm sure it wouldn't do any good. Oh, don't whip your pupils, Jane dear, no matter what they do. What do you think about it, Gilbert? demanded Jane. Don't you think there are some children who really need a whipping now and then? Don't you think it's a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child? Any child? exclaimed Anne, her face flushing with earnestness. Well, said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real convictions and his wish to measure up to Anne's ideal, there is something to be set on both sides. I don't believe in whipping children much. I think, as you say, Anne, that there are better ways of managing as a rule, and that corporal punishment should be a last resort. But on the other hand, as Jane says, I believe there is an occasional child who can't be influenced in any other way and who, in short, needs a whipping and would be improved by it. Corporal punishment is a last resort as to be my rule. Gilbert, having tried to please both sides, succeeded as is usual and eminently right, in pleasing neither. Jane tossed her head. I'll whip my pupils when they're naughty. It's the shortest and easiest way of convincing them. Anne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance. I shall never whip a child, she repeated firmly. I feel sure it isn't either right or necessary. Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him to do something, said Jane. I'd keep him in after school and talk kindly and firmly to him, said Anne. There is some good in every person if you can find it. It is a teacher's duty to find and develop it. That is what our school management professor at Queens told us, you know. Do you suppose you could find any good in a child by whipping him? It's far more important to influence the children of right than it is even to teach them the three R's, Professor Renne says. But the inspector examines them in the three R's, mind you, and he won't give you a good report if they don't come up to his standard, protested Jane. I'd rather have my pupils love me and look back to me in after years as a real helper than be on the role of honour, asserted Anne decidedly. Wouldn't you punish children at all when they misbehaved? asked Gilbert. Oh, yes, I suppose I shall have to, although I know I'll hate to do it. But you can keep them in at recess or stand them on the floor or give them lines to write. I suppose you won't punish the girls by making them sit with the boys, said Jane slyly. Gilbert and Anne looked at each other and smiled rather foolishly. Once upon a time Anne had been made to sit with Gilbert for punishment, and sad and bitter had been the consequences thereof. Well, time will tell which way is the best, said Jane philosophically as they parted. Anne went back to Green Gables by way of Birchpath, Stadowy, rustling, fern-scented, through violet veil and past willow-mere, where dark and light kissed each other under the firs, and down through Lover's Lane, spots she and Diana had so named long ago. She walked slowly, enjoying the sweetness of wood and field and the starry summer twilight, and thinking soberly about the new duty she was to take up on the morrow. When she reached the yard at Green Gables, Mrs. Lynde's loud, decided tones floated out through the open kitchen window. Mrs. Lynde has come up to give me good advice about to-morrow, sought Anne with a grimace. But I don't believe I'll go in. Her advice is much like pepper, I think. Excellent in small quantities, but rather scorching in her doses. I'll run over and have a chat with Mr. Harrison instead. This was not the first time Anne had run over and chatted with Mr. Harrison since the notable affair of the Jersey Cow. She had been there several evenings, and Mr. Harrison and she were very good friends, although there were times and seasons when Anne found the outspokenness on which he prided himself rather trying. Ginger still continued to regard her with suspicion and never failed to greet her sarcastically as red-headed snippet. Mr. Harrison had tried vainly to break him of a habit by jumping excitedly up whenever he saw Anne coming and exclaiming, bless my soul, here's that pretty little girl again, or something equally flattering. But Ginger saw through the scheme and scorned it. Anne was never to know how many compliments Mr. Harrison paid her behind her back. He certainly never paid her any to her face. Well, I suppose you've been back in the woods laying in a supply of switches for to-morrow, with his greeting as Anne came out the Miranda steps. No, indeed, said Anne indignantly. She was an excellent target for teasing, because she always took things so seriously. I shall never have a switch in my school, Mr. Harrison. Of course, I shall have to have a pointer, but I shall use it for pointing only. So you mean to strap them instead? Well, I don't know, but you're right. A switch stings more at the time, but the strap smarts longer. That's a fact. I shall not use anything of the sort. I'm not going to whip my pupils. Bless my soul! exclaimed Mr. Harrison in genuine astonishment. How do you lay out to keep order, then? I shall govern by affection, Mr. Harrison. It won't do, said Mr. Harrison. Won't do it all, Anne. Spare the rod and spoil the child. When I went to school the master whipped me regular every day, because he said if I wasn't in mischief just then I was plotting it. Methods have changed since your school days, Mr. Harrison. But human nature hasn't. Mark my words. You'll never manage the young fry unless you keep a rod and pickle for them. The thing is impossible. Well, I'm going to try my way first, said Anne, who had a fairly strong will of her own and was apt to cling very tenaciously to her theories. You're a pretty stubborn, I reckon, was Mr. Harrison's way of putting it. Well, well, we'll see. Some day when you get riled up, and people with hair like yours are desperate apt to get riled, you'll forget all your pretty little notions and give some of them a wailing. You're too young to be teaching anyhow. Far too young and childish. All together Anne went to bed that night in a rather pessimistic mood. She slept poorly and was so pale and tragic at breakfast the next morning that Marilla was alarmed and insisted on making her take a cup of scorching ginger tea. Anne sipped it patiently, although she could not imagine what good ginger tea would do. Had it been some magic brew, potent to confer age and experience, Anne would have swallowed a quart of it without flinching. Marilla, what if I fail? You'll hardly fail completely in one day, and there's plenty more days coming, said Marilla. The trouble with you, Anne, is that you'll expect to teach those children everything and perform all their faults right off, and if you can't you'll think you've failed. CHAPTER V. A FULL FLECHED SCHOOLMAN When Anne reached the school that morning, for the first time in her life she had traversed the birch path deaf and blind to its beauties, all was quiet and still. The preceding teacher had trained the children to be in their places at her arrival, and when Anne entered the school room she was confronted by prim rows of shining morning faces and bright inquisitive eyes. She hung up her hat and faced her pupils, hoping that she did not look as frightened and foolish as she felt, and that they would not perceive how she was trembling. She had sat up until nearly twelve the preceding night, composing a speech she meant to make to her pupils upon opening the school. She had revised and improved it painstakingly, and then she had learned it off by heart. It was a very good speech, and had some very fine ideas in it, especially about mutual help and earnest striving after knowledge. The only trouble was that she could not now remember a word of it. After what seemed a year, about ten seconds in reality, she said faintly, Take your testaments, please, and sank breathlessly into her chair under cover of the rustle and clatter of desk lids that followed, while the children read their verses and marshaled her shaky wits into order, and looked over the array of little pilgrims to the grown-up land. Most of them were, of course, quite well known to her. Her own classmates had passed out in the preceding year, but the rest had all gone to school with her, accepting the primer class and ten newcomers to Avonlea. Anne secretly felt more interest in these ten than in those whose possibilities were already fairly well mapped out to her. To be sure, they might be just as commonplace as the rest, but on the other hand, there might be a genius among them. It was a thrilling idea. Waiting by himself at a corner desk was Anthony Pye.  Anne instantly made up her mind that she would win that boy's affection and discomfort the Pye's utterly. In the other corner, another strange boy was sitting with Arty Sloan, a jolly-looking little chap with a snub nose, freckled face and big light blue eyes, fringed with whitish lashes, probably the Donald boy, and if resemblance went for anything, his sister was sitting across the aisle with Mary Bell. Anne wondered what sort of mother the child had to send her to school dressed as she was. She wore a faded pink silk dress, trimmed with a great deal of cotton lace, soiled white kid slippers, and silk stockings.  Judging from her expression, she was very well satisfied with herself. A pale little thing with smooth ripples of fine, silky, fawn-coloured hair flowing over her shoulders must, Anne thought, be anate a bell, whose parents had formerly lived in the Newbridge School District, but by reason of hauling their house fifty yards north of its old site were now in Avonlea. Three pallid little girls crowded into one seat were certainly cottons, and there was no doubt that the small beauty with the long brown curls and hazel eyes who was casting coquettish looks at Jack Gillis over the edge of her testament was Prilly Rodgerson, whose father had recently married a second wife and brought Prilly home from her grandmother's in Grafton. A tall, awkward girl in a back seat, who seemed to have too many feet and hands, Anne could not place at all, but later on discovered that her name was Barbara Shaw, and that she had come to live with an Avonlea aunt. She was also to find that if Barbara ever managed to walk down the aisle without falling over her own or somebody else's feet, the Avonlea scholars wrote the unusual fact up on the porch wall to commemorate it.  She knew this must be Paul Irving, and that Mrs. Rachel Lind had been right for once when she prophesied that he would be unlike the Avonlea children. More than that, Anne realized that he was unlike other children anywhere, and that there was a soul subtly akin to her own, gazing at her out of the very dark blue eyes that were watching her so intently. She knew Paul was ten, but he looked no more than eight.  Features of exquisite delicacy and refinement framed in a halo of chestnut curls. His mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, the crimson lips just softly touching and curving into finely finished little corners that narrowly escaped being dimpled. He had a sober, grave, meditative expression, as if his spirit was much older than his body. But when Anne smiled softly at him it vanished in a sudden, answering smile which seemed an illumination of his whole being as if some lamp had suddenly kindled into flame inside of him, radiating him from top to toe. Best of all it was involuntary, born of no external effort or motive but simply the outflashing of a hidden personality, rare and fine and sweet. With a quick interchange of smiles Anne and Paul were fast friends forever before a word had passed between them. The day went by like a dream. Anne could never clearly recall it afterwards. It almost seemed as if it were not she who was teaching but somebody else. She heard classes and worked sums and set copies mechanically. The children behaved quite well, only two cases of discipline occurred. Morley Andrews was caught driving a pair of trained crickets in the aisle. Anne stood Morley on the platform for an hour and, which Morley felt much more keenly, confiscated his crickets. She put them in a box and on the way from school set them free in Violet Vale, but Morley believed, then and ever afterwards, that she took them home and kept them for her own amusement. The other culprit was Anthony Pye, who poured the last drops of water from his slate bottle down the back of Aurelia Clay's neck. Anne kept Anthony in at recess and talked to him about what was expected of gentlemen, admonishing him that they never poured water down ladies' necks.  Her little lecture was quite kind and touching, but unfortunately Anthony remained absolutely untouched. He listened to her in silence with the same sullen expression and whistled scornfully as he went out. Anne sighed and then cheered herself up by remembering that winning a Pye's affections, like the building of Rome, wasn't the work of a day. In fact, it was doubtful whether some of the Pye's had any affections to win, but Anne hoped better things of Anthony, who looked as if he might be a rather nice boy if one ever got behind his sullenness. When school was dismissed and the children had gone, Anne dropped wearily into her chair. Her head ached and she felt woefully discouraged. There was no real reason for discouragement since nothing very dreadful had occurred, but Anne was very tired and inclined to believe that she would never learn to like teaching. And how terrible it would be to be doing something you didn't like every day for, well, say, forty years. Anne was of two minds whether to have her cry out then and there, or wait till she was safely in her own white room at home. Before she could decide, there was a click of heels and a silken swish on the porch floor, and Anne found herself confronted by a lady whose appearance made her recall a recent criticism of Mr. Harrison's on an overdressed female he had seen in a Charlotte town store.  The newcomer was gorgeously arrayed in a pale blue summer silk, puffed, frilled, and shirred wherever puff, frill, or shirring could possibly be placed.   She wore all the jewelry that could be crowded on one small woman, and a very strong odor of perfume attended her. I am Mrs. Donnell, Mrs. H.B. Donnell, announced this vision, and I have come in to see you about something Clarissa Almira told me when she came home to dinner today. It annoyed me excessively. I'm sorry, faltered Anne, vainly trying to recollect any incident of the morning connected with the Donald children. Clarissa Almira told me that you pronounced our name Donald. Now, Miss Shirley, the correct pronunciation of our name is Donnell, accent on the last syllable. I hope you'll remember this in future. I'll try to, gasped Anne, choking back a wild desire to laugh. I know by experience that it's very unpleasant to have one's name spelled wrong, and I suppose it must be even worse to have it pronounced wrong. Certainly it is. And Clarissa Almira also informed me that you called my son Jacob. He told me his name was Jacob, protested Anne. I might well have expected that, said Mrs. H.B. Donnell, in a tone which implied that gratitude in children was not to be looked for in this degenerate age. That innocent boy has such plebeian taste, Miss Shirley. When he was born I wanted to call him St. Clair. It sounds so aristocratic, doesn't it? But his father insisted that he should be called Jacob after his uncle. I yielded because Uncle Jacob was a rich old bachelor. And what do you think, Miss Shirley, when our innocent boy was five years old, Uncle Jacob actually went and got married, and now he has three boys of his own? Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? The moment the invitation to the wedding, for he had the impertinence to send us an invitation, Miss Shirley, came to the house, I said, no more Jacobs for me, thank you. From that day I called my son St. Clair, and St. Clair I am determined he shall be called.  But St. Clair he is, and St. Clair he shall remain. You will kindly remember this, Miss Shirley, will you not? Thank you. I told Clarissa Almira that I was sure it was only a misunderstanding, and that her word would set it right. Donnell, accent on the last syllable, and St. Clair, on no account Jacob, you'll remember? Thank you. When Mrs. H. B. Donnell had skimmed away Anne locked the school door and went home. At the foot of the hill she found Paul Irving by the birch path. He held out to her a cluster of the dainty little wild orchids which Avonlead children called rice-lillies. Please, teacher, I found these in Mr. Wright's field, he said shyly, and I came back to give them to you because I thought you were the kind of lady that would like them and because he lifted his big, beautiful eyes.  You darling, said Anne, taking the fragrant spikes, as if Paul's words had been a spell of magic, discouragement and weariness passed from her spirit, and hope upwilled in her heart like a dancing fountain. She went through the birch path light-footedly, attended by the sweetness of her orchids as by a benediction. Well, how did you get along? Marilla wanted to know. Ask me that a month later and I may be able to tell you. I can't now. I don't know myself. I'm too near it. My thoughts feel as if they had been all stirred up until they were thick and muddy. The only thing I feel really sure of having accomplished today is that I taught Cliffy Wright that A is A. He never knew it before. Isn't it something to have started a soul along a path that may end in Shakespeare in Paradise Lost? Mrs. Lind came up later on with more encouragement. That good lady had waylaid the school children at her gate and demanded of them how they liked their new teacher. And every one of them said they liked you splendid, Anne, except Anthony Pye. I must admit he didn't. He said you weren't any good, just like all girl teachers. There's the pie leaven for you, but never mind. I'm not going to mind," said Anne quietly, and I'm going to make Anthony Pye like me yet. Patience and kindness will surely win him. Well, you never can tell about a pie," said Mrs. Rachel cautiously. They go by contraries like dreams as often as not. As for that Donnell woman, she'll get no Donnelling from me, I can assure you. The name is Donnell, and always has been. The woman is crazy, that's what. She has a pug dog she calls Queenie, and it has its meals at the table along with a family, eating off a china plate. I'd be afraid of a judgment if I was her. Thomas says Donnell himself is a sensible, hard-working man, but he hadn't much gumption when he picked out a wife, that's what. CHAPTER VI. All sorts and conditions of men and women. A September day on Prince Edward Island Hills. A crisp wind blowing up over the sand dunes from the sea. A long red road winding through fields and woods, now looping itself about a corner of thick-set spruces, now threading a plantation of young maples with great feathery sheets of ferns beneath them, now dipping down into a hollow where a brook flashed out of the woods and into them again. Now basking an open sunshine between ribbons of golden rod and smoke-blue asters. Air a thrill with the pipings of myriads of crickets, those glad little pensioners of the summer hills. A plump brown pony, ambling along the road. Two girls behind him, full to the lips with the simple priceless joy of youth and life. Oh! this is a day left over from Eden, isn't it, Diana? And Anne's side, for sheer happiness. The air has magic in it. Look at the purple in the cup of the Harvest Valley, Diana. And oh! do smell the dying fur. It's coming up from that little sunny hollow where Mr. Eben Wright has been cutting fence-pulls. Bliss is it on such a day to be alive, but to smell dying fur is very heaven. That's two-thirds worth and one-third Anne Shirley. It doesn't seem possible that there should be dying fur in heaven, does it? And yet it doesn't seem to me that heaven would be quite perfect if you couldn't get a whiff of dead fur as you went through its woods. Perhaps we'll have the odor there without the death. Yes, I think that will be the way. That delicious aroma must be the souls of the furs, and, of course, it will be just souls in heaven. Trees haven't souls, said practical Diana, but the smell of dead fur is certainly lovely. I'm going to make a cushion and fill it with fur needles. You'd better make one, too, Anne. I think I shall, and use it for my naps. I'd be certain to dream I was a dry ad or a wood nymph then, but just this minute I'm well content to be Anne Shirley, Avonlea's schoolma'em, driving over a road like this on such a sweet friendly day. It's a lovely day, but we have anything but a lovely task before us, sigh Diana. Why on earth did you offer to canvass this road, Anne? Almost all the cranks in Avonlea live along it, and will probably be treated as if we were begging for ourselves. It's the very worst road of all. That is why I chose it. Of course, Gilbert and Fred would have taken this road if we had asked them, but you see, Diana, I feel myself responsible for the AVIS, since I was the first to suggest it, and it seems to me that I ought to do the most disagreeable things. I'm sorry on your account, but you needn't say a word of the cranky places. I'll do all the talking. Mrs. Lynde would say I was well able to. Mrs. Lynde doesn't know whether to approve of our enterprise or not. She inclines to, when she remembers that Mr. and Mrs. Allen are in favor of it, but the fact that Village Improvement Society's first originated in the States is a count against it. So she is halting between two opinions, and only success will justify us in Mrs. Lynde's eyes. Priscilla is going to write a paper for our next improvement meeting, and I expect it will be good, for her aunt is such a clever writer, and no doubt it runs in the family. I shall never forget the thrill it gave me when I found out that Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan was Priscilla's aunt. It seemed so wonderful that I was a friend of the girl whose aunt wrote Edward Dayes and the Rosebud Garden. Where does Mrs. Morgan live? In Toronto. And Priscilla says she is coming to the island for a visit next summer, and if it is possible Priscilla is going to arrange to have us meet her.  The Avonlea Village Improvement Society was an organized fact. Gilbert Blythe was President, Fred Wright Vice President, and Shirley's Secretary, and Diana Barry Treasurer. The improvers, as they were promptly christened, were to meet once a fortnight at the homes of the members. It was admitted that they could not expect to affect many improvements so late in the season, but they meant to plan next summer's campaign, collect and discuss ideas, read and write papers, and, as Anne said, educate the public sentiment generally. There was some disapproval, of course, and, which the improvers felt much more keenly, a good deal of ridicule. Mr. Elisha Wright was reported to have said that a more appropriate name for the organization would be Courting Club. Mrs. Hiram Sloan declared she had heard the improvers meant to plow up all the roadside and set them out with geraniums. Mr. Levi Bolter warned his neighbors that the improvers would insist that everybody pulled down his house and rebuild it after plans approved by the society. Mr. James Spencer sent them word that he wished they would kindly shovel down the church hill. Even Wright told Anne that he wished the improvers could induce old Josiah Sloan to keep his whiskers trimmed. Mr. Lawrence Bell said he would whitewash his barns if nothing else would please them, but he would not hang lace curtains in the cow-stable windows. Mr. Major Spencer asked Clifton Sloan, an improver who drove the milk to the Carmody Cheese Factory, if it was true that everybody would have to have his milk-stand hand-painted next summer and keep an embroidered centipede on it. In spite of, or perhaps human nature being what it is because of this, the society went gainly to work at the only improvement they could hope to bring about that fall. At the second meeting in the Barry Parlor Oliver Sloan moved that they start a subscription to reshingle and paint the hall. Julia Bell seconded it, with an uneasy feeling that she was doing something not exactly ladylike. Gilbert put the motion, it was carried unanimously, and Anne gravely recorded it in her minutes. The next thing was to appoint a committee, and Gertie Pie determined not to let Julia Bell carry off all the laurels, boldly moved that Miss Jane Andrews be chairman of said committee. This motion being also Julie seconded and carried, Jane returned the compliment by appointing Gertie on the committee, along with Gilbert, Anne, Diana, and Fred Wright. The committee chose their routes in private conclave. Anne and Diana were told off for the New Bridge Road, Gilbert and Fred for the White Sands Road, and Jane and Gertie for the Carmody Road. Because, explained Gilbert to Anne as they walked home together through the haunted wood, the pies all live along that road, and they won't give a scent unless one of themselves canvases them. The next Saturday Anne and Diana started out. They drove to the end of the road in canvassed homeward, calling first on the Andrews girls. If Catherine is alone we may get something, said Diana, but if Eliza is there we won't. Eliza was there, very much so, and looked even grimmer than usual. Miss Eliza was one of those people who give you the impression that life is indeed a veil of tears, and that a smile, never to speak of a laugh, is a waste of nervous energy truly reprehensible. The Andrews girls had been girls for fifty odd years, and seemed likely to remain girls to the end of their earthly pilgrimage. Catherine, it was said, had not entirely given up hope, but Eliza, who was born a pessimist, had never had any. They lived in a little brown house, built in a sunny corner, scooped out of Mark Andrews Beechwoods. Eliza complained that it was terrible hot in summer, but Catherine was want to say it was lovely and warm in winter. Eliza was sowing patchwork. Not because it was needed, but simply as a protest against the frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting. Eliza listened with a frown and Catherine with a smile, as the girls explained their errand. To be sure, whenever Catherine caught Eliza's eye she discarded the smile in guilty confusion, but it crept back the next moment. If I had money to waste, said Eliza grimly, I'd burn it up and have the fun of seeing a blaze, maybe. But I wouldn't give it to that hall, not a cent. It's no benefit to the settlement, just a place for young folks to meet and carry on when they's better be home in their beds. Oh, Eliza! Young folks must have some amusement, protested Catherine. I don't see the necessity. We didn't gad about to halls and places when we were young, Catherine Andrews. This world is getting worse every day. I think it's getting better, said Catherine firmly.  It doesn't signify what you think, Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts. Well, I always like to look on the bright side, Eliza. There isn't any bright side. Oh, indeed there is! cried Anne, who couldn't endure such heresy in silence. Why, there are ever so many bright sides with Miss Andrews. It's really a beautiful world. You won't have such a high opinion of it when you've lived as long as it is I have, retorted Miss Eliza sourly, and you won't be so enthusiastic about improving it, either.  Dear me, but she has failed of late. She looks terrible run down. And how long is it before Marilla expects to be stoned blind, Anne? The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse if she is very careful, faltered Anne. Eliza shook her head. Doctors always talk like that just to keep people cheered up. I wouldn't have much hope if I was her. It's best to be prepared for the worst. But oughtn't we be prepared for the best, too? pleaded Anne. It's just as likely to happen as the worst. Not in my experience. And I have fifty-seven years to set against your sixteen, retorted Eliza. Going, are you? While I hope this new society of yours will be able to keep Avon Lee from running any further downhill, but I haven't much hope of it. Anne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, and drove away as fast as the fat pony could go. As they rounded the curve below the beachwood, a plump figure came speeding over Mr. Andrew's pasture, waving to them excitedly. It was Catherine Andrews, and she was so out of breath that she could hardly speak, but she thrust a couple of quarters into Anne's hand. That's my contribution to painting the hall, she gasped. I'd like to give you a dollar, but I don't dare take more for my egg-money, for Eliza would find out if I did. I'm real interested in your society, and I believe you're going to do a lot of good. I'm an optimist. I have to be living with Eliza. I must hurry back before she misses me. She thinks I'm feeding the hens. I hope you'll have good luck canvassing, and don't be cast down over what Eliza said. The world is getting better. It certainly is. The next house was Daniel Blair's. Now it all depends on whether his wife is home or not, said Diana as they jolted along a deep, rutted lane. If she is, we won't get a cent. Everybody says Dan Blair doesn't dare have his hair cut without asking her permission, and it's certain she's very close to state it moderately. She says she has to be just before she's generous, but Mrs. Lynn says she's so much before that generosity never catches up with her at all. Anne related their experience at the Blair Place to Maroula that evening. We tied the horse and then wrapped at the kitchen door. Nobody came but the door was open, and we could hear somebody in the pantry going on dreadfully. We couldn't make out the words, but Diana says she knows they were swearing by the sound of them. I can't believe that of Mr. Blair, for he is always so quiet and meek. But at least he had great provocation from Maroula when that poor man came to the door red as a beat with perspiration streaming down his face he had on one of his wife's big gingham aprons.  We begged him not to mention it and went in and sat down. Mr. Blair sat down, too. He twisted the apron round to his back and rolled it up. But he did look so ashamed and worried that I felt sorry for him, and Diana said she feared we had called it an inconvenient time. Oh, not at all, said Mr. Blair, trying to smile. You know he is always very polite. I'm a little busy, getting ready to bake a cake, as it were. My wife got a telegram today that her sister from Montreal is coming to-night, and she's gone to the train to meet her and left orders for me to make a cake for tea. She read out the recipe, and told me what to do, but I've clean forgot half the directions already, and it says, flavor according to taste. What does that mean? How can you tell? And what if my taste doesn't happen to be other people's taste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla be enough for a small layer cake? I felt sorryer than ever for the poor man. He didn't seem to be in his proper sphere at all. I had heard of hen-pecked husbands, and now I felt that I saw one. It was on my lips to say, Mr. Blair, if you'll give us a subscription for the haul, I'll mix up your cake for you. But I suddenly thought it wouldn't be neighborly to drive too sharp a bargain with a fellow creature in distress, so I offered to mix the cake for him without any conditions at all. He just jumped at my offer. He said he'd been used to making his own bread before he was married, but he feared cake was beyond him, and yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got me another apron, and Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr. Blair ran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten all about his apron, and when he ran it streamed out behind him, and Diana said she thought she would die to see it. He said he could bake the cake all right, he was used to that, and then he asked for our list and he put down four dollars, so you see we were rewarded. But even if he hadn't given a cent I'd always feel that we had done a truly Christian act in helping him. Theatre Whites was the next stopping place. Neither Anne or Diana had ever been there before, and they had only a very slight acquaintance with Mrs. Theatre, who was not given to hospitality.  While they held a whispered consultation Mrs. Theatre appeared at the front door with an armful of newspapers. Deliberately she laid them down one by one on the porch floor, and the porch steps, and then down the path to the very feet of her mystified collars. Will you please wipe your feet carefully on the grass and then walk on these papers, she said anxiously. I've just swept the house all over, and I can't have any more dust tracked in. The path's been real muddy since the rain yesterday. Would you dare laugh? warned Anne and a whisperer as they marched along the newspapers. And I implore you, Diana, not to look at me, no matter what she says, or I shall not be able to keep a sober face. The papers extended across the hall and into a prim, fleckless parlor. Anne and Diana sat down gingerly on the nearest chairs, and explained their errand. Mrs. White heard them politely, interrupting only twice, once to chase out an adventurous fly, and once to pick up a tiny wisp of grass that had fallen on the carpet from Anne's dress. Anne felt rigidly guilty, but Mrs. White subscribed two dollars and paid the money down. To prevent us from having to go back for it, Diana said when they got away. Mrs. White had the newspapers gathered up before they had their horse untied, and as they drove out of the yard they saw her busily wielding a broom in the hall. I've always heard that Mrs. Theodore White was the neatest woman alive, and I'll believe it after this, said Diana, giving way to her suppressed laughter as soon as it was safe. I am glad she has no children," said Anne solemnly. It would be dreadful beyond words for them if she had. At the Spencer's Mrs. Isabella Spencer made them miserable by saying something ill-natured about everyone in Avonlea. Mr. Thomas Bolter refused to give anything because the hall, when it had been built twenty years before, hadn't been built on the site he recommended. Mrs. Esther Bell, who was the picture of health, took half an hour to detail all her aches and pains, and sadly put down fifty cents, because she wouldn't be there that time next year to do it. No, she would be in her grave. Their west reception, however, was at Simon Fletcher's. When they drove into the yard they saw two faces peering at them through the porch window, but although they rapped and waited patiently and persistently, nobody came to the door. Two decidedly ruffled and indignant girls drove away from Simon Fletcher's. Even Anne admitted that she was beginning to feel discouraged. But the tide turned after that. Several Sloan homesteads came next, where they got liberal subscriptions, and from that to the end they fared well with only an occasional snub. Their last place of call was at Robert Dixon's by the pond bridge. They stayed to tea here, although they were nearly home, rather than risk offending Mrs. Dixon, who had the reputation of being a very touchy woman. While they were there, old Mrs. James White called in. I've just been down to Lorenzo's, she announced. He's the proudest man in Avonlea this minute. What do you think? There's a brand new boy there, and after seven girls, that's quite an event, I can tell you. Anne pricked up her ears, and when they drove away she said, I'm going straight to Lorenzo White's. But he lives on the White Sands Road, and it's quite a distance out of our way, protested Diana. Gilbert and Fred will canvass him. They are not going around until next Saturday, and it will be too late by then, said Anne firmly. The novelty will be worn off. Lorenzo White is dreadfully mean, but he will subscribe to anything just now. We mustn't let such a golden opportunity slip Diana. The result justified Anne's foresight. Mr. White met them in the yard, beaming like the sun upon an Easter day. When Anne asked for a subscription he agreed enthusiastically. Certain, certain, just put me down for a dollar more than the highest subscription you've got. That will be five dollars. Mr. Daniel Blair put down four, said Anne, half-afraid, but Lorenzo did not flinch. Five it is, and here's the money on the spot. Now I want you to come into the house. There's something in there worth seeing, something very few people have seen as yet. Just come in and pass your opinion. What will we say if the baby isn't pretty? whispered Diana in trepidation as they followed the excited Lorenzo into the house. Oh, there will certainly be something else nice to say about it, said Anne easily. There always is about a baby. The baby was pretty, however, and Mr. White felt that he got his five dollars worth of the girl's honest delight over the plump little newcomer. But that was the first, last, and only time that Lorenzo White ever subscribed to anything. Anne, tired as she was, made one more effort for the public wheel that night, slipping over the fields to interview Mr. Harrison, who was as usual smoking his pipe on the veranda with ginger beside him. Strictly speaking, he was on the Carmody Road, but Jane and Gertie, who were not acquainted with him, saved by doubtful report, had nervously begged Anne to canvass him. Mr. Harrison, however, gladly refused to subscribe ascent, and all Anne's wiles were in vain. But I thought you were proved of our society, Mr. Harrison, she mourned. So I do, so I do. But my approval doesn't go as deep as my pocket, Anne. A few more experiences such as I have had today would make me as much of a pessimist as Miss Eliza Andrews. Anne told her reflection in the East Gable Mirror at bedtime. CHAPTER VI Anne leaned back in her chair one mild October evening inside. She was sitting at a table covered with textbooks and exercises, but the closely written sheets of paper before her had no apparent connection with studies or schoolwork. What is the matter? asked Gilbert, who had arrived at the open kitchen door just in time to hear the sigh. Anne coloured and thrust her writing out of sight under some school compositions. Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write out some of my thoughts as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn't get them to please me.  Fancies are like shadows. You can't cage them. They're such wayward dancing things. But perhaps I'll learn the secret some day if I keep on trying. I haven't a great many spare moments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises and compositions I don't always feel like writing any of my own. You're getting unsplendedly in school, Anne. All the children like you," said Gilbert, sitting down on the stone step. No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and won't like me. What is worse, he doesn't respect me. No, he doesn't. He simply holds me in contempt and I don't mind confessing to you that it worries me miserably. It isn't that he's so very bad. He's only rather mischievous, but no worse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys me, but he obeys with a scornful air of toleration as if it wasn't worthwhile disputing the point, or he would, and it has a bad effect on the others. I've tried every way to win him, but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I want to, for he's rather a cute little lad, if he is a pie, and I could like him if he'd let me. Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears at home. Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up his own mind about things. He's always gone to men before, and he says girl teachers are no good. Well, we'll see what patience and kindness will do. I lack overcoming difficulties, and teaching is really very interesting work. Paul Irving makes up for all that is lacking in the others. That child is a perfect darling, Gilbert, and a genius into the bargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him some day, concluded Anne in a tone of conviction. I like teaching, too, said Gilbert. It's good training for one thing. Why, Anne, I've learned more in the weeks I've been teaching the young ideas of white sands than I learned in all the years I went to school myself. We all seem to be getting along pretty well. The New Bridge people like Jane, I hear, and I think white sands is tolerably satisfied with your humble servant, all except Mr. Andrew Spencer. I met Mrs. Peter Bluewood on my way home last night, and she told me she thought it her duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn't approve of my methods. Have you ever noticed, asked Anne reflectively, that when people say it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare for something disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it's a duty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you? Mrs. H.B. Donnell called at the school again yesterday and told me she thought it her duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrews didn't approve of my reading fairy tales to the children, and that Mr. Rodgerson, throughout Prilly, wasn't coming on fast enough and arithmetic. If Prilly would spend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate, she might do better. But I feel sure that old Jack Gillis works her class sums for her, though I've never been able to catch him red-handed. Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs. Donnell's hopeful son to his saintly name? Yes, laughed Anne, but it was really a difficult task. At first when I called him St. Clair he would not take the least notice until I'd spoken two or three times, and then when the other boys nudged him he would look up with such an aggrieved air as if I'd called him John or Charlie and he couldn't be expected to know I meant him. So I kept him in after school one night and talked kindly to him. I told him his mother wished me to call him St. Clair and I couldn't go against her wishes. He saw it when it was all explained out. He's really a very reasonable little fellow. And he said I could call him St. Clair but that he'd licked the stuffing out of any of the boys that tried it. Of course I had to rebuke him again for using such shocking language.  He informs me that he means to be a carpenter, but Mrs. Dennell says I'm to make a college professor out of him. The mention of college gave a new direction to Gilbert's thoughts, and they talked for a time of their plans and wishes, gravely, earnestly, hopefully, as youth loves to talk while the future is yet an untrodden path full of wonderful possibilities. Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor. It's a splendid profession, he said enthusiastically. A fellow has to fight something all through life. Didn't somebody once define a man as a fighting animal? And I want to fight disease and pain and ignorance, which are all members of one another. I want to do my share of honest, real work in the world, Anne. Add a little to the sum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who will live after me. It seems to me that it is the only way a fellow can get square with his obligations to the race. I'd like to add some beauty to life, said Anne dreamily. I don't exactly want to make people know more, though I know that is the noblest ambition, but I'd love to make them have a pleasanter time because of me—to have some little joy or happy thought that would never have existed if I hadn't been born. I think you're fulfilling that ambition every day, said Gilbert admiringly. And he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright. After she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown across it like a gleam of sunshine, the owner of that life saw it, for the time being at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report. Finally Gilbert rose regretfully. Well, I must run up to McPherson's. Moody Spurgeon came home from Queens to-day for Sunday, and he was to bring me out of book Professor Boyd is lending me. And I must get Marilla's tea. She went to see Mrs. Keith this evening, and she will soon be back. Anne had tea ready when Marilla came home. The fire was crackling cheerily. A vase of frost-bleached ferns and ruby red maple leaves adorned the table, and delectable odours of ham and toast pervaded the air. But Marilla sank into her chair with a deep sigh. Are your eyes troubling you? Does your headache? queried Anne anxiously. No, I'm only tired. And worried. It's about Mary and those children. Mary is worse. She can't last much longer. And as for the twins, I don't know what is to become of them. Hasn't their uncle been heard from? Yes. Mary had a letter from him. He's working in a lumber camp and shacking it, whatever that means. Anyway, he says he can't possibly take the children till the spring. He expects to be married then, and will have a home to take them to. But he says she must get some of the neighbors to keep them for the winter. She says she can't bear to ask any of them. Mary never got on any too well with the East Grafton people, and that's a fact. And the long and the short of it is, Anne, that I'm sure Mary wants me to take those children. She didn't say so, but she looked it. Oh! Anne clasped her hands, all a thrill with excitement. And of course you will, Marilla, won't you? I haven't made up my mind, said Marilla rather tartly. I don't rush into things in your headlong way, Anne. Third cousinship is a pretty slim claim, and it will be a fearful responsibility to have two children of six years to look after. Twins at that. Marilla had an idea that twins were just twice as bad as single children. Twins are very interesting. At least one pair of them, said Anne. It's only when there are two or three pairs that it gets monotonous. And I think it would be real nice for you to have something to amuse you when I'm away in school. I don't reckon there'd be much amusement in it. More worry and bother than anything else, I should say. It wouldn't be so risky if they were even as old as you were when I took you. I wouldn't mind Dora so much. She seems good and quiet. But that Davey is a limb. Anne was fond of children, and her heart yearned over the Keith twins. The remembrance of her own neglected childhood was very vivid with her still. She knew that Marilla's only vulnerable point was her stern devotion to what she believed to be her duty, and Anne skillfully marshaled her arguments along this line. If Davey is naughty, it's all the more reason why he should have good training, isn't it, Marilla? If we don't take them, we don't know who will, nor what kind of influences may surround them. Suppose Mrs. Keith's next-door neighbors, the Sprott's, were to take them. Mrs. Lynn says Henry's Sprott is the most profane man that ever lived, and you can't believe a word his children say. Wouldn't it be dreadful to have the twins learn anything like that? Or suppose they went to the Wiggins'? Mrs. Lynn says that Mr. Wiggins sells everything off the place that can be sold, and brings his family up on skim milk. You wouldn't like your relations to be starved even if they were only third cousins, would you? It seems to me, Marilla, that it is our duty to take them. I suppose it is, assented Marilla gloomily. I daresay I'll tell Mary I'll take them. You needn't look so delighted, Anne. It will mean a good deal of extra work for you. I can't sew a stitch on account of my eyes, so you'll have to see to the making and mending of their clothes. And you don't like sewing.  But if you are willing to take those children from a sense of duty, surely I can do their sewing from a sense of duty. It does people good to have to do things they don't like. In moderation. CHAPTER VIII. MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS. Mrs. Rachel Lind was sitting at her kitchen window knitting a quilt, just as she had been sitting one evening several years previously when Matthew Cuthbert had driven down over the hill with what Mrs. Rachel called his imported orphan. But that had been in springtime, and this was late autumn, and all the woods were leafless in the fields seer and brown. The sun was just setting with a great deal of purple and golden pomp behind the dark woods west of Avonlea, when a buggy drawn by a comfortable brown nag came down the hill. Mrs. Rachel peered at it eagerly. There's Marilla getting home from the funeral, she said to her husband, who was lying on the kitchen lounge. Thomas Lind lay more on the lounge nowadays than he had been used to do. But Mrs. Rachel, who was so sharp at noticing anything beyond her own household, had not as yet noticed this. And she's got the twins with her. Yes, there's Davy leaning over the dashboard, grabbing at the pony's tail, and Marilla jerking him back. Dora sitting up on the seat as prim as you please. She always looks as if she'd just been starched and ironed. Well, poor Marilla is going to have her hands full this winter and no mistake. Still, I don't see that she could do anything less than take them under the circumstances, and she'll have Anne to help her. Anne's tickled to death over the whole business, and she has a real knacky way with children, I must say. Dear me, it doesn't seem a day since poor Matthew brought Anne herself home, and everybody laughed at the idea of Marilla bringing up a child. And now she has adopted twins. You're never safe from being surprised till you're dead. The fat pony jogged over the bridge in Lind's Hollow and along the Green Gables Lane. Marilla's face was rather grim. It was ten miles from East Grafton, and Davy Keith seemed to be possessed with a passion for perpetual motion. It was beyond Marilla's power to make him sit still, and she had been in an agony the whole way lest he fall over the back of the wagon and break his neck, or tumble over the dashboard under the pony's heels. In despair she finally threatened to whip him soundly when she got home. Whereupon Davy climbed into her lap, regardless of the rains, flung his chubby arms about her neck and gave her a bear-like hug. I don't believe you mean it, he said, smacking her wrinkled cheek affectionately.  Didn't you find it awful hard to keep still when you was only as old as me? No. I always kept still when I was told, said Marilla, trying to speak sternly. Albeit she felt her heart waxing soft within her under Davy's impulsive caresses. Well, I suppose that was because you was a girl, said Davy squirming back to his place after another hug. You was a girl once, I suppose, though it's awful funny to think of it. Dora can sit still. But there ain't much fun in it, I don't think. Seems to me it must be slow to be a girl. Here, Dora, let me liven you up a bit. Davy's method of livening up was to grasp Dora's curls in his fingers and give him a tug. Dora shrieked and then cried.  But she was glad to die, said Davy confidentially. I know, because she told me so. She was awful tired of being sick. We'd a long talk the night before she died.  I'm going to be good. But can't you be good running around just as well as sitting still? And she said I was always to be kind to Dora and stand up for her, and I'm going to. Do you call pulling her hair being kind to her?  They just better try it. I didn't hurt her much. She just cried because she's a girl. I'm glad I'm a boy, but I'm sorry I'm a twin. When Jimmy Sprott's sister contradicts him, he just says, I'm older in use, of course I know better, and that settles her. But I can't tell Dora that, and she just goes on thinking different from me. You might let me drive the Gigi for a spell since I'm a man. All together Marilla was a thankful woman when she drove into her own yard, where the wind of the autumn night was dancing with the brown leaves. Anne was at the gate to meet them and lift the twins out. Dora submitted calmly to be kissed, but Davy responded to Anne's welcome with one of his hearty hugs and the cheerful announcement, I'm Mr. Davy Keith. At the supper table Dora behaved like a little lady, but Davy's manners left much to be desired. I'm so hungry I ain't got time to eat politely," he said when Marilla reproved him. Dora ate half as hungry as I am. Look at all the exercise I took on the road here. That cake's awful nice and plummy. We haven't had any cake at home forever and never so long because mother was too sick to make it and Mrs. Sprott said it was as much as she could do to bake our bread for us, and Mrs. Wiggins never puts any plums in her cakes. Not her. Can I have another piece? Marilla would have refused, but Anne cut a generous second slice. However, she reminded Davy that he ought to say thank you for it. Davy merely grinned at her and took a huge bite. When he had finished the slice he said, If you'll give me another piece I'll say thank you for it. No, you have had plenty of cake, said Marilla, in a tone which Anne knew and Davy was to learn to be final. Davy winked at Anne and then, leaning over the table, snatched Dora's first piece of cake, from which he had just taken one dainty little bite, out of her very fingers, and opening his mouth to the fullest extent, crammed the whole slice in. Dora's lip trembled, and Marilla was speechless with horror, and promptly exclaimed with her best school-ma'am air, Oh, Davy, gentlemen, don't do things like that. I know they don't, said Davy, as soon as you could speak, but I ain't a gentlem. But don't you want to be? said shocked Anne.  Oh, indeed you can, Anne hastened to say, thinking she saw a chance to sow good seed butimes. You can begin to be a gentleman when you're a little boy, and gentlemen never snatch things from ladies, or forget to say thank you, or pull anybody's hair. They don't have much fun, that's a fact, said Davy, frankly. I guess I'll wait till I'm grown up to be one. Marilla, with a resigned air, had cut another piece of cake for Dora. She did not feel able to cope with Davy just then. It had been a hard day for her, what with the funeral and the long drive. At that moment she looked forward to the future with a pessimism that would have done credit to Eliza Andrews herself. The twins were not noticeably alike, although both were fair. Dora had long, sleek curls that never got out of order.  Dora's hazel eyes were gentle and mild. Davy's were as roguish and dancing as an elf's. Dora's nose was straight, Davy's a positive snub. Dora had a prunes and prisms mouth. He's was all smiles. And besides he had a dimple in one cheek and none in the other, which gave him a dear, comical lopsided look when he laughed. Murth and Mischief lurked in every corner of his little face. They'd better go to bed, said Marilla, who thought it was the easiest way to dispose of them. Dora will sleep with me and you can put Davy in the west gable. You're not afraid to sleep alone, are you, Davy? No. But I ain't going to bed for ever so long yet, said Davy comfortably. Oh, yes you are! That was all the much-tried Marilla said. But something in her tone squelched even Davy. He trotted obediently upstairs with Anne. When I'm grown up, the very first thing I'm going to do is stay up all night just to see what it would be like, he told her confidentially. In after years, Marilla never thought of that first week of the twin sojourn at Green Gables without a shiver. Not that it was really so much worse than the weeks that followed it, but it seemed so by reason of its novelty. There was seldom a waking minute of any day when Davy was not in mischief or devising it, but his first notable exploit occurred two days after his arrival, on Sunday morning, a fine, warm day as hazy and mild as September. Anne dressed him for church while Marilla attended to Dora. Davy at first objected strongly to having his face washed. Marilla washed it yesterday, and Mrs. Wiggins scoured me with hard soap the day of the funeral. That's enough for one week. I don't see the good of being so awful clean. It's lots more comfortable being dirty. Paul Irving washes his face every day of his own accord, said Anne astutely. Davy had been an inmate of Green Gables for little over forty-eight hours, but he already worshipped Anne and hated Paul Irving, whom he had heard Anne praising enthusiastically the day after his arrival. If Paul Irving washed his face every day, that settled it. He, Davy Keith, would do it too if it killed him. The same consideration induced him to submit meekly to the other details of his toilet, and he was really a handsome little lad when all was done. Anne felt an almost maternal pride in him as she led him into the old Cuthbert pew. Davy behaved quite well at first, being occupied and casting covert glances at all the small boys within view, and wondering which was Paul Irving. The first two hymns and the scripture reading passed off uneventfully. Mr. Allen was praying when the sensation came.  Loretta was a fat, placid-looking child of eight, who had conducted herself irreproachably in church from the very first day her mother carried her there, an infant of six months. Davy thrust his hand into his pocket and produced a caterpillar, a furry, squirming caterpillar. Marilla saw and clutched at him, but she was too late. Davy dropped the caterpillar down Loretta's neck. Right into the middle of Mr. Allen's prayer burst a series of piercing shrieks. The minister stopped, appalled, and opened his eyes. Every head in the congregation flew up. Loretta White was dancing up and down in her pew, clutching frantically at the back of her dress. Oh! Mama! Mama! Oh!  Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Mrs. White rose and with a set face carried the hysterical, writhing Loretta out of church. Her shrieks died away in the distance, and Mr. Allen proceeded with the service. But everybody felt that it was a failure that day. For the first time in her life Marilla took no notice of the text, and Anne sat with scarlet cheeks of mortification. When they got home Marilla put Davy to bed and made him stay there for the rest of the day. She would not give him any dinner, but allowed him a plain tea of bread and milk. Anne carried it to him and sat sorrowfully by him while he ate it with an unrepentant relish, but Anne's mournful eyes troubled him. I suppose, he said reflectively, that Paul Irving wouldn't have dropped a caterpillar down a girl's neck in church, would he? Indeed he wouldn't, said Anne sadly. Well, I'm kind of sorry I did it then, conceded Davy. But it was such a jolly big caterpillar. I picked him up on the church steps just as we went in. It seemed a pity to waste him. And say, wasn't it fun to hear that girl yell? Tuesday afternoon the aid society met at Green Gables. Anne hurried home from school, for she knew that Marilla would need all the assistance she could give. Dora, neat and proper in her nicely starched white dress and black sash, was sitting with the members of the aid in the parlor, speaking demurely when spoken to, keeping silence when not, and in every way comporting herself as a model child. Davy, blissfully dirty, was making mud pies in the barnyard. I told him he might, said Marilla wearily. I thought it would keep him out of worse mischief. He can only get dirty at that. We'll have our teas over before we call him to his. Dora can have hers with us, but I would never dare to let Davy sit down at the table with all the aides here. When Anne went to call the aides to tea, she found that Dora was not in the parlor. Mrs. Jasper Bell said Davy had come to the front door and called her out. A hasty consultation with Marilla in the pantry resulted in a decision to let both children have their teas together later on. Tea was half over when the dining-room was invaded by a forlorn figure. Marilla and Anne stared in dismay, the aides in amazement. Could that be Dora? That sobbing nondescript and adrenched, dripping dress and hair from which the water was streaming on Marilla's new coin-spot rug? Dora, what has happened to you? cried Anne with a guilty glance at Mrs. Jasper Bell, whose family was said to be the only one in the world in which accidents never occurred. Davy made me walk the pig-pen fence.  My dress was just awful, but Davy said if I'd stand under the pump, he'd wash it clean, and I did, and he pumped water all over me, but my dress ain't a big cleaner, and my pretty sash and shoes is all spoiled. Anne did the honors of the table alone for the rest of the meal, while Marilla went upstairs and redressed Dora in her old clothes. Davy was caught and sent to bed without any supper. Anne went to his room at twilight and talked to him seriously, a method in which she had great faith, not altogether unjustified by results. She told him she felt very badly over his conduct. I feel sorry now myself, admitted Davy, but the trouble is I never feel sorry for doing things till after I've did them. Dora wouldn't help me make pies, because she was afraid of messing her clothes, and that made me hoppin' mad. I suppose Paul Irving wouldn't have made his sister walk a pig-pen fence if he knew she'd fall in. No, he would never dream of such a thing. Paul is a perfect little gentleman. Davy screwed his eyes tight shut, and seemed to meditate on this for a time.  Anne, don't you like me a little bit, even if I ain't a good boy like Paul? Indeed I do, said Anne sincerely. Somehow it was impossible to help liking Davy.  I—did something else today—went on Davy in a muffled voice. I'm sorry now, but I'm awful scared to tell you. You won't be very cross, will you? And you won't tell Marilla, will you? I don't know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to tell her. But I think I can promise you I won't, if you promise me that you will never do it again, whatever it is. No, I never will. Anyhow, it's not likely I'd find any more of them this year. I found this one on the cellar steps. Davy, what is it you've done? I put a toad in Marilla's bed. You can go and take it out if you like, but say Anne, wouldn't it be fun to leave it there? Davy, Keith—Anne sprang from Davy's clinging arms and flew across the hall to Marilla's room. The bed was slightly rumpled. She threw back the blankets in nervous haste, and there, in very truth, was the toad, blinking at her from under a pillow. How can I carry that awful thing out, moaned Anne with a shudder. The fire shovel suggested itself to her, and she crept down to get it while Marilla was busy in the pantry. Anne had her own troubles carrying that toad downstairs, for it hopped off the shovel three times, and once she thought she had lost it in the hall. When she finally deposited it in the cherry orchard, she drew a long breath of relief. If Marilla knew, she'd never feel safe getting into bed again in her life.  There's Diana signalling to me from her window. I'm glad. I really feel the need of some diversion. For what with Anthony Pye in school and Davy, Keith at home, my nerves have had about all they can endure for one day. CHAPTER IX. A Question of Colour. That old nuisance of Rachel Lind was here again today pestering me for a subscription towards buying a carpet for the vestry-room, said Mr. Harrison wrathfully. I detest that woman more than anybody I know. She can put a whole sermon, text, comment, and application into six words and throw it at you like a brick.  The trouble is, you and Mrs. Lind don't understand one another, she explained. That is always what is wrong when people don't like each other. I didn't like Mrs. Lind at first, either, but as soon as I came to understand her I learned to. Mrs. Lind may be an acquired taste with some folks, but I didn't keep on eating bananas because I was told I'd learn to like them if I did, growled Mr. Harrison, and as for understanding her I understand that she is a confirmed busybody and I told her so. Oh! that must have hurt her feelings very much, said Anne reproachfully. How could you say such a thing? I said some dreadful things to Mrs. Lind long ago, but it was when I had lost my temper. I couldn't say them deliberately. It was the truth, and I believe in telling the truth to everybody. But you don't tell the whole truth, objected Anne. You only tell the disagreeable part of the truth.  I daresay you know it without any telling, chuckled Mr. Harrison. I know I have red hair, too, although it's much darker than it used to be, so there's no need of telling me that, either. Well, well, I'll try and not mention it again since you're so sensitive. You must excuse me, Anne. I've got a habit of being outspoken and folks mustn't mind it. But they can't help minding it, and I don't think it's any help that it's your habit. What would you think of a person who went about sticking pins and needles into people and saying, excuse me, you mustn't mind it, it's just a habit I've got? You'd think he was crazy, wouldn't you? And as for Mrs. Lynn being a busybody, perhaps she is. But did you tell her she had a very kind heart and always helped the poor, and never said a word when Timothy Cotton stole a crock of butter out of her dairy and told his wife he'd bought it from her? Mrs. Cotton casted up to her the next time they met that it tasted of turnips, and Mrs. Lynn just said she was sorry it had turned out so poorly. As opposed she has some good qualities, conceded Mr. Harrison grudgingly. Most folks have. I have some myself, though you might never suspect it. But anyhow, I ain't going to give anything to that carpet. Folks are everlasting begging for money here, it seems to me. How's your project of painting the hall coming on? Splendidly! We had a meeting of the Avis last Friday night, and found that we had plenty of money subscribed to paint the hall and shingle the roof, too. Most people gave very liberally, Mr. Harrison. It was a sweet sold lass, but she could instill some venom into innocent italics when occasion required. What colour are you going to have it? We have decided on a very pretty green. The roof will be dark red, of course. Mr. Roger Pie is going to get the paint in town today. Who's got the job? Mr. Joshua Pie of Carmody. He has nearly finished the shingling. We had to give him the contract for every one of the pies, and there are four families, you know, said they wouldn't give a cent unless Joshua got it. They had subscribed twelve dollars between them, and we thought that was too much to lose, although some people think we shouldn't have given it to the pies. Mrs. Linn says they try to run everything. The main question is, will this Joshua do his work well? If he does, I don't see that it matters whether his name is Pie or Pudding. He has the reputation of being a good workman, though they say he's a very peculiar man. He hardly ever talks. He's peculiar enough all right, then, said Mr. Harrison dryly, or at least, folks here will call him so. I never was much of a talker till I came to Avonlea, and then I had to begin in self-defense, or Mrs. Linn would have said I was dumb, and started a subscription to have me taught sign language. You're not going yet, Anne. I must. I have some sewing to do for Dora this evening. Besides, Davy is probably breaking Marilla's heart with some new mischief by this time. This morning the first thing he said was, Where does the dark go, Anne? I want to know. I told him it went round to the other side of the world, but after breakfast he declared it didn't, that it went down the well. Marilla says she caught him hanging over the well-box four times today trying to reach down to the dark. He's a limb, declared Mr. Harrison. He came over here yesterday and pulled six feathers out of Ginger's tail before I could get him from the barn. The poor bird has been moping ever since.  Everything that's worth having is some trouble, said Anne, secretly resolving to forgive Davy's next defense, whatever it might be, since he had avenged her on Ginger. Mr. Roger Pie brought the hall paint home that night, and Mr. Joshua Pie, a surly, taciturn man, began painting the next day. He was not disturbed in his task. The hall was situated on what was called the Lower Road. In late autumn this road was always muddy and wet, and people going to Carmody traveled by the longer Upper Road. The hall was so closely surrounded by fir woods that it was invisible unless you were near it. Mr. Joshua Pie painted away in the solitude and independence that was so dear to his unsociable heart. Friday afternoon he finished his job and went home to Carmody. Then after his departure Mrs. Rachel Lynn drove by, having braved the mud of the Lower Road out of curiosity to see what the hall looked like in its new coat of paint. When she rounded the Spruce Curve she saw. The sight affected Mrs. Lynn doodly. She dropped the reins, held up her hands, and said, Gracious Providence! She stared as if she could not believe her eyes. Then she laughed almost hysterically. There must be some mistake. There must. I knew those pies would make a mess of things. Mrs. Lynn drove home, meeting several people on the road and stopping to tell them about the hall. The news flew like a wildfire. Gilbert Blythe, pouring over a textbook at home, heard it from his father's hired boy at sunset, and rushed breathlessly to Green Gables, joined on the way by Fred Wright. They found Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, and Anne Shirley despair personified at the yard gate of Green Gables under the big leafless willows. It isn't true, Shirley Anne, exclaimed Gilbert. It is true, answered Anne, looking like the muse of tragedy. Mrs. Lynn called on her way from Carmody to tell me, oh, it is simply dreadful. What is the use of trying to improve anything? What is dreadful? asked Oliver Sloan, arriving at this moment with a bandbox he had brought from town from Arilla. Haven't you heard? said Jane wrathfully. Well, it's simply this. Joshua Pie has gone and painted the hall blue instead of green, a deep, brilliant blue, the shade they use for painting carts and wheel-barrows. And Mrs. Lynn says it is the most hideous color for a building, especially when combined with a red roof that she ever saw or imagined. You could simply have knocked me down with a feather when I heard it. It's heartbreaking after all the trouble we've had. How on earth could such a mistake have happened? wailed Diana. The blame of this unmerciful disaster was eventually narrowed down to the pies. The improvers had decided to use Morton Harris paints, and the Morton Harris paint cans were numbered according to a color card. A purchaser chose his shade on the card and ordered by the accompanying number. Number 147 was the shade of green desired, and when Mr. Roger Pie sent word to the improvers by his son, John Andrew, that he was going to town and would get their paint for them, the improvers told John Andrew to tell his father to get 147. John Andrew always avert that he did so, but Mr. Roger Pie as staunchly declared that John Andrew told him 157, and there the matter stands to this day. That night there was blank dismay in every Avonlea house where an improver lived. The gloom at Green Gables was so intense that it quenched even Davy, and wept and would not be comforted. I must cry, even if I am almost seventeen, Marilla, she sobbed. It is so mortifying, and it sounds the death-nell of our society will simply be laughed out of existence. In life, as in dreams, however, things often go by contraries. The Avonlea people did not laugh. They were too angry. Their money had gone to paint the hall, and consequently they felt themselves bitterly aggrieved by the mistake. Public indignation centered on the pies. Roger Pie and John Andrew had bungled the matter between them, and as for Joshua Pie, he must be a born fool not to suspect there was something wrong when he opened the cans and saw the colour of the paint. Joshua Pie, when thus Annem hadverted upon, retorted that the Avonlea-tasting colours was no business of his, whatever his private opinion might be. He had been hired to paint the hall, not to talk about it, and he meant to have his money for it. The improvers paid him his money in bitterness of spirit after consulting Mr. Peter Sloan, who was a magistrate. You'll have to pay it, Peter told them. You can't hold him responsible for the mistake, since he claims he was never told what the colour was supposed to be, but just given the cans and told to go ahead. But it's a burning shame, and that hall certainly does look awful. The luckless improvers expected that Avonlea would be more prejudiced than ever against them, but instead public sympathy veered around in their favour. People thought the eager, enthusiastic little band who had worked so hard for their object had been badly used. Mrs. Lynn told them to keep on and show the pies that there really were people in the world who could do things without making a muddle of them. Mr. Major Spencer sent them word that he would clean out all the stumps along the road front of his farm and seed it down with grass at his own expense. And Mrs. Hiram Sloan called to the school one day and beckoned Ann mysteriously out into the porch to tell her that if the society wanted to make a geranium bed at the crossroads in the spring they needn't be afraid of her cow, for she would see that the marauding animal was kept within safe bounds. Even Mr. Harrison chuckled, if he chuckled at all, in private, and was all sympathy outwardly. Never mind, Ann. Most paints fade uglier every year, but that blue is as ugly as it can be to begin with, so it's bound to fade prettier. And the roof is shingled and painted all right. Folks will be able to sit in the hall after this without being leaked on. You've accomplished so much anyhow. But Avonlea's blue hall will be a byword in all the neighbouring settlements from this time out," said Ann bitterly. And it must be confessed that it was. CHAPTER X And, walking home from school through the birch path one November afternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing. The day had been a good day.  Sinclair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the question of his name. Prilly Rogerson's face had been so puffed up from the effects of toothache that she did not once try to cackette with the boys in her vicinity. Barbara Shaw had met with only one accident, spilling a dipper of water over the floor, and Anthony Pye had not been in school at all.  November is usually such a disagreeable month, as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old gracefully, just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We've had lovely days and delicious twilight. This last fortnight has been so peaceful, and even Davy has been almost well-behaved. I really think he is improving a great deal. How quiet the woods are today! Not a murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops. It sounds like surf on a faraway shore. How dear the woods are! You beautiful trees! I love every one of you as a friend. Ann paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss its cream-white trunk. Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her and laughed. Ann, surely you're only pretending to be grown up. I believe when you're alone you're as much a little girl as you ever were. Well, one can't get over the habit of being a little girl all at once, said Ann Gailey. You see, I was a little girl for fourteen years, and I've only been grown-up-ish for scarcely three. I'm sure I shall always feel like a child in the woods. These walks home from school are almost the only time I have for dreaming, except for the half-hour or so before I go to sleep. I'm so busy with teaching and studying and helping Marilla with the twins that I haven't another moment for imagining things. You don't know what splendid adventures I have for a little while after I go to bed in the East Gable every night. I always imagine I'm something very brilliant and triumphant and splendid, a great prima donna or a Red Cross nurse or a queen. Last night I was a queen. It's really splendid to imagine you're a queen.  But here in the woods I like best to imagine quite different things. I'm a dryad living in an old pine, or a little brown wood elf hiding under a crinkled leaf.  The only difference is she's a tree and I'm a girl. But that's no real difference. Where are you going, Diana? Down to the Dixons. I promise to help Alberta cut out her new dress. Can't you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me? I might, since Fred Wright is away in town, said Anne with a rather too innocent face. Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on. She did not look offended, however. Anne fully intended to go down to the Dixons that evening, but she did not. When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of affairs which banished every other thought from her mind. Marilla met her in the yard. A wild-eyed Marilla. Anne, Dora is lost. Dora lost? Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard gate and detected merriment in his eyes. Davy, do you know where she is? No, I don't, said Davy stoutly. I haven't seen her since dinnertime. Cross my heart. I've been away ever since one o'clock, said Marilla. Thomas Lynde took sick all of a sudden, and Rachel sent up for me to go at once. When I left here, Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy was making mud pies behind the barn. I only got home half an hour ago, and no Dora to be seen. Davy declared he never saw her since I left. Neither I did, about Davy solemnly. She must be somewhere around, said Anne. She would never wonder far away alone. You know how timid she is. Perhaps she has fallen asleep in one of the rooms. Marilla shook her head. I've hunted the whole house through. But she may be in some of the buildings. A thorough search followed. Every corner of house, yard, and out-buildings was ransacked by those two distracted people. Anne roved the orchards and the haunted wood calling Dora's name. Marilla took a candle and explored the cellar. Davy accompanied each of them in turn, and was fertile in thinking of places where Dora could possibly be. Finally they met again in the yard. It's a most mysterious thing, groaned Marilla. Where can she be, said Anne, miserably? Maybe she stumbled into the well, suggested Davy cheerfully. Anne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other's eyes. The thought had been with them both through their entire search that neither had dared to put it into words. She... She might have, whispered Marilla. Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to the well-box and peered over. The bucket sat on the shelf inside. Far down below was a tiny glimmer of still water. The Cuthbert well was the deepest in Avonlea. If Dora... But Anne could not face the idea. She shuddered and turned away. Run across from Mr. Harrison, said Marilla, wringing her hands. Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away. They went to town to-day. I'll go for Mr. Barry. Mr. Barry came back with Anne carrying a coil of rope to which was attached a claw-like instrument that had been the business end of a grubbing fork. Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken with horror and dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy, astride the gate, watched the group with a face indicative of huge enjoyment. Finally Mr. Barry shook his head with a relieved air. She can't be down there. It's a mighty curious thing where she could have got to, though. Look here, young man. Are you sure you've no idea where your sister is? I've told you a dozen times that I haven't, said Davy, with an injured air. Maybe a tramp come and stole her. Nonsense, said Marilla sharply, relieved from our horrible fear of the well. Anne, do you suppose she could have strayed over to Mr. Harrison's? She has always been talking about his parrot ever since that time you took her over. I can't believe Dora would venture so far alone. But I'll go over and see, said Anne. Nobody was looking at Davy just then, or it would have been seen that a very decided change came over his face. He quietly slipped off the gate and ran as fast as his fat legs could carry him to the barn. Anne hastened across the fields to the Harrison establishment in no very hopeful frame of mind. The house was locked, the window shades were down, and there was no sign of anything living about the place. She stood on the veranda and called Dora loudly. Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and swore with sudden fierceness. But between his outbursts, Anne heard a plaintiff cry from the little building in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as a tool-house.  Oh, Dora! Dora would have fright you've given us! How came you to be here? Davy and I came over to see Ginger, sobbed Dora, but we couldn't see him after all.  I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I'm so hungry and cold, and I thought you'd never come, Anne. Davy! But Anne could say no more. She carried Dora home with a heavy heart. Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was drowned out in the pain caused by Davy's behavior. The freak of shutting Dora up might easily have been pardoned. But Davy had told falsehoods, downright cold-blooded falsehoods about it.  She could have sat down and cried with sheer disappointment. She had grown to love Davy dearly. How dearly she had not known until this minute, and it hurt her unbearably to discover that he was guilty of deliberate falsehood. Marilla listened to Anne's tale in a silence that boated no good Davy word. Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily dealt with. When he had gone home, Anne soothed and warmed the sobbing, shivering Dora, got her supper and put her to bed. Then she returned to the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in, leading or rather pulling the reluctant cobwebby Davy whom she had just found hidden away in the darkest corner of the stable. She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor, and then went and sat down by the east window. Anne was sitting limply by the west window. Between them stood the culprit. His back was toward Marilla, and it was a meek, subdued, frightened back. But his face was toward Anne, and although it was a little shame faced, there was a gleam of comradeship in Davy's eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and was going to be punished for it, but could count on a laugh over it all with Anne later on. But no half-hidden smile answered him in Anne's grey eyes, as there might have done had it been only a question of mischief.  How could you behave so, Davy? she asked sorrowfully. Davy squirmed uncomfortably. I just did it for fun. Things have been so awful quiet here for so long that I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare. It was, too. In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over the recollection. But you told a falsehood about it, Davy, said Anne more sorrowfully than ever. Davy looked puzzled. What's a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper? I mean a story that was not true. Of course I did, said Davy frankly. If I hadn't you wouldn't have been scared. I had to tell it. Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions. Davy's impenitent attitude gave the finishing touch. Two big tears brimmed up in her eyes. Oh, Davy, how could you, she said with a quiver in her voice. Don't you know how wrong it was? Davy was aghast. Anne, crying. He had made Anne cry. A flood of real remorse rolled like a wave over his warm little heart and engulfed it. He rushed to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms around her neck and burst into tears. I didn't know it was wrong to tell whoppers, he sobbed. How'd you expect me to know it was wrong? All Mr. Sprott's children told him regular every day and crossed their hearts, too. I suppose Paul Irving never tells whoppers, and here I've been trying awful hard to be as good as him, but now I suppose you'll never love me again. But I think you might have told me it was wrong. I'm awful sorry I've made you cry, Anne, and I'll never tell a whopper again. He buried his face in Anne's shoulder and cried stormily. Anne, in a sudden glad flash of understanding, held him tight and looked over his curly, thatched Marilla. He didn't know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, Marilla. I think we must forgive him for that part of it this time, if he will promise never to say what isn't true again. I never will now that I know it's bad, a severated Davy between sobs.  You can skin me alive, Anne. Don't say whopper, Davy. Say falsehood, said the school man. Why, queried Davy, settling comfortably down and looking up with a tear-stained investigating face, why ain't whopper as good as falsehood? I want to know.  It's slang, and it's wrong for little boys to use slang. There's an awful lot of things it's wrong to do, said Davy with a sigh. I never supposed there was so many. I'm sorry it's wrong to tell what falsehoods, because it's awful handy. But since it is, I'm never going to tell any more. What are you going to do to me for telling him this time? I want to know. Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla. I don't want to be too hard on the child, said Marilla. I dare say nobody ever did tell him it was wrong to tell lies, and those Sprott children were no frit companions for him.  I suppose we'll just have to assume he doesn't know anything right, and begin at the beginning. But he'll have to be punished for shutting Dora up.