further chronicles of avonlea which have to do with many personalities and events in and about avonlea, the home of the heroine of green gables, including tales of aunt cynthia, the materializing of cecil, david spencer's daughter, jane's baby, the failure of robert monroe, the return of hester, the little brown book of miss emily, sara's way, the son of thyra carewe, the education of betty, the selflessness of eunice carr, the dream-child, the conscience case of david bell, only a common fellow, and finally the story of tannis of the flats. all related by l. m. montgomery author of "anne of green gables," "anne of avonlea," "anne of the island," "chronicles of avonlea," "kilmeny of the orchard," etc. introduction it is no exaggeration to say that what longfellow did for acadia, miss montgomery has done for prince edward island. more than a million readers, young people as well as their parents and uncles and aunts, possess in the picture-galleries of their memories the exquisite landscapes of avonlea, limned with as poetic a pencil as longfellow wielded when he told the ever-moving story of grand pre. only genius of the first water has the ability to conjure up such a character as anne shirley, the heroine of miss montgomery's first novel, "anne of green gables," and to surround her with people so distinctive, so real, so true to psychology. anne is as lovable a child as lives in all fiction. natasha in count tolstoi's great novel, "war and peace," dances into our ken, with something of the same buoyancy and naturalness; but into what a commonplace young woman she develops! anne, whether as the gay little orphan in her conquest of the master and mistress of green gables, or as the maturing and self-forgetful maiden of avonlea, keeps up to concert-pitch in her charm and her winsomeness. there is nothing in her to disappoint hope or imagination. part of the power of miss montgomery--and the largest part--is due to her skill in compounding humor and pathos. the humor is honest and golden; it never wearies the reader; the pathos is never sentimentalized, never degenerates into bathos, is never morbid. this combination holds throughout all her works, longer or shorter, and is particularly manifest in the present collection of fifteen short stories, which, together with those in the first volume of the chronicles of avonlea, present a series of piquant and fascinating pictures of life in prince edward island. the humor is shown not only in the presentation of quaint and unique characters, but also in the words which fall from their mouths. aunt cynthia "always gave you the impression of a full-rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind;" no further description is needed--only one such personage could be found in avonlea. you would recognize her at sight. ismay meade's disposition is summed up when we are told that she is "good at having presentiments--after things happen." what cleverer embodiment of innate obstinacy than in isabella spencer--"a wisp of a woman who looked as if a breath would sway her but was so set in her ways that a tornado would hardly have caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path;" or than in mrs. eben andrews (in "sara's way") who "looked like a woman whose opinions were always very decided and warranted to wear!" this gift of characterization in a few words is lavished also on material objects, as, for instance; what more is needed to describe the forlornness of the home from which anne was rescued than the statement that even the trees around it "looked like orphans"? the poetic touch, too, never fails in the right place and is never too frequently introduced in her descriptions. they throw a glamor over that northern land which otherwise you might imagine as rather cold and barren. what charming springs they must have there! one sees all the fruit-trees clad in bridal garments of pink and white; and what a translucent sky smiles down on the ponds and the reaches of bay and cove! "the eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with auroral crimsonings." "she was as slim and lithe as a young white-stemmed birch-tree; her hair was like a soft dusky cloud, and her eyes were as blue as avonlea harbor in a fair twilight, when all the sky is a-bloom over it." sentiment with a humorous touch to it prevails in the first two stories of the present book. the one relates to the disappearance of a valuable white persian cat with a blue spot in its tail. "fatima" is like the apple of her eye to the rich old aunt who leaves her with two nieces, with a stern injunction not to let her out of the house. of course both sue and ismay detest cats; ismay hates them, sue loathes them; but aunt cynthia's favor is worth preserving. you become as much interested in fatima's fate as if she were your own pet, and the climax is no less unexpected than it is natural, especially when it is made also the last act of a pretty comedy of love. miss montgomery delights in depicting the romantic episodes hidden in the hearts of elderly spinsters as, for instance, in the case of charlotte holmes, whose maid nancy would have sent for the doctor and subjected her to a porous plaster while waiting for him, had she known that up stairs there was a note-book full of original poems. rather than bear the stigma of never having had a love-affair, this sentimental lady invents one to tell her mocking young friends. the dramatic and unexpected denouement is delightful fun. another note-book reveals a deeper romance in the case of miss emily; this is related by anne of green gables, who once or twice flashes across the scene, though for the most part her friends and neighbors at white sands or newbridge or grafton as well as at avonlea are the persons involved. in one story, the last, "tannis of the flats," the secret of elinor blair's spinsterhood is revealed in an episode which carries the reader from avonlea to saskatchewan and shows the unselfish devotion of a half-breed indian girl. the story is both poignant and dramatic. its one touch of humor is where jerome carey curses his fate in being compelled to live in that desolate land in "the picturesque language permissible in the far northwest." self-sacrifice, as the real basis of happiness, is a favorite theme in miss montgomery's fiction. it is raised to the nth power in the story entitled, "in her selfless mood," where an ugly, misshapen girl devotes her life and renounces marriage for the sake of looking after her weak and selfish half-brother. the same spirit is found in "only a common fellow," who is haloed with a certain splendor by renouncing the girl he was to marry in favor of his old rival, supposed to have been killed in france, but happily delivered from that tragic fate. miss montgomery loves to introduce a little child or a baby as a solvent of old feuds or domestic quarrels. in "the dream child," a foundling boy, drifting in through a storm in a dory, saves a heart-broken mother from insanity. in "jane's baby," a baby-cousin brings reconciliation between the two sisters, rosetta and carlotta, who had not spoken for twenty years because "the slack-twisted" jacob married the younger of the two. happiness generally lights up the end of her stories, however tragic they may set out to be. in "the son of his mother," thyra is a stern woman, as "immovable as a stone image." she had only one son, whom she worshipped; "she never wanted a daughter, but she pitied and despised all sonless women." she demanded absolute obedience from chester--not only obedience, but also utter affection, and she hated his dog because the boy loved him: "she could not share her love even with a dumb brute." when chester falls in love, she is relentless toward the beautiful young girl and forces chester to give her up. but a terrible sorrow brings the old woman and the young girl into sympathy, and unspeakable joy is born of the trial. happiness also comes to "the brother who failed." the monroes had all been successful in the eyes of the world except robert: one is a millionaire, another a college president, another a famous singer. robert overhears the old aunt, isabel, call him a total failure, but, at the family dinner, one after another stands up and tells how robert's quiet influence and unselfish aid had started them in their brilliant careers, and the old aunt, wiping the tears from her eyes, exclaims: "i guess there's a kind of failure that's the best success." in one story there is an element of the supernatural, when hester, the hard older sister, comes between margaret and her lover and, dying, makes her promise never to become hugh blair's wife, but she comes back and unites them. in this, margaret, just like the delightful anne, lives up to the dictum that "nothing matters in all god's universe except love." the story of the revival at avonlea has also a good moral. there is something in these continued chronicles of avonlea, like the delicate art which has made "cranford" a classic: the characters are so homely and homelike and yet tinged with beautiful romance! you feel that you are made familiar with a real town and its real inhabitants; you learn to love them and sympathize with them. further chronicles of avonlea is a book to read; and to know. nathan haskell dole. contents i. aunt cynthia's persian cat ii. the materializing of cecil iii. her father's daughter iv. jane's baby v. the dream-child vi. the brother who failed vii. the return of hester viii. the little brown book of miss emily ix. sara's way x. the son of his mother xi. the education of betty xii. in her selfless mood xiii. the conscience case of david bell xiv. only a common fellow xv. tannis of the flats further chronicles of avonlea i. aunt cynthia's persian cat max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and i don't deny that things have worked together for good after all. but when i think of the anguish of mind which ismay and i underwent on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing that arises uppermost in my thoughts. i never was fond of cats, although i admit they are well enough in their place, and i can worry along comfortably with a nice, matronly old tabby who can take care of herself and be of some use in the world. as for ismay, she hates cats and always did. but aunt cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to understand that any one could possibly dislike them. she firmly believed that ismay and i really liked cats deep down in our hearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral natures, we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted in declaring we didn't. of all cats i loathed that white persian cat of aunt cynthia's. and, indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, aunt herself looked upon the creature with more pride than affection. she would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss that she did in that spoiled beauty. but a persian cat with a recorded pedigree and a market value of one hundred dollars tickled aunt cynthia's pride of possession to such an extent that she deluded herself into believing that the animal was really the apple of her eye. it had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary nephew who had brought it all the way home from persia; and for the next three years aunt cynthia's household existed to wait on that cat, hand and foot. it was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the tip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate. aunt cynthia was always worrying lest it should take cold and die. ismay and i used to wish that it would--we were so tired of hearing about it and its whims. but we did not say so to aunt cynthia. she would probably never have spoken to us again and there was no wisdom in offending aunt cynthia. when you have an unencumbered aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well to keep on good terms with her, if you can. besides, we really liked aunt cynthia very much--at times. aunt cynthia was one of those rather exasperating people who nag at and find fault with you until you think you are justified in hating them, and who then turn round and do something so really nice and kind for you that you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifully instead. so we listened meekly when she discoursed on fatima--the cat's name was fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the latter's decease, we were well punished for it later on. one day, in november, aunt cynthia came sailing out to spencervale. she really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray pony, but somehow aunt cynthia always gave you the impression of a full rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind. that was a jonah day for us all through. everything had gone wrong. ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit of the new blouse i was making was hopelessly askew, and the kitchen stove smoked and the bread was sour. moreover, huldah jane keyson, our tried and trusty old family nurse and cook and general "boss," had what she called the "realagy" in her shoulder; and, though huldah jane is as good an old creature as ever lived, when she has the "realagy" other people who are in the house want to get out of it and, if they can't, feel about as comfortable as st. lawrence on his gridiron. and on top of this came aunt cynthia's call and request. "dear me," said aunt cynthia, sniffing, "don't i smell smoke? you girls must manage your range very badly. mine never smokes. but it is no more than one might expect when two girls try to keep house without a man about the place." "we get along very well without a man about the place," i said loftily. max hadn't been in for four whole days and, though nobody wanted to see him particularly, i couldn't help wondering why. "men are nuisances." "i dare say you would like to pretend you think so," said aunt cynthia, aggravatingly. "but no woman ever does really think so, you know. i imagine that pretty anne shirley, who is visiting ella kimball, doesn't. i saw her and dr. irving out walking this afternoon, looking very well satisfied with themselves. if you dilly-dally much longer, sue, you will let max slip through your fingers yet." that was a tactful thing to say to me, who had refused max irving so often that i had lost count. i was furious, and so i smiled most sweetly on my maddening aunt. "dear aunt, how amusing of you," i said, smoothly. "you talk as if i wanted max." "so you do," said aunt cynthia. "if so, why should i have refused him time and again?" i asked, smilingly. right well aunt cynthia knew i had. max always told her. "goodness alone knows why," said aunt cynthia, "but you may do it once too often and find yourself taken at your word. there is something very fascinating about this anne shirley." "indeed there is," i assented. "she has the loveliest eyes i ever saw. she would be just the wife for max, and i hope he will marry her." "humph," said aunt cynthia. "well, i won't entice you into telling any more fibs. and i didn't drive out here to-day in all this wind to talk sense into you concerning max. i'm going to halifax for two months and i want you to take charge of fatima for me, while i am away." "fatima!" i exclaimed. "yes. i don't dare to trust her with the servants. mind you always warm her milk before you give it to her, and don't on any account let her run out of doors." i looked at ismay and ismay looked at me. we knew we were in for it. to refuse would mortally offend aunt cynthia. besides, if i betrayed any unwillingness, aunt cynthia would be sure to put it down to grumpiness over what she had said about max, and rub it in for years. but i ventured to ask, "what if anything happens to her while you are away?" "it is to prevent that, i'm leaving her with you," said aunt cynthia. "you simply must not let anything happen to her. it will do you good to have a little responsibility. and you will have a chance to find out what an adorable creature fatima really is. well, that is all settled. i'll send fatima out to-morrow." "you can take care of that horrid fatima beast yourself," said ismay, when the door closed behind aunt cynthia. "i won't touch her with a yard-stick. you had no business to say we'd take her." "did i say we would take her?" i demanded, crossly. "aunt cynthia took our consent for granted. and you know, as well as i do, we couldn't have refused. so what is the use of being grouchy?" "if anything happens to her aunt cynthia will hold us responsible," said ismay darkly. "do you think anne shirley is really engaged to gilbert blythe?" i asked curiously. "i've heard that she was," said ismay, absently. "does she eat anything but milk? will it do to give her mice?" "oh, i guess so. but do you think max has really fallen in love with her?" "i dare say. what a relief it will be for you if he has." "oh, of course," i said, frostily. "anne shirley or anne anybody else, is perfectly welcome to max if she wants him. _i_ certainly do not. ismay meade, if that stove doesn't stop smoking i shall fly into bits. this is a detestable day. i hate that creature!" "oh, you shouldn't talk like that, when you don't even know her," protested ismay. "every one says anne shirley is lovely--" "i was talking about fatima," i cried in a rage. "oh!" said ismay. ismay is stupid at times. i thought the way she said "oh" was inexcusably stupid. fatima arrived the next day. max brought her out in a covered basket, lined with padded crimson satin. max likes cats and aunt cynthia. he explained how we were to treat fatima and when ismay had gone out of the room--ismay always went out of the room when she knew i particularly wanted her to remain--he proposed to me again. of course i said no, as usual, but i was rather pleased. max had been proposing to me about every two months for two years. sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, and then i always wondered why. i concluded that he could not be really interested in anne shirley, and i was relieved. i didn't want to marry max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him around, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girl snapped him up. he was so useful and always willing to do anything for us--nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town, put down carpets--in short, a very present help in all our troubles. so i just beamed on him when i said no. max began counting on his fingers. when he got as far as eight he shook his head and began over again. "what is it?" i asked. "i'm trying to count up how many times i have proposed to you," he said. "but i can't remember whether i asked you to marry me that day we dug up the garden or not. if i did it makes--" "no, you didn't," i interrupted. "well, that makes it eleven," said max reflectively. "pretty near the limit, isn't it? my manly pride will not allow me to propose to the same girl more than twelve times. so the next time will be the last, sue darling." "oh," i said, a trifle flatly. i forgot to resent his calling me darling. i wondered if things wouldn't be rather dull when max gave up proposing to me. it was the only excitement i had. but of course it would be best--and he couldn't go on at it forever, so, by the way of gracefully dismissing the subject, i asked him what miss shirley was like. "very sweet girl," said max. "you know i always admired those gray-eyed girls with that splendid titian hair." i am dark, with brown eyes. just then i detested max. i got up and said i was going to get some milk for fatima. i found ismay in a rage in the kitchen. she had been up in the garret, and a mouse had run across her foot. mice always get on ismay's nerves. "we need a cat badly enough," she fumed, "but not a useless, pampered thing, like fatima. that garret is literally swarming with mice. you'll not catch me going up there again." fatima did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared. huldah jane liked her, and ismay, in spite of her declaration that she would have nothing to do with her, looked after her comfort scrupulously. she even used to get up in the middle of the night and go out to see if fatima was warm. max came in every day and, being around, gave us good advice. then one day, about three weeks after aunt cynthia's departure, fatima disappeared--just simply disappeared as if she had been dissolved into thin air. we left her one afternoon, curled up asleep in her basket by the fire, under huldah jane's eye, while we went out to make a call. when we came home fatima was gone. huldah jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad. she vowed that she had never let fatima out of her sight the whole time, save once for three minutes when she ran up to the garret for some summer savory. when she came back the kitchen door had blown open and fatima had vanished. ismay and i were frantic. we ran about the garden and through the out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wild creatures, calling fatima, but in vain. then ismay sat down on the front doorsteps and cried. "she has got out and she'll catch her death of cold and aunt cynthia will never forgive us." "i'm going for max," i declared. so i did, through the spruce woods and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me, thanking my stars that there was a max to go to in such a predicament. max came over and we had another search, but without result. days passed, but we did not find fatima. i would certainly have gone crazy had it not been for max. he was worth his weight in gold during the awful week that followed. we did not dare advertise, lest aunt cynthia should see it; but we inquired far and wide for a white persian cat with a blue spot on its tail, and offered a reward for it; but nobody had seen it, although people kept coming to the house, night and day, with every kind of a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the one we had lost. "we shall never see fatima again," i said hopelessly to max and ismay one afternoon. i had just turned away an old woman with a big, yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours--"cause it kem to our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don't belong to nobody not down grafton way, mem." "i'm afraid you won't," said max. "she must have perished from exposure long ere this." "aunt cynthia will never forgive us," said ismay, dismally. "i had a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to this house." we had never heard of this presentiment before, but ismay is good at having presentiments--after things happen. "what shall we do?" i demanded, helplessly. "max, can't you find some way out of this scrape for us?" "advertise in the charlottetown papers for a white persian cat," suggested max. "some one may have one for sale. if so, you must buy it, and palm it off on your good aunt as fatima. she's very short-sighted, so it will be quite possible." "but fatima has a blue spot on her tail," i said. "you must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail," said max. "it will cost a pretty penny," said ismay dolefully. "fatima was valued at one hundred dollars." "we must take the money we have been saving for our new furs," i said sorrowfully. "there is no other way out of it. it will cost us a good deal more if we lose aunt cynthia's favor. she is quite capable of believing that we have made away with fatima deliberately and with malice aforethought." so we advertised. max went to town and had the notice inserted in the most important daily. we asked any one who had a white persian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose of, to communicate with m. i., care of the _enterprise_. we really did not have much hope that anything would come of it, so we were surprised and delighted over the letter max brought home from town four days later. it was a type-written screed from halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white persian cat answering to our description. the price was a hundred and ten dollars, and, if m. i. cared to go to halifax and inspect the animal, it would be found at hollis street, by inquiring for "persian." "temper your joy, my friends," said ismay, gloomily. "the cat may not suit. the blue spot may be too big or too small or not in the right place. i consistently refuse to believe that any good thing can come out of this deplorable affair." just at this moment there was a knock at the door and i hurried out. the postmaster's boy was there with a telegram. i tore it open, glanced at it, and dashed back into the room. "what is it now?" cried ismay, beholding my face. i held out the telegram. it was from aunt cynthia. she had wired us to send fatima to halifax by express immediately. for the first time max did not seem ready to rush into the breach with a suggestion. it was i who spoke first. "max," i said, imploringly, "you'll see us through this, won't you? neither ismay nor i can rush off to halifax at once. you must go to-morrow morning. go right to hollis street and ask for 'persian.' if the cat looks enough like fatima, buy it and take it to aunt cynthia. if it doesn't--but it must! you'll go, won't you?" "that depends," said max. i stared at him. this was so unlike max. "you are sending me on a nasty errand," he said, coolly. "how do i know that aunt cynthia will be deceived after all, even if she be short-sighted. buying a cat in a joke is a huge risk. and if she should see through the scheme i shall be in a pretty mess." "oh, max," i said, on the verge of tears. "of course," said max, looking meditatively into the fire, "if i were really one of the family, or had any reasonable prospect of being so, i would not mind so much. it would be all in the day's work then. but as it is--" ismay got up and went out of the room. "oh, max, please," i said. "will you marry me, sue?" demanded max sternly. "if you will agree, i'll go to halifax and beard the lion in his den unflinchingly. if necessary, i will take a black street cat to aunt cynthia, and swear that it is fatima. i'll get you out of the scrape, if i have to prove that you never had fatima, that she is safe in your possession at the present time, and that there never was such an animal as fatima anyhow. i'll do anything, say anything--but it must be for my future wife." "will nothing else content you?" i said helplessly. "nothing." i thought hard. of course max was acting abominably--but--but--he was really a dear fellow--and this was the twelfth time--and there was anne shirley! i knew in my secret soul that life would be a dreadfully dismal thing if max were not around somewhere. besides, i would have married him long ago had not aunt cynthia thrown us so pointedly at each other's heads ever since he came to spencervale. "very well," i said crossly. max left for halifax in the morning. next day we got a wire saying it was all right. the evening of the following day he was back in spencervale. ismay and i put him in a chair and glared at him impatiently. max began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue. "i am glad it is so amusing," said ismay severely. "if sue and i could see the joke it might be more so." "dear little girls, have patience with me," implored max. "if you knew what it cost me to keep a straight face in halifax you would forgive me for breaking out now." "we forgive you--but for pity's sake tell us all about it," i cried. "well, as soon as i arrived in halifax i hurried to hollis street, but--see here! didn't you tell me your aunt's address was pleasant street?" "so it is." "'t isn't. you look at the address on a telegram next time you get one. she went a week ago to visit another friend who lives at hollis." "max!" "it's a fact. i rang the bell, and was just going to ask the maid for 'persian' when your aunt cynthia herself came through the hall and pounced on me." "'max,' she said, 'have you brought fatima?' "'no,' i answered, trying to adjust my wits to this new development as she towed me into the library. 'no, i--i--just came to halifax on a little matter of business.' "'dear me,' said aunt cynthia, crossly, 'i don't know what those girls mean. i wired them to send fatima at once. and she has not come yet and i am expecting a call every minute from some one who wants to buy her.' "'oh!' i murmured, mining deeper every minute. "'yes,' went on your aunt, 'there is an advertisement in the charlottetown _enterprise_ for a persian cat, and i answered it. fatima is really quite a charge, you know--and so apt to die and be a dead loss,'--did your aunt mean a pun, girls?--'and so, although i am considerably attached to her, i have decided to part with her.' "by this time i had got my second wind, and i promptly decided that a judicious mixture of the truth was the thing required. "'well, of all the curious coincidences,' i exclaimed. 'why, miss ridley, it was i who advertised for a persian cat--on sue's behalf. she and ismay have decided that they want a cat like fatima for themselves.' "you should have seen how she beamed. she said she knew you always really liked cats, only you would never own up to it. we clinched the dicker then and there. i passed her over your hundred and ten dollars--she took the money without turning a hair--and now you are the joint owners of fatima. good luck to your bargain!" "mean old thing," sniffed ismay. she meant aunt cynthia, and, remembering our shabby furs, i didn't disagree with her. "but there is no fatima," i said, dubiously. "how shall we account for her when aunt cynthia comes home?" "well, your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet. when she comes you will have to tell her that the cat--is lost--but you needn't say when it happened. as for the rest, fatima is your property now, so aunt cynthia can't grumble. but she will have a poorer opinion than ever of your fitness to run a house alone." when max left i went to the window to watch him down the path. he was really a handsome fellow, and i was proud of him. at the gate he turned to wave me good-by, and, as he did, he glanced upward. even at that distance i saw the look of amazement on his face. then he came bolting back. "ismay, the house is on fire!" i shrieked, as i flew to the door. "sue," cried max, "i saw fatima, or her ghost, at the garret window a moment ago!" "nonsense!" i cried. but ismay was already half way up the stairs and we followed. straight to the garret we rushed. there sat fatima, sleek and complacent, sunning herself in the window. max laughed until the rafters rang. "she can't have been up here all this time," i protested, half tearfully. "we would have heard her meowing." "but you didn't," said max. "she would have died of the cold," declared ismay. "but she hasn't," said max. "or starved," i cried. "the place is alive with mice," said max. "no, girls, there is no doubt the cat has been here the whole fortnight. she must have followed huldah jane up here, unobserved, that day. it's a wonder you didn't hear her crying--if she did cry. but perhaps she didn't, and, of course, you sleep downstairs. to think you never thought of looking here for her!" "it has cost us over a hundred dollars," said ismay, with a malevolent glance at the sleek fatima. "it has cost me more than that," i said, as i turned to the stairway. max held me back for an instant, while ismay and fatima pattered down. "do you think it has cost too much, sue?" he whispered. i looked at him sideways. he was really a dear. niceness fairly exhaled from him. "no-o-o," i said, "but when we are married you will have to take care of fatima, _i_ won't." "dear fatima," said max gratefully. ii. the materializing of cecil it had never worried me in the least that i wasn't married, although everybody in avonlea pitied old maids; but it did worry me, and i frankly confess it, that i had never had a chance to be. even nancy, my old nurse and servant, knew that, and pitied me for it. nancy is an old maid herself, but she has had two proposals. she did not accept either of them because one was a widower with seven children, and the other a very shiftless, good-for-nothing fellow; but, if anybody twitted nancy on her single condition, she could point triumphantly to those two as evidence that "she could an she would." if i had not lived all my life in avonlea i might have had the benefit of the doubt; but i had, and everybody knew everything about me--or thought they did. i had really often wondered why nobody had ever fallen in love with me. i was not at all homely; indeed, years ago, george adoniram maybrick had written a poem addressed to me, in which he praised my beauty quite extravagantly; that didn't mean anything because george adoniram wrote poetry to all the good-looking girls and never went with anybody but flora king, who was cross-eyed and red-haired, but it proves that it was not my appearance that put me out of the running. neither was it the fact that i wrote poetry myself--although not of george adoniram's kind--because nobody ever knew that. when i felt it coming on i shut myself up in my room and wrote it out in a little blank book i kept locked up. it is nearly full now, because i have been writing poetry all my life. it is the only thing i have ever been able to keep a secret from nancy. nancy, in any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to take care of myself; but i tremble to imagine what she would think if she ever found out about that little book. i am convinced she would send for the doctor post-haste and insist on mustard plasters while waiting for him. nevertheless, i kept on at it, and what with my flowers and my cats and my magazines and my little book, i was really very happy and contented. but it did sting that adella gilbert, across the road, who has a drunken husband, should pity "poor charlotte" because nobody had ever wanted her. poor charlotte indeed! if i had thrown myself at a man's head the way adella gilbert did at--but there, there, i must refrain from such thoughts. i must not be uncharitable. the sewing circle met at mary gillespie's on my fortieth birthday. i have given up talking about my birthdays, although that little scheme is not much good in avonlea where everybody knows your age--or if they make a mistake it is never on the side of youth. but nancy, who grew accustomed to celebrating my birthdays when i was a little girl, never gets over the habit, and i don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's nice to have some one make a fuss over you. she brought me up my breakfast before i got up out of bed--a concession to my laziness that nancy would scorn to make on any other day of the year. she had cooked everything i like best, and had decorated the tray with roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind the house. i enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and then i got up and dressed, putting on my second best muslin gown. i would have put on my really best if i had not had the fear of nancy before my eyes; but i knew she would never condone that, even on a birthday. i watered my flowers and fed my cats, and then i locked myself up and wrote a poem on june. i had given up writing birthday odes after i was thirty. in the afternoon i went to the sewing circle. when i was ready for it i looked in my glass and wondered if i could really be forty. i was quite sure i didn't look it. my hair was brown and wavy, my cheeks were pink, and the lines could hardly be seen at all, though possibly that was because of the dim light. i always have my mirror hung in the darkest corner of my room. nancy cannot imagine why. i know the lines are there, of course; but when they don't show very plain i forget that they are there. we had a large sewing circle, young and old alike attending. i really cannot say i ever enjoyed the meetings--at least not up to that time--although i went religiously because i thought it my duty to go. the married women talked so much of their husbands and children, and of course i had to be quiet on those topics; and the young girls talked in corner groups about their beaux, and stopped it when i joined them, as if they felt sure that an old maid who had never had a beau couldn't understand at all. as for the other old maids, they talked gossip about every one, and i did not like that either. i knew the minute my back was turned they would fasten into me and hint that i used hair-dye and declare it was perfectly ridiculous for a woman of fifty to wear a pink muslin dress with lace-trimmed frills. there was a full attendance that day, for we were getting ready for a sale of fancy work in aid of parsonage repairs. the young girls were merrier and noisier than usual. wilhelmina mercer was there, and she kept them going. the mercers were quite new to avonlea, having come here only two months previously. i was sitting by the window and wilhelmina mercer, maggie henderson, susette cross and georgie hall were in a little group just before me. i wasn't listening to their chatter at all, but presently georgie exclaimed teasingly: "miss charlotte is laughing at us. i suppose she thinks we are awfully silly to be talking about beaux." the truth was that i was simply smiling over some very pretty thoughts that had come to me about the roses which were climbing over mary gillespie's sill. i meant to inscribe them in the little blank book when i went home. georgie's speech brought me back to harsh realities with a jolt. it hurt me, as such speeches always did. "didn't you ever have a beau, miss holmes?" said wilhelmina laughingly. just as it happened, a silence had fallen over the room for a moment, and everybody in it heard wilhelmina's question. i really do not know what got into me and possessed me. i have never been able to account for what i said and did, because i am naturally a truthful person and hate all deceit. it seemed to me that i simply could not say "no" to wilhelmina before that whole roomful of women. it was too humiliating. i suppose all the prickles and stings and slurs i had endured for fifteen years on account of never having had a lover had what the new doctor calls "a cumulative effect" and came to a head then and there. "yes, i had one once, my dear," i said calmly. for once in my life i made a sensation. every woman in that room stopped sewing and stared at me. most of them, i saw, didn't believe me, but wilhelmina did. her pretty face lighted up with interest. "oh, won't you tell us about him, miss holmes?" she coaxed, "and why didn't you marry him?" "that is right, miss mercer," said josephine cameron, with a nasty little laugh. "make her tell. we're all interested. it's news to us that charlotte ever had a beau." if josephine had not said that, i might not have gone on. but she did say it, and, moreover, i caught mary gillespie and adella gilbert exchanging significant smiles. that settled it, and made me quite reckless. "in for a penny, in for a pound," thought i, and i said with a pensive smile: "nobody here knew anything about him, and it was all long, long ago." "what was his name?" asked wilhelmina. "cecil fenwick," i answered promptly. cecil had always been my favorite name for a man; it figured quite frequently in the blank book. as for the fenwick part of it, i had a bit of newspaper in my hand, measuring a hem, with "try fenwick's porous plasters" printed across it, and i simply joined the two in sudden and irrevocable matrimony. "where did you meet him?" asked georgie. i hastily reviewed my past. there was only one place to locate cecil fenwick. the only time i had ever been far enough away from avonlea in my life was when i was eighteen and had gone to visit an aunt in new brunswick. "in blakely, new brunswick," i said, almost believing that i had when i saw how they all took it in unsuspectingly. "i was just eighteen and he was twenty-three." "what did he look like?" susette wanted to know. "oh, he was very handsome." i proceeded glibly to sketch my ideal. to tell the dreadful truth, i was enjoying myself; i could see respect dawning in those girls' eyes, and i knew that i had forever thrown off my reproach. henceforth i should be a woman with a romantic past, faithful to the one love of her life--a very, very different thing from an old maid who had never had a lover. "he was tall and dark, with lovely, curly black hair and brilliant, piercing eyes. he had a splendid chin, and a fine nose, and the most fascinating smile!" "what was he?" asked maggie. "a young lawyer," i said, my choice of profession decided by an enlarged crayon portrait of mary gillespie's deceased brother on an easel before me. he had been a lawyer. "why didn't you marry him?" demanded susette. "we quarreled," i answered sadly. "a terribly bitter quarrel. oh, we were both so young and so foolish. it was my fault. i vexed cecil by flirting with another man"--wasn't i coming on!--"and he was jealous and angry. he went out west and never came back. i have never seen him since, and i do not even know if he is alive. but--but--i could never care for any other man." "oh, how interesting!" sighed wilhelmina. "i do so love sad love stories. but perhaps he will come back some day yet, miss holmes." "oh, no, never now," i said, shaking my head. "he has forgotten all about me, i dare say. or if he hasn't, he has never forgiven me." mary gillespie's susan jane announced tea at this moment, and i was thankful, for my imagination was giving out, and i didn't know what question those girls would ask next. but i felt already a change in the mental atmosphere surrounding me, and all through supper i was thrilled with a secret exultation. repentant? ashamed? not a bit of it! i'd have done the same thing over again, and all i felt sorry for was that i hadn't done it long ago. when i got home that night nancy looked at me wonderingly, and said: "you look like a girl to-night, miss charlotte." "i feel like one," i said laughing; and i ran to my room and did what i had never done before--wrote a second poem in the same day. i had to have some outlet for my feelings. i called it "in summer days of long ago," and i worked mary gillespie's roses and cecil fenwick's eyes into it, and made it so sad and reminiscent and minor-musicky that i felt perfectly happy. for the next two months all went well and merrily. nobody ever said anything more to me about cecil fenwick, but the girls all chattered freely to me of their little love affairs, and i became a sort of general confidant for them. it just warmed up the cockles of my heart, and i began to enjoy the sewing circle famously. i got a lot of pretty new dresses and the dearest hat, and i went everywhere i was asked and had a good time. but there is one thing you can be perfectly sure of. if you do wrong you are going to be punished for it sometime, somehow and somewhere. my punishment was delayed for two months, and then it descended on my head and i was crushed to the very dust. another new family besides the mercers had come to avonlea in the spring--the maxwells. there were just mr. and mrs. maxwell; they were a middle-aged couple and very well off. mr. maxwell had bought the lumber mills, and they lived up at the old spencer place which had always been "the" place of avonlea. they lived quietly, and mrs. maxwell hardly ever went anywhere because she was delicate. she was out when i called and i was out when she returned my call, so that i had never met her. it was the sewing circle day again--at sarah gardiner's this time. i was late; everybody else was there when i arrived, and the minute i entered the room i knew something had happened, although i couldn't imagine what. everybody looked at me in the strangest way. of course, wilhelmina mercer was the first to set her tongue going. "oh, miss holmes, have you seen him yet?" she exclaimed. "seen whom?" i said non-excitedly, getting out my thimble and patterns. "why, cecil fenwick. he's here--in avonlea--visiting his sister, mrs. maxwell." i suppose i did what they expected me to do. i dropped everything i held, and josephine cameron said afterwards that charlotte holmes would never be paler when she was in her coffin. if they had just known why i turned so pale! "it's impossible!" i said blankly. "it's really true," said wilhelmina, delighted at this development, as she supposed it, of my romance. "i was up to see mrs. maxwell last night, and i met him." "it--can't be--the same--cecil fenwick," i said faintly, because i had to say something. "oh, yes, it is. he belongs in blakely, new brunswick, and he's a lawyer, and he's been out west twenty-two years. he's oh! so handsome, and just as you described him, except that his hair is quite gray. he has never married--i asked mrs. maxwell--so you see he has never forgotten you, miss holmes. and, oh, i believe everything is going to come out all right." i couldn't exactly share her cheerful belief. everything seemed to me to be coming out most horribly wrong. i was so mixed up i didn't know what to do or say. i felt as if i were in a bad dream--it must be a dream--there couldn't really be a cecil fenwick! my feelings were simply indescribable. fortunately every one put my agitation down to quite a different cause, and they very kindly left me alone to recover myself. i shall never forget that awful afternoon. right after tea i excused myself and went home as fast as i could go. there i shut myself up in my room, but not to write poetry in my blank book. no, indeed! i felt in no poetical mood. i tried to look the facts squarely in the face. there was a cecil fenwick, extraordinary as the coincidence was, and he was here in avonlea. all my friends--and foes--believed that he was the estranged lover of my youth. if he stayed long in avonlea, one of two things was bound to happen. he would hear the story i had told about him and deny it, and i would be held up to shame and derision for the rest of my natural life; or else he would simply go away in ignorance, and everybody would suppose he had forgotten me and would pity me maddeningly. the latter possibility was bad enough, but it wasn't to be compared to the former; and oh, how i prayed--yes, i did pray about it--that he would go right away. but providence had other views for me. cecil fenwick didn't go away. he stayed right on in avonlea, and the maxwells blossomed out socially in his honor and tried to give him a good time. mrs. maxwell gave a party for him. i got a card--but you may be very sure i didn't go, although nancy thought i was crazy not to. then every one else gave parties in honor of mr. fenwick and i was invited and never went. wilhelmina mercer came and pleaded and scolded and told me if i avoided mr. fenwick like that he would think i still cherished bitterness against him, and he wouldn't make any advances towards a reconciliation. wilhelmina means well, but she hasn't a great deal of sense. cecil fenwick seemed to be a great favorite with everybody, young and old. he was very rich, too, and wilhelmina declared that half the girls were after him. "if it wasn't for you, miss holmes, i believe i'd have a try for him myself, in spite of his gray hair and quick temper--for mrs. maxwell says he has a pretty quick temper, but it's all over in a minute," said wilhelmina, half in jest and wholly in earnest. as for me, i gave up going out at all, even to church. i fretted and pined and lost my appetite and never wrote a line in my blank book. nancy was half frantic and insisted on dosing me with her favorite patent pills. i took them meekly, because it is a waste of time and energy to oppose nancy, but, of course, they didn't do me any good. my trouble was too deep-seated for pills to cure. if ever a woman was punished for telling a lie i was that woman. i stopped my subscription to the _weekly advocate_ because it still carried that wretched porous plaster advertisement, and i couldn't bear to see it. if it hadn't been for that i would never have thought of fenwick for a name, and all this trouble would have been averted. one evening, when i was moping in my room, nancy came up. "there's a gentleman in the parlor asking for you, miss charlotte." my heart gave just one horrible bounce. "what--sort of a gentleman, nancy?" i faltered. "i think it's that fenwick man that there's been such a time about," said nancy, who didn't know anything about my imaginary escapades, "and he looks to be mad clean through about something, for such a scowl i never seen." "tell him i'll be down directly, nancy," i said quite calmly. as soon as nancy had clumped downstairs again i put on my lace fichu and put two hankies in my belt, for i thought i'd probably need more than one. then i hunted up an old _advocate_ for proof, and down i went to the parlor. i know exactly how a criminal feels going to execution, and i've been opposed to capital punishment ever since. i opened the parlor door and went in, carefully closing it behind me, for nancy has a deplorable habit of listening in the hall. then my legs gave out completely, and i couldn't have walked another step to save my life. i just stood there, my hand on the knob, trembling like a leaf. a man was standing by the south window looking out; he wheeled around as i went in, and, as nancy said, he had a scowl on and looked angry clear through. he was very handsome, and his gray hair gave him such a distinguished look. i recalled this afterward, but just at the moment you may be quite sure i wasn't thinking about it at all. then all at once a strange thing happened. the scowl went right off his face and the anger out of his eyes. he looked astonished, and then foolish. i saw the color creeping up into his cheeks. as for me, i still stood there staring at him, not able to say a single word. "miss holmes, i presume," he said at last, in a deep, thrilling voice. "i--i--oh, confound it! i have called--i heard some foolish stories and i came here in a rage. i've been a fool--i know now they weren't true. just excuse me and i'll go away and kick myself." "no," i said, finding my voice with a gasp, "you mustn't go until you've heard the truth. it's dreadful enough, but not as dreadful as you might otherwise think. those--those stories--i have a confession to make. i did tell them, but i didn't know there was such a person as cecil fenwick in existence." he looked puzzled, as well he might. then he smiled, took my hand and led me away from the door--to the knob of which i was still holding with all my might--to the sofa. "let's sit down and talk it over 'comfy,'" he said. i just confessed the whole shameful business. it was terribly humiliating, but it served me right. i told him how people were always twitting me for never having had a beau, and how i had told them i had; and then i showed him the porous plaster advertisement. he heard me right through without a word, and then he threw back his big, curly, gray head and laughed. "this clears up a great many mysterious hints i've been receiving ever since i came to avonlea," he said, "and finally a mrs. gilbert came to my sister this afternoon with a long farrago of nonsense about the love affair i had once had with some charlotte holmes here. she declared you had told her about it yourself. i confess i flamed up. i'm a peppery chap, and i thought--i thought--oh, confound it, it might as well out: i thought you were some lank old maid who was amusing herself telling ridiculous stories about me. when you came into the room i knew that, whoever was to blame, you were not." "but i was," i said ruefully. "it wasn't right of me to tell such a story--and it was very silly, too. but who would ever have supposed that there could be a real cecil fenwick who had lived in blakely? i never heard of such a coincidence." "it's more than a coincidence," said mr. fenwick decidedly. "it's predestination; that is what it is. and now let's forget it and talk of something else." we talked of something else--or at least mr. fenwick did, for i was too ashamed to say much--so long that nancy got restive and clumped through the hall every five minutes; but mr. fenwick never took the hint. when he finally went away he asked if he might come again. "it's time we made up that old quarrel, you know," he said, laughing. and i, an old maid of forty, caught myself blushing like a girl. but i felt like a girl, for it was such a relief to have that explanation all over. i couldn't even feel angry with adella gilbert. she was always a mischief maker, and when a woman is born that way she is more to be pitied than blamed. i wrote a poem in the blank book before i went to sleep; i hadn't written anything for a month, and it was lovely to be at it once more. mr. fenwick did come again--the very next evening, but one. and he came so often after that that even nancy got resigned to him. one day i had to tell her something. i shrank from doing it, for i feared it would make her feel badly. "oh, i've been expecting to hear it," she said grimly. "i felt the minute that man came into the house he brought trouble with him. well, miss charlotte, i wish you happiness. i don't know how the climate of california will agree with me, but i suppose i'll have to put up with it." "but, nancy," i said, "i can't expect you to go away out there with me. it's too much to ask of you." "and where else would i be going?" demanded nancy in genuine astonishment. "how under the canopy could you keep house without me? i'm not going to trust you to the mercies of a yellow chinee with a pig-tail. where you go i go, miss charlotte, and there's an end of it." i was very glad, for i hated to think of parting with nancy even to go with cecil. as for the blank book, i haven't told my husband about it yet, but i mean to some day. and i've subscribed for the _weekly advocate_ again. iii. her father's daughter "we must invite your aunt jane, of course," said mrs. spencer. rachel made a protesting movement with her large, white, shapely hands--hands which were so different from the thin, dark, twisted ones folded on the table opposite her. the difference was not caused by hard work or the lack of it; rachel had worked hard all her life. it was a difference inherent in temperament. the spencers, no matter what they did, or how hard they labored, all had plump, smooth, white hands, with firm, supple fingers; the chiswicks, even those who toiled not, neither did they spin, had hard, knotted, twisted ones. moreover, the contrast went deeper than externals, and twined itself with the innermost fibers of life, and thought, and action. "i don't see why we must invite aunt jane," said rachel, with as much impatience as her soft, throaty voice could express. "aunt jane doesn't like me, and i don't like aunt jane." "i'm sure i don't see why you don't like her," said mrs. spencer. "it's ungrateful of you. she has always been very kind to you." "she has always been very kind with one hand," smiled rachel. "i remember the first time i ever saw aunt jane. i was six years old. she held out to me a small velvet pincushion with beads on it. and then, because i did not, in my shyness, thank her quite as promptly as i should have done, she rapped my head with her bethimbled finger to 'teach me better manners.' it hurt horribly--i've always had a tender head. and that has been aunt jane's way ever since. when i grew too big for the thimble treatment she used her tongue instead--and that hurt worse. and you know, mother, how she used to talk about my engagement. she is able to spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come in a bad humor. i don't want her." "she must be invited. people would talk so if she wasn't." "i don't see why they should. she's only my great-aunt by marriage. i wouldn't mind in the least if people did talk. they'll talk anyway--you know that, mother." "oh, we must have her," said mrs. spencer, with the indifferent finality that marked all her words and decisions--a finality against which it was seldom of any avail to struggle. people, who knew, rarely attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misled by the deceit of appearances. isabella spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a pale, pretty face, uncertainly-colored, long-lashed grayish eyes, and great masses of dull, soft, silky brown hair. she had delicate aquiline features and a small, babyish red mouth. she looked as if a breath would sway her. the truth was that a tornado would hardly have caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path. for a moment rachel looked rebellious; then she yielded, as she generally did in all differences of opinion with her mother. it was not worth while to quarrel over the comparatively unimportant matter of aunt jane's invitation. a quarrel might be inevitable later on; rachel wanted to save all her resources for that. she gave her shoulders a shrug, and wrote aunt jane's name down on the wedding list in her large, somewhat untidy handwriting--a handwriting which always seemed to irritate her mother. rachel never could understand this irritation. she could never guess that it was because her writing looked so much like that in a certain packet of faded letters which mrs. spencer kept at the bottom of an old horsehair trunk in her bedroom. they were postmarked from seaports all over the world. mrs. spencer never read them or looked at them; but she remembered every dash and curve of the handwriting. isabella spencer had overcome many things in her life by the sheer force and persistency of her will. but she could not get the better of heredity. rachel was her father's daughter at all points, and isabella spencer escaped hating her for it only by loving her the more fiercely because of it. even so, there were many times when she had to avert her eyes from rachel's face because of the pang of the more subtle remembrances; and never, since her child was born, could isabella spencer bear to gaze on that child's face in sleep. rachel was to be married to frank bell in a fortnight's time. mrs. spencer was pleased with the match. she was very fond of frank, and his farm was so near to her own that she would not lose rachel altogether. rachel fondly believed that her mother would not lose her at all; but isabella spencer, wiser by olden experience, knew what her daughter's marriage must mean to her, and steeled her heart to bear it with what fortitude she might. they were in the sitting-room, deciding on the wedding guests and other details. the september sunshine was coming in through the waving boughs of the apple tree that grew close up to the low window. the glints wavered over rachel's face, as white as a wood lily, with only a faint dream of rose in the cheeks. she wore her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it. her forehead was very broad and white. she was fresh and young and hopeful. the mother's heart contracted in a spasm of pain as she looked at her. how like the girl was to--to--to the spencers! those easy, curving outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes, that finely molded chin! isabella spencer shut her lips firmly and crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories. "there will be about sixty guests, all told," she said, as if she were thinking of nothing else. "we must move the furniture out of this room and set the supper-table here. the dining-room is too small. we must borrow mrs. bell's forks and spoons. she offered to lend them. i'd never have been willing to ask her. the damask table cloths with the ribbon pattern must be bleached to-morrow. nobody else in avonlea has such tablecloths. and we'll put the little dining-room table on the hall landing, upstairs, for the presents." rachel was not thinking about the presents, or the housewifely details of the wedding. her breath was coming quicker, and the faint blush on her smooth cheeks had deepened to crimson. she knew that a critical moment was approaching. with a steady hand she wrote the last name on her list and drew a line under it. "well, have you finished?" asked her mother impatiently. "hand it here and let me look over it to make sure that you haven't left anybody out that should be in." rachel passed the paper across the table in silence. the room seemed to her to have grown very still. she could hear the flies buzzing on the panes, the soft purr of the wind about the low eaves and through the apple boughs, the jerky beating of her own heart. she felt frightened and nervous, but resolute. mrs. spencer glanced down the list, murmuring the names aloud and nodding approval at each. but when she came to the last name, she did not utter it. she cast a black glance at rachel, and a spark leaped up in the depths of the pale eyes. on her face were anger, amazement, incredulity, the last predominating. the final name on the list of wedding guests was the name of david spencer. david spencer lived alone in a little cottage down at the cove. he was a combination of sailor and fisherman. he was also isabella spencer's husband and rachel's father. "rachel spencer, have you taken leave of your senses? what do you mean by such nonsense as this?" "i simply mean that i am going to invite my father to my wedding," answered rachel quietly. "not in my house," cried mrs. spencer, her lips as white as if her fiery tone had scathed them. rachel leaned forward, folded her large, capable hands deliberately on the table, and gazed unflinchingly into her mother's bitter face. her fright and nervousness were gone. now that the conflict was actually on she found herself rather enjoying it. she wondered a little at herself, and thought that she must be wicked. she was not given to self-analysis, or she might have concluded that it was the sudden assertion of her own personality, so long dominated by her mother's, which she was finding so agreeable. "then there will be no wedding, mother," she said. "frank and i will simply go to the manse, be married, and go home. if i cannot invite my father to see me married, no one else shall be invited." her lips narrowed tightly. for the first time in her life isabella spencer saw a reflection of herself looking back at her from her daughter's face--a strange, indefinable resemblance that was more of soul and spirit than of flesh and blood. in spite of her anger her heart thrilled to it. as never before, she realized that this girl was her own and her husband's child, a living bond between them wherein their conflicting natures mingled and were reconciled. she realized too, that rachel, so long sweetly meek and obedient, meant to have her own way in this case--and would have it. "i must say that i can't see why you are so set on having your father see you married," she said with a bitter sneer. "he has never remembered that he is your father. he cares nothing about you--never did care." rachel took no notice of this taunt. it had no power to hurt her, its venom being neutralized by a secret knowledge of her own in which her mother had no share. "either i shall invite my father to my wedding, or i shall not have a wedding," she repeated steadily, adopting her mother's own effective tactics of repetition undistracted by argument. "invite him then," snapped mrs. spencer, with the ungraceful anger of a woman, long accustomed to having her own way, compelled for once to yield. "it'll be like chips in porridge anyhow--neither good nor harm. he won't come." rachel made no response. now that the battle was over, and the victory won, she found herself tremulously on the verge of tears. she rose quickly and went upstairs to her own room, a dim little place shadowed by the white birches growing thickly outside--a virginal room, where everything bespoke the maiden. she lay down on the blue and white patchwork quilt on her bed, and cried softly and bitterly. her heart, at this crisis in her life, yearned for her father, who was almost a stranger to her. she knew that her mother had probably spoken the truth when she said that he would not come. rachel felt that her marriage vows would be lacking in some indefinable sacredness if her father were not by to hear them spoken. twenty-five years before this, david spencer and isabella chiswick had been married. spiteful people said there could be no doubt that isabella had married david for love, since he had neither lands nor money to tempt her into a match of bargain and sale. david was a handsome fellow, with the blood of a seafaring race in his veins. he had been a sailor, like his father and grandfather before him; but, when he married isabella, she induced him to give up the sea and settle down with her on a snug farm her father had left her. isabella liked farming, and loved her fertile acres and opulent orchards. she abhorred the sea and all that pertained to it, less from any dread of its dangers than from an inbred conviction that sailors were "low" in the social scale--a species of necessary vagabonds. in her eyes there was a taint of disgrace in such a calling. david must be transformed into a respectable, home-abiding tiller of broad lands. for five years all went well enough. if, at times, david's longing for the sea troubled him, he stifled it, and listened not to its luring voice. he and isabella were very happy; the only drawback to their happiness lay in the regretted fact that they were childless. then, in the sixth year, came a crisis and a change. captain barrett, an old crony of david's, wanted him to go with him on a voyage as mate. at the suggestion all david's long-repressed craving for the wide blue wastes of the ocean, and the wind whistling through the spars with the salt foam in its breath, broke forth with a passion all the more intense for that very repression. he must go on that voyage with james barrett--he must! that over, he would be contented again; but go he must. his soul struggled within him like a fettered thing. isabella opposed the scheme vehemently and unwisely, with mordant sarcasm and unjust reproaches. the latent obstinacy of david's character came to the support of his longing--a longing which isabella, with five generations of land-loving ancestry behind her, could not understand at all. he was determined to go, and he told isabella so. "i'm sick of plowing and milking cows," he said hotly. "you mean that you are sick of a respectable life," sneered isabella. "perhaps," said david, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "anyway, i'm going." "if you go on this voyage, david spencer, you need never come back here," said isabella resolutely. david had gone; he did not believe that she meant it. isabella believed that he did not care whether she meant it or not. david spencer left behind him a woman, calm outwardly, inwardly a seething volcano of anger, wounded pride, and thwarted will. he found precisely the same woman when he came home, tanned, joyous, tamed for a while of his _wanderlust_, ready, with something of real affection, to go back to the farm fields and the stock-yard. isabella met him at the door, smileless, cold-eyed, set-lipped. "what do you want here?" she said, in the tone she was accustomed to use to tramps and syrian peddlers. "want!" david's surprise left him at a loss for words. "want! why, i--i--want my wife. i've come home." "this is not your home. i'm no wife of yours. you made your choice when you went away," isabella had replied. then she had gone in, shut the door, and locked it in his face. david had stood there for a few minutes like a man stunned. then he had turned and walked away up the lane under the birches. he said nothing--then or at any other time. from that day no reference to his wife or her concerns ever crossed his lips. he went directly to the harbor, and shipped with captain barrett for another voyage. when he came back from that in a month's time, he bought a small house and had it hauled to the "cove," a lonely inlet from which no other human habitation was visible. between his sea voyages he lived there the life of a recluse; fishing and playing his violin were his only employments. he went nowhere and encouraged no visitors. isabella spencer also had adopted the tactics of silence. when the scandalized chiswicks, aunt jane at their head, tried to patch up the matter with argument and entreaty, isabella met them stonily, seeming not to hear what they said, and making no response. she worsted them totally. as aunt jane said in disgust, "what can you do with a woman who won't even talk?" five months after david spencer had been turned from his wife's door, rachel was born. perhaps, if david had come to them then, with due penitence and humility, isabella's heart, softened by the pain and joy of her long and ardently desired motherhood might have cast out the rankling venom of resentment that had poisoned it and taken him back into it. but david had not come; he gave no sign of knowing or caring that his once longed-for child had been born. when isabella was able to be about again, her pale face was harder than ever; and, had there been about her any one discerning enough to notice it, there was a subtle change in her bearing and manner. a certain nervous expectancy, a fluttering restlessness was gone. isabella had ceased to hope secretly that her husband would yet come back. she had in her secret soul thought he would; and she had meant to forgive him when she had humbled him sufficiently, and when he had abased himself as she considered he should. but now she knew that he did not mean to sue for her forgiveness; and the hate that sprang out of her old love was a rank and speedy and persistent growth. rachel, from her earliest recollection, had been vaguely conscious of a difference between her own life and the lives of her playmates. for a long time it puzzled her childish brain. finally, she reasoned it out that the difference consisted in the fact that they had fathers and she, rachel spencer, had none--not even in the graveyard, as carrie bell and lilian boulter had. why was this? rachel went straight to her mother, put one little dimpled hand on isabella spencer's knee, looked up with great searching blue eyes, and said gravely, "mother, why haven't i got a father like the other little girls?" isabella spencer laid aside her work, took the seven year old child on her lap, and told her the whole story in a few direct and bitter words that imprinted themselves indelibly on rachel's remembrance. she understood clearly and hopelessly that she could never have a father--that, in this respect, she must always be unlike other people. "your father cares nothing for you," said isabella spencer in conclusion. "he never did care. you must never speak of him to anybody again." rachel slipped silently from her mother's knee and ran out to the springtime garden with a full heart. there she cried passionately over her mother's last words. it seemed to her a terrible thing that her father should not love her, and a cruel thing that she must never talk of him. oddly enough, rachel's sympathies were all with her father, in as far as she could understand the old quarrel. she did not dream of disobeying her mother and she did not disobey her. never again did the child speak of her father; but isabella had not forbidden her to think of him, and thenceforth rachel thought of him constantly--so constantly that, in some strange way, he seemed to become an unguessed-of part of her inner life--the unseen, ever-present companion in all her experiences. she was an imaginative child, and in fancy she made the acquaintance of her father. she had never seen him, but he was more real to her than most of the people she had seen. he played and talked with her as her mother never did; he walked with her in the orchard and field and garden; he sat by her pillow in the twilight; to him she whispered secrets she told to none other. once her mother asked her impatiently why she talked so much to herself. "i am not talking to myself. i am talking to a very dear friend of mine," rachel answered gravely. "silly child," laughed her mother, half tolerantly, half disapprovingly. two years later something wonderful had happened to rachel. one summer afternoon she had gone to the harbor with several of her little playmates. such a jaunt was a rare treat to the child, for isabella spencer seldom allowed her to go from home with anybody but herself. and isabella was not an entertaining companion. rachel never particularly enjoyed an outing with her mother. the children wandered far along the shore; at last they came to a place that rachel had never seen before. it was a shallow cove where the waters purred on the yellow sands. beyond it, the sea was laughing and flashing and preening and alluring, like a beautiful, coquettish woman. outside, the wind was boisterous and rollicking; here, it was reverent and gentle. a white boat was hauled up on the skids, and there was a queer little house close down to the sands, like a big shell tossed up by the waves. rachel looked on it all with secret delight; she, too, loved the lonely places of sea and shore, as her father had done. she wanted to linger awhile in this dear spot and revel in it. "i'm tired, girls," she announced. "i'm going to stay here and rest for a spell. i don't want to go to gull point. you go on yourselves; i'll wait for you here." "all alone?" asked carrie bell, wonderingly. "i'm not so afraid of being alone as some people are," said rachel, with dignity. the other girls went on, leaving rachel sitting on the skids, in the shadow of the big white boat. she sat there for a time dreaming happily, with her blue eyes on the far, pearly horizon, and her golden head leaning against the boat. suddenly she heard a step behind her. when she turned her head a man was standing beside her, looking down at her with big, merry, blue eyes. rachel was quite sure that she had never seen him before; yet those eyes seemed to her to have a strangely familiar look. she liked him. she felt no shyness nor timidity, such as usually afflicted her in the presence of strangers. he was a tall, stout man, dressed in a rough fishing suit, and wearing an oilskin cap on his head. his hair was very thick and curly and fair; his cheeks were tanned and red; his teeth, when he smiled, were very even and white. rachel thought he must be quite old, because there was a good deal of gray mixed with his fair hair. "are you watching for the mermaids?" he said. rachel nodded gravely. from any one else she would have scrupulously hidden such a thought. "yes, i am," she said. "mother says there is no such thing as a mermaid, but i like to think there is. have you ever seen one?" the big man sat down on a bleached log of driftwood and smiled at her. "no, i'm sorry to say that i haven't. but i have seen many other very wonderful things. i might tell you about some of them, if you would come over here and sit by me." rachel went unhesitatingly. when she reached him he pulled her down on his knee, and she liked it. "what a nice little craft you are," he said. "do you suppose, now, that you could give me a kiss?" as a rule, rachel hated kissing. she could seldom be prevailed upon to kiss even her uncles--who knew it and liked to tease her for kisses until they aggravated her so terribly that she told them she couldn't bear men. but now she promptly put her arms about this strange man's neck and gave him a hearty smack. "i like you," she said frankly. she felt his arms tighten suddenly about her. the blue eyes looking into hers grew misty and very tender. then, all at once, rachel knew who he was. he was her father. she did not say anything, but she laid her curly head down on his shoulder and felt a great happiness, as of one who had come into some longed-for haven. if david spencer realized that she understood he said nothing. instead, he began to tell her fascinating stories of far lands he had visited, and strange things he had seen. rachel listened entranced, as if she were hearkening to a fairy tale. yes, he was just as she had dreamed him. she had always been sure he could tell beautiful stories. "come up to the house and i'll show you some pretty things," he said finally. then followed a wonderful hour. the little low-ceilinged room, with its square window, into which he took her, was filled with the flotsam and jetsam of his roving life--things beautiful and odd and strange beyond all telling. the things that pleased rachel most were two huge shells on the chimney piece--pale pink shells with big crimson and purple spots. "oh, i didn't know there could be such pretty things in the world," she exclaimed. "if you would like," began the big man; then he paused for a moment. "i'll show you something prettier still." rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else when he began; but she forgot to wonder what it was when she saw what he brought out of a little corner cupboard. it was a teapot of some fine, glistening purple ware, coiled over by golden dragons with gilded claws and scales. the lid looked like a beautiful golden flower and the handle was a coil of a dragon's tail. rachel sat and looked at it rapt-eyed. "that's the only thing of any value i have in the world--now," he said. rachel knew there was something very sad in his eyes and voice. she longed to kiss him again and comfort him. but suddenly he began to laugh, and then he rummaged out some goodies for her to eat, sweetmeats more delicious than she had ever imagined. while she nibbled them he took down an old violin and played music that made her want to dance and sing. rachel was perfectly happy. she wished she might stay forever in that low, dim room with all its treasures. "i see your little friends coming around the point," he said, finally. "i suppose you must go. put the rest of the goodies in your pocket." he took her up in his arms and held her tightly against his breast for a single moment. she felt him kissing her hair. "there, run along, little girl. good-by," he said gently. "why don't you ask me to come and see you again?" cried rachel, half in tears. "i'm coming anyhow." "if you can come, come," he said. "if you don't come, i shall know it is because you can't--and that is much to know. i'm very, very, very glad, little woman, that you have come once." rachel was sitting demurely on the skids when her companions came back. they had not seen her leaving the house, and she said not a word to them of her experiences. she only smiled mysteriously when they asked her if she had been lonesome. that night, for the first time, she mentioned her father's name in her prayers. she never forgot to do so afterwards. she always said, "bless mother--and father," with an instinctive pause between the two names--a pause which indicated new realization of the tragedy which had sundered them. and the tone in which she said "father" was softer and more tender than the one which voiced "mother." rachel never visited the cove again. isabella spencer discovered that the children had been there, and, although she knew nothing of rachel's interview with her father, she told the child that she must never again go to that part of the shore. rachel shed many a bitter tear in secret over this command; but she obeyed it. thenceforth there had been no communication between her and her father, save the unworded messages of soul to soul across whatever may divide them. david spencer's invitation to his daughter's wedding was sent with the others, and the remaining days of rachel's maidenhood slipped away in a whirl of preparation and excitement in which her mother reveled, but which was distasteful to the girl. the wedding day came at last, breaking softly and fairly over the great sea in a sheen of silver and pearl and rose, a september day, as mild and beautiful as june. the ceremony was to be performed at eight o'clock in the evening. at seven rachel stood in her room, fully dressed and alone. she had no bridesmaid, and she had asked her cousins to leave her to herself in this last solemn hour of girlhood. she looked very fair and sweet in the sunset-light that showered through the birches. her wedding gown was a fine, sheer organdie, simply and daintily made. in the loose waves of her bright hair she wore her bridegroom's flowers, roses as white as a virgin's dream. she was very happy; but her happiness was faintly threaded with the sorrow inseparable from all change. presently her mother came in, carrying a small basket. "here is something for you, rachel. one of the boys from the harbor brought it up. he was bound to give it into your own hands--said that was his orders. i just took it and sent him to the right-about--told him i'd give it to you at once, and that that was all that was necessary." she spoke coldly. she knew quite well who had sent the basket, and she resented it; but her resentment was not quite strong enough to overcome her curiosity. she stood silently by while rachel unpacked the basket. rachel's hands trembled as she took off the cover. two huge pink-spotted shells came first. how well she remembered them! beneath them, carefully wrapped up in a square of foreign-looking, strangely scented silk, was the dragon teapot. she held it in her hands and gazed at it with tears gathering thickly in her eyes. "your father sent that," said isabella spencer with an odd sound in her voice. "i remember it well. it was among the things i packed up and sent after him. his father had brought it home from china fifty years ago, and he prized it beyond anything. they used to say it was worth a lot of money." "mother, please leave me alone for a little while," said rachel, imploringly. she had caught sight of a little note at the bottom of the basket, and she felt that she could not read it under her mother's eyes. mrs. spencer went out with unaccustomed acquiescence, and rachel went quickly to the window, where she read her letter by the fading gleams of twilight. it was very brief, and the writing was that of a man who holds a pen but seldom. "my dear little girl," it ran, "i'm sorry i can't go to your wedding. it was like you to ask me--for i know it was your doing. i wish i could see you married, but i can't go to the house i was turned out of. i hope you will be very happy. i am sending you the shells and teapot you liked so much. do you remember that day we had such a good time? i would liked to have seen you again before you were married, but it can't be. "your loving father, "david spencer." rachel resolutely blinked away the tears that filled her eyes. a fierce desire for her father sprang up in her heart--an insistent hunger that would not be denied. she must see her father; she must have his blessing on her new life. a sudden determination took possession of her whole being--a determination to sweep aside all conventionalities and objections as if they had not been. it was now almost dark. the guests would not be coming for half an hour yet. it was only fifteen minutes' walk over the hill to the cove. hastily rachel shrouded herself in her new raincoat, and drew a dark, protecting hood over her gay head. she opened the door and slipped noiselessly downstairs. mrs. spencer and her assistants were all busy in the back part of the house. in a moment rachel was out in the dewy garden. she would go straight over the fields. nobody would see her. it was quite dark when she reached the cove. in the crystal cup of the sky over her the stars were blinking. flying flakes of foam were scurrying over the sand like elfin things. a soft little wind was crooning about the eaves of the little gray house where david spencer was sitting, alone in the twilight, his violin on his knee. he had been trying to play, but could not. his heart yearned after his daughter--yes, and after a long-estranged bride of his youth. his love of the sea was sated forever; his love for wife and child still cried for its own under all his old anger and stubbornness. the door opened suddenly and the very rachel of whom he was dreaming came suddenly in, flinging off her wraps and standing forth in her young beauty and bridal adornments, a splendid creature, almost lighting up the gloom with her radiance. "father," she cried, brokenly, and her father's eager arms closed around her. back in the house she had left, the guests were coming to the wedding. there were jests and laughter and friendly greeting. the bridegroom came, too, a slim, dark-eyed lad who tiptoed bashfully upstairs to the spare room, from which he presently emerged to confront mrs. spencer on the landing. "i want to see rachel before we go down," he said, blushing. mrs. spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on the table which was already laden with gifts, opening the door of rachel's room, and called her. there was no reply; the room was dark and still. in sudden alarm, isabella spencer snatched the lamp from the hall table and held it up. the little white room was empty. no blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. but david spencer's letter was lying on the stand. she caught it up and read it. "rachel is gone," she gasped. a flash of intuition had revealed to her where and why the girl had gone. "gone!" echoed frank, his face blanching. his pallid dismay recalled mrs. spencer to herself. she gave a bitter, ugly little laugh. "oh, you needn't look so scared, frank. she hasn't run away from you. hush; come in here--shut the door. nobody must know of this. nice gossip it would make! that little fool has gone to the cove to see her--her father. i know she has. it's just like what she would do. he sent her those presents--look--and this letter. read it. she has gone to coax him to come and see her married. she was crazy about it. and the minister is here and it is half-past seven. she'll ruin her dress and shoes in the dust and dew. and what if some one has seen her! was there ever such a little fool?" frank's presence of mind had returned to him. he knew all about rachel and her father. she had told him everything. "i'll go after her," he said gently. "get me my hat and coat. i'll slip down the back stairs and over to the cove." "you must get out of the pantry window, then," said mrs. spencer firmly, mingling comedy and tragedy after her characteristic fashion. "the kitchen is full of women. i won't have this known and talked about if it can possibly be helped." the bridegroom, wise beyond his years in the knowledge that it was well to yield to women in little things, crawled obediently out of the pantry window and darted through the birch wood. mrs. spencer had stood quakingly on guard until he had disappeared. so rachel had gone to her father! like had broken the fetters of years and fled to like. "it isn't much use fighting against nature, i guess," she thought grimly. "i'm beat. he must have thought something of her, after all, when he sent her that teapot and letter. and what does he mean about the 'day they had such a good time'? well, it just means that she's been to see him before, sometime, i suppose, and kept me in ignorance of it all." mrs. spencer shut down the pantry window with a vicious thud. "if only she'll come quietly back with frank in time to prevent gossip i'll forgive her," she said, as she turned to the kitchen. rachel was sitting on her father's knee, with both her white arms around his neck, when frank came in. she sprang up, her face flushed and appealing, her eyes bright and dewy with tears. frank thought he had never seen her look so lovely. "oh, frank, is it very late? oh, are you angry?" she exclaimed timidly. "no, no, dear. of course i'm not angry. but don't you think you'd better come back now? it's nearly eight and everybody is waiting." "i've been trying to coax father to come up and see me married," said rachel. "help me, frank." "you'd better come, sir," said frank, heartily, "i'd like it as much as rachel would." david spencer shook his head stubbornly. "no, i can't go to that house. i was locked out of it. never mind me. i've had my happiness in this half hour with my little girl. i'd like to see her married, but it isn't to be." "yes, it is to be--it shall be," said rachel resolutely. "you shall see me married. frank, i'm going to be married here in my father's house! that is the right place for a girl to be married. go back and tell the guests so, and bring them all down." frank looked rather dismayed. david spencer said deprecatingly: "little girl, don't you think it would be--" "i'm going to have my own way in this," said rachel, with a sort of tender finality. "go, frank. i'll obey you all my life after, but you must do this for me. try to understand," she added beseechingly. "oh, i understand," frank reassured her. "besides, i think you are right. but i was thinking of your mother. she won't come." "then you tell her that if she doesn't come i shan't be married at all," said rachel. she was betraying unsuspected ability to manage people. she knew that ultimatum would urge frank to his best endeavors. frank, much to mrs. spencer's dismay, marched boldly in at the front door upon his return. she pounced on him and whisked him out of sight into the supper room. "where's rachel? what made you come that way? everybody saw you!" "it makes no difference. they will all have to know, anyway. rachel says she is going to be married from her father's house, or not at all. i've come back to tell you so." isabella's face turned crimson. "rachel has gone crazy. i wash my hands of this affair. do as you please. take the guests--the supper, too, if you can carry it." "we'll all come back here for supper," said frank, ignoring the sarcasm. "come, mrs. spencer, let's make the best of it." "do you suppose that _i_ am going to david spencer's house?" said isabella spencer violently. "oh you must come, mrs. spencer," cried poor frank desperately. he began to fear that he would lose his bride past all finding in this maze of triple stubbornness. "rachel says she won't be married at all if you don't go, too. think what a talk it will make. you know she will keep her word." isabella spencer knew it. amid all the conflict of anger and revolt in her soul was a strong desire not to make a worse scandal than must of necessity be made. the desire subdued and tamed her, as nothing else could have done. "i will go, since i have to," she said icily. "what can't be cured must be endured. go and tell them." five minutes later the sixty wedding guests were all walking over the fields to the cove, with the minister and the bridegroom in the front of the procession. they were too amazed even to talk about the strange happening. isabella spencer walked behind, fiercely alone. they all crowded into the little room of the house at the cove, and a solemn hush fell over it, broken only by the purr of the sea-wind around it and the croon of the waves on the shore. david spencer gave his daughter away; but, when the ceremony was concluded, isabella was the first to take the girl in her arms. she clasped her and kissed her, with tears streaming down her pale face, all her nature melted in a mother's tenderness. "rachel! rachel! my child, i hope and pray that you may be happy," she said brokenly. in the surge of the suddenly merry crowd of well-wishers around the bride and groom, isabella was pushed back into a shadowy corner behind a heap of sails and ropes. looking up, she found herself crushed against david spencer. for the first time in twenty years the eyes of husband and wife met. a strange thrill shot to isabella's heart; she felt herself trembling. "isabella." it was david's voice in her ear--a voice full of tenderness and pleading--the voice of the young wooer of her girlhood--"is it too late to ask you to forgive me? i've been a stubborn fool--but there hasn't been an hour in all these years that i haven't thought about you and our baby and longed for you." isabella spencer had hated this man; yet her hate had been but a parasite growth on a nobler stem, with no abiding roots of its own. it withered under his words, and lo, there was the old love, fair and strong and beautiful as ever. "oh--david--i--was--all--to--blame," she murmured brokenly. further words were lost on her husband's lips. when the hubbub of handshaking and congratulating had subsided, isabella spencer stepped out before the company. she looked almost girlish and bridal herself, with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "let's go back now and have supper, and be sensible," she said crisply. "rachel, your father is coming, too. he is coming to stay,"--with a defiant glance around the circle. "come, everybody." they went back with laughter and raillery over the quiet autumn fields, faintly silvered now by the moon that was rising over the hills. the young bride and groom lagged behind; they were very happy, but they were not so happy, after all, as the old bride and groom who walked swiftly in front. isabella's hand was in her husband's and sometimes she could not see the moonlit hills for a mist of glorified tears. "david," she whispered, as he helped her over the fence, "how can you ever forgive me?" "there's nothing to forgive," he said. "we're only just married. who ever heard of a bridegroom talking of forgiveness? everything is beginning over new for us, my girl." iv. jane's baby miss rosetta ellis, with her front hair in curl-papers, and her back hair bound with a checked apron, was out in her breezy side yard under the firs, shaking her parlor rugs, when mr. nathan patterson drove in. miss rosetta had seen him coming down the long red hill, but she had not supposed he would be calling at that time of the morning. so she had not run. miss rosetta always ran if anybody called and her front hair was in curl-papers; and, though the errand of the said caller might be life or death, he or she had to wait until miss rosetta had taken her hair out. everybody in avonlea knew this, because everybody in avonlea knew everything about everybody else. but mr. patterson had wheeled into the lane so quickly and unexpectedly that miss rosetta had had no time to run; so, twitching off the checked apron, she stood her ground as calmly as might be under the disagreeable consciousness of curl-papers. "good morning, miss ellis," said mr. patterson, so somberly that miss rosetta instantly felt that he was the bearer of bad news. usually mr. patterson's face was as broad and beaming as a harvest moon. now his expression was very melancholy and his voice positively sepulchral. "good morning," returned miss rosetta, crisply and cheerfully. she, at any rate, would not go into eclipse until she knew the reason therefor. "it is a fine day." "a very fine day," assented mr. patterson, solemnly. "i have just come from the wheeler place, miss ellis, and i regret to say--" "charlotte is sick!" cried miss rosetta, rapidly. "charlotte has got another spell with her heart! i knew it! i've been expecting to hear it! any woman that drives about the country as much as she does is liable to heart disease at any moment. _i_ never go outside of my gate but i meet her gadding off somewhere. goodness knows who looks after her place. i shouldn't like to trust as much to a hired man as she does. well, it is very kind of you, mr. patterson, to put yourself out to the extent of calling to tell me that charlotte is sick, but i don't really see why you should take so much trouble--i really don't. it doesn't matter to me whether charlotte is sick or whether she isn't. you know that perfectly well, mr. patterson, if anybody does. when charlotte went and got married, on the sly, to that good-for-nothing jacob wheeler--" "mrs. wheeler is quite well," interrupted mr. patterson desperately. "quite well. nothing at all the matter with her, in fact. i only--" "then what do you mean by coming here and telling me she wasn't, and frightening me half to death?" demanded miss rosetta, indignantly. "my own heart isn't very strong--it runs in our family--and my doctor warned me to avoid all shocks and excitement. i don't want to be excited, mr. patterson. i won't be excited, not even if charlotte has another spell. it's perfectly useless for you to try to excite me, mr. patterson." "bless the woman, i'm not trying to excite anybody!" declared mr. patterson in exasperation. "i merely called to tell you--" "to tell me what?" said miss rosetta. "how much longer do you mean to keep me in suspense, mr. patterson. no doubt you have abundance of spare time, but--i--have not." "--that your sister, mrs. wheeler, has had a letter from a cousin of yours, and she's in charlottetown. mrs. roberts, i think her name is--" "jane roberts," broke in miss rosetta. "jane ellis she was, before she was married. what was she writing to charlotte about? not that i want to know, of course. i'm not interested in charlotte's correspondence, goodness knows. but if jane had anything in particular to write about she should have written to me. i am the oldest. charlotte had no business to get a letter from jane roberts without consulting me. it's just like her underhanded ways. she got married the same way. never said a word to me about it, but just sneaked off with that unprincipled jacob wheeler--" "mrs. roberts is very ill. i understand," persisted mr. patterson, nobly resolved to do what he had come to do, "dying, in fact, and--" "jane ill! jane dying!" exclaimed miss rosetta. "why, she was the healthiest girl i ever knew! but then i've never seen her, nor heard from her, since she got married fifteen years ago. i dare say her husband was a brute and neglected her, and she's pined away by slow degrees. i've no faith in husbands. look at charlotte! everybody knows how jacob wheeler used her. to be sure, she deserved it, but--" "mrs. roberts' husband is dead," said mr. patterson. "died about two months ago, i understand, and she has a little baby six months old, and she thought perhaps mrs. wheeler would take it for old times' sake--" "did charlotte ask you to call and tell me this?" demanded miss rosetta eagerly. "no; she just told me what was in the letter. she didn't mention you; but i thought, perhaps, you ought to be told--" "i knew it," said miss rosetta in a tone of bitter assurance. "i could have told you so. charlotte wouldn't even let me know that jane was ill. charlotte would be afraid i would want to get the baby, seeing that jane and i were such intimate friends long ago. and who has a better right to it than me, i should like to know? ain't i the oldest? and haven't i had experience in bringing up babies? charlotte needn't think she is going to run the affairs of our family just because she happened to get married. jacob wheeler--" "i must be going," said mr. patterson, gathering up his reins thankfully. "i am much obliged to you for coming to tell me about jane," said miss rosetta, "even though you have wasted a lot of precious time getting it out. if it hadn't been for you i suppose i should never have known it at all. as it is, i shall start for town just as soon as i can get ready." "you'll have to hurry if you want to get ahead of mrs. wheeler," advised mr. patterson. "she's packing her trunk and going on the morning train." "i'll pack a valise and go on the afternoon train," retorted miss rosetta triumphantly. "i'll show charlotte she isn't running the ellis affairs. she married out of them into the wheelers. she can attend to them. jacob wheeler was the most--" but mr. patterson had driven away. he felt that he had done his duty in the face of fearful odds, and he did not want to hear anything more about jacob wheeler. rosetta ellis and charlotte wheeler had not exchanged a word for ten years. before that time they had been devoted to each other, living together in the little ellis cottage on the white sands road, as they had done ever since their parents' death. the trouble began when jacob wheeler had commenced to pay attention to charlotte, the younger and prettier of two women who had both ceased to be either very young or very pretty. rosetta had been bitterly opposed to the match from the first. she vowed she had no use for jacob wheeler. there were not lacking malicious people to hint that this was because the aforesaid jacob wheeler had selected the wrong sister upon whom to bestow his affections. be that as it might, miss rosetta certainly continued to render the course of jacob wheeler's true love exceedingly rough and tumultuous. the end of it was that charlotte had gone quietly away one morning and married jacob wheeler without miss rosetta's knowing anything about it. miss rosetta had never forgiven her for it, and charlotte had never forgiven the things rosetta had said to her when she and jacob returned to the ellis cottage. since then the sisters had been avowed and open foes, the only difference being that miss rosetta aired her grievances publicly, in season and out of season, while charlotte was never heard to mention rosetta's name. even the death of jacob wheeler, five years after the marriage, had not healed the breach. miss rosetta took out her curl-papers, packed her valise, and caught the late afternoon train for charlottetown, as she had threatened. all the way there she sat rigidly upright in her seat and held imaginary dialogues with charlotte in her mind, running something like this on her part:-- "no, charlotte wheeler, you are not going to have jane's baby, and you're very much mistaken if you think so. oh, all right--we'll see! you don't know anything about babies, even if you are married. i do. didn't i take william ellis's baby, when his wife died? tell me that, charlotte wheeler! and didn't the little thing thrive with me, and grow strong and healthy? yes, even you have to admit that it did, charlotte wheeler. and yet you have the presumption to think that you ought to have jane's baby! yes, it is presumption, charlotte wheeler. and when william ellis got married again, and took the baby, didn't the child cling to me and cry as if i was its real mother? you know it did, charlotte wheeler. i'm going to get and keep jane's baby in spite of you, charlotte wheeler, and i'd like to see you try to prevent me--you that went and got married and never so much as let your own sister know of it! if i had got married in such a fashion, charlotte wheeler, i'd be ashamed to look anybody in the face for the rest of my natural life!" miss rosetta was so interested in thus laying down the law to charlotte, and in planning out the future life of jane's baby, that she didn't find the journey to charlottetown so long or tedious as might have been expected, considering her haste. she soon found her way to the house where her cousin lived. there, to her dismay and real sorrow, she learned that mrs. roberts had died at four o'clock that afternoon. "she seemed dreadful anxious to live until she heard from some of her folks out in avonlea," said the woman who gave miss rosetta the information. "she had written to them about her little girl. she was my sister-in-law, and she lived with me ever since her husband died. i've done my best for her; but i've a big family of my own and i can't see how i'm to keep the child. poor jane looked and longed for some one to come from avonlea, but she couldn't hold out. a patient, suffering creature she was!" "i'm her cousin," said miss rosetta, wiping her eyes, "and i have come for the baby. i'll take it home with me after the funeral; and, if you please, mrs. gordon, let me see it right away, so it can get accustomed to me. poor jane! i wish i could have got here in time to see her, she and i were such friends long ago. we were far more intimate and confidential than ever her and charlotte was. charlotte knows that, too!" the vim with which miss rosetta snapped this out rather amazed mrs. gordon, who couldn't understand it at all. but she took miss rosetta upstairs to the room where the baby was sleeping. "oh, the little darling," cried miss rosetta, all her old maidishness and oddity falling away from her like a garment, and all her innate and denied motherhood shining out in her face like a transforming illumination. "oh, the sweet, dear, pretty little thing!" the baby was a darling--a six-months' old beauty with little golden ringlets curling and glistening all over its tiny head. as miss rosetta hung over it, it opened its eyes and then held out its tiny hands to her with a gurgle of confidence. "oh, you sweetest!" said miss rosetta rapturously, gathering it up in her arms. "you belong to me, darling--never, never, to that under-handed charlotte! what is its name, mrs. gordon?" "it wasn't named," said mrs. gordon. "guess you'll have to name it yourself, miss ellis." "camilla jane," said miss rosetta without a moment's hesitation. "jane after its mother, of course; and i have always thought camilla the prettiest name in the world. charlotte would be sure to give it some perfectly heathenish name. i wouldn't put it past her calling the poor innocent mehitable." miss rosetta decided to stay in charlottetown until after the funeral. that night she lay with the baby on her arm, listening with joy to its soft little breathing. she did not sleep or wish to sleep. her waking fancies were more alluring than any visions of dreamland. moreover, she gave a spice to them by occasionally snapping some vicious sentences out loud at charlotte. miss rosetta fully expected charlotte along on the following morning and girded herself for the fray; but no charlotte appeared. night came; no charlotte. another morning and no charlotte. miss rosetta was hopelessly puzzled. what had happened? dear, dear, had charlotte taken a bad heart spell, on hearing that she, rosetta, had stolen a march on her to charlottetown? it was quite likely. you never knew what to expect of a woman who had married jacob wheeler! the truth was, that the very evening miss rosetta had left avonlea mrs. jacob wheeler's hired man had broken his leg and had had to be conveyed to his distant home on a feather bed in an express wagon. mrs. wheeler could not leave home until she had obtained another hired man. consequently, it was the evening after the funeral when mrs. wheeler whisked up the steps of the gordon house and met miss rosetta coming out with a big white bundle in her arms. the eyes of the two women met defiantly. miss rosetta's face wore an air of triumph, chastened by a remembrance of the funeral that afternoon. mrs. wheeler's face, except for eyes, was as expressionless as it usually was. unlike the tall, fair, fat miss rosetta, mrs. wheeler was small and dark and thin, with an eager, careworn face. "how is jane?" she said abruptly, breaking the silence of ten years in saying it. "jane is dead and buried, poor thing," said miss rosetta calmly. "i am taking her baby, little camilla jane, home with me." "the baby belongs to me," cried mrs. wheeler passionately. "jane wrote to me about her. jane meant that i should have her. i've come for her." "you'll go back without her then," said miss rosetta, serene in the possession that is nine points of the law. "the child is mine, and she is going to stay mine. you can make up your mind to that, charlotte wheeler. a woman who eloped to get married isn't fit to be trusted with a baby, anyhow. jacob wheeler--" but mrs. wheeler had rushed past into the house. miss rosetta composedly stepped into the cab and drove to the station. she fairly bridled with triumph; and underneath the triumph ran a queer undercurrent of satisfaction over the fact that charlotte had spoken to her at last. miss rosetta would not look at this satisfaction, or give it a name, but it was there. miss rosetta arrived safely back in avonlea with camilla jane and within ten hours everybody in the settlement knew the whole story, and every woman who could stand on her feet had been up to the ellis cottage to see the baby. mrs. wheeler arrived home twenty-four hours later, and silently betook herself to her farm. when her avonlea neighbors sympathized with her in her disappointment, she said nothing, but looked all the more darkly determined. also, a week later, mr. william j. blair, the carmody storekeeper, had an odd tale to tell. mrs. wheeler had come to the store and bought a lot of fine flannel and muslin and valenciennes. now, what in the name of time, did mrs. wheeler want with such stuff? mr. william j. blair couldn't make head or tail of it, and it worried him. mr. blair was so accustomed to know what everybody bought anything for that such a mystery quite upset him. miss rosetta had exulted in the possession of little camilla jane for a month, and had been so happy that she had almost given up inveighing against charlotte. her conversations, instead of tending always to jacob wheeler, now ran camilla janeward; and this, folks thought, was an improvement. one afternoon, miss rosetta, leaving camilla jane snugly sleeping in her cradle in the kitchen, had slipped down to the bottom of the garden to pick her currants. the house was hidden from her sight by the copse of cherry trees, but she had left the kitchen window open, so that she could hear the baby if it awakened and cried. miss rosetta sang happily as she picked her currants. for the first time since charlotte had married jacob wheeler miss rosetta felt really happy--so happy that there was no room in her heart for bitterness. in fancy she looked forward to the coming years, and saw camilla jane growing up into girlhood, fair and lovable. "she'll be a beauty," reflected miss rosetta complacently. "jane was a handsome girl. she shall always be dressed as nice as i can manage it, and i'll get her an organ, and have her take painting and music lessons. parties, too! i'll give her a real coming-out party when she's eighteen and the very prettiest dress that's to be had. dear me, i can hardly wait for her to grow up, though she's sweet enough now to make one wish she could stay a baby forever." when miss rosetta returned to the kitchen, her eyes fell on an empty cradle. camilla jane was gone! miss rosetta promptly screamed. she understood at a glance what had happened. six months' old babies do not get out of their cradles and disappear through closed doors without any assistance. "charlotte has been here," gasped miss rosetta. "charlotte has stolen camilla jane! i might have expected it. i might have known when i heard that story about her buying muslin and flannel. it's just like charlotte to do such an underhand trick. but i'll go after her! i'll show her! she'll find out she has got rosetta ellis to deal with and no wheeler!" like a frantic creature and wholly forgetting that her hair was in curl-papers, miss rosetta hurried up the hill and down the shore road to the wheeler farm--a place she had never visited in her life before. the wind was off-shore and only broke the bay's surface into long silvery ripples, and sent sheeny shadows flying out across it from every point and headland, like transparent wings. the little gray house, so close to the purring waves that in storms their spray splashed over its very doorstep, seemed deserted. miss rosetta pounded lustily on the front door. this producing no result, she marched around to the back door and knocked. no answer. miss rosetta tried the door. it was locked. "guilty conscience," sniffed miss rosetta. "well, i shall stay here until i see that perfidious charlotte, if i have to camp in the yard all night." miss rosetta was quite capable of doing this, but she was spared the necessity; walking boldly up to the kitchen window, and peering through it, she felt her heart swell with anger as she beheld charlotte sitting calmly by the table with camilla jane on her knee. beside her was a befrilled and bemuslined cradle, and on a chair lay the garments in which miss rosetta had dressed the baby. it was clad in an entirely new outfit, and seemed quite at home with its new possessor. it was laughing and cooing, and making little dabs at her with its dimpled hands. "charlotte wheeler," cried miss rosetta, rapping sharply on the window-pane. "i've come for that child! bring her out to me at once--at once, i say! how dare you come to my house and steal a baby? you're no better than a common burglar. give me camilla jane, i say!" charlotte came over to the window with the baby in her arms and triumph glittering in her eyes. "there is no such child as camilla jane here," she said. "this is barbara jane. she belongs to me." with that mrs. wheeler pulled down the shade. miss rosetta had to go home. there was nothing else for her to do. on her way she met mr. patterson and told him in full the story of her wrongs. it was all over avonlea by night, and created quite a sensation. avonlea had not had such a toothsome bit of gossip for a long time. mrs. wheeler exulted in the possession of barbara jane for six weeks, during which miss rosetta broke her heart with loneliness and longing, and meditated futile plots for the recovery of the baby. it was hopeless to think of stealing it back or she would have tried to. the hired man at the wheeler place reported that mrs. wheeler never left it night or day for a single moment. she even carried it with her when she went to milk the cows. "but my turn will come," said miss rosetta grimly. "camilla jane is mine, and if she was called barbara for a century it wouldn't alter that fact! barbara, indeed! why not have called her methusaleh and have done with it?" one afternoon in october, when miss rosetta was picking her apples and thinking drearily about lost camilla jane, a woman came running breathlessly down the hill and into the yard. miss rosetta gave an exclamation of amazement and dropped her basket of apples. of all incredible things! the woman was charlotte--charlotte who had never set foot on the grounds of the ellis cottage since her marriage ten years ago, charlotte, bare-headed, wild-eyed, distraught, wringing her hands and sobbing. miss rosetta flew to meet her. "you've scalded camilla jane to death!" she exclaimed. "i always knew you would--always expected it!" "oh, for heaven's sake, come quick, rosetta!" gasped charlotte. "barbara jane is in convulsions and i don't know what to do. the hired man has gone for the doctor. you were the nearest, so i came to you. jenny white was there when they came on, so i left her and ran. oh, rosetta, come, come, if you have a spark of humanity in you! you know what to do for convulsions--you saved the ellis baby when it had them. oh, come and save barbara jane!" "you mean camilla jane, i presume?" said miss rosetta firmly, in spite of her agitation. for a second charlotte wheeler hesitated. then she said passionately: "yes, yes, camilla jane--any name you like! only come." miss rosetta went, and not a moment too soon, either. the doctor lived eight miles away and the baby was very bad. the two women and jenny white worked over her for hours. it was not until dark, when the baby was sleeping soundly and the doctor had gone, after telling miss rosetta that she had saved the child's life, that a realization of the situation came home to them. "well," said miss rosetta, dropping into an armchair with a long sigh of weariness, "i guess you'll admit now, charlotte wheeler, that you are hardly a fit person to have charge of a baby, even if you had to go and steal it from me. i should think your conscience would reproach you--that is, if any woman who would marry jacob wheeler in such an underhanded fashion has a--" "i--i wanted the baby," sobbed charlotte, tremulously. "i was so lonely here. i didn't think it was any harm to take her, because jane gave her to me in her letter. but you have saved her life, rosetta, and you--you can have her back, although it will break my heart to give her up. but, oh, rosetta, won't you let me come and see her sometimes? i love her so i can't bear to give her up entirely." "charlotte," said miss rosetta firmly, "the most sensible thing for you to do is just to come back with the baby. you are worried to death trying to run this farm with the debt jacob wheeler left on it for you. sell it, and come home with me. and we'll both have the baby then." "oh, rosetta, i'd love to," faltered charlotte. "i've--i've wanted to be good friends with you again so much. but i thought you were so hard and bitter you'd never make up." "maybe i've talked too much," conceded miss rosetta, "but you ought to know me well enough to know i didn't mean a word of it. it was your never saying anything, no matter what i said, that riled me up so bad. let bygones be bygones, and come home, charlotte." "i will," said charlotte resolutely, wiping away her tears. "i'm sick of living here and putting up with hired men. i'll be real glad to go home, rosetta, and that's the truth. i've had a hard enough time. i s'pose you'll say i deserved it; but i was fond of jacob, and--" "of course, of course. why shouldn't you be?" said miss rosetta briskly. "i'm sure jacob wheeler was a good enough soul, if he was a little slack-twisted. i'd like to hear anybody say a word against him in my presence. look at that blessed child, charlotte. isn't she the sweetest thing? i'm desperate glad you are coming back home, charlotte. i've never been able to put up a decent mess of mustard pickles since you went away, and you were always such a hand with them! we'll be real snug and cozy again--you and me and little camilla barbara jane." v. the dream-child a man's heart--aye, and a woman's, too--should be light in the spring. the spirit of resurrection is abroad, calling the life of the world out of its wintry grave, knocking with radiant fingers at the gates of its tomb. it stirs in human hearts, and makes them glad with the old primal gladness they felt in childhood. it quickens human souls, and brings them, if so they will, so close to god that they may clasp hands with him. it is a time of wonder and renewed life, and a great outward and inward rapture, as of a young angel softly clapping his hands for creation's joy. at least, so it should be; and so it always had been with me until the spring when the dream-child first came into our lives. that year i hated the spring--i, who had always loved it so. as boy i had loved it, and as man. all the happiness that had ever been mine, and it was much, had come to blossom in the springtime. it was in the spring that josephine and i had first loved each other, or, at least, had first come into the full knowledge that we loved. i think that we must have loved each other all our lives, and that each succeeding spring was a word in the revelation of that love, not to be understood until, in the fullness of time, the whole sentence was written out in that most beautiful of all beautiful springs. how beautiful it was! and how beautiful she was! i suppose every lover thinks that of his lass; otherwise he is a poor sort of lover. but it was not only my eyes of love that made my dear lovely. she was slim and lithe as a young, white-stemmed birch tree; her hair was like a soft, dusky cloud; and her eyes were as blue as avonlea harbor on a fair twilight, when all the sky is abloom over it. she had dark lashes, and a little red mouth that quivered when she was very sad or very happy, or when she loved very much--quivered like a crimson rose too rudely shaken by the wind. at such times what was a man to do save kiss it? the next spring we were married, and i brought her home to my gray old homestead on the gray old harbor shore. a lonely place for a young bride, said avonlea people. nay, it was not so. she was happy here, even in my absences. she loved the great, restless harbor and the vast, misty sea beyond; she loved the tides, keeping their world-old tryst with the shore, and the gulls, and the croon of the waves, and the call of the winds in the fir woods at noon and even; she loved the moonrises and the sunsets, and the clear, calm nights when the stars seemed to have fallen into the water and to be a little dizzy from such a fall. she loved these things, even as i did. no, she was never lonely here then. the third spring came, and our boy was born. we thought we had been happy before; now we knew that we had only dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness, and had awakened to this exquisite reality. we thought we had loved each other before; now, as i looked into my wife's pale face, blanched with its baptism of pain, and met the uplifted gaze of her blue eyes, aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, i knew we had only imagined what love might be. the imagination had been sweet, as the thought of the rose is sweet before the bud is open; but as the rose to the thought, so was love to the imagination of it. "all my thoughts are poetry since baby came," my wife said once, rapturously. our boy lived for twenty months. he was a sturdy, toddling rogue, so full of life and laughter and mischief that, when he died, one day, after the illness of an hour, it seemed a most absurd thing that he should be dead--a thing i could have laughed at, until belief forced itself into my soul like a burning, searing iron. i think i grieved over my little son's death as deeply and sincerely as ever man did, or could. but the heart of the father is not as the heart of the mother. time brought no healing to josephine; she fretted and pined; her cheeks lost their pretty oval, and her red mouth grew pale and drooping. i hoped that spring might work its miracle upon her. when the buds swelled, and the old earth grew green in the sun, and the gulls came back to the gray harbor, whose very grayness grew golden and mellow, i thought i should see her smile again. but, when the spring came, came the dream-child, and the fear that was to be my companion, at bed and board, from sunsetting to sunsetting. one night i awakened from sleep, realizing in the moment of awakening that i was alone. i listened to hear whether my wife were moving about the house. i heard nothing but the little splash of waves on the shore below and the low moan of the distant ocean. i rose and searched the house. she was not in it. i did not know where to seek her; but, at a venture, i started along the shore. it was pale, fainting moonlight. the harbor looked like a phantom harbor, and the night was as still and cold and calm as the face of a dead man. at last i saw my wife coming to me along the shore. when i saw her, i knew what i had feared and how great my fear had been. as she drew near, i saw that she had been crying; her face was stained with tears, and her dark hair hung loose over her shoulders in little, glossy ringlets like a child's. she seemed to be very tired, and at intervals she wrung her small hands together. she showed no surprise when she met me, but only held out her hands to me as if glad to see me. "i followed him--but i could not overtake him," she said with a sob. "i did my best--i hurried so; but he was always a little way ahead. and then i lost him--and so i came back. but i did my best--indeed i did. and oh, i am so tired!" "josie, dearest, what do you mean, and where have you been?" i said, drawing her close to me. "why did you go out so--alone in the night?" she looked at me wonderingly. "how could i help it, david? he called me. i had to go." "who called you?" "the child," she answered in a whisper. "our child, david--our pretty boy. i awakened in the darkness and heard him calling to me down on the shore. such a sad, little wailing cry, david, as if he were cold and lonely and wanted his mother. i hurried out to him, but i could not find him. i could only hear the call, and i followed it on and on, far down the shore. oh, i tried so hard to overtake it, but i could not. once i saw a little white hand beckoning to me far ahead in the moonlight. but still i could not go fast enough. and then the cry ceased, and i was there all alone on that terrible, cold, gray shore. i was so tired and i came home. but i wish i could have found him. perhaps he does not know that i tried to. perhaps he thinks his mother never listened to his call. oh, i would not have him think that." "you have had a bad dream, dear," i said. i tried to say it naturally; but it is hard for a man to speak naturally when he feels a mortal dread striking into his very vitals with its deadly chill. "it was no dream," she answered reproachfully. "i tell you i heard him calling me--me, his mother. what could i do but go to him? you cannot understand--you are only his father. it was not you who gave him birth. it was not you who paid the price of his dear life in pain. he would not call to you--he wanted his mother." i got her back to the house and to her bed, whither she went obediently enough, and soon fell into the sleep of exhaustion. but there was no more sleep for me that night. i kept a grim vigil with dread. when i had married josephine, one of those officious relatives that are apt to buzz about a man's marriage told me that her grandmother had been insane all the latter part of her life. she had grieved over the death of a favorite child until she lost her mind, and, as the first indication of it, she had sought by nights a white dream-child which always called her, so she said, and led her afar with a little, pale, beckoning hand. i had smiled at the story then. what had that grim old bygone to do with springtime and love and josephine? but it came back to me now, hand in hand with my fear. was this fate coming on my dear wife? it was too horrible for belief. she was so young, so fair, so sweet, this girl-wife of mine. it had been only a bad dream, with a frightened, bewildered waking. so i tried to comfort myself. when she awakened in the morning she did not speak of what had happened and i did not dare to. she seemed more cheerful that day than she had been, and went about her household duties briskly and skillfully. my fear lifted. i was sure now that she had only dreamed. and i was confirmed in my hopeful belief when two nights had passed away uneventfully. then, on the third night, the dream-child called to her again. i wakened from a troubled doze to find her dressing herself with feverish haste. "he is calling me," she cried. "oh, don't you hear him? can't you hear him? listen--listen--the little, lonely cry! yes, yes, my precious, mother is coming. wait for me. mother is coming to her pretty boy!" i caught her hand and let her lead me where she would. hand in hand we followed the dream-child down the harbor shore in that ghostly, clouded moonlight. ever, she said, the little cry sounded before her. she entreated the dream-child to wait for her; she cried and implored and uttered tender mother-talk. but, at last, she ceased to hear the cry; and then, weeping, wearied, she let me lead her home again. what a horror brooded over that spring--that so beautiful spring! it was a time of wonder and marvel; of the soft touch of silver rain on greening fields; of the incredible delicacy of young leaves; of blossom on the land and blossom in the sunset. the whole world bloomed in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the evasive, fleeting charm of spring and girlhood and young morning. and almost every night of this wonderful time the dream-child called his mother, and we roved the gray shore in quest of him. in the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she was restless and uneasy until she heard the call. then follow it she would, even through storm and darkness. it was then, she said, that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boy were frightened by the tempest. what wild, terrible rovings we had, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; i, sick at heart, following, guiding, protecting, as best i could; then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because she could not reach the child. i bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip should not busy itself with my wife's condition so long as i could keep it from becoming known. we had no near relatives--none with any right to share any trouble--and whoso accepteth human love must bind it to his soul with pain. i thought, however, that i should have medical advice, and i took our old doctor into my confidence. he looked grave when he heard my story. i did not like his expression nor his few guarded remarks. he said he thought human aid would avail little; she might come all right in time; humor her, as far as possible, watch over her, protect her. he needed not to tell me that. the spring went out and summer came in--and the horror deepened and darkened. i knew that suspicions were being whispered from lip to lip. we had been seen on our nightly quests. men and women began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad. one day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called. i knew then that the end was near; the end had been near in the old grandmother's case sixty years before when the dream-child called in the day. the doctor looked graver than ever when i told him, and said that the time had come when i must have help in my task. i could not watch by day and night. unless i had assistance i would break down. i did not think that i should. love is stronger than that. and on one thing i was determined--they should never take my wife from me. no restraint sterner than a husband's loving hand should ever be put upon her, my pretty, piteous darling. i never spoke of the dream-child to her. the doctor advised against it. it would, he said, only serve to deepen the delusion. when he hinted at an asylum i gave him a look that would have been a fierce word for another man. he never spoke of it again. one night in august there was a dull, murky sunset after a dead, breathless day of heat, with not a wind stirring. the sea was not blue as a sea should be, but pink--all pink--a ghastly, staring, painted pink. i lingered on the harbor shore below the house until dark. the evening bells were ringing faintly and mournfully in a church across the harbor. behind me, in the kitchen, i heard my wife singing. sometimes now her spirits were fitfully high, and then she would sing the old songs of her girlhood. but even in her singing was something strange, as if a wailing, unearthly cry rang through it. nothing about her was sadder than that strange singing. when i went back to the house the rain was beginning to fall; but there was no wind or sound in the air--only that dismal stillness, as if the world were holding its breath in expectation of a calamity. josie was standing by the window, looking out and listening. i tried to induce her to go to bed, but she only shook her head. "i might fall asleep and not hear him when he called," she said. "i am always afraid to sleep now, for fear he should call and his mother fail to hear him." knowing it was of no use to entreat, i sat down by the table and tried to read. three hours passed on. when the clock struck midnight she started up, with the wild light in her sunken blue eyes. "he is calling," she cried, "calling out there in the storm. yes, yes, sweet, i am coming!" she opened the door and fled down the path to the shore. i snatched a lantern from the wall, lighted it, and followed. it was the blackest night i was ever out in, dark with the very darkness of death. the rain fell thickly and heavily. i overtook josie, caught her hand, and stumbled along in her wake, for she went with the speed and recklessness of a distraught woman. we moved in the little flitting circle of light shed by the lantern. all around us and above us was a horrible, voiceless darkness, held, as it were, at bay by the friendly light. "if i could only overtake him once," moaned josie. "if i could just kiss him once, and hold him close against my aching heart. this pain, that never leaves me, would leave me than. oh, my pretty boy, wait for mother! i am coming to you. listen, david; he cries--he cries so pitifully; listen! can't you hear it?" i did hear it! clear and distinct, out of the deadly still darkness before us, came a faint, wailing cry. what was it? was i, too, going mad, or was there something out there--something that cried and moaned--longing for human love, yet ever retreating from human footsteps? i am not a superstitious man; but my nerve had been shaken by my long trial, and i was weaker than i thought. terror took possession of me--terror unnameable. i trembled in every limb; clammy perspiration oozed from my forehead; i was possessed by a wild impulse to turn and flee--anywhere, away from that unearthly cry. but josephine's cold hand gripped mine firmly, and led me on. that strange cry still rang in my ears. but it did not recede; it sounded clearer and stronger; it was a wail; but a loud, insistent wail; it was nearer--nearer; it was in the darkness just beyond us. then we came to it; a little dory had been beached on the pebbles and left there by the receding tide. there was a child in it--a boy, of perhaps two years old, who crouched in the bottom of the dory in water to his waist, his big, blue eyes wild and wide with terror, his face white and tear-stained. he wailed again when he saw us, and held out his little hands. my horror fell away from me like a discarded garment. this child was living. how he had come there, whence and why, i did not know and, in my state of mind, did not question. it was no cry of parted spirit i had heard--that was enough for me. "oh, the poor darling!" cried my wife. she stooped over the dory and lifted the baby in her arms. his long, fair curls fell on her shoulder; she laid her face against his and wrapped her shawl around him. "let me carry him, dear," i said. "he is very wet, and too heavy for you." "no, no, i must carry him. my arms have been so empty--they are full now. oh, david, the pain at my heart has gone. he has come to me to take the place of my own. god has sent him to me out of the sea. he is wet and cold and tired. hush, sweet one, we will go home." silently i followed her home. the wind was rising, coming in sudden, angry gusts; the storm was at hand, but we reached shelter before it broke. just as i shut our door behind us it smote the house with the roar of a baffled beast. i thanked god that we were not out in it, following the dream-child. "you are very wet, josie," i said. "go and put on dry clothes at once." "the child must be looked to first," she said firmly. "see how chilled and exhausted he is, the pretty dear. light a fire quickly, david, while i get dry things for him." i let her have her way. she brought out the clothes our own child had worn and dressed the waif in them, rubbing his chilled limbs, brushing his wet hair, laughing over him, mothering him. she seemed like her old self. for my own part, i was bewildered. all the questions i had not asked before came crowding to my mind how. whose child was this? whence had he come? what was the meaning of it all? he was a pretty baby, fair and plump and rosy. when he was dried and fed, he fell asleep in josie's arms. she hung over him in a passion of delight. it was with difficulty i persuaded her to leave him long enough to change her wet clothes. she never asked whose he might be or from where he might have come. he had been sent to her from the sea; the dream-child had led her to him; that was what she believed, and i dared not throw any doubt on that belief. she slept that night with the baby on her arm, and in her sleep her face was the face of a girl in her youth, untroubled and unworn. i expected that the morrow would bring some one seeking the baby. i had come to the conclusion that he must belong to the "cove" across the harbor, where the fishing hamlet was; and all day, while josie laughed and played with him, i waited and listened for the footsteps of those who would come seeking him. but they did not come. day after day passed, and still they did not come. i was in a maze of perplexity. what should i do? i shrank from the thought of the boy being taken away from us. since we had found him the dream-child had never called. my wife seemed to have turned back from the dark borderland, where her feet had strayed to walk again with me in our own homely paths. day and night she was her old, bright self, happy and serene in the new motherhood that had come to her. the only thing strange in her was her calm acceptance of the event. she never wondered who or whose the child might be--never seemed to fear that he would be taken from her; and she gave him our dream-child's name. at last, when a full week had passed, i went, in my bewilderment, to our old doctor. "a most extraordinary thing," he said thoughtfully. "the child, as you say, must belong to the spruce cove people. yet it is an almost unbelievable thing that there has been no search or inquiry after him. probably there is some simple explanation of the mystery, however. i advise you to go over to the cove and inquire. when you find the parents or guardians of the child, ask them to allow you to keep it for a time. it may prove your wife's salvation. i have known such cases. evidently on that night the crisis of her mental disorder was reached. a little thing might have sufficed to turn her feet either way--back to reason and sanity, or into deeper darkness. it is my belief that the former has occurred, and that, if she is left in undisturbed possession of this child for a time, she will recover completely." i drove around the harbor that day with a lighter heart than i had hoped ever to possess again. when i reached spruce cove the first person i met was old abel blair. i asked him if any child were missing from the cove or along shore. he looked at me in surprise, shook his head, and said he had not heard of any. i told him as much of the tale as was necessary, leaving him to think that my wife and i had found the dory and its small passenger during an ordinary walk along the shore. "a green dory!" he exclaimed. "ben forbes' old green dory has been missing for a week, but it was so rotten and leaky he didn't bother looking for it. but this child, sir--it beats me. what might he be like?" i described the child as closely as possible. "that fits little harry martin to a hair," said old abel, perplexedly, "but, sir, it can't be. or, if it is, there's been foul work somewhere. james martin's wife died last winter, sir, and he died the next month. they left a baby and not much else. there weren't nobody to take the child but jim's half-sister, maggie fleming. she lived here at the cove, and, i'm sorry to say, sir, she hadn't too good a name. she didn't want to be bothered with the baby, and folks say she neglected him scandalous. well, last spring she begun talking of going away to the states. she said a friend of hers had got her a good place in boston, and she was going to go and take little harry. we supposed it was all right. last saturday she went, sir. she was going to walk to the station, and the last seen of her she was trudging along the road, carrying the baby. it hasn't been thought of since. but, sir, d'ye suppose she set that innocent child adrift in that old leaky dory to send him to his death? i knew maggie was no better than she should be, but i can't believe she was as bad as that." "you must come over with me and see if you can identify the child," i said. "if he is harry martin i shall keep him. my wife has been very lonely since our baby died, and she has taken a fancy to this little chap." when we reached my home old abel recognized the child as harry martin. he is with us still. his baby hands led my dear wife back to health and happiness. other children have come to us, she loves them all dearly; but the boy who bears her dead son's name is to her--aye, and to me--as dear as if she had given him birth. he came from the sea, and at his coming the ghostly dream-child fled, nevermore to lure my wife away from me with its exciting cry. therefore i look upon him and love him as my first-born. vi. the brother who failed the monroe family were holding a christmas reunion at the old prince edward island homestead at white sands. it was the first time they had all been together under one roof since the death of their mother, thirty years before. the idea of this christmas reunion had originated with edith monroe the preceding spring, during her tedious convalescence from a bad attack of pneumonia among strangers in an american city, where she had not been able to fill her concert engagements, and had more spare time in which to feel the tug of old ties and the homesick longing for her own people than she had had for years. as a result, when she recovered, she wrote to her second brother, james monroe, who lived on the homestead; and the consequence was this gathering of the monroes under the old roof-tree. ralph monroe for once laid aside the cares of his railroads, and the deceitfulness of his millions, in toronto and took the long-promised, long-deferred trip to the homeland. malcolm monroe journeyed from the far western university of which he was president. edith came, flushed with the triumph of her latest and most successful concert tour. mrs. woodburn, who had been margaret monroe, came from the nova scotia town where she lived a busy, happy life as the wife of a rising young lawyer. james, prosperous and hearty, greeted them warmly at the old homestead whose fertile acres had well repaid his skillful management. they were a merry party, casting aside their cares and years, and harking back to joyous boyhood and girlhood once more. james had a family of rosy lads and lasses; margaret brought her two blue-eyed little girls; ralph's dark, clever-looking son accompanied him, and malcolm brought his, a young man with a resolute face, in which there was less of boyishness than in his father's, and the eyes of a keen, perhaps a hard bargainer. the two cousins were the same age to a day, and it was a family joke among the monroes that the stork must have mixed the babies, since ralph's son was like malcolm in face and brain, while malcolm's boy was a second edition of his uncle ralph. to crown all, aunt isabel came, too--a talkative, clever, shrewd old lady, as young at eighty-five as she had been at thirty, thinking the monroe stock the best in the world, and beamingly proud of her nephews and nieces, who had gone out from this humble, little farm to destinies of such brilliance and influence in the world beyond. i have forgotten robert. robert monroe was apt to be forgotten. although he was the oldest of the family, white sands people, in naming over the various members of the monroe family, would add, "and robert," in a tone of surprise over the remembrance of his existence. he lived on a poor, sandy little farm down by the shore, but he had come up to james' place on the evening when the guests arrived; they had all greeted him warmly and joyously, and then did not think about him again in their laughter and conversation. robert sat back in a corner and listened with a smile, but he never spoke. afterwards he had slipped noiselessly away and gone home, and nobody noticed his going. they were all gayly busy recalling what had happened in the old times and telling what had happened in the new. edith recounted the successes of her concert tours; malcolm expatiated proudly on his plans for developing his beloved college; ralph described the country through which his new railroad ran, and the difficulties he had had to overcome in connection with it. james, aside, discussed his orchard and his crops with margaret, who had not been long enough away from the farm to lose touch with its interests. aunt isabel knitted and smiled complacently on all, talking now with one, now with the other, secretly quite proud of herself that she, an old woman of eighty-five, who had seldom been out of white sands in her life, could discuss high finance with ralph, and higher education with malcolm, and hold her own with james in an argument on drainage. the white sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-mouthed bit a girl--a bell from avonlea--who boarded with the james monroes, amused herself with the boys. all were enjoying themselves hugely, so it is not to be wondered at that they did not miss robert, who had gone home early because his old housekeeper was nervous if left alone at night. he came again the next afternoon. from james, in the barnyard, he learned that malcolm and ralph had driven to the harbor, that margaret and mrs. james had gone to call on friends in avonlea, and that edith was walking somewhere in the woods on the hill. there was nobody in the house except aunt isabel and the teacher. "you'd better wait and stay the evening," said james, indifferently. "they'll all be back soon." robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic bench in the angle of the front porch. it was a fine december evening, as mild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. a weird, dreamy stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the windless woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere meadows. nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long, wintry slumber was coming upon her. out to sea, a dull, red sunset faded out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice of many waters came up from the tawny shore. robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the vales and hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods was mingled with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers. he was a tall, bent man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and deeply-set, gentle brown eyes--the eyes of one who, looking through pain, sees rapture beyond. he felt very happy. he loved his family clannishly, and he was rejoiced that they were all again near to him. he was proud of their success and fame. he was glad that james had prospered so well of late years. there was no canker of envy or discontent in his soul. he heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall window above the porch, where aunt isabel was talking to kathleen bell. presently aunt isabel moved nearer to the window, and her words came down to robert with startling clearness. "yes, i can assure you, miss bell, that i'm real proud of my nephews and nieces. they're a smart family. they've almost all done well, and they hadn't any of them much to begin with. ralph had absolutely nothing and to-day he is a millionaire. their father met with so many losses, what with his ill-health and the bank failing, that he couldn't help them any. but they've all succeeded, except poor robert--and i must admit that he's a total failure." "oh, no, no," said the little teacher deprecatingly. "a total failure!" aunt isabel repeated her words emphatically. she was not going to be contradicted by anybody, least of all a bell from avonlea. "he has been a failure since the time he was born. he is the first monroe to disgrace the old stock that way. i'm sure his brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of him. he has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing worth while. he can't even make his farm pay. if he's kept out of debt it's as much as he's ever managed to do." "some men can't even do that," murmured the little school teacher. she was really so much in awe of this imperious, clever old aunt isabel that it was positive heroism on her part to venture even this faint protest. "more is expected of a monroe," said aunt isabel majestically. "robert monroe is a failure, and that is the only name for him." robert monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy, uncertain fashion. aunt isabel had been speaking of him! he, robert, was a failure, a disgrace to his blood, of whom his nearest and dearest were ashamed! yes, it was true; he had never realized it before; he had known that he could never win power or accumulate riches, but he had not thought that mattered much. now, through aunt isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as the world saw him--as his brothers and sisters must see him. there lay the sting. what the world thought of him did not matter; but that his own should think him a failure and disgrace was agony. he moaned as he started to walk across the yard, only anxious to hide his pain and shame away from all human sight, and in his eyes was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken by a cruel and unexpected blow. edith monroe, who, unaware of robert's proximity, had been standing on the other side of the porch, saw that look, as he hurried past her, unseeing. a moment before her dark eyes had been flashing with anger at aunt isabel's words; now the anger was drowned in a sudden rush of tears. she took a quick step after robert, but checked the impulse. not then--and not by her alone--could that deadly hurt be healed. nay, more, robert must never suspect that she knew of any hurt. she stood and watched him through her tears as he went away across the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart under his own humble roof. she yearned to hurry after him and comfort him, but she knew that comfort was not what robert needed now. justice, and justice only, could pluck out the sting, which otherwise must rankle to the death. ralph and malcolm were driving into the yard. edith went over to them. "boys," she said resolutely, "i want to have a talk with you." the christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one. mrs. james spread a feast that was fit for the halls of lucullus. laughter, jest, and repartee flew from lip to lip. nobody appeared to notice that robert ate little, said nothing, and sat with his form shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head bent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all observation. when the others spoke to him he answered deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself. finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of the plum pudding was carried out. robert gave a low sigh of relief. it was almost over. soon he would be able to escape and hide himself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these men and women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in which their success gave them power and influence. he--he--only--was a failure. he wondered impatiently why mrs. james did not rise. mrs. james merely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteous expression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures' palates, and looked at malcolm. malcolm rose in his place. silence fell on the company; everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except robert. he still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his own bitterness. "i have been told that i must lead off," said malcolm, "because i am supposed to possess the gift of gab. but, if i do, i am not going to use it for any rhetorical effect to-day. simple, earnest words must express the deepest feelings of the heart in doing justice to its own. brothers and sisters, we meet to-day under our own roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions of the past years. perhaps invisible guests are here--the spirits of those who founded this home and whose work on earth has long been finished. it is not amiss to hope that this is so and our family circle made indeed complete. to each one of us who are here in visible bodily presence some measure of success has fallen; but only one of us has been supremely successful in the only things that really count--the things that count for eternity as well as time--sympathy and unselfishness and self-sacrifice. "i shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those who have not heard it. when i was a lad of sixteen i started to work out my own education. some of you will remember that old mr. blair of avonlea offered me a place in his store for the summer, at wages which would go far towards paying my expenses at the country academy the next winter. i went to work, eager and hopeful. all summer i tried to do my faithful best for my employer. in september the blow fell. a sum of money was missing from mr. blair's till. i was suspected and discharged in disgrace. all my neighbors believed me guilty; even some of my own family looked upon me with suspicion--nor could i blame them, for the circumstantial evidence was strongly against me." ralph and james looked ashamed; edith and margaret, who had not been born at the time referred to, lifted their faces innocently. robert did not move or glance up. he hardly seemed to be listening. "i was crushed in an agony of shame and despair," continued malcolm. "i believed my career was ruined. i was bent on casting all my ambitions behind me, and going west to some place where nobody knew me or my disgrace. but there was one person who believed in my innocence, who said to me, 'you shall not give up--you shall not behave as if you were guilty. you are innocent, and in time your innocence will be proved. meanwhile show yourself a man. you have nearly enough to pay your way next winter at the academy. i have a little i can give to help you out. don't give in--never give in when you have done no wrong.' "i listened and took his advice. i went to the academy. my story was there as soon as i was, and i found myself sneered at and shunned. many a time i would have given up in despair, had it not been for the encouragement of my counselor. he furnished the backbone for me. i was determined that his belief in me should be justified. i studied hard and came out at the head of my class. then there seemed to be no chance of my earning any more money that summer. but a farmer at newbridge, who cared nothing about the character of his help, if he could get the work out of them, offered to hire me. the prospect was distasteful but, urged by the man who believed in me, i took the place and endured the hardships. another winter of lonely work passed at the academy. i won the farrell scholarship the last year it was offered, and that meant an arts course for me. i went to redmond college. my story was not openly known there, but something of it got abroad, enough to taint my life there also with its suspicion. but the year i graduated, mr. blair's nephew, who, as you know, was the real culprit, confessed his guilt, and i was cleared before the world. since then my career has been what is called a brilliant one. but"--malcolm turned and laid his hand on robert's thin shoulder--"all of my success i owe to my brother robert. it is his success--not mine--and here to-day, since we have agreed to say what is too often left to be said over a coffin lid, i thank him for all he did for me, and tell him that there is nothing i am more proud of and thankful for than such a brother." robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered, incredulous. his face crimsoned as malcolm sat down. but now ralph was getting up. "i am no orator as malcolm is," he quoted gayly, "but i've got a story to tell, too, which only one of you knows. forty years ago, when i started in life as a business man, money wasn't so plentiful with me as it may be to-day. and i needed it badly. a chance came my way to make a pile of it. it wasn't a clean chance. it was a dirty chance. it looked square on the surface; but, underneath, it meant trickery and roguery. i hadn't enough perception to see that, though--i was fool enough to think it was all right. i told robert what i meant to do. and robert saw clear through the outward sham to the real, hideous thing underneath. he showed me what it meant and he gave me a preachment about a few monroe traditions of truth and honor. i saw what i had been about to do as he saw it--as all good men and true must see it. and i vowed then and there that i'd never go into anything that i wasn't sure was fair and square and clean through and through. i've kept that vow. i am a rich man, and not a dollar of my money is 'tainted' money. but i didn't make it. robert really made every cent of my money. if it hadn't been for him i'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind prison bars, as are the other men who went into that deal when i backed out. i've got a son here. i hope he'll be as clever as his uncle malcolm; but i hope, still more earnestly, that he'll be as good and honorable a man as his uncle robert." by this time robert's head was bent again, and his face buried in his hands. "my turn next," said james. "i haven't much to say--only this. after mother died i took typhoid fever. here i was with no one to wait on me. robert came and nursed me. he was the most faithful, tender, gentle nurse ever a man had. the doctor said robert saved my life. i don't suppose any of the rest of us here can say we have saved a life." edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively. "years ago," she said, "there was a poor, ambitious girl who had a voice. she wanted a musical education and her only apparent chance of obtaining it was to get a teacher's certificate and earn money enough to have her voice trained. she studied hard, but her brains, in mathematics at least, weren't as good as her voice, and the time was short. she failed. she was lost in disappointment and despair, for that was the last year in which it was possible to obtain a teacher's certificate without attending queen's academy, and she could not afford that. then her oldest brother came to her and told her he could spare enough money to send her to the conservatory of music in halifax for a year. he made her take it. she never knew till long afterwards that he had sold the beautiful horse which he loved like a human creature, to get the money. she went to the halifax conservatory. she won a musical scholarship. she has had a happy life and a successful career. and she owes it all to her brother robert--" but edith could go no further. her voice failed her and she sat down in tears. margaret did not try to stand up. "i was only five when my mother died," she sobbed. "robert was both father and mother to me. never had child or girl so wise and loving a guardian as he was to me. i have never forgotten the lessons he taught me. whatever there is of good in my life or character i owe to him. i was often headstrong and willful, but he never lost patience with me. i owe everything to robert." suddenly the little teacher rose with wet eyes and crimson cheeks. "i have something to say, too," she said resolutely. "you have spoken for yourselves. i speak for the people of white sands. there is a man in this settlement whom everybody loves. i shall tell you some of the things he has done." "last fall, in an october storm, the harbor lighthouse flew a flag of distress. only one man was brave enough to face the danger of sailing to the lighthouse to find out what the trouble was. that was robert monroe. he found the keeper alone with a broken leg; and he sailed back and made--yes, made the unwilling and terrified doctor go with him to the lighthouse. i saw him when he told the doctor he must go; and i tell you that no man living could have set his will against robert monroe's at that moment. "four years ago old sarah cooper was to be taken to the poorhouse. she was broken-hearted. one man took the poor, bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home, paid for medical attendance, and waited on her himself, when his housekeeper couldn't endure her tantrums and temper. sarah cooper died two years afterwards, and her latest breath was a benediction on robert monroe--the best man god ever made. "eight years ago jack blewitt wanted a place. nobody would hire him, because his father was in the penitentiary, and some people thought jack ought to be there, too. robert monroe hired him--and helped him, and kept him straight, and got him started right--and jack blewitt is a hard-working, respected young man to-day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable life. there is hardly a man, woman, or child in white sands who doesn't owe something to robert monroe!" as kathleen bell sat down, malcolm sprang up and held out his hands. "every one of us stand up and sing auld lang syne," he cried. everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not sing. robert monroe stood erect, with a great radiance on his face and in his eyes. his reproach had been taken away; he was crowned among his kindred with the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays. when the singing ceased malcolm's stern-faced son reached over and shook robert's hands. "uncle rob," he said heartily, "i hope that when i'm sixty i'll be as successful a man as you." "i guess," said aunt isabel, aside to the little school teacher, as she wiped the tears from her keen old eyes, "that there's a kind of failure that's the best success." vii. the return of hester just at dusk, that evening, i had gone upstairs and put on my muslin gown. i had been busy all day attending to the strawberry preserving--for mary sloane could not be trusted with that--and i was a little tired, and thought it was hardly worth while to change my dress, especially since there was nobody to see or care, since hester was gone. mary sloane did not count. but i did it because hester would have cared if she had been here. she always liked to see me neat and dainty. so, although i was tired and sick at heart, i put on my pale blue muslin and dressed my hair. at first i did my hair up in a way i had always liked; but had seldom worn, because hester had disapproved of it. it became me; but i suddenly felt as if it were disloyal to her, so i took the puffs down again and arranged my hair in the plain, old-fashioned way she had liked. my hair, though it had a good many gray threads in it, was thick and long and brown still; but that did not matter--nothing mattered since hester was dead and i had sent hugh blair away for the second time. the newbridge people all wondered why i had not put on mourning for hester. i did not tell them it was because hester had asked me not to. hester had never approved of mourning; she said that if the heart did not mourn crape would not mend matters; and if it did there was no need of the external trappings of woe. she told me calmly, the night before she died, to go on wearing my pretty dresses just as i had always worn them, and to make no difference in my outward life because of her going. "i know there will be a difference in your inward life," she said wistfully. and oh, there was! but sometimes i wondered uneasily, feeling almost conscience-stricken, whether it were wholly because hester had left me--whether it were not partly because, for a second time, i had shut the door of my heart in the face of love at her bidding. when i had dressed i went downstairs to the front door, and sat on the sandstone steps under the arch of the virginia creeper. i was all alone, for mary sloane had gone to avonlea. it was a beautiful night; the full moon was just rising over the wooded hills, and her light fell through the poplars into the garden before me. through an open corner on the western side i saw the sky all silvery blue in the afterlight. the garden was very beautiful just then, for it was the time of the roses, and ours were all out--so many of them--great pink, and red, and white, and yellow roses. hester had loved roses and could never have enough of them. her favorite bush was growing by the steps, all gloried over with blossoms--white, with pale pink hearts. i gathered a cluster and pinned it loosely on my breast. but my eyes filled as i did so--i felt so very, very desolate. i was all alone, and it was bitter. the roses, much as i loved them, could not give me sufficient companionship. i wanted the clasp of a human hand, and the love-light in human eyes. and then i fell to thinking of hugh, though i tried not to. i had always lived alone with hester. i did not remember our parents, who had died in my babyhood. hester was fifteen years older than i, and she had always seemed more like a mother than a sister. she had been very good to me and had never denied me anything i wanted, save the one thing that mattered. i was twenty-five before i ever had a lover. this was not, i think, because i was more unattractive than other women. the merediths had always been the "big" family of newbridge. the rest of the people looked up to us, because we were the granddaughters of old squire meredith. the newbridge young men would have thought it no use to try to woo a meredith. i had not a great deal of family pride, as perhaps i should be ashamed to confess. i found our exalted position very lonely, and cared more for the simple joys of friendship and companionship which other girls had. but hester possessed it in a double measure; she never allowed me to associate on a level of equality with the young people of newbridge. we must be very nice and kind and affable to them--_noblesse oblige_, as it were--but we must never forget that we were merediths. when i was twenty-five, hugh blair came to newbridge, having bought a farm near the village. he was a stranger, from lower carmody, and so was not imbued with any preconceptions of meredith superiority. in his eyes i was just a girl like others--a girl to be wooed and won by any man of clean life and honest heart. i met him at a little sunday-school picnic over at avonlea, which i attended because of my class. i thought him very handsome and manly. he talked to me a great deal, and at last he drove me home. the next sunday evening he walked up from church with me. hester was away, or, of course, this would never have happened. she had gone for a month's visit to distant friends. in that month i lived a lifetime. hugh blair courted me as the other girls in newbridge were courted. he took me out driving and came to see me in the evenings, which we spent for the most part in the garden. i did not like the stately gloom and formality of our old meredith parlor, and hugh never seemed to feel at ease there. his broad shoulders and hearty laughter were oddly out of place among our faded, old-maidish furnishings. mary sloane was very much pleased at hugh's visit. she had always resented the fact that i had never had a "beau," seeming to think it reflected some slight or disparagement upon me. she did all she could to encourage him. but when hester returned and found out about hugh she was very angry--and grieved, which hurt me far more. she told me that i had forgotten myself and that hugh's visits must cease. i had never been afraid of hester before, but i was afraid of her then. i yielded. perhaps it was very weak of me, but then i was always weak. i think that was why hugh's strength had appealed so to me. i needed love and protection. hester, strong and self-sufficient, had never felt such a need. she could not understand. oh, how contemptuous she was. i told hugh timidly that hester did not approve of our friendship and that it must end. he took it quietly enough, and went away. i thought he did not care much, and the thought selfishly made my own heartache worse. i was very unhappy for a long time, but i tried not to let hester see it, and i don't think she did. she was not very discerning in some things. after a time i got over it; that is, the heartache ceased to ache all the time. but things were never quite the same again. life always seemed rather dreary and empty, in spite of hester and my roses and my sunday-school. i supposed that hugh blair would find him a wife elsewhere, but he did not. the years went by and we never met, although i saw him often at church. at such times hester always watched me very closely, but there was no need of her to do so. hugh made no attempt to meet me, or speak with me, and i would not have permitted it if he had. but my heart always yearned after him. i was selfishly glad he had not married, because if he had i could not have thought and dreamed of him--it would have been wrong. perhaps, as it was, it was foolish; but it seemed to me that i must have something, if only foolish dreams, to fill my life. at first there was only pain in the thought of him, but afterwards a faint, misty little pleasure crept in, like a mirage from a land of lost delight. ten years slipped away thus. and then hester died. her illness was sudden and short; but, before she died, she asked me to promise that i would never marry hugh blair. she had not mentioned his name for years. i thought she had forgotten all about him. "oh, dear sister, is there any need of such a promise?" i asked, weeping. "hugh blair does not want to marry me now. he never will again." "he has never married--he has not forgotten you," she said fiercely. "i could not rest in my grave if i thought you would disgrace your family by marrying beneath you. promise me, margaret." i promised. i would have promised anything in my power to make her dying pillow easier. besides, what did it matter? i was sure that hugh would never think of me again. she smiled when she heard me, and pressed my hand. "good little sister--that is right. you were always a good girl, margaret--good and obedient, though a little sentimental and foolish in some ways. you are like our mother--she was always weak and loving. i took after the merediths." she did, indeed. even in her coffin her dark, handsome features preserved their expression of pride and determination. somehow, that last look of her dead face remained in my memory, blotting out the real affection and gentleness which her living face had almost always shown me. this distressed me, but i could not help it. i wished to think of her as kind and loving, but i could remember only the pride and coldness with which she had crushed out my new-born happiness. yet i felt no anger or resentment towards her for what she had done. i knew she had meant it for the best--my best. it was only that she was mistaken. and then, a month after she had died, hugh blair came to me and asked me to be his wife. he said he had always loved me, and could never love any other woman. all my old love for him reawakened. i wanted to say yes--to feel his strong arms about me, and the warmth of his love enfolding and guarding me. in my weakness i yearned for his strength. but there was my promise to hester--that promise give by her deathbed. i could not break it, and i told him so. it was the hardest thing i had ever done. he did not go away quietly this time. he pleaded and reasoned and reproached. every word of his hurt me like a knife-thrust. but i could not break my promise to the dead. if hester had been living i would have braved her wrath and her estrangement and gone to him. but she was dead and i could not do it. finally he went away in grief and anger. that was three weeks ago--and now i sat alone in the moonlit rose-garden and wept for him. but after a time my tears dried and a very strange feeling came over me. i felt calm and happy, as if some wonderful love and tenderness were very near me. and now comes the strange part of my story--the part which will not, i suppose, be believed. if it were not for one thing i think i should hardly believe it myself. i should feel tempted to think i had dreamed it. but because of that one thing i know it was real. the night was very calm and still. not a breath of wind stirred. the moonshine was the brightest i had ever seen. in the middle of the garden, where the shadow of the poplars did not fall, it was almost as bright as day. one could have read fine print. there was still a little rose glow in the west, and over the airy boughs of the tall poplars one or two large, bright stars were shining. the air was sweet with a hush of dreams, and the world was so lovely that i held my breath over its beauty. then, all at once, down at the far end of the garden, i saw a woman walking. i thought at first that it must be mary sloane; but, as she crossed a moonlit path, i saw it was not our old servant's stout, homely figure. this woman was tall and erect. although no suspicion of the truth came to me, something about her reminded me of hester. even so had hester liked to wander about the garden in the twilight. i had seen her thus a thousand times. i wondered who the woman could be. some neighbor, of course. but what a strange way for her to come! she walked up the garden slowly in the poplar shade. now and then she stooped, as if to caress a flower, but she plucked none. half way up she out in to the moonlight and walked across the plot of grass in the center of the garden. my heart gave a great throb and i stood up. she was quite near to me now--and i saw that it was hester. i can hardly say just what my feelings were at this moment. i know that i was not surprised. i was frightened and yet i was not frightened. something in me shrank back in a sickening terror; but _i_, the real i, was not frightened. i knew that this was my sister, and that there could be no reason why i should be frightened of her, because she loved me still, as she had always done. further than this i was not conscious of any coherent thought, either of wonder or attempt at reasoning. hester paused when she came to within a few steps of me. in the moonlight i saw her face quite plainly. it wore an expression i had never before seen on it--a humble, wistful, tender look. often in life hester had looked lovingly, even tenderly, upon me; but always, as it were, through a mask of pride and sternness. this was gone now, and i felt nearer to her than ever before. i knew suddenly that she understood me. and then the half-conscious awe and terror some part of me had felt vanished, and i only realized that hester was here, and that there was no terrible gulf of change between us. hester beckoned to me and said, "come." i stood up and followed her out of the garden. we walked side by side down our lane, under the willows and out to the road, which lay long and still in that bright, calm moonshine. i felt as if i were in a dream, moving at the bidding of a will not my own, which i could not have disputed even if i had wished to do so. but i did not wish it; i had only the feeling of a strange, boundless content. we went down the road between the growths of young fir that bordered it. i smelled their balsam as we passed, and noticed how clearly and darkly their pointed tops came out against the sky. i heard the tread of my own feet on little twigs and plants in our way, and the trail of my dress over the grass; but hester moved noiselessly. then we went through the avenue--that stretch of road under the apple trees that anne shirley, over at avonlea, calls "the white way of delight." it was almost dark here; and yet i could see hester's face just as plainly as if the moon were shining on it; and whenever i looked at her she was always looking at me with that strangely gentle smile on her lips. just as we passed out of the avenue, james trent overtook us, driving. it seems to me that our feelings at a given moment are seldom what we would expect them to be. i simply felt annoyed that james trent, the most notorious gossip in newbridge, should have seen me walking with hester. in a flash i anticipated all the annoyance of it; he would talk of the matter far and wide. but james trent merely nodded and called out, "howdy, miss margaret. taking a moonlight stroll by yourself? lovely night, ain't it?" just then his horse suddenly swerved, as if startled, and broke into a gallop. they whirled around the curve of the road in an instant. i felt relieved, but puzzled. james trent had not seen hester. down over the hill was hugh blair's place. when we came to it, hester turned in at the gate. then, for the first time, i understood why she had come back, and a blinding flash of joy broke over my soul. i stopped and looked at her. her deep eyes gazed into mine, but she did not speak. we went on. hugh's house lay before us in the moonlight, grown over by a tangle of vines. his garden was on our right, a quaint spot, full of old-fashioned flowers growing in a sort of disorderly sweetness. i trod on a bed of mint, and the spice of it floated up to me like the incense of some strange, sacred, solemn ceremonial. i felt unspeakably happy and blessed. when we came to the door hester said, "knock, margaret." i rapped gently. in a moment, hugh opened it. then that happened by which, in after days, i was to know that this strange thing was no dream or fancy of mine. hugh looked not at me, but past me. "hester!" he exclaimed, with human fear and horror in his voice. he leaned against the door-post, the big, strong fellow, trembling from head to foot. "i have learned," said hester, "that nothing matters in all god's universe, except love. there is no pride where i have been, and no false ideals." hugh and i looked into each other's eyes, wondering, and then we knew that we were alone. viii. the little brown book of miss emily the first summer mr. irving and miss lavendar--diana and i could never call her anything else, even after she was married--were at echo lodge after their marriage, both diana and i spent a great deal of time with them. we became acquainted with many of the grafton people whom we had not known before, and among others, the family of mr. mack leith. we often went up to the leiths in the evening to play croquet. millie and margaret leith were very nice girls, and the boys were nice, too. indeed, we liked every one in the family, except poor old miss emily leith. we tried hard enough to like her, because she seemed to like diana and me very much, and always wanted to sit with us and talk to us, when we would much rather have been somewhere else. we often felt a good deal of impatience at these times, but i am very glad to think now that we never showed it. in a way, we felt sorry for miss emily. she was mr. leith's old-maid sister and she was not of much importance in the household. but, though we felt sorry for her, we couldn't like her. she really was fussy and meddlesome; she liked to poke a finger into every one's pie, and she was not at all tactful. then, too, she had a sarcastic tongue, and seemed to feel bitter towards all the young folks and their love affairs. diana and i thought this was because she had never had a lover of her own. somehow, it seemed impossible to think of lovers in connection with miss emily. she was short and stout and pudgy, with a face so round and fat and red that it seemed quite featureless; and her hair was scanty and gray. she walked with a waddle, just like mrs. rachel lynde, and she was always rather short of breath. it was hard to believe miss emily had ever been young; yet old mr. murray, who lived next door to the leiths, not only expected us to believe it, but assured us that she had been very pretty. "that, at least, is impossible," said diana to me. and then, one day, miss emily died. i'm afraid no one was very sorry. it seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and leave not one person behind to be sorry because you have gone. miss emily was dead and buried before diana and i heard of it at all. the first i knew of it was when i came home from orchard slope one day and found a queer, shabby little black horsehair trunk, all studded with brass nails, on the floor of my room at green gables. marilla told me that jack leith had brought it over, and said that it had belonged to miss emily and that, when she was dying, she asked them to send it to me. "but what is in it? and what am i to do with it?" i asked in bewilderment. "there was nothing said about what you were to do with it. jack said they didn't know what was in it, and hadn't looked into it, seeing that it was your property. it seems a rather queer proceeding--but you're always getting mixed up in queer proceedings, anne. as for what is in it, the easiest way to find out, i reckon, is to open it and see. the key is tied to it. jack said miss emily said she wanted you to have it because she loved you and saw her lost youth in you. i guess she was a bit delirious at the last and wandered a good deal. she said she wanted you 'to understand her.'" i ran over to orchard slope and asked diana to come over and examine the trunk with me. i hadn't received any instructions about keeping its contents secret and i knew miss emily wouldn't mind diana knowing about them, whatever they were. it was a cool, gray afternoon and we got back to green gables just as the rain was beginning to fall. when we went up to my room the wind was rising and whistling through the boughs of the big old snow queen outside of my window. diana was excited, and, i really believe, a little bit frightened. we opened the old trunk. it was very small, and there was nothing in it but a big cardboard box. the box was tied up and the knots sealed with wax. we lifted it out and untied it. i touched diana's fingers as we did it, and both of us exclaimed at once, "how cold your hand is!" in the box was a quaint, pretty, old-fashioned gown, not at all faded, made of blue muslin, with a little darker blue flower in it. under it we found a sash, a yellowed feather fan, and an envelope full of withered flowers. at the bottom of the box was a little brown book. it was small and thin, like a girl's exercise book, with leaves that had once been blue and pink, but were now quite faded, and stained in places. on the fly leaf was written, in a very delicate hand, "emily margaret leith," and the same writing covered the first few pages of the book. the rest were not written on at all. we sat there on the floor, diana and i, and read the little book together, while the rain thudded against the window panes. june , -- i came to-day to spend a while with aunt margaret in charlottetown. it is so pretty here, where she lives--and ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. i have no cows to milk here or pigs to feed. aunt margaret has given me such a lovely blue muslin dress, and i am to have it made to wear at a garden party out at brighton next week. i never had a muslin dress before--nothing but ugly prints and dark woolens. i wish we were rich, like aunt margaret. aunt margaret laughed when i said this, and declared she would give all her wealth for my youth and beauty and light-heartedness. i am only eighteen and i know i am very merry but i wonder if i am really pretty. it seems to me that i am when i look in aunt margaret's beautiful mirrors. they make me look very different from the old cracked one in my room at home which always twisted my face and turned me green. but aunt margaret spoiled her compliment by telling me i look exactly as she did at my age. if i thought i'd ever look as aunt margaret does now, i don't know what i'd do. she is so fat and red. june . last week i went to the garden party and i met a young man called paul osborne. he is a young artist from montreal who is boarding over at heppoch. he is the handsomest man i have ever seen--very tall and slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and a pale, clever face. i have not been able to keep from thinking about him ever since, and to-day he came over here and asked if he could paint me. i felt very much flattered and so pleased when aunt margaret gave him permission. he says he wants to paint me as "spring," standing under the poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. i am to wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers on my hair. he says i have such beautiful hair. he has never seen any of such a real pale gold. somehow it seems even prettier than ever to me since he praised it. i had a letter from home to-day. ma says the blue hen stole her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has sold the little spotted calf. somehow those things don't interest me like they once did. july . the picture is coming on very well, mr. osborne says. i know he is making me look far too pretty in it, although he persists in saying he can't do me justice. he is going to send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says he will make a little water-color copy for me. he comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he reads me lovely things out of his books. i don't understand them all, but i try to, and he explains them so nicely and is so patient with my stupidity. and he says any one with my eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. he says i have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. but i will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. i dare say he does not mean them at all. in the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the bench under the acacia tree. sometimes we don't talk at all, but i never find the time long. indeed, the minutes just seem to fly--and then the moon will come up, round and red, over the harbor and mr. osborne will sigh and say he supposes it is time for him to go. july . i am so happy. i am frightened at my happiness. oh, i didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is! paul loves me! he told me so to-night as we walked by the harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his wife. i have cared for him ever since i met him, but i am afraid i am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife for paul. because, of course, i'm only an ignorant little country girl and have lived all my life on a farm. why, my hands are quite rough yet from the work i've done. but paul just laughed when i said so, and took my hands and kissed them. then he looked into my eyes and laughed again, because i couldn't hide from him how much i loved him. we are to be married next spring and paul says he will take me to europe. that will be very nice, but nothing matters so long as i am with him. paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and sisters are very fashionable. i am frightened of them, but i did not tell paul so because i think it would hurt him and oh, i wouldn't do that for the world. there is nothing i wouldn't suffer if it would do him any good. i never thought any one could feel so. i used to think if i loved anybody i would want him to do everything for me and wait on me as if i were a princess. but that is not the way at all. love makes you very humble and you want to do everything yourself for the one you love. august . paul went home to-day. oh, it is so terrible! i don't know how i can bear to live even for a little while without him. but this is silly of me, because i know he has to go and he will write often and come to me often. but, still, it is so lonesome. i didn't cry when he left me because i wanted him to remember me smiling in the way he liked best, but i have been crying ever since and i can't stop, no matter how hard i try. we have had such a beautiful fortnight. every day seemed dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended and i feel as if it could never be the same again. oh, i am very foolish--but i love him so dearly and if i were to lose his love i know i would die. august . i think my heart is dead. but no, it can't be, for it aches too much. paul's mother came here to see me to-day. she was not angry or disagreeable. i wouldn't have been so frightened of her if she had been. as it was, i felt that i couldn't say a word. she is very beautiful and stately and wonderful, with a low, cold voice and proud, dark eyes. her face is like paul's but without the loveableness of his. she talked to me for a long time and she said terrible things--terrible, because i knew they were all true. i seemed to see everything through her eyes. she said that paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but that it would not last and what else had i to give him? she said paul must marry a woman of his own class, who could do honor to his fame and position. she said that he was very talented and had a great career before him, but that if he married me it would ruin his life. i saw it all, just as she explained it out, and i told her at last that i would not marry paul, and she might tell him so. but she smiled and said i must tell him myself, because he would not believe any one else. i could have begged her to spare me that, but i knew it would be of no use. i do not think she has any pity or mercy for any one. besides, what she said was quite true. when she thanked me for being so reasonable i told her i was not doing it to please her, but for paul's sake, because i would not spoil his life, and that i would always hate her. she smiled again and went away. oh, how can i bear it? i did not know any one could suffer like this! august . i have done it. i wrote to paul to-day. i knew i must tell him by letter, because i could never make him believe it face to face. i was afraid i could not even do it by letter. i suppose a clever woman easily could, but i am so stupid. i wrote a great many letters and tore them up, because i felt sure they wouldn't convince paul. at last i got one that i thought would do. i knew i must make it seem as if i were very frivolous and heartless, or he would never believe. i spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of grammar on purpose. i told him i had just been flirting with him, and that i had another fellow at home i liked better. i said fellow because i knew it would disgust him. i said that it was only because he was rich that i was tempted to marry him. i thought my heart would break while i was writing those dreadful falsehoods. but it was for his sake, because i must not spoil his life. his mother told me i would be a millstone around his neck. i love paul so much that i would do anything rather than be that. it would be easy to die for him, but i don't see how i can go on living. i think my letter will convince paul. i suppose it convinced paul, because there was no further entry in the little brown book. when we had finished it the tears were running down both our faces. "oh, poor, dear miss emily," sobbed diana. "i'm so sorry i ever thought her funny and meddlesome." "she was good and strong and brave," i said. "i could never have been as unselfish as she was." i thought of whittier's lines, "the outward, wayward life we see the hidden springs we may not know." at the back of the little brown book we found a faded water-color sketch of a young girl--such a slim, pretty little thing, with big blue eyes and lovely, long, rippling golden hair. paul osborne's name was written in faded ink across the corner. we put everything back in the box. then we sat for a long time by my window in silence and thought of many things, until the rainy twilight came down and blotted out the world. ix. sara's way the warm june sunshine was coming down through the trees, white with the virginal bloom of apple-blossoms, and through the shining panes, making a tremulous mosaic upon mrs. eben andrews' spotless kitchen floor. through the open door, a wind, fragrant from long wanderings over orchards and clover meadows, drifted in, and, from the window, mrs. eben and her guest could look down over a long, misty valley sloping to a sparkling sea. mrs. jonas andrews was spending the afternoon with her sister-in-law. she was a big, sonsy woman, with full-blown peony cheeks and large, dreamy, brown eyes. when she had been a slim, pink-and-white girl those eyes had been very romantic. now they were so out of keeping with the rest of her appearance as to be ludicrous. mrs. eben, sitting at the other end of the small tea-table that was drawn up against the window, was a thin little woman, with a very sharp nose and light, faded blue eyes. she looked like a woman whose opinions were always very decided and warranted to wear. "how does sara like teaching at newbridge?" asked mrs. jonas, helping herself a second time to mrs. eben's matchless black fruit cake, and thereby bestowing a subtle compliment which mrs. eben did not fail to appreciate. "well, i guess she likes it pretty well--better than down at white sands, anyway," answered mrs. eben. "yes, i may say it suits her. of course it's a long walk there and back. i think it would have been wiser for her to keep on boarding at morrison's, as she did all winter, but sara is bound to be home all she can. and i must say the walk seems to agree with her." "i was down to see jonas' aunt at newbridge last night," said mrs. jonas, "and she said she'd heard that sara had made up her mind to take lige baxter at last, and that they were to be married in the fall. she asked me if it was true. i said i didn't know, but i hoped to mercy it was. now, is it, louisa?" "not a word of it," said mrs. eben sorrowfully. "sara hasn't any more notion of taking lige than ever she had. i'm sure it's not my fault. i've talked and argued till i'm tired. i declare to you, amelia, i am terribly disappointed. i'd set my heart on sara's marrying lige--and now to think she won't!" "she is a very foolish girl," said mrs. jonas, judicially. "if lige baxter isn't good enough for her, who is?" "and he's so well off," said mrs. eben, "and does such a good business, and is well spoken of by every one. and that lovely new house of his at newbridge, with bay windows and hardwood floors! i've dreamed and dreamed of seeing sara there as mistress." "maybe you'll see her there yet," said mrs. jonas, who always took a hopeful view of everything, even of sara's contrariness. but she felt discouraged, too. well, she had done her best. if lige baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack of cooks. every andrews in avonlea had been trying for two years to bring about a match between him and sara, and mrs. jonas had borne her part valiantly. mrs. eben's despondent reply was cut short by the appearance of sara herself. the girl stood for a moment in the doorway and looked with a faintly amused air at her aunts. she knew quite well that they had been discussing her, for mrs. jonas, who carried her conscience in her face, looked guilty, and mrs. eben had not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved expression. sara put away her books, kissed mrs. jonas' rosy cheek, and sat down at the table. mrs. eben brought her some fresh tea, some hot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of the apricot preserves sara liked, and she cut some more fruit cake for her in moist plummy slices. she might be out of patience with sara's "contrariness," but she spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was the very core of her childless heart. sara andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but there was that about her which made people look at her twice. she was very dark, with a rich, dusky sort of darkness, her deep eyes were velvety brown, and her lips and cheeks were crimson. she ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy appetite, sharpened by her long walk from newbridge, and told amusing little stories of her day's work that made the two older women shake with laughter, and exchange shy glances of pride over her cleverness. when tea was over she poured the remaining contents of the cream jug into a saucer. "i must feed my pussy," she said as she left the room. "that girl beats me," said mrs. eben with a sigh of perplexity. "you know that black cat we've had for two years? eben and i have always made a lot of him, but sara seemed to have a dislike to him. never a peaceful nap under the stove could he have when sara was home--out he must go. well, a little spell ago he got his leg broke accidentally and we thought he'd have to be killed. but sara wouldn't hear of it. she got splints and set his leg just as knacky, and bandaged it up, and she has tended him like a sick baby ever since. he's just about well now, and he lives in clover, that cat does. it's just her way. there's them sick chickens she's been doctoring for a week, giving them pills and things! "and she thinks more of that wretched-looking calf that got poisoned with paris green than of all the other stock on the place." as the summer wore away, mrs. eben tried to reconcile herself to the destruction of her air castles. but she scolded sara considerably. "sara, why don't you like lige? i'm sure he is a model young man." "i don't like model young men," answered sara impatiently. "and i really think i hate lige baxter. he has always been held up to me as such a paragon. i'm tired of hearing about all his perfections. i know them all off by heart. he doesn't drink, he doesn't smoke, he doesn't steal, he doesn't tell fibs, he never loses his temper, he doesn't swear, and he goes to church regularly. such a faultless creature as that would certainly get on my nerves. no, no, you'll have to pick out another mistress for your new house at the bridge, aunt louisa." when the apple trees, that had been pink and white in june, were russet and bronze in october, mrs. eben had a quilting. the quilt was of the "rising star" pattern, which was considered in avonlea to be very handsome. mrs. eben had intended it for part of sara's "setting out," and, while she sewed the red-and-white diamonds together, she had regaled her fancy by imagining she saw it spread out on the spare-room bed of the house at newbridge, with herself laying her bonnet and shawl on it when she went to see sara. those bright visions had faded with the apple blossoms, and mrs. eben hardly had the heart to finish the quilt at all. the quilting came off on saturday afternoon, when sara could be home from school. all mrs. eben's particular friends were ranged around the quilt, and tongues and fingers flew. sara flitted about, helping her aunt with the supper preparations. she was in the room, getting the custard dishes out of the cupboard, when mrs. george pye arrived. mrs. george had a genius for being late. she was later than usual to-day, and she looked excited. every woman around the "rising star" felt that mrs. george had some news worth listening to, and there was an expectant silence while she pulled out her chair and settled herself at the quilt. she was a tall, thin woman with a long pale face and liquid green eyes. as she looked around the circle she had the air of a cat daintily licking its chops over some titbit. "i suppose," she said, "that you have heard the news?" she knew perfectly well that they had not. every other woman at the frame stopped quilting. mrs. eben came to the door with a pan of puffy, smoking-hot soda biscuits in her hand. sara stopped counting the custard dishes, and turned her ripely-colored face over her shoulder. even the black cat, at her feet, ceased preening his fur. mrs. george felt that the undivided attention of her audience was hers. "baxter brothers have failed," she said, her green eyes shooting out flashes of light. "failed disgracefully!" she paused for a moment; but, since her hearers were as yet speechless from surprise, she went on. "george came home from newbridge, just before i left, with the news. you could have knocked me down with a feather. i should have thought that firm was as steady as the rock of gibraltar! but they're ruined--absolutely ruined. louisa, dear, can you find me a good needle?" "louisa, dear," had set her biscuits down with a sharp thud, reckless of results. a sharp, metallic tinkle sounded at the closet where sara had struck the edge of her tray against a shelf. the sound seemed to loosen the paralyzed tongues, and everybody began talking and exclaiming at once. clear and shrill above the confusion rose mrs. george pye's voice. "yes, indeed, you may well say so. it is disgraceful. and to think how everybody trusted them! george will lose considerable by the crash, and so will a good many folks. everything will have to go--peter baxter's farm and lige's grand new house. mrs. peter won't carry her head so high after this, i'll be bound. george saw lige at the bridge, and he said he looked dreadful cut up and ashamed." "who, or what's to blame for the failure?" asked mrs. rachel lynde sharply. she did not like mrs. george pye. "there are a dozen different stories on the go," was the reply. "as far as george could make out, peter baxter has been speculating with other folks' money, and this is the result. everybody always suspected that peter was crooked; but you'd have thought that lige would have kept him straight. he had always such a reputation for saintliness." "i don't suppose lige knew anything about it," said mrs. rachel indignantly. "well, he'd ought to, then. if he isn't a knave he's a fool," said mrs. harmon andrews, who had formerly been among his warmest partisans. "he should have kept watch on peter and found out how the business was being run. well, sara, you were the level-headest of us all--i'll admit that now. a nice mess it would be if you were married or engaged to lige, and him left without a cent--even if he can clear his character!" "there is a good deal of talk about peter, and swindling, and a lawsuit," said mrs. george pye, quilting industriously. "most of the newbridge folks think it's all peter's fault, and that lige isn't to blame. but you can't tell. i dare say lige is as deep in the mire as peter. he was always a little too good to be wholesome, _i_ thought." there was a clink of glass at the cupboard, as sara set the tray down. she came forward and stood behind mrs. rachel lynde's chair, resting her shapely hands on that lady's broad shoulders. her face was very pale, but her flashing eyes sought and faced defiantly mrs. george pye's cat-like orbs. her voice quivered with passion and contempt. "you'll all have a fling at lige baxter, now that he's down. you couldn't say enough in his praise, once. i'll not stand by and hear it hinted that lige baxter is a swindler. you all know perfectly well that lige is as honest as the day, if he is so unfortunate as to have an unprincipled brother. you, mrs. pye, know it better than any one, yet you come here and run him down the minute he's in trouble. if there's another word said here against lige baxter i'll leave the room and the house till you're gone, every one of you." she flashed a glance around the quilt that cowed the gossips. even mrs. george pye's eyes flickered and waned and quailed. nothing more was said until sara had picked up her glasses and marched from the room. even then they dared not speak above a whisper. mrs. pye, alone, smarting from the snub, ventured to ejaculate, "pity save us!" as sara slammed the door. for the next fortnight gossip and rumor held high carnival in avonlea and newbridge, and mrs. eben grew to dread the sight of a visitor. "they're bound to talk about the baxter failure and criticize lige," she deplored to mrs. jonas. "and it riles sara up so terrible. she used to declare that she hated lige, and now she won't listen to a word against him. not that i say any, myself. i'm sorry for him, and i believe he's done his best. but i can't stop other people from talking." one evening harmon andrews came in with a fresh budget of news. "the baxter business is pretty near wound up at last," he said, as he lighted his pipe. "peter has got his lawsuits settled and has hushed up the talk about swindling, somehow. trust him for slipping out of a scrape clean and clever. he don't seem to worry any, but lige looks like a walking skeleton. some folks pity him, but i say he should have kept the run of things better and not have trusted everything to peter. i hear he's going out west in the spring, to take up land in alberta and try his hand at farming. best thing he can do, i guess. folks hereabouts have had enough of the baxter breed. newbridge will be well rid of them." sara, who had been sitting in the dark corner by the stove, suddenly stood up, letting the black cat slip from her lap to the floor. mrs. eben glanced at her apprehensively, for she was afraid the girl was going to break out in a tirade against the complacent harmon. but sara only walked fiercely out of the kitchen, with a sound as if she were struggling for breath. in the hall she snatched a scarf from the wall, flung open the front door, and rushed down the lane in the chill, pure air of the autumn twilight. her heart was throbbing with the pity she always felt for bruised and baited creatures. on and on she went heedlessly, intent only on walking away her pain, over gray, brooding fields and winding slopes, and along the skirts of ruinous, dusky pine woods, curtained with fine spun purple gloom. her dress brushed against the brittle grasses and sere ferns, and the moist night wind, loosed from wild places far away, blew her hair about her face. at last she came to a little rustic gate, leading into a shadowy wood-lane. the gate was bound with willow withes, and, as sara fumbled vainly at them with her chilled hands, a man's firm step came up behind her, and lige baxter's hand closed over her's. "oh, lige!" she said, with something like a sob. he opened the gate and drew her through. she left her hand in his, as they walked through the lane where lissome boughs of young saplings flicked against their heads, and the air was wildly sweet with the woodsy odors. "it's a long while since i've seen you, lige," sara said at last. lige looked wistfully down at her through the gloom. "yes, it seems very long to me, sara. but i didn't think you'd care to see me, after what you said last spring. and you know things have been going against me. people have said hard things. i've been unfortunate, sara, and may be too easy-going, but i've been honest. don't believe folks if they tell you i wasn't." "indeed, i never did--not for a minute!" fired sara. "i'm glad of that. i'm going away, later on. i felt bad enough when you refused to marry me, sara; but it's well that you didn't. i'm man enough to be thankful my troubles don't fall on you." sara stopped and turned to him. beyond them the lane opened into a field and a clear lake of crocus sky cast a dim light into the shadow where they stood. above it was a new moon, like a gleaming silver scimitar. sara saw it was over her left shoulder, and she saw lige's face above her, tender and troubled. "lige," she said softly, "do you love me still?" "you know i do," said lige sadly. that was all sara wanted. with a quick movement she nestled into his arms, and laid her warm, tear-wet cheek against his cold one. when the amazing rumor that sara was going to marry lige baxter, and go out west with him, circulated through the andrews clan, hands were lifted and heads were shaken. mrs. jonas puffed and panted up the hill to learn if it were true. she found mrs. eben stitching for dear life on an "irish chain" quilt, while sara was sewing the diamonds on another "rising star" with a martyr-like expression on her face. sara hated patchwork above everything else, but mrs. eben was mistress up to a certain point. "you'll have to make that quilt, sara andrews. if you're going to live out on those prairies, you'll need piles of quilts, and you shall have them if i sew my fingers to the bone. but you'll have to help make them." and sara had to. when mrs. jonas came, mrs. eben sent sara off to the post-office to get her out of the way. "i suppose it's true, this time?" said mrs. jonas. "yes, indeed," said mrs. eben briskly. "sara is set on it. there is no use trying to move her--you know that--so i've just concluded to make the best of it. i'm no turn-coat. lige baxter is lige baxter still, neither more nor less. i've always said he's a fine young man, and i say so still. after all, he and sara won't be any poorer than eben and i were when we started out." mrs. jonas heaved a sigh of relief. "i'm real glad you take that view of it, louisa. i'm not displeased, either, although mrs. harmon would take my head off if she heard me say so. i always liked lige. but i must say i'm amazed, too, after the way sara used to rail at him." "well, we might have expected it," said mrs. eben sagely. "it was always sara's way. when any creature got sick or unfortunate she seemed to take it right into her heart. so you may say lige baxter's failure was a success after all." x. the son of his mother thyra carewe was waiting for chester to come home. she sat by the west window of the kitchen, looking out into the gathering of the shadows with the expectant immovability that characterized her. she never twitched or fidgeted. into whatever she did she put the whole force of her nature. if it was sitting still, she sat still. "a stone image would be twitchedly beside thyra," said mrs. cynthia white, her neighbor across the lane. "it gets on my nerves, the way she sits at that window sometimes, with no more motion than a statue and her great eyes burning down the lane. when i read the commandment, 'thou shalt have no other gods before me,' i declare i always think of thyra. she worships that son of hers far ahead of her creator. she'll be punished for it yet." mrs. white was watching thyra now, knitting furiously, as she watched, in order to lose no time. thyra's hands were folded idly in her lap. she had not moved a muscle since she sat down. mrs. white complained it gave her the weeps. "it doesn't seem natural to see a woman sit so still," she said. "sometimes the thought comes to me, 'what if she's had a stroke, like her old uncle horatio, and is sitting there stone dead!'" the evening was cold and autumnal. there was a fiery red spot out at sea, where the sun had set, and, above it, over a chill, clear, saffron sky, were reefs of purple-black clouds. the river, below the carewe homestead, was livid. beyond it, the sea was dark and brooding. it was an evening to make most people shiver and forebode an early winter; but thyra loved it, as she loved all stern, harshly beautiful things. she would not light a lamp because it would blot out the savage grandeur of sea and sky. it was better to wait in the darkness until chester came home. he was late to-night. she thought he had been detained over-time at the harbor, but she was not anxious. he would come straight home to her as soon as his business was completed--of that she felt sure. her thoughts went out along the bleak harbor road to meet him. she could see him plainly, coming with his free stride through the sandy hollows and over the windy hills, in the harsh, cold light of that forbidding sunset, strong and handsome in his comely youth, with her own deeply cleft chin and his father's dark gray, straightforward eyes. no other woman in avonlea had a son like hers--her only one. in his brief absences she yearned after him with a maternal passion that had in it something of physical pain, so intense was it. she thought of cynthia white, knitting across the road, with contemptuous pity. that woman had no son--nothing but pale-faced girls. thyra had never wanted a daughter, but she pitied and despised all sonless women. chester's dog whined suddenly and piercingly on the doorstep outside. he was tired of the cold stone and wanted his warm corner behind the stove. thyra smiled grimly when she heard him. she had no intention of letting him in. she said she had always disliked dogs, but the truth, although she would not glance at it, was that she hated the animal because chester loved him. she could not share his love with even a dumb brute. she loved no living creature in the world but her son, and fiercely demanded a like concentrated affection from him. hence it pleased her to hear his dog whine. it was now quite dark; the stars had begun to shine out over the shorn harvest fields, and chester had not come. across the lane cynthia white had pulled down her blind, in despair of out-watching thyra, and had lighted a lamp. lively shadows of little girl-shapes passed and repassed on the pale oblong of light. they made thyra conscious of her exceeding loneliness. she had just decided that she would walk down the lane and wait for chester on the bridge, when a thunderous knock came at the east kitchen door. she recognized august vorst's knock and lighted a lamp in no great haste, for she did not like him. he was a gossip and thyra hated gossip, in man or woman. but august was privileged. she carried the lamp in her hand, when she went to the door, and its upward-striking light gave her face a ghastly appearance. she did not mean to ask august in, but he pushed past her cheerfully, not waiting to be invited. he was a midget of a man, lame of foot and hunched of back, with a white, boyish face, despite his middle age and deep-set, malicious black eyes. he pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and handed it to thyra. he was the unofficial mail-carrier of avonlea. most of the people gave him a trifle for bringing their letters and papers from the office. he earned small sums in various other ways, and so contrived to keep the life in his stunted body. there was always venom in august's gossip. it was said that he made more mischief in avonlea in a day than was made otherwise in a year, but people tolerated him by reason of his infirmity. to be sure, it was the tolerance they gave to inferior creatures, and august felt this. perhaps it accounted for a good deal of his malignity. he hated most those who were kindest to him, and, of these, thyra carewe above all. he hated chester, too, as he hated strong, shapely creatures. his time had come at last to wound them both, and his exultation shone through his crooked body and pinched features like an illuminating lamp. thyra perceived it and vaguely felt something antagonistic in it. she pointed to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a mat to a dog. august crawled into it and smiled. he was going to make her writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon him as some venomous creeping thing she disdained to crush with her foot. "did you see anything of chester on the road?" asked thyra, giving august the very opening he desired. "he went to the harbor after tea to see joe raymond about the loan of his boat, but it's the time he should be back. i can't think what keeps the boy." "just what keeps most men--leaving out creatures like me--at some time or other in their lives. a girl--a pretty girl, thyra. it pleases me to look at her. even a hunchback can use his eyes, eh? oh, she's a rare one!" "what is the man talking about?" said thyra wonderingly. "damaris garland, to be sure. chester's down at tom blair's now, talking to her--and looking more than his tongue says, too, of that you may be sure. well, well, we were all young once, thyra--all young once, even crooked little august vorst. eh, now?" "what do you mean?" said thyra. she had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands folded in her lap. her face, always pale, had not changed; but her lips were curiously white. august vorst saw this and it pleased him. also, her eyes were worth looking at, if you liked to hurt people--and that was the only pleasure august took in life. he would drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long years of disdainful kindness--ah, he would drink it slowly to prolong its sweetness. sip by sip--he rubbed his long, thin, white hands together--sip by sip, tasting each mouthful. "eh, now? you know well enough, thyra." "i know nothing of what you would be at, august vorst. you speak of my son and damaris--was that the name?--damaris garland as if they were something to each other. i ask you what you mean by it?" "tut, tut, thyra, nothing very terrible. there's no need to look like that about it. young men will be young men to the end of time, and there's no harm in chester's liking to look at a lass, eh, now? or in talking to her either? the little baggage, with the red lips of her! she and chester will make a pretty pair. he's not so ill-looking for a man, thyra." "i am not a very patient woman, august," said thyra coldly. "i have asked you what you mean, and i want a straight answer. is chester down at tom blair's while i have been sitting here, alone, waiting for him?" august nodded. he saw that it would not be wise to trifle longer with thyra. "that he is. i was there before i came here. he and damaris were sitting in a corner by themselves, and very well-satisfied they seemed to be with each other. tut, tut, thyra, don't take the news so. i thought you knew. it's no secret that chester has been going after damaris ever since she came here. but what then? you can't tie him to your apron strings forever, woman. he'll be finding a mate for himself, as he should. seeing that he's straight and well-shaped, no doubt damaris will look with favor on him. old martha blair declares the girl loves him better than her eyes." thyra made a sound like a strangled moan in the middle of august's speech. she heard the rest of it immovably. when it came to an end she stood and looked down upon him in a way that silenced him. "you've told the news you came to tell, and gloated over it, and now get you gone," she said slowly. "now, thyra," he began, but she interrupted him threateningly. "get you gone, i say! and you need not bring my mail here any longer. i want no more of your misshapen body and lying tongue!" august went, but at the door he turned for a parting stab. "my tongue is not a lying one, mrs. carewe. i've told you the truth, as all avonlea knows it. chester is mad about damaris garland. it's no wonder i thought you knew what all the settlement can see. but you're such a jealous, odd body, i suppose the boy hid it from you for fear you'd go into a tantrum. as for me, i'll not forget that you've turned me from your door because i chanced to bring you news you'd no fancy for." thyra did not answer him. when the door closed behind him she locked it and blew out the light. then she threw herself face downward on the sofa and burst into wild tears. her very soul ached. she wept as tempestuously and unreasoningly as youth weeps, although she was not young. it seemed as if she was afraid to stop weeping lest she should go mad thinking. but, after a time, tears failed her, and she began bitterly to go over, word by word, what august vorst had said. that her son should ever cast eyes of love on any girl was something thyra had never thought about. she would not believe it possible that he should love any one but herself, who loved him so much. and now the possibility invaded her mind as subtly and coldly and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward. chester had been born to her at an age when most women are letting their children slip from them into the world, with some natural tears and heartaches, but content to let them go, after enjoying their sweetest years. thyra's late-come motherhood was all the more intense and passionate because of its very lateness. she had been very ill when her son was born, and had lain helpless for long weeks, during which other women had tended her baby for her. she had never been able to forgive them for this. her husband had died before chester was a year old. she had laid their son in his dying arms and received him back again with a last benediction. to thyra that moment had something of a sacrament in it. it was as if the child had been doubly given to her, with a right to him solely that nothing could take away or transcend. marrying! she had never thought of it in connection with him. he did not come of a marrying race. his father had been sixty when he had married her, thyra lincoln, likewise well on in life. few of the lincolns or carewes had married young, many not at all. and, to her, chester was her baby still. he belonged solely to her. and now another woman had dared to look upon him with eyes of love. damaris garland! thyra now remembered seeing her. she was a new-comer in avonlea, having come to live with her uncle and aunt after the death of her mother. thyra had met her on the bridge one day a month previously. yes, a man might think she was pretty--a low-browed girl, with a wave of reddish-gold hair, and crimson lips blossoming out against the strange, milk-whiteness of her skin. her eyes, too--thyra recalled them--hazel in tint, deep, and laughter-brimmed. the girl had gone past her with a smile that brought out many dimples. there was a certain insolent quality in her beauty, as if it flaunted itself somewhat too defiantly in the beholder's eye. thyra had turned and looked after the lithe, young creature, wondering who she might be. and to-night, while she, his mother, waited for him in darkness and loneliness, he was down at blair's, talking to this girl! he loved her; and it was past doubt that she loved him. the thought was more bitter than death to thyra. that she should dare! her anger was all against the girl. she had laid a snare to get chester and he, like a fool, was entangled in it, thinking, man-fashion, only of her great eyes and red lips. thyra thought savagely of damaris' beauty. "she shall not have him," she said, with slow emphasis. "i will never give him up to any other woman, and, least of all, to her. she would leave me no place in his heart at all--me, his mother, who almost died to give him life. he belongs to me! let her look for the son of some other woman--some woman who has many sons. she shall not have my only one!" she got up, wrapped a shawl about her head, and went out into the darkly golden evening. the clouds had cleared away, and the moon was shining. the air was chill, with a bell-like clearness. the alders by the river rustled eerily as she walked by them and out upon the bridge. here she paced up and down, peering with troubled eyes along the road beyond, or leaning over the rail, looking at the sparkling silver ribbon of moonlight that garlanded the waters. late travelers passed her, and wondered at her presence and mien. carl white saw her, and told his wife about her when he got home. "striding to and fro over the bridge like mad! at first i thought it was old, crazy may blair. what do you suppose she was doing down there at this hour of the night?" "watching for ches, no doubt," said cynthia. "he ain't home yet. likely he's snug at blairs'. i do wonder if thyra suspicions that he goes after damaris. i've never dared to hint it to her. she'd be as liable to fly at me, tooth and claw, as not." "well, she picks out a precious queer night for moon-gazing," said carl, who was a jolly soul and took life as he found it. "it's bitter cold--there'll be a hard frost. it's a pity she can't get it grained into her that the boy is grown up and must have his fling like the other lads. she'll go out of her mind yet, like her old grandmother lincoln, if she doesn't ease up. i've a notion to go down to the bridge and reason a bit with her." "indeed, and you'll do no such thing!" cried cynthia. "thyra carewe is best left alone, if she is in a tantrum. she's like no other woman in avonlea--or out of it. i'd as soon meddle with a tiger as her, if she's rampaging about chester. i don't envy damaris garland her life if she goes in there. thyra'd sooner strangle her than not, i guess." "you women are all terrible hard on thyra," said carl, good-naturedly. he had been in love with thyra, himself, long ago, and he still liked her in a friendly fashion. he always stood up for her when the avonlea women ran her down. he felt troubled about her all night, recalling her as she paced the bridge. he wished he had gone back, in spite of cynthia. when chester came home he met his mother on the bridge. in the faint, yet penetrating, moonlight they looked curiously alike, but chester had the milder face. he was very handsome. even in the seething of her pain and jealousy thyra yearned over his beauty. she would have liked to put up her hands and caress his face, but her voice was very hard when she asked him where he had been so late. "i called in at tom blair's on my way home from the harbor," he answered, trying to walk on. but she held him back by his arm. "did you go there to see damaris?" she demanded fiercely. chester was uncomfortable. much as he loved his mother, he felt, and always had felt, an awe of her and an impatient dislike of her dramatic ways of speaking and acting. he reflected, resentfully, that no other young man in avonlea, who had been paying a friendly call, would be met by his mother at midnight and held up in such tragic fashion to account for himself. he tried vainly to loosen her hold upon his arm, but he understood quite well that he must give her an answer. being strictly straight-forward by nature and upbringing, he told the truth, albeit with more anger in his tone than he had ever shown to his mother before. "yes," he said shortly. thyra released his arm, and struck her hands together with a sharp cry. there was a savage note in it. she could have slain damaris garland at that moment. "don't go on so, mother," said chester, impatiently. "come in out of the cold. it isn't fit for you to be here. who has been tampering with you? what if i did go to see damaris?" "oh--oh--oh!" cried thyra. "i was waiting for you--alone--and you were thinking only of her! chester, answer me--do you love her?" the blood rolled rapidly over the boy's face. he muttered something and tried to pass on, but she caught him again. he forced himself to speak gently. "what if i do, mother? it wouldn't be such a dreadful thing, would it?" "and me? and me?" cried thyra. "what am i to you, then?" "you are my mother. i wouldn't love you any the less because i cared for another, too." "i won't have you love another," she cried. "i want all your love--all! what's that baby-face to you, compared to your mother? i have the best right to you. i won't give you up." chester realized that there was no arguing with such a mood. he walked on, resolved to set the matter aside until she might be more reasonable. but thyra would not have it so. she followed on after him, under the alders that crowded over the lane. "promise me that you'll not go there again," she entreated. "promise me that you'll give her up." "i can't promise such a thing," he cried angrily. his anger hurt her worse than a blow, but she did not flinch. "you're not engaged to her?" she cried out. "now, mother, be quiet. all the settlement will hear you. why do you object to damaris? you don't know how sweet she is. when you know her--" "i will never know her!" cried thyra furiously. "and she shall not have you! she shall not, chester!" he made no answer. she suddenly broke into tears and loud sobs. touched with remorse, he stopped and put his arms about her. "mother, mother, don't! i can't bear to see you cry so. but, indeed, you are unreasonable. didn't you ever think the time would come when i would want to marry, like other men?" "no, no! and i will not have it--i cannot bear it, chester. you must promise not to go to see her again. i won't go into the house this night until you do. i'll stay out here in the bitter cold until you promise to put her out of your thoughts." "that's beyond my power, mother. oh, mother, you're making it hard for me. come in, come in! you're shivering with cold now. you'll be sick." "not a step will i stir till you promise. say you won't go to see that girl any more, and there's nothing i won't do for you. but if you put her before me, i'll not go in--i never will go in." with most women this would have been an empty threat; but it was not so with thyra, and chester knew it. he knew she would keep her word. and he feared more than that. in this frenzy of hers what might she not do? she came of a strange breed, as had been said disapprovingly when luke carewe married her. there was a strain of insanity in the lincolns. a lincoln woman had drowned herself once. chester thought of the river, and grew sick with fright. for a moment even his passion for damaris weakened before the older tie. "mother, calm yourself. oh, surely there's no need of all this! let us wait until to-morrow, and talk it over then. i'll hear all you have to say. come in, dear." thyra loosened her arms from about him, and stepped back into a moon-lit space. looking at him tragically, she extended her arms and spoke slowly and solemnly. "chester, choose between us. if you choose her, i shall go from you to-night, and you will never see me again!" "mother!" "choose!" she reiterated, fiercely. he felt her long ascendancy. its influence was not to be shaken off in a moment. in all his life he had never disobeyed her. besides, with it all, he loved her more deeply and understandingly than most sons love their mothers. he realized that, since she would have it so, his choice was already made--or, rather that he had no choice. "have your way," he said sullenly. she ran to him and caught him to her heart. in the reaction of her feeling she was half laughing, half crying. all was well again--all would be well; she never doubted this, for she knew he would keep his ungracious promise sacredly. "oh, my son, my son," she murmured, "you'd have sent me to my death if you had chosen otherwise. but now you are mine again!" she did not heed that he was sullen--that he resented her unjustice with all her own intensity. she did not heed his silence as they went into the house together. strangely enough, she slept well and soundly that night. not until many days had passed did she understand that, though chester might keep his promise in the letter, it was beyond his power to keep it in the spirit. she had taken him from damaris garland; but she had not won him back to herself. he could never be wholly her son again. there was a barrier between them which not all her passionate love could break down. chester was gravely kind to her, for it was not in his nature to remain sullen long, or visit his own unhappiness upon another's head; besides, he understood her exacting affection, even in its injustice, and it has been well-said that to understand is to forgive. but he avoided her, and she knew it. the flame of her anger burned bitterly towards damaris. "he thinks of her all the time," she moaned to herself. "he'll come to hate me yet, i fear, because it's i who made him give her up. but i'd rather even that than share him with another woman. oh, my son, my son!" she knew that damaris was suffering, too. the girl's wan face told that when she met her. but this pleased thyra. it eased the ache in her bitter heart to know that pain was gnawing at damaris' also. chester was absent from home very often now. he spent much of his spare time at the harbor, consorting with joe raymond and others of that ilk, who were but sorry associates for him, avonlea people thought. in late november he and joe started for a trip down the coast in the latter's boat. thyra protested against it, but chester laughed at her alarm. thyra saw him go with a heart sick from fear. she hated the sea, and was afraid of it at any time; but, most of all, in this treacherous month, with its sudden, wild gales. chester had been fond of the sea from boyhood. she had always tried to stifle this fondness and break off his associations with the harbor fishermen, who liked to lure the high-spirited boy out with them on fishing expeditions. but her power over him was gone now. after chester's departure she was restless and miserable, wandering from window to window to scan the dour, unsmiling sky. carl white, dropping in to pay a call, was alarmed when he heard that chester had gone with joe, and had not tact enough to conceal his alarm from thyra. "'t isn't safe this time of year," he said. "folks expect no better from that reckless, harum-scarum joe raymond. he'll drown himself some day, there's nothing surer. this mad freak of starting off down the shore in november is just of a piece with his usual performances. but you shouldn't have let chester go, thyra." "i couldn't prevent him. say what i could, he would go. he laughed when i spoke of danger. oh, he's changed from what he was! i know who has wrought the change, and i hate her for it!" carl shrugged his fat shoulders. he knew quite well that thyra was at the bottom of the sudden coldness between chester carewe and damaris garland, about which avonlea gossip was busying itself. he pitied thyra, too. she had aged rapidly the past month. "you're too hard on chester, thyra. he's out of leading-strings now, or should be. you must just let me take an old friend's privilege, and tell you that you're taking the wrong way with him. you're too jealous and exacting, thyra." "you don't know anything about it. you have never had a son," said thyra, cruelly enough, for she knew that carl's sonlessness was a rankling thorn in his mind. "you don't know what it is to pour out your love on one human being, and have it flung back in your face!" carl could not cope with thyra's moods. he had never understood her, even in his youth. now he went home, still shrugging his shoulders, and thinking that it was a good thing thyra had not looked on him with favor in the old days. cynthia was much easier to get along with. more than thyra looked anxiously to sea and sky that night in avonlea. damaris garland listened to the smothered roar of the atlantic in the murky northeast with a prescience of coming disaster. friendly longshoremen shook their heads and said that ches and joe would better have kept to good, dry land. "it's sorry work joking with a november gale," said abel blair. he was an old man and, in his life, had seen some sad things along the shore. thyra could not sleep that night. when the gale came shrieking up the river, and struck the house, she got out of bed and dressed herself. the wind screamed like a ravening beast at her window. all night she wandered to and fro in the house, going from room to room, now wringing her hands with loud outcries, now praying below her breath with white lips, now listening in dumb misery to the fury of the storm. the wind raged all the next day; but spent itself in the following night, and the second morning was calm and fair. the eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with auroral crimsonings. thyra, looking from her kitchen window, saw a group of men on the bridge. they were talking to carl white, with looks and gestures directed towards the carewe house. she went out and down to them. none of these who saw her white, rigid face that day ever forgot the sight. "you have news for me," she said. they looked at each other, each man mutely imploring his neighbor to speak. "you need not fear to tell me," said thyra calmly. "i know what you have come to say. my son is drowned." "we don't know that, mrs. carewe," said abel blair quickly. "we haven't got the worst to tell you--there's hope yet. but joe raymond's boat was found last night, stranded bottom up, on the blue point sand shore, forty miles down the coast." "don't look like that, thyra," said carl white pityingly. "they may have escaped--they may have been picked up." thyra looked at him with dull eyes. "you know they have not. not one of you has any hope. i have no son. the sea has taken him from me--my bonny baby!" she turned and went back to her desolate home. none dared to follow her. carl white went home and sent his wife over to her. cynthia found thyra sitting in her accustomed chair. her hands lay, palms upward, on her lap. her eyes were dry and burning. she met cynthia's compassionate look with a fearful smile. "long ago, cynthia white," she said slowly, "you were vexed with me one day, and you told me that god would punish me yet, because i made an idol of my son, and set it up in his place. do you remember? your word was a true one. god saw that i loved chester too much, and he meant to take him from me. i thwarted one way when i made him give up damaris. but one can't fight against the almighty. it was decreed that i must lose him--if not in one way, then in another. he has been taken from me utterly. i shall not even have his grave to tend, cynthia." "as near to a mad woman as anything you ever saw, with her awful eyes," cynthia told carl, afterwards. but she did not say so there. although she was a shallow, commonplace soul, she had her share of womanly sympathy, and her own life had not been free from suffering. it taught her the right thing to do now. she sat down by the stricken creature and put her arms about her, while she gathered the cold hands in her own warm clasp. the tears filled her big, blue eyes and her voice trembled as she said: "thyra, i'm sorry for you. i--i--lost a child once--my little first-born. and chester was a dear, good lad." for a moment thyra strained her small, tense body away from cynthia's embrace. then she shuddered and cried out. the tears came, and she wept her agony out on the other woman's breast. as the ill news spread, other avonlea women kept dropping in all through the day to condole with thyra. many of them came in real sympathy, but some out of mere curiosity to see how she took it. thyra knew this, but she did not resent it, as she would once have done. she listened very quietly to all the halting efforts at consolation, and the little platitudes with which they strove to cover the nakedness of bereavement. when darkness came cynthia said she must go home, but would send one of her girls over for the night. "you won't feel like staying alone," she said. thyra looked up steadily. "no. but i want you to send for damaris garland." "damaris garland!" cynthia repeated the name as if disbelieving her own ears. there was never any knowing what whim thyra might take, but cynthia had not expected this. "yes. tell her i want her--tell her she must come. she must hate me bitterly; but i am punished enough to satisfy even her hate. tell her to come to me for chester's sake." cynthia did as she was bid, she sent her daughter, jeanette, for damaris. then she waited. no matter what duties were calling for her at home she must see the interview between thyra and damaris. her curiosity would be the last thing to fail cynthia white. she had done very well all day; but it would be asking too much of her to expect that she would consider the meeting of these two women sacred from her eyes. she half believed that damaris would refuse to come. but damaris came. jeanette brought her in amid the fiery glow of a november sunset. thyra stood up, and for a moment they looked at each other. the insolence of damaris' beauty was gone. her eyes were dull and heavy with weeping, her lips were pale, and her face had lost its laughter and dimples. only her hair, escaping from the shawl she had cast around it, gushed forth in warm splendor in the sunset light, and framed her wan face like the aureole of a madonna. thyra looked upon her with a shock of remorse. this was not the radiant creature she had met on the bridge that summer afternoon. this--this--was her work. she held out her arms. "oh, damaris, forgive me. we both loved him--that must be a bond between us for life." damaris came forward and threw her arms about the older woman, lifting her face. as their lips met even cynthia white realized that she had no business there. she vented the irritation of her embarrassment on the innocent jeanette. "come away," she whispered crossly. "can't you see we're not wanted here?" she drew jeanette out, leaving thyra rocking damaris in her arms, and crooning over her like a mother over her child. when december had grown old damaris was still with thyra. it was understood that she was to remain there for the winter, at least. thyra could not bear her to be out of her sight. they talked constantly about chester; thyra confessed all her anger and hatred. damaris had forgiven her; but thyra could never forgive herself. she was greatly changed, and had grown very gentle and tender. she even sent for august vorst and begged him to pardon her for the way she had spoken to him. winter came late that year, and the season was a very open one. there was no snow on the ground and, a month after joe raymond's boat had been cast up on the blue point sand shore, thyra, wandering about in her garden, found some pansies blooming under their tangled leaves. she was picking them for damaris when she heard a buggy rumble over the bridge and drive up the white lane, hidden from her sight by the alders and firs. a few minutes later carl and cynthia came hastily across their yard under the huge balm-of-gileads. carl's face was flushed, and his big body quivered with excitement. cynthia ran behind him, with tears rolling down her face. thyra felt herself growing sick with fear. had anything happened to damaris? a glimpse of the girl, sewing by an upper window of the house, reassured her. "oh, thyra, thyra!" gasped cynthia. "can you stand some good news, thyra?" asked carl, in a trembling voice. "very, very good news!" thyra looked wildly from one to the other. "there's but one thing you would dare to call good news to me," she cried. "is it about--about--" "chester! yes, it's about chester! thyra, he is alive--he's safe--he and joe, both of them, thank god! cynthia, catch her!" "no, i am not going to faint," said thyra, steadying herself by cynthia's shoulder. "my son alive! how did you hear? how did it happen? where has he been?" "i heard it down at the harbor, thyra. mike mccready's vessel, the _nora lee_, was just in from the magdalens. ches and joe got capsized the night of the storm, but they hung on to their boat somehow, and at daybreak they were picked up by the _nora lee_, bound for quebec. but she was damaged by the storm and blown clear out of her course. had to put into the magdalens for repairs, and has been there ever since. the cable to the islands was out of order, and no vessels call there this time of year for mails. if it hadn't been an extra open season the _nora lee_ wouldn't have got away, but would have had to stay there till spring. you never saw such rejoicing as there was this morning at the harbor, when the _nora lee_ came in, flying flags at the mast head." "and chester--where is he?" demanded thyra. carl and cynthia looked at each other. "well, thyra," said the latter, "the fact is, he's over there in our yard this blessed minute. carl brought him home from the harbor, but i wouldn't let him come over until we had prepared you for it. he's waiting for you there." thyra made a quick step in the direction of the gate. then she turned, with a little of the glow dying out of her face. "no, there's one has a better right to go to him first. i can atone to him--thank god, i can atone to him!" she went into the house and called damaris. as the girl came down the stairs thyra held out her hands with a wonderful light of joy and renunciation on her face. "damaris," she said, "chester has come back to us--the sea has given him back to us. he is over at carl white's house. go to him, my daughter, and bring him to me!" xi. the education of betty when sara currie married jack churchill i was broken-hearted...or believed myself to be so, which, in a boy of twenty-two, amounts to pretty much the same thing. not that i took the world into my confidence; that was never the douglas way, and i held myself in honor bound to live up to the family traditions. i thought, then, that nobody but sara knew; but i dare say, now, that jack knew it also, for i don't think sara could have helped telling him. if he did know, however, he did not let me see that he did, and never insulted me by any implied sympathy; on the contrary, he asked me to be his best man. jack was always a thoroughbred. i was best man. jack and i had always been bosom friends, and, although i had lost my sweetheart, i did not intend to lose my friend into the bargain. sara had made a wise choice, for jack was twice the man i was; he had had to work for his living, which perhaps accounts for it. so i danced at sara's wedding as if my heart were as light as my heels; but, after she and jack had settled down at glenby i closed the maples and went abroad...being, as i have hinted, one of those unfortunate mortals who need consult nothing but their own whims in the matter of time and money. i stayed away for ten years, during which the maples was given over to moths and rust, while i enjoyed life elsewhere. i did enjoy it hugely, but always under protest, for i felt that a broken-hearted man ought not to enjoy himself as i did. it jarred on my sense of fitness, and i tried to moderate my zest, and think more of the past than i did. it was no use; the present insisted on being intrusive and pleasant; as for the future...well, there was no future. then jack churchill, poor fellow, died. a year after his death, i went home and again asked sara to marry me, as in duty bound. sara again declined, alleging that her heart was buried in jack's grave, or words to that effect. i found that it did not much matter...of course, at thirty-two one does not take these things to heart as at twenty-two. i had enough to occupy me in getting the maples into working order, and beginning to educate betty. betty was sara's ten year-old daughter, and she had been thoroughly spoiled. that is to say, she had been allowed her own way in everything and, having inherited her father's outdoor tastes, had simply run wild. she was a thorough tomboy, a thin, scrawny little thing with a trace of sara's beauty. betty took after her father's dark, tall race and, on the occasion of my first introduction to her, seemed to be all legs and neck. there were points about her, though, which i considered promising. she had fine, almond-shaped, hazel eyes, the smallest and most shapely hands and feet i ever saw, and two enormous braids of thick, nut-brown hair. for jack's sake i decided to bring his daughter up properly. sara couldn't do it, and didn't try. i saw that, if somebody didn't take betty in hand, wisely and firmly, she would certainly be ruined. there seemed to be nobody except myself at all interested in the matter, so i determined to see what an old bachelor could do as regards bringing up a girl in the way she should go. i might have been her father; as it was, her father had been my best friend. who had a better right to watch over his daughter? i determined to be a father to betty, and do all for her that the most devoted parent could do. it was, self-evidently, my duty. i told sara i was going to take betty in hand. sara sighed one of the plaintive little sighs which i had once thought so charming, but now, to my surprise, found faintly irritating, and said that she would be very much obliged if i would. "i feel that i am not able to cope with the problem of betty's education, stephen," she admitted, "betty is a strange child...all churchill. her poor father indulged her in everything, and she has a will of her own, i assure you. i have really no control over her, whatever. she does as she pleases, and is ruining her complexion by running and galloping out of doors the whole time. not that she had much complexion to start with. the churchills never had, you know."...sara cast a complacent glance at her delicately tinted reflection in the mirror.... "i tried to make betty wear a sunbonnet this summer, but i might as well have talked to the wind." a vision of betty in a sunbonnet presented itself to my mind, and afforded me so much amusement that i was grateful to sara for having furnished it. i rewarded her with a compliment. "it is to be regretted that betty has not inherited her mother's charming color," i said, "but we must do the best we can for her under her limitations. she may have improved vastly by the time she has grown up. and, at least, we must make a lady of her; she is a most alarming tomboy at present, but there is good material to work upon...there must be, in the churchill and currie blend. but even the best material may be spoiled by unwise handling. i think i can promise you that i will not spoil it. i feel that betty is my vocation; and i shall set myself up as a rival of wordsworth's 'nature,' of whose methods i have always had a decided distrust, in spite of his insidious verses." sara did not understand me in the least; but, then, she did not pretend to. "i confide betty's education entirely to you, stephen," she said, with another plaintive sigh. "i feel sure i could not put it into better hands. you have always been a person who could be thoroughly depended on." well, that was something by way of reward for a life-long devotion. i felt that i was satisfied with my position as unofficial advisor-in-chief to sara and self-appointed guardian of betty. i also felt that, for the furtherance of the cause i had taken to heart, it was a good thing that sara had again refused to marry me. i had a sixth sense which informed me that a staid old family friend might succeed with betty where a stepfather would have signally failed. betty's loyalty to her father's memory was passionate, and vehement; she would view his supplanter with resentment and distrust; but his old familiar comrade was a person to be taken to her heart. fortunately for the success of my enterprise, betty liked me. she told me this with the same engaging candor she would have used in informing me that she hated me, if she had happened to take a bias in that direction, saying frankly: "you are one of the very nicest old folks i know, stephen. yes, you are a ripping good fellow!" this made my task a comparatively easy one; i sometimes shudder to think what it might have been if betty had not thought i was a "ripping good fellow." i should have stuck to it, because that is my way; but betty would have made my life a misery to me. she had startling capacities for tormenting people when she chose to exert them; i certainly should not have liked to be numbered among betty's foes. i rode over to glenby the next morning after my paternal interview with sara, intending to have a frank talk with betty and lay the foundations of a good understanding on both sides. betty was a sharp child, with a disconcerting knack of seeing straight through grindstones; she would certainly perceive and probably resent any underhanded management. i thought it best to tell her plainly that i was going to look after her. when, however, i encountered betty, tearing madly down the beech avenue with a couple of dogs, her loosened hair streaming behind her like a banner of independence, and had lifted her, hatless and breathless, up before me on my mare, i found that sara had saved me the trouble of an explanation. "mother says you are going to take charge of my education, stephen," said betty, as soon as she could speak. "i'm glad, because i think that, for an old person, you have a good deal of sense. i suppose my education has to be seen to, some time or other, and i'd rather you'd do it than anybody else i know." "thank you, betty," i said gravely. "i hope i shall deserve your good opinion of my sense. i shall expect you to do as i tell you, and be guided by my advice in everything." "yes, i will," said betty, "because i'm sure you won't tell me to do anything i'd really hate to do. you won't shut me up in a room and make me sew, will you? because i won't do it." i assured her i would not. "nor send me to a boarding-school," pursued betty. "mother's always threatening to send me to one. i suppose she would have done it before this, only she knew i'd run away. you won't send me to a boarding-school, will you, stephen? because i won't go." "no," i said obligingly. "i won't. i should never dream of cooping a wild little thing, like you, up in a boarding-school. you'd fret your heart out like a caged skylark." "i know you and i are going to get along together splendidly, stephen," said betty, rubbing her brown cheek chummily against my shoulder. "you are so good at understanding. very few people are. even dad darling didn't understand. he let me do just as i wanted to, just because i wanted to, not because he really understood that i couldn't be tame and play with dolls. i hate dolls! real live babies are jolly; but dogs and horses are ever so much nicer than dolls." "but you must have lessons, betty. i shall select your teachers and superintend your studies, and i shall expect you to do me credit along that line, as well as along all others." "i'll try, honest and true, stephen," declared betty. and she kept her word. at first i looked upon betty's education as a duty; in a very short time it had become a pleasure...the deepest and most abiding interest of my life. as i had premised, betty was good material, and responded to my training with gratifying plasticity. day by day, week by week, month by month, her character and temperament unfolded naturally under my watchful eye. it was like beholding the gradual development of some rare flower in one's garden. a little checking and pruning here, a careful training of shoot and tendril there, and, lo, the reward of grace and symmetry! betty grew up as i would have wished jack churchill's girl to grow--spirited and proud, with the fine spirit and gracious pride of pure womanhood, loyal and loving, with the loyalty and love of a frank and unspoiled nature; true to her heart's core, hating falsehood and sham--as crystal-clear a mirror of maidenhood as ever man looked into and saw himself reflected back in such a halo as made him ashamed of not being more worthy of it. betty was kind enough to say that i had taught her everything she knew. but what had she not taught me? if there were a debt between us, it was on my side. sara was fairly well satisfied. it was not my fault that betty was not better looking, she said. i had certainly done everything for her mind and character that could be done. sara's manner implied that these unimportant details did not count for much, balanced against the lack of a pink-and-white skin and dimpled elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me. "when betty is twenty-five," i said patiently--i had grown used to speaking patiently to sara--"she will be a magnificent woman--far handsomer than you ever were, sara, in your pinkest and whitest prime. where are your eyes, my dear lady, that you can't see the promise of loveliness in betty?" "betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as ever she was," sighed sara. "when i was seventeen i was the belle of the county and had had five proposals. i don't believe the thought of a lover has ever entered betty's head." "i hope not," i said shortly. somehow, i did not like the suggestion. "betty is a child yet. for pity's sake, sara, don't go putting nonsensical ideas into her head." "i'm afraid i can't," mourned sara, as if it were something to be regretted. "you have filled it too full of books and things like that. i've every confidence in your judgment, stephen--and really you've done wonders with betty. but don't you think you've made her rather too clever? men don't like women who are too clever. her poor father, now--he always said that a woman who liked books better than beaux was an unnatural creature." i didn't believe jack had ever said anything so foolish. sara imagined things. but i resented the aspersion of blue-stockingness cast on betty. "when the time comes for betty to be interested in beaux," i said severely, "she will probably give them all due attention. just at present her head is a great deal better filled with books than with silly premature fancies and sentimentalities. i'm a critical old fellow--but i'm satisfied with betty, sara--perfectly satisfied." sara sighed. "oh, i dare say she is all right, stephen. and i'm really grateful to you. i'm sure i could have done nothing at all with her. it's not your fault, of course,--but i can't help wishing she were a little more like other girls." i galloped away from glenby in a rage. what a blessing sara had not married me in my absurd youth! she would have driven me wild with her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlasting pink-and-whiteness. but there--there--there--gently! she was a sweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made jack happy; and she had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creature like betty into the world. for that, much might be forgiven her. by the time i reached the maples and had flung myself down in an old, kinky, comfortable chair in my library i had forgiven her and was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over what she had said. was betty really unlike other girls? that is to say, unlike them in any respect wherein she should resemble them? i did not wish this; although i was a crusty old bachelor i approved of girls, holding them the sweetest things the good god has made. i wanted betty to have her full complement of girlhood in all its best and highest manifestation. was there anything lacking? i observed betty very closely during the next week or so, riding over to glenby every day and riding back at night, meditating upon my observations. eventually i concluded to do what i had never thought myself in the least likely to do. i would send betty to a boarding-school for a year. it was necessary that she should learn how to live with other girls. i went over to glenby the next day and found betty under the beeches on the lawn, just back from a canter. she was sitting on the dappled mare i had given her on her last birthday, and was laughing at the antics of her rejoicing dogs around her. i looked at her with much pleasure; it gladdened me to see how much, nay, how totally a child she still was, despite her churchill height. her hair, under her velvet cap, still hung over her shoulders in the same thick plaits; her face had the firm leanness of early youth, but its curves were very fine and delicate. the brown skin, that worried sara so, was flushed through with dusky color from her gallop; her long, dark eyes were filled with the beautiful unconsciousness of childhood. more than all, the soul in her was still the soul of a child. i found myself wishing that it could always remain so. but i knew it could not; the woman must blossom out some day; it was my duty to see that the flower fulfilled the promise of the bud. when i told betty that she must go away to a school for a year, she shrugged, frowned and consented. betty had learned that she must consent to what i decreed, even when my decrees were opposed to her likings, as she had once fondly believed they never would be. but betty had acquired confidence in me to the beautiful extent of acquiescing in everything i commanded. "i'll go, of course, since you wish it, stephen," she said. "but why do you want me to go? you must have a reason--you always have a reason for anything you do. what is it?" "that is for you to find out, betty," i said. "by the time you come back you will have discovered it, i think. if not, it will not have proved itself a good reason and shall be forgotten." when betty went away i bade her good-by without burdening her with any useless words of advice. "write to me every week, and remember that you are betty churchill," i said. betty was standing on the steps above, among her dogs. she came down a step and put her arms about my neck. "i'll remember that you are my friend and that i must live up to you," she said. "good-by, stephen." she kissed me two or three times--good, hearty smacks! did i not say she was still a child?--and stood waving her hand to me as i rode away. i looked back at the end of the avenue and saw her standing there, short-skirted and hatless, fronting the lowering sun with those fearless eyes of hers. so i looked my last on the child betty. that was a lonely year. my occupation was gone and i began to fear that i had outlived my usefulness. life seemed flat, stale, and unprofitable. betty's weekly letters were all that lent it any savor. they were spicy and piquant enough. betty was discovered to have unsuspected talents in the epistolary line. at first she was dolefully homesick, and begged me to let her come home. when i refused--it was amazingly hard to refuse--she sulked through three letters, then cheered up and began to enjoy herself. but it was nearly the end of the year when she wrote: "i've found out why you sent me here, stephen--and i'm glad you did." i had to be away from home on unavoidable business the day betty returned to glenby. but the next afternoon i went over. i found betty out and sara in. the latter was beaming. betty was so much improved, she declared delightedly. i would hardly know "the dear child." this alarmed me terribly. what on earth had they done to betty? i found that she had gone up to the pineland for a walk, and thither i betook myself speedily. when i saw her coming down a long, golden-brown alley i stepped behind a tree to watch her--i wished to see her, myself unseen. as she drew near i gazed at her with pride, and admiration and amazement--and, under it all, a strange, dreadful, heart-sinking, which i could not understand and which i had never in all my life experienced before--no, not even when sara had refused me. betty was a woman! not by virtue of the simple white dress that clung to her tall, slender figure, revealing lines of exquisite grace and litheness; not by virtue of the glossy masses of dark brown hair heaped high on her head and held there in wonderful shining coils; not by virtue of added softness of curve and daintiness of outline; not because of all these, but because of the dream and wonder and seeking in her eyes. she was a woman, looking, all unconscious of her quest, for love. the understanding of the change in her came home to me with a shock that must have left me, i think, something white about the lips. i was glad. she was what i had wished her to become. but i wanted the child betty back; this womanly betty seemed far away from me. i stepped out into the path and she saw me, with a brightening of her whole face. she did not rush forward and fling herself into my arms as she would have done a year ago; but she came towards me swiftly, holding out her hand. i had thought her slightly pale when i had first seen her; but now i concluded i had been mistaken, for there was a wonderful sunrise of color in her face. i took her hand--there were no kisses this time. "welcome home, betty," i said. "oh, stephen, it is so good to be back," she breathed, her eyes shining. she did not say it was good to see me again, as i had hoped she would do. indeed, after the first minute of greeting, she seemed a trifle cool and distant. we walked for an hour in the pine wood and talked. betty was brilliant, witty, self-possessed, altogether charming. i thought her perfect and yet my heart ached. what a glorious young thing she was, in that splendid youth of hers! what a prize for some lucky man--confound the obtrusive thought! no doubt we should soon be overrun at glenby with lovers. i should stumble over some forlorn youth at every step! well, what of it? betty would marry, of course. it would be my duty to see that she got a good husband, worthy of her as men go. i thought i preferred the old duty of superintending her studies. but there, it was all the same thing--merely a post-graduate course in applied knowledge. when she began to learn life's greatest lesson of love, i, the tried and true old family friend and mentor, must be on hand to see that the teacher was what i would have him be, even as i had formerly selected her instructor in french and botany. then, and not until then, would betty's education be complete. i rode home very soberly. when i reached the maples i did what i had not done for years...looked critically at myself in the mirror. the realization that i had grown older came home to me with a new and unpleasant force. there were marked lines on my lean face, and silver glints in the dark hair over my temples. when betty was ten she had thought me "an old person." now, at eighteen, she probably thought me a veritable ancient of days. pshaw, what did it matter? and yet...i thought of her as i had seen her, standing under the pines, and something cold and painful laid its hand on my heart. my premonitions as to lovers proved correct. glenby was soon infested with them. heaven knows where they all came from. i had not supposed there was a quarter as many young men in the whole county; but there they were. sara was in the seventh heaven of delight. was not betty at last a belle? as for the proposals...well, betty never counted her scalps in public; but every once in a while a visiting youth dropped out and was seen no more at glenby. one could guess what that meant. betty apparently enjoyed all this. i grieve to say that she was a bit of a coquette. i tried to cure her of this serious defect, but for once i found that i had undertaken something i could not accomplish. in vain i lectured, betty only laughed; in vain i gravely rebuked, betty only flirted more vivaciously than before. men might come and men might go, but betty went on forever. i endured this sort of thing for a year and then i decided that it was time to interfere seriously. i must find a husband for betty...my fatherly duty would not be fulfilled until i had...nor, indeed, my duty to society. she was not a safe person to have running at large. none of the men who haunted glenby was good enough for her. i decided that my nephew, frank, would do very well. he was a capital young fellow, handsome, clean-souled, and whole-hearted. from a worldly point of view he was what sara would have termed an excellent match; he had money, social standing and a rising reputation as a clever young lawyer. yes, he should have betty, confound him! they had never met. i set the wheels going at once. the sooner all the fuss was over the better. i hated fuss and there was bound to be a good deal of it. but i went about the business like an accomplished matchmaker. i invited frank to visit the maples and, before he came, i talked much...but not too much...of him to betty, mingling judicious praise and still more judicious blame together. women never like a paragon. betty heard me with more gravity than she usually accorded to my dissertations on young men. she even condescended to ask several questions about him. this i thought a good sign. to frank i had said not a word about betty; when he came to the maples i took him over to glenby and, coming upon betty wandering about among the beeches in the sunset, i introduced him without any warning. he would have been more than mortal if he had not fallen in love with her upon the spot. it was not in the heart of man to resist her...that dainty, alluring bit of womanhood. she was all in white, with flowers in her hair, and, for a moment, i could have murdered frank or any other man who dared to commit the sacrilege of loving her. then i pulled myself together and left them alone. i might have gone in and talked to sara...two old folks gently reviewing their youth while the young folks courted outside...but i did not. i prowled about the pine wood, and tried to forget how blithe and handsome that curly-headed boy, frank, was, and what a flash had sprung into his eyes when he had seen betty. well, what of it? was not that what i had brought him there for? and was i not pleased at the success of my scheme? certainly i was! delighted! next day frank went to glenby without even making the poor pretense of asking me to accompany him. i spent the time of his absence overseeing the construction of a new greenhouse i was having built. i was conscientious in my supervision; but i felt no interest in it. the place was intended for roses, and roses made me think of the pale yellow ones betty had worn at her breast one evening the week before, when, all lovers being unaccountably absent, we had wandered together under the pines and talked as in the old days before her young womanhood and my gray hairs had risen up to divide us. she had dropped a rose on the brown floor, and i had sneaked back, after i had left her the house, to get it, before i went home. i had it now in my pocket-book. confound it, mightn't a future uncle cherish a family affection for his prospective niece? frank's wooing seemed to prosper. the other young sparks, who had haunted glenby, faded away after his advent. betty treated him with most encouraging sweetness; sara smiled on him; i stood in the background, like a benevolent god of the machine, and flattered myself that i pulled the strings. at the end of a month something went wrong. frank came home from glenby one day in the dumps, and moped for two whole days. i rode down myself on the third. i had not gone much to glenby that month; but, if there were trouble bettyward, it was my duty to make smooth the rough places. as usual, i found betty in the pineland. i thought she looked rather pale and dull...fretting about frank no doubt. she brightened up when she saw me, evidently expecting that i had come to straighten matters out; but she pretended to be haughty and indifferent. "i am glad you haven't forgotten us altogether, stephen," she said coolly. "you haven't been down for a week." "i'm flattered that you noticed it," i said, sitting down on a fallen tree and looking up at her as she stood, tall and lithe, against an old pine, with her eyes averted. "i shouldn't have supposed you'd want an old fogy like myself poking about and spoiling the idyllic moments of love's young dream." "why do you always speak of yourself as old?" said betty, crossly, ignoring my reference to frank. "because i am old, my dear. witness these gray hairs." i pushed up my hat to show them the more recklessly. betty barely glanced at them. "you have just enough to give you a distinguished look," she said, "and you are only forty. a man is in his prime at forty. he never has any sense until he is forty--and sometimes he doesn't seem to have any even then," she concluded impertinently. my heart beat. did betty suspect? was that last sentence meant to inform me that she was aware of my secret folly, and laughed at it? "i came over to see what has gone wrong between you and frank," i said gravely. betty bit her lips. "nothing," she said. "betty," i said reproachfully, "i brought you up...or endeavored to bring you up...to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. don't tell me i have failed. i'll give you another chance. have you quarreled with frank?" "no," said the maddening betty, "he quarreled with me. he went away in a temper and i do not care if he never comes back!" i shook my head. "this won't do, betty. as your old family friend i still claim the right to scold you until you have a husband to do the scolding. you mustn't torment frank. he is too fine a fellow. you must marry him, betty." "must i?" said betty, a dusky red flaming out on her cheek. she turned her eyes on me in a most disconcerting fashion. "do you wish me to marry frank, stephen?" betty had a wretched habit of emphasizing pronouns in a fashion calculated to rattle anybody. "yes, i do wish it, because i think it will be best for you," i replied, without looking at her. "you must marry some time, betty, and frank is the only man i know to whom i could trust you. as your guardian, i have an interest in seeing you well and wisely settled for life. you have always taken my advice and obeyed my wishes; and you've always found my way the best, in the long run, haven't you, betty? you won't prove rebellious now, i'm sure. you know quite well that i am advising you for your own good. frank is a splendid young fellow, who loves you with all his heart. marry him, betty. mind, i don't command. i have no right to do that, and you are too old to be ordered about, if i had. but i wish and advise it. isn't that enough, betty?" i had been looking away from her all the time i was talking, gazing determinedly down a sunlit vista of pines. every word i said seemed to tear my heart, and come from my lips stained with life-blood. yes, betty should marry frank! but, good god, what would become of me! betty left her station under the pine tree, and walked around me until she got right in front of my face. i couldn't help looking at her, for if i moved my eyes she moved too. there was nothing meek or submissive about her; her head was held high, her eyes were blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. but her words were meek enough. "i will marry frank if you wish it, stephen," she said. "you are my friend. i have never crossed your wishes, and, as you say, i have never regretted being guided by them. i will do exactly as you wish in this case also, i promise you that. but, in so solemn a question, i must be very certain what you do wish. there must be no doubt in my mind or heart. look me squarely in the eyes, stephen--as you haven't done once to-day, no, nor once since i came home from school--and, so looking, tell me that you wish me to marry frank douglas and i will do it! do you, stephen?" i had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her; and, as i did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hot revolt against the lie i would have told her. that unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite of myself. "no, i don't wish you to marry frank douglas, a thousand times no!" i said passionately. "i don't wish you to marry any man on earth but myself. i love you--i love you, betty. you are dearer to me than life--dearer to me than my own happiness. it was your happiness i thought of--and so i asked you to marry frank because i believed he would make you a happy woman. that is all!" betty's defiance went from her like a flame blown out. she turned away and drooped her proud head. "it could not have made me a happy woman to marry one man, loving another," she said, in a whisper. i got up and went over to her. "betty, whom do you love?" i asked, also in a whisper. "you," she murmured meekly--oh, so meekly, my proud little girl! "betty," i said brokenly, "i'm old--too old for you--i'm more than twenty years your senior--i'm--" "oh!" betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot. "don't mention your age to me again. i don't care if you're as old as methuselah. but i'm not going to coax you to marry me, sir! if you won't, i'll never marry anybody--i'll live and die an old maid. you can please yourself, of course!" she turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but i caught her in my arms and crushed her sweet lips against mine. "betty, i'm the happiest man in the world--and i was the most miserable when i came here." "you deserved to be," said betty cruelly. "i'm glad you were. any man as stupid as you deserves to be unhappy. what do you think i felt like, loving you with all my heart, and seeing you simply throwing me at another man's head. why, i've always loved you, stephen; but i didn't know it until i went to that detestable school. then i found out--and i thought that was why you had sent me. but, when i came home, you almost broke my heart. that was why i flirted so with all those poor, nice boys--i wanted to hurt you but i never thought i succeeded. you just went on being fatherly. then, when you brought frank here, i almost gave up hope; and i tried to make up my mind to marry him; i should have done it if you had insisted. but i had to have one more try for happiness first. i had just one little hope to inspire me with sufficient boldness. i saw you, that night, when you came back here and picked up my rose! i had come back, myself, to be alone and unhappy." "it is the most wonderful thing that ever happened--that you should love me," i said. "it's not--i couldn't help it," said betty, nestling her brown head on my shoulder. "you taught me everything else, stephen, so nobody but you could teach me how to love. you've made a thorough thing of educating me." "when will you marry me, betty?" i asked. "as soon as i can fully forgive you for trying to make me marry somebody else," said betty. it was rather hard lines on frank, when you come to think of it. but, such is the selfishness of human nature that we didn't think much about frank. the young fellow behaved like the douglas he was. went a little white about the lips when i told him, wished me all happiness, and went quietly away, "gentleman unafraid." he has since married and is, i understand, very happy. not as happy as i am, of course; that is impossible, because there is only one betty in the world, and she is my wife. xii. in her selfless mood the raw wind of an early may evening was puffing in and out the curtains of the room where naomi holland lay dying. the air was moist and chill, but the sick woman would not have the window closed. "i can't get my breath if you shut everything up so tight," she said. "whatever comes, i ain't going to be smothered to death, car'line holland." outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moist buds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see. between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills that were growing dim and purple. the outside air was full of sweet, wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. there were voices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint laughter. a bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, and twittered restlessly. naomi knew that white mists were hovering in the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a misty blossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on the brooklands. the room was a small, plain one. the floor was bare, save for a couple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingy and glaring. there had never been much beauty in naomi holland's environment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less. at the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out over the sill and whistling. he was tall for his age, and beautiful--the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it, skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenish blue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. he had a weak chin, and a full, sullen mouth. the bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it the sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portion continually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had done ever since she had lain down upon it for the last time. naomi holland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, she shut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great black eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her attendants what they called "the creeps," but no word or moan escaped her. between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the life that went on about her. nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyes and ears. this evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows; she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her very weak. in the dim light her extremely long face looked corpse-like already. her black hair lay in a heavy braid over the pillow and down the counterpane. it was all that was left of her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. those long, glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day, no matter what came. a girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head of the bed, with her head resting on the pillow. the boy at the window was her half-brother; but, between christopher holland and eunice carr, not the slightest resemblance existed. presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low, half-strangled sob. the sick woman, who had been watching a white evening star through the cherry boughs, turned impatiently at the sound. "i wish you'd get over that, eunice," she said sharply. "i don't want any one crying over me until i'm dead; and then you'll have plenty else to do, most likely. if it wasn't for christopher i wouldn't be anyways unwilling to die. when one has had such a life as i've had, there isn't much in death to be afraid of. only, a body would like to go right off, and not die by inches, like this. 'tain't fair!" she snapped out the last sentence as if addressing some unseen, tyrannical presence; her voice, at least, had not weakened, but was as clear and incisive as ever. the boy at the window stopped whistling, and the girl silently wiped her eyes on her faded gingham apron. naomi drew her own hair over her lips, and kissed it. "you'll never have hair like that, eunice," she said. "it does seem most too pretty to bury, doesn't it? mind you see that it is fixed nice when i'm laid out. comb it right up on my head and braid it there." a sound, such as might be wrung from a suffering animal, came from the girl, but at the same moment the door opened and a woman entered. "chris," she said sharply, "you get right off for the cows, you lazy little scamp! you knew right well you had to go for them, and here you've been idling, and me looking high and low for you. make haste now; it's ridiculous late." the boy pulled in his head and scowled at his aunt, but he dared not disobey, and went out slowly with a sulky mutter. his aunt subdued a movement, that might have developed into a sound box on his ears, with a rather frightened glance at the bed. naomi holland was spent and dying, but her temper was still a thing to hold in dread, and her sister-in-law did not choose to rouse it by slapping christopher. to her and her co-nurse the spasms of rage, which the sick woman sometimes had, seemed to partake of the nature of devil possession. the last one, only three days before, had been provoked by christopher's complaint of some real or fancied ill-treatment from his aunt, and the latter had no mind to bring on another. she went over to the bed, and straightened the clothes. "sarah and i are going out to milk, naomi, eunice will stay with you. she can run for us if you feel another spell coming on." naomi holland looked up at her sister-in-law with something like malicious enjoyment. "i ain't going to have any more spells, car'line anne. i'm going to die to-night. but you needn't hurry milking for that, at all. i'll take my time." she liked to see the alarm that came over the other woman's face. it was richly worth while to scare caroline holland like that. "are you feeling worse, naomi?" asked the latter shakily. "if you are i'll send for charles to go for the doctor." "no, you won't. what good can the doctor do me? i don't want either his or charles' permission to die. you can go and milk at your ease. i won't die till you're done--i won't deprive you of the pleasure of seeing me." mrs. holland shut her lips and went out of the room with a martyr-like expression. in some ways naomi holland was not an exacting patient, but she took her satisfaction out in the biting, malicious speeches she never failed to make. even on her death-bed her hostility to her sister-in-law had to find vent. outside, at the steps, sarah spencer was waiting, with the milk pails over her arm. sarah spencer had no fixed abiding place, but was always to be found where there was illness. her experience, and an utter lack of nerves, made her a good nurse. she was a tall, homely woman with iron gray hair and a lined face. beside her, the trim little caroline anne, with her light step and round, apple-red face, looked almost girlish. the two women walked to the barnyard, discussing naomi in undertones as they went. the house they had left behind grew very still. in naomi holland's room the shadows were gathering. eunice timidly bent over her mother. "ma, do you want the light lit?" "no, i'm watching that star just below the big cherry bough. i'll see it set behind the hill. i've seen it there, off and on, for twelve years, and now i'm taking a good-by look at it. i want you to keep still, too. i've got a few things to think over, and i don't want to be disturbed." the girl lifted herself about noiselessly and locked her hands over the bed-post. then she laid her face down on them, biting at them silently until the marks of her teeth showed white against their red roughness. naomi holland did not notice her. she was looking steadfastly at the great, pearl-like sparkle in the faint-hued sky. when it finally disappeared from her vision she struck her long, thin hands together twice, and a terrible expression came over her face for a moment. but, when she spoke, her voice was quite calm. "you can light the candle now, eunice. put it up on the shelf here, where it won't shine in my eyes. and then sit down on the foot of the bed where i can see you. i've got something to say to you." eunice obeyed her noiselessly. as the pallid light shot up, it revealed the child plainly. she was thin and ill-formed--one shoulder being slightly higher than the other. she was dark, like her mother, but her features were irregular, and her hair fell in straggling, dim locks about her face. her eyes were a dark brown, and over one was the slanting red scar of a birth mark. naomi holland looked at her with the contempt she had never made any pretense of concealing. the girl was bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, but she had never loved her; all the mother love in her had been lavished on her son. when eunice had placed the candle on the shelf and drawn down the ugly blue paper blinds, shutting out the strips of violet sky where a score of glimmering points were now visible, she sat down on the foot of the bed, facing her mother. "the door is shut, is it, eunice?" eunice nodded. "because i don't want car'line or any one else peeking and harking to what i've got to say. she's out milking now, and i must make the most of the chance. eunice, i'm going to die, and..." "ma!" "there now, no taking on! you knew it had to come sometime soon. i haven't the strength to talk much, so i want you just to be quiet and listen. i ain't feeling any pain now, so i can think and talk pretty clear. are you listening, eunice?" "yes, ma." "mind you are. it's about christopher. it hasn't been out of my mind since i laid down here. i've fought for a year to live, on his account, and it ain't any use. i must just die and leave him, and i don't know what he'll do. it's dreadful to think of." she paused, and struck her shrunken hand sharply against the table. "if he was bigger and could look out for himself it wouldn't be so bad. but he is only a little fellow, and car'line hates him. you'll both have to live with her until you're grown up. she'll put on him and abuse him. he's like his father in some ways; he's got a temper and he is stubborn. he'll never get on with car'line. now, eunice, i'm going to get you to promise to take my place with christopher when i'm dead, as far as you can. you've got to; it's your duty. but i want you to promise." "i will, ma," whispered the girl solemnly. "you haven't much force--you never had. if you was smart, you could do a lot for him. but you'll have to do your best. i want you to promise me faithfully that you'll stand by him and protect him--that you won't let people impose on him; that you'll never desert him as long as he needs you, no matter what comes. eunice, promise me this!" in her excitement the sick woman raised herself up in the bed, and clutched the girl's thin arm. her eyes were blazing and two scarlet spots glowed in her thin cheeks. eunice's face was white and tense. she clasped her hands as one in prayer. "mother, i promise it!" naomi relaxed her grip on the girl's arm and sank back exhausted on the pillow. a death-like look came over her face as the excitement faded. "my mind is easier now. but if i could only have lived another year or two! and i hate car'line--hate her! eunice, don't you ever let her abuse my boy! if she did, or if you neglected him, i'd come back from my grave to you! as for the property, things will be pretty straight. i've seen to that. there'll be no squabbling and doing christopher out of his rights. he's to have the farm as soon as he's old enough to work it, and he's to provide for you. and, eunice, remember what you've promised!" outside, in the thickly gathering dusk, caroline holland and sarah spencer were at the dairy, straining the milk into creamers, for which christopher was sullenly pumping water. the house was far from the road, up to which a long red lane led; across the field was the old holland homestead where caroline lived; her unmarried sister-in-law, electa holland, kept house for her while she waited on naomi. it was her night to go home and sleep, but naomi's words haunted her, although she believed they were born of pure "cantankerousness." "you'd better go in and look at her, sarah," she said, as she rinsed out the pails. "if you think i'd better stay here to-night, i will. if the woman was like anybody else a body would know what to do; but, if she thought she could scare us by saying she was going to die, she'd say it." when sarah went in, the sick room was very quiet. in her opinion, naomi was no worse than usual, and she told caroline so; but the latter felt vaguely uneasy and concluded to stay. naomi was as cool and defiant as customary. she made them bring christopher in to say good-night and had him lifted up on the bed to kiss her. then she held him back and looked at him admiringly--at the bright curls and rosy cheeks and round, firm limbs. the boy was uncomfortable under her gaze and squirmed hastily down. her eyes followed him greedily, as he went out. when the door closed behind him, she groaned. sarah spencer was startled. she had never heard naomi holland groan since she had come to wait on her. "are you feeling any worse, naomi? is the pain coming back?" "no. go and tell car'line to give christopher some of that grape jelly on his bread before he goes to bed. she'll find it in the cupboard under the stairs." presently the house grew very still. caroline had dropped asleep on the sitting-room lounge, across the hall. sarah spencer nodded over her knitting by the table in the sick room. she had told eunice to go to bed, but the child refused. she still sat huddled up on the foot of the bed, watching her mother's face intently. naomi appeared to sleep. the candle burned long, and the wick was crowned by a little cap of fiery red that seemed to watch eunice like some impish goblin. the wavering light cast grotesque shadows of sarah spencer's head on the wall. the thin curtains at the window wavered to and fro, as if shaken by ghostly hands. at midnight naomi holland opened her eyes. the child she had never loved was the only one to go with her to the brink of the unseen. "eunice--remember!" it was the faintest whisper. the soul, passing over the threshold of another life, strained back to its only earthly tie. a quiver passed over the long, pallid face. a horrible scream rang through the silent house. sarah spencer sprang out of her doze in consternation, and gazed blankly at the shrieking child. caroline came hurrying in with distended eyes. on the bed naomi holland lay dead. in the room where she had died naomi holland lay in her coffin. it was dim and hushed; but, in the rest of the house, the preparations for the funeral were being hurried on. through it all eunice moved, calm and silent. since her one wild spasm of screaming by her mother's death-bed she had shed no tear, given no sign of grief. perhaps, as her mother had said, she had no time. there was christopher to be looked after. the boy's grief was stormy and uncontrolled. he had cried until he was utterly exhausted. it was eunice who soothed him, coaxed him to eat, kept him constantly by her. at night she took him to her own room and watched over him while he slept. when the funeral was over the household furniture was packed away or sold. the house was locked up and the farm rented. there was nowhere for the children to go, save to their uncle's. caroline holland did not want them, but, having to take them, she grimly made up her mind to do what she considered her duty by them. she had five children of her own and between them and christopher a standing feud had existed from the time he could walk. she had never liked naomi. few people did. benjamin holland had not married until late in life, and his wife had declared war on his family at sight. she was a stranger in avonlea,--a widow, with a three year-old child. she made few friends, as some people always asserted that she was not in her right mind. within a year of her second marriage christopher was born, and from the hour of his birth his mother had worshiped him blindly. he was her only solace. for him she toiled and pinched and saved. benjamin holland had not been "fore-handed" when she married him; but, when he died, six years after his marriage, he was a well-to-do man. naomi made no pretense of mourning for him. it was an open secret that they had quarreled like the proverbial cat and dog. charles holland and his wife had naturally sided with benjamin, and naomi fought her battles single-handed. after her husband's death, she managed to farm alone, and made it pay. when the mysterious malady which was to end her life first seized on her she fought against it with all the strength and stubbornness of her strong and stubborn nature. her will won for her an added year of life, and then she had to yield. she tasted all the bitterness of death the day on which she lay down on her bed, and saw her enemy come in to rule her house. but caroline holland was not a bad or unkind woman. true, she did not love naomi or her children; but the woman was dying and must be looked after for the sake of common humanity. caroline thought she had done well by her sister-in-law. when the red clay was heaped over naomi's grave in the avonlea burying ground, caroline took eunice and christopher home with her. christopher did not want to go; it was eunice who reconciled him. he clung to her with an exacting affection born of loneliness and grief. in the days that followed caroline holland was obliged to confess to herself that there would have been no doing anything with christopher had it not been for eunice. the boy was sullen and obstinate, but his sister had an unfailing influence over him. in charles holland's household no one was allowed to eat the bread of idleness. his own children were all girls, and christopher came in handy as a chore boy. he was made to work--perhaps too hard. but eunice helped him, and did half his work for him when nobody knew. when he quarreled with his cousins, she took his part; whenever possible she took on herself the blame and punishment of his misdeeds. electa holland was charles' unmarried sister. she had kept house for benjamin until he married; then naomi had bundled her out. electa had never forgiven her for it. her hatred passed on to naomi's children. in a hundred petty ways she revenged herself on them. for herself, eunice bore it patiently; but it was a different matter when it touched christopher. once electa boxed christopher's ears. eunice, who was knitting by the table, stood up. a resemblance to her mother, never before visible, came out in her face like a brand. she lifted her hand and slapped electa's cheek deliberately twice, leaving a dull red mark where she struck. "if you ever strike my brother again," she said, slowly and vindictively, "i will slap your face every time you do. you have no right to touch him." "my patience, what a fury!" said electa. "naomi holland'll never be dead as long as you're alive!" she told charles of the affair and eunice was severely punished. but electa never interfered with christopher again. all the discordant elements in the holland household could not prevent the children from growing up. it was a consummation which the harrassed caroline devoutly wished. when christopher holland was seventeen he was a man grown--a big, strapping fellow. his childish beauty had coarsened, but he was thought handsome by many. he took charge of his mother's farm then, and the brother and sister began their new life together in the long-unoccupied house. there were few regrets on either side when they left charles holland's roof. in her secret heart eunice felt an unspeakable relief. christopher had been "hard to manage," as his uncle said, in the last year. he was getting into the habit of keeping late hours and doubtful company. this always provoked an explosion of wrath from charles holland, and the conflicts between him and his nephew were frequent and bitter. for four years after their return home eunice had a hard and anxious life. christopher was idle and dissipated. most people regarded him as a worthless fellow, and his uncle washed his hands of him utterly. only eunice never failed him; she never reproached or railed; she worked like a slave to keep things together. eventually her patience prevailed. christopher, to a great extent, reformed and worked harder. he was never unkind to eunice, even in his rages. it was not in him to appreciate or return her devotion; but his tolerant acceptance of it was her solace. when eunice was twenty-eight, edward bell wanted to marry her. he was a plain, middle-aged widower with four children; but, as caroline did not fail to remind her, eunice herself was not for every market, and the former did her best to make the match. she might have succeeded had it not been for christopher. when he, in spite of caroline's skillful management, got an inkling of what was going on, he flew into a true holland rage. if eunice married and left him--he would sell the farm and go to the devil by way of the klondike. he could not, and would not, do without her. no arrangement suggested by caroline availed to pacify him, and, in the end, eunice refused to marry edward bell. she could not leave christopher, she said simply, and in this she stood rock-firm. caroline could not budge her an inch. "you're a fool, eunice," she said, when she was obliged to give up in despair. "it's not likely you'll ever have another chance. as for chris, in a year or two he'll be marrying himself, and where will you be then? you'll find your nose nicely out of joint when he brings a wife in here." the shaft went home. eunice's lips turned white. but she said, faintly, "the house is big enough for us both, if he does." caroline sniffed. "maybe so. you'll find out. however, there's no use talking. you're as set as your mother was, and nothing would ever budge her an inch. i only hope you won't be sorry for it." when three more years had passed christopher began to court victoria pye. the affair went on for some time before either eunice or the hollands go wind of it. when they did there was an explosion. between the hollands and the pyes, root and branch, existed a feud that dated back for three generations. that the original cause of the quarrel was totally forgotten did not matter; it was matter of family pride that a holland should have no dealings with a pye. when christopher flew so openly in the face of this cherished hatred, there could be nothing less than consternation. charles holland broke through his determination to have nothing to do with christopher, to remonstrate. caroline went to eunice in as much of a splutter as if christopher had been her own brother. eunice did not care a row of pins for the holland-pye feud. victoria was to her what any other girl, upon whom christopher cast eyes of love, would have been--a supplanter. for the first time in her life she was torn with passionate jealousy; existence became a nightmare to her. urged on by caroline, and her own pain, she ventured to remonstrate with christopher, also. she had expected a burst of rage, but he was surprisingly good-natured. he seemed even amused. "what have you got against victoria?" he asked, tolerantly. eunice had no answer ready. it was true that nothing could be said against the girl. she felt helpless and baffled. christopher laughed at her silence. "i guess you're a little jealous," he said. "you must have expected i would get married some time. this house is big enough for us all. you'd better look at the matter sensibly, eunice. don't let charles and caroline put nonsense into your head. a man must marry to please himself." christopher was out late that night. eunice waited up for him, as she always did. it was a chilly spring evening, reminding her of the night her mother had died. the kitchen was in spotless order, and she sat down on a stiff-backed chair by the window to wait for her brother. she did not want a light. the moonlight fell in with faint illumination. outside, the wind was blowing over a bed of new-sprung mint in the garden, and was suggestively fragrant. it was a very old-fashioned garden, full of perennials naomi holland had planted long ago. eunice always kept it primly neat. she had been working in it that day, and felt tired. she was all alone in the house and the loneliness filled her with a faint dread. she had tried all that day to reconcile herself to christopher's marriage, and had partially succeeded. she told herself that she could still watch over him and care for his comfort. she would even try to love victoria; after all, it might be pleasant to have another woman in the house. so, sitting there, she fed her hungry soul with these husks of comfort. when she heard christopher's step she moved about quickly to get a light. he frowned when he saw her; he had always resented her sitting up for him. he sat down by the stove and took off his boots, while eunice got a lunch for him. after he had eaten it in silence he made no move to go to bed. a chill, premonitory fear crept over eunice. it did not surprise her at all when christopher finally said, abruptly, "eunice, i've a notion to get married this spring." eunice clasped her hands together under the table. it was what she had been expecting. she said so, in a monotonous voice. "we must make some arrangement for--for you, eunice," christopher went on, in a hurried, hesitant way, keeping his eyes riveted doggedly on his plate. "victoria doesn't exactly like--well, she thinks it's better for young married folks to begin life by themselves, and i guess she's about right. you wouldn't find it comfortable, anyhow, having to step back to second place after being mistress here so long." eunice tried to speak, but only an indistinct murmur came from her bloodless lips. the sound made christopher look up. something in her face irritated him. he pushed back his chair impatiently. "now, eunice, don't go taking on. it won't be any use. look at this business in a sensible way. i'm fond of you, and all that, but a man is bound to consider his wife first. i'll provide for you comfortably." "do you mean to say that your wife is going to turn me out?" eunice gasped, rather than spoke, the words. christopher drew his reddish brows together. "i just mean that victoria says she won't marry me if she has to live with you. she's afraid of you. i told her you wouldn't interfere with her, but she wasn't satisfied. it's your own fault, eunice. you've always been so queer and close that people think you're an awful crank. victoria's young and lively, and you and she wouldn't get on at all. there isn't any question of turning you out. i'll build a little house for you somewhere, and you'll be a great deal better off there than you would be here. so don't make a fuss." eunice did not look as if she were going to make a fuss. she sat as if turned to stone, her hands lying palm upward in her lap. christopher got up, hugely relieved that the dreaded explanation was over. "guess i'll go to bed. you'd better have gone long ago. it's all nonsense, this waiting up for me." when he had gone eunice drew a long, sobbing breath and looked about her like a dazed soul. all the sorrow of her life was as nothing to the desolation that assailed her now. she rose and, with uncertain footsteps, passed out through the hall and into the room where her mother died. she had always kept it locked and undisturbed; it was arranged just as naomi holland had left it. eunice tottered to the bed and sat down on it. she recalled the promise she had made to her mother in that very room. was the power to keep it to be wrested from her? was she to be driven from her home and parted from the only creature she had on earth to love? and would christopher allow it, after all her sacrifices for him? aye, that he would! he cared more for that black-eyed, waxen-faced girl at the old pye place than for his own kin. eunice put her hands over her dry, burning eyes and groaned aloud. caroline holland had her hour of triumph over eunice when she heard it all. to one of her nature there was no pleasure so sweet as that of saying, "i told you so." having said it, however, she offered eunice a home. electa holland was dead, and eunice might fill her place very acceptably, if she would. "you can't go off and live by yourself," caroline told her. "it's all nonsense to talk of such a thing. we will give you a home, if christopher is going to turn you out. you were always a fool, eunice, to pet and pamper him as you've done. this is the thanks you get for it--turned out like a dog for his fine wife's whim! i only wish your mother was alive!" it was probably the first time caroline had ever wished this. she had flown at christopher like a fury about the matter, and had been rudely insulted for her pains. christopher had told her to mind her own business. when caroline cooled down she made some arrangements with him, to all of which eunice listlessly assented. she did not care what became of her. when christopher holland brought victoria as mistress to the house where his mother had toiled, and suffered, and ruled with her rod of iron, eunice was gone. in charles holland's household she took electa's place--an unpaid upper servant. charles and caroline were kind enough to her, and there was plenty to do. for five years her dull, colorless life went on, during which time she never crossed the threshold of the house where victoria holland ruled with a sway as absolute as naomi's had been. caroline's curiosity led her, after her first anger had cooled, to make occasional calls, the observations of which she faithfully reported to eunice. the latter never betrayed any interest in them, save once. this was when caroline came home full of the news that victoria had had the room where naomi died opened up, and showily furnished as a parlor. then eunice's sallow face crimsoned, and her eyes flashed, over the desecration. but no word of comment or complaint ever crossed her lips. she knew, as every one else knew, that the glamor soon went from christopher holland's married life. the marriage proved an unhappy one. not unnaturally, although unjustly, eunice blamed victoria for this, and hated her more than ever for it. christopher seldom came to charles' house. possibly he felt ashamed. he had grown into a morose, silent man, at home and abroad. it was said he had gone back to his old drinking habits. one fall victoria holland went to town to visit her married sister. she took their only child with her. in her absence christopher kept house for himself. it was a fall long remembered in avonlea. with the dropping of the leaves, and the shortening of the dreary days, the shadow of a fear fell over the land. charles holland brought the fateful news home one night. "there's smallpox in charlottetown--five or six cases. came in one of the vessels. there was a concert, and a sailor from one of the ships was there, and took sick the next day." this was alarming enough. charlottetown was not so very far away and considerable traffic went on between it and the north shore districts. when caroline recounted the concert story to christopher the next morning his ruddy face turned quite pale. he opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them again. they were sitting in the kitchen; caroline had run over to return some tea she had borrowed, and, incidentally, to see what she could of victoria's housekeeping in her absence. her eyes had been busy while her tongue ran on, so she did not notice the man's pallor and silence. "how long does it take for smallpox to develop after one has been exposed to it?" he asked abruptly, when caroline rose to go. "ten to fourteen days, i calc'late," was her answer. "i must see about having the girls vaccinated right off. it'll likely spread. when do you expect victoria home?" "when she's ready to come, whenever that will be," was the gruff response. a week later caroline said to eunice, "whatever's got christopher? he hasn't been out anywhere for ages--just hangs round home the whole time. it's something new for him. i s'pose the place is so quiet, now madam victoria's away, that he can find some rest for his soul. i believe i'll run over after milking and see how he's getting on. you might as well come, too, eunice." eunice shook her head. she had all her mother's obstinacy, and darken victoria's door she would not. she went on patiently darning socks, sitting at the west window, which was her favorite position--perhaps because she could look from it across the sloping field and past the crescent curve of maple grove to her lost home. after milking, caroline threw a shawl over her head and ran across the field. the house looked lonely and deserted. as she fumbled at the latch of the gate the kitchen door opened, and christopher holland appeared on the threshold. "don't come any farther," he called. caroline fell back in blank astonishment. was this some more of victoria's work? "i ain't an agent for the smallpox," she called back viciously. christopher did not heed her. "will you go home and ask uncle if he'll go, or send for doctor spencer? he's the smallpox doctor. i'm sick." caroline felt a thrill of dismay and fear. she faltered a few steps backward. "sick? what's the matter with you?" "i was in charlottetown that night, and went to the concert. that sailor sat right beside me. i thought at the time he looked sick. it was just twelve days ago. i've felt bad all day yesterday and to-day. send for the doctor. don't come near the house, or let any one else come near." he went in and shut the door. caroline stood for a few moments in an almost ludicrous panic. then she turned and ran, as if for her life, across the field. eunice saw her coming and met her at the door. "mercy on us!" gasped caroline. "christopher's sick and he thinks he's got the smallpox. where's charles?" eunice tottered back against the door. her hand went up to her side in a way that had been getting very common with her of late. even in the midst of her excitement caroline noticed it. "eunice, what makes you do that every time anything startles you?" she asked sharply. "is it anything about your heart?" "i don't--know. a little pain--it's gone now. did you say that christopher has--the smallpox?" "well, he says so himself, and it's more than likely, considering the circumstances. i declare, i never got such a turn in my life. it's a dreadful thing. i must find charles at once--there'll be a hundred things to do." eunice hardly heard her. her mind was centered upon one idea. christopher was ill--alone--she must go to him. it did not matter what his disease was. when caroline came in from her breathless expedition to the barn, she found eunice standing by the table, with her hat and shawl on, tying up a parcel. "eunice! where on earth are you going?" "over home," said eunice. "if christopher is going to be ill he must be nursed, and i'm the one to do it. he ought to be seen to right away." "eunice carr! have you gone clean out of your senses? it's the smallpox--the smallpox! if he's got it he'll have to be taken to the smallpox hospital in town. you shan't stir a step to go to that house!" "i will." eunice faced her excited aunt quietly. the odd resemblance to her mother, which only came out in moments of great tension, was plainly visible. "he shan't go to the hospital--they never get proper attention there. you needn't try to stop me. it won't put you or your family in any danger." caroline fell helplessly into a chair. she felt that it would be of no use to argue with a woman so determined. she wished charles was there. but charles had already gone, post-haste, for the doctor. with a firm step, eunice went across the field foot-path she had not trodden for so long. she felt no fear--rather a sort of elation. christopher needed her once more; the interloper who had come between them was not there. as she walked through the frosty twilight she thought of the promise made to naomi holland, years ago. christopher saw her coming and waved her back. "don't come any nearer, eunice. didn't caroline tell you? i'm taking smallpox." eunice did not pause. she went boldly through the yard and up the porch steps. he retreated before her and held the door. "eunice, you're crazy, girl! go home, before it's too late." eunice pushed open the door resolutely and went in. "it's too late now. i'm here, and i mean to stay and nurse you, if it's the smallpox you've got. maybe it's not. just now, when a person has a finger-ache, he thinks it's smallpox. anyhow, whatever it is, you ought to be in bed and looked after. you'll catch cold. let me get a light and have a look at you." christopher had sunk into a chair. his natural selfishness reasserted itself, and he made no further effort to dissuade eunice. she got a lamp and set it on the table by him, while she scrutinized his face closely. "you look feverish. what do you feel like? when did you take sick?" "yesterday afternoon. i have chills and hot spells and pains in my back. eunice, do you think it's really smallpox? and will i die?" he caught her hands, and looked imploringly up at her, as a child might have done. eunice felt a wave of love and tenderness sweep warmly over her starved heart. "don't worry. lots of people recover from smallpox if they're properly nursed, and you'll be that, for i'll see to it. charles has gone for the doctor, and we'll know when he comes. you must go straight to bed." she took off her hat and shawl, and hung them up. she felt as much at home as if she had never been away. she had got back to her kingdom, and there was none to dispute it with her. when dr. spencer and old giles blewett, who had had smallpox in his youth, came, two hours later, they found eunice in serene charge. the house was in order and reeking of disinfectants. victoria's fine furniture and fixings were being bundled out of the parlor. there was no bedroom downstairs, and, if christopher was going to be ill, he must be installed there. the doctor looked grave. "i don't like it," he said, "but i'm not quite sure yet. if it is smallpox the eruption will probably be out by morning. i must admit he has most of the symptoms. will you have him taken to the hospital?" "no," said eunice, decisively. "i'll nurse him myself. i'm not afraid and i'm well and strong." "very well. you've been vaccinated lately?" "yes." "well, nothing more can be done at present. you may as well lie down for a while and save your strength." but eunice could not do that. there was too much to attend to. she went out to the hall and threw up the window. down below, at a safe distance, charles holland was waiting. the cold wind blew up to eunice the odor of the disinfectants with which he had steeped himself. "what does the doctor say?" he shouted. "he thinks it's the smallpox. have you sent word to victoria?" "yes, jim blewett drove into town and told her. she'll stay with her sister till it is over. of course it's the best thing for her to do. she's terribly frightened." eunice's lip curled contemptuously. to her, a wife who could desert her husband, no matter what disease he had, was an incomprehensible creature. but it was better so; she would have christopher all to herself. the night was long and wearisome, but the morning came all too soon for the dread certainty it brought. the doctor pronounced the case smallpox. eunice had hoped against hope, but now, knowing the worst, she was very calm and resolute. by noon the fateful yellow flag was flying over the house, and all arrangements had been made. caroline was to do the necessary cooking, and charles was to bring the food and leave it in the yard. old giles blewett was to come every day and attend to the stock, as well as help eunice with the sick man; and the long, hard fight with death began. it was a hard fight, indeed. christopher holland, in the clutches of the loathsome disease, was an object from which his nearest and dearest might have been pardoned for shrinking. but eunice never faltered; she never left her post. sometimes she dozed in a chair by the bed, but she never lay down. her endurance was something wonderful, her patience and tenderness almost superhuman. to and fro she went, in noiseless ministry, as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet smile on her lips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the rapt look of a pictured saint in some dim cathedral niche. for her there was no world outside the bare room where lay the repulsive object she loved. one day the doctor looked very grave. he had grown well-hardened to pitiful scenes in his life-time; but he shrunk from telling eunice that her brother could not live. he had never seen such devotion as hers. it seemed brutal to tell her that it had been in vain. but eunice had seen it for herself. she took it very calmly, the doctor thought. and she had her reward at last--such as it was. she thought it amply sufficient. one night christopher holland opened his swollen eyes as she bent over him. they were alone in the old house. it was raining outside, and the drops rattled noisily on the panes. christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and put out a feeble hand toward her. "eunice," he said faintly, "you've been the best sister ever a man had. i haven't treated you right; but you've stood by me to the last. tell victoria--tell her--to be good to you--" his voice died away into an inarticulate murmur. eunice carr was alone with her dead. they buried christopher holland in haste and privacy the next day. the doctor disinfected the house, and eunice was to stay there alone until it might be safe to make other arrangements. she had not shed a tear; the doctor thought she was a rather odd person, but he had a great admiration for her. he told her she was the best nurse he had ever seen. to eunice, praise or blame mattered nothing. something in her life had snapped--some vital interest had departed. she wondered how she could live through the dreary, coming years. late that night she went into the room where her mother and brother had died. the window was open and the cold, pure air was grateful to her after the drug-laden atmosphere she had breathed so long. she knelt down by the stripped bed. "mother," she said aloud, "i have kept my promise." when she tried to rise, long after, she staggered and fell across the bed, with her hand pressed on her heart. old giles blewett found her there in the morning. there was a smile on her face. xiii. the conscience case of david bell eben bell came in with an armful of wood and banged it cheerfully down in the box behind the glowing waterloo stove, which was coloring the heart of the little kitchen's gloom with tremulous, rose-red whirls of light. "there, sis, that's the last chore on my list. bob's milking. nothing more for me to do but put on my white collar for meeting. avonlea is more than lively since the evangelist came, ain't it, though!" mollie bell nodded. she was curling her hair before the tiny mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and distorted her round, pink-and-white face into a grotesque caricature. "wonder who'll stand up to-night," said eben reflectively, sitting down on the edge of the wood-box. "there ain't many sinners left in avonlea--only a few hardened chaps like myself." "you shouldn't talk like that," said mollie rebukingly. "what if father heard you?" "father wouldn't hear me if i shouted it in his ear," returned eben. "he goes around, these days, like a man in a dream and a mighty bad dream at that. father has always been a good man. what's the matter with him?" "i don't know," said mollie, dropping her voice. "mother is dreadfully worried over him. and everybody is talking, eb. it just makes me squirm. flora jane fletcher asked me last night why father never testified, and him one of the elders. she said the minister was perplexed about it. i felt my face getting red." "why didn't you tell her it was no business of hers?" said eben angrily. "old flora jane had better mind her own business." "but all the folks are talking about it, eb. and mother is fretting her heart out over it. father has never acted like himself since these meetings began. he just goes there night after night, and sits like a mummy, with his head down. and almost everybody else in avonlea has testified." "oh, no, there's lots haven't," said eben. "matthew cuthbert never has, nor uncle elisha, nor any of the whites." "but everybody knows they don't believe in getting up and testifying, so nobody wonders when they don't. besides," mollie laughed--"matthew could never get a word out in public, if he did believe in it. he'd be too shy. but," she added with a sigh, "it isn't that way with father. he believes in testimony, so people wonder why he doesn't get up. why, even old josiah sloane gets up every night." "with his whiskers sticking out every which way, and his hair ditto," interjected the graceless eben. "when the minister calls for testimonials and all the folks look at our pew, i feel ready to sink through the floor for shame," sighed mollie. "if father would get up just once!" miriam bell entered the kitchen. she was ready for the meeting, to which major spencer was to take her. she was a tall, pale girl, with a serious face, and dark, thoughtful eyes, totally unlike mollie. she had "come under conviction" during the meetings, and had stood up for prayer and testimony several times. the evangelist thought her very spiritual. she heard mollie's concluding sentence and spoke reprovingly. "you shouldn't criticize your father, mollie. it isn't for you to judge him." eben had hastily slipped out. he was afraid miriam would begin talking religion to him if he stayed. he had with difficulty escaped from an exhortation by robert in the cow-stable. there was no peace in avonlea for the unregenerate, he reflected. robert and miriam had both "come out," and mollie was hovering on the brink. "dad and i are the black sheep of the family," he said, with a laugh, for which he at once felt guilty. eben had been brought up with a strict reverence for all religious matters. on the surface he might sometimes laugh at them, but the deeps troubled him whenever he did so. indoors, miriam touched her younger sister's shoulder and looked at her affectionately. "won't you decide to-night, mollie?" she asked, in a voice tremulous with emotion. mollie crimsoned and turned her face away uncomfortably. she did not know what answer to make, and was glad that a jingle of bells outside saved her the necessity of replying. "there's your beau, miriam," she said, as she darted into the sitting room. soon after, eben brought the family pung and his chubby red mare to the door for mollie. he had not as yet attained to the dignity of a cutter of his own. that was for his elder brother, robert, who presently came out in his new fur coat and drove dashingly away with bells and glitter. "thinks he's the people," remarked eben, with a fraternal grin. the rich winter twilight was purpling over the white world as they drove down the lane under the over-arching wild cherry trees that glittered with gemmy hoar-frost. the snow creaked and crisped under the runners. a shrill wind was keening in the leafless dogwoods. over the trees the sky was a dome of silver, with a lucent star or two on the slope of the west. earth-stars gleamed warmly out here and there, where homesteads were tucked snugly away in their orchards or groves of birch. "the church will be jammed to-night," said eben. "it's so fine that folks will come from near and far. guess it'll be exciting." "if only father would testify!" sighed mollie, from the bottom of the pung, where she was snuggled amid furs and straw. "miriam can say what she likes, but i do feel as if we were all disgraced. it sends a creep all over me to hear mr. bentley say, 'now, isn't there one more to say a word for jesus?' and look right over at father." eben flicked his mare with his whip, and she broke into a trot. the silence was filled with a faint, fairy-like melody from afar down the road where a pungful of young folks from white sands were singing hymns on their way to meeting. "look here, mollie," said eben awkwardly at last, "are you going to stand up for prayers to-night?" "i--i can't as long as father acts this way," answered mollie, in a choked voice. "i--i want to, eb, and mirry and bob want me to, but i can't. i do hope that the evangelist won't come and talk to me special to-night. i always feels as if i was being pulled two different ways, when he does." back in the kitchen at home mrs. bell was waiting for her husband to bring the horse to the door. she was a slight, dark-eyed little woman, with thin, vivid-red cheeks. from out of the swathings in which she had wrapped her bonnet, her face gleamed sad and troubled. now and then she sighed heavily. the cat came to her from under the stove, languidly stretching himself, and yawning until all the red cavern of his mouth and throat was revealed. at the moment he had an uncanny resemblance to elder joseph blewett of white sands--roaring joe, the irreverent boys called him--when he grew excited and shouted. mrs. bell saw it--and then reproached herself for the sacrilege. "but it's no wonder i've wicked thoughts," she said, wearily. "i'm that worried i ain't rightly myself. if he would only tell me what the trouble is, maybe i could help him. at any rate, i'd know. it hurts me so to see him going about, day after day, with his head hanging and that look on his face, as if he had something fearful on his conscience--him that never harmed a living soul. and then the way he groans and mutters in his sleep! he has always lived a just, upright life. he hasn't no right to go on like this, disgracing his family." mrs. bell's angry sob was cut short by the sleigh at the door. her husband poked in his busy, iron-gray head and said, "now, mother." he helped her into the sleigh, tucked the rugs warmly around her, and put a hot brick at her feet. his solicitude hurt her. it was all for her material comfort. it did not matter to him what mental agony she might suffer over his strange attitude. for the first time in their married life mary bell felt resentment against her husband. they drove along in silence, past the snow-powdered hedges of spruce, and under the arches of the forest roadways. they were late, and a great stillness was over all the land. david bell never spoke. all his usual cheerful talkativeness had disappeared since the revival meetings had begun in avonlea. from the first he had gone about as a man over whom some strange doom is impending, seemingly oblivious to all that might be said or thought of him in his own family or in the church. mary bell thought she would go out of her mind if her husband continued to act in this way. her reflections were bitter and rebellious as they sped along through the glittering night of the winter's prime. "i don't get one bit of good out of the meetings," she thought resentfully. "there ain't any peace or joy for me, not even in testifying myself, when david sits there like a stick or stone. if he'd been opposed to the revivalist coming here, like old uncle jerry, or if he didn't believe in public testimony, i wouldn't mind. i'd understand. but, as it is, i feel dreadful humiliated." revival meetings had never been held in avonlea before. "uncle" jerry macpherson, who was the supreme local authority in church matters, taking precedence of even the minister, had been uncompromisingly opposed to them. he was a stern, deeply religious scotchman, with a horror of the emotional form of religion. as long as uncle jerry's spare, ascetic form and deeply-graved square-jawed face filled his accustomed corner by the northwest window of avonlea church no revivalist might venture therein, although the majority of the congregation, including the minister, would have welcomed one warmly. but now uncle jerry was sleeping peacefully under the tangled grasses and white snows of the burying ground, and, if dead people ever do turn in their graves, uncle jerry might well have turned in his when the revivalist came to avonlea church, and there followed the emotional services, public testimonies, and religious excitement which the old man's sturdy soul had always abhorred. avonlea was a good field for an evangelist. the rev. geoffrey mountain, who came to assist the avonlea minister in revivifying the dry bones thereof, knew this and reveled in the knowledge. it was not often that such a virgin parish could be found nowadays, with scores of impressionable, unspoiled souls on which fervid oratory could play skillfully, as a master on a mighty organ, until every note in them thrilled to life and utterance. the rev. geoffrey mountain was a good man; of the earth, earthy, to be sure, but with an unquestionable sincerity of belief and purpose which went far to counterbalance the sensationalism of some of his methods. he was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and winning voice--a voice that could melt into irresistible tenderness, or swell into sonorous appeal and condemnation, or ring like a trumpet calling to battle. his frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into vulgarity, counted for nothing against its charm, and the most commonplace words in the world would have borrowed much of the power of real oratory from its magic. he knew its value and used it effectively--perhaps even ostentatiously. geoffrey mountain's religion and methods, like the man himself, were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and, though the good he accomplished might not be unmixed, it was a quantity to be reckoned with. so the rev. geoffrey mountain came to avonlea, conquering and to conquer. night after night the church was crowded with eager listeners, who hung breathlessly on his words and wept and thrilled and exulted as he willed. into many young souls his appeals and warnings burned their way, and each night they rose for prayer in response to his invitation. older christians, too, took on a new lease of intensity, and even the unregenerate and the scoffers found a certain fascination in the meetings. threading through it all, for old and young, converted and unconverted, was an unacknowledged feeling for religious dissipation. avonlea was a quiet place,--and the revival meetings were lively. when david and mary bell reached the church the services had begun, and they heard the refrain of a hallelujah hymn as they were crossing harmon andrews' field. david bell left his wife at the platform and drove to the horse-shed. mrs. bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook the frost crystals from it. in the porch flora jane fletcher and her sister, mrs. harmon andrews, were talking in low whispers. presently flora jane put out her lank, cashmere-gloved hand and plucked mrs. bell's shawl. "mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?" she asked, in a shrill whisper. mrs. bell winced. she would have given much to be able to answer "yes," but she had to say stiffly, "i don't know." flora jane lifted her chin. "well, mrs. bell, i only asked because every one thinks it is strange he doesn't--and an elder, of all people. it looks as if he didn't think himself a christian, you know. of course, we all know better, but it looks that way. if i was you, i'd tell him folks was talking about it. mr. bentley says it is hindering the full success of the meetings." mrs. bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger. she might resent her husband's strange behavior herself, but nobody else should dare to criticize him to her. "i don't think you need to worry yourself about the elder, flora jane," she said bitingly. "maybe 'tisn't the best christians that do the most talking about it always. i guess, as far as living up to his profession goes, the elder will compare pretty favorably with levi boulter, who gets up and testifies every night, and cheats the very eye-teeth out of people in the daytime." levi boulter was a middle-aged widower, with a large family, who was supposed to have cast a matrimonial eye flora janeward. the use of his name was an effective thrust on mrs. bell's part, and silenced flora jane. too angry for speech she seized her sister's arm and hurried her into church. but her victory could not remove from mary bell's soul the sting implanted there by flora jane's words. when her husband came up to the platform she put her hand on his snowy arm appealingly. "oh, david, won't you get up to-night? i do feel so dreadful bad--folks are talking so--i just feel humiliated." david bell hung his head like a shamed schoolboy. "i can't, mary," he said huskily. "'tain't no use to pester me." "you don't care for my feelings," said his wife bitterly. "and mollie won't come out because you're acting so. you're keeping her back from salvation. and you're hindering the success of the revival--mr. bentley says so." david bell groaned. this sign of suffering wrung his wife's heart. with quick contrition she whispered, "there, never mind, david. i oughtn't to have spoken to you so. you know your duty best. let's go in." "wait." his voice was imploring. "mary, is it true that mollie won't come out because of me? am i standing in my child's light?" "i--don't--know. i guess not. mollie's just a foolish young girl yet. never mind--come in." he followed her dejectedly in, and up the aisle to their pew in the center of the church. the building was warm and crowded. the pastor was reading the bible lesson for the evening. in the choir, behind him, david bell saw mollie's girlish face, tinged with a troubled seriousness. his own wind-ruddy face and bushy gray eyebrows worked convulsively with his inward throes. a sigh that was almost a groan burst from him. "i'll have to do it," he said to himself in agony. when several more hymns had been sung, and late arrivals began to pack the aisles, the evangelist arose. his style for the evening was the tender, the pleading, the solemn. he modulated his tones to marvelous sweetness, and sent them thrillingly over the breathless pews, entangling the hearts and souls of his listeners in a mesh of subtle emotion. many of the women began to cry softly. fervent amens broke from some of the members. when the evangelist sat down, after a closing appeal which, in its way, was a masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passed like a wave over the audience. after prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if any of those present wished to come out on the side of christ, they would signify the wish by rising for a moment in their places. after a brief interval, a pale boy under the gallery rose, followed by an old man at the top of the church. a frightened, sweet-faced child of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and a dramatic thrill passed over the congregation when her mother suddenly stood up beside her. the evangelist's "thank god" was hearty and insistent. david bell looked almost imploringly at mollie; but she kept her seat, with downcast eyes. over in the big square "stone pew" he saw eben bending forward, with his elbows on his knees, gazing frowningly at the floor. "i'm a stumbling block to them both," he thought bitterly. a hymn was sung and prayer offered for those under conviction. then testimonies were called for. the evangelist asked for them in tones which made it seem a personal request to every one in that building. many testimonies followed, each infused with the personality of the giver. most of them were brief and stereotyped. finally a pause ensued. the evangelist swept the pews with his kindling eyes and exclaimed, appealingly, "has every christian in this church to-night spoken a word for his master?" there were many who had not testified, but every eye in the building followed the pastor's accusing glance to the bell pew. mollie crimsoned with shame. mrs. bell cowered visibly. although everybody looked thus at david bell, nobody now expected him to testify. when he rose to his feet, a murmur of surprise passed over the audience, followed by a silence so complete as to be terrible. to david bell it seemed to possess the awe of final judgment. twice he opened his lips, and tried vainly to speak. the third time he succeeded; but his voice sounded strangely in his own ears. he gripped the back of the pew before him with his knotty hands, and fixed his eyes unseeingly on the christian endeavor pledge that hung over the heads of the choir. "brethren and sisters," he said hoarsely, "before i can say a word of christian testimony here to-night i've got something to confess. it's been lying hard and heavy on my conscience ever since these meetings begun. as long as i kept silence about it i couldn't get up and bear witness for christ. many of you have expected me to do it. maybe i've been a stumbling block to some of you. this season of revival has brought no blessing to me because of my sin, which i repented of, but tried to conceal. there has been a spiritual darkness over me. "friends and neighbors, i have always been held by you as an honest man. it was the shame of having you know i was not which has kept me back from open confession and testimony. just afore these meetings commenced i come home from town one night and found that somebody had passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on me. then satan entered into me and possessed me. when mrs. rachel lynde come next day, collecting for foreign missions, i give her that ten dollar bill. she never knowed the difference, and sent it away with the rest. but i knew i'd done a mean and sinful thing. i couldn't drive it out of my thoughts. a few days afterwards i went down to mrs. rachel's and give her ten good dollars for the fund. i told her i had come to the conclusion i ought to give more than ten dollars, out of my abundance, to the lord. that was a lie. mrs. lynde thought i was a generous man, and i felt ashamed to look her in the face. but i'd done what i could to right the wrong, and i thought it would be all right. but it wasn't. i've never known a minute's peace of mind or conscience since. i tried to cheat the lord, and then tried to patch it up by doing something that redounded to my worldly credit. when these meetings begun, and everybody expected me to testify, i couldn't do it. it would have seemed like blasphemy. and i couldn't endure the thought of telling what i'd done, either. i argued it all out a thousand times that i hadn't done any real harm after all, but it was no use. i've been so wrapped up in my own brooding and misery that i didn't realize i was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by my conduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the paths of salvation. but my eyes have been opened to this to-night, and the lord has given me strength to confess my sin and glorify his holy name." the broken tones ceased, and david bell sat down, wiping the great drops of perspiration from his brow. to a man of his training, and cast of thought, no ordeal could be more terrible than that through which he had just passed. but underneath the turmoil of his emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threaded with the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory. over the church was a solemn hush. the evangelist's "amen" was not spoken with his usual unctuous fervor, but very gently and reverently. in spite of his coarse fiber, he could appreciate the nobility behind such a confession as this, and the deeps of stern suffering it sounded. before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked around. "is there yet one," he asked gently, "who wishes to be especially remembered in our concluding prayer?" for a moment nobody moved. then mollie bell stood up in the choir seat, and, down by the stove, eben, his flushed, boyish face held high, rose sturdily to his feet in the midst of his companions. "thank god," whispered mary bell. "amen," said her husband huskily. "let us pray," said mr. bentley. xiv. only a common fellow on my dearie's wedding morning i wakened early and went to her room. long and long ago she had made me promise that i would be the one to wake her on the morning of her wedding day. "you were the first to take me in your arms when i came into the world, aunt rachel," she had said, "and i want you to be the first to greet me on that wonderful day." but that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that there would be no need of wakening her. and there was not. she was lying there awake, very quiet, with her hand under her cheek, and her big blue eyes fixed on the window, through which a pale, dull light was creeping in--a joyless light it was, and enough to make a body shiver. i felt more like weeping than rejoicing, and my heart took to aching when i saw her there so white and patient, more like a girl who was waiting for a winding-sheet than for a bridal veil. but she smiled brave-like, when i sat down on her bed and took her hand. "you look as if you haven't slept all night, dearie," i said. "i didn't--not a great deal," she answered me. "but the night didn't seem long; no, it seemed too short. i was thinking of a great many things. what time is it, aunt rachel?" "five o'clock." "then in six hours more--" she suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope of brown hair falling over her white shoulders, and flung her arms about me, and burst into tears on my old breast. i petted and soothed her, and said not a word; and, after a while, she stopped crying; but she still sat with her head so that i couldn't see her face. "we didn't think it would be like this once, did we, aunt rachel?" she said, very softly. "it shouldn't be like this, now," i said. i had to say it. i never could hide the thought of that marriage, and i couldn't pretend to. it was all her stepmother's doings--right well i knew that. my dearie would never have taken mark foster else. "don't let us talk of that," she said, soft and beseeching, just the same way she used to speak when she was a baby-child and wanted to coax me into something. "let us talk about the old days--and him." "i don't see much use in talking of him, when you're going to marry mark foster to-day," i said. but she put her hand on my mouth. "it's for the last time, aunt rachel. after to-day i can never talk of him, or even think of him. it's four years since he went away. do you remember how he looked, aunt rachel?" "i mind well enough, i reckon," i said, kind of curt-like. and i did. owen blair hadn't a face a body could forget--that long face of his with its clean color and its eyes made to look love into a woman's. when i thought of mark foster's sallow skin and lank jaws i felt sick-like. not that mark was ugly--he was just a common-looking fellow. "he was so handsome, wasn't he, aunt rachel?" my dearie went on, in that patient voice of hers. "so tall and strong and handsome. i wish we hadn't parted in anger. it was so foolish of us to quarrel. but it would have been all right if he had lived to come back. i know it would have been all right. i know he didn't carry any bitterness against me to his death. i thought once, aunt rachel, that i would go through life true to him, and then, over on the other side, i'd meet him just as before, all his and his only. but it isn't to be." "thanks to your stepma's wheedling and mark foster's scheming," said i. "no, mark didn't scheme," she said patiently. "don't be unjust to mark, aunt rachel. he has been very good and kind." "he's as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as solomon's mule," i said, for i would say it. "he's just a common fellow, and yet he thinks he's good enough for my beauty." "don't talk about mark," she pleaded again. "i mean to be a good, faithful wife to him. but i'm my own woman yet--yet--for just a few more sweet hours, and i want to give them to him. the last hours of my maidenhood--they must belong to him." so she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her, with her lovely hair hanging down over my arm, and my heart aching so for her that it hurt bitter. she didn't feel as bad as i did, because she'd made up her mind what to do and was resigned. she was going to marry mark foster, but her heart was in france, in that grave nobody knew of, where the huns had buried owen blair--if they had buried him at all. and she went over all they had been to each other, since they were mites of babies, going to school together and meaning, even then, to be married when they grew up; and the first words of love he'd said to her, and what she'd dreamed and hoped for. the only thing she didn't bring up was the time he thrashed mark foster for bringing her apples. she never mentioned mark's name; it was all owen--owen--and how he looked, and what might have been, if he hadn't gone off to the awful war and got shot. and there was me, holding her and listening to it all, and her stepma sleeping sound and triumphant in the next room. when she had talked it all out she lay down on her pillow again. i got up and went downstairs to light the fire. i felt terrible old and tired. my feet seemed to drag, and the tears kept coming to my eyes, though i tried to keep them away, for well i knew it was a bad omen to be weeping on a wedding day. before long isabella clark came down; bright and pleased-looking enough, she was. i'd never liked isabella, from the day phillippa's father brought her here; and i liked her less than ever this morning. she was one of your sly, deep women, always smiling smooth, and scheming underneath it. i'll say it for her, though, she had been good to phillippa; but it was her doings that my dearie was to marry mark foster that day. "up betimes, rachel," she said, smiling and speaking me fair, as she always did, and hating me in her heart, as i well knew. "that is right, for we'll have plenty to do to-day. a wedding makes lots of work." "not this sort of a wedding," i said, sour-like. "i don't call it a wedding when two people get married and sneak off as if they were ashamed of it--as well they might be in this case." "it was phillippa's own wish that all should be very quiet," said isabella, as smooth as cream. "you know i'd have given her a big wedding, if she'd wanted it." "oh, it's better quiet," i said. "the fewer to see phillippa marry a man like mark foster the better." "mark foster is a good man, rachel." "no good man would be content to buy a girl as he's bought phillippa," i said, determined to give it in to her. "he's a common fellow, not fit for my dearie to wipe her feet on. it's well that her mother didn't live to see this day; but this day would never have come, if she'd lived." "i dare say phillippa's mother would have remembered that mark foster is very well off, quite as readily as worse people," said isabella, a little spitefully. i liked her better when she was spiteful than when she was smooth. i didn't feel so scared of her then. the marriage was to be at eleven o'clock, and, at nine, i went up to help phillippa dress. she was no fussy bride, caring much what she looked like. if owen had been the bridegroom it would have been different. nothing would have pleased her then; but now it was only just "that will do very well, aunt rachel," without even glancing at it. still, nothing could prevent her from looking lovely when she was dressed. my dearie would have been a beauty in a beggarmaid's rags. in her white dress and veil she was as fair as a queen. and she was as good as she was pretty. it was the right sort of goodness, too, with just enough spice of original sin in it to keep it from spoiling by reason of over-sweetness. then she sent me out. "i want to be alone my last hour," she said. "kiss me, aunt rachel--mother rachel." when i'd gone down, crying like the old fool i was, i heard a rap at the door. my first thought was to go out and send isabella to it, for i supposed it was mark foster, come ahead of time, and small stomach i had for seeing him. i fall trembling, even yet, when i think, "what if i had sent isabella to that door?" but go i did, and opened it, defiant-like, kind of hoping it was mark foster to see the tears on my face. i opened it--and staggered back like i'd got a blow. "owen! lord ha' mercy on us! owen!" i said, just like that, going cold all over, for it's the truth that i thought it was his spirit come back to forbid that unholy marriage. but he sprang right in, and caught my wrinkled old hands in a grasp that was of flesh and blood. "aunt rachel, i'm not too late?" he said, savage-like. "tell me i'm in time." i looked up at him, standing over me there, tall and handsome, no change in him except he was so brown and had a little white scar on his forehead; and, though i couldn't understand at all, being all bewildered-like, i felt a great deep thankfulness. "no, you're not too late," i said. "thank god," said he, under his breath. and then he pulled me into the parlor and shut the door. "they told me at the station that phillippa was to be married to mark foster to-day. i couldn't believe it, but i came here as fast as horse-flesh could bring me. aunt rachel, it can't be true! she can't care for mark foster, even if she had forgotten me!" "it's true enough that she is to marry mark," i said, half-laughing, half-crying, "but she doesn't care for him. every beat of her heart is for you. it's all her stepma's doings. mark has got a mortgage on the place, and he told isabella clark that, if phillippa would marry him, he'd burn the mortgage, and, if she wouldn't, he'd foreclose. phillippa is sacrificing herself to save her stepma for her dead father's sake. it's all your fault," i cried, getting over my bewilderment. "we thought you were dead. why didn't you come home when you were alive? why didn't you write?" "i did write, after i got out of the hospital, several times," he said, "and never a word in answer, aunt rachel. what was i to think when phillippa wouldn't answer my letters?" "she never got one," i cried. "she wept her sweet eyes out over you. somebody must have got those letters." and i knew then, and i know now, though never a shadow of proof have i, that isabella clark had got them--and kept them. that woman would stick at nothing. "well, we'll sift that matter some other time," said owen impatiently. "there are other things to think of now. i must see phillippa." "i'll manage it for you," i said eagerly; but, just as i spoke, the door opened and isabella and mark came in. never shall i forget the look on isabella's face. i almost felt sorry for her. she turned sickly yellow and her eyes went wild; they were looking at the downfall of all her schemes and hopes. i didn't look at mark foster, at first, and, when i did, there wasn't anything to see. his face was just as sallow and wooden as ever; he looked undersized and common beside owen. nobody'd ever have picked him out for a bridegroom. owen spoke first. "i want to see phillippa," he said, as if it were but yesterday that he had gone away. all isabella's smoothness and policy had dropped away from her, and the real woman stood there, plotting and unscrupulous, as i'd always know her. "you can't see her," she said desperate-like. "she doesn't want to see you. you went and left her and never wrote, and she knew you weren't worth fretting over, and she has learned to care for a better man." "i did write and i think you know that better than most folks," said owen, trying hard to speak quiet. "as for the rest, i'm not going to discuss it with you. when i hear from phillippa's own lips that she cares for another man i'll believe it--and not before." "you'll never hear it from her lips," said i. isabella gave me a venomous look. "you'll not see phillippa until she is a better man's wife," she said stubbornly, "and i order you to leave my house, owen blair!" "no!" it was mark foster who spoke. he hadn't said a word; but he came forward now, and stood before owen. such a difference as there was between them! but he looked owen right in the face, quiet-like, and owen glared back in fury. "will it satisfy you, owen, if phillippa comes down here and chooses between us?" "yes, it will," said owen. mark foster turned to me. "go and bring her down," said he. isabella, judging phillippa by herself, gave a little moan of despair, and owen, blinded by love and hope, thought his cause was won. but i knew my dearie too well to be glad, and mark foster did, too, and i hated him for it. i went up to my dearie's room, all pale and shaking. when i went in she came to meet me, like a girl going to meet death. "is--it--time?" she said, with her hands locked tight together. i said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of owen would break down her resolution. i just held out my hand to her, and led her downstairs. she clung to me and her hands were as cold as snow. when i opened the parlor door i stood back, and pushed her in before me. she just cried, "owen!" and shook so that i put my arms about her to steady her. owen made a step towards her, his face and eyes all aflame with his love and longing, but mark barred his way. "wait till she has made her choice," he said, and then he turned to phillippa. i couldn't see my dearie's face, but i could see mark's, and there wasn't a spark of feeling in it. behind it was isabella's, all pinched and gray. "phillippa," said mark, "owen blair has come back. he says he has never forgotten you, and that he wrote to you several times. i have told him that you have promised me, but i leave you freedom of choice. which of us will you marry, phillippa?" my dearie stood straight up and the trembling left her. she stepped back, and i could see her face, white as the dead, but calm and resolved. "i have promised to marry you, mark, and i will keep my word," she said. the color came back to isabella clark's face; but mark's did not change. "phillippa," said owen, and the pain in his voice made my old heart ache bitterer than ever, "have you ceased to love me?" my dearie would have been more than human, if she could have resisted the pleading in his tone. she said no word, but just looked at him for a moment. we all saw the look; her whole soul, full of love for owen, showed out in it. then she turned and stood by mark. owen never said a word. he went as white as death, and started for the door. but again mark foster put himself in the way. "wait," he said. "she has made her choice, as i knew she would; but i have yet to make mine. and i choose to marry no woman whose love belongs to another living man. phillippa, i thought owen blair was dead, and i believed that, when you were my wife, i could win your love. but i love you too well to make you miserable. go to the man you love--you are free!" "and what is to become of me?" wailed isabella. "oh, you!--i had forgotten about you," said mark, kind of weary-like. he took a paper from his pocket, and dropped it in the grate. "there is the mortgage. that is all you care about, i think. good-morning." he went out. he was only a common fellow, but, somehow, just then he looked every inch the gentleman. i would have gone after him and said something but--the look on his face--no, it was no time for my foolish old words! phillippa was crying, with her head on owen's shoulder. isabella clark waited to see the mortgage burned up, and then she came to me in the hall, all smooth and smiling again. "really, it's all very romantic, isn't it? i suppose it's better as it is, all things considered. mark behaved splendidly, didn't he? not many men would have done as he did." for once in my life i agreed with isabella. but i felt like having a good cry over it all--and i had it. i was glad for my dearie's sake and owen's; but mark foster had paid the price of their joy, and i knew it had beggared him of happiness for life. xv. tannis of the flats few people in avonlea could understand why elinor blair had never married. she had been one of the most beautiful girls in our part of the island and, as a woman of fifty, she was still very attractive. in her youth she had had ever so many beaux, as we of our generation well remembered; but, after her return from visiting her brother tom in the canadian northwest, more than twenty-five years ago, she had seemed to withdraw within herself, keeping all men at a safe, though friendly, distance. she had been a gay, laughing girl when she went west; she came back quiet and serious, with a shadowed look in her eyes which time could not quite succeed in blotting out. elinor had never talked much about her visit, except to describe the scenery and the life, which in that day was rough indeed. not even to me, who had grown up next door to her and who had always seemed more a sister than a friend, did she speak of other than the merest commonplaces. but when tom blair made a flying trip back home, some ten years later, there were one or two of us to whom he related the story of jerome carey,--a story revealing only too well the reason for elinor's sad eyes and utter indifference to masculine attentions. i can recall almost his exact words and the inflections of his voice, and i remember, too, that it seemed to me a far cry from the tranquil, pleasant scene before us, on that lovely summer day, to the elemental life of the flats. the flats was a forlorn little trading station fifteen miles up the river from prince albert, with a scanty population of half-breeds and three white men. when jerome carey was sent to take charge of the telegraph office there, he cursed his fate in the picturesque language permissible in the far northwest. not that carey was a profane man, even as men go in the west. he was an english gentleman, and he kept both his life and his vocabulary pretty clean. but--the flats! outside of the ragged cluster of log shacks, which comprised the settlement, there was always a shifting fringe of teepees where the indians, who drifted down from the reservation, camped with their dogs and squaws and papooses. there are standpoints from which indians are interesting, but they cannot be said to offer congenial social attractions. for three weeks after carey went to the flats he was lonelier than he had ever imagined it possible to be, even in the great lone land. if it had not been for teaching paul dumont the telegraphic code, carey believed he would have been driven to suicide in self-defense. the telegraphic importance of the flats consisted in the fact that it was the starting point of three telegraph lines to remote trading posts up north. not many messages came therefrom, but the few that did come generally amounted to something worth while. days and even weeks would pass without a single one being clicked to the flats. carey was debarred from talking over the wires to the prince albert man for the reason that they were on officially bad terms. he blamed the latter for his transfer to the flats. carey slept in a loft over the office, and got his meals at joe esquint's, across the "street." joe esquint's wife was a good cook, as cooks go among the breeds, and carey soon became a great pet of hers. carey had a habit of becoming a pet with women. he had the "way" that has to be born in a man and can never be acquired. besides, he was as handsome as clean-cut features, deep-set, dark-blue eyes, fair curls and six feet of muscle could make him. mrs. joe esquint thought that his mustache was the most wonderfully beautiful thing, in its line, that she had ever seen. fortunately, mrs. joe was so old and fat and ugly that even the malicious and inveterate gossip of skulking breeds and indians, squatting over teepee fires, could not hint at anything questionable in the relations between her and carey. but it was a different matter with tannis dumont. tannis came home from the academy at prince albert early in july, when carey had been at the flats a month and had exhausted all the few novelties of his position. paul dumont had already become so expert at the code that his mistakes no longer afforded carey any fun, and the latter was getting desperate. he had serious intentions of throwing up the business altogether, and betaking himself to an alberta ranch, where at least one would have the excitement of roping horses. when he saw tannis dumont he thought he would hang on awhile longer, anyway. tannis was the daughter of old auguste dumont, who kept the one small store at the flats, lived in the one frame house that the place boasted, and was reputed to be worth an amount of money which, in half-breed eyes, was a colossal fortune. old auguste was black and ugly and notoriously bad-tempered. but tannis was a beauty. tannis' great-grandmother had been a cree squaw who married a french trapper. the son of this union became in due time the father of auguste dumont. auguste married a woman whose mother was a french half-breed and whose father was a pure-bred highland scotchman. the result of this atrocious mixture was its justification--tannis of the flats--who looked as if all the blood of all the howards might be running in her veins. but, after all, the dominant current in those same veins was from the race of plain and prairie. the practiced eye detected it in the slender stateliness of carriage, in the graceful, yet voluptuous, curves of the lithe body, in the smallness and delicacy of hand and foot, in the purple sheen on straight-falling masses of blue-black hair, and, more than all else, in the long, dark eye, full and soft, yet alight with a slumbering fire. france, too, was responsible for somewhat in tannis. it gave her a light step in place of the stealthy half-breed shuffle, it arched her red upper lip into a more tremulous bow, it lent a note of laughter to her voice and a sprightlier wit to her tongue. as for her red-headed scotch grandfather, he had bequeathed her a somewhat whiter skin and ruddier bloom than is usually found in the breeds. old auguste was mightily proud of tannis. he sent her to school for four years in prince albert, bound that his girl should have the best. a high school course and considerable mingling in the social life of the town--for old auguste was a man to be conciliated by astute politicians, since he controlled some two or three hundred half-breed votes--sent tannis home to the flats with a very thin, but very deceptive, veneer of culture and civilization overlying the primitive passions and ideas of her nature. carey saw only the beauty and the veneer. he made the mistake of thinking that tannis was what she seemed to be--a fairly well-educated, up-to-date young woman with whom a friendly flirtation was just what it was with white womankind--the pleasant amusement of an hour or season. it was a mistake--a very big mistake. tannis understood something of piano playing, something less of grammar and latin, and something less still of social prevarications. but she understood absolutely nothing of flirtation. you can never get an indian to see the sense of platonics. carey found the flats quite tolerable after the homecoming of tannis. he soon fell into the habit of dropping into the dumont house to spend the evening, talking with tannis in the parlor--which apartment was amazingly well done for a place like the flats--tannis had not studied prince albert parlors four years for nothing--or playing violin and piano duets with her. when music and conversation palled, they went for long gallops over the prairies together. tannis rode to perfection, and managed her bad-tempered brute of a pony with a skill and grace that made carey applaud her. she was glorious on horseback. sometimes he grew tired of the prairies and then he and tannis paddled themselves over the river in nitchie joe's dug-out, and landed on the old trail that struck straight into the wooded belt of the saskatchewan valley, leading north to trading posts on the frontier of civilization. there they rambled under huge pines, hoary with the age of centuries, and carey talked to tannis about england and quoted poetry to her. tannis liked poetry; she had studied it at school, and understood it fairly well. but once she told carey that she thought it a long, round-about way of saying what you could say just as well in about a dozen plain words. carey laughed. he liked to evoke those little speeches of hers. they sounded very clever, dropping from such arched, ripely-tinted lips. if you had told carey that he was playing with fire he would have laughed at you. in the first place he was not in the slightest degree in love with tannis--he merely admired and liked her. in the second place, it never occurred to him that tannis might be in love with him. why, he had never attempted any love-making with her! and, above all, he was obsessed with that aforesaid fatal idea that tannis was like the women he had associated with all his life, in reality as well as in appearance. he did not know enough of the racial characteristics to understand. but, if carey thought his relationship with tannis was that of friendship merely, he was the only one at the flats who did think so. all the half-breeds and quarter-breeds and any-fractional breeds there believed that he meant to marry tannis. there would have been nothing surprising to them in that. they did not know that carey's second cousin was a baronet, and they would not have understood that it need make any difference, if they had. they thought that rich old auguste's heiress, who had been to school for four years in prince albert, was a catch for anybody. old auguste himself shrugged his shoulders over it and was well-pleased enough. an englishman was a prize by way of a husband for a half-breed girl, even if he were only a telegraph operator. young paul dumont worshipped carey, and the half-scotch mother, who might have understood, was dead. in all the flats there were but two people who disapproved of the match they thought an assured thing. one of these was the little priest, father gabriel. he liked tannis, and he liked carey; but he shook his head dubiously when he heard the gossip of the shacks and teepees. religions might mingle, but the different bloods--ah, it was not the right thing! tannis was a good girl, and a beautiful one; but she was no fit mate for the fair, thorough-bred englishman. father gabriel wished fervently that jerome carey might soon be transferred elsewhere. he even went to prince albert and did a little wire-pulling on his own account, but nothing came of it. he was on the wrong side of politics. the other malcontent was lazarre mérimée, a lazy, besotted french half-breed, who was, after his fashion, in love with tannis. he could never have got her, and he knew it--old auguste and young paul would have incontinently riddled him with bullets had he ventured near the house as a suitor,--but he hated carey none the less, and watched for a chance to do him an ill-turn. there is no worse enemy in all the world than a half-breed. your true indian is bad enough, but his diluted descendant is ten times worse. as for tannis, she loved carey with all her heart, and that was all there was about it. if elinor blair had never gone to prince albert there is no knowing what might have happened, after all. carey, so powerful in propinquity, might even have ended by learning to love tannis and marrying her, to his own worldly undoing. but elinor did go to prince albert, and her going ended all things for tannis of the flats. carey met her one evening in september, when he had ridden into town to attend a dance, leaving paul dumont in charge of the telegraph office. elinor had just arrived in prince albert on a visit to tom, to which she had been looking forward during the five years since he had married and moved out west from avonlea. as i have already said, she was very beautiful at that time, and carey fell in love with her at the first moment of their meeting. during the next three weeks he went to town nine times and called at the dumonts' only once. there were no more rides and walks with tannis. this was not intentional neglect on his part. he had simply forgotten all about her. the breeds surmised a lover's quarrel, but tannis understood. there was another woman back there in town. it would be quite impossible to put on paper any adequate idea of her emotions at this stage. one night, she followed carey when he went to prince albert, riding out of earshot, behind him on her plains pony, but keeping him in sight. lazarre, in a fit of jealousy, had followed tannis, spying on her until she started back to the flats. after that he watched both carey and tannis incessantly, and months later had told tom all he had learned through his low sneaking. tannis trailed carey to the blair house, on the bluffs above the town, and saw him tie his horse at the gate and enter. she, too, tied her pony to a poplar, lower down, and then crept stealthily through the willows at the side of the house until she was close to the windows. through one of them she could see carey and elinor. the half-breed girl crouched down in the shadow and glared at her rival. she saw the pretty, fair-tinted face, the fluffy coronal of golden hair, the blue, laughing eyes of the woman whom jerome carey loved, and she realized very plainly that there was nothing left to hope for. she, tannis of the flats, could never compete with that other. it was well to know so much, at least. after a time, she crept softly away, loosed her pony, and lashed him mercilessly with her whip through the streets of the town and out the long, dusty river trail. a man turned and looked after her as she tore past a brightly lighted store on water street. "that was tannis of the flats," he said to a companion. "she was in town last winter, going to school--a beauty and a bit of the devil, like all those breed girls. what in thunder is she riding like that for?" one day, a fortnight later, carey went over the river alone for a ramble up the northern trail, and an undisturbed dream of elinor. when he came back tannis was standing at the canoe landing, under a pine tree, in a rain of finely sifted sunlight. she was waiting for him and she said, without any preface: "mr. carey, why do you never come to see me, now?" carey flushed like any girl. her tone and look made him feel very uncomfortable. he remembered, self-reproachfully, that he must have seemed very neglectful, and he stammered something about having been busy. "not very busy," said tannis, with her terrible directness. "it is not that. it is because you are going to prince albert to see a white woman!" even in his embarrassment carey noted that this was the first time he had ever heard tannis use the expression, "a white woman," or any other that would indicate her sense of a difference between herself and the dominant race. he understood, at the same moment, that this girl was not to be trifled with--that she would have the truth out of him, first or last. but he felt indescribably foolish. "i suppose so," he answered lamely. "and what about me?" asked tannis. when you come to think of it, this was an embarrassing question, especially for carey, who had believed that tannis understood the game, and played it for its own sake, as he did. "i don't understand you, tannis," he said hurriedly. "you have made me love you," said tannis. the words sound flat enough on paper. they did not sound flat to tom, as repeated by lazarre, and they sounded anything but flat to carey, hurled at him as they were by a woman trembling with all the passions of her savage ancestry. tannis had justified her criticism of poetry. she had said her half-dozen words, instinct with all the despair and pain and wild appeal that all the poetry in the world had ever expressed. they made carey feel like a scoundrel. all at once he realized how impossible it would be to explain matters to tannis, and that he would make a still bigger fool of himself, if he tried. "i am very sorry," he stammered, like a whipped schoolboy. "it is no matter," interrupted tannis violently. "what difference does it make about me--a half-breed girl? we breed girls are only born to amuse the white men. that is so--is it not? then, when they are tired of us, they push us aside and go back to their own kind. oh, it is very well. but i will not forget--my father and brother will not forget. they will make you sorry to some purpose!" she turned, and stalked away to her canoe. he waited under the pines until she crossed the river; then he, too, went miserably home. what a mess he had contrived to make of things! poor tannis! how handsome she had looked in her fury--and how much like a squaw! the racial marks always come out plainly under the stress of emotion, as tom noted later. her threat did not disturb him. if young paul and old auguste made things unpleasant for him, he thought himself more than a match for them. it was the thought of the suffering he had brought upon tannis that worried him. he had not, to be sure, been a villain; but he had been a fool, and that is almost as bad, under some circumstances. the dumonts, however, did not trouble him. after all, tannis' four years in prince albert had not been altogether wasted. she knew that white girls did not mix their male relatives up in a vendetta when a man ceased calling on them--and she had nothing else to complain of that could be put in words. after some reflection she concluded to hold her tongue. she even laughed when old auguste asked her what was up between her and her fellow, and said she had grown tired of him. old auguste shrugged his shoulders resignedly. it was just as well, maybe. those english sons-in-law sometimes gave themselves too many airs. so carey rode often to town and tannis bided her time, and plotted futile schemes of revenge, and lazarre mérimée scowled and got drunk--and life went on at the flats as usual, until the last week in october, when a big wind and rainstorm swept over the northland. it was a bad night. the wires were down between the flats and prince albert and all communication with the outside world was cut off. over at joe esquint's the breeds were having a carouse in honor of joe's birthday. paul dumont had gone over, and carey was alone in the office, smoking lazily and dreaming of elinor. suddenly, above the plash of rain and whistle of wind, he heard outcries in the street. running to the door he was met by mrs. joe esquint, who grasped him breathlessly. "meestair carey--come quick! lazarre, he kill paul--they fight!" carey, with a smothered oath, rushed across the street. he had been afraid of something of the sort, and had advised paul not to go, for those half-breed carouses almost always ended in a free fight. he burst into the kitchen at joe esquint's, to find a circle of mute spectators ranged around the room and paul and lazarre in a clinch in the center. carey was relieved to find it was only an affair of fists. he promptly hurled himself at the combatants and dragged paul away, while mrs. joe esquint--joe himself being dead-drunk in a corner--flung her fat arms about lazarre and held him back. "stop this," said carey sternly. "let me get at him," foamed paul. "he insulted my sister. he said that you--let me get at him!" he could not writhe free from carey's iron grip. lazarre, with a snarl like a wolf, sent mrs. joe spinning, and rushed at paul. carey struck out as best he could, and lazarre went reeling back against the table. it went over with a crash and the light went out! mrs. joe's shrieks might have brought the roof down. in the confusion that ensued, two pistol shots rang out sharply. there was a cry, a groan, a fall--then a rush for the door. when mrs. joe esquint's sister-in-law, marie, dashed in with another lamp, mrs. joe was still shrieking, paul dumont was leaning sickly against the wall with a dangling arm, and carey lay face downward on the floor, with blood trickling from under him. marie esquint was a woman of nerve. she told mrs. joe to shut up, and she turned carey over. he was conscious, but seemed dazed and could not help himself. marie put a coat under his head, told paul to lie down on the bench, ordered mrs. joe to get a bed ready, and went for the doctor. it happened that there was a doctor at the flats that night--a prince albert man who had been up at the reservation, fixing up some sick indians, and had been stormstaid at old auguste's on his way back. marie soon returned with the doctor, old auguste, and tannis. carey was carried in and laid on mrs. esquint's bed. the doctor made a brief examination, while mrs. joe sat on the floor and howled at the top of her lungs. then he shook his head. "shot in the back," he said briefly. "how long?" asked carey, understanding. "perhaps till morning," answered the doctor. mrs. joe gave a louder howl than ever at this, and tannis came and stood by the bed. the doctor, knowing that he could do nothing for carey, hurried into the kitchen to attend to paul, who had a badly shattered arm, and marie went with him. carey looked stupidly at tannis. "send for her," he said. tannis smiled cruelly. "there is no way. the wires are down, and there is no man at the flats who will go to town to-night," she answered. "my god, i must see her before i die," burst out carey pleadingly. "where is father gabriel? he will go." "the priest went to town last night and has not come back," said tannis. carey groaned and shut his eyes. if father gabriel was away, there was indeed no one to go. old auguste and the doctor could not leave paul and he knew well that no breed of them all at the flats would turn out on such a night, even if they were not, one and all, mortally scared of being mixed up in the law and justice that would be sure to follow the affair. he must die without seeing elinor. tannis looked inscrutably down on the pale face on mrs. joe esquint's dirty pillows. her immobile features gave no sign of the conflict raging within her. after a short space she turned and went out, shutting the door softly on the wounded man and mrs. joe, whose howls had now simmered down to whines. in the next room, paul was crying out with pain as the doctor worked on his arm, but tannis did not go to him. instead, she slipped out and hurried down the stormy street to old auguste's stable. five minutes later she was galloping down the black, wind-lashed river trail, on her way to town, to bring elinor blair to her lover's deathbed. i hold that no woman ever did anything more unselfish than this deed of tannis! for the sake of love she put under her feet the jealousy and hatred that had clamored at her heart. she held, not only revenge, but the dearer joy of watching by carey to the last, in the hollow of her hand, and she cast both away that the man she loved might draw his dying breath somewhat easier. in a white woman the deed would have been merely commendable. in tannis of the flats, with her ancestry and tradition, it was lofty self-sacrifice. it was eight o'clock when tannis left the flats; it was ten when she drew bridle before the house on the bluff. elinor was regaling tom and his wife with avonlea gossip when the maid came to the door. "pleas'm, there's a breed girl out on the verandah and she's asking for miss blair." elinor went out wonderingly, followed by tom. tannis, whip in hand, stood by the open door, with the stormy night behind her, and the warm ruby light of the hall lamp showering over her white face and the long rope of drenched hair that fell from her bare head. she looked wild enough. "jerome carey was shot in a quarrel at joe esquint's to-night," she said. "he is dying--he wants you--i have come for you." elinor gave a little cry, and steadied herself on tom's shoulder. tom said he knew he made some exclamation of horror. he had never approved of carey's attentions to elinor, but such news was enough to shock anybody. he was determined, however, that elinor should not go out in such a night and to such a scene, and told tannis so in no uncertain terms. "i came through the storm," said tannis, contemptuously. "cannot she do as much for him as i can?" the good, old island blood in elinor's veins showed to some purpose. "yes," she answered firmly. "no, tom, don't object--i must go. get my horse--and your own." ten minutes later three riders galloped down the bluff road and took the river trail. fortunately the wind was at their backs and the worst of the storm was over. still, it was a wild, black ride enough. tom rode, cursing softly under his breath. he did not like the whole thing--carey done to death in some low half-breed shack, this handsome, sullen girl coming as his messenger, this nightmare ride, through wind and rain. it all savored too much of melodrama, even for the northland, where people still did things in a primitive way. he heartily wished elinor had never left avonlea. it was past twelve when they reached the flats. tannis was the only one who seemed to be able to think coherently. it was she who told tom where to take the horses and then led elinor to the room where carey was dying. the doctor was sitting by the bedside and mrs. joe was curled up in a corner, sniffling to herself. tannis took her by the shoulder and turned her, none too gently, out of the room. the doctor, understanding, left at once. as tannis shut the door she saw elinor sink on her knees by the bed, and carey's trembling hand go out to her head. tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrapped herself up in a shawl marie esquint had dropped. in that attitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers and goers, even old auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she was one, and left her undisturbed. she watched there until dawn came whitely up over the prairies and jerome carey died. she knew when it happened by elinor's cry. tannis sprang up and rushed in. she was too late for even a parting look. the girl took carey's hand in hers, and turned to the weeping elinor with a cold dignity. "now go," she said. "you had him in life to the very last. he is mine now." "there must be some arrangements made," faltered elinor. "my father and brother will make all arrangements, as you call them," said tannis steadily. "he had no near relatives in the world--none at all in canada--he told me so. you may send out a protestant minister from town, if you like; but he will be buried here at the flats and his grave will be mine--all mine! go!" and elinor, reluctant, sorrowful, yet swayed by a will and an emotion stronger than her own, went slowly out, leaving tannis of the flats alone with her dead. anne's house of dreams by lucy maud montgomery "to laura, in memory of the olden time." contents chapter in the garret of green gables the house of dreams the land of dreams among the first bride of green gables the home coming captain jim the schoolmaster's bride miss cornelia bryant comes to call an evening at four winds point leslie moore the story of leslie moore leslie comes over a ghostly evening november days christmas at four winds new year's eve at the light a four winds winter spring days dawn and dusk lost margaret barriers swept away miss cornelia arranges matters owen ford comes the life-book of captain jim the writing of the book owen ford's confession on the sand bar odds and ends gilbert and anne disagree leslie decides the truth makes free miss cornelia discusses the affair leslie returns the ship o'dreams comes to harbor politics at four winds beauty for ashes red roses captain jim crosses the bar farewell to the house of dreams chapter in the garret of green gables "thanks be, i'm done with geometry, learning or teaching it," said anne shirley, a trifle vindictively, as she thumped a somewhat battered volume of euclid into a big chest of books, banged the lid in triumph, and sat down upon it, looking at diana wright across the green gables garret, with gray eyes that were like a morning sky. the garret was a shadowy, suggestive, delightful place, as all garrets should be. through the open window, by which anne sat, blew the sweet, scented, sun-warm air of the august afternoon; outside, poplar boughs rustled and tossed in the wind; beyond them were the woods, where lover's lane wound its enchanted path, and the old apple orchard which still bore its rosy harvests munificently. and, over all, was a great mountain range of snowy clouds in the blue southern sky. through the other window was glimpsed a distant, white-capped, blue sea--the beautiful st. lawrence gulf, on which floats, like a jewel, abegweit, whose softer, sweeter indian name has long been forsaken for the more prosaic one of prince edward island. diana wright, three years older than when we last saw her, had grown somewhat matronly in the intervening time. but her eyes were as black and brilliant, her cheeks as rosy, and her dimples as enchanting, as in the long-ago days when she and anne shirley had vowed eternal friendship in the garden at orchard slope. in her arms she held a small, sleeping, black-curled creature, who for two happy years had been known to the world of avonlea as "small anne cordelia." avonlea folks knew why diana had called her anne, of course, but avonlea folks were puzzled by the cordelia. there had never been a cordelia in the wright or barry connections. mrs. harmon andrews said she supposed diana had found the name in some trashy novel, and wondered that fred hadn't more sense than to allow it. but diana and anne smiled at each other. they knew how small anne cordelia had come by her name. "you always hated geometry," said diana with a retrospective smile. "i should think you'd be real glad to be through with teaching, anyhow." "oh, i've always liked teaching, apart from geometry. these past three years in summerside have been very pleasant ones. mrs. harmon andrews told me when i came home that i wouldn't likely find married life as much better than teaching as i expected. evidently mrs. harmon is of hamlet's opinion that it may be better to bear the ills that we have than fly to others that we know not of." anne's laugh, as blithe and irresistible as of yore, with an added note of sweetness and maturity, rang through the garret. marilla in the kitchen below, compounding blue plum preserve, heard it and smiled; then sighed to think how seldom that dear laugh would echo through green gables in the years to come. nothing in her life had ever given marilla so much happiness as the knowledge that anne was going to marry gilbert blythe; but every joy must bring with it its little shadow of sorrow. during the three summerside years anne had been home often for vacations and weekends; but, after this, a bi-annual visit would be as much as could be hoped for. "you needn't let what mrs. harmon says worry you," said diana, with the calm assurance of the four-years matron. "married life has its ups and downs, of course. you mustn't expect that everything will always go smoothly. but i can assure you, anne, that it's a happy life, when you're married to the right man." anne smothered a smile. diana's airs of vast experience always amused her a little. "i daresay i'll be putting them on too, when i've been married four years," she thought. "surely my sense of humor will preserve me from it, though." "is it settled yet where you are going to live?" asked diana, cuddling small anne cordelia with the inimitable gesture of motherhood which always sent through anne's heart, filled with sweet, unuttered dreams and hopes, a thrill that was half pure pleasure and half a strange, ethereal pain. "yes. that was what i wanted to tell you when i 'phoned to you to come down today. by the way, i can't realize that we really have telephones in avonlea now. it sounds so preposterously up-to-date and modernish for this darling, leisurely old place." "we can thank the a. v. i. s. for them," said diana. "we should never have got the line if they hadn't taken the matter up and carried it through. there was enough cold water thrown to discourage any society. but they stuck to it, nevertheless. you did a splendid thing for avonlea when you founded that society, anne. what fun we did have at our meetings! will you ever forget the blue hall and judson parker's scheme for painting medicine advertisements on his fence?" "i don't know that i'm wholly grateful to the a. v. i. s. in the matter of the telephone," said anne. "oh, i know it's most convenient--even more so than our old device of signalling to each other by flashes of candlelight! and, as mrs. rachel says, 'avonlea must keep up with the procession, that's what.' but somehow i feel as if i didn't want avonlea spoiled by what mr. harrison, when he wants to be witty, calls 'modern inconveniences.' i should like to have it kept always just as it was in the dear old years. that's foolish--and sentimental--and impossible. so i shall immediately become wise and practical and possible. the telephone, as mr. harrison concedes, is 'a buster of a good thing'--even if you do know that probably half a dozen interested people are listening along the line." "that's the worst of it," sighed diana. "it's so annoying to hear the receivers going down whenever you ring anyone up. they say mrs. harmon andrews insisted that their 'phone should be put in their kitchen just so that she could listen whenever it rang and keep an eye on the dinner at the same time. today, when you called me, i distinctly heard that queer clock of the pyes' striking. so no doubt josie or gertie was listening." "oh, so that is why you said, 'you've got a new clock at green gables, haven't you?' i couldn't imagine what you meant. i heard a vicious click as soon as you had spoken. i suppose it was the pye receiver being hung up with profane energy. well, never mind the pyes. as mrs. rachel says, 'pyes they always were and pyes they always will be, world without end, amen.' i want to talk of pleasanter things. it's all settled as to where my new home shall be." "oh, anne, where? i do hope it's near here." "no-o-o, that's the drawback. gilbert is going to settle at four winds harbor--sixty miles from here." "sixty! it might as well be six hundred," sighed diana. "i never can get further from home now than charlottetown." "you'll have to come to four winds. it's the most beautiful harbor on the island. there's a little village called glen st. mary at its head, and dr. david blythe has been practicing there for fifty years. he is gilbert's great-uncle, you know. he is going to retire, and gilbert is to take over his practice. dr. blythe is going to keep his house, though, so we shall have to find a habitation for ourselves. i don't know yet what it is, or where it will be in reality, but i have a little house o'dreams all furnished in my imagination--a tiny, delightful castle in spain." "where are you going for your wedding tour?" asked diana. "nowhere. don't look horrified, diana dearest. you suggest mrs. harmon andrews. she, no doubt, will remark condescendingly that people who can't afford wedding 'towers' are real sensible not to take them; and then she'll remind me that jane went to europe for hers. i want to spend my honeymoon at four winds in my own dear house of dreams." "and you've decided not to have any bridesmaid?" "there isn't any one to have. you and phil and priscilla and jane all stole a march on me in the matter of marriage; and stella is teaching in vancouver. i have no other 'kindred soul' and i won't have a bridesmaid who isn't." "but you are going to wear a veil, aren't you?" asked diana, anxiously. "yes, indeedy. i shouldn't feel like a bride without one. i remember telling matthew, that evening when he brought me to green gables, that i never expected to be a bride because i was so homely no one would ever want to marry me--unless some foreign missionary did. i had an idea then that foreign missionaries couldn't afford to be finicky in the matter of looks if they wanted a girl to risk her life among cannibals. you should have seen the foreign missionary priscilla married. he was as handsome and inscrutable as those daydreams we once planned to marry ourselves, diana; he was the best dressed man i ever met, and he raved over priscilla's 'ethereal, golden beauty.' but of course there are no cannibals in japan." "your wedding dress is a dream, anyhow," sighed diana rapturously. "you'll look like a perfect queen in it--you're so tall and slender. how do you keep so slim, anne? i'm fatter than ever--i'll soon have no waist at all." "stoutness and slimness seem to be matters of predestination," said anne. "at all events, mrs. harmon andrews can't say to you what she said to me when i came home from summerside, 'well, anne, you're just about as skinny as ever.' it sounds quite romantic to be 'slender,' but 'skinny' has a very different tang." "mrs. harmon has been talking about your trousseau. she admits it's as nice as jane's, although she says jane married a millionaire and you are only marrying a 'poor young doctor without a cent to his name.'" anne laughed. "my dresses are nice. i love pretty things. i remember the first pretty dress i ever had--the brown gloria matthew gave me for our school concert. before that everything i had was so ugly. it seemed to me that i stepped into a new world that night." "that was the night gilbert recited 'bingen on the rhine,' and looked at you when he said, 'there's another, not a sister.' and you were so furious because he put your pink tissue rose in his breast pocket! you didn't much imagine then that you would ever marry him." "oh, well, that's another instance of predestination," laughed anne, as they went down the garret stairs. chapter the house of dreams there was more excitement in the air of green gables than there had ever been before in all its history. even marilla was so excited that she couldn't help showing it--which was little short of being phenomenal. "there's never been a wedding in this house," she said, half apologetically, to mrs. rachel lynde. "when i was a child i heard an old minister say that a house was not a real home until it had been consecrated by a birth, a wedding and a death. we've had deaths here--my father and mother died here as well as matthew; and we've even had a birth here. long ago, just after we moved into this house, we had a married hired man for a little while, and his wife had a baby here. but there's never been a wedding before. it does seem so strange to think of anne being married. in a way she just seems to me the little girl matthew brought home here fourteen years ago. i can't realize that she's grown up. i shall never forget what i felt when i saw matthew bringing in a girl. i wonder what became of the boy we would have got if there hadn't been a mistake. i wonder what his fate was." "well, it was a fortunate mistake," said mrs. rachel lynde, "though, mind you, there was a time i didn't think so--that evening i came up to see anne and she treated us to such a scene. many things have changed since then, that's what." mrs. rachel sighed, and then brisked up again. when weddings were in order mrs. rachel was ready to let the dead past bury its dead. "i'm going to give anne two of my cotton warp spreads," she resumed. "a tobacco-stripe one and an apple-leaf one. she tells me they're getting to be real fashionable again. well, fashion or no fashion, i don't believe there's anything prettier for a spare-room bed than a nice apple-leaf spread, that's what. i must see about getting them bleached. i've had them sewed up in cotton bags ever since thomas died, and no doubt they're an awful color. but there's a month yet, and dew-bleaching will work wonders." only a month! marilla sighed and then said proudly: "i'm giving anne that half dozen braided rugs i have in the garret. i never supposed she'd want them--they're so old-fashioned, and nobody seems to want anything but hooked mats now. but she asked me for them--said she'd rather have them than anything else for her floors. they are pretty. i made them of the nicest rags, and braided them in stripes. it was such company these last few winters. and i'll make her enough blue plum preserve to stock her jam closet for a year. it seems real strange. those blue plum trees hadn't even a blossom for three years, and i thought they might as well be cut down. and this last spring they were white, and such a crop of plums i never remember at green gables." "well, thank goodness that anne and gilbert really are going to be married after all. it's what i've always prayed for," said mrs. rachel, in the tone of one who is comfortably sure that her prayers have availed much. "it was a great relief to find out that she really didn't mean to take the kingsport man. he was rich, to be sure, and gilbert is poor--at least, to begin with; but then he's an island boy." "he's gilbert blythe," said marilla contentedly. marilla would have died the death before she would have put into words the thought that was always in the background of her mind whenever she had looked at gilbert from his childhood up--the thought that, had it not been for her own wilful pride long, long ago, he might have been her son. marilla felt that, in some strange way, his marriage with anne would put right that old mistake. good had come out of the evil of the ancient bitterness. as for anne herself, she was so happy that she almost felt frightened. the gods, so says the old superstition, do not like to behold too happy mortals. it is certain, at least, that some human beings do not. two of that ilk descended upon anne one violet dusk and proceeded to do what in them lay to prick the rainbow bubble of her satisfaction. if she thought she was getting any particular prize in young dr. blythe, or if she imagined that he was still as infatuated with her as he might have been in his salad days, it was surely their duty to put the matter before her in another light. yet these two worthy ladies were not enemies of anne; on the contrary, they were really quite fond of her, and would have defended her as their own young had anyone else attacked her. human nature is not obliged to be consistent. mrs. inglis--nee jane andrews, to quote from the daily enterprise--came with her mother and mrs. jasper bell. but in jane the milk of human kindness had not been curdled by years of matrimonial bickerings. her lines had fallen in pleasant places. in spite of the fact--as mrs. rachel lynde would say--that she had married a millionaire, her marriage had been happy. wealth had not spoiled her. she was still the placid, amiable, pink-cheeked jane of the old quartette, sympathising with her old chum's happiness and as keenly interested in all the dainty details of anne's trousseau as if it could rival her own silken and bejewelled splendors. jane was not brilliant, and had probably never made a remark worth listening to in her life; but she never said anything that would hurt anyone's feelings--which may be a negative talent but is likewise a rare and enviable one. "so gilbert didn't go back on you after all," said mrs. harmon andrews, contriving to convey an expression of surprise in her tone. "well, the blythes generally keep their word when they've once passed it, no matter what happens. let me see--you're twenty-five, aren't you, anne? when i was a girl twenty-five was the first corner. but you look quite young. red-headed people always do." "red hair is very fashionable now," said anne, trying to smile, but speaking rather coldly. life had developed in her a sense of humor which helped her over many difficulties; but as yet nothing had availed to steel her against a reference to her hair. "so it is--so it is," conceded mrs. harmon. "there's no telling what queer freaks fashion will take. well, anne, your things are very pretty, and very suitable to your position in life, aren't they, jane? i hope you'll be very happy. you have my best wishes, i'm sure. a long engagement doesn't often turn out well. but, of course, in your case it couldn't be helped." "gilbert looks very young for a doctor. i'm afraid people won't have much confidence in him," said mrs. jasper bell gloomily. then she shut her mouth tightly, as if she had said what she considered it her duty to say and held her conscience clear. she belonged to the type which always has a stringy black feather in its hat and straggling locks of hair on its neck. anne's surface pleasure in her pretty bridal things was temporarily shadowed; but the deeps of happiness below could not thus be disturbed; and the little stings of mesdames bell and andrews were forgotten when gilbert came later, and they wandered down to the birches of the brook, which had been saplings when anne had come to green gables, but were now tall, ivory columns in a fairy palace of twilight and stars. in their shadows anne and gilbert talked in lover-fashion of their new home and their new life together. "i've found a nest for us, anne." "oh, where? not right in the village, i hope. i wouldn't like that altogether." "no. there was no house to be had in the village. this is a little white house on the harbor shore, half way between glen st. mary and four winds point. it's a little out of the way, but when we get a 'phone in that won't matter so much. the situation is beautiful. it looks to the sunset and has the great blue harbor before it. the sand-dunes aren't very far away--the sea winds blow over them and the sea spray drenches them." "but the house itself, gilbert,--our first home? what is it like?" "not very large, but large enough for us. there's a splendid living room with a fireplace in it downstairs, and a dining room that looks out on the harbor, and a little room that will do for my office. it is about sixty years old--the oldest house in four winds. but it has been kept in pretty good repair, and was all done over about fifteen years ago--shingled, plastered and re-floored. it was well built to begin with. i understand that there was some romantic story connected with its building, but the man i rented it from didn't know it." "he said captain jim was the only one who could spin that old yarn now." "who is captain jim?" "the keeper of the lighthouse on four winds point. you'll love that four winds light, anne. it's a revolving one, and it flashes like a magnificent star through the twilights. we can see it from our living room windows and our front door." "who owns the house?" "well, it's the property of the glen st. mary presbyterian church now, and i rented it from the trustees. but it belonged until lately to a very old lady, miss elizabeth russell. she died last spring, and as she had no near relatives she left her property to the glen st. mary church. her furniture is still in the house, and i bought most of it--for a mere song you might say, because it was all so old-fashioned that the trustees despaired of selling it. glen st. mary folks prefer plush brocade and sideboards with mirrors and ornamentations, i fancy. but miss russell's furniture is very good and i feel sure you'll like it, anne." "so far, good," said anne, nodding cautious approval. "but, gilbert, people cannot live by furniture alone. you haven't yet mentioned one very important thing. are there trees about this house?" "heaps of them, oh, dryad! there is a big grove of fir trees behind it, two rows of lombardy poplars down the lane, and a ring of white birches around a very delightful garden. our front door opens right into the garden, but there is another entrance--a little gate hung between two firs. the hinges are on one trunk and the catch on the other. their boughs form an arch overhead." "oh, i'm so glad! i couldn't live where there were no trees--something vital in me would starve. well, after that, there's no use asking you if there's a brook anywhere near. that would be expecting too much." "but there is a brook--and it actually cuts across one corner of the garden." "then," said anne, with a long sigh of supreme satisfaction, "this house you have found is my house of dreams and none other." chapter the land of dreams among "have you made up your mind who you're going to have to the wedding, anne?" asked mrs. rachel lynde, as she hemstitched table napkins industriously. "it's time your invitations were sent, even if they are to be only informal ones." "i don't mean to have very many," said anne. "we just want those we love best to see us married. gilbert's people, and mr. and mrs. allan, and mr. and mrs. harrison." "there was a time when you'd hardly have numbered mr. harrison among your dearest friends," said marilla drily. "well, i wasn't very strongly attracted to him at our first meeting," acknowledged anne, with a laugh over the recollection. "but mr. harrison has improved on acquaintance, and mrs. harrison is really a dear. then, of course, there are miss lavendar and paul." "have they decided to come to the island this summer? i thought they were going to europe." "they changed their minds when i wrote them i was going to be married. i had a letter from paul today. he says he must come to my wedding, no matter what happens to europe." "that child always idolised you," remarked mrs. rachel. "that 'child' is a young man of nineteen now, mrs. lynde." "how time does fly!" was mrs. lynde's brilliant and original response. "charlotta the fourth may come with them. she sent word by paul that she would come if her husband would let her. i wonder if she still wears those enormous blue bows, and whether her husband calls her charlotta or leonora. i should love to have charlotta at my wedding. charlotta and i were at a wedding long syne. they expect to be at echo lodge next week. then there are phil and the reverend jo----" "it sounds awful to hear you speaking of a minister like that, anne," said mrs. rachel severely. "his wife calls him that." "she should have more respect for his holy office, then," retorted mrs. rachel. "i've heard you criticise ministers pretty sharply yourself," teased anne. "yes, but i do it reverently," protested mrs. lynde. "you never heard me nickname a minister." anne smothered a smile. "well, there are diana and fred and little fred and small anne cordelia--and jane andrews. i wish i could have miss stacey and aunt jamesina and priscilla and stella. but stella is in vancouver, and pris is in japan, and miss stacey is married in california, and aunt jamesina has gone to india to explore her daughter's mission field, in spite of her horror of snakes. it's really dreadful--the way people get scattered over the globe." "the lord never intended it, that's what," said mrs. rachel authoritatively. "in my young days people grew up and married and settled down where they were born, or pretty near it. thank goodness you've stuck to the island, anne. i was afraid gilbert would insist on rushing off to the ends of the earth when he got through college, and dragging you with him." "if everybody stayed where he was born places would soon be filled up, mrs. lynde." "oh, i'm not going to argue with you, anne. _i_ am not a b.a. what time of the day is the ceremony to be?" "we have decided on noon--high noon, as the society reporters say. that will give us time to catch the evening train to glen st. mary." "and you'll be married in the parlor?" "no--not unless it rains. we mean to be married in the orchard--with the blue sky over us and the sunshine around us. do you know when and where i'd like to be married, if i could? it would be at dawn--a june dawn, with a glorious sunrise, and roses blooming in the gardens; and i would slip down and meet gilbert and we would go together to the heart of the beech woods,--and there, under the green arches that would be like a splendid cathedral, we would be married." marilla sniffed scornfully and mrs. lynde looked shocked. "but that would be terrible queer, anne. why, it wouldn't really seem legal. and what would mrs. harmon andrews say?" "ah, there's the rub," sighed anne. "there are so many things in life we cannot do because of the fear of what mrs. harmon andrews would say. ''tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis, 'tis true.' what delightful things we might do were it not for mrs. harmon andrews!" "by times, anne, i don't feel quite sure that i understand you altogether," complained mrs. lynde. "anne was always romantic, you know," said marilla apologetically. "well, married life will most likely cure her of that," mrs. rachel responded comfortingly. anne laughed and slipped away to lover's lane, where gilbert found her; and neither of them seemed to entertain much fear, or hope, that their married life would cure them of romance. the echo lodge people came over the next week, and green gables buzzed with the delight of them. miss lavendar had changed so little that the three years since her last island visit might have been a watch in the night; but anne gasped with amazement over paul. could this splendid six feet of manhood be the little paul of avonlea schooldays? "you really make me feel old, paul," said anne. "why, i have to look up to you!" "you'll never grow old, teacher," said paul. "you are one of the fortunate mortals who have found and drunk from the fountain of youth,--you and mother lavendar. see here! when you're married i won't call you mrs. blythe. to me you'll always be 'teacher'--the teacher of the best lessons i ever learned. i want to show you something." the "something" was a pocketbook full of poems. paul had put some of his beautiful fancies into verse, and magazine editors had not been as unappreciative as they are sometimes supposed to be. anne read paul's poems with real delight. they were full of charm and promise. "you'll be famous yet, paul. i always dreamed of having one famous pupil. he was to be a college president--but a great poet would be even better. some day i'll be able to boast that i whipped the distinguished paul irving. but then i never did whip you, did i, paul? what an opportunity lost! i think i kept you in at recess, however." "you may be famous yourself, teacher. i've seen a good deal of your work these last three years." "no. i know what i can do. i can write pretty, fanciful little sketches that children love and editors send welcome cheques for. but i can do nothing big. my only chance for earthly immortality is a corner in your memoirs." charlotta the fourth had discarded the blue bows but her freckles were not noticeably less. "i never did think i'd come down to marrying a yankee, miss shirley, ma'am," she said. "but you never know what's before you, and it isn't his fault. he was born that way." "you're a yankee yourself, charlotta, since you've married one." "miss shirley, ma'am, i'm not! and i wouldn't be if i was to marry a dozen yankees! tom's kind of nice. and besides, i thought i'd better not be too hard to please, for i mightn't get another chance. tom don't drink and he don't growl because he has to work between meals, and when all's said and done i'm satisfied, miss shirley, ma'am." "does he call you leonora?" asked anne. "goodness, no, miss shirley, ma'am. i wouldn't know who he meant if he did. of course, when we got married he had to say, 'i take thee, leonora,' and i declare to you, miss shirley, ma'am, i've had the most dreadful feeling ever since that it wasn't me he was talking to and i haven't been rightly married at all. and so you're going to be married yourself, miss shirley, ma'am? i always thought i'd like to marry a doctor. it would be so handy when the children had measles and croup. tom is only a bricklayer, but he's real good-tempered. when i said to him, says i, 'tom, can i go to miss shirley's wedding? i mean to go anyhow, but i'd like to have your consent,' he just says, 'suit yourself, charlotta, and you'll suit me.' that's a real pleasant kind of husband to have, miss shirley, ma'am." philippa and her reverend jo arrived at green gables the day before the wedding. anne and phil had a rapturous meeting which presently simmered down to a cosy, confidential chat over all that had been and was about to be. "queen anne, you're as queenly as ever. i've got fearfully thin since the babies came. i'm not half so good-looking; but i think jo likes it. there's not such a contrast between us, you see. and oh, it's perfectly magnificent that you're going to marry gilbert. roy gardner wouldn't have done at all, at all. i can see that now, though i was horribly disappointed at the time. you know, anne, you did treat roy very badly." "he has recovered, i understand," smiled anne. "oh, yes. he is married and his wife is a sweet little thing and they're perfectly happy. everything works together for good. jo and the bible say that, and they are pretty good authorities." "are alec and alonzo married yet?" "alec is, but alonzo isn't. how those dear old days at patty's place come back when i'm talking to you, anne! what fun we had!" "have you been to patty's place lately?" "oh, yes, i go often. miss patty and miss maria still sit by the fireplace and knit. and that reminds me--we've brought you a wedding gift from them, anne. guess what it is." "i never could. how did they know i was going to be married?" "oh, i told them. i was there last week. and they were so interested. two days ago miss patty wrote me a note asking me to call; and then she asked if i would take her gift to you. what would you wish most from patty's place, anne?" "you can't mean that miss patty has sent me her china dogs?" "go up head. they're in my trunk this very moment. and i've a letter for you. wait a moment and i'll get it." "dear miss shirley," miss patty had written, "maria and i were very much interested in hearing of your approaching nuptials. we send you our best wishes. maria and i have never married, but we have no objection to other people doing so. we are sending you the china dogs. i intended to leave them to you in my will, because you seemed to have sincere affection for them. but maria and i expect to live a good while yet (d.v.), so i have decided to give you the dogs while you are young. you will not have forgotten that gog looks to the right and magog to the left." "just fancy those lovely old dogs sitting by the fireplace in my house of dreams," said anne rapturously. "i never expected anything so delightful." that evening green gables hummed with preparations for the following day; but in the twilight anne slipped away. she had a little pilgrimage to make on this last day of her girlhood and she must make it alone. she went to matthew's grave, in the little poplar-shaded avonlea graveyard, and there kept a silent tryst with old memories and immortal loves. "how glad matthew would be tomorrow if he were here," she whispered. "but i believe he does know and is glad of it--somewhere else. i've read somewhere that 'our dead are never dead until we have forgotten them.' matthew will never be dead to me, for i can never forget him." she left on his grave the flowers she had brought and walked slowly down the long hill. it was a gracious evening, full of delectable lights and shadows. in the west was a sky of mackerel clouds--crimson and amber-tinted, with long strips of apple-green sky between. beyond was the glimmering radiance of a sunset sea, and the ceaseless voice of many waters came up from the tawny shore. all around her, lying in the fine, beautiful country silence, were the hills and fields and woods she had known and loved so long. "history repeats itself," said gilbert, joining her as she passed the blythe gate. "do you remember our first walk down this hill, anne--our first walk together anywhere, for that matter?" "i was coming home in the twilight from matthew's grave--and you came out of the gate; and i swallowed the pride of years and spoke to you." "and all heaven opened before me," supplemented gilbert. "from that moment i looked forward to tomorrow. when i left you at your gate that night and walked home i was the happiest boy in the world. anne had forgiven me." "i think you had the most to forgive. i was an ungrateful little wretch--and after you had really saved my life that day on the pond, too. how i loathed that load of obligation at first! i don't deserve the happiness that has come to me." gilbert laughed and clasped tighter the girlish hand that wore his ring. anne's engagement ring was a circlet of pearls. she had refused to wear a diamond. "i've never really liked diamonds since i found out they weren't the lovely purple i had dreamed. they will always suggest my old disappointment." "but pearls are for tears, the old legend says," gilbert had objected. "i'm not afraid of that. and tears can be happy as well as sad. my very happiest moments have been when i had tears in my eyes--when marilla told me i might stay at green gables--when matthew gave me the first pretty dress i ever had--when i heard that you were going to recover from the fever. so give me pearls for our troth ring, gilbert, and i'll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy." but tonight our lovers thought only of joy and never of sorrow. for the morrow was their wedding day, and their house of dreams awaited them on the misty, purple shore of four winds harbor. chapter the first bride of green gables anne wakened on the morning of her wedding day to find the sunshine winking in at the window of the little porch gable and a september breeze frolicking with her curtains. "i'm so glad the sun will shine on me," she thought happily. she recalled the first morning she had wakened in that little porch room, when the sunshine had crept in on her through the blossom-drift of the old snow queen. that had not been a happy wakening, for it brought with it the bitter disappointment of the preceding night. but since then the little room had been endeared and consecrated by years of happy childhood dreams and maiden visions. to it she had come back joyfully after all her absences; at its window she had knelt through that night of bitter agony when she believed gilbert dying, and by it she had sat in speechless happiness the night of her betrothal. many vigils of joy and some of sorrow had been kept there; and today she must leave it forever. henceforth it would be hers no more; fifteen-year-old dora was to inherit it when she had gone. nor did anne wish it otherwise; the little room was sacred to youth and girlhood--to the past that was to close today before the chapter of wifehood opened. green gables was a busy and joyous house that forenoon. diana arrived early, with little fred and small anne cordelia, to lend a hand. davy and dora, the green gables twins, whisked the babies off to the garden. "don't let small anne cordelia spoil her clothes," warned diana anxiously. "you needn't be afraid to trust her with dora," said marilla. "that child is more sensible and careful than most of the mothers i've known. she's really a wonder in some ways. not much like that other harum-scarum i brought up." marilla smiled across her chicken salad at anne. it might even be suspected that she liked the harum-scarum best after all. "those twins are real nice children," said mrs. rachel, when she was sure they were out of earshot. "dora is so womanly and helpful, and davy is developing into a very smart boy. he isn't the holy terror for mischief he used to be." "i never was so distracted in my life as i was the first six months he was here," acknowledged marilla. "after that i suppose i got used to him. he's taken a great notion to farming lately, and wants me to let him try running the farm next year. i may, for mr. barry doesn't think he'll want to rent it much longer, and some new arrangement will have to be made." "well, you certainly have a lovely day for your wedding, anne," said diana, as she slipped a voluminous apron over her silken array. "you couldn't have had a finer one if you'd ordered it from eaton's." "indeed, there's too much money going out of this island to that same eaton's," said mrs. lynde indignantly. she had strong views on the subject of octopus-like department stores, and never lost an opportunity of airing them. "and as for those catalogues of theirs, they're the avonlea girls' bible now, that's what. they pore over them on sundays instead of studying the holy scriptures." "well, they're splendid to amuse children with," said diana. "fred and small anne look at the pictures by the hour." "_i_ amused ten children without the aid of eaton's catalogue," said mrs. rachel severely. "come, you two, don't quarrel over eaton's catalogue," said anne gaily. "this is my day of days, you know. i'm so happy i want every one else to be happy, too." "i'm sure i hope your happiness will last, child," sighed mrs. rachel. she did hope it truly, and believed it, but she was afraid it was in the nature of a challenge to providence to flaunt your happiness too openly. anne, for her own good, must be toned down a trifle. but it was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old, homespun-carpeted stairs that september noon--the first bride of green gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with her arms full of roses. gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below, looked up at her with adoring eyes. she was his at last, this evasive, long-sought anne, won after years of patient waiting. it was to him she was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride. was he worthy of her? could he make her as happy as he hoped? if he failed her--if he could not measure up to her standard of manhood--then, as she held out her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad certainty. they belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might hold for them, it could never alter that. their happiness was in each other's keeping and both were unafraid. they were married in the sunshine of the old orchard, circled by the loving and kindly faces of long-familiar friends. mr. allan married them, and the reverend jo made what mrs. rachel lynde afterwards pronounced to be the "most beautiful wedding prayer" she had ever heard. birds do not often sing in september, but one sang sweetly from some hidden bough while gilbert and anne repeated their deathless vows. anne heard it and thrilled to it; gilbert heard it, and wondered only that all the birds in the world had not burst into jubilant song; paul heard it and later wrote a lyric about it which was one of the most admired in his first volume of verse; charlotta the fourth heard it and was blissfully sure it meant good luck for her adored miss shirley. the bird sang until the ceremony was ended and then it wound up with one mad little, glad little trill. never had the old gray-green house among its enfolding orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon. all the old jests and quips that must have done duty at weddings since eden were served up, and seemed as new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as if they had never been uttered before. laughter and joy had their way; and when anne and gilbert left to catch the carmody train, with paul as driver, the twins were ready with rice and old shoes, in the throwing of which charlotta the fourth and mr. harrison bore a valiant part. marilla stood at the gate and watched the carriage out of sight down the long lane with its banks of goldenrod. anne turned at its end to wave her last good-bye. she was gone--green gables was her home no more; marilla's face looked very gray and old as she turned to the house which anne had filled for fourteen years, and even in her absence, with light and life. but diana and her small fry, the echo lodge people and the allans, had stayed to help the two old ladies over the loneliness of the first evening; and they contrived to have a quietly pleasant little supper time, sitting long around the table and chatting over all the details of the day. while they were sitting there anne and gilbert were alighting from the train at glen st. mary. chapter the home coming dr. david blythe had sent his horse and buggy to meet them, and the urchin who had brought it slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leaving them to the delight of driving alone to their new home through the radiant evening. anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when they had driven over the hill behind the village. her new home could not yet be seen; but before her lay four winds harbor like a great, shining mirror of rose and silver. far down, she saw its entrance between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red sandstone cliff on the other. beyond the bar the sea, calm and austere, dreamed in the afterlight. the little fishing village, nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the harbor shore, looked like a great opal in the haze. the sky over them was like a jewelled cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with the subtleties of a sea evening. a few dim sails drifted along the darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. a bell was ringing from the tower of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet, the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. the great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of good hope. far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a passing steamer's smoke. "oh, beautiful, beautiful," murmured anne. "i shall love four winds, gilbert. where is our house?" "we can't see it yet--the belt of birch running up from that little cove hides it. it's about two miles from glen st. mary, and there's another mile between it and the light-house. we won't have many neighbors, anne. there's only one house near us and i don't know who lives in it. shall you be lonely when i'm away?" "not with that light and that loveliness for company. who lives in that house, gilbert?" "i don't know. it doesn't look--exactly--as if the occupants would be kindred spirits, anne, does it?" the house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green that the landscape seemed quite faded by contrast. there was an orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow, there was a certain bareness about it. perhaps its neatness was responsible for this; the whole establishment, house, barns, orchard, garden, lawn and lane, was so starkly neat. "it doesn't seem probable that anyone with that taste in paint could be very kindred," acknowledged anne, "unless it were an accident--like our blue hall. i feel certain there are no children there, at least. it's even neater than the old copp place on the tory road, and i never expected to see anything neater than that." they had not met anybody on the moist, red road that wound along the harbor shore. but just before they came to the belt of birch which hid their home, anne saw a girl who was driving a flock of snow-white geese along the crest of a velvety green hill on the right. great, scattered firs grew along it. between their trunks one saw glimpses of yellow harvest fields, gleams of golden sand-hills, and bits of blue sea. the girl was tall and wore a dress of pale blue print. she walked with a certain springiness of step and erectness of bearing. she and her geese came out of the gate at the foot of the hill as anne and gilbert passed. she stood with her hand on the fastening of the gate, and looked steadily at them, with an expression that hardly attained to interest, but did not descend to curiosity. it seemed to anne, for a fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled hint of hostility in it. but it was the girl's beauty which made anne give a little gasp--a beauty so marked that it must have attracted attention anywhere. she was hatless, but heavy braids of burnished hair, the hue of ripe wheat, were twisted about her head like a coronet; her eyes were blue and star-like; her figure, in its plain print gown, was magnificent; and her lips were as crimson as the bunch of blood-red poppies she wore at her belt. "gilbert, who is the girl we have just passed?" asked anne, in a low voice. "i didn't notice any girl," said gilbert, who had eyes only for his bride. "she was standing by that gate--no, don't look back. she is still watching us. i never saw such a beautiful face." "i don't remember seeing any very handsome girls while i was here. there are some pretty girls up at the glen, but i hardly think they could be called beautiful." "this girl is. you can't have seen her, or you would remember her. nobody could forget her. i never saw such a face except in pictures. and her hair! it made me think of browning's 'cord of gold' and 'gorgeous snake'!" "probably she's some visitor in four winds--likely some one from that big summer hotel over the harbor." "she wore a white apron and she was driving geese." "she might do that for amusement. look, anne--there's our house." anne looked and forgot for a time the girl with the splendid, resentful eyes. the first glimpse of her new home was a delight to eye and spirit--it looked so like a big, creamy seashell stranded on the harbor shore. the rows of tall lombardy poplars down its lane stood out in stately, purple silhouette against the sky. behind it, sheltering its garden from the too keen breath of sea winds, was a cloudy fir wood, in which the winds might make all kinds of weird and haunting music. like all woods, it seemed to be holding and enfolding secrets in its recesses,--secrets whose charm is only to be won by entering in and patiently seeking. outwardly, dark green arms keep them inviolate from curious or indifferent eyes. the night winds were beginning their wild dances beyond the bar and the fishing hamlet across the harbor was gemmed with lights as anne and gilbert drove up the poplar lane. the door of the little house opened, and a warm glow of firelight flickered out into the dusk. gilbert lifted anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, red path to the sandstone step. "welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold of their house of dreams. chapter captain jim "old doctor dave" and "mrs. doctor dave" had come down to the little house to greet the bride and groom. doctor dave was a big, jolly, white-whiskered old fellow, and mrs. doctor was a trim rosy-cheeked, silver-haired little lady who took anne at once to her heart, literally and figuratively. "i'm so glad to see you, dear. you must be real tired. we've got a bite of supper ready, and captain jim brought up some trout for you. captain jim--where are you? oh, he's slipped out to see to the horse, i suppose. come upstairs and take your things off." anne looked about her with bright, appreciative eyes as she followed mrs. doctor dave upstairs. she liked the appearance of her new home very much. it seemed to have the atmosphere of green gables and the flavor of her old traditions. "i think i would have found miss elizabeth russell a 'kindred spirit,'" she murmured when she was alone in her room. there were two windows in it; the dormer one looked out on the lower harbor and the sand-bar and the four winds light. "a magic casement opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn," quoted anne softly. the gable window gave a view of a little harvest-hued valley through which a brook ran. half a mile up the brook was the only house in sight--an old, rambling, gray one surrounded by huge willows through which its windows peered, like shy, seeking eyes, into the dusk. anne wondered who lived there; they would be her nearest neighbors and she hoped they would be nice. she suddenly found herself thinking of the beautiful girl with the white geese. "gilbert thought she didn't belong here," mused anne, "but i feel sure she does. there was something about her that made her part of the sea and the sky and the harbor. four winds is in her blood." when anne went downstairs gilbert was standing before the fireplace talking to a stranger. both turned as anne entered. "anne, this is captain boyd. captain boyd, my wife." it was the first time gilbert had said "my wife" to anybody but anne, and he narrowly escaped bursting with the pride of it. the old captain held out a sinewy hand to anne; they smiled at each other and were friends from that moment. kindred spirit flashed recognition to kindred spirit. "i'm right down pleased to meet you, mistress blythe; and i hope you'll be as happy as the first bride was who came here. i can't wish you no better than that. but your husband doesn't introduce me jest exactly right. 'captain jim' is my week-a-day name and you might as well begin as you're sartain to end up--calling me that. you sartainly are a nice little bride, mistress blythe. looking at you sorter makes me feel that i've jest been married myself." amid the laughter that followed mrs. doctor dave urged captain jim to stay and have supper with them. "thank you kindly. 'twill be a real treat, mistress doctor. i mostly has to eat my meals alone, with the reflection of my ugly old phiz in a looking-glass opposite for company. 'tisn't often i have a chance to sit down with two such sweet, purty ladies." captain jim's compliments may look very bald on paper, but he paid them with such a gracious, gentle deference of tone and look that the woman upon whom they were bestowed felt that she was being offered a queen's tribute in a kingly fashion. captain jim was a high-souled, simple-minded old man, with eternal youth in his eyes and heart. he had a tall, rather ungainly figure, somewhat stooped, yet suggestive of great strength and endurance; a clean-shaven face deeply lined and bronzed; a thick mane of iron-gray hair falling quite to his shoulders, and a pair of remarkably blue, deep-set eyes, which sometimes twinkled and sometimes dreamed, and sometimes looked out seaward with a wistful quest in them, as of one seeking something precious and lost. anne was to learn one day what it was for which captain jim looked. it could not be denied that captain jim was a homely man. his spare jaws, rugged mouth, and square brow were not fashioned on the lines of beauty; and he had passed through many hardships and sorrows which had marked his body as well as his soul; but though at first sight anne thought him plain she never thought anything more about it--the spirit shining through that rugged tenement beautified it so wholly. they gathered gaily around the supper table. the hearth fire banished the chill of the september evening, but the window of the dining room was open and sea breezes entered at their own sweet will. the view was magnificent, taking in the harbor and the sweep of low, purple hills beyond. the table was heaped with mrs. doctor's delicacies but the piece de resistance was undoubtedly the big platter of sea trout. "thought they'd be sorter tasty after travelling," said captain jim. "they're fresh as trout can be, mistress blythe. two hours ago they were swimming in the glen pond." "who is attending to the light tonight, captain jim?" asked doctor dave. "nephew alec. he understands it as well as i do. well, now, i'm real glad you asked me to stay to supper. i'm proper hungry--didn't have much of a dinner today." "i believe you half starve yourself most of the time down at that light," said mrs. doctor dave severely. "you won't take the trouble to get up a decent meal." "oh, i do, mistress doctor, i do," protested captain jim. "why, i live like a king gen'rally. last night i was up to the glen and took home two pounds of steak. i meant to have a spanking good dinner today." "and what happened to the steak?" asked mrs. doctor dave. "did you lose it on the way home?" "no." captain jim looked sheepish. "just at bedtime a poor, ornery sort of dog came along and asked for a night's lodging. guess he belonged to some of the fishermen 'long shore. i couldn't turn the poor cur out--he had a sore foot. so i shut him in the porch, with an old bag to lie on, and went to bed. but somehow i couldn't sleep. come to think it over, i sorter remembered that the dog looked hungry." "and you got up and gave him that steak--all that steak," said mrs. doctor dave, with a kind of triumphant reproof. "well, there wasn't anything else to give him," said captain jim deprecatingly. "nothing a dog'd care for, that is. i reckon he was hungry, for he made about two bites of it. i had a fine sleep the rest of the night but my dinner had to be sorter scanty--potatoes and point, as you might say. the dog, he lit out for home this morning. i reckon he weren't a vegetarian." "the idea of starving yourself for a worthless dog!" sniffed mrs. doctor. "you don't know but he may be worth a lot to somebody," protested captain jim. "he didn't look of much account, but you can't go by looks in jedging a dog. like meself, he might be a real beauty inside. the first mate didn't approve of him, i'll allow. his language was right down forcible. but the first mate is prejudiced. no use in taking a cat's opinion of a dog. 'tennyrate, i lost my dinner, so this nice spread in this dee-lightful company is real pleasant. it's a great thing to have good neighbors." "who lives in the house among the willows up the brook?" asked anne. "mrs. dick moore," said captain jim--"and her husband," he added, as if by way of an afterthought. anne smiled, and deduced a mental picture of mrs. dick moore from captain jim's way of putting it; evidently a second mrs. rachel lynde. "you haven't many neighbors, mistress blythe," captain jim went on. "this side of the harbor is mighty thinly settled. most of the land belongs to mr. howard up yander past the glen, and he rents it out for pasture. the other side of the harbor, now, is thick with folks--'specially macallisters. there's a whole colony of macallisters you can't throw a stone but you hit one. i was talking to old leon blacquiere the other day. he's been working on the harbor all summer. 'dey're nearly all macallisters over thar,' he told me. 'dare's neil macallister and sandy macallister and william macallister and alec macallister and angus macallister--and i believe dare's de devil macallister.'" "there are nearly as many elliotts and crawfords," said doctor dave, after the laughter had subsided. "you know, gilbert, we folk on this side of four winds have an old saying--'from the conceit of the elliotts, the pride of the macallisters, and the vainglory of the crawfords, good lord deliver us.'" "there's a plenty of fine people among them, though," said captain jim. "i sailed with william crawford for many a year, and for courage and endurance and truth that man hadn't an equal. they've got brains over on that side of four winds. mebbe that's why this side is sorter inclined to pick on 'em. strange, ain't it, how folks seem to resent anyone being born a mite cleverer than they be." doctor dave, who had a forty years' feud with the over-harbor people, laughed and subsided. "who lives in that brilliant emerald house about half a mile up the road?" asked gilbert. captain jim smiled delightedly. "miss cornelia bryant. she'll likely be over to see you soon, seeing you're presbyterians. if you were methodists she wouldn't come at all. cornelia has a holy horror of methodists." "she's quite a character," chuckled doctor dave. "a most inveterate man-hater!" "sour grapes?" queried gilbert, laughing. "no, 'tisn't sour grapes," answered captain jim seriously. "cornelia could have had her pick when she was young. even yet she's only to say the word to see the old widowers jump. she jest seems to have been born with a sort of chronic spite agin men and methodists. she's got the bitterest tongue and the kindest heart in four winds. wherever there's any trouble, that woman is there, doing everything to help in the tenderest way. she never says a harsh word about another woman, and if she likes to card us poor scalawags of men down i reckon our tough old hides can stand it." "she always speaks well of you, captain jim," said mrs. doctor. "yes, i'm afraid so. i don't half like it. it makes me feel as if there must be something sorter unnateral about me." chapter the schoolmaster's bride "who was the first bride who came to this house, captain jim?" anne asked, as they sat around the fireplace after supper. "was she a part of the story i've heard was connected with this house?" asked gilbert. "somebody told me you could tell it, captain jim." "well, yes, i know it. i reckon i'm the only person living in four winds now that can remember the schoolmaster's bride as she was when she come to the island. she's been dead this thirty year, but she was one of them women you never forget." "tell us the story," pleaded anne. "i want to find out all about the women who have lived in this house before me." "well, there's jest been three--elizabeth russell, and mrs. ned russell, and the schoolmaster's bride. elizabeth russell was a nice, clever little critter, and mrs. ned was a nice woman, too. but they weren't ever like the schoolmaster's bride. "the schoolmaster's name was john selwyn. he came out from the old country to teach school at the glen when i was a boy of sixteen. he wasn't much like the usual run of derelicts who used to come out to p.e.i. to teach school in them days. most of them were clever, drunken critters who taught the children the three r's when they were sober, and lambasted them when they wasn't. but john selwyn was a fine, handsome young fellow. he boarded at my father's, and he and me were cronies, though he was ten years older'n me. we read and walked and talked a heap together. he knew about all the poetry that was ever written, i reckon, and he used to quote it to me along shore in the evenings. dad thought it an awful waste of time, but he sorter endured it, hoping it'd put me off the notion of going to sea. well, nothing could do that--mother come of a race of sea-going folk and it was born in me. but i loved to hear john read and recite. it's almost sixty years ago, but i could repeat yards of poetry i learned from him. nearly sixty years!" captain jim was silent for a space, gazing into the glowing fire in a quest of the bygones. then, with a sigh, he resumed his story. "i remember one spring evening i met him on the sand-hills. he looked sorter uplifted--jest like you did, dr. blythe, when you brought mistress blythe in tonight. i thought of him the minute i seen you. and he told me that he had a sweetheart back home and that she was coming out to him. i wasn't more'n half pleased, ornery young lump of selfishness that i was; i thought he wouldn't be as much my friend after she came. but i'd enough decency not to let him see it. he told me all about her. her name was persis leigh, and she would have come out with him if it hadn't been for her old uncle. he was sick, and he'd looked after her when her parents died and she wouldn't leave him. and now he was dead and she was coming out to marry john selwyn. 'twasn't no easy journey for a woman in them days. there weren't no steamers, you must ricollect. "'when do you expect her?' says i. "'she sails on the royal william, the th of june,' says he, 'and so she should be here by mid-july. i must set carpenter johnson to building me a home for her. her letter come today. i know before i opened it that it had good news for me. i saw her a few nights ago.' "i didn't understand him, and then he explained--though i didn't understand that much better. he said he had a gift--or a curse. them was his words, mistress blythe--a gift or a curse. he didn't know which it was. he said a great-great-grandmother of his had had it, and they burned her for a witch on account of it. he said queer spells--trances, i think was the name he give 'em--come over him now and again. are there such things, doctor?" "there are people who are certainly subject to trances," answered gilbert. "the matter is more in the line of psychical research than medical. what were the trances of this john selwyn like?" "like dreams," said the old doctor skeptically. "he said he could see things in them," said captain jim slowly. "mind you, i'm telling you jest what he said--things that were happening--things that were going to happen. he said they were sometimes a comfort to him and sometimes a horror. four nights before this he'd been in one--went into it while he was sitting looking at the fire. and he saw an old room he knew well in england, and persis leigh in it, holding out her hands to him and looking glad and happy. so he knew he was going to hear good news of her." "a dream--a dream," scoffed the old doctor. "likely--likely," conceded captain jim. "that's what _i_ said to him at the time. it was a vast more comfortable to think so. i didn't like the idea of him seeing things like that--it was real uncanny. "'no,' says he, 'i didn't dream it. but we won't talk of this again. you won't be so much my friend if you think much about it.' "i told him nothing could make me any less his friend. but he jest shook his head and says, says he: "'lad, i know. i've lost friends before because of this. i don't blame them. there are times when i feel hardly friendly to myself because of it. such a power has a bit of divinity in it--whether of a good or an evil divinity who shall say? and we mortals all shrink from too close contact with god or devil.' "them was his words. i remember them as if 'twas yesterday, though i didn't know jest what he meant. what do you s'pose he did mean, doctor?" "i doubt if he knew what he meant himself," said doctor dave testily. "i think i understand," whispered anne. she was listening in her old attitude of clasped lips and shining eyes. captain jim treated himself to an admiring smile before he went on with his story. "well, purty soon all the glen and four winds people knew the schoolmaster's bride was coming, and they were all glad because they thought so much of him. and everybody took an interest in his new house--this house. he picked this site for it, because you could see the harbor and hear the sea from it. he made the garden out there for his bride, but he didn't plant the lombardies. mrs. ned russell planted them. but there's a double row of rose-bushes in the garden that the little girls who went to the glen school set out there for the schoolmaster's bride. he said they were pink for her cheeks and white for her brow and red for her lips. he'd quoted poetry so much that he sorter got into the habit of talking it, too, i reckon. "almost everybody sent him some little present to help out the furnishing of the house. when the russells came into it they were well-to-do and furnished it real handsome, as you can see; but the first furniture that went into it was plain enough. this little house was rich in love, though. the women sent in quilts and tablecloths and towels, and one man made a chest for her, and another a table and so on. even blind old aunt margaret boyd wove a little basket for her out of the sweet-scented sand-hill grass. the schoolmaster's wife used it for years to keep her handkerchiefs in. "well, at last everything was ready--even to the logs in the big fireplace ready for lighting. 'twasn't exactly this fireplace, though 'twas in the same place. miss elizabeth had this put in when she made the house over fifteen years ago. it was a big, old-fashioned fireplace where you could have roasted an ox. many's the time i've sat here and spun yarns, same's i'm doing tonight." again there was a silence, while captain jim kept a passing tryst with visitants anne and gilbert could not see--the folks who had sat with him around that fireplace in the vanished years, with mirth and bridal joy shining in eyes long since closed forever under churchyard sod or heaving leagues of sea. here on olden nights children had tossed laughter lightly to and fro. here on winter evenings friends had gathered. dance and music and jest had been here. here youths and maidens had dreamed. for captain jim the little house was tenanted with shapes entreating remembrance. "it was the first of july when the house was finished. the schoolmaster began to count the days then. we used to see him walking along the shore, and we'd say to each other, 'she'll soon be with him now.' "she was expected the middle of july, but she didn't come then. nobody felt anxious. vessels were often delayed for days and mebbe weeks. the royal william was a week overdue--and then two--and then three. and at last we began to be frightened, and it got worse and worse. fin'lly i couldn't bear to look into john selwyn's eyes. d'ye know, mistress blythe"--captain jim lowered his voice--"i used to think that they looked just like what his old great-great-grandmother's must have been when they were burning her to death. he never said much but he taught school like a man in a dream and then hurried to the shore. many a night he walked there from dark to dawn. people said he was losing his mind. everybody had given up hope--the royal william was eight weeks overdue. it was the middle of september and the schoolmaster's bride hadn't come--never would come, we thought. "there was a big storm then that lasted three days, and on the evening after it died away i went to the shore. i found the schoolmaster there, leaning with his arms folded against a big rock, gazing out to sea. "i spoke to him but he didn't answer. his eyes seemed to be looking at something i couldn't see. his face was set, like a dead man's. "'john--john,' i called out--jest like that--jest like a frightened child, 'wake up--wake up.' "that strange, awful look seemed to sorter fade out of his eyes. "he turned his head and looked at me. i've never forgot his face--never will forget it till i ships for my last voyage. "'all is well, lad,' he says. 'i've seen the royal william coming around east point. she will be here by dawn. tomorrow night i shall sit with my bride by my own hearth-fire.' "do you think he did see it?" demanded captain jim abruptly. "god knows," said gilbert softly. "great love and great pain might compass we know not what marvels." "i am sure he did see it," said anne earnestly. "fol-de-rol," said doctor dave, but he spoke with less conviction than usual. "because, you know," said captain jim solemnly, "the royal william came into four winds harbor at daylight the next morning. "every soul in the glen and along the shore was at the old wharf to meet her. the schoolmaster had been watching there all night. how we cheered as she sailed up the channel." captain jim's eyes were shining. they were looking at the four winds harbor of sixty years agone, with a battered old ship sailing through the sunrise splendor. "and persis leigh was on board?" asked anne. "yes--her and the captain's wife. they'd had an awful passage--storm after storm--and their provisions give out, too. but there they were at last. when persis leigh stepped onto the old wharf john selwyn took her in his arms--and folks stopped cheering and begun to cry. i cried myself, though 'twas years, mind you, afore i'd admit it. ain't it funny how ashamed boys are of tears?" "was persis leigh beautiful?" asked anne. "well, i don't know that you'd call her beautiful exactly--i--don't--know," said captain jim slowly. "somehow, you never got so far along as to wonder if she was handsome or not. it jest didn't matter. there was something so sweet and winsome about her that you had to love her, that was all. but she was pleasant to look at--big, clear, hazel eyes and heaps of glossy brown hair, and an english skin. john and her were married at our house that night at early candle-lighting; everybody from far and near was there to see it and we all brought them down here afterwards. mistress selwyn lighted the fire, and we went away and left them sitting here, jest as john had seen in that vision of his. a strange thing--a strange thing! but i've seen a turrible lot of strange things in my time." captain jim shook his head sagely. "it's a dear story," said anne, feeling that for once she had got enough romance to satisfy her. "how long did they live here?" "fifteen years. i ran off to sea soon after they were married, like the young scalawag i was. but every time i come back from a voyage i'd head for here, even before i went home, and tell mistress selwyn all about it. fifteen happy years! they had a sort of talent for happiness, them two. some folks are like that, if you've noticed. they couldn't be unhappy for long, no matter what happened. they quarrelled once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited. but mistress selwyn says to me once, says she, laughing in that pretty way of hers, 'i felt dreadful when john and i quarrelled, but underneath it all i was very happy because i had such a nice husband to quarrel with and make it up with.' then they moved to charlottetown, and ned russell bought this house and brought his bride here. they were a gay young pair, as i remember them. miss elizabeth russell was alec's sister. she came to live with them a year or so later, and she was a creature of mirth, too. the walls of this house must be sorter soaked with laughing and good times. you're the third bride i've seen come here, mistress blythe--and the handsomest." captain jim contrived to give his sunflower compliment the delicacy of a violet, and anne wore it proudly. she was looking her best that night, with the bridal rose on her cheeks and the love-light in her eyes; even gruff old doctor dave gave her an approving glance, and told his wife, as they drove home together, that that red-headed wife of the boy's was something of a beauty. "i must be getting back to the light," announced captain jim. "i've enj'yed this evening something tremenjus." "you must come often to see us," said anne. "i wonder if you'd give that invitation if you knew how likely i'll be to accept it," captain jim remarked whimsically. "which is another way of saying you wonder if i mean it," smiled anne. "i do, 'cross my heart,' as we used to say at school." "then i'll come. you're likely to be pestered with me at any hour. and i'll be proud to have you drop down and visit me now and then, too. gin'rally i haven't anyone to talk to but the first mate, bless his sociable heart. he's a mighty good listener, and has forgot more'n any macallister of them all ever knew, but he isn't much of a conversationalist. you're young and i'm old, but our souls are about the same age, i reckon. we both belong to the race that knows joseph, as cornelia bryant would say." "the race that knows joseph?" puzzled anne. "yes. cornelia divides all the folks in the world into two kinds--the race that knows joseph and the race that don't. if a person sorter sees eye to eye with you, and has pretty much the same ideas about things, and the same taste in jokes--why, then he belongs to the race that knows joseph." "oh, i understand," exclaimed anne, light breaking in upon her. "it's what i used to call--and still call in quotation marks 'kindred spirits.'" "jest so--jest so," agreed captain jim. "we're it, whatever it is. when you come in tonight, mistress blythe, i says to myself, says i, 'yes, she's of the race that knows joseph.' and mighty glad i was, for if it wasn't so we couldn't have had any real satisfaction in each other's company. the race that knows joseph is the salt of the airth, i reckon." the moon had just risen when anne and gilbert went to the door with their guests. four winds harbor was beginning to be a thing of dream and glamour and enchantment--a spellbound haven where no tempest might ever ravin. the lombardies down the lane, tall and sombre as the priestly forms of some mystic band, were tipped with silver. "always liked lombardies," said captain jim, waving a long arm at them. "they're the trees of princesses. they're out of fashion now. folks complain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking. so they do--so they do, if you don't risk your neck every spring climbing up a light ladder to trim them out. i always did it for miss elizabeth, so her lombardies never got out-at-elbows. she was especially fond of them. she liked their dignity and stand-offishness. they don't hobnob with every tom, dick and harry. if it's maples for company, mistress blythe, it's lombardies for society." "what a beautiful night," said mrs. doctor dave, as she climbed into the doctor's buggy. "most nights are beautiful," said captain jim. "but i 'low that moonlight over four winds makes me sorter wonder what's left for heaven. the moon's a great friend of mine, mistress blythe. i've loved her ever since i can remember. when i was a little chap of eight i fell asleep in the garden one evening and wasn't missed. i woke up along in the night and i was most scared to death. what shadows and queer noises there was! i dursn't move. jest crouched there quaking, poor small mite. seemed 's if there weren't anyone in the world but meself and it was mighty big. then all at once i saw the moon looking down at me through the apple boughs, jest like an old friend. i was comforted right off. got up and walked to the house as brave as a lion, looking at her. many's the night i've watched her from the deck of my vessel, on seas far away from here. why don't you folks tell me to take in the slack of my jaw and go home?" the laughter of the goodnights died away. anne and gilbert walked hand in hand around their garden. the brook that ran across the corner dimpled pellucidly in the shadows of the birches. the poppies along its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight. flowers that had been planted by the hands of the schoolmaster's bride flung their sweetness on the shadowy air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays. anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray. "i love to smell flowers in the dark," she said. "you get hold of their soul then. oh, gilbert, this little house is all i've dreamed it. and i'm so glad that we are not the first who have kept bridal tryst here!" chapter miss cornelia bryant comes to call that september was a month of golden mists and purple hazes at four winds harbor--a month of sun-steeped days and of nights that were swimming in moonlight, or pulsating with stars. no storm marred it, no rough wind blew. anne and gilbert put their nest in order, rambled on the shores, sailed on the harbor, drove about four winds and the glen, or through the ferny, sequestered roads of the woods around the harbor head; in short, had such a honeymoon as any lovers in the world might have envied them. "if life were to stop short just now it would still have been richly worth while, just for the sake of these past four weeks, wouldn't it?" said anne. "i don't suppose we will ever have four such perfect weeks again--but we've had them. everything--wind, weather, folks, house of dreams--has conspired to make our honeymoon delightful. there hasn't even been a rainy day since we came here." "and we haven't quarrelled once," teased gilbert. "well, 'that's a pleasure all the greater for being deferred,'" quoted anne. "i'm so glad we decided to spend our honeymoon here. our memories of it will always belong here, in our house of dreams, instead of being scattered about in strange places." there was a certain tang of romance and adventure in the atmosphere of their new home which anne had never found in avonlea. there, although she had lived in sight of the sea, it had not entered intimately into her life. in four winds it surrounded her and called to her constantly. from every window of her new home she saw some varying aspect of it. its haunting murmur was ever in her ears. vessels sailed up the harbor every day to the wharf at the glen, or sailed out again through the sunset, bound for ports that might be half way round the globe. fishing boats went white-winged down the channel in the mornings, and returned laden in the evenings. sailors and fisher-folk travelled the red, winding harbor roads, light-hearted and content. there was always a certain sense of things going to happen--of adventures and farings-forth. the ways of four winds were less staid and settled and grooved than those of avonlea; winds of change blew over them; the sea called ever to the dwellers on shore, and even those who might not answer its call felt the thrill and unrest and mystery and possibilities of it. "i understand now why some men must go to sea," said anne. "that desire which comes to us all at times--'to sail beyond the bourne of sunset'--must be very imperious when it is born in you. i don't wonder captain jim ran away because of it. i never see a ship sailing out of the channel, or a gull soaring over the sand-bar, without wishing i were on board the ship or had wings, not like a dove 'to fly away and be at rest,' but like a gull, to sweep out into the very heart of a storm." "you'll stay right here with me, anne-girl," said gilbert lazily. "i won't have you flying away from me into the hearts of storms." they were sitting on their red sand-stone doorstep in the late afternoon. great tranquillities were all about them in land and sea and sky. silvery gulls were soaring over them. the horizons were laced with long trails of frail, pinkish clouds. the hushed air was threaded with a murmurous refrain of minstrel winds and waves. pale asters were blowing in the sere and misty meadows between them and the harbor. "doctors who have to be up all night waiting on sick folk don't feel very adventurous, i suppose," anne said indulgently. "if you had had a good sleep last night, gilbert, you'd be as ready as i am for a flight of imagination." "i did good work last night, anne," said gilbert quietly. "under god, i saved a life. this is the first time i could ever really claim that. in other cases i may have helped; but, anne, if i had not stayed at allonby's last night and fought death hand to hand, that woman would have died before morning. i tried an experiment that was certainly never tried in four winds before. i doubt if it was ever tried anywhere before outside of a hospital. it was a new thing in kingsport hospital last winter. i could never have dared try it here if i had not been absolutely certain that there was no other chance. i risked it--and it succeeded. as a result, a good wife and mother is saved for long years of happiness and usefulness. as i drove home this morning, while the sun was rising over the harbor, i thanked god that i had chosen the profession i did. i had fought a good fight and won--think of it, anne, won, against the great destroyer. it's what i dreamed of doing long ago when we talked together of what we wanted to do in life. that dream of mine came true this morning." "was that the only one of your dreams that has come true?" asked anne, who knew perfectly well what the substance of his answer would be, but wanted to hear it again. "you know, anne-girl," said gilbert, smiling into her eyes. at that moment there were certainly two perfectly happy people sitting on the doorstep of a little white house on the four winds harbor shore. presently gilbert said, with a change of tone, "do i or do i not see a full-rigged ship sailing up our lane?" anne looked and sprang up. "that must be either miss cornelia bryant or mrs. moore coming to call," she said. "i'm going into the office, and if it is miss cornelia i warn you that i'll eavesdrop," said gilbert. "from all i've heard regarding miss cornelia i conclude that her conversation will not be dull, to say the least." "it may be mrs. moore." "i don't think mrs. moore is built on those lines. i saw her working in her garden the other day, and, though i was too far away to see clearly, i thought she was rather slender. she doesn't seem very socially inclined when she has never called on you yet, although she's your nearest neighbor." "she can't be like mrs. lynde, after all, or curiosity would have brought her," said anne. "this caller is, i think, miss cornelia." miss cornelia it was; moreover, miss cornelia had not come to make any brief and fashionable wedding call. she had her work under her arm in a substantial parcel, and when anne asked her to stay she promptly took off her capacious sun-hat, which had been held on her head, despite irreverent september breezes, by a tight elastic band under her hard little knob of fair hair. no hat pins for miss cornelia, an it please ye! elastic bands had been good enough for her mother and they were good enough for her. she had a fresh, round, pink-and-white face, and jolly brown eyes. she did not look in the least like the traditional old maid, and there was something in her expression which won anne instantly. with her old instinctive quickness to discern kindred spirits she knew she was going to like miss cornelia, in spite of uncertain oddities of opinion, and certain oddities of attire. nobody but miss cornelia would have come to make a call arrayed in a striped blue-and-white apron and a wrapper of chocolate print, with a design of huge, pink roses scattered over it. and nobody but miss cornelia could have looked dignified and suitably garbed in it. had miss cornelia been entering a palace to call on a prince's bride, she would have been just as dignified and just as wholly mistress of the situation. she would have trailed her rose-spattered flounce over the marble floors just as unconcernedly, and she would have proceeded just as calmly to disabuse the mind of the princess of any idea that the possession of a mere man, be he prince or peasant, was anything to brag of. "i've brought my work, mrs. blythe, dearie," she remarked, unrolling some dainty material. "i'm in a hurry to get this done, and there isn't any time to lose." anne looked in some surprise at the white garment spread over miss cornelia's ample lap. it was certainly a baby's dress, and it was most beautifully made, with tiny frills and tucks. miss cornelia adjusted her glasses and fell to embroidering with exquisite stitches. "this is for mrs. fred proctor up at the glen," she announced. "she's expecting her eighth baby any day now, and not a stitch has she ready for it. the other seven have wore out all she made for the first, and she's never had time or strength or spirit to make any more. that woman is a martyr, mrs. blythe, believe me. when she married fred proctor _i_ knew how it would turn out. he was one of your wicked, fascinating men. after he got married he left off being fascinating and just kept on being wicked. he drinks and he neglects his family. isn't that like a man? i don't know how mrs. proctor would ever keep her children decently clothed if her neighbors didn't help her out." as anne was afterwards to learn, miss cornelia was the only neighbor who troubled herself much about the decency of the young proctors. "when i heard this eighth baby was coming i decided to make some things for it," miss cornelia went on. "this is the last and i want to finish it today." "it's certainly very pretty," said anne. "i'll get my sewing and we'll have a little thimble party of two. you are a beautiful sewer, miss bryant." "yes, i'm the best sewer in these parts," said miss cornelia in a matter-of-fact tone. "i ought to be! lord, i've done more of it than if i'd had a hundred children of my own, believe me! i s'pose i'm a fool, to be putting hand embroidery on this dress for an eighth baby. but, lord, mrs. blythe, dearie, it isn't to blame for being the eighth, and i kind of wished it to have one real pretty dress, just as if it was wanted. nobody's wanting the poor mite--so i put some extra fuss on its little things just on that account." "any baby might be proud of that dress," said anne, feeling still more strongly that she was going to like miss cornelia. "i s'pose you've been thinking i was never coming to call on you," resumed miss cornelia. "but this is harvest month, you know, and i've been busy--and a lot of extra hands hanging round, eating more'n they work, just like the men. i'd have come yesterday, but i went to mrs. roderick macallister's funeral. at first i thought my head was aching so badly i couldn't enjoy myself if i did go. but she was a hundred years old, and i'd always promised myself that i'd go to her funeral." "was it a successful function?" asked anne, noticing that the office door was ajar. "what's that? oh, yes, it was a tremendous funeral. she had a very large connection. there was over one hundred and twenty carriages in the procession. there was one or two funny things happened. i thought that die i would to see old joe bradshaw, who is an infidel and never darkens the door of a church, singing 'safe in the arms of jesus' with great gusto and fervor. he glories in singing--that's why he never misses a funeral. poor mrs. bradshaw didn't look much like singing--all wore out slaving. old joe starts out once in a while to buy her a present and brings home some new kind of farm machinery. isn't that like a man? but what else would you expect of a man who never goes to church, even a methodist one? i was real thankful to see you and the young doctor in the presbyterian church your first sunday. no doctor for me who isn't a presbyterian." "we were in the methodist church last sunday evening," said anne wickedly. "oh, i s'pose dr. blythe has to go to the methodist church once in a while or he wouldn't get the methodist practice." "we liked the sermon very much," declared anne boldly. "and i thought the methodist minster's prayer was one of the most beautiful i ever heard." "oh, i've no doubt he can pray. i never heard anyone make more beautiful prayers than old simon bentley, who was always drunk, or hoping to be, and the drunker he was the better he prayed." "the methodist minister is very fine looking," said anne, for the benefit of the office door. "yes, he's quite ornamental," agreed miss cornelia. "oh, and very ladylike. and he thinks that every girl who looks at him falls in love with him--as if a methodist minister, wandering about like any jew, was such a prize! if you and the young doctor take my advice, you won't have much to do with the methodists. my motto is--if you are a presbyterian, be a presbyterian." "don't you think that methodists go to heaven as well as presbyterians?" asked anne smilelessly. "that isn't for us to decide. it's in higher hands than ours," said miss cornelia solemnly. "but i ain't going to associate with them on earth whatever i may have to do in heaven. this methodist minister isn't married. the last one they had was, and his wife was the silliest, flightiest little thing i ever saw. i told her husband once that he should have waited till she was grown up before he married her. he said he wanted to have the training of her. wasn't that like a man?" "it's rather hard to decide just when people are grown up," laughed anne. "that's a true word, dearie. some are grown up when they're born, and others ain't grown up when they're eighty, believe me. that same mrs. roderick i was speaking of never grew up. she was as foolish when she was a hundred as when she was ten." "perhaps that was why she lived so long," suggested anne. "maybe 'twas. _i_'d rather live fifty sensible years than a hundred foolish ones." "but just think what a dull world it would be if everyone was sensible," pleaded anne. miss cornelia disdained any skirmish of flippant epigram. "mrs. roderick was a milgrave, and the milgraves never had much sense. her nephew, ebenezer milgrave, used to be insane for years. he believed he was dead and used to rage at his wife because she wouldn't bury him. _i_'d a-done it." miss cornelia looked so grimly determined that anne could almost see her with a spade in her hand. "don't you know any good husbands, miss bryant?" "oh, yes, lots of them--over yonder," said miss cornelia, waving her hand through the open window towards the little graveyard of the church across the harbor. "but living--going about in the flesh?" persisted anne. "oh, there's a few, just to show that with god all things are possible," acknowledged miss cornelia reluctantly. "i don't deny that an odd man here and there, if he's caught young and trained up proper, and if his mother has spanked him well beforehand, may turn out a decent being. your husband, now, isn't so bad, as men go, from all i hear. i s'pose"--miss cornelia looked sharply at anne over her glasses--"you think there's nobody like him in the world." "there isn't," said anne promptly. "ah, well, i heard another bride say that once," sighed miss cornelia. "jennie dean thought when she married that there wasn't anybody like her husband in the world. and she was right--there wasn't! and a good thing, too, believe me! he led her an awful life--and he was courting his second wife while jennie was dying. "wasn't that like a man? however, i hope your confidence will be better justified, dearie. the young doctor is taking real well. i was afraid at first he mightn't, for folks hereabouts have always thought old doctor dave the only doctor in the world. doctor dave hadn't much tact, to be sure--he was always talking of ropes in houses where someone had hanged himself. but folks forgot their hurt feelings when they had a pain in their stomachs. if he'd been a minister instead of a doctor they'd never have forgiven him. soul-ache doesn't worry folks near as much as stomach-ache. seeing as we're both presbyterians and no methodists around, will you tell me your candid opinion of our minister?" "why--really--i--well," hesitated anne. miss cornelia nodded. "exactly. i agree with you, dearie. we made a mistake when we called him. his face just looks like one of those long, narrow stones in the graveyard, doesn't it? 'sacred to the memory' ought to be written on his forehead. i shall never forget the first sermon he preached after he came. it was on the subject of everyone doing what they were best fitted for--a very good subject, of course; but such illustrations as he used! he said, 'if you had a cow and an apple tree, and if you tied the apple tree in your stable and planted the cow in your orchard, with her legs up, how much milk would you get from the apple tree, or how many apples from the cow?' did you ever hear the like in your born days, dearie? i was so thankful there were no methodists there that day--they'd never have been done hooting over it. but what i dislike most in him is his habit of agreeing with everybody, no matter what is said. if you said to him, 'you're a scoundrel,' he'd say, with that smooth smile of his, 'yes, that's so.' a minister should have more backbone. the long and the short of it is, i consider him a reverend jackass. but, of course, this is just between you and me. when there are methodists in hearing i praise him to the skies. some folks think his wife dresses too gay, but _i_ say when she has to live with a face like that she needs something to cheer her up. you'll never hear me condemning a woman for her dress. i'm only too thankful when her husband isn't too mean and miserly to allow it. not that i bother much with dress myself. women just dress to please the men, and i'd never stoop to that. i have had a real placid, comfortable life, dearie, and it's just because i never cared a cent what the men thought." "why do you hate the men so, miss bryant?" "lord, dearie, i don't hate them. they aren't worth it. i just sort of despise them. i think i'll like your husband if he keeps on as he has begun. but apart from him about the only men in the world i've much use for are the old doctor and captain jim." "captain jim is certainly splendid," agreed anne cordially. "captain jim is a good man, but he's kind of vexing in one way. you can't make him mad. i've tried for twenty years and he just keeps on being placid. it does sort of rile me. and i s'pose the woman he should have married got a man who went into tantrums twice a day." "who was she?" "oh, i don't know, dearie. i never remember of captain jim making up to anybody. he was edging on old as far as my memory goes. he's seventy-six, you know. i never heard any reason for his staying a bachelor, but there must be one, believe me. he sailed all his life till five years ago, and there's no corner of the earth he hasn't poked his nose into. he and elizabeth russell were great cronies, all their lives, but they never had any notion of sweet-hearting. elizabeth never married, though she had plenty of chances. she was a great beauty when she was young. the year the prince of wales came to the island she was visiting her uncle in charlottetown and he was a government official, and so she got invited to the great ball. she was the prettiest girl there, and the prince danced with her, and all the other women he didn't dance with were furious about it, because their social standing was higher than hers and they said he shouldn't have passed them over. elizabeth was always very proud of that dance. mean folks said that was why she never married--she couldn't put up with an ordinary man after dancing with a prince. but that wasn't so. she told me the reason once--it was because she had such a temper that she was afraid she couldn't live peaceably with any man. she had an awful temper--she used to have to go upstairs and bite pieces out of her bureau to keep it down by times. but i told her that wasn't any reason for not marrying if she wanted to. there's no reason why we should let the men have a monopoly of temper, is there, mrs. blythe, dearie?" "i've a bit of temper myself," sighed anne. "it's well you have, dearie. you won't be half so likely to be trodden on, believe me! my, how that golden glow of yours is blooming! your garden looks fine. poor elizabeth always took such care of it." "i love it," said anne. "i'm glad it's so full of old-fashioned flowers. speaking of gardening, we want to get a man to dig up that little lot beyond the fir grove and set it out with strawberry plants for us. gilbert is so busy he will never get time for it this fall. do you know anyone we can get?" "well, henry hammond up at the glen goes out doing jobs like that. he'll do, maybe. he's always a heap more interested in his wages than in his work, just like a man, and he's so slow in the uptake that he stands still for five minutes before it dawns on him that he's stopped. his father threw a stump at him when he was small. "nice gentle missile, wasn't it? so like a man! course, the boy never got over it. but he's the only one i can recommend at all. he painted my house for me last spring. it looks real nice now, don't you think?" anne was saved by the clock striking five. "lord, is it that late?" exclaimed miss cornelia. "how time does slip by when you're enjoying yourself! well, i must betake myself home." "no, indeed! you are going to stay and have tea with us," said anne eagerly. "are you asking me because you think you ought to, or because you really want to?" demanded miss cornelia. "because i really want to." "then i'll stay. you belong to the race that knows joseph." "i know we are going to be friends," said anne, with the smile that only they of the household of faith ever saw. "yes, we are, dearie. thank goodness, we can choose our friends. we have to take our relatives as they are, and be thankful if there are no penitentiary birds among them. not that i've many--none nearer than second cousins. i'm a kind of lonely soul, mrs. blythe." there was a wistful note in miss cornelia's voice. "i wish you would call me anne," exclaimed anne impulsively. "it would seem more homey. everyone in four winds, except my husband, calls me mrs. blythe, and it makes me feel like a stranger. do you know that your name is very near being the one i yearned after when i was a child. i hated 'anne' and i called myself 'cordelia' in imagination." "i like anne. it was my mother's name. old-fashioned names are the best and sweetest in my opinion. if you're going to get tea you might send the young doctor to talk to me. he's been lying on the sofa in that office ever since i came, laughing fit to kill over what i've been saying." "how did you know?" cried anne, too aghast at this instance of miss cornelia's uncanny prescience to make a polite denial. "i saw him sitting beside you when i came up the lane, and i know men's tricks," retorted miss cornelia. "there, i've finished my little dress, dearie, and the eighth baby can come as soon as it pleases." chapter an evening at four winds point it was late september when anne and gilbert were able to pay four winds light their promised visit. they had often planned to go, but something always occurred to prevent them. captain jim had "dropped in" several times at the little house. "i don't stand on ceremony, mistress blythe," he told anne. "it's a real pleasure to me to come here, and i'm not going to deny myself jest because you haven't got down to see me. there oughtn't to be no bargaining like that among the race that knows joseph. i'll come when i can, and you come when you can, and so long's we have our pleasant little chat it don't matter a mite what roof's over us." captain jim took a great fancy to gog and magog, who were presiding over the destinies of the hearth in the little house with as much dignity and aplomb as they had done at patty's place. "aren't they the cutest little cusses?" he would say delightedly; and he bade them greeting and farewell as gravely and invariably as he did his host and hostess. captain jim was not going to offend household deities by any lack of reverence and ceremony. "you've made this little house just about perfect," he told anne. "it never was so nice before. mistress selwyn had your taste and she did wonders; but folks in those days didn't have the pretty little curtains and pictures and nicknacks you have. as for elizabeth, she lived in the past. you've kinder brought the future into it, so to speak. i'd be real happy even if we couldn't talk at all, when i come here--jest to sit and look at you and your pictures and your flowers would be enough of a treat. it's beautiful--beautiful." captain jim was a passionate worshipper of beauty. every lovely thing heard or seen gave him a deep, subtle, inner joy that irradiated his life. he was quite keenly aware of his own lack of outward comeliness and lamented it. "folks say i'm good," he remarked whimsically upon one occasion, "but i sometimes wish the lord had made me only half as good and put the rest of it into looks. but there, i reckon he knew what he was about, as a good captain should. some of us have to be homely, or the purty ones--like mistress blythe here--wouldn't show up so well." one evening anne and gilbert finally walked down to the four winds light. the day had begun sombrely in gray cloud and mist, but it had ended in a pomp of scarlet and gold. over the western hills beyond the harbor were amber deeps and crystalline shallows, with the fire of sunset below. the north was a mackerel sky of little, fiery golden clouds. the red light flamed on the white sails of a vessel gliding down the channel, bound to a southern port in a land of palms. beyond her, it smote upon and incarnadined the shining, white, grassless faces of the sand dunes. to the right, it fell on the old house among the willows up the brook, and gave it for a fleeting space casements more splendid than those of an old cathedral. they glowed out of its quiet and grayness like the throbbing, blood-red thoughts of a vivid soul imprisoned in a dull husk of environment. "that old house up the brook always seems so lonely," said anne. "i never see visitors there. of course, its lane opens on the upper road--but i don't think there's much coming and going. it seems odd we've never met the moores yet, when they live within fifteen minutes' walk of us. i may have seen them in church, of course, but if so i didn't know them. i'm sorry they are so unsociable, when they are our only near neighbors." "evidently they don't belong to the race that knows joseph," laughed gilbert. "have you ever found out who that girl was whom you thought so beautiful?" "no. somehow i have never remembered to ask about her. but i've never seen her anywhere, so i suppose she must have been a stranger. oh, the sun has just vanished--and there's the light." as the dusk deepened, the great beacon cut swathes of light through it, sweeping in a circle over the fields and the harbor, the sandbar and the gulf. "i feel as if it might catch me and whisk me leagues out to sea," said anne, as one drenched them with radiance; and she felt rather relieved when they got so near the point that they were inside the range of those dazzling, recurrent flashes. as they turned into the little lane that led across the fields to the point they met a man coming out of it--a man of such extraordinary appearance that for a moment they both frankly stared. he was a decidedly fine-looking person-tall, broad-shouldered, well-featured, with a roman nose and frank gray eyes; he was dressed in a prosperous farmer's sunday best; in so far he might have been any inhabitant of four winds or the glen. but, flowing over his breast nearly to his knees, was a river of crinkly brown beard; and adown his back, beneath his commonplace felt hat, was a corresponding cascade of thick, wavy, brown hair. "anne," murmured gilbert, when they were out of earshot, "you didn't put what uncle dave calls 'a little of the scott act' in that lemonade you gave me just before we left home, did you?" "no, i didn't," said anne, stifling her laughter, lest the retreating enigma should hear here. "who in the world can he be?" "i don't know; but if captain jim keeps apparitions like that down at this point i'm going to carry cold iron in my pocket when i come here. he wasn't a sailor, or one might pardon his eccentricity of appearance; he must belong to the over-harbor clans. uncle dave says they have several freaks over there." "uncle dave is a little prejudiced, i think. you know all the over-harbor people who come to the glen church seem very nice. oh, gilbert, isn't this beautiful?" the four winds light was built on a spur of red sand-stone cliff jutting out into the gulf. on one side, across the channel, stretched the silvery sand shore of the bar; on the other, extended a long, curving beach of red cliffs, rising steeply from the pebbled coves. it was a shore that knew the magic and mystery of storm and star. there is a great solitude about such a shore. the woods are never solitary--they are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. but the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some great, unshareable sorrow, which shuts it up into itself for all eternity. we can never pierce its infinite mystery--we may only wander, awed and spellbound, on the outer fringe of it. the woods call to us with a hundred voices, but the sea has one only--a mighty voice that drowns our souls in its majestic music. the woods are human, but the sea is of the company of the archangels. anne and gilbert found uncle jim sitting on a bench outside the lighthouse, putting the finishing touches to a wonderful, full-rigged, toy schooner. he rose and welcomed them to his abode with the gentle, unconscious courtesy that became him so well. "this has been a purty nice day all through, mistress blythe, and now, right at the last, it's brought its best. would you like to sit down here outside a bit, while the light lasts? i've just finished this bit of a plaything for my little grand nephew, joe, up at the glen. after i promised to make it for him i was kinder sorry, for his mother was vexed. she's afraid he'll be wanting to go to sea later on and she doesn't want the notion encouraged in him. but what could i do, mistress blythe? i'd promised him, and i think it's sorter real dastardly to break a promise you make to a child. come, sit down. it won't take long to stay an hour." the wind was off shore, and only broke the sea's surface into long, silvery ripples, and sent sheeny shadows flying out across it, from every point and headland, like transparent wings. the dusk was hanging a curtain of violet gloom over the sand dunes and the headlands where gulls were huddling. the sky was faintly filmed over with scarfs of silken vapor. cloud fleets rode at anchor along the horizons. an evening star was watching over the bar. "isn't that a view worth looking at?" said captain jim, with a loving, proprietary pride. "nice and far from the market-place, ain't it? no buying and selling and getting gain. you don't have to pay anything--all that sea and sky free--'without money and without price.' there's going to be a moonrise purty soon, too--i'm never tired of finding out what a moonrise can be over them rocks and sea and harbor. there's a surprise in it every time." they had their moonrise, and watched its marvel and magic in a silence that asked nothing of the world or each other. then they went up into the tower, and captain jim showed and explained the mechanism of the great light. finally they found themselves in the dining room, where a fire of driftwood was weaving flames of wavering, elusive, sea-born hues in the open fireplace. "i put this fireplace in myself," remarked captain jim. "the government don't give lighthouse keepers such luxuries. look at the colors that wood makes. if you'd like some driftwood for your fire, mistress blythe, i'll bring you up a load some day. sit down. i'm going to make you a cup of tea." captain jim placed a chair for anne, having first removed therefrom a huge, orange-colored cat and a newspaper. "get down, matey. the sofa is your place. i must put this paper away safe till i can find time to finish the story in it. it's called a mad love. 'tisn't my favorite brand of fiction, but i'm reading it jest to see how long she can spin it out. it's at the sixty-second chapter now, and the wedding ain't any nearer than when it begun, far's i can see. when little joe comes i have to read him pirate yarns. ain't it strange how innocent little creatures like children like the blood-thirstiest stories?" "like my lad davy at home," said anne. "he wants tales that reek with gore." captain jim's tea proved to be nectar. he was pleased as a child with anne's compliments, but he affected a fine indifference. "the secret is i don't skimp the cream," he remarked airily. captain jim had never heard of oliver wendell holmes, but he evidently agreed with that writer's dictum that "big heart never liked little cream pot." "we met an odd-looking personage coming out of your lane," said gilbert as they sipped. "who was he?" captain jim grinned. "that's marshall elliott--a mighty fine man with jest one streak of foolishness in him. i s'pose you wondered what his object was in turning himself into a sort of dime museum freak." "is he a modern nazarite or a hebrew prophet left over from olden times?" asked anne. "neither of them. it's politics that's at the bottom of his freak. all those elliotts and crawfords and macallisters are dyed-in-the-wool politicians. they're born grit or tory, as the case may be, and they live grit or tory, and they die grit or tory; and what they're going to do in heaven, where there's probably no politics, is more than i can fathom. this marshall elliott was born a grit. i'm a grit myself in moderation, but there's no moderation about marshall. fifteen years ago there was a specially bitter general election. marshall fought for his party tooth and nail. he was dead sure the liberals would win--so sure that he got up at a public meeting and vowed that he wouldn't shave his face or cut his hair until the grits were in power. well, they didn't go in--and they've never got in yet--and you saw the result today for yourselves. marshall stuck to his word." "what does his wife think of it?" asked anne. "he's a bachelor. but if he had a wife i reckon she couldn't make him break that vow. that family of elliotts has always been more stubborn than natteral. marshall's brother alexander had a dog he set great store by, and when it died the man actilly wanted to have it buried in the graveyard, 'along with the other christians,' he said. course, he wasn't allowed to; so he buried it just outside the graveyard fence, and never darkened the church door again. but sundays he'd drive his family to church and sit by that dog's grave and read his bible all the time service was going on. they say when he was dying he asked his wife to bury him beside the dog; she was a meek little soul but she fired up at that. she said she wasn't going to be buried beside no dog, and if he'd rather have his last resting place beside the dog than beside her, jest to say so. alexander elliott was a stubborn mule, but he was fond of his wife, so he give in and said, 'well, durn it, bury me where you please. but when gabriel's trump blows i expect my dog to rise with the rest of us, for he had as much soul as any durned elliott or crawford or macallister that ever strutted.' them was his parting words. as for marshall, we're all used to him, but he must strike strangers as right down peculiar-looking. i've known him ever since he was ten--he's about fifty now--and i like him. him and me was out cod-fishing today. that's about all i'm good for now--catching trout and cod occasional. but 'tweren't always so--not by no manner of means. i used to do other things, as you'd admit if you saw my life-book." anne was just going to ask what his life-book was when the first mate created a diversion by springing upon captain jim's knee. he was a gorgeous beastie, with a face as round as a full moon, vivid green eyes, and immense, white, double paws. captain jim stroked his velvet back gently. "i never fancied cats much till i found the first mate," he remarked, to the accompaniment of the mate's tremendous purrs. "i saved his life, and when you've saved a creature's life you're bound to love it. it's next thing to giving life. there's some turrible thoughtless people in the world, mistress blythe. some of them city folks who have summer homes over the harbor are so thoughtless that they're cruel. it's the worst kind of cruelty--the thoughtless kind. you can't cope with it. they keep cats there in the summer, and feed and pet 'em, and doll 'em up with ribbons and collars. and then in the fall they go off and leave 'em to starve or freeze. it makes my blood boil, mistress blythe. one day last winter i found a poor old mother cat dead on the shore, lying against the skin-and-bone bodies of her three little kittens. she'd died trying to shelter 'em. she had her poor stiff paws around 'em. master, i cried. then i swore. then i carried them poor little kittens home and fed 'em up and found good homes for 'em. i knew the woman who left the cat and when she come back this summer i jest went over the harbor and told her my opinion of her. it was rank meddling, but i do love meddling in a good cause." "how did she take it?" asked gilbert. "cried and said she 'didn't think.' i says to her, says i, 'do you s'pose that'll be held for a good excuse in the day of jedgment, when you'll have to account for that poor old mother's life? the lord'll ask you what he give you your brains for if it wasn't to think, i reckon.' i don't fancy she'll leave cats to starve another time." "was the first mate one of the forsaken?" asked anne, making advances to him which were responded to graciously, if condescendingly. "yes. i found him one bitter cold day in winter, caught in the branches of a tree by his durn-fool ribbon collar. he was almost starving. if you could have seen his eyes, mistress blythe! he was nothing but a kitten, and he'd got his living somehow since he'd been left until he got hung up. when i loosed him he gave my hand a pitiful swipe with his little red tongue. he wasn't the able seaman you see now. he was meek as moses. that was nine years ago. his life has been long in the land for a cat. he's a good old pal, the first mate is." "i should have expected you to have a dog," said gilbert. captain jim shook his head. "i had a dog once. i thought so much of him that when he died i couldn't bear the thought of getting another in his place. he was a friend--you understand, mistress blythe? matey's only a pal. i'm fond of matey--all the fonder on account of the spice of devilment that's in him--like there is in all cats. but i loved my dog. i always had a sneaking sympathy for alexander elliott about his dog. there isn't any devil in a good dog. that's why they're more lovable than cats, i reckon. but i'm darned if they're as interesting. here i am, talking too much. why don't you check me? when i do get a chance to talk to anyone i run on turrible. if you've done your tea i've a few little things you might like to look at--picked 'em up in the queer corners i used to be poking my nose into." captain jim's "few little things" turned out to be a most interesting collection of curios, hideous, quaint and beautiful. and almost every one had some striking story attached to it. anne never forgot the delight with which she listened to those old tales that moonlit evening by that enchanted driftwood fire, while the silver sea called to them through the open window and sobbed against the rocks below them. captain jim never said a boastful word, but it was impossible to help seeing what a hero the man had been--brave, true, resourceful, unselfish. he sat there in his little room and made those things live again for his hearers. by a lift of the eyebrow, a twist of the lip, a gesture, a word, he painted a whole scene or character so that they saw it as it was. some of captain jim's adventures had such a marvellous edge that anne and gilbert secretly wondered if he were not drawing a rather long bow at their credulous expense. but in this, as they found later, they did him injustice. his tales were all literally true. captain jim had the gift of the born storyteller, whereby "unhappy, far-off things" can be brought vividly before the hearer in all their pristine poignancy. anne and gilbert laughed and shivered over his tales, and once anne found herself crying. captain jim surveyed her tears with pleasure shining from his face. "i like to see folks cry that way," he remarked. "it's a compliment. but i can't do justice to the things i've seen or helped to do. i've 'em all jotted down in my life-book, but i haven't got the knack of writing them out properly. if i could hit on jest the right words and string 'em together proper on paper i could make a great book. it would beat a mad love holler, and i believe joe'd like it as well as the pirate yarns. yes, i've had some adventures in my time; and, do you know, mistress blythe, i still lust after 'em. yes, old and useless as i be, there's an awful longing sweeps over me at times to sail out--out--out there--forever and ever." "like ulysses, you would 'sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the western stars until you die,'" said anne dreamily. "ulysses? i've read of him. yes, that's just how i feel--jest how all us old sailors feel, i reckon. i'll die on land after all, i s'pose. well, what is to be will be. there was old william ford at the glen who never went on the water in his life, 'cause he was afraid of being drowned. a fortune-teller had predicted he would be. and one day he fainted and fell with his face in the barn trough and was drowned. must you go? well, come soon and come often. the doctor is to do the talking next time. he knows a heap of things i want to find out. i'm sorter lonesome here by times. it's been worse since elizabeth russell died. her and me was such cronies." captain jim spoke with the pathos of the aged, who see their old friends slipping from them one by one--friends whose place can never be quite filled by those of a younger generation, even of the race that knows joseph. anne and gilbert promised to come soon and often. "he's a rare old fellow, isn't he?" said gilbert, as they walked home. "somehow, i can't reconcile his simple, kindly personality with the wild, adventurous life he has lived," mused anne. "you wouldn't find it so hard if you had seen him the other day down at the fishing village. one of the men of peter gautier's boat made a nasty remark about some girl along the shore. captain jim fairly scorched the wretched fellow with the lightning of his eyes. he seemed a man transformed. he didn't say much--but the way he said it! you'd have thought it would strip the flesh from the fellow's bones. i understand that captain jim will never allow a word against any woman to be said in his presence." "i wonder why he never married," said anne. "he should have sons with their ships at sea now, and grandchildren climbing over him to hear his stories--he's that kind of a man. instead, he has nothing but a magnificent cat." but anne was mistaken. captain jim had more than that. he had a memory. chapter leslie moore "i'm going for a walk to the outside shore tonight," anne told gog and magog one october evening. there was no one else to tell, for gilbert had gone over the harbor. anne had her little domain in the speckless order one would expect of anyone brought up by marilla cuthbert, and felt that she could gad shoreward with a clear conscience. many and delightful had been her shore rambles, sometimes with gilbert, sometimes with captain jim, sometimes alone with her own thoughts and new, poignantly-sweet dreams that were beginning to span life with their rainbows. she loved the gentle, misty harbor shore and the silvery, wind-haunted sand shore, but best of all she loved the rock shore, with its cliffs and caves and piles of surf-worn boulders, and its coves where the pebbles glittered under the pools; and it was to this shore she hied herself tonight. there had been an autumn storm of wind and rain, lasting for three days. thunderous had been the crash of billows on the rocks, wild the white spray and spume that blew over the bar, troubled and misty and tempest-torn the erstwhile blue peace of four winds harbor. now it was over, and the shore lay clean-washed after the storm; not a wind stirred, but there was still a fine surf on, dashing on sand and rock in a splendid white turmoil--the only restless thing in the great, pervading stillness and peace. "oh, this is a moment worth living through weeks of storm and stress for," anne exclaimed, delightedly sending her far gaze across the tossing waters from the top of the cliff where she stood. presently she scrambled down the steep path to the little cove below, where she seemed shut in with rocks and sea and sky. "i'm going to dance and sing," she said. "there's no one here to see me--the seagulls won't carry tales of the matter. i may be as crazy as i like." she caught up her skirt and pirouetted along the hard strip of sand just out of reach of the waves that almost lapped her feet with their spent foam. whirling round and round, laughing like a child, she reached the little headland that ran out to the east of the cove; then she stopped suddenly, blushing crimson; she was not alone; there had been a witness to her dance and laughter. the girl of the golden hair and sea-blue eyes was sitting on a boulder of the headland, half-hidden by a jutting rock. she was looking straight at anne with a strange expression--part wonder, part sympathy, part--could it be?--envy. she was bare-headed, and her splendid hair, more than ever like browning's "gorgeous snake," was bound about her head with a crimson ribbon. she wore a dress of some dark material, very plainly made; but swathed about her waist, outlining its fine curves, was a vivid girdle of red silk. her hands, clasped over her knee, were brown and somewhat work-hardened; but the skin of her throat and cheeks was as white as cream. a flying gleam of sunset broke through a low-lying western cloud and fell across her hair. for a moment she seemed the spirit of the sea personified--all its mystery, all its passion, all its elusive charm. "you--you must think me crazy," stammered anne, trying to recover her self-possession. to be seen by this stately girl in such an abandon of childishness--she, mrs. dr. blythe, with all the dignity of the matron to keep up--it was too bad! "no," said the girl, "i don't." she said nothing more; her voice was expressionless; her manner slightly repellent; but there was something in her eyes--eager yet shy, defiant yet pleading--which turned anne from her purpose of walking away. instead, she sat down on the boulder beside the girl. "let's introduce ourselves," she said, with the smile that had never yet failed to win confidence and friendliness. "i am mrs. blythe--and i live in that little white house up the harbor shore." "yes, i know," said the girl. "i am leslie moore--mrs. dick moore," she added stiffly. anne was silent for a moment from sheer amazement. it had not occurred to her that this girl was married--there seemed nothing of the wife about her. and that she should be the neighbor whom anne had pictured as a commonplace four winds housewife! anne could not quickly adjust her mental focus to this astonishing change. "then--then you live in that gray house up the brook," she stammered. "yes. i should have gone over to call on you long ago," said the other. she did not offer any explanation or excuse for not having gone. "i wish you would come," said anne, recovering herself somewhat. "we're such near neighbors we ought to be friends. that is the sole fault of four winds--there aren't quite enough neighbors. otherwise it is perfection." "you like it?" "like it! i love it. it is the most beautiful place i ever saw." "i've never seen many places," said leslie moore, slowly, "but i've always thought it was very lovely here. i--i love it, too." she spoke, as she looked, shyly, yet eagerly. anne had an odd impression that this strange girl--the word "girl" would persist--could say a good deal if she chose. "i often come to the shore," she added. "so do i," said anne. "it's a wonder we haven't met here before." "probably you come earlier in the evening than i do. it is generally late--almost dark--when i come. and i love to come just after a storm--like this. i don't like the sea so well when it's calm and quiet. i like the struggle--and the crash--and the noise." "i love it in all its moods," declared anne. "the sea at four winds is to me what lover's lane was at home. tonight it seemed so free--so untamed--something broke loose in me, too, out of sympathy. that was why i danced along the shore in that wild way. i didn't suppose anybody was looking, of course. if miss cornelia bryant had seen me she would have forboded a gloomy prospect for poor young dr. blythe." "you know miss cornelia?" said leslie, laughing. she had an exquisite laugh; it bubbled up suddenly and unexpectedly with something of the delicious quality of a baby's. anne laughed, too. "oh, yes. she has been down to my house of dreams several times." "your house of dreams?" "oh, that's a dear, foolish little name gilbert and i have for our home. we just call it that between ourselves. it slipped out before i thought." "so miss russell's little white house is your house of dreams," said leslie wonderingly. "_i_ had a house of dreams once--but it was a palace," she added, with a laugh, the sweetness of which was marred by a little note of derision. "oh, i once dreamed of a palace, too," said anne. "i suppose all girls do. and then we settle down contentedly in eight-room houses that seem to fulfill all the desires of our hearts--because our prince is there. you should have had your palace really, though--you are so beautiful. you must let me say it--it has to be said--i'm nearly bursting with admiration. you are the loveliest thing i ever saw, mrs. moore." "if we are to be friends you must call me leslie," said the other with an odd passion. "of course i will. and my friends call me anne." "i suppose i am beautiful," leslie went on, looking stormily out to sea. "i hate my beauty. i wish i had always been as brown and plain as the brownest and plainest girl at the fishing village over there. well, what do you think of miss cornelia?" the abrupt change of subject shut the door on any further confidences. "miss cornelia is a darling, isn't she?" said anne. "gilbert and i were invited to her house to a state tea last week. you've heard of groaning tables." "i seem to recall seeing the expression in the newspaper reports of weddings," said leslie, smiling. "well, miss cornelia's groaned--at least, it creaked--positively. you couldn't have believed she would have cooked so much for two ordinary people. she had every kind of pie you could name, i think--except lemon pie. she said she had taken the prize for lemon pies at the charlottetown exhibition ten years ago and had never made any since for fear of losing her reputation for them." "were you able to eat enough pie to please her?" "_i_ wasn't. gilbert won her heart by eating--i won't tell you how much. she said she never knew a man who didn't like pie better than his bible. do you know, i love miss cornelia." "so do i," said leslie. "she is the best friend i have in the world." anne wondered secretly why, if this were so, miss cornelia had never mentioned mrs. dick moore to her. miss cornelia had certainly talked freely about every other individual in or near four winds. "isn't that beautiful?" said leslie, after a brief silence, pointing to the exquisite effect of a shaft of light falling through a cleft in the rock behind them, across a dark green pool at its base. "if i had come here--and seen nothing but just that--i would go home satisfied." "the effects of light and shadow all along these shores are wonderful," agreed anne. "my little sewing room looks out on the harbor, and i sit at its window and feast my eyes. the colors and shadows are never the same two minutes together." "and you are never lonely?" asked leslie abruptly. "never--when you are alone?" "no. i don't think i've ever been really lonely in my life," answered anne. "even when i'm alone i have real good company--dreams and imaginations and pretendings. i like to be alone now and then, just to think over things and taste them. but i love friendship--and nice, jolly little times with people. oh, won't you come to see me--often? please do. i believe," anne added, laughing, "that you'd like me if you knew me." "i wonder if you would like me," said leslie seriously. she was not fishing for a compliment. she looked out across the waves that were beginning to be garlanded with blossoms of moonlit foam, and her eyes filled with shadows. "i'm sure i would," said anne. "and please don't think i'm utterly irresponsible because you saw me dancing on the shore at sunset. no doubt i shall be dignified after a time. you see, i haven't been married very long. i feel like a girl, and sometimes like a child, yet." "i have been married twelve years," said leslie. here was another unbelievable thing. "why, you can't be as old as i am!" exclaimed anne. "you must have been a child when you were married." "i was sixteen," said leslie, rising, and picking up the cap and jacket lying beside her. "i am twenty-eight now. well, i must go back." "so must i. gilbert will probably be home. but i'm so glad we both came to the shore tonight and met each other." leslie said nothing, and anne was a little chilled. she had offered friendship frankly but it had not been accepted very graciously, if it had not been absolutely repelled. in silence they climbed the cliffs and walked across a pasture-field of which the feathery, bleached, wild grasses were like a carpet of creamy velvet in the moonlight. when they reached the shore lane leslie turned. "i go this way, mrs. blythe. you will come over and see me some time, won't you?" anne felt as if the invitation had been thrown at her. she got the impression that leslie moore gave it reluctantly. "i will come if you really want me to," she said a little coldly. "oh, i do--i do," exclaimed leslie, with an eagerness which seemed to burst forth and beat down some restraint that had been imposed on it. "then i'll come. good-night--leslie." "good-night, mrs. blythe." anne walked home in a brown study and poured out her tale to gilbert. "so mrs. dick moore isn't one of the race that knows joseph?" said gilbert teasingly. "no--o--o, not exactly. and yet--i think she was one of them once, but has gone or got into exile," said anne musingly. "she is certainly very different from the other women about here. you can't talk about eggs and butter to her. to think i've been imagining her a second mrs. rachel lynde! have you ever seen dick moore, gilbert?" "no. i've seen several men working about the fields of the farm, but i don't know which was moore." "she never mentioned him. i know she isn't happy." "from what you tell me i suppose she was married before she was old enough to know her own mind or heart, and found out too late that she had made a mistake. it's a common tragedy enough, anne. "a fine woman would have made the best of it. mrs. moore has evidently let it make her bitter and resentful." "don't let us judge her till we know," pleaded anne. "i don't believe her case is so ordinary. you will understand her fascination when you meet her, gilbert. it is a thing quite apart from her beauty. i feel that she possesses a rich nature, into which a friend might enter as into a kingdom; but for some reason she bars every one out and shuts all her possibilities up in herself, so that they cannot develop and blossom. there, i've been struggling to define her to myself ever since i left her, and that is the nearest i can get to it. i'm going to ask miss cornelia about her." chapter the story of leslie moore "yes, the eighth baby arrived a fortnight ago," said miss cornelia, from a rocker before the fire of the little house one chilly october afternoon. "it's a girl. fred was ranting mad--said he wanted a boy--when the truth is he didn't want it at all. if it had been a boy he'd have ranted because it wasn't a girl. they had four girls and three boys before, so i can't see that it made much difference what this one was, but of course he'd have to be cantankerous, just like a man. the baby is real pretty, dressed up in its nice little clothes. it has black eyes and the dearest, tiny hands." "i must go and see it. i just love babies," said anne, smiling to herself over a thought too dear and sacred to be put into words. "i don't say but what they're nice," admitted miss cornelia. "but some folks seem to have more than they really need, believe me. my poor cousin flora up at the glen had eleven, and such a slave as she is! her husband suicided three years ago. just like a man!" "what made him do that?" asked anne, rather shocked. "couldn't get his way over something, so he jumped into the well. a good riddance! he was a born tyrant. but of course it spoiled the well. flora could never abide the thought of using it again, poor thing! so she had another dug and a frightful expense it was, and the water as hard as nails. if he had to drown himself there was plenty of water in the harbor, wasn't there? i've no patience with a man like that. we've only had two suicides in four winds in my recollection. the other was frank west--leslie moore's father. by the way, has leslie ever been over to call on you yet?" "no, but i met her on the shore a few nights ago and we scraped an acquaintance," said anne, pricking up her ears. miss cornelia nodded. "i'm glad, dearie. i was hoping you'd foregather with her. what do you think of her?" "i thought her very beautiful." "oh, of course. there was never anybody about four winds could touch her for looks. did you ever see her hair? it reaches to her feet when she lets it down. but i meant how did you like her?" "i think i could like her very much if she'd let me," said anne slowly. "but she wouldn't let you--she pushed you off and kept you at arm's length. poor leslie! you wouldn't be much surprised if you knew what her life has been. it's been a tragedy--a tragedy!" repeated miss cornelia emphatically. "i wish you would tell me all about her--that is, if you can do so without betraying any confidence." "lord, dearie, everybody in four winds knows poor leslie's story. it's no secret--the outside, that is. nobody knows the inside but leslie herself, and she doesn't take folks into her confidence. i'm about the best friend she has on earth, i reckon, and she's never uttered a word of complaint to me. have you ever seen dick moore?" "no." "well, i may as well begin at the beginning and tell you everything straight through, so you'll understand it. as i said, leslie's father was frank west. he was clever and shiftless--just like a man. oh, he had heaps of brains--and much good they did him! he started to go to college, and he went for two years, and then his health broke down. the wests were all inclined to be consumptive. so frank came home and started farming. he married rose elliott from over harbor. rose was reckoned the beauty of four winds--leslie takes her looks from her mother, but she has ten times the spirit and go that rose had, and a far better figure. now you know, anne, i always take the ground that us women ought to stand by each other. we've got enough to endure at the hands of the men, the lord knows, so i hold we hadn't ought to clapper-claw one another, and it isn't often you'll find me running down another woman. but i never had much use for rose elliott. she was spoiled to begin with, believe me, and she was nothing but a lazy, selfish, whining creature. frank was no hand to work, so they were poor as job's turkey. poor! they lived on potatoes and point, believe me. they had two children--leslie and kenneth. leslie had her mother's looks and her father's brains, and something she didn't get from either of them. she took after her grandmother west--a splendid old lady. she was the brightest, friendliest, merriest thing when she was a child, anne. everybody liked her. she was her father's favorite and she was awful fond of him. they were 'chums,' as she used to say. she couldn't see any of his faults--and he was a taking sort of man in some ways. "well, when leslie was twelve years old, the first dreadful thing happened. she worshipped little kenneth--he was four years younger than her, and he was a dear little chap. and he was killed one day--fell off a big load of hay just as it was going into the barn, and the wheel went right over his little body and crushed the life out of it. and mind you, anne, leslie saw it. she was looking down from the loft. she gave one screech--the hired man said he never heard such a sound in all his life--he said it would ring in his ears till gabriel's trump drove it out. but she never screeched or cried again about it. she jumped from the loft onto the load and from the load to the floor, and caught up the little bleeding, warm, dead body, anne--they had to tear it from her before she would let it go. they sent for me--i can't talk of it." miss cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly brown eyes and sewed in bitter silence for a few minutes. "well," she resumed, "it was all over--they buried little kenneth in that graveyard over the harbor, and after a while leslie went back to her school and her studies. she never mentioned kenneth's name--i've never heard it cross her lips from that day to this. i reckon that old hurt still aches and burns at times; but she was only a child and time is real kind to children, anne, dearie. after a while she began to laugh again--she had the prettiest laugh. you don't often hear it now." "i heard it once the other night," said anne. "it is a beautiful laugh." "frank west began to go down after kenneth's death. he wasn't strong and it was a shock to him, because he was real fond of the child, though, as i've said, leslie was his favorite. he got mopy and melancholy, and couldn't or wouldn't work. and one day, when leslie was fourteen years of age, he hanged himself--and in the parlor, too, mind you, anne, right in the middle of the parlor from the lamp hook in the ceiling. wasn't that like a man? it was the anniversary of his wedding day, too. nice, tasty time to pick for it, wasn't it? and, of course, that poor leslie had to be the one to find him. she went into the parlor that morning, singing, with some fresh flowers for the vases, and there she saw her father hanging from the ceiling, his face as black as a coal. it was something awful, believe me!" "oh, how horrible!" said anne, shuddering. "the poor, poor child!" "leslie didn't cry at her father's funeral any more then she had cried at kenneth's. rose whooped and howled for two, however, and leslie had all she could do trying to calm and comfort her mother. i was disgusted with rose and so was everyone else, but leslie never got out of patience. she loved her mother. leslie is clannish--her own could never do wrong in her eyes. well, they buried frank west beside kenneth, and rose put up a great big monument to him. it was bigger than his character, believe me! anyhow, it was bigger than rose could afford, for the farm was mortgaged for more than its value. but not long after leslie's old grandmother west died and she left leslie a little money--enough to give her a year at queen's academy. leslie had made up her mind to pass for a teacher if she could, and then earn enough to put herself through redmond college. that had been her father's pet scheme--he wanted her to have what he had lost. leslie was full of ambition and her head was chock full of brains. she went to queen's, and she took two years' work in one year and got her first; and when she came home she got the glen school. she was so happy and hopeful and full of life and eagerness. when i think of what she was then and what she is now, i say--drat the men!" miss cornelia snipped her thread off as viciously as if, nero-like, she was severing the neck of mankind by the stroke. "dick moore came into her life that summer. his father, abner moore, kept store at the glen, but dick had a sea-going streak in him from his mother; he used to sail in summer and clerk in his father's store in winter. he was a big, handsome fellow, with a little ugly soul. he was always wanting something till he got it, and then he stopped wanting it--just like a man. oh, he didn't growl at the weather when it was fine, and he was mostly real pleasant and agreeable when everything went right. but he drank a good deal, and there were some nasty stories told of him and a girl down at the fishing village. he wasn't fit for leslie to wipe her feet on, that's the long and short of it. and he was a methodist! but he was clean mad about her--because of her good looks in the first place, and because she wouldn't have anything to say to him in the second. he vowed he'd have her--and he got her!" "how did he bring it about?" "oh, it was an iniquitous thing! i'll never forgive rose west. you see, dearie, abner moore held the mortgage on the west farm, and the interest was overdue some years, and dick just went and told mrs. west that if leslie wouldn't marry him he'd get his father to foreclose the mortgage. rose carried on terrible--fainted and wept, and pleaded with leslie not to let her be turned out of her home. she said it would break her heart to leave the home she'd come to as a bride. i wouldn't have blamed her for feeling dreadful bad over it--but you wouldn't have thought she'd be so selfish as to sacrifice her own flesh and blood because of it, would you? well, she was. "and leslie gave in--she loved her mother so much she would have done anything to save her pain. she married dick moore. none of us knew why at the time. it wasn't till long afterward that i found out how her mother had worried her into it. i was sure there was something wrong, though, because i knew how she had snubbed him time and again, and it wasn't like leslie to turn face--about like that. besides, i knew that dick moore wasn't the kind of man leslie could ever fancy, in spite of his good looks and dashing ways. of course, there was no wedding, but rose asked me to go and see them married. i went, but i was sorry i did. i'd seen leslie's face at her brother's funeral and at her father's funeral--and now it seemed to me i was seeing it at her own funeral. but rose was smiling as a basket of chips, believe me! "leslie and dick settled down on the west place--rose couldn't bear to part with her dear daughter!--and lived there for the winter. in the spring rose took pneumonia and died--a year too late! leslie was heart-broken enough over it. isn't it terrible the way some unworthy folks are loved, while others that deserve it far more, you'd think, never get much affection? as for dick, he'd had enough of quiet married life--just like a man. he was for up and off. he went over to nova scotia to visit his relations--his father had come from nova scotia--and he wrote back to leslie that his cousin, george moore, was going on a voyage to havana and he was going too. the name of the vessel was the four sisters and they were to be gone about nine weeks. "it must have been a relief to leslie. but she never said anything. from the day of her marriage she was just what she is now--cold and proud, and keeping everyone but me at a distance. i won't be kept at a distance, believe me! i've just stuck to leslie as close as i knew how in spite of everything." "she told me you were the best friend she had," said anne. "did she?" exclaimed miss cornelia delightedly. "well, i'm real thankful to hear it. sometimes i've wondered if she really did want me around at all--she never let me think so. you must have thawed her out more than you think, or she wouldn't have said that much itself to you. oh, that poor, heart-broken girl! i never see dick moore but i want to run a knife clean through him." miss cornelia wiped her eyes again and having relieved her feelings by her blood-thirsty wish, took up her tale. "well, leslie was left over there alone. dick had put in the crop before he went, and old abner looked after it. the summer went by and the four sisters didn't come back. the nova scotia moores investigated, and found she had got to havana and discharged her cargo and took on another and left for home; and that was all they ever found out about her. by degrees people began to talk of dick moore as one that was dead. almost everyone believed that he was, though no one felt certain, for men have turned up here at the harbor after they'd been gone for years. leslie never thought he was dead--and she was right. a thousand pities too! the next summer captain jim was in havana--that was before he gave up the sea, of course. he thought he'd poke round a bit--captain jim was always meddlesome, just like a man--and he went to inquiring round among the sailors' boarding houses and places like that, to see if he could find out anything about the crew of the four sisters. he'd better have let sleeping dogs lie, in my opinion! well, he went to one out-of-the-way place, and there he found a man he knew at first sight it was dick moore, though he had a big beard. captain jim got it shaved off and then there was no doubt--dick moore it was--his body at least. his mind wasn't there--as for his soul, in my opinion he never had one!" "what had happened to him?" "nobody knows the rights of it. all the folks who kept the boarding house could tell was that about a year before they had found him lying on their doorstep one morning in an awful condition--his head battered to a jelly almost. they supposed he'd got hurt in some drunken row, and likely that's the truth of it. they took him in, never thinking he could live. but he did--and he was just like a child when he got well. he hadn't memory or intellect or reason. they tried to find out who he was but they never could. he couldn't even tell them his name--he could only say a few simple words. he had a letter on him beginning 'dear dick' and signed 'leslie,' but there was no address on it and the envelope was gone. they let him stay on--he learned to do a few odd jobs about the place--and there captain jim found him. he brought him home--i've always said it was a bad day's work, though i s'pose there was nothing else he could do. he thought maybe when dick got home and saw his old surroundings and familiar faces his memory would wake up. but it hadn't any effect. there he's been at the house up the brook ever since. he's just like a child, no more nor less. takes fractious spells occasionally, but mostly he's just vacant and good humored and harmless. he's apt to run away if he isn't watched. that's the burden leslie has had to carry for eleven years--and all alone. old abner moore died soon after dick was brought home and it was found he was almost bankrupt. when things were settled up there was nothing for leslie and dick but the old west farm. leslie rented it to john ward, and the rent is all she has to live on. sometimes in summer she takes a boarder to help out. but most visitors prefer the other side of the harbor where the hotels and summer cottages are. leslie's house is too far from the bathing shore. she's taken care of dick and she's never been away from him for eleven years--she's tied to that imbecile for life. and after all the dreams and hopes she once had! you can imagine what it has been like for her, anne, dearie--with her beauty and spirit and pride and cleverness. it's just been a living death." "poor, poor girl!" said anne again. her own happiness seemed to reproach her. what right had she to be so happy when another human soul must be so miserable? "will you tell me just what leslie said and how she acted the night you met her on the shore?" asked miss cornelia. she listened intently and nodded her satisfaction. "you thought she was stiff and cold, anne, dearie, but i can tell you she thawed out wonderful for her. she must have taken to you real strong. i'm so glad. you may be able to help her a good deal. i was thankful when i heard that a young couple was coming to this house, for i hoped it would mean some friends for leslie; especially if you belonged to the race that knows joseph. you will be her friend, won't you, anne, dearie?" "indeed i will, if she'll let me," said anne, with all her own sweet, impulsive earnestness. "no, you must be her friend, whether she'll let you or not," said miss cornelia resolutely. "don't you mind if she's stiff by times--don't notice it. remember what her life has been--and is--and must always be, i suppose, for creatures like dick moore live forever, i understand. you should see how fat he's got since he came home. he used to be lean enough. just make her be friends--you can do it--you're one of those who have the knack. only you mustn't be sensitive. and don't mind if she doesn't seem to want you to go over there much. she knows that some women don't like to be where dick is--they complain he gives them the creeps. just get her to come over here as often as she can. she can't get away so very much--she can't leave dick long, for the lord knows what he'd do--burn the house down most likely. at nights, after he's in bed and asleep, is about the only time she's free. he always goes to bed early and sleeps like the dead till next morning. that is how you came to meet her at the shore likely. she wanders there considerable." "i will do everything i can for her," said anne. her interest in leslie moore, which had been vivid ever since she had seen her driving her geese down the hill, was intensified a thousand fold by miss cornelia's narration. the girl's beauty and sorrow and loneliness drew her with an irresistible fascination. she had never known anyone like her; her friends had hitherto been wholesome, normal, merry girls like herself, with only the average trials of human care and bereavement to shadow their girlish dreams. leslie moore stood apart, a tragic, appealing figure of thwarted womanhood. anne resolved that she would win entrance into the kingdom of that lonely soul and find there the comradeship it could so richly give, were it not for the cruel fetters that held it in a prison not of its own making. "and mind you this, anne, dearie," said miss cornelia, who had not yet wholly relieved her mind, "you mustn't think leslie is an infidel because she hardly ever goes to church--or even that she's a methodist. she can't take dick to church, of course--not that he ever troubled church much in his best days. but you just remember that she's a real strong presbyterian at heart, anne, dearie." chapter leslie comes over leslie came over to the house of dreams one frosty october night, when moonlit mists were hanging over the harbor and curling like silver ribbons along the seaward glens. she looked as if she repented coming when gilbert answered her knock; but anne flew past him, pounced on her, and drew her in. "i'm so glad you picked tonight for a call," she said gaily. "i made up a lot of extra good fudge this afternoon and we want someone to help us eat it--before the fire--while we tell stories. perhaps captain jim will drop in, too. this is his night." "no. captain jim is over home," said leslie. "he--he made me come here," she added, half defiantly. "i'll say a thank-you to him for that when i see him," said anne, pulling easy chairs before the fire. "oh, i don't mean that i didn't want to come," protested leslie, flushing a little. "i--i've been thinking of coming--but it isn't always easy for me to get away." "of course it must be hard for you to leave mr. moore," said anne, in a matter-of-fact tone. she had decided that it would be best to mention dick moore occasionally as an accepted fact, and not give undue morbidness to the subject by avoiding it. she was right, for leslie's air of constraint suddenly vanished. evidently she had been wondering how much anne knew of the conditions of her life and was relieved that no explanations were needed. she allowed her cap and jacket to be taken, and sat down with a girlish snuggle in the big armchair by magog. she was dressed prettily and carefully, with the customary touch of color in the scarlet geranium at her white throat. her beautiful hair gleamed like molten gold in the warm firelight. her sea-blue eyes were full of soft laughter and allurement. for the moment, under the influence of the little house of dreams, she was a girl again--a girl forgetful of the past and its bitterness. the atmosphere of the many loves that had sanctified the little house was all about her; the companionship of two healthy, happy, young folks of her own generation encircled her; she felt and yielded to the magic of her surroundings--miss cornelia and captain jim would scarcely have recognized her; anne found it hard to believe that this was the cold, unresponsive woman she had met on the shore--this animated girl who talked and listened with the eagerness of a starved soul. and how hungrily leslie's eyes looked at the bookcases between the windows! "our library isn't very extensive," said anne, "but every book in it is a friend. we've picked our books up through the years, here and there, never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged to the race of joseph." leslie laughed--beautiful laughter that seemed akin to all the mirth that had echoed through the little house in the vanished years. "i have a few books of father's--not many," she said. "i've read them until i know them almost by heart. i don't get many books. there's a circulating library at the glen store--but i don't think the committee who pick the books for mr. parker know what books are of joseph's race--or perhaps they don't care. it was so seldom i got one i really liked that i gave up getting any." "i hope you'll look on our bookshelves as your own," said anne. "you are entirely and wholeheartedly welcome to the loan of any book on them." "you are setting a feast of fat things before me," said leslie, joyously. then, as the clock struck ten, she rose, half unwillingly. "i must go. i didn't realise it was so late. captain jim is always saying it doesn't take long to stay an hour. but i've stayed two--and oh, but i've enjoyed them," she added frankly. "come often," said anne and gilbert. they had risen and stood together in the firelight's glow. leslie looked at them--youthful, hopeful, happy, typifying all she had missed and must forever miss. the light went out of her face and eyes; the girl vanished; it was the sorrowful, cheated woman who answered the invitation almost coldly and got herself away with a pitiful haste. anne watched her until she was lost in the shadows of the chill and misty night. then she turned slowly back to the glow of her own radiant hearthstone. "isn't she lovely, gilbert? her hair fascinates me. miss cornelia says it reaches to her feet. ruby gillis had beautiful hair--but leslie's is alive--every thread of it is living gold." "she is very beautiful," agreed gilbert, so heartily that anne almost wished he were a little less enthusiastic. "gilbert, would you like my hair better if it were like leslie's?" she asked wistfully. "i wouldn't have your hair any color but just what it is for the world," said gilbert, with one or two convincing accompaniments. you wouldn't be anne if you had golden hair--or hair of any color but"-- "red," said anne, with gloomy satisfaction. "yes, red--to give warmth to that milk-white skin and those shining gray-green eyes of yours. golden hair wouldn't suit you at all queen anne--my queen anne--queen of my heart and life and home." "then you may admire leslie's all you like," said anne magnanimously. chapter a ghostly evening one evening, a week later, anne decided to run over the fields to the house up the brook for an informal call. it was an evening of gray fog that had crept in from the gulf, swathed the harbor, filled the glens and valleys, and clung heavily to the autumnal meadows. through it the sea sobbed and shuddered. anne saw four winds in a new aspect, and found it weird and mysterious and fascinating; but it also gave her a little feeling of loneliness. gilbert was away and would be away until the morrow, attending a medical pow-wow in charlottetown. anne longed for an hour of fellowship with some girl friend. captain jim and miss cornelia were "good fellows" each, in their own way; but youth yearned to youth. "if only diana or phil or pris or stella could drop in for a chat," she said to herself, "how delightful it would be! this is such a ghostly night. i'm sure all the ships that ever sailed out of four winds to their doom could be seen tonight sailing up the harbor with their drowned crews on their decks, if that shrouding fog could suddenly be drawn aside. i feel as if it concealed innumerable mysteries--as if i were surrounded by the wraiths of old generations of four winds people peering at me through that gray veil. if ever the dear dead ladies of this little house came back to revisit it they would come on just such a night as this. if i sit here any longer i'll see one of them there opposite me in gilbert's chair. this place isn't exactly canny tonight. even gog and magog have an air of pricking up their ears to hear the footsteps of unseen guests. i'll run over to see leslie before i frighten myself with my own fancies, as i did long ago in the matter of the haunted wood. i'll leave my house of dreams to welcome back its old inhabitants. my fire will give them my good-will and greeting--they will be gone before i come back, and my house will be mine once more. tonight i am sure it is keeping a tryst with the past." laughing a little over her fancy, yet with something of a creepy sensation in the region of her spine, anne kissed her hand to gog and magog and slipped out into the fog, with some of the new magazines under her arm for leslie. "leslie's wild for books and magazines," miss cornelia had told her, "and she hardly ever sees one. she can't afford to buy them or subscribe for them. she's really pitifully poor, anne. i don't see how she makes out to live at all on the little rent the farm brings in. she never even hints a complaint on the score of poverty, but i know what it must be. she's been handicapped by it all her life. she didn't mind it when she was free and ambitious, but it must gall now, believe me. i'm glad she seemed so bright and merry the evening she spent with you. captain jim told me he had fairly to put her cap and coat on and push her out of the door. don't be too long going to see her either. if you are she'll think it's because you don't like the sight of dick, and she'll crawl into her shell again. dick's a great, big, harmless baby, but that silly grin and chuckle of his do get on some people's nerves. thank goodness, i've no nerves myself. i like dick moore better now than i ever did when he was in his right senses--though the lord knows that isn't saying much. i was down there one day in housecleaning time helping leslie a bit, and i was frying doughnuts. dick was hanging round to get one, as usual, and all at once he picked up a scalding hot one i'd just fished out and dropped it on the back of my neck when i was bending over. then he laughed and laughed. believe me, anne, it took all the grace of god in my heart to keep me from just whisking up that stew-pan of boiling fat and pouring it over his head." anne laughed over miss cornelia's wrath as she sped through the darkness. but laughter accorded ill with that night. she was sober enough when she reached the house among the willows. everything was very silent. the front part of the house seemed dark and deserted, so anne slipped round to the side door, which opened from the veranda into a little sitting room. there she halted noiselessly. the door was open. beyond, in the dimly lighted room, sat leslie moore, with her arms flung out on the table and her head bent upon them. she was weeping horribly--with low, fierce, choking sobs, as if some agony in her soul were trying to tear itself out. an old black dog was sitting by her, his nose resting on his lap, his big doggish eyes full of mute, imploring sympathy and devotion. anne drew back in dismay. she felt that she could not intermeddle with this bitterness. her heart ached with a sympathy she might not utter. to go in now would be to shut the door forever on any possible help or friendship. some instinct warned anne that the proud, bitter girl would never forgive the one who thus surprised her in her abandonment of despair. anne slipped noiselessly from the veranda and found her way across the yard. beyond, she heard voices in the gloom and saw the dim glow of a light. at the gate she met two men--captain jim with a lantern, and another who she knew must be dick moore--a big man, badly gone to fat, with a broad, round, red face, and vacant eyes. even in the dull light anne got the impression that there was something unusual about his eyes. "is this you, mistress blythe?" said captain jim. "now, now, you hadn't oughter be roaming about alone on a night like this. you could get lost in this fog easier than not. jest you wait till i see dick safe inside the door and i'll come back and light you over the fields. i ain't going to have dr. blythe coming home and finding that you walked clean over cape leforce in the fog. a woman did that once, forty years ago. "so you've been over to see leslie," he said, when he rejoined her. "i didn't go in," said anne, and told what she had seen. captain jim sighed. "poor, poor, little girl! she don't cry often, mistress blythe--she's too brave for that. she must feel terrible when she does cry. a night like this is hard on poor women who have sorrows. there's something about it that kinder brings up all we've suffered--or feared." "it's full of ghosts," said anne, with a shiver. "that was why i came over--i wanted to clasp a human hand and hear a human voice. "there seem to be so many inhuman presences about tonight. even my own dear house was full of them. they fairly elbowed me out. so i fled over here for companionship of my kind." "you were right not to go in, though, mistress blythe. leslie wouldn't have liked it. she wouldn't have liked me going in with dick, as i'd have done if i hadn't met you. i had dick down with me all day. i keep him with me as much as i can to help leslie a bit." "isn't there something odd about his eyes?" asked anne. "you noticed that? yes, one is blue and t'other is hazel--his father had the same. it's a moore peculiarity. that was what told me he was dick moore when i saw him first down in cuby. if it hadn't a-bin for his eyes i mightn't a-known him, with his beard and fat. you know, i reckon, that it was me found him and brought him home. miss cornelia always says i shouldn't have done it, but i can't agree with her. it was the right thing to do--and so 'twas the only thing. there ain't no question in my mind about that. but my old heart aches for leslie. she's only twenty-eight and she's eaten more bread with sorrow than most women do in eighty years." they walked on in silence for a little while. presently anne said, "do you know, captain jim, i never like walking with a lantern. i have always the strangest feeling that just outside the circle of light, just over its edge in the darkness, i am surrounded by a ring of furtive, sinister things, watching me from the shadows with hostile eyes. i've had that feeling from childhood. what is the reason? i never feel like that when i'm really in the darkness--when it is close all around me--i'm not the least frightened." "i've something of that feeling myself," admitted captain jim. "i reckon when the darkness is close to us it is a friend. but when we sorter push it away from us--divorce ourselves from it, so to speak, with lantern light--it becomes an enemy. but the fog is lifting. "there's a smart west wind rising, if you notice. the stars will be out when you get home." they were out; and when anne re-entered her house of dreams the red embers were still glowing on the hearth, and all the haunting presences were gone. chapter november days the splendor of color which had glowed for weeks along the shores of four winds harbor had faded out into the soft gray-blue of late autumnal hills. there came many days when fields and shores were dim with misty rain, or shivering before the breath of a melancholy sea-wind--nights, too, of storm and tempest, when anne sometimes wakened to pray that no ship might be beating up the grim north shore, for if it were so not even the great, faithful light whirling through the darkness unafraid, could avail to guide it into safe haven. "in november i sometimes feel as if spring could never come again," she sighed, grieving over the hopeless unsightliness of her frosted and bedraggled flower-plots. the gay little garden of the schoolmaster's bride was rather a forlorn place now, and the lombardies and birches were under bare poles, as captain jim said. but the fir-wood behind the little house was forever green and staunch; and even in november and december there came gracious days of sunshine and purple hazes, when the harbor danced and sparkled as blithely as in midsummer, and the gulf was so softly blue and tender that the storm and the wild wind seemed only things of a long-past dream. anne and gilbert spent many an autumn evening at the lighthouse. it was always a cheery place. even when the east wind sang in minor and the sea was dead and gray, hints of sunshine seemed to be lurking all about it. perhaps this was because the first mate always paraded it in panoply of gold. he was so large and effulgent that one hardly missed the sun, and his resounding purrs formed a pleasant accompaniment to the laughter and conversation which went on around captain jim's fireplace. captain jim and gilbert had many long discussions and high converse on matters beyond the ken of cat or king. "i like to ponder on all kinds of problems, though i can't solve 'em," said captain jim. "my father held that we should never talk of things we couldn't understand, but if we didn't, doctor, the subjects for conversation would be mighty few. i reckon the gods laugh many a time to hear us, but what matters so long as we remember that we're only men and don't take to fancying that we're gods ourselves, really, knowing good and evil. i reckon our pow-wows won't do us or anyone much harm, so let's have another whack at the whence, why and whither this evening, doctor." while they "whacked," anne listened or dreamed. sometimes leslie went to the lighthouse with them, and she and anne wandered along the shore in the eerie twilight, or sat on the rocks below the lighthouse until the darkness drove them back to the cheer of the driftwood fire. then captain jim would brew them tea and tell them "tales of land and sea and whatsoever might betide the great forgotten world outside." leslie seemed always to enjoy those lighthouse carousals very much, and bloomed out for the time being into ready wit and beautiful laughter, or glowing-eyed silence. there was a certain tang and savor in the conversation when leslie was present which they missed when she was absent. even when she did not talk she seemed to inspire others to brilliancy. captain jim told his stories better, gilbert was quicker in argument and repartee, anne felt little gushes and trickles of fancy and imagination bubbling to her lips under the influence of leslie's personality. "that girl was born to be a leader in social and intellectual circles, far away from four winds," she said to gilbert as they walked home one night. "she's just wasted here--wasted." "weren't you listening to captain jim and yours truly the other night when we discussed that subject generally? we came to the comforting conclusion that the creator probably knew how to run his universe quite as well as we do, and that, after all, there are no such things as 'wasted' lives, saving and except when an individual wilfully squanders and wastes his own life--which leslie moore certainly hasn't done. and some people might think that a redmond b.a., whom editors were beginning to honor, was 'wasted' as the wife of a struggling country doctor in the rural community of four winds." "gilbert!" "if you had married roy gardner, now," continued gilbert mercilessly, "you could have been 'a leader in social and intellectual circles far away from four winds.'" "gilbert blythe!" "you know you were in love with him at one time, anne." "gilbert, that's mean--'pisen mean, just like all the men,' as miss cornelia says. i never was in love with him. i only imagined i was. you know that. you know i'd rather be your wife in our house of dreams and fulfillment than a queen in a palace." gilbert's answer was not in words; but i am afraid that both of them forgot poor leslie speeding her lonely way across the fields to a house that was neither a palace nor the fulfillment of a dream. the moon was rising over the sad, dark sea behind them and transfiguring it. her light had not yet reached the harbor, the further side of which was shadowy and suggestive, with dim coves and rich glooms and jewelling lights. "how the home lights shine out tonight through the dark!" said anne. "that string of them over the harbor looks like a necklace. and what a coruscation there is up at the glen! oh, look, gilbert; there is ours. i'm so glad we left it burning. i hate to come home to a dark house. our homelight, gilbert! isn't it lovely to see?" "just one of earth's many millions of homes, anne--girl--but ours--ours--our beacon in 'a naughty world.' when a fellow has a home and a dear, little, red-haired wife in it what more need he ask of life?" "well, he might ask one thing more," whispered anne happily. "oh, gilbert, it seems as if i just couldn't wait for the spring." chapter christmas at four winds at first anne and gilbert talked of going home to avonlea for christmas; but eventually they decided to stay in four winds. "i want to spend the first christmas of our life together in our own home," decreed anne. so it fell out that marilla and mrs. rachel lynde and the twins came to four winds for christmas. marilla had the face of a woman who had circumnavigated the globe. she had never been sixty miles away from home before; and she had never eaten a christmas dinner anywhere save at green gables. mrs. rachel had made and brought with her an enormous plum pudding. nothing could have convinced mrs. rachel that a college graduate of the younger generation could make a christmas plum pudding properly; but she bestowed approval on anne's house. "anne's a good housekeeper," she said to marilla in the spare room the night of their arrival. "i've looked into her bread box and her scrap pail. i always judge a housekeeper by those, that's what. there's nothing in the pail that shouldn't have been thrown away, and no stale pieces in the bread box. of course, she was trained up with you--but, then, she went to college afterwards. i notice she's got my tobacco stripe quilt on the bed here, and that big round braided mat of yours before her living-room fire. it makes me feel right at home." anne's first christmas in her own house was as delightful as she could have wished. the day was fine and bright; the first skim of snow had fallen on christmas eve and made the world beautiful; the harbor was still open and glittering. captain jim and miss cornelia came to dinner. leslie and dick had been invited, but leslie made excuse; they always went to her uncle isaac west's for christmas, she said. "she'd rather have it so," miss cornelia told anne. "she can't bear taking dick where there are strangers. christmas is always a hard time for leslie. she and her father used to make a lot of it." miss cornelia and mrs. rachel did not take a very violent fancy to each other. "two suns hold not their courses in one sphere." but they did not clash at all, for mrs. rachel was in the kitchen helping anne and marilla with the dinner, and it fell to gilbert to entertain captain jim and miss cornelia,--or rather to be entertained by them, for a dialogue between those two old friends and antagonists was assuredly never dull. "it's many a year since there was a christmas dinner here, mistress blythe," said captain jim. "miss russell always went to her friends in town for christmas. but i was here to the first christmas dinner that was ever eaten in this house--and the schoolmaster's bride cooked it. that was sixty years ago today, mistress blythe--and a day very like this--just enough snow to make the hills white, and the harbor as blue as june. i was only a lad, and i'd never been invited out to dinner before, and i was too shy to eat enough. i've got all over that." "most men do," said miss cornelia, sewing furiously. miss cornelia was not going to sit with idle hands, even on christmas. babies come without any consideration for holidays, and there was one expected in a poverty-stricken household at glen st. mary. miss cornelia had sent that household a substantial dinner for its little swarm, and so meant to eat her own with a comfortable conscience. "well, you know, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, cornelia," explained captain jim. "i believe you--when he has a heart," retorted miss cornelia. "i suppose that's why so many women kill themselves cooking--just as poor amelia baxter did. she died last christmas morning, and she said it was the first christmas since she was married that she didn't have to cook a big, twenty-plate dinner. it must have been a real pleasant change for her. well, she's been dead a year, so you'll soon hear of horace baxter taking notice." "i heard he was taking notice already," said captain jim, winking at gilbert. "wasn't he up to your place one sunday lately, with his funeral blacks on, and a boiled collar?" "no, he wasn't. and he needn't come neither. i could have had him long ago when he was fresh. i don't want any second-hand goods, believe me. as for horace baxter, he was in financial difficulties a year ago last summer, and he prayed to the lord for help; and when his wife died and he got her life insurance he said he believed it was the answer to his prayer. wasn't that like a man?" "have you really proof that he said that, cornelia?" "i have the methodist minister's word for it--if you call that proof. robert baxter told me the same thing too, but i admit that isn't evidence. robert baxter isn't often known to tell the truth." "come, come, cornelia, i think he generally tells the truth, but he changes his opinion so often it sometimes sounds as if he didn't." "it sounds like it mighty often, believe me. but trust one man to excuse another. i have no use for robert baxter. he turned methodist just because the presbyterian choir happened to be singing 'behold the bridegroom cometh' for a collection piece when him and margaret walked up the aisle the sunday after they were married. served him right for being late! he always insisted the choir did it on purpose to insult him, as if he was of that much importance. but that family always thought they were much bigger potatoes than they really were. his brother eliphalet imagined the devil was always at his elbow--but _i_ never believed the devil wasted that much time on him." "i--don't--know," said captain jim thoughtfully. "eliphalet baxter lived too much alone--hadn't even a cat or dog to keep him human. when a man is alone he's mighty apt to be with the devil--if he ain't with god. he has to choose which company he'll keep, i reckon. if the devil always was at life baxter's elbow it must have been because life liked to have him there." "man-like," said miss cornelia, and subsided into silence over a complicated arrangement of tucks until captain jim deliberately stirred her up again by remarking in a casual way: "i was up to the methodist church last sunday morning." "you'd better have been home reading your bible," was miss cornelia's retort. "come, now, cornelia, _i_ can't see any harm in going to the methodist church when there's no preaching in your own. i've been a presbyterian for seventy-six years, and it isn't likely my theology will hoist anchor at this late day." "it's setting a bad example," said miss cornelia grimly. "besides," continued wicked captain jim, "i wanted to hear some good singing. the methodists have a good choir; and you can't deny, cornelia, that the singing in our church is awful since the split in the choir." "what if the singing isn't good? they're doing their best, and god sees no difference between the voice of a crow and the voice of a nightingale." "come, come, cornelia," said captain jim mildly, "i've a better opinion of the almighty's ear for music than that." "what caused the trouble in our choir?" asked gilbert, who was suffering from suppressed laughter. "it dates back to the new church, three years ago," answered captain jim. "we had a fearful time over the building of that church--fell out over the question of a new site. the two sites wasn't more'n two hundred yards apart, but you'd have thought they was a thousand by the bitterness of that fight. we was split up into three factions--one wanted the east site and one the south, and one held to the old. it was fought out in bed and at board, and in church and at market. all the old scandals of three generations were dragged out of their graves and aired. three matches was broken up by it. and the meetings we had to try to settle the question! cornelia, will you ever forget the one when old luther burns got up and made a speech? he stated his opinions forcibly." "call a spade a spade, captain. you mean he got red-mad and raked them all, fore and aft. they deserved it too--a pack of incapables. but what would you expect of a committee of men? that building committee held twenty-seven meetings, and at the end of the twenty-seventh weren't no nearer having a church than when they begun--not so near, for a fact, for in one fit of hurrying things along they'd gone to work and tore the old church down, so there we were, without a church, and no place but the hall to worship in." "the methodists offered us their church, cornelia." "the glen st. mary church wouldn't have been built to this day," went on miss cornelia, ignoring captain jim, "if we women hadn't just started in and took charge. we said we meant to have a church, if the men meant to quarrel till doomsday, and we were tired of being a laughing-stock for the methodists. we held one meeting and elected a committee and canvassed for subscriptions. we got them, too. when any of the men tried to sass us we told them they'd tried for two years to build a church and it was our turn now. we shut them up close, believe me, and in six months we had our church. of course, when the men saw we were determined they stopped fighting and went to work, man-like, as soon as they saw they had to, or quit bossing. oh, women can't preach or be elders; but they can build churches and scare up the money for them." "the methodists allow women to preach," said captain jim. miss cornelia glared at him. "i never said the methodists hadn't common sense, captain. what i say is, i doubt if they have much religion." "i suppose you are in favor of votes for women, miss cornelia," said gilbert. "i'm not hankering after the vote, believe me," said miss cornelia scornfully. "_i_ know what it is to clean up after the men. but some of these days, when the men realize they've got the world into a mess they can't get it out of, they'll be glad to give us the vote, and shoulder their troubles over on us. that's their scheme. oh, it's well that women are patient, believe me!" "what about job?" suggested captain jim. "job! it was such a rare thing to find a patient man that when one was really discovered they were determined he shouldn't be forgotten," retorted miss cornelia triumphantly. "anyhow, the virtue doesn't go with the name. there never was such an impatient man born as old job taylor over harbor." "well, you know, he had a good deal to try him, cornelia. even you can't defend his wife. i always remember what old william macallister said of her at her funeral, 'there's nae doot she was a chreestian wumman, but she had the de'il's own temper.'" "i suppose she was trying," admitted miss cornelia reluctantly, "but that didn't justify what job said when she died. he rode home from the graveyard the day of the funeral with my father. he never said a word till they got near home. then he heaved a big sigh and said, 'you may not believe it, stephen, but this is the happiest day of my life!' wasn't that like a man?" "i s'pose poor old mrs. job did make life kinder uneasy for him," reflected captain jim. "well, there's such a thing as decency, isn't there? even if a man is rejoicing in his heart over his wife being dead, he needn't proclaim it to the four winds of heaven. and happy day or not, job taylor wasn't long in marrying again, you might notice. his second wife could manage him. she made him walk spanish, believe me! the first thing she did was to make him hustle round and put up a tombstone to the first mrs. job--and she had a place left on it for her own name. she said there'd be nobody to make job put up a monument to her." "speaking of taylors, how is mrs. lewis taylor up at the glen, doctor?" asked captain jim. "she's getting better slowly--but she has to work too hard," replied gilbert. "her husband works hard too--raising prize pigs," said miss cornelia. "he's noted for his beautiful pigs. he's a heap prouder of his pigs than of his children. but then, to be sure, his pigs are the best pigs possible, while his children don't amount to much. he picked a poor mother for them, and starved her while she was bearing and rearing them. his pigs got the cream and his children got the skim milk. "there are times, cornelia, when i have to agree with you, though it hurts me," said captain jim. "that's just exactly the truth about lewis taylor. when i see those poor, miserable children of his, robbed of all children ought to have, it p'isens my own bite and sup for days afterwards." gilbert went out to the kitchen in response to anne's beckoning. anne shut the door and gave him a connubial lecture. "gilbert, you and captain jim must stop baiting miss cornelia. oh, i've been listening to you--and i just won't allow it." 'anne, miss cornelia is enjoying herself hugely. you know she is.' "well, never mind. you two needn't egg her on like that. dinner is ready now, and, gilbert, don't let mrs. rachel carve the geese. i know she means to offer to do it because she doesn't think you can do it properly. show her you can." "i ought to be able to. i've been studying a-b-c-d diagrams of carving for the past month," said gilbert. "only don't talk to me while i'm doing it, anne, for if you drive the letters out of my head i'll be in a worse predicament than you were in old geometry days when the teacher changed them." gilbert carved the geese beautifully. even mrs. rachel had to admit that. and everybody ate of them and enjoyed them. anne's first christmas dinner was a great success and she beamed with housewifely pride. merry was the feast and long; and when it was over they gathered around the cheer of the red hearth flame and captain jim told them stories until the red sun swung low over four winds harbor, and the long blue shadows of the lombardies fell across the snow in the lane. "i must be getting back to the light," he said finally. "i'll jest have time to walk home before sundown. thank you for a beautiful christmas, mistress blythe. bring master davy down to the light some night before he goes home. "i want to see those stone gods," said davy with a relish. chapter new year's eve at the light the green gables folk went home after christmas, marilla under solemn covenant to return for a month in the spring. more snow came before new year's, and the harbor froze over, but the gulf still was free, beyond the white, imprisoned fields. the last day of the old year was one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter days, which bombard us with their brilliancy, and command our admiration but never our love. the sky was sharp and blue; the snow diamonds sparkled insistently; the stark trees were bare and shameless, with a kind of brazen beauty; the hills shot assaulting lances of crystal. even the shadows were sharp and stiff and clear-cut, as no proper shadows should be. everything that was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less attractive in the glaring splendor; and everything that was ugly seemed ten times uglier, and everything was either handsome or ugly. there was no soft blending, or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness in that searching glitter. the only things that held their own individuality were the firs--for the fir is the tree of mystery and shadow, and yields never to the encroachments of crude radiance. but finally the day began to realise that she was growing old. then a certain pensiveness fell over her beauty which dimmed yet intensified it; sharp angles, glittering points, melted away into curves and enticing gleams. the white harbor put on soft grays and pinks; the far-away hills turned amethyst. "the old year is going away beautifully," said anne. she and leslie and gilbert were on their way to the four winds point, having plotted with captain jim to watch the new year in at the light. the sun had set and in the southwestern sky hung venus, glorious and golden, having drawn as near to her earth-sister as is possible for her. for the first time anne and gilbert saw the shadow cast by that brilliant star of evening, that faint, mysterious shadow, never seen save when there is white snow to reveal it, and then only with averted vision, vanishing when you gaze at it directly. "it's like the spirit of a shadow, isn't it?" whispered anne. "you can see it so plainly haunting your side when you look ahead; but when you turn and look at it--it's gone." "i have heard that you can see the shadow of venus only once in a lifetime, and that within a year of seeing it your life's most wonderful gift will come to you," said leslie. but she spoke rather hardly; perhaps she thought that even the shadow of venus could bring her no gift of life. anne smiled in the soft twilight; she felt quite sure what the mystic shadow promised her. they found marshall elliott at the lighthouse. at first anne felt inclined to resent the intrusion of this long-haired, long-bearded eccentric into the familiar little circle. but marshall elliott soon proved his legitimate claim to membership in the household of joseph. he was a witty, intelligent, well-read man, rivalling captain jim himself in the knack of telling a good story. they were all glad when he agreed to watch the old year out with them. captain jim's small nephew joe had come down to spend new year's with his great-uncle, and had fallen asleep on the sofa with the first mate curled up in a huge golden ball at his feet. "ain't he a dear little man?" said captain jim gloatingly. "i do love to watch a little child asleep, mistress blythe. it's the most beautiful sight in the world, i reckon. joe does love to get down here for a night, because i have him sleep with me. at home he has to sleep with the other two boys, and he doesn't like it. why can't i sleep with father, uncle jim?" says he. 'everybody in the bible slept with their fathers.' as for the questions he asks, the minister himself couldn't answer them. they fair swamp me. 'uncle jim, if i wasn't me who'd i be?' and, 'uncle jim, what would happen if god died?' he fired them two off at me tonight, afore he went to sleep. as for his imagination, it sails away from everything. he makes up the most remarkable yarns--and then his mother shuts him up in the closet for telling stories. and he sits down and makes up another one, and has it ready to relate to her when she lets him out. he had one for me when he come down tonight. 'uncle jim,' says he, solemn as a tombstone, 'i had a 'venture in the glen today.' 'yes, what was it?' says i, expecting something quite startling, but nowise prepared for what i really got. 'i met a wolf in the street,' says he, 'a 'normous wolf with a big, red mouf and awful long teeth, uncle jim.' 'i didn't know there was any wolves up at the glen,' says i. 'oh, he comed there from far, far away,' says joe, 'and i fought he was going to eat me up, uncle jim.' 'were you scared?' says i. 'no, 'cause i had a big gun,' says joe, 'and i shot the wolf dead, uncle jim,--solid dead--and then he went up to heaven and bit god,' says he. well, i was fair staggered, mistress blythe." the hours bloomed into mirth around the driftwood fire. captain jim told tales, and marshall elliott sang old scotch ballads in a fine tenor voice; finally captain jim took down his old brown fiddle from the wall and began to play. he had a tolerable knack of fiddling, which all appreciated save the first mate, who sprang from the sofa as if he had been shot, emitted a shriek of protest, and fled wildly up the stairs. "can't cultivate an ear for music in that cat nohow," said captain jim. "he won't stay long enough to learn to like it. when we got the organ up at the glen church old elder richards bounced up from his seat the minute the organist began to play and scuttled down the aisle and out of the church at the rate of no-man's-business. it reminded me so strong of the first mate tearing loose as soon as i begin to fiddle that i come nearer to laughing out loud in church than i ever did before or since." there was something so infectious in the rollicking tunes which captain jim played that very soon marshall elliott's feet began to twitch. he had been a noted dancer in his youth. presently he started up and held out his hands to leslie. instantly she responded. round and round the firelit room they circled with a rhythmic grace that was wonderful. leslie danced like one inspired; the wild, sweet abandon of the music seemed to have entered into and possessed her. anne watched her in fascinated admiration. she had never seen her like this. all the innate richness and color and charm of her nature seemed to have broken loose and overflowed in crimson cheek and glowing eye and grace of motion. even the aspect of marshall elliott, with his long beard and hair, could not spoil the picture. on the contrary, it seemed to enhance it. marshall elliott looked like a viking of elder days, dancing with one of the blue-eyed, golden-haired daughters of the northland. "the purtiest dancing i ever saw, and i've seen some in my time," declared captain jim, when at last the bow fell from his tired hand. leslie dropped into her chair, laughing, breathless. "i love dancing," she said apart to anne. "i haven't danced since i was sixteen--but i love it. the music seems to run through my veins like quicksilver and i forget everything--everything--except the delight of keeping time to it. there isn't any floor beneath me, or walls about me, or roof over me--i'm floating amid the stars." captain jim hung his fiddle up in its place, beside a large frame enclosing several banknotes. "is there anybody else of your acquaintance who can afford to hang his walls with banknotes for pictures?" he asked. "there's twenty ten-dollar notes there, not worth the glass over them. they're old bank of p. e. island notes. had them by me when the bank failed, and i had 'em framed and hung up, partly as a reminder not to put your trust in banks, and partly to give me a real luxurious, millionairy feeling. hullo, matey, don't be scared. you can come back now. the music and revelry is over for tonight. the old year has just another hour to stay with us. i've seen seventy-six new years come in over that gulf yonder, mistress blythe." "you'll see a hundred," said marshall elliott. captain jim shook his head. "no; and i don't want to--at least, i think i don't. death grows friendlier as we grow older. not that one of us really wants to die though, marshall. tennyson spoke truth when he said that. there's old mrs. wallace up at the glen. she's had heaps of trouble all her life, poor soul, and she's lost almost everyone she cared about. she's always saying that she'll be glad when her time comes, and she doesn't want to sojourn any longer in this vale of tears. but when she takes a sick spell there's a fuss! doctors from town, and a trained nurse, and enough medicine to kill a dog. life may be a vale of tears, all right, but there are some folks who enjoy weeping, i reckon." they spent the old year's last hour quietly around the fire. a few minutes before twelve captain jim rose and opened the door. "we must let the new year in," he said. outside was a fine blue night. a sparkling ribbon of moonlight garlanded the gulf. inside the bar the harbor shone like a pavement of pearl. they stood before the door and waited--captain jim with his ripe, full experience, marshall elliott in his vigorous but empty middle life, gilbert and anne with their precious memories and exquisite hopes, leslie with her record of starved years and her hopeless future. the clock on the little shelf above the fireplace struck twelve. "welcome, new year," said captain jim, bowing low as the last stroke died away. "i wish you all the best year of your lives, mates. i reckon that whatever the new year brings us will be the best the great captain has for us--and somehow or other we'll all make port in a good harbor." chapter a four winds winter winter set in vigorously after new year's. big, white drifts heaped themselves about the little house, and palms of frost covered its windows. the harbor ice grew harder and thicker, until the four winds people began their usual winter travelling over it. the safe ways were "bushed" by a benevolent government, and night and day the gay tinkle of the sleigh-bells sounded on it. on moonlit nights anne heard them in her house of dreams like fairy chimes. the gulf froze over, and the four winds light flashed no more. during the months when navigation was closed captain jim's office was a sinecure. "the first mate and i will have nothing to do till spring except keep warm and amuse ourselves. the last lighthouse keeper used always to move up to the glen in winter; but i'd rather stay at the point. the first mate might get poisoned or chewed up by dogs at the glen. it's a mite lonely, to be sure, with neither the light nor the water for company, but if our friends come to see us often we'll weather it through." captain jim had an ice boat, and many a wild, glorious spin gilbert and anne and leslie had over the glib harbor ice with him. anne and leslie took long snowshoe tramps together, too, over the fields, or across the harbor after storms, or through the woods beyond the glen. they were very good comrades in their rambles and their fireside communings. each had something to give the other--each felt life the richer for friendly exchange of thought and friendly silence; each looked across the white fields between their homes with a pleasant consciousness of a friend beyond. but, in spite of all this, anne felt that there was always a barrier between leslie and herself--a constraint that never wholly vanished. "i don't know why i can't get closer to her," anne said one evening to captain jim. "i like her so much--i admire her so much--i want to take her right into my heart and creep right into hers. but i can never cross the barrier." "you've been too happy all your life, mistress blythe," said captain jim thoughtfully. "i reckon that's why you and leslie can't get real close together in your souls. the barrier between you is her experience of sorrow and trouble. she ain't responsible for it and you ain't; but it's there and neither of you can cross it." "my childhood wasn't very happy before i came to green gables," said anne, gazing soberly out of the window at the still, sad, dead beauty of the leafless tree-shadows on the moonlit snow. "mebbe not--but it was just the usual unhappiness of a child who hasn't anyone to look after it properly. there hasn't been any tragedy in your life, mistress blythe. and poor leslie's has been almost all tragedy. she feels, i reckon, though mebbe she hardly knows she feels it, that there's a vast deal in her life you can't enter nor understand--and so she has to keep you back from it--hold you off, so to speak, from hurting her. you know if we've got anything about us that hurts we shrink from anyone's touch on or near it. it holds good with our souls as well as our bodies, i reckon. leslie's soul must be near raw--it's no wonder she hides it away." "if that were really all, i wouldn't mind, captain jim. i would understand. but there are times--not always, but now and again--when i almost have to believe that leslie doesn't--doesn't like me. sometimes i surprise a look in her eyes that seems to show resentment and dislike--it goes so quickly--but i've seen it, i'm sure of that. and it hurts me, captain jim. i'm not used to being disliked--and i've tried so hard to win leslie's friendship." "you have won it, mistress blythe. don't you go cherishing any foolish notion that leslie don't like you. if she didn't she wouldn't have anything to do with you, much less chumming with you as she does. i know leslie moore too well not to be sure of that." "the first time i ever saw her, driving her geese down the hill on the day i came to four winds, she looked at me with the same expression," persisted anne. "i felt it, even in the midst of my admiration of her beauty. she looked at me resentfully--she did, indeed, captain jim." "the resentment must have been about something else, mistress blythe, and you jest come in for a share of it because you happened past. leslie does take sullen spells now and again, poor girl. i can't blame her, when i know what she has to put up with. i don't know why it's permitted. the doctor and i have talked a lot abut the origin of evil, but we haven't quite found out all about it yet. there's a vast of onunderstandable things in life, ain't there, mistress blythe? sometimes things seem to work out real proper-like, same as with you and the doctor. and then again they all seem to go catawampus. there's leslie, so clever and beautiful you'd think she was meant for a queen, and instead she's cooped up over there, robbed of almost everything a woman'd value, with no prospect except waiting on dick moore all her life. though, mind you, mistress blythe, i daresay she'd choose her life now, such as it is, rather than the life she lived with dick before he went away. that's something a clumsy old sailor's tongue mustn't meddle with. but you've helped leslie a lot--she's a different creature since you come to four winds. us old friends see the difference in her, as you can't. miss cornelia and me was talking it over the other day, and it's one of the mighty few p'ints that we see eye to eye on. so jest you throw overboard any idea of her not liking you." anne could hardly discard it completely, for there were undoubtedly times when she felt, with an instinct that was not to be combated by reason, that leslie harbored a queer, indefinable resentment towards her. at times, this secret consciousness marred the delight of their comradeship; at others it was almost forgotten; but anne always felt the hidden thorn was there, and might prick her at any moment. she felt a cruel sting from it on the day when she told leslie of what she hoped the spring would bring to the little house of dreams. leslie looked at her with hard, bitter, unfriendly eyes. "so you are to have that, too," she said in a choked voice. and without another word she had turned and gone across the fields homeward. anne was deeply hurt; for the moment she felt as if she could never like leslie again. but when leslie came over a few evenings later she was so pleasant, so friendly, so frank, and witty, and winsome, that anne was charmed into forgiveness and forgetfulness. only, she never mentioned her darling hope to leslie again; nor did leslie ever refer to it. but one evening, when late winter was listening for the word of spring, she came over to the little house for a twilight chat; and when she went away she left a small, white box on the table. anne found it after she was gone and opened it wonderingly. in it was a tiny white dress of exquisite workmanship--delicate embroidery, wonderful tucking, sheer loveliness. every stitch in it was handwork; and the little frills of lace at neck and sleeves were of real valenciennes. lying on it was a card--"with leslie's love." "what hours of work she must have put on it," said anne. "and the material must have cost more than she could really afford. it is very sweet of her." but leslie was brusque and curt when anne thanked her, and again the latter felt thrown back upon herself. leslie's gift was not alone in the little house. miss cornelia had, for the time being, given up sewing for unwanted, unwelcome eighth babies, and fallen to sewing for a very much wanted first one, whose welcome would leave nothing to be desired. philippa blake and diana wright each sent a marvellous garment; and mrs. rachel lynde sent several, in which good material and honest stitches took the place of embroidery and frills. anne herself made many, desecrated by no touch of machinery, spending over them the happiest hours of the happy winter. captain jim was the most frequent guest of the little house, and none was more welcome. every day anne loved the simple-souled, true-hearted old sailor more and more. he was as refreshing as a sea breeze, as interesting as some ancient chronicle. she was never tired of listening to his stories, and his quaint remarks and comments were a continual delight to her. captain jim was one of those rare and interesting people who "never speak but they say something." the milk of human kindness and the wisdom of the serpent were mingled in his composition in delightful proportions. nothing ever seemed to put captain jim out or depress him in any way. "i've kind of contracted a habit of enj'ying things," he remarked once, when anne had commented on his invariable cheerfulness. "it's got so chronic that i believe i even enj'y the disagreeable things. it's great fun thinking they can't last. 'old rheumatiz,' says i, when it grips me hard, 'you've got to stop aching sometime. the worse you are the sooner you'll stop, mebbe. i'm bound to get the better of you in the long run, whether in the body or out of the body.'" one night, by the fireside at the light anne saw captain jim's "life-book." he needed no coaxing to show it and proudly gave it to her to read. "i writ it to leave to little joe," he said. "i don't like the idea of everything i've done and seen being clean forgot after i've shipped for my last v'yage. joe, he'll remember it, and tell the yarns to his children." it was an old leather-bound book filled with the record of his voyages and adventures. anne thought what a treasure trove it would be to a writer. every sentence was a nugget. in itself the book had no literary merit; captain jim's charm of storytelling failed him when he came to pen and ink; he could only jot roughly down the outline of his famous tales, and both spelling and grammar were sadly askew. but anne felt that if anyone possessed of the gift could take that simple record of a brave, adventurous life, reading between the bald lines the tales of dangers staunchly faced and duty manfully done, a wonderful story might be made from it. rich comedy and thrilling tragedy were both lying hidden in captain jim's "life-book," waiting for the touch of the master hand to waken the laughter and grief and horror of thousands. anne said something of this to gilbert as they walked home. "why don't you try your hand at it yourself, anne?" anne shook her head. "no. i only wish i could. but it's not in the power of my gift. you know what my forte is, gilbert--the fanciful, the fairylike, the pretty. to write captain jim's life-book as it should be written one should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen psychologist, a born humorist and a born tragedian. a rare combination of gifts is needed. paul might do it if he were older. anyhow, i'm going to ask him to come down next summer and meet captain jim." "come to this shore," wrote anne to paul. "i am afraid you cannot find here nora or the golden lady or the twin sailors; but you will find one old sailor who can tell you wonderful stories." paul, however wrote back, saying regretfully that he could not come that year. he was going abroad for two year's study. "when i return i'll come to four winds, dear teacher," he wrote. "but meanwhile, captain jim is growing old," said anne, sorrowfully, "and there is nobody to write his life-book." chapter spring days the ice in the harbor grew black and rotten in the march suns; in april there were blue waters and a windy, white-capped gulf again; and again the four winds light begemmed the twilights. "i'm so glad to see it once more," said anne, on the first evening of its reappearance. "i've missed it so all winter. the northwestern sky has seemed blank and lonely without it." the land was tender with brand-new, golden-green, baby leaves. there was an emerald mist on the woods beyond the glen. the seaward valleys were full of fairy mists at dawn. vibrant winds came and went with salt foam in their breath. the sea laughed and flashed and preened and allured, like a beautiful, coquettish woman. the herring schooled and the fishing village woke to life. the harbor was alive with white sails making for the channel. the ships began to sail outward and inward again. "on a spring day like this," said anne, "i know exactly what my soul will feel like on the resurrection morning." "there are times in spring when i sorter feel that i might have been a poet if i'd been caught young," remarked captain jim. "i catch myself conning over old lines and verses i heard the schoolmaster reciting sixty years ago. they don't trouble me at other times. now i feel as if i had to get out on the rocks or the fields or the water and spout them." captain jim had come up that afternoon to bring anne a load of shells for her garden, and a little bunch of sweet-grass which he had found in a ramble over the sand dunes. "it's getting real scarce along this shore now," he said. "when i was a boy there was a-plenty of it. but now it's only once in a while you'll find a plot--and never when you're looking for it. you jest have to stumble on it--you're walking along on the sand hills, never thinking of sweet-grass--and all at once the air is full of sweetness--and there's the grass under your feet. i favor the smell of sweet-grass. it always makes me think of my mother." "she was fond of it?" asked anne. "not that i knows on. dunno's she ever saw any sweet-grass. no, it's because it has a kind of motherly perfume--not too young, you understand--something kind of seasoned and wholesome and dependable--jest like a mother. the schoolmaster's bride always kept it among her handkerchiefs. you might put that little bunch among yours, mistress blythe. i don't like these boughten scents--but a whiff of sweet-grass belongs anywhere a lady does." anne had not been especially enthusiastic over the idea of surrounding her flower beds with quahog shells; as a decoration they did not appeal to her on first thought. but she would not have hurt captain jim's feelings for anything; so she assumed a virtue she did not at first feel, and thanked him heartily. and when captain jim had proudly encircled every bed with a rim of the big, milk-white shells, anne found to her surprise that she liked the effect. on a town lawn, or even up at the glen, they would not have been in keeping, but here, in the old-fashioned, sea-bound garden of the little house of dreams, they belonged. "they do look nice," she said sincerely. "the schoolmaster's bride always had cowhawks round her beds," said captain jim. "she was a master hand with flowers. she looked at 'em--and touched 'em--so--and they grew like mad. some folks have that knack--i reckon you have it, too, mistress blythe." "oh, i don't know--but i love my garden, and i love working in it. to potter with green, growing things, watching each day to see the dear, new sprouts come up, is like taking a hand in creation, i think. just now my garden is like faith--the substance of things hoped for. but bide a wee." "it always amazes me to look at the little, wrinkled brown seeds and think of the rainbows in 'em," said captain jim. "when i ponder on them seeds i don't find it nowise hard to believe that we've got souls that'll live in other worlds. you couldn't hardly believe there was life in them tiny things, some no bigger than grains of dust, let alone color and scent, if you hadn't seen the miracle, could you?" anne, who was counting her days like silver beads on a rosary, could not now take the long walk to the lighthouse or up the glen road. but miss cornelia and captain jim came very often to the little house. miss cornelia was the joy of anne's and gilbert's existence. they laughed side-splittingly over her speeches after every visit. when captain jim and she happened to visit the little house at the same time there was much sport for the listening. they waged wordy warfare, she attacking, he defending. anne once reproached the captain for his baiting of miss cornelia. "oh, i do love to set her going, mistress blythe," chuckled the unrepentant sinner. "it's the greatest amusement i have in life. that tongue of hers would blister a stone. and you and that young dog of a doctor enj'y listening to her as much as i do." captain jim came along another evening to bring anne some mayflowers. the garden was full of the moist, scented air of a maritime spring evening. there was a milk-white mist on the edge of the sea, with a young moon kissing it, and a silver gladness of stars over the glen. the bell of the church across the harbor was ringing dreamily sweet. the mellow chime drifted through the dusk to mingle with the soft spring-moan of the sea. captain jim's mayflowers added the last completing touch to the charm of the night. "i haven't seen any this spring, and i've missed them," said anne, burying her face in them. "they ain't to be found around four winds, only in the barrens away behind the glen up yander. i took a little trip today to the land-of-nothing-to-do, and hunted these up for you. i reckon they're the last you'll see this spring, for they're nearly done." "how kind and thoughtful you are, captain jim. nobody else--not even gilbert"--with a shake of her head at him--"remembered that i always long for mayflowers in spring." "well, i had another errand, too--i wanted to take mr. howard back yander a mess of trout. he likes one occasional, and it's all i can do for a kindness he did me once. i stayed all the afternoon and talked to him. he likes to talk to me, though he's a highly eddicated man and i'm only an ignorant old sailor, because he's one of the folks that's got to talk or they're miserable, and he finds listeners scarce around here. the glen folks fight shy of him because they think he's an infidel. he ain't that far gone exactly--few men is, i reckon--but he's what you might call a heretic. heretics are wicked, but they're mighty int'resting. it's jest that they've got sorter lost looking for god, being under the impression that he's hard to find--which he ain't never. most of 'em blunder to him after awhile, i guess. i don't think listening to mr. howard's arguments is likely to do me much harm. mind you, i believe what i was brought up to believe. it saves a vast of bother--and back of it all, god is good. the trouble with mr. howard is that he's a leetle too clever. he thinks that he's bound to live up to his cleverness, and that it's smarter to thrash out some new way of getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common, ignorant folks is travelling. but he'll get there sometime all right, and then he'll laugh at himself." "mr. howard was a methodist to begin with," said miss cornelia, as if she thought he had not far to go from that to heresy. "do you know, cornelia," said captain jim gravely, "i've often thought that if i wasn't a presbyterian i'd be a methodist." "oh, well," conceded miss cornelia, "if you weren't a presbyterian it wouldn't matter much what you were. speaking of heresy, reminds me, doctor--i've brought back that book you lent me--that natural law in the spiritual world--i didn't read more'n a third of it. i can read sense, and i can read nonsense, but that book is neither the one nor the other." "it is considered rather heretical in some quarters," admitted gilbert, "but i told you that before you took it, miss cornelia." "oh, i wouldn't have minded its being heretical. i can stand wickedness, but i can't stand foolishness," said miss cornelia calmly, and with the air of having said the last thing there was to say about natural law. "speaking of books, a mad love come to an end at last two weeks ago," remarked captain jim musingly. "it run to one hundred and three chapters. when they got married the book stopped right off, so i reckon their troubles were all over. it's real nice that that's the way in books anyhow, isn't it, even if 'tistn't so anywhere else?" "i never read novels," said miss cornelia. "did you hear how geordie russell was today, captain jim?" "yes, i called in on my way home to see him. he's getting round all right--but stewing in a broth of trouble, as usual, poor man. "'course he brews up most of it for himself, but i reckon that don't make it any easier to bear." "he's an awful pessimist," said miss cornelia. "well, no, he ain't a pessimist exactly, cornelia. he only jest never finds anything that suits him." "and isn't that a pessimist?" "no, no. a pessimist is one who never expects to find anything to suit him. geordie hain't got that far yet." "you'd find something good to say of the devil himself, jim boyd." "well, you've heard the story of the old lady who said he was persevering. but no, cornelia, i've nothing good to say of the devil." "do you believe in him at all?" asked miss cornelia seriously. "how can you ask that when you know what a good presbyterian i am, cornelia? how could a presbyterian get along without a devil?" "do you?" persisted miss cornelia. captain jim suddenly became grave. "i believe in what i heard a minister once call 'a mighty and malignant and intelligent power of evil working in the universe,'" he said solemnly. "i do that, cornelia. you can call it the devil, or the 'principle of evil,' or the old scratch, or any name you like. it's there, and all the infidels and heretics in the world can't argue it away, any more'n they can argue god away. it's there, and it's working. but, mind you, cornelia, i believe it's going to get the worst of it in the long run." "i am sure i hope so," said miss cornelia, none too hopefully. "but speaking of the devil, i am positive that billy booth is possessed by him now. have you heard of billy's latest performance?" "no, what was that?" "he's gone and burned up his wife's new, brown broadcloth suit, that she paid twenty-five dollars for in charlottetown, because he declares the men looked too admiring at her when she wore it to church the first time. wasn't that like a man?" "mistress booth is mighty pretty, and brown's her color," said captain jim reflectively. "is that any good reason why he should poke her new suit into the kitchen stove? billy booth is a jealous fool, and he makes his wife's life miserable. she's cried all the week about her suit. oh, anne, i wish i could write like you, believe me. wouldn't i score some of the men round here!" "those booths are all a mite queer," said captain jim. "billy seemed the sanest of the lot till he got married and then this queer jealous streak cropped out in him. his brother daniel, now, was always odd." "took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn't get out of bed," said miss cornelia with a relish. "his wife would have to do all the barn work till he got over his spell. when he died people wrote her letters of condolence; if i'd written anything it would have been one of congratulation. their father, old abram booth, was a disgusting old sot. he was drunk at his wife's funeral, and kept reeling round and hiccuping 'i didn't dri--i--i--nk much but i feel a--a--awfully que--e--e--r.' i gave him a good jab in the back with my umbrella when he came near me, and it sobered him up until they got the casket out of the house. young johnny booth was to have been married yesterday, but he couldn't be because he's gone and got the mumps. wasn't that like a man?" "how could he help getting the mumps, poor fellow?" "i'd poor fellow him, believe me, if i was kate sterns. i don't know how he could help getting the mumps, but i do know the wedding supper was all prepared and everything will be spoiled before he's well again. such a waste! he should have had the mumps when he was a boy." "come, come, cornelia, don't you think you're a mite unreasonable?" miss cornelia disdained to reply and turned instead to susan baker, a grim-faced, kind-hearted elderly spinster of the glen, who had been installed as maid-of-all-work at the little house for some weeks. susan had been up to the glen to make a sick call, and had just returned. "how is poor old aunt mandy tonight?" asked miss cornelia. susan sighed. "very poorly--very poorly, cornelia. i am afraid she will soon be in heaven, poor thing!" "oh, surely, it's not so bad as that!" exclaimed miss cornelia, sympathetically. captain jim and gilbert looked at each other. then they suddenly rose and went out. "there are times," said captain jim, between spasms, "when it would be a sin not to laugh. them two excellent women!" chapter dawn and dusk in early june, when the sand hills were a great glory of pink wild roses, and the glen was smothered in apple blossoms, marilla arrived at the little house, accompanied by a black horsehair trunk, patterned with brass nails, which had reposed undisturbed in the green gables garret for half a century. susan baker, who, during her few weeks' sojourn in the little house, had come to worship "young mrs. doctor," as she called anne, with blind fervor, looked rather jealously askance at marilla at first. but as marilla did not try to interfere in kitchen matters, and showed no desire to interrupt susan's ministrations to young mrs. doctor, the good handmaiden became reconciled to her presence, and told her cronies at the glen that miss cuthbert was a fine old lady and knew her place. one evening, when the sky's limpid bowl was filled with a red glory, and the robins were thrilling the golden twilight with jubilant hymns to the stars of evening, there was a sudden commotion in the little house of dreams. telephone messages were sent up to the glen, doctor dave and a white-capped nurse came hastily down, marilla paced the garden walks between the quahog shells, murmuring prayers between her set lips, and susan sat in the kitchen with cotton wool in her ears and her apron over her head. leslie, looking out from the house up the brook, saw that every window of the little house was alight, and did not sleep that night. the june night was short; but it seemed an eternity to those who waited and watched. "oh, will it never end?" said marilla; then she saw how grave the nurse and doctor dave looked, and she dared ask no more questions. suppose anne--but marilla could not suppose it. "do not tell me," said susan fiercely, answering the anguish in marilla's eyes, "that god could be so cruel as to take that darling lamb from us when we all love her so much." "he has taken others as well beloved," said marilla hoarsely. but at dawn, when the rising sun rent apart the mists hanging over the sandbar, and made rainbows of them, joy came to the little house. anne was safe, and a wee, white lady, with her mother's big eyes, was lying beside her. gilbert, his face gray and haggard from his night's agony, came down to tell marilla and susan. "thank god," shuddered marilla. susan got up and took the cotton wool out of her ears. "now for breakfast," she said briskly. "i am of the opinion that we will all be glad of a bite and sup. you tell young mrs. doctor not to worry about a single thing--susan is at the helm. you tell her just to think of her baby." gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. anne, her pale face blanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, did not need to be told to think of her baby. she thought of nothing else. for a few hours she tasted of happiness so rare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels in heaven did not envy her. "little joyce," she murmured, when marilla came in to see the baby. "we planned to call her that if she were a girlie. there were so many we would have liked to name her for; we couldn't choose between them, so we decided on joyce--we can call her joy for short--joy--it suits so well. oh, marilla, i thought i was happy before. now i know that i just dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness. this is the reality." "you mustn't talk, anne--wait till you're stronger," said marilla warningly. "you know how hard it is for me not to talk," smiled anne. at first she was too weak and too happy to notice that gilbert and the nurse looked grave and marilla sorrowful. then, as subtly, and coldly, and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward, fear crept into her heart. why was not gilbert gladder? why would he not talk about the baby? why would they not let her have it with her after that first heavenly--happy hour? was--was there anything wrong? "gilbert," whispered anne imploringly, "the baby--is all right--isn't she? tell me--tell me." gilbert was a long while in turning round; then he bent over anne and looked in her eyes. marilla, listening fearfully outside the door, heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan, and fled to the kitchen where susan was weeping. "oh, the poor lamb--the poor lamb! how can she bear it, miss cuthbert? i am afraid it will kill her. she has been that built up and happy, longing for that baby, and planning for it. cannot anything be done nohow, miss cuthbert?" "i'm afraid not, susan. gilbert says there is no hope. he knew from the first the little thing couldn't live." "and it is such a sweet baby," sobbed susan. "i never saw one so white--they are mostly red or yallow. and it opened its big eyes as if it was months old. the little, little thing! oh, the poor, young mrs. doctor!" at sunset the little soul that had come with the dawning went away, leaving heartbreak behind it. miss cornelia took the wee, white lady from the kindly but stranger hands of the nurse, and dressed the tiny waxen form in the beautiful dress leslie had made for it. leslie had asked her to do that. then she took it back and laid it beside the poor, broken, tear-blinded little mother. "the lord has given and the lord has taken away, dearie," she said through her own tears. "blessed be the name of the lord." then she went away, leaving anne and gilbert alone together with their dead. the next day, the small white joy was laid in a velvet casket which leslie had lined with apple-blossoms, and taken to the graveyard of the church across the harbor. miss cornelia and marilla put all the little love-made garments away, together with the ruffled basket which had been befrilled and belaced for dimpled limbs and downy head. little joy was never to sleep there; she had found a colder, narrower bed. "this has been an awful disappointment to me," sighed miss cornelia. "i've looked forward to this baby--and i did want it to be a girl, too." "i can only be thankful that anne's life was spared," said marilla, with a shiver, recalling those hours of darkness when the girl she loved was passing through the valley of the shadow. "poor, poor lamb! her heart is broken," said susan. "i envy anne," said leslie suddenly and fiercely, "and i'd envy her even if she had died! she was a mother for one beautiful day. i'd gladly give my life for that!" "i wouldn't talk like that, leslie, dearie," said miss cornelia deprecatingly. she was afraid that the dignified miss cuthbert would think leslie quite terrible. anne's convalescence was long, and made bitter for her by many things. the bloom and sunshine of the four winds world grated harshly on her; and yet, when the rain fell heavily, she pictured it beating so mercilessly down on that little grave across the harbor; and when the wind blew around the eaves she heard sad voices in it she had never heard before. kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant platitudes with which they strove to cover the nakedness of bereavement. a letter from phil blake was an added sting. phil had heard of the baby's birth, but not of its death, and she wrote anne a congratulatory letter of sweet mirth which hurt her horribly. "i would have laughed over it so happily if i had my baby," she sobbed to marilla. "but when i haven't it just seems like wanton cruelty--though i know phil wouldn't hurt me for the world. oh, marilla, i don't see how i can ever be happy again--everything will hurt me all the rest of my life." "time will help you," said marilla, who was racked with sympathy but could never learn to express it in other than age-worn formulas. "it doesn't seem fair," said anne rebelliously. "babies are born and live where they are not wanted--where they will be neglected--where they will have no chance. i would have loved my baby so--and cared for it so tenderly--and tried to give her every chance for good. and yet i wasn't allowed to keep her." "it was god's will, anne," said marilla, helpless before the riddle of the universe--the why of undeserved pain. "and little joy is better off." "i can't believe that," cried anne bitterly. then, seeing that marilla looked shocked, she added passionately, "why should she be born at all--why should any one be born at all--if she's better off dead? i don't believe it is better for a child to die at birth than to live its life out--and love and be loved--and enjoy and suffer--and do its work--and develop a character that would give it a personality in eternity. and how do you know it was god's will? perhaps it was just a thwarting of his purpose by the power of evil. we can't be expected to be resigned to that." "oh, anne, don't talk so," said marilla, genuinely alarmed lest anne were drifting into deep and dangerous waters. "we can't understand--but we must have faith--we must believe that all is for the best. i know you find it hard to think so, just now. but try to be brave--for gilbert's sake. he's so worried about you. you aren't getting strong as fast as you should." "oh, i know i've been very selfish," sighed anne. "i love gilbert more than ever--and i want to live for his sake. but it seems as if part of me was buried over there in that little harbor graveyard--and it hurts so much that i'm afraid of life." "it won't hurt so much always, anne." "the thought that it may stop hurting sometimes hurts me worse than all else, marilla." "yes, i know, i've felt that too, about other things. but we all love you, anne. captain jim has been up every day to ask for you--and mrs. moore haunts the place--and miss bryant spends most of her time, i think, cooking up nice things for you. susan doesn't like it very well. she thinks she can cook as well as miss bryant." "dear susan! oh, everybody has been so dear and good and lovely to me, marilla. i'm not ungrateful--and perhaps--when this horrible ache grows a little less--i'll find that i can go on living." chapter lost margaret anne found that she could go on living; the day came when she even smiled again over one of miss cornelia's speeches. but there was something in the smile that had never been in anne's smile before and would never be absent from it again. on the first day she was able to go for a drive gilbert took her down to four winds point, and left her there while he rowed over the channel to see a patient at the fishing village. a rollicking wind was scudding across the harbor and the dunes, whipping the water into white-caps and washing the sandshore with long lines of silvery breakers. "i'm real proud to see you here again, mistress blythe," said captain jim. "sit down--sit down. i'm afeared it's mighty dusty here today--but there's no need of looking at dust when you can look at such scenery, is there?" "i don't mind the dust," said anne, "but gilbert says i must keep in the open air. i think i'll go and sit on the rocks down there." "would you like company or would you rather be alone?" "if by company you mean yours i'd much rather have it than be alone," said anne, smiling. then she sighed. she had never before minded being alone. now she dreaded it. when she was alone now she felt so dreadfully alone. "here's a nice little spot where the wind can't get at you," said captain jim, when they reached the rocks. "i often sit here. it's a great place jest to sit and dream." "oh--dreams," sighed anne. "i can't dream now, captain jim--i'm done with dreams." "oh, no, you're not, mistress blythe--oh, no, you're not," said captain jim meditatively. "i know how you feel jest now--but if you keep on living you'll get glad again, and the first thing you know you'll be dreaming again--thank the good lord for it! if it wasn't for our dreams they might as well bury us. how'd we stand living if it wasn't for our dream of immortality? and that's a dream that's bound to come true, mistress blythe. you'll see your little joyce again some day." "but she won't be my baby," said anne, with trembling lips. "oh, she may be, as longfellow says, 'a fair maiden clothed with celestial grace'--but she'll be a stranger to me." "god will manage better'n that, i believe," said captain jim. they were both silent for a little time. then captain jim said very softly: "mistress blythe, may i tell you about lost margaret?" "of course," said anne gently. she did not know who "lost margaret" was, but she felt that she was going to hear the romance of captain jim's life. "i've often wanted to tell you about her," captain jim went on. "do you know why, mistress blythe? it's because i want somebody to remember and think of her sometime after i'm gone. i can't bear that her name should be forgotten by all living souls. and now nobody remembers lost margaret but me." then captain jim told the story--an old, old forgotten story, for it was over fifty years since margaret had fallen asleep one day in her father's dory and drifted--or so it was supposed, for nothing was ever certainly known as to her fate--out of the channel, beyond the bar, to perish in the black thundersquall which had come up so suddenly that long-ago summer afternoon. but to captain jim those fifty years were but as yesterday when it is past. "i walked the shore for months after that," he said sadly, "looking to find her dear, sweet little body; but the sea never give her back to me. but i'll find her sometime, mistress blythe--i'll find her sometime. she's waiting for me. i wish i could tell you jest how she looked, but i can't. i've seen a fine, silvery mist hanging over the bar at sunrise that seemed like her--and then again i've seen a white birch in the woods back yander that made me think of her. she had pale, brown hair and a little white, sweet face, and long slender fingers like yours, mistress blythe, only browner, for she was a shore girl. sometimes i wake up in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old way, and it seems as if lost margaret called in it. and when there's a storm and the waves are sobbing and moaning i hear her lamenting among them. and when they laugh on a gay day it's her laugh--lost margaret's sweet, roguish, little laugh. the sea took her from me, but some day i'll find her. mistress blythe. it can't keep us apart forever." "i am glad you have told me about her," said anne. "i have often wondered why you had lived all your life alone." "i couldn't ever care for anyone else. lost margaret took my heart with her--out there," said the old lover, who had been faithful for fifty years to his drowned sweetheart. "you won't mind if i talk a good deal about her, will you, mistress blythe? it's a pleasure to me--for all the pain went out of her memory years ago and jest left its blessing. i know you'll never forget her, mistress blythe. and if the years, as i hope, bring other little folks to your home, i want you to promise me that you'll tell them the story of lost margaret, so that her name won't be forgotten among humankind." chapter barriers swept away "anne," said leslie, breaking abruptly a short silence, "you don't know how good it is to be sitting here with you again--working--and talking--and being silent together." they were sitting among the blue-eyed grasses on the bank of the brook in anne's garden. the water sparkled and crooned past them; the birches threw dappled shadows over them; roses bloomed along the walks. the sun was beginning to be low, and the air was full of woven music. there was one music of the wind in the firs behind the house, and another of the waves on the bar, and still another from the distant bell of the church near which the wee, white lady slept. anne loved that bell, though it brought sorrowful thoughts now. she looked curiously at leslie, who had thrown down her sewing and spoken with a lack of restraint that was very unusual with her. "on that horrible night when you were so ill," leslie went on, "i kept thinking that perhaps we'd have no more talks and walks and works together. and i realised just what your friendship had come to mean to me--just what you meant--and just what a hateful little beast i had been." "leslie! leslie! i never allow anyone to call my friends names." "it's true. that's exactly what i am--a hateful little beast. there's something i've got to tell you, anne. i suppose it will make you despise me, but i must confess it. anne, there have been times this past winter and spring when i have hated you." "i knew it," said anne calmly. "you knew it?" "yes, i saw it in your eyes." "and yet you went on liking me and being my friend." "well, it was only now and then you hated me, leslie. between times you loved me, i think." "i certainly did. but that other horrid feeling was always there, spoiling it, back in my heart. i kept it down--sometimes i forgot it--but sometimes it would surge up and take possession of me. i hated you because i envied you--oh, i was sick with envy of you at times. you had a dear little home--and love--and happiness--and glad dreams--everything i wanted--and never had--and never could have. oh, never could have! that was what stung. i wouldn't have envied you, if i had had any hope that life would ever be different for me. but i hadn't--i hadn't--and it didn't seem fair. it made me rebellious--and it hurt me--and so i hated you at times. oh, i was so ashamed of it--i'm dying of shame now--but i couldn't conquer it. "that night, when i was afraid you mightn't live--i thought i was going to be punished for my wickedness--and i loved you so then. anne, anne, i never had anything to love since my mother died, except dick's old dog--and it's so dreadful to have nothing to love--life is so empty--and there's nothing worse than emptiness--and i might have loved you so much--and that horrible thing had spoiled it--" leslie was trembling and growing almost incoherent with the violence of her emotion. "don't, leslie," implored anne, "oh, don't. i understand--don't talk of it any more." "i must--i must. when i knew you were going to live i vowed that i would tell you as soon as you were well--that i wouldn't go on accepting your friendship and companionship without telling you how unworthy i was of it. and i've been so afraid--it would turn you against me." "you needn't fear that, leslie." "oh, i'm so glad--so glad, anne." leslie clasped her brown, work-hardened hands tightly together to still their shaking. "but i want to tell you everything, now i've begun. you don't remember the first time i saw you, i suppose--it wasn't that night on the shore--" "no, it was the night gilbert and i came home. you were driving your geese down the hill. i should think i do remember it! i thought you were so beautiful--i longed for weeks after to find out who you were." "i knew who you were, although i had never seen either of you before. i had heard of the new doctor and his bride who were coming to live in miss russell's little house. i--i hated you that very moment, anne." "i felt the resentment in your eyes--then i doubted--i thought i must be mistaken--because why should it be?" "it was because you looked so happy. oh, you'll agree with me now that i am a hateful beast--to hate another woman just because she was happy,--and when her happiness didn't take anything from me! that was why i never went to see you. i knew quite well i ought to go--even our simple four winds customs demanded that. but i couldn't. i used to watch you from my window--i could see you and your husband strolling about your garden in the evening--or you running down the poplar lane to meet him. and it hurt me. and yet in another way i wanted to go over. i felt that, if i were not so miserable, i could have liked you and found in you what i've never had in my life--an intimate, real friend of my own age. and then you remember that night at the shore? you were afraid i would think you crazy. you must have thought _i_ was." "no, but i couldn't understand you, leslie. one moment you drew me to you--the next you pushed me back." "i was very unhappy that evening. i had had a hard day. dick had been very--very hard to manage that day. generally he is quite good-natured and easily controlled, you know, anne. but some days he is very different. i was so heartsick--i ran away to the shore as soon as he went to sleep. it was my only refuge. i sat there thinking of how my poor father had ended his life, and wondering if i wouldn't be driven to it some day. oh, my heart was full of black thoughts! and then you came dancing along the cove like a glad, light-hearted child. i--i hated you more then than i've ever done since. and yet i craved your friendship. the one feeling swayed me one moment; the other feeling the next. when i got home that night i cried for shame of what you must think of me. but it's always been just the same when i came over here. sometimes i'd be happy and enjoy my visit. and at other times that hideous feeling would mar it all. there were times when everything about you and your house hurt me. you had so many dear little things i couldn't have. do you know--it's ridiculous--but i had an especial spite at those china dogs of yours. there were times when i wanted to catch up gog and magog and bang their pert black noses together! oh, you smile, anne--but it was never funny to me. i would come here and see you and gilbert with your books and your flowers, and your household gods, and your little family jokes--and your love for each other showing in every look and word, even when you didn't know it--and i would go home to--you know what i went home to! oh, anne, i don't believe i'm jealous and envious by nature. when i was a girl i lacked many things my schoolmates had, but i never cared--i never disliked them for it. but i seem to have grown so hateful--" "leslie, dearest, stop blaming yourself. you are not hateful or jealous or envious. the life you have to live has warped you a little, perhaps-but it would have ruined a nature less fine and noble than yours. i'm letting you tell me all this because i believe it's better for you to talk it out and rid your soul of it. but don't blame yourself any more." "well, i won't. i just wanted you to know me as i am. that time you told me of your darling hope for the spring was the worst of all, anne. i shall never forgive myself for the way i behaved then. i repented it with tears. and i did put many a tender and loving thought of you into the little dress i made. but i might have known that anything i made could only be a shroud in the end." "now, leslie, that is bitter and morbid--put such thoughts away. "i was so glad when you brought the little dress; and since i had to lose little joyce i like to think that the dress she wore was the one you made for her when you let yourself love me." "anne, do you know, i believe i shall always love you after this. i don't think i'll ever feel that dreadful way about you again. talking it all out seems to have done away with it, somehow. it's very strange--and i thought it so real and bitter. it's like opening the door of a dark room to show some hideous creature you've believed to be there--and when the light streams in your monster turns out to have been just a shadow, vanishing when the light comes. it will never come between us again." "no, we are real friends now, leslie, and i am very glad." "i hope you won't misunderstand me if i say something else. anne, i was grieved to the core of my heart when you lost your baby; and if i could have saved her for you by cutting off one of my hands i would have done it. but your sorrow has brought us closer together. your perfect happiness isn't a barrier any longer. oh, don't misunderstand, dearest--i'm not glad that your happiness isn't perfect any longer--i can say that sincerely; but since it isn't, there isn't such a gulf between us." "i do understand that, too, leslie. now, we'll just shut up the past and forget what was unpleasant in it. it's all going to be different. we're both of the race of joseph now. i think you've been wonderful--wonderful. and, leslie, i can't help believing that life has something good and beautiful for you yet." leslie shook her head. "no," she said dully. "there isn't any hope. dick will never be better--and even if his memory were to come back--oh, anne, it would be worse, even worse, than it is now. this is something you can't understand, you happy bride. anne, did miss cornelia ever tell you how i came to marry dick?" "yes." "i'm glad--i wanted you to know--but i couldn't bring myself to talk of it if you hadn't known. anne, it seems to me that ever since i was twelve years old life has been bitter. before that i had a happy childhood. we were very poor--but we didn't mind. father was so splendid--so clever and loving and sympathetic. we were chums as far back as i can remember. and mother was so sweet. she was very, very beautiful. i look like her, but i am not so beautiful as she was." "miss cornelia says you are far more beautiful." "she is mistaken--or prejudiced. i think my figure is better--mother was slight and bent by hard work--but she had the face of an angel. i used just to look up at her in worship. we all worshipped her,--father and kenneth and i." anne remembered that miss cornelia had given her a very different impression of leslie's mother. but had not love the truer vision? still, it was selfish of rose west to make her daughter marry dick moore. "kenneth was my brother," went on leslie. "oh, i can't tell you how i loved him. and he was cruelly killed. do you know how?" "yes." "anne, i saw his little face as the wheel went over him. he fell on his back. anne--anne--i can see it now. i shall always see it. anne, all i ask of heaven is that that recollection shall be blotted out of my memory. o my god!" "leslie, don't speak of it. i know the story--don't go into details that only harrow your soul up unavailingly. it will be blotted out." after a moment's struggle, leslie regained a measure of self-control. "then father's health got worse and he grew despondent--his mind became unbalanced--you've heard all that, too?" "yes." "after that i had just mother to live for. but i was very ambitious. i meant to teach and earn my way through college. i meant to climb to the very top--oh, i won't talk of that either. it's no use. you know what happened. i couldn't see my dear little heart-broken mother, who had been such a slave all her life, turned out of her home. of course, i could have earned enough for us to live on. but mother couldn't leave her home. she had come there as a bride--and she had loved father so--and all her memories were there. even yet, anne, when i think that i made her last year happy i'm not sorry for what i did. as for dick--i didn't hate him when i married him--i just felt for him the indifferent, friendly feeling i had for most of my schoolmates. i knew he drank some--but i had never heard the story of the girl down at the fishing cove. if i had, i couldn't have married him, even for mother's sake. afterwards--i did hate him--but mother never knew. she died--and then i was alone. i was only seventeen and i was alone. dick had gone off in the four sisters. i hoped he wouldn't be home very much more. the sea had always been in his blood. i had no other hope. well, captain jim brought him home, as you know--and that's all there is to say. you know me now, anne--the worst of me--the barriers are all down. and you still want to be my friend?" anne looked up through the birches, at the white paper-lantern of a half moon drifting downwards to the gulf of sunset. her face was very sweet. "i am your friend and you are mine, for always," she said. "such a friend as i never had before. i have had many dear and beloved friends--but there is a something in you, leslie, that i never found in anyone else. you have more to offer me in that rich nature of yours, and i have more to give you than i had in my careless girlhood. we are both women--and friends forever." they clasped hands and smiled at each other through the tears that filled the gray eyes and the blue. chapter miss cornelia arranges matters gilbert insisted that susan should be kept on at the little house for the summer. anne protested at first. "life here with just the two of us is so sweet, gilbert. it spoils it a little to have anyone else. susan is a dear soul, but she is an outsider. it won't hurt me to do the work here." "you must take your doctor's advice," said gilbert. "there's an old proverb to the effect that shoemakers' wives go barefoot and doctors' wives die young. i don't mean that it shall be true in my household. you will keep susan until the old spring comes back into your step, and those little hollows on your cheeks fill out." "you just take it easy, mrs. doctor, dear," said susan, coming abruptly in. "have a good time and do not worry about the pantry. susan is at the helm. there is no use in keeping a dog and doing your own barking. i am going to take your breakfast up to you every morning." "indeed you are not," laughed anne. "i agree with miss cornelia that it's a scandal for a woman who isn't sick to eat her breakfast in bed, and almost justifies the men in any enormities." "oh, cornelia!" said susan, with ineffable contempt. "i think you have better sense, mrs. doctor, dear, than to heed what cornelia bryant says. i cannot see why she must be always running down the men, even if she is an old maid. _i_ am an old maid, but you never hear me abusing the men. i like 'em. i would have married one if i could. is it not funny nobody ever asked me to marry him, mrs. doctor, dear? i am no beauty, but i am as good-looking as most of the married women you see. but i never had a beau. what do you suppose is the reason?" "it may be predestination," suggested anne, with unearthly solemnity. susan nodded. "that is what i have often thought, mrs. doctor, dear, and a great comfort it is. i do not mind nobody wanting me if the almighty decreed it so for his own wise purposes. but sometimes doubt creeps in, mrs. doctor, dear, and i wonder if maybe the old scratch has not more to do with it than anyone else. i cannot feel resigned then. but maybe," added susan, brightening up, "i will have a chance to get married yet. i often and often think of the old verse my aunt used to repeat: there never was a goose so gray but sometime soon or late some honest gander came her way and took her for his mate! a woman cannot ever be sure of not being married till she is buried, mrs. doctor, dear, and meanwhile i will make a batch of cherry pies. i notice the doctor favors 'em, and i do like cooking for a man who appreciates his victuals." miss cornelia dropped in that afternoon, puffing a little. "i don't mind the world or the devil much, but the flesh does rather bother me," she admitted. "you always look as cool as a cucumber, anne, dearie. do i smell cherry pie? if i do, ask me to stay to tea. haven't tasted a cherry pie this summer. my cherries have all been stolen by those scamps of gilman boys from the glen." "now, now, cornelia," remonstrated captain jim, who had been reading a sea novel in a corner of the living room, "you shouldn't say that about those two poor, motherless gilman boys, unless you've got certain proof. jest because their father ain't none too honest isn't any reason for calling them thieves. it's more likely it's been the robins took your cherries. they're turrible thick this year." "robins!" said miss cornelia disdainfully. "humph! two-legged robins, believe me!" "well, most of the four winds robins are constructed on that principle," said captain jim gravely. miss cornelia stared at him for a moment. then she leaned back in her rocker and laughed long and ungrudgingly. "well, you have got one on me at last, jim boyd, i'll admit. just look how pleased he is, anne, dearie, grinning like a chessy-cat. as for the robins' legs if robins have great, big, bare, sunburned legs, with ragged trousers hanging on 'em, such as i saw up in my cherry tree one morning at sunrise last week, i'll beg the gilman boys' pardon. by the time i got down they were gone. i couldn't understand how they had disappeared so quick, but captain jim has enlightened me. they flew away, of course." captain jim laughed and went away, regretfully declining an invitation to stay to supper and partake of cherry pie. "i'm on my way to see leslie and ask her if she'll take a boarder," miss cornelia resumed. "i'd a letter yesterday from a mrs. daly in toronto, who boarded a spell with me two years ago. she wanted me to take a friend of hers for the summer. his name is owen ford, and he's a newspaper man, and it seems he's a grandson of the schoolmaster who built this house. john selwyn's oldest daughter married an ontario man named ford, and this is her son. he wants to see the old place his grandparents lived in. he had a bad spell of typhoid in the spring and hasn't got rightly over it, so his doctor has ordered him to the sea. he doesn't want to go to the hotel--he just wants a quiet home place. i can't take him, for i have to be away in august. i've been appointed a delegate to the w.f.m.s. convention in kingsport and i'm going. i don't know whether leslie'll want to be bothered with him, either, but there's no one else. if she can't take him he'll have to go over the harbor." "when you've seen her come back and help us eat our cherry pies," said anne. "bring leslie and dick, too, if they can come. and so you're going to kingsport? what a nice time you will have. i must give you a letter to a friend of mine there--mrs. jonas blake." "i've prevailed on mrs. thomas holt to go with me," said miss cornelia complacently. "it's time she had a little holiday, believe me. she has just about worked herself to death. tom holt can crochet beautifully, but he can't make a living for his family. he never seems to be able to get up early enough to do any work, but i notice he can always get up early to go fishing. isn't that like a man?" anne smiled. she had learned to discount largely miss cornelia's opinions of the four winds men. otherwise she must have believed them the most hopeless assortment of reprobates and ne'er-do-wells in the world, with veritable slaves and martyrs for wives. this particular tom holt, for example, she knew to be a kind husband, a much loved father, and an excellent neighbor. if he were rather inclined to be lazy, liking better the fishing he had been born for than the farming he had not, and if he had a harmless eccentricity for doing fancy work, nobody save miss cornelia seemed to hold it against him. his wife was a "hustler," who gloried in hustling; his family got a comfortable living off the farm; and his strapping sons and daughters, inheriting their mother's energy, were all in a fair way to do well in the world. there was not a happier household in glen st. mary than the holts'. miss cornelia returned satisfied from the house up the brook. "leslie's going to take him," she announced. "she jumped at the chance. she wants to make a little money to shingle the roof of her house this fall, and she didn't know how she was going to manage it. i expect captain jim'll be more than interested when he hears that a grandson of the selwyns' is coming here. leslie said to tell you she hankered after cherry pie, but she couldn't come to tea because she has to go and hunt up her turkeys. they've strayed away. but she said, if there was a piece left, for you to put it in the pantry and she'd run over in the cat's light, when prowling's in order, to get it. you don't know, anne, dearie, what good it did my heart to hear leslie send you a message like that, laughing like she used to long ago. "there's a great change come over her lately. she laughs and jokes like a girl, and from her talk i gather she's here real often." "every day--or else i'm over there," said anne. "i don't know what i'd do without leslie, especially just now when gilbert is so busy. he's hardly ever home except for a few hours in the wee sma's. he's really working himself to death. so many of the over-harbor people send for him now." "they might better be content with their own doctor," said miss cornelia. "though to be sure i can't blame them, for he's a methodist. ever since dr. blythe brought mrs. allonby round folks think he can raise the dead. i believe dr. dave is a mite jealous--just like a man. he thinks dr. blythe has too many new-fangled notions! 'well,' i says to him, 'it was a new-fangled notion saved rhoda allonby. if you'd been attending her she'd have died, and had a tombstone saying it had pleased god to take her away.' oh, i do like to speak my mind to dr. dave! he's bossed the glen for years, and he thinks he's forgotten more than other people ever knew. speaking of doctors, i wish dr. blythe'd run over and see to that boil on dick moore's neck. it's getting past leslie's skill. i'm sure i don't know what dick moore wants to start in having boils for--as if he wasn't enough trouble without that!" "do you know, dick has taken quite a fancy to me," said anne. "he follows me round like a dog, and smiles like a pleased child when i notice him." "does it make you creepy?" "not at all. i rather like poor dick moore. he seems so pitiful and appealing, somehow." "you wouldn't think him very appealing if you'd see him on his cantankerous days, believe me. but i'm glad you don't mind him--it's all the nicer for leslie. she'll have more to do when her boarder comes. i hope he'll be a decent creature. you'll probably like him--he's a writer." "i wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial," said anne, rather scornfully. "nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be violently attracted toward each other merely because they were both blacksmiths." nevertheless, she looked forward to the advent of owen ford with a pleasant sense of expectation. if he were young and likeable he might prove a very pleasant addition to society in four winds. the latch-string of the little house was always out for the race of joseph. chapter owen ford comes one evening miss cornelia telephoned down to anne. "the writer man has just arrived here. i'm going to drive him down to your place, and you can show him the way over to leslie's. it's shorter than driving round by the other road, and i'm in a mortal hurry. the reese baby has gone and fallen into a pail of hot water at the glen, and got nearly scalded to death and they want me right off--to put a new skin on the child, i presume. mrs. reese is always so careless, and then expects other people to mend her mistakes. you won't mind, will you, dearie? his trunk can go down tomorrow." "very well," said anne. "what is he like, miss cornelia?" "you'll see what he's like outside when i take him down. as for what he's like inside only the lord who made him knows that. i'm not going to say another word, for every receiver in the glen is down." "miss cornelia evidently can't find much fault with mr. ford's looks, or she would find it in spite of the receivers," said anne. "i conclude therefore, susan, that mr. ford is rather handsome than otherwise." "well, mrs. doctor, dear, i do enjoy seeing a well-looking man," said susan candidly. "had i not better get up a snack for him? there is a strawberry pie that would melt in your mouth." "no, leslie is expecting him and has his supper ready. besides, i want that strawberry pie for my own poor man. he won't be home till late, so leave the pie and a glass of milk out for him, susan." "that i will, mrs. doctor, dear. susan is at the helm. after all, it is better to give pie to your own men than to strangers, who may be only seeking to devour, and the doctor himself is as well-looking a man as you often come across." when owen ford came anne secretly admitted, as miss cornelia towed him in, that he was very "well-looking" indeed. he was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, brown hair, finely-cut nose and chin, large and brilliant dark-gray eyes. "and did you notice his ears and his teeth, mrs. doctor, dear?" queried susan later on. "he has got the nicest-shaped ears i ever saw on a man's head. i am choice about ears. when i was young i was scared that i might have to marry a man with ears like flaps. but i need not have worried, for never a chance did i have with any kind of ears." anne had not noticed owen ford's ears, but she did see his teeth, as his lips parted over them in a frank and friendly smile. unsmiling, his face was rather sad and absent in expression, not unlike the melancholy, inscrutable hero of anne's own early dreams; but mirth and humor and charm lighted it up when he smiled. certainly, on the outside, as miss cornelia said, owen ford was a very presentable fellow. "you cannot realise how delighted i am to be here, mrs. blythe," he said, looking around him with eager, interested eyes. "i have an odd feeling of coming home. my mother was born and spent her childhood here, you know. she used to talk a great deal to me of her old home. i know the geography of it as well as of the one i lived in, and, of course, she told me the story of the building of the house, and of my grandfather's agonised watch for the royal william. i had thought that so old a house must have vanished years ago, or i should have come to see it before this." "old houses don't vanish easily on this enchanted coast," smiled anne. "this is a 'land where all things always seem the same'--nearly always, at least. john selwyn's house hasn't even been much changed, and outside the rose-bushes your grandfather planted for his bride are blooming this very minute." "how the thought links me with them! with your leave i must explore the whole place soon." "our latch-string will always be out for you," promised anne. "and do you know that the old sea captain who keeps the four winds light knew john selwyn and his bride well in his boyhood? he told me their story the night i came here--the third bride of the old house." "can it be possible? this is a discovery. i must hunt him up." "it won't be difficult; we are all cronies of captain jim. he will be as eager to see you as you could be to see him. your grandmother shines like a star in his memory. but i think mrs. moore is expecting you. i'll show you our 'cross-lots' road." anne walked with him to the house up the brook, over a field that was as white as snow with daisies. a boat-load of people were singing far across the harbor. the sound drifted over the water like faint, unearthly music wind-blown across a starlit sea. the big light flashed and beaconed. owen ford looked around him with satisfaction. "and so this is four winds," he said. "i wasn't prepared to find it quite so beautiful, in spite of all mother's praises. what colors--what scenery--what charm! i shall get as strong as a horse in no time. and if inspiration comes from beauty, i should certainly be able to begin my great canadian novel here." "you haven't begun it yet?" asked anne. "alack-a-day, no. i've never been able to get the right central idea for it. it lurks beyond me--it allures--and beckons--and recedes--i almost grasp it and it is gone. perhaps amid this peace and loveliness, i shall be able to capture it. miss bryant tells me that you write." "oh, i do little things for children. i haven't done much since i was married. and--i have no designs on a great canadian novel," laughed anne. "that is quite beyond me." owen ford laughed too. "i dare say it is beyond me as well. all the same i mean to have a try at it some day, if i can ever get time. a newspaper man doesn't have much chance for that sort of thing. i've done a good deal of short story writing for the magazines, but i've never had the leisure that seems to be necessary for the writing of a book. with three months of liberty i ought to make a start, though--if i could only get the necessary motif for it--the soul of the book." an idea whisked through anne's brain with a suddenness that made her jump. but she did not utter it, for they had reached the moore house. as they entered the yard leslie came out on the veranda from the side door, peering through the gloom for some sign of her expected guest. she stood just where the warm yellow light flooded her from the open door. she wore a plain dress of cheap, cream-tinted cotton voile, with the usual girdle of crimson. leslie was never without her touch of crimson. she had told anne that she never felt satisfied without a gleam of red somewhere about her, if it were only a flower. to anne, it always seemed to symbolise leslie's glowing, pent-up personality, denied all expression save in that flaming glint. leslie's dress was cut a little away at the neck and had short sleeves. her arms gleamed like ivory-tinted marble. every exquisite curve of her form was outlined in soft darkness against the light. her hair shone in it like flame. beyond her was a purple sky, flowering with stars over the harbor. anne heard her companion give a gasp. even in the dusk she could see the amazement and admiration on his face. "who is that beautiful creature?" he asked. "that is mrs. moore," said anne. "she is very lovely, isn't she?" "i--i never saw anything like her," he answered, rather dazedly. "i wasn't prepared--i didn't expect--good heavens, one doesn't expect a goddess for a landlady! why, if she were clothed in a gown of sea-purple, with a rope of amethysts in her hair, she would be a veritable sea-queen. and she takes in boarders!" "even goddesses must live," said anne. "and leslie isn't a goddess. she's just a very beautiful woman, as human as the rest of us. did miss bryant tell you about mr. moore?" "yes,--he's mentally deficient, or something of the sort, isn't he? but she said nothing about mrs. moore, and i supposed she'd be the usual hustling country housewife who takes in boarders to earn an honest penny." "well, that's just what leslie is doing," said anne crisply. "and it isn't altogether pleasant for her, either. i hope you won't mind dick. if you do, please don't let leslie see it. it would hurt her horribly. he's just a big baby, and sometimes a rather annoying one." "oh, i won't mind him. i don't suppose i'll be much in the house anyhow, except for meals. but what a shame it all is! her life must be a hard one." "it is. but she doesn't like to be pitied." leslie had gone back into the house and now met them at the front door. she greeted owen ford with cold civility, and told him in a business-like tone that his room and his supper were ready for him. dick, with a pleased grin, shambled upstairs with the valise, and owen ford was installed as an inmate of the old house among the willows. chapter the life-book of captain jim "i have a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into a magnificent moth of fulfilment," anne told gilbert when she reached home. he had returned earlier than she had expected, and was enjoying susan's cherry pie. susan herself hovered in the background, like a rather grim but beneficent guardian spirit, and found as much pleasure in watching gilbert eat pie as he did in eating it. "what is your idea?" he asked. "i sha'n't tell you just yet--not till i see if i can bring the thing about." "what sort of a chap is ford?" "oh, very nice, and quite good-looking." "such beautiful ears, doctor, dear," interjected susan with a relish. "he is about thirty or thirty-five, i think, and he meditates writing a novel. his voice is pleasant and his smile delightful, and he knows how to dress. he looks as if life hadn't been altogether easy for him, somehow." owen ford came over the next evening with a note to anne from leslie; they spent the sunset time in the garden and then went for a moonlit sail on the harbor, in the little boat gilbert had set up for summer outings. they liked owen immensely and had that feeling of having known him for many years which distinguishes the freemasonry of the house of joseph. "he is as nice as his ears, mrs. doctor, dear," said susan, when he had gone. he had told susan that he had never tasted anything like her strawberry shortcake and susan's susceptible heart was his forever. "he has got a way with him," she reflected, as she cleared up the relics of the supper. "it is real queer he is not married, for a man like that could have anybody for the asking. well, maybe he is like me, and has not met the right one yet." susan really grew quite romantic in her musings as she washed the supper dishes. two nights later anne took owen ford down to four winds point to introduce him to captain jim. the clover fields along the harbor shore were whitening in the western wind, and captain jim had one of his finest sunsets on exhibition. he himself had just returned from a trip over the harbor. "i had to go over and tell henry pollack he was dying. everybody else was afraid to tell him. they expected he'd take on turrible, for he's been dreadful determined to live, and been making no end of plans for the fall. his wife thought he oughter be told and that i'd be the best one to break it to him that he couldn't get better. henry and me are old cronies--we sailed in the gray gull for years together. well, i went over and sat down by henry's bed and i says to him, says i, jest right out plain and simple, for if a thing's got to be told it may as well be told first as last, says i, 'mate, i reckon you've got your sailing orders this time,' i was sorter quaking inside, for it's an awful thing to have to tell a man who hain't any idea he's dying that he is. but lo and behold, mistress blythe, henry looks up at me, with those bright old black eyes of his in his wizened face and says, says he, 'tell me something i don't know, jim boyd, if you want to give me information. i've known that for a week.' i was too astonished to speak, and henry, he chuckled. 'to see you coming in here,' says he, 'with your face as solemn as a tombstone and sitting down there with your hands clasped over your stomach, and passing me out a blue-mouldy old item of news like that! it'd make a cat laugh, jim boyd,' says he. 'who told you?' says i, stupid like. 'nobody,' says he. 'a week ago tuesday night i was lying here awake--and i jest knew. i'd suspicioned it before, but then i knew. i've been keeping up for the wife's sake. and i'd like to have got that barn built, for eben'll never get it right. but anyhow, now that you've eased your mind, jim, put on a smile and tell me something interesting,' well, there it was. they'd been so scared to tell him and he knew it all the time. strange how nature looks out for us, ain't it, and lets us know what we should know when the time comes? did i never tell you the yarn about henry getting the fish hook in his nose, mistress blythe?" "no." "well, him and me had a laugh over it today. it happened nigh unto thirty years ago. him and me and several more was out mackerel fishing one day. it was a great day--never saw such a school of mackerel in the gulf--and in the general excitement henry got quite wild and contrived to stick a fish hook clean through one side of his nose. well, there he was; there was barb on one end and a big piece of lead on the other, so it couldn't be pulled out. we wanted to take him ashore at once, but henry was game; he said he'd be jiggered if he'd leave a school like that for anything short of lockjaw; then he kept fishing away, hauling in hand over fist and groaning between times. fin'lly the school passed and we come in with a load; i got a file and begun to try to file through that hook. i tried to be as easy as i could, but you should have heard henry--no, you shouldn't either. it was well no ladies were around. henry wasn't a swearing man, but he'd heard some few matters of that sort along shore in his time, and he fished 'em all out of his recollection and hurled 'em at me. fin'lly he declared he couldn't stand it and i had no bowels of compassion. so we hitched up and i drove him to a doctor in charlottetown, thirty-five miles--there weren't none nearer in them days--with that blessed hook still hanging from his nose. when we got there old dr. crabb jest took a file and filed that hook jest the same as i'd tried to do, only he weren't a mite particular about doing it easy!" captain jim's visit to his old friend had revived many recollections and he was now in the full tide of reminiscences. "henry was asking me today if i remembered the time old father chiniquy blessed alexander macallister's boat. another odd yarn--and true as gospel. i was in the boat myself. we went out, him and me, in alexander macallister's boat one morning at sunrise. besides, there was a french boy in the boat--catholic of course. you know old father chiniquy had turned protestant, so the catholics hadn't much use for him. well, we sat out in the gulf in the broiling sun till noon, and not a bite did we get. when we went ashore old father chiniquy had to go, so he said in that polite way of his, 'i'm very sorry i cannot go out with you dis afternoon, mr. macallister, but i leave you my blessing. you will catch a t'ousand dis afternoon. 'well, we did not catch a thousand, but we caught exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine--the biggest catch for a small boat on the whole north shore that summer. curious, wasn't it? alexander macallister, he says to andrew peters, 'well, and what do you think of father chiniquy now?' 'vell,' growled andrew, 'i t'ink de old devil has got a blessing left yet.' laws, how henry did laugh over that today!" "do you know who mr. ford is, captain jim?" asked anne, seeing that captain jim's fountain of reminiscence had run out for the present. "i want you to guess." captain jim shook his head. "i never was any hand at guessing, mistress blythe, and yet somehow when i come in i thought, 'where have i seen them eyes before?'--for i have seen 'em." "think of a september morning many years ago," said anne, softly. "think of a ship sailing up the harbor--a ship long waited for and despaired of. think of the day the royal william came in and the first look you had at the schoolmaster's bride." captain jim sprang up. "they're persis selwyn's eyes," he almost shouted. "you can't be her son--you must be her--" "grandson; yes, i am alice selwyn's son." captain jim swooped down on owen ford and shook his hand over again. "alice selwyn's son! lord, but you're welcome! many's the time i've wondered where the descendants of the schoolmaster were living. i knew there was none on the island. alice--alice--the first baby ever born in that little house. no baby ever brought more joy! i've dandled her a hundred times. it was from my knee she took her first steps alone. can't i see her mother's face watching her--and it was near sixty years ago. is she living yet?" "no, she died when i was only a boy." "oh, it doesn't seem right that i should be living to hear that," sighed captain jim. "but i'm heart-glad to see you. it's brought back my youth for a little while. you don't know yet what a boon that is. mistress blythe here has the trick--she does it quite often for me." captain jim was still more excited when he discovered that owen ford was what he called a "real writing man." he gazed at him as at a superior being. captain jim knew that anne wrote, but he had never taken that fact very seriously. captain jim thought women were delightful creatures, who ought to have the vote, and everything else they wanted, bless their hearts; but he did not believe they could write. "jest look at a mad love," he would protest. "a woman wrote that and jest look at it--one hundred and three chapters when it could all have been told in ten. a writing woman never knows when to stop; that's the trouble. the p'int of good writing is to know when to stop." "mr. ford wants to hear some of your stories, captain jim" said anne. "tell him the one about the captain who went crazy and imagined he was the flying dutchman." this was captain jim's best story. it was a compound of horror and humor, and though anne had heard it several times she laughed as heartily and shivered as fearsomely over it as mr. ford did. other tales followed, for captain jim had an audience after his own heart. he told how his vessel had been run down by a steamer; how he had been boarded by malay pirates; how his ship had caught fire; how he helped a political prisoner escape from a south african republic; how he had been wrecked one fall on the magdalens and stranded there for the winter; how a tiger had broken loose on board ship; how his crew had mutinied and marooned him on a barren island--these and many other tales, tragic or humorous or grotesque, did captain jim relate. the mystery of the sea, the fascination of far lands, the lure of adventure, the laughter of the world--his hearers felt and realised them all. owen ford listened, with his head on his hand, and the first mate purring on his knee, his brilliant eyes fastened on captain jim's rugged, eloquent face. "won't you let mr. ford see your life-book, captain jim?" asked anne, when captain jim finally declared that yarn-spinning must end for the time. "oh, he don't want to be bothered with that," protested captain jim, who was secretly dying to show it. "i should like nothing better than to see it, captain boyd," said owen. "if it is half as wonderful as your tales it will be worth seeing." with pretended reluctance captain jim dug his life-book out of his old chest and handed it to owen. "i reckon you won't care to wrastle long with my old hand o' write. i never had much schooling," he observed carelessly. "just wrote that there to amuse my nephew joe. he's always wanting stories. comes here yesterday and says to me, reproachful-like, as i was lifting a twenty-pound codfish out of my boat, 'uncle jim, ain't a codfish a dumb animal?' i'd been a-telling him, you see, that he must be real kind to dumb animals, and never hurt 'em in any way. i got out of the scrape by saying a codfish was dumb enough but it wasn't an animal, but joe didn't look satisfied, and i wasn't satisfied myself. you've got to be mighty careful what you tell them little critters. they can see through you." while talking, captain jim watched owen ford from the corner of his eye as the latter examined the life-book; and presently observing that his guest was lost in its pages, he turned smilingly to his cupboard and proceeded to make a pot of tea. owen ford separated himself from the life-book, with as much reluctance as a miser wrenches himself from his gold, long enough to drink his tea, and then returned to it hungrily. "oh, you can take that thing home with you if you want to," said captain jim, as if the "thing" were not his most treasured possession. "i must go down and pull my boat up a bit on the skids. there's a wind coming. did you notice the sky tonight? mackerel skies and mares' tails make tall ships carry short sails." owen ford accepted the offer of the life-book gladly. on their way home anne told him the story of lost margaret. "that old captain is a wonderful old fellow," he said. "what a life he has led! why, the man had more adventures in one week of his life than most of us have in a lifetime. do you really think his tales are all true?" "i certainly do. i am sure captain jim could not tell a lie; and besides, all the people about here say that everything happened as he relates it. there used to be plenty of his old shipmates alive to corroborate him. he's one of the last of the old type of p.e. island sea-captains. they are almost extinct now." chapter the writing of the book owen ford came over to the little house the next morning in a state of great excitement. "mrs. blythe, this is a wonderful book--absolutely wonderful. if i could take it and use the material for a book i feel certain i could make the novel of the year out of it. do you suppose captain jim would let me do it?" "let you! i'm sure he would be delighted," cried anne. "i admit that it was what was in my head when i took you down last night. captain jim has always been wishing he could get somebody to write his life-book properly for him." "will you go down to the point with me this evening, mrs. blythe? i'll ask him about that life-book myself, but i want you to tell him that you told me the story of lost margaret and ask him if he will let me use it as a thread of romance with which to weave the stories of the life-book into a harmonious whole." captain jim was more excited than ever when owen ford told him of his plan. at last his cherished dream was to be realized and his "life-book" given to the world. he was also pleased that the story of lost margaret should be woven into it. "it will keep her name from being forgotten," he said wistfully. "that's why i want it put in." "we'll collaborate," cried owen delightedly. "you will give the soul and i the body. oh, we'll write a famous book between us, captain jim. and we'll get right to work." "and to think my book is to be writ by the schoolmaster's grandson!" exclaimed captain jim. "lad, your grandfather was my dearest friend. i thought there was nobody like him. i see now why i had to wait so long. it couldn't be writ till the right man come. you belong here--you've got the soul of this old north shore in you--you're the only one who could write it." it was arranged that the tiny room off the living room at the lighthouse should be given over to owen for a workshop. it was necessary that captain jim should be near him as he wrote, for consultation upon many matters of sea-faring and gulf lore of which owen was quite ignorant. he began work on the book the very next morning, and flung himself into it heart and soul. as for captain jim, he was a happy man that summer. he looked upon the little room where owen worked as a sacred shrine. owen talked everything over with captain jim, but he would not let him see the manuscript. "you must wait until it is published," he said. "then you'll get it all at once in its best shape." he delved into the treasures of the life-book and used them freely. he dreamed and brooded over lost margaret until she became a vivid reality to him and lived in his pages. as the book progressed it took possession of him and he worked at it with feverish eagerness. he let anne and leslie read the manuscript and criticise it; and the concluding chapter of the book, which the critics, later on, were pleased to call idyllic, was modelled upon a suggestion of leslie's. anne fairly hugged herself with delight over the success of her idea. "i knew when i looked at owen ford that he was the very man for it," she told gilbert. "both humor and passion were in his face, and that, together with the art of expression, was just what was necessary for the writing of such a book. as mrs. rachel would say, he was predestined for the part." owen ford wrote in the mornings. the afternoons were generally spent in some merry outing with the blythes. leslie often went, too, for captain jim took charge of dick frequently, in order to set her free. they went boating on the harbor and up the three pretty rivers that flowed into it; they had clambakes on the bar and mussel-bakes on the rocks; they picked strawberries on the sand-dunes; they went out cod-fishing with captain jim; they shot plover in the shore fields and wild ducks in the cove--at least, the men did. in the evenings they rambled in the low-lying, daisied, shore fields under a golden moon, or they sat in the living room at the little house where often the coolness of the sea breeze justified a driftwood fire, and talked of the thousand and one things which happy, eager, clever young people can find to talk about. ever since the day on which she had made her confession to anne leslie had been a changed creature. there was no trace of her old coldness and reserve, no shadow of her old bitterness. the girlhood of which she had been cheated seemed to come back to her with the ripeness of womanhood; she expanded like a flower of flame and perfume; no laugh was readier than hers, no wit quicker, in the twilight circles of that enchanted summer. when she could not be with them all felt that some exquisite savor was lacking in their intercourse. her beauty was illumined by the awakened soul within, as some rosy lamp might shine through a flawless vase of alabaster. there were hours when anne's eyes seemed to ache with the splendor of her. as for owen ford, the "margaret" of his book, although she had the soft brown hair and elfin face of the real girl who had vanished so long ago, "pillowed where lost atlantis sleeps," had the personality of leslie moore, as it was revealed to him in those halcyon days at four winds harbor. all in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer--one of those summers which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going--one of those summers which, in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful doings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world. "too good to last," anne told herself with a little sigh, on the september day when a certain nip in the wind and a certain shade of intense blue on the gulf water said that autumn was hard by. that evening owen ford told them that he had finished his book and that his vacation must come to an end. "i have a good deal to do to it yet--revising and pruning and so forth," he said, "but in the main it's done. i wrote the last sentence this morning. if i can find a publisher for it it will probably be out next summer or fall." owen had not much doubt that he would find a publisher. he knew that he had written a great book--a book that would score a wonderful success--a book that would live. he knew that it would bring him both fame and fortune; but when he had written the last line of it he had bowed his head on the manuscript and so sat for a long time. and his thoughts were not of the good work he had done. chapter owen ford's confession "i'm so sorry gilbert is away," said anne. "he had to go--allan lyons at the glen has met with a serious accident. he will not likely be home till very late. but he told me to tell you he'd be up and over early enough in the morning to see you before you left. it's too provoking. susan and i had planned such a nice little jamboree for your last night here." she was sitting beside the garden brook on the little rustic seat gilbert had built. owen ford stood before her, leaning against the bronze column of a yellow birch. he was very pale and his face bore the marks of the preceding sleepless night. anne, glancing up at him, wondered if, after all, his summer had brought him the strength it should. had he worked too hard over his book? she remembered that for a week he had not been looking well. "i'm rather glad the doctor is away," said owen slowly. "i wanted to see you alone, mrs. blythe. there is something i must tell somebody, or i think it will drive me mad. i've been trying for a week to look it in the face--and i can't. i know i can trust you--and, besides, you will understand. a woman with eyes like yours always understands. you are one of the folks people instinctively tell things to. mrs. blythe, i love leslie. love her! that seems too weak a word!" his voice suddenly broke with the suppressed passion of his utterance. he turned his head away and hid his face on his arm. his whole form shook. anne sat looking at him, pale and aghast. she had never thought of this! and yet--how was it she had never thought of it? it now seemed a natural and inevitable thing. she wondered at her own blindness. but--but--things like this did not happen in four winds. elsewhere in the world human passions might set at defiance human conventions and laws--but not here, surely. leslie had kept summer boarders off and on for ten years, and nothing like this had happened. but perhaps they had not been like owen ford; and the vivid, living leslie of this summer was not the cold, sullen girl of other years. oh, somebody should have thought of this! why hadn't miss cornelia thought of it? miss cornelia was always ready enough to sound the alarm where men were concerned. anne felt an unreasonable resentment against miss cornelia. then she gave a little inward groan. no matter who was to blame the mischief was done. and leslie--what of leslie? it was for leslie anne felt most concerned. "does leslie know this, mr. ford?" she asked quietly. "no--no,--unless she has guessed it. you surely don't think i'd be cad and scoundrel enough to tell her, mrs. blythe. i couldn't help loving her--that's all--and my misery is greater than i can bear." "does she care?" asked anne. the moment the question crossed her lips she felt that she should not have asked it. owen ford answered it with overeager protest. "no--no, of course not. but i could make her care if she were free--i know i could." "she does care--and he knows it," thought anne. aloud she said, sympathetically but decidedly: "but she is not free, mr. ford. and the only thing you can do is to go away in silence and leave her to her own life." "i know--i know," groaned owen. he sat down on the grassy bank and stared moodily into the amber water beneath him. "i know there's nothing to do--nothing but to say conventionally, 'good-bye, mrs. moore. thank you for all your kindness to me this summer,' just as i would have said it to the sonsy, bustling, keen-eyed housewife i expected her to be when i came. then i'll pay my board money like any honest boarder and go! oh, it's very simple. no doubt--no perplexity--a straight road to the end of the world! "and i'll walk it--you needn't fear that i won't, mrs. blythe. but it would be easier to walk over red-hot ploughshares." anne flinched with the pain of his voice. and there was so little she could say that would be adequate to the situation. blame was out of the question--advice was not needed--sympathy was mocked by the man's stark agony. she could only feel with him in a maze of compassion and regret. her heart ached for leslie! had not that poor girl suffered enough without this? "it wouldn't be so hard to go and leave her if she were only happy," resumed owen passionately. "but to think of her living death--to realise what it is to which i do leave her! that is the worst of all. i would give my life to make her happy--and i can do nothing even to help her--nothing. she is bound forever to that poor wretch--with nothing to look forward to but growing old in a succession of empty, meaningless, barren years. it drives me mad to think of it. but i must go through my life, never seeing her, but always knowing what she is enduring. it's hideous--hideous!" "it is very hard," said anne sorrowfully. "we--her friends here--all know how hard it is for her." "and she is so richly fitted for life," said owen rebelliously. "her beauty is the least of her dower--and she is the most beautiful woman i've ever known. that laugh of hers! i've angled all summer to evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it. and her eyes--they are as deep and blue as the gulf out there. i never saw such blueness--and gold! did you ever see her hair down, mrs. blythe?" "no." "i did--once. i had gone down to the point to go fishing with captain jim but it was too rough to go out, so i came back. she had taken the opportunity of what she expected to be an afternoon alone to wash her hair, and she was standing on the veranda in the sunshine to dry it. it fell all about her to her feet in a fountain of living gold. when she saw me she hurried in, and the wind caught her hair and swirled it all around her--danae in her cloud. somehow, just then the knowledge that i loved her came home to me--and realised that i had loved her from the moment i first saw her standing against the darkness in that glow of light. and she must live on here--petting and soothing dick, pinching and saving for a mere existence, while i spend my life longing vainly for her, and debarred, by that very fact, from even giving her the little help a friend might. i walked the shore last night, almost till dawn, and thrashed it all out over and over again. and yet, in spite of everything, i can't find it in my heart to be sorry that i came to four winds. it seems to me that, bad as everything is, it would be still worse never to have known leslie. it's burning, searing pain to love her and leave her--but not to have loved her is unthinkable. i suppose all this sounds very crazy--all these terrible emotions always do sound foolish when we put them into our inadequate words. they are not meant to be spoken--only felt and endured. i shouldn't have spoken--but it has helped--some. at least, it has given me strength to go away respectably tomorrow morning, without making a scene. you'll write me now and then, won't you, mrs. blythe, and give me what news there is to give of her?" "yes," said anne. "oh, i'm so sorry you are going--we'll miss you so--we've all been such friends! if it were not for this you could come back other summers. perhaps, even yet--by-and-by--when you've forgotten, perhaps--" "i shall never forget--and i shall never come back to four winds," said owen briefly. silence and twilight fell over the garden. far away the sea was lapping gently and monotonously on the bar. the wind of evening in the poplars sounded like some sad, weird, old rune--some broken dream of old memories. a slender shapely young aspen rose up before them against the fine maize and emerald and paling rose of the western sky, which brought out every leaf and twig in dark, tremulous, elfin loveliness. "isn't that beautiful?" said owen, pointing to it with the air of a man who puts a certain conversation behind him. "it's so beautiful that it hurts me," said anne softly. "perfect things like that always did hurt me--i remember i called it 'the queer ache' when i was a child. what is the reason that pain like this seems inseparable from perfection? is it the pain of finality--when we realise that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?" "perhaps," said owen dreamily, "it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection." "you seem to have a cold in the head. better rub some tallow on your nose when you go to bed," said miss cornelia, who had come in through the little gate between the firs in time to catch owen's last remark. miss cornelia liked owen; but it was a matter of principle with her to visit any "high-falutin" language from a man with a snub. miss cornelia personated the comedy that ever peeps around the corner at the tragedy of life. anne, whose nerves had been rather strained, laughed hysterically, and even owen smiled. certainly, sentiment and passion had a way of shrinking out of sight in miss cornelia's presence. and yet to anne nothing seemed quite as hopeless and dark and painful as it had seemed a few moments before. but sleep was far from her eyes that night. chapter on the sand bar owen ford left four winds the next morning. in the evening anne went over to see leslie, but found nobody. the house was locked and there was no light in any window. it looked like a home left soulless. leslie did not run over on the following day--which anne thought a bad sign. gilbert having occasion to go in the evening to the fishing cove, anne drove with him to the point, intending to stay awhile with captain jim. but the great light, cutting its swathes through the fog of the autumn evening, was in care of alec boyd and captain jim was away. "what will you do?" asked gilbert. "come with me?" "i don't want to go to the cove--but i'll go over the channel with you, and roam about on the sand shore till you come back. the rock shore is too slippery and grim tonight." alone on the sands of the bar anne gave herself up to the eerie charm of the night. it was warm for september, and the late afternoon had been very foggy; but a full moon had in part lessened the fog and transformed the harbor and the gulf and the surrounding shores into a strange, fantastic, unreal world of pale silver mist, through which everything loomed phantom-like. captain josiah crawford's black schooner sailing down the channel, laden with potatoes for bluenose ports, was a spectral ship bound for a far uncharted land, ever receding, never to be reached. the calls of unseen gulls overhead were the cries of the souls of doomed seamen. the little curls of foam that blew across the sand were elfin things stealing up from the sea-caves. the big, round-shouldered sand-dunes were the sleeping giants of some old northern tale. the lights that glimmered palely across the harbor were the delusive beacons on some coast of fairyland. anne pleased herself with a hundred fancies as she wandered through the mist. it was delightful--romantic--mysterious to be roaming here alone on this enchanted shore. but was she alone? something loomed in the mist before her--took shape and form--suddenly moved towards her across the wave-rippled sand. "leslie!" exclaimed anne in amazement. "whatever are you doing--here--tonight?" "if it comes to that, whatever are you doing here?" said leslie, trying to laugh. the effort was a failure. she looked very pale and tired; but the love locks under her scarlet cap were curling about her face and eyes like little sparkling rings of gold. "i'm waiting for gilbert--he's over at the cove. i intended to stay at the light, but captain jim is away." "well, _i_ came here because i wanted to walk--and walk--and walk," said leslie restlessly. "i couldn't on the rock shore--the tide was too high and the rocks prisoned me. i had to come here--or i should have gone mad, i think. i rowed myself over the channel in captain jim's flat. i've been here for an hour. come--come--let us walk. i can't stand still. oh, anne!" "leslie, dearest, what is the trouble?" asked anne, though she knew too well already. "i can't tell you--don't ask me. i wouldn't mind your knowing--i wish you did know--but i can't tell you--i can't tell anyone. i've been such a fool, anne--and oh, it hurts so terribly to be a fool. there's nothing so painful in the world." she laughed bitterly. anne slipped her arm around her. "leslie, is it that you have learned to care for mr. ford?" leslie turned herself about passionately. "how did you know?" she cried. "anne, how did you know? oh, is it written in my face for everyone to see? is it as plain as that?" "no, no. i--i can't tell you how i knew. it just came into my mind, somehow. leslie, don't look at me like that!" "do you despise me?" demanded leslie in a fierce, low tone. "do you think i'm wicked--unwomanly? or do you think i'm just plain fool?" "i don't think you any of those things. come, dear, let's just talk it over sensibly, as we might talk over any other of the great crises of life. you've been brooding over it and let yourself drift into a morbid view of it. you know you have a little tendency to do that about everything that goes wrong, and you promised me that you would fight against it." "but--oh, it's so--so shameful," murmured leslie. "to love him--unsought--and when i'm not free to love anybody." "there's nothing shameful about it. but i'm very sorry that you have learned to care for owen, because, as things are, it will only make you more unhappy." "i didn't learn to care," said leslie, walking on and speaking passionately. "if it had been like that i could have prevented it. i never dreamed of such a thing until that day, a week ago, when he told me he had finished his book and must soon go away. then--then i knew. i felt as if someone had struck me a terrible blow. i didn't say anything--i couldn't speak--but i don't know what i looked like. i'm so afraid my face betrayed me. oh, i would die of shame if i thought he knew--or suspected." anne was miserably silent, hampered by her deductions from her conversation with owen. leslie went on feverishly, as if she found relief in speech. "i was so happy all this summer, anne--happier than i ever was in my life. i thought it was because everything had been made clear between you and me, and that it was our friendship which made life seem so beautiful and full once more. and it was, in part--but not all--oh, not nearly all. i know now why everything was so different. and now it's all over--and he has gone. how can i live, anne? when i turned back into the house this morning after he had gone the solitude struck me like a blow in the face." "it won't seem so hard by and by, dear," said anne, who always felt the pain of her friends so keenly that she could not speak easy, fluent words of comforting. besides, she remembered how well-meant speeches had hurt her in her own sorrow and was afraid. "oh, it seems to me it will grow harder all the time," said leslie miserably. "i've nothing to look forward to. morning will come after morning--and he will not come back--he will never come back. oh, when i think that i will never see him again i feel as if a great brutal hand had twisted itself among my heartstrings, and was wrenching them. once, long ago, i dreamed of love--and i thought it must be beautiful--and now--its like this. when he went away yesterday morning he was so cold and indifferent. he said 'good-bye, mrs. moore' in the coldest tone in the world--as if we had not even been friends--as if i meant absolutely nothing to him. i know i don't--i didn't want him to care--but he might have been a little kinder." "oh, i wish gilbert would come," thought anne. she was racked between her sympathy for leslie and the necessity of avoiding anything that would betray owen's confidence. she knew why his good-bye had been so cold--why it could not have the cordiality that their good-comradeship demanded--but she could not tell leslie. "i couldn't help it, anne--i couldn't help it," said poor leslie. "i know that." "do you blame me so very much?" "i don't blame you at all." "and you won't--you won't tell gilbert?" "leslie! do you think i would do such a thing?" "oh, i don't know--you and gilbert are such chums. i don't see how you could help telling him everything." "everything about my own concerns--yes. but not my friends' secrets." "i couldn't have him know. but i'm glad you know. i would feel guilty if there were anything i was ashamed to tell you. i hope miss cornelia won't find out. sometimes i feel as if those terrible, kind brown eyes of hers read my very soul. oh, i wish this mist would never lift--i wish i could just stay in it forever, hidden away from every living being. i don't see how i can go on with life. this summer has been so full. i never was lonely for a moment. before owen came there used to be horrible moments--when i had been with you and gilbert--and then had to leave you. you two would walk away together and i would walk away alone. after owen came he was always there to walk home with me--we would laugh and talk as you and gilbert were doing--there were no more lonely, envious moments for me. and now! oh, yes, i've been a fool. let's have done talking about my folly. i'll never bore you with it again." "here is gilbert, and you are coming back with us," said anne, who had no intention of leaving leslie to wander alone on the sand-bar on such a night and in such a mood. "there's plenty of room in our boat for three, and we'll tie the flat on behind." "oh, i suppose i must reconcile myself to being the odd one again," said poor leslie with another bitter laugh. "forgive me, anne--that was hateful. i ought to be thankful--and i am--that i have two good friends who are glad to count me in as a third. don't mind my hateful speeches. i just seem to be one great pain all over and everything hurts me." "leslie seemed very quiet tonight, didn't she?" said gilbert, when he and anne reached home. "what in the world was she doing over there on the bar alone?" "oh, she was tired--and you know she likes to go to the shore after one of dick's bad days." "what a pity she hadn't met and married a fellow like ford long ago," ruminated gilbert. "they'd have made an ideal couple, wouldn't they?" "for pity's sake, gilbert, don't develop into a match-maker. it's an abominable profession for a man," cried anne rather sharply, afraid that gilbert might blunder on the truth if he kept on in this strain. "bless us, anne-girl, i'm not matchmaking," protested gilbert, rather surprised at her tone. "i was only thinking of one of the might-have-beens." "well, don't. it's a waste of time," said anne. then she added suddenly: "oh, gilbert, i wish everybody could be as happy as we are." chapter odds and ends "i've been reading obituary notices," said miss cornelia, laying down the daily enterprise and taking up her sewing. the harbor was lying black and sullen under a dour november sky; the wet, dead leaves clung drenched and sodden to the window sills; but the little house was gay with firelight and spring-like with anne's ferns and geraniums. "it's always summer here, anne," leslie had said one day; and all who were the guests of that house of dreams felt the same. "the enterprise seems to run to obituaries these days," quoth miss cornelia. "it always has a couple of columns of them, and i read every line. it's one of my forms of recreation, especially when there's some original poetry attached to them. here's a choice sample for you: she's gone to be with her maker, never more to roam. she used to play and sing with joy the song of home, sweet home. who says we haven't any poetical talent on the island! have you ever noticed what heaps of good people die, anne, dearie? it's kind of pitiful. here's ten obituaries, and every one of them saints and models, even the men. here's old peter stimson, who has 'left a large circle of friends to mourn his untimely loss.' lord, anne, dearie, that man was eighty, and everybody who knew him had been wishing him dead these thirty years. read obituaries when you're blue, anne, dearie--especially the ones of folks you know. if you've any sense of humor at all they'll cheer you up, believe me. i just wish _i_ had the writing of the obituaries of some people. isn't 'obituary' an awful ugly word? this very peter i've been speaking of had a face exactly like one. i never saw it but i thought of the word obituary then and there. there's only one uglier word that i know of, and that's relict. lord, anne, dearie, i may be an old maid, but there's this comfort in it--i'll never be any man's 'relict.'" "it is an ugly word," said anne, laughing. "avonlea graveyard was full of old tombstones 'sacred to the memory of so-and-so, relict of the late so-and-so.' it always made me think of something worn out and moth eaten. why is it that so many of the words connected with death are so disagreeable? i do wish that the custom of calling a dead body 'the remains' could be abolished. i positively shiver when i hear the undertaker say at a funeral, 'all who wish to see the remains please step this way.' it always gives me the horrible impression that i am about to view the scene of a cannibal feast." "well, all i hope," said miss cornelia calmly, "is that when i'm dead nobody will call me 'our departed sister.' i took a scunner at this sister-and-brothering business five years ago when there was a travelling evangelist holding meetings at the glen. i hadn't any use for him from the start. i felt in my bones that there was something wrong with him. and there was. mind you, he was pretending to be a presbyterian--presbytarian, he called it--and all the time he was a methodist. he brothered and sistered everybody. he had a large circle of relations, that man had. he clutched my hand fervently one night, and said imploringly, 'my dear sister bryant, are you a christian?' i just looked him over a bit, and then i said calmly, 'the only brother i ever had, mr. fiske, was buried fifteen years ago, and i haven't adopted any since. as for being a christian, i was that, i hope and believe, when you were crawling about the floor in petticoats.' that squelched him, believe me. mind you, anne dearie, i'm not down on all evangelists. we've had some real fine, earnest men, who did a lot of good and made the old sinners squirm. but this fiske-man wasn't one of them. i had a good laugh all to myself one evening. fiske had asked all who were christians to stand up. _i_ didn't, believe me! i never had any use for that sort of thing. but most of them did, and then he asked all who wanted to be christians to stand up. nobody stirred for a spell, so fiske started up a hymn at the top of his voice. just in front of me poor little ikey baker was sitting in the millison pew. he was a home boy, ten years old, and millison just about worked him to death. the poor little creature was always so tired he fell asleep right off whenever he went to church or anywhere he could sit still for a few minutes. he'd been sleeping all through the meeting, and i was thankful to see the poor child getting a rest, believe me. well, when fiske's voice went soaring skyward and the rest joined in, poor ikey wakened with a start. he thought it was just an ordinary singing and that everybody ought to stand up, so he scrambled to his feet mighty quick, knowing he'd get a combing down from maria millison for sleeping in meeting. fiske saw him, stopped and shouted, 'another soul saved! glory hallelujah!' and there was poor, frightened ikey, only half awake and yawning, never thinking about his soul at all. poor child, he never had time to think of anything but his tired, overworked little body. "leslie went one night and the fiske-man got right after her--oh, he was especially anxious about the souls of the nice-looking girls, believe me!--and he hurt her feelings so she never went again. and then he prayed every night after that, right in public, that the lord would soften her hard heart. finally i went to mr. leavitt, our minister then, and told him if he didn't make fiske stop that i'd just rise up the next night and throw my hymn book at him when he mentioned that 'beautiful but unrepentant young woman.' i'd have done it too, believe me. mr. leavitt did put a stop to it, but fiske kept on with his meetings until charley douglas put an end to his career in the glen. mrs. charley had been out in california all winter. she'd been real melancholy in the fall--religious melancholy--it ran in her family. her father worried so much over believing that he had committed the unpardonable sin that he died in the asylum. so when rose douglas got that way charley packed her off to visit her sister in los angeles. she got perfectly well and came home just when the fiske revival was in full swing. she stepped off the train at the glen, real smiling and chipper, and the first thing she saw staring her in the face on the black, gable-end of the freight shed, was the question, in big white letters, two feet high, 'whither goest thou--to heaven or hell?' that had been one of fiske's ideas, and he had got henry hammond to paint it. rose just gave a shriek and fainted; and when they got her home she was worse than ever. charley douglas went to mr. leavitt and told him that every douglas would leave the church if fiske was kept there any longer. mr. leavitt had to give in, for the douglases paid half his salary, so fiske departed, and we had to depend on our bibles once more for instructions on how to get to heaven. after he was gone mr. leavitt found out he was just a masquerading methodist, and he felt pretty sick, believe me. mr. leavitt fell short in some ways, but he was a good, sound presbyterian." "by the way, i had a letter from mr. ford yesterday," said anne. "he asked me to remember him kindly to you." "i don't want his remembrances," said miss cornelia, curtly. "why?" said anne, in astonishment. "i thought you liked him." "well, so i did, in a kind of way. but i'll never forgive him for what he done to leslie. there's that poor child eating her heart out about him--as if she hadn't had trouble enough--and him ranting round toronto, i've no doubt, enjoying himself same as ever. just like a man." "oh, miss cornelia, how did you find out?" "lord, anne, dearie, i've got eyes, haven't i? and i've known leslie since she was a baby. there's been a new kind of heartbreak in her eyes all the fall, and i know that writer-man was behind it somehow. i'll never forgive myself for being the means of bringing him here. but i never expected he'd be like he was. i thought he'd just be like the other men leslie had boarded--conceited young asses, every one of them, that she never had any use for. one of them did try to flirt with her once and she froze him out--so bad, i feel sure he's never got himself thawed since. so i never thought of any danger." "don't let leslie suspect you know her secret," said anne hurriedly. "i think it would hurt her." "trust me, anne, dearie. _i_ wasn't born yesterday. oh, a plague on all the men! one of them ruined leslie's life to begin with, and now another of the tribe comes and makes her still more wretched. anne, this world is an awful place, believe me." "there's something in the world amiss will be unriddled by and by," quoted anne dreamily. "if it is, it'll be in a world where there aren't any men," said miss cornelia gloomily. "what have the men been doing now?" asked gilbert, entering. "mischief--mischief! what else did they ever do?" "it was eve ate the apple, miss cornelia." "'twas a he-creature tempted her," retorted miss cornelia triumphantly. leslie, after her first anguish was over, found it possible to go on with life after all, as most of us do, no matter what our particular form of torment has been. it is even possible that she enjoyed moments of it, when she was one of the gay circle in the little house of dreams. but if anne ever hoped that she was forgetting owen ford she would have been undeceived by the furtive hunger in leslie's eyes whenever his name was mentioned. pitiful to that hunger, anne always contrived to tell captain jim or gilbert bits of news from owen's letters when leslie was with them. the girl's flush and pallor at such moments spoke all too eloquently of the emotion that filled her being. but she never spoke of him to anne, or mentioned that night on the sand-bar. one day her old dog died and she grieved bitterly over him. "he's been my friend so long," she said sorrowfully to anne. "he was dick's old dog, you know--dick had him for a year or so before we were married. he left him with me when he sailed on the four sisters. carlo got very fond of me--and his dog-love helped me through that first dreadful year after mother died, when i was alone. when i heard that dick was coming back i was afraid carlo wouldn't be so much mine. but he never seemed to care for dick, though he had been so fond of him once. he would snap and growl at him as if he were a stranger. i was glad. it was nice to have one thing whose love was all mine. that old dog has been such a comfort to me, anne. he got so feeble in the fall that i was afraid he couldn't live long--but i hoped i could nurse him through the winter. he seemed pretty well this morning. he was lying on the rug before the fire; then, all at once, he got up and crept over to me; he put his head on my lap and gave me one loving look out of his big, soft, dog eyes--and then he just shivered and died. i shall miss him so." "let me give you another dog, leslie," said anne. "i'm getting a lovely gordon setter for a christmas present for gilbert. let me give you one too." leslie shook her head. "not just now, thank you, anne. i don't feel like having another dog yet. i don't seem to have any affection left for another. perhaps--in time--i'll let you give me one. i really need one as a kind of protection. but there was something almost human about carlo--it wouldn't be decent to fill his place too hurriedly, dear old fellow." anne went to avonlea a week before christmas and stayed until after the holidays. gilbert came up for her, and there was a glad new year celebration at green gables, when barrys and blythes and wrights assembled to devour a dinner which had cost mrs. rachel and marilla much careful thought and preparation. when they went back to four winds the little house was almost drifted over, for the third storm of a winter that was to prove phenomenally stormy had whirled up the harbor and heaped huge snow mountains about everything it encountered. but captain jim had shovelled out doors and paths, and miss cornelia had come down and kindled the hearth-fire. "it's good to see you back, anne, dearie! but did you ever see such drifts? you can't see the moore place at all unless you go upstairs. leslie'll be so glad you're back. she's almost buried alive over there. fortunately dick can shovel snow, and thinks it's great fun. susan sent me word to tell you she would be on hand tomorrow. where are you off to now, captain?" "i reckon i'll plough up to the glen and sit a bit with old martin strong. he's not far from his end and he's lonesome. he hasn't many friends--been too busy all his life to make any. he's made heaps of money, though." "well, he thought that since he couldn't serve god and mammon he'd better stick to mammon," said miss cornelia crisply. "so he shouldn't complain if he doesn't find mammon very good company now." captain jim went out, but remembered something in the yard and turned back for a moment. "i'd a letter from mr. ford, mistress blythe, and he says the life-book is accepted and is going to be published next fall. i felt fair uplifted when i got the news. to think that i'm to see it in print at last." "that man is clean crazy on the subject of his life-book," said miss cornelia compassionately. "for my part, i think there's far too many books in the world now." chapter gilbert and anne disagree gilbert laid down the ponderous medical tome over which he had been poring until the increasing dusk of the march evening made him desist. he leaned back in his chair and gazed meditatively out of the window. it was early spring--probably the ugliest time of the year. not even the sunset could redeem the dead, sodden landscape and rotten black harbor ice upon which he looked. no sign of life was visible, save a big black crow winging his solitary way across a leaden field. gilbert speculated idly concerning that crow. was he a family crow, with a black but comely crow wife awaiting him in the woods beyond the glen? or was he a glossy young buck of a crow on courting thoughts intent? or was he a cynical bachelor crow, believing that he travels the fastest who travels alone? whatever he was, he soon disappeared in congenial gloom and gilbert turned to the cheerier view indoors. the firelight flickered from point to point, gleaming on the white and green coats of gog and magog, on the sleek, brown head of the beautiful setter basking on the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on the vaseful of daffodils from the window garden, on anne herself, sitting by her little table, with her sewing beside her and her hands clasped over her knee while she traced out pictures in the fire--castles in spain whose airy turrets pierced moonlit cloud and sunset bar-ships sailing from the haven of good hopes straight to four winds harbor with precious burthen. for anne was again a dreamer of dreams, albeit a grim shape of fear went with her night and day to shadow and darken her visions. gilbert was accustomed to refer to himself as "an old married man." but he still looked upon anne with the incredulous eyes of a lover. he couldn't wholly believe yet that she was really his. it might be only a dream after all, part and parcel of this magic house of dreams. his soul still went on tip-toe before her, lest the charm be shattered and the dream dispelled. "anne," he said slowly, "lend me your ears. i want to talk with you about something." anne looked across at him through the fire-lit gloom. "what is it?" she asked gaily. "you look fearfully solemn, gilbert. i really haven't done anything naughty today. ask susan." "it's not of you--or ourselves--i want to talk. it's about dick moore." "dick moore?" echoed anne, sitting up alertly. "why, what in the world have you to say about dick moore?" "i've been thinking a great deal about him lately. do you remember that time last summer i treated him for those carbuncles on his neck?" "yes--yes." "i took the opportunity to examine the scars on his head thoroughly. i've always thought dick was a very interesting case from a medical point of view. lately i've been studying the history of trephining and the cases where it has been employed. anne, i have come to the conclusion that if dick moore were taken to a good hospital and the operation of trephining performed on several places in his skull, his memory and faculties might be restored." "gilbert!" anne's voice was full of protest. "surely you don't mean it!" "i do, indeed. and i have decided that it is my duty to broach the subject to leslie." "gilbert blythe, you shall not do any such thing," cried anne vehemently. "oh, gilbert, you won't--you won't. you couldn't be so cruel. promise me you won't." "why, anne-girl, i didn't suppose you would take it like this. be reasonable--" "i won't be reasonable--i can't be reasonable--i am reasonable. it is you who are unreasonable. gilbert, have you ever once thought what it would mean for leslie if dick moore were to be restored to his right senses? just stop and think! she's unhappy enough now; but life as dick's nurse and attendant is a thousand times easier for her than life as dick's wife. i know--i know! it's unthinkable. don't you meddle with the matter. leave well enough alone." "i have thought over that aspect of the case thoroughly, anne. but i believe that a doctor is bound to set the sanctity of a patient's mind and body above all other considerations, no matter what the consequences may be. i believe it his duty to endeavor to restore health and sanity, if there is any hope whatever of it." "but dick isn't your patient in that respect," cried anne, taking another tack. "if leslie had asked you if anything could be done for him, then it might be your duty to tell her what you really thought. but you've no right to meddle." "i don't call it meddling. uncle dave told leslie twelve years ago that nothing could be done for dick. she believes that, of course." "and why did uncle dave tell her that, if it wasn't true?" cried anne, triumphantly. "doesn't he know as much about it as you?" "i think not--though it may sound conceited and presumptuous to say it. and you know as well as i that he is rather prejudiced against what he calls 'these new-fangled notions of cutting and carving.' he's even opposed to operating for appendicitis." "he's right," exclaimed anne, with a complete change of front. 'i believe myself that you modern doctors are entirely too fond of making experiments with human flesh and blood." "rhoda allonby would not be a living woman today if i had been afraid of making a certain experiment," argued gilbert. "i took the risk--and saved her life." "i'm sick and tired of hearing about rhoda allonby," cried anne--most unjustly, for gilbert had never mentioned mrs. allonby's name since the day he had told anne of his success in regard to her. and he could not be blamed for other people's discussion of it. gilbert felt rather hurt. "i had not expected you to look at the matter as you do, anne," he said a little stiffly, getting up and moving towards the office door. it was their first approach to a quarrel. but anne flew after him and dragged him back. "now, gilbert, you are not 'going off mad.' sit down here and i'll apologise bee-yew-ti-fully, i shouldn't have said that. but--oh, if you knew--" anne checked herself just in time. she had been on the very verge of betraying leslie's secret. "knew what a woman feels about it," she concluded lamely. "i think i do know. i've looked at the matter from every point of view--and i've been driven to the conclusion that it is my duty to tell leslie that i believe it is possible that dick can be restored to himself; there my responsibility ends. it will be for her to decide what she will do." "i don't think you've any right to put such a responsibility on her. she has enough to bear. she is poor--how could she afford such an operation?" "that is for her to decide," persisted gilbert stubbornly. "you say you think that dick can be cured. but are you sure of it?" "certainly not. nobody could be sure of such a thing. there may have been lesions of the brain itself, the effect of which can never be removed. but if, as i believe, his loss of memory and other faculties is due merely to the pressure on the brain centers of certain depressed areas of bone, then he can be cured." "but it's only a possibility!" insisted anne. "now, suppose you tell leslie and she decides to have the operation. it will cost a great deal. she will have to borrow the money, or sell her little property. and suppose the operation is a failure and dick remains the same. "how will she be able to pay back the money she borrows, or make a living for herself and that big helpless creature if she sells the farm?" "oh, i know--i know. but it is my duty to tell her. i can't get away from that conviction." "oh, i know the blythe stubbornness," groaned anne. "but don't do this solely on your own responsibility. consult doctor dave." "i have done so," said gilbert reluctantly. "and what did he say?" "in brief--as you say--leave well enough alone. apart from his prejudice against new-fangled surgery, i'm afraid he looks at the case from your point of view--don't do it, for leslie's sake." "there now," cried anne triumphantly. "i do think, gilbert, that you ought to abide by the judgment of a man nearly eighty, who has seen a great deal and saved scores of lives himself--surely his opinion ought to weigh more than a mere boy's." "thank you." "don't laugh. it's too serious." "that's just my point. it is serious. here is a man who is a helpless burden. he may be restored to reason and usefulness--" "he was so very useful before," interjected anne witheringly. "he may be given a chance to make good and redeem the past. his wife doesn't know this. i do. it is therefore my duty to tell her that there is such a possibility. that, boiled down, is my decision." "don't say 'decision' yet, gilbert. consult somebody else. ask captain jim what he thinks about it." "very well. but i'll not promise to abide by his opinion, anne. "this is something a man must decide for himself. my conscience would never be easy if i kept silent on the subject." "oh, your conscience!" moaned anne. "i suppose that uncle dave has a conscience too, hasn't he?" "yes. but i am not the keeper of his conscience. come, anne, if this affair did not concern leslie--if it were a purely abstract case, you would agree with me,--you know you would." "i wouldn't," vowed anne, trying to believe it herself. "oh, you can argue all night, gilbert, but you won't convince me. just you ask miss cornelia what she thinks of it." "you're driven to the last ditch, anne, when you bring up miss cornelia as a reinforcement. she will say, 'just like a man,' and rage furiously. no matter. this is no affair for miss cornelia to settle. leslie alone must decide it." "you know very well how she will decide it," said anne, almost in tears. "she has ideals of duty, too. i don't see how you can take such a responsibility on your shoulders. _i_ couldn't." "'because right is right to follow right were wisdom in the scorn of consequence,'" quoted gilbert. "oh, you think a couplet of poetry a convincing argument!" scoffed anne. "that is so like a man." and then she laughed in spite of herself. it sounded so like an echo of miss cornelia. "well, if you won't accept tennyson as an authority, perhaps you will believe the words of a greater than he," said gilbert seriously. "'ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.' i believe that, anne, with all my heart. it's the greatest and grandest verse in the bible--or in any literature--and the truest, if there are comparative degrees of trueness. and it's the first duty of a man to tell the truth, as he sees it and believes it." "in this case the truth won't make poor leslie free," sighed anne. "it will probably end in still more bitter bondage for her. oh, gilbert, i can't think you are right." chapter leslie decides a sudden outbreak of a virulent type of influenza at the glen and down at the fishing village kept gilbert so busy for the next fortnight that he had no time to pay the promised visit to captain jim. anne hoped against hope that he had abandoned the idea about dick moore, and, resolving to let sleeping dogs lie, she said no more about the subject. but she thought of it incessantly. "i wonder if it would be right for me to tell him that leslie cares for owen," she thought. "he would never let her suspect that he knew, so her pride would not suffer, and it might convince him that he should let dick moore alone. shall i--shall i? no, after all, i cannot. a promise is sacred, and i've no right to betray leslie's secret. but oh, i never felt so worried over anything in my life as i do over this. it's spoiling the spring--it's spoiling everything." one evening gilbert abruptly proposed that they go down and see captain jim. with a sinking heart anne agreed, and they set forth. two weeks of kind sunshine had wrought a miracle in the bleak landscape over which gilbert's crow had flown. the hills and fields were dry and brown and warm, ready to break into bud and blossom; the harbor was laughter-shaken again; the long harbor road was like a gleaming red ribbon; down on the dunes a crowd of boys, who were out smelt fishing, were burning the thick, dry sandhill grass of the preceding summer. the flames swept over the dunes rosily, flinging their cardinal banners against the dark gulf beyond, and illuminating the channel and the fishing village. it was a picturesque scene which would at other times have delighted anne's eyes; but she was not enjoying this walk. neither was gilbert. their usual good-comradeship and josephian community of taste and viewpoint were sadly lacking. anne's disapproval of the whole project showed itself in the haughty uplift of her head and the studied politeness of her remarks. gilbert's mouth was set in all the blythe obstinacy, but his eyes were troubled. he meant to do what he believed to be his duty; but to be at outs with anne was a high price to pay. altogether, both were glad when they reached the light--and remorseful that they should be glad. captain jim put away the fishing net upon which he was working, and welcomed them joyfully. in the searching light of the spring evening he looked older than anne had ever seen him. his hair had grown much grayer, and the strong old hand shook a little. but his blue eyes were clear and steady, and the staunch soul looked out through them gallant and unafraid. captain jim listened in amazed silence while gilbert said what he had come to say. anne, who knew how the old man worshipped leslie, felt quite sure that he would side with her, although she had not much hope that this would influence gilbert. she was therefore surprised beyond measure when captain jim, slowly and sorrowfully, but unhesitatingly, gave it as his opinion that leslie should be told. "oh, captain jim, i didn't think you'd say that," she exclaimed reproachfully. "i thought you wouldn't want to make more trouble for her." captain jim shook his head. "i don't want to. i know how you feel about it, mistress blythe--just as i feel meself. but it ain't our feelings we have to steer by through life--no, no, we'd make shipwreck mighty often if we did that. there's only the one safe compass and we've got to set our course by that--what it's right to do. i agree with the doctor. if there's a chance for dick, leslie should be told of it. there's no two sides to that, in my opinion." "well," said anne, giving up in despair, "wait until miss cornelia gets after you two men." "cornelia'll rake us fore and aft, no doubt," assented captain jim. "you women are lovely critters, mistress blythe, but you're just a mite illogical. you're a highly eddicated lady and cornelia isn't, but you're like as two peas when it comes to that. i dunno's you're any the worse for it. logic is a sort of hard, merciless thing, i reckon. now, i'll brew a cup of tea and we'll drink it and talk of pleasant things, jest to calm our minds a bit." at least, captain jim's tea and conversation calmed anne's mind to such an extent that she did not make gilbert suffer so acutely on the way home as she had deliberately intended to do. she did not refer to the burning question at all, but she chatted amiably of other matters, and gilbert understood that he was forgiven under protest. "captain jim seems very frail and bent this spring. the winter has aged him," said anne sadly. "i am afraid that he will soon be going to seek lost margaret. i can't bear to think of it." "four winds won't be the same place when captain jim 'sets out to sea,'" agreed gilbert. the following evening he went to the house up the brook. anne wandered dismally around until his return. "well, what did leslie say?" she demanded when he came in. "very little. i think she felt rather dazed." "and is she going to have the operation?" "she is going to think it over and decide very soon." gilbert flung himself wearily into the easy chair before the fire. he looked tired. it had not been an easy thing for him to tell leslie. and the terror that had sprung into her eyes when the meaning of what he told her came home to her was not a pleasant thing to remember. now, when the die was cast, he was beset with doubts of his own wisdom. anne looked at him remorsefully; then she slipped down on the rug beside him and laid her glossy red head on his arm. "gilbert, i've been rather hateful over this. i won't be any more. please just call me red-headed and forgive me." by which gilbert understood that, no matter what came of it, there would be no i-told-you-so's. but he was not wholly comforted. duty in the abstract is one thing; duty in the concrete is quite another, especially when the doer is confronted by a woman's stricken eyes. some instinct made anne keep away from leslie for the next three days. on the third evening leslie came down to the little house and told gilbert that she had made up her mind; she would take dick to montreal and have the operation. she was very pale and seemed to have wrapped herself in her old mantle of aloofness. but her eyes had lost the look which had haunted gilbert; they were cold and bright; and she proceeded to discuss details with him in a crisp, business-like way. there were plans to be made and many things to be thought over. when leslie had got the information she wanted she went home. anne wanted to walk part of the way with her. "better not," said leslie curtly. "today's rain has made the ground damp. good-night." "have i lost my friend?" said anne with a sigh. "if the operation is successful and dick moore finds himself again leslie will retreat into some remote fastness of her soul where none of us can ever find her." "perhaps she will leave him," said gilbert. "leslie would never do that, gilbert. her sense of duty is very strong. she told me once that her grandmother west always impressed upon her the fact that when she assumed any responsibility she must never shirk it, no matter what the consequences might be. that is one of her cardinal rules. i suppose it's very old-fashioned." "don't be bitter, anne-girl. you know you don't think it old-fashioned--you know you have the very same idea of sacredness of assumed responsibilities yourself. and you are right. shirking responsibilities is the curse of our modern life--the secret of all the unrest and discontent that is seething in the world." "thus saith the preacher," mocked anne. but under the mockery she felt that he was right; and she was very sick at heart for leslie. a week later miss cornelia descended like an avalanche upon the little house. gilbert was away and anne was compelled to bear the shock of the impact alone. miss cornelia hardly waited to get her hat off before she began. "anne, do you mean to tell me it's true what i've heard--that dr. blythe has told leslie dick can be cured, and that she is going to take him to montreal to have him operated on?" "yes, it is quite true, miss cornelia," said anne bravely. "well, it's inhuman cruelty, that's what it is," said miss cornelia, violently agitated. "i did think dr. blythe was a decent man. i didn't think he could have been guilty of this." "dr. blythe thought it was his duty to tell leslie that there was a chance for dick," said anne with spirit, "and," she added, loyalty to gilbert getting the better of her, "i agree with him." "oh, no, you don't, dearie," said miss cornelia. "no person with any bowels of compassion could." "captain jim does." "don't quote that old ninny to me," cried miss cornelia. "and i don't care who agrees with him. think--think what it means to that poor hunted, harried girl." "we do think of it. but gilbert believes that a doctor should put the welfare of a patient's mind and body before all other considerations." "that's just like a man. but i expected better things of you, anne," said miss cornelia, more in sorrow than in wrath; then she proceeded to bombard anne with precisely the same arguments with which the latter had attacked gilbert; and anne valiantly defended her husband with the weapons he had used for his own protection. long was the fray, but miss cornelia made an end at last. "it's an iniquitous shame," she declared, almost in tears. "that's just what it is--an iniquitous shame. poor, poor leslie!" "don't you think dick should be considered a little too?" pleaded anne. "dick! dick moore! he's happy enough. he's a better behaved and more reputable member of society now than he ever was before. "why, he was a drunkard and perhaps worse. are you going to set him loose again to roar and to devour?" "he may reform," said poor anne, beset by foe without and traitor within. "reform your grandmother!" retorted miss cornelia. "dick moore got the injuries that left him as he is in a drunken brawl. he deserves his fate. it was sent on him for a punishment. i don't believe the doctor has any business to tamper with the visitations of god." "nobody knows how dick was hurt, miss cornelia. it may not have been in a drunken brawl at all. he may have been waylaid and robbed." "pigs may whistle, but they've poor mouths for it," said miss cornelia. "well, the gist of what you tell me is that the thing is settled and there's no use in talking. if that's so i'll hold my tongue. i don't propose to wear my teeth out gnawing files. when a thing has to be i give in to it. but i like to make mighty sure first that it has to be. now, i'll devote my energies to comforting and sustaining leslie. and after all," added miss cornelia, brightening up hopefully, "perhaps nothing can be done for dick." chapter the truth makes free leslie, having once made up her mind what to do, proceeded to do it with characteristic resolution and speed. house-cleaning must be finished with first, whatever issues of life and death might await beyond. the gray house up the brook was put into flawless order and cleanliness, with miss cornelia's ready assistance. miss cornelia, having said her say to anne, and later on to gilbert and captain jim--sparing neither of them, let it be assured--never spoke of the matter to leslie. she accepted the fact of dick's operation, referred to it when necessary in a business-like way, and ignored it when it was not. leslie never attempted to discuss it. she was very cold and quiet during these beautiful spring days. she seldom visited anne, and though she was invariably courteous and friendly, that very courtesy was as an icy barrier between her and the people of the little house. the old jokes and laughter and chumminess of common things could not reach her over it. anne refused to feel hurt. she knew that leslie was in the grip of a hideous dread--a dread that wrapped her away from all little glimpses of happiness and hours of pleasure. when one great passion seizes possession of the soul all other feelings are crowded aside. never in all her life had leslie moore shuddered away from the future with more intolerable terror. but she went forward as unswervingly in the path she had elected as the martyrs of old walked their chosen way, knowing the end of it to be the fiery agony of the stake. the financial question was settled with greater ease than anne had feared. leslie borrowed the necessary money from captain jim, and, at her insistence, he took a mortgage on the little farm. "so that is one thing off the poor girl's mind," miss cornelia told anne, "and off mine too. now, if dick gets well enough to work again he'll be able to earn enough to pay the interest on it; and if he doesn't i know captain jim'll manage someway that leslie won't have to. he said as much to me. 'i'm getting old, cornelia,' he said, 'and i've no chick or child of my own. leslie won't take a gift from a living man, but mebbe she will from a dead one.' so it will be all right as far as that goes. i wish everything else might be settled as satisfactorily. as for that wretch of a dick, he's been awful these last few days. the devil was in him, believe me! leslie and i couldn't get on with our work for the tricks he'd play. he chased all her ducks one day around the yard till most of them died. and not one thing would he do for us. sometimes, you know, he'll make himself quite handy, bringing in pails of water and wood. but this week if we sent him to the well he'd try to climb down into it. i thought once, 'if you'd only shoot down there head-first everything would be nicely settled.'" "oh, miss cornelia!" "now, you needn't miss cornelia me, anne, dearie. anybody would have thought the same. if the montreal doctors can make a rational creature out of dick moore they're wonders." leslie took dick to montreal early in may. gilbert went with her, to help her, and make the necessary arrangements for her. he came home with the report that the montreal surgeon whom they had consulted agreed with him that there was a good chance of dick's restoration. "very comforting," was miss cornelia's sarcastic comment. anne only sighed. leslie had been very distant at their parting. but she had promised to write. ten days after gilbert's return the letter came. leslie wrote that the operation had been successfully performed and that dick was making a good recovery. "what does she mean by 'successfully?'" asked anne. "does she mean that dick's memory is really restored?" "not likely--since she says nothing of it," said gilbert. "she uses the word 'successfully' from the surgeon's point of view. the operation has been performed and followed by normal results. but it is too soon to know whether dick's faculties will be eventually restored, wholly or in part. his memory would not be likely to return to him all at once. the process will be gradual, if it occurs at all. is that all she says?" "yes--there's her letter. it's very short. poor girl, she must be under a terrible strain. gilbert blythe, there are heaps of things i long to say to you, only it would be mean." "miss cornelia says them for you," said gilbert with a rueful smile. "she combs me down every time i encounter her. she makes it plain to me that she regards me as little better than a murderer, and that she thinks it a great pity that dr. dave ever let me step into his shoes. she even told me that the methodist doctor over the harbor was to be preferred before me. with miss cornelia the force of condemnation can no further go." "if cornelia bryant was sick, it would not be doctor dave or the methodist doctor she would send for," sniffed susan. "she would have you out of your hard-earned bed in the middle of the night, doctor, dear, if she took a spell of misery, that she would. and then she would likely say your bill was past all reason. but do not mind her, doctor, dear. it takes all kinds of people to make a world." no further word came from leslie for some time. the may days crept away in a sweet succession and the shores of four winds harbor greened and bloomed and purpled. one day in late may gilbert came home to be met by susan in the stable yard. "i am afraid something has upset mrs. doctor, doctor, dear," she said mysteriously. "she got a letter this afternoon and since then she has just been walking round the garden and talking to herself. you know it is not good for her to be on her feet so much, doctor, dear. she did not see fit to tell me what her news was, and i am no pry, doctor, dear, and never was, but it is plain something has upset her. and it is not good for her to be upset." gilbert hurried rather anxiously to the garden. had anything happened at green gables? but anne, sitting on the rustic seat by the brook, did not look troubled, though she was certainly much excited. her eyes were their grayest, and scarlet spots burned on her cheeks. "what has happened, anne?" anne gave a queer little laugh. "i think you'll hardly believe it when i tell you, gilbert. _i_ can't believe it yet. as susan said the other day, 'i feel like a fly coming to live in the sun--dazed-like.' it's all so incredible. i've read the letter a score of times and every time it's just the same--i can't believe my own eyes. oh, gilbert, you were right--so right. i can see that clearly enough now--and i'm so ashamed of myself--and will you ever really forgive me?" "anne, i'll shake you if you don't grow coherent. redmond would be ashamed of you. what has happened?" "you won't believe it--you won't believe it--" "i'm going to phone for uncle dave," said gilbert, pretending to start for the house. "sit down, gilbert. i'll try to tell you. i've had a letter, and oh, gilbert, it's all so amazing--so incredibly amazing--we never thought--not one of us ever dreamed--" "i suppose," said gilbert, sitting down with a resigned air, "the only thing to do in a case of this kind is to have patience and go at the matter categorically. whom is your letter from?" "leslie--and, oh, gilbert--" "leslie! whew! what has she to say? what's the news about dick?" anne lifted the letter and held it out, calmly dramatic in a moment. "there is no dick! the man we have thought dick moore--whom everybody in four winds has believed for twelve years to be dick moore--is his cousin, george moore, of nova scotia, who, it seems, always resembled him very strikingly. dick moore died of yellow fever thirteen years ago in cuba." chapter miss cornelia discusses the affair "and do you mean to tell me, anne, dearie, that dick moore has turned out not to be dick moore at all but somebody else? is that what you phoned up to me today?" "yes, miss cornelia. it is very amazing, isn't it?" "it's--it's--just like a man," said miss cornelia helplessly. she took off her hat with trembling fingers. for once in her life miss cornelia was undeniably staggered. "i can't seem to sense it, anne," she said. "i've heard you say it--and i believe you--but i can't take it in. dick moore is dead--has been dead all these years--and leslie is free?" "yes. the truth has made her free. gilbert was right when he said that verse was the grandest in the bible." "tell me everything, anne, dearie. since i got your phone i've been in a regular muddle, believe me. cornelia bryant was never so kerflummuxed before." "there isn't a very great deal to tell. leslie's letter was short. she didn't go into particulars. this man--george moore--has recovered his memory and knows who he is. he says dick took yellow fever in cuba, and the four sisters had to sail without him. george stayed behind to nurse him. but he died very shortly afterwards. "george did not write leslie because he intended to come right home and tell her himself." "and why didn't he?" "i suppose his accident must have intervened. gilbert says it is quite likely that george moore remembers nothing of his accident, or what led to it, and may never remember it. it probably happened very soon after dick's death. we may find out more particulars when leslie writes again." "does she say what she is going to do? when is she coming home?" "she says she will stay with george moore until he can leave the hospital. she has written to his people in nova scotia. it seems that george's only near relative is a married sister much older than himself. she was living when george sailed on the four sisters, but of course we do not know what may have happened since. did you ever see george moore, miss cornelia?" "i did. it is all coming back to me. he was here visiting his uncle abner eighteen years ago, when he and dick would be about seventeen. they were double cousins, you see. their fathers were brothers and their mothers were twin sisters, and they did look a terrible lot alike. of course," added miss cornelia scornfully, "it wasn't one of those freak resemblances you read of in novels where two people are so much alike that they can fill each other's places and their nearest and dearest can't tell between them. in those days you could tell easy enough which was george and which was dick, if you saw them together and near at hand. apart, or some distance away, it wasn't so easy. they played lots of tricks on people and thought it great fun, the two scamps. george moore was a little taller and a good deal fatter than dick--though neither of them was what you would call fat--they were both of the lean kind. dick had higher color than george, and his hair was a shade lighter. but their features were just alike, and they both had that queer freak of eyes--one blue and one hazel. they weren't much alike in any other way, though. george was a real nice fellow, though he was a scalawag for mischief, and some said he had a liking for a glass even then. but everybody liked him better than dick. he spent about a month here. leslie never saw him; she was only about eight or nine then and i remember now that she spent that whole winter over harbor with her grandmother west. captain jim was away, too--that was the winter he was wrecked on the magdalens. i don't suppose either he or leslie had ever heard about the nova scotia cousin looking so much like dick. nobody ever thought of him when captain jim brought dick--george, i should say--home. of course, we all thought dick had changed considerable--he'd got so lumpish and fat. but we put that down to what had happened to him, and no doubt that was the reason, for, as i've said, george wasn't fat to begin with either. and there was no other way we could have guessed, for the man's senses were clean gone. i can't see that it is any wonder we were all deceived. but it's a staggering thing. and leslie has sacrificed the best years of her life to nursing a man who hadn't any claim on her! oh, drat the men! no matter what they do, it's the wrong thing. and no matter who they are, it's somebody they shouldn't be. they do exasperate me." "gilbert and captain jim are men, and it is through them that the truth has been discovered at last," said anne. "well, i admit that," conceded miss cornelia reluctantly. "i'm sorry i raked the doctor off so. it's the first time in my life i've ever felt ashamed of anything i said to a man. i don't know as i shall tell him so, though. he'll just have to take it for granted. well, anne, dearie, it's a mercy the lord doesn't answer all our prayers. i've been praying hard right along that the operation wouldn't cure dick. of course i didn't put it just quite so plain. but that was what was in the back of my mind, and i have no doubt the lord knew it." "well, he has answered the spirit of your prayer. you really wished that things shouldn't be made any harder for leslie. i'm afraid that in my secret heart i've been hoping the operation wouldn't succeed, and i am wholesomely ashamed of it." "how does leslie seem to take it?" "she writes like one dazed. i think that, like ourselves, she hardly realises it yet. she says, 'it all seems like a strange dream to me, anne.' that is the only reference she makes to herself." "poor child! i suppose when the chains are struck off a prisoner he'd feel queer and lost without them for a while. anne, dearie, here's a thought keeps coming into my mind. what about owen ford? we both know leslie was fond of him. did it ever occur to you that he was fond of her?" "it--did--once," admitted anne, feeling that she might say so much. "well, i hadn't any reason to think he was, but it just appeared to me he must be. now, anne, dearie, the lord knows i'm not a match-maker, and i scorn all such doings. but if i were you and writing to that ford man i'd just mention, casual-like, what has happened. that is what _i_'d do." "of course i will mention it when i write him," said anne, a trifle distantly. somehow, this was a thing she could not discuss with miss cornelia. and yet, she had to admit that the same thought had been lurking in her mind ever since she had heard of leslie's freedom. but she would not desecrate it by free speech. "of course there is no great rush, dearie. but dick moore's been dead for thirteen years and leslie has wasted enough of her life for him. we'll just see what comes of it. as for this george moore, who's gone and come back to life when everyone thought he was dead and done for, just like a man, i'm real sorry for him. he won't seem to fit in anywhere." "he is still a young man, and if he recovers completely, as seems likely, he will be able to make a place for himself again. it must be very strange for him, poor fellow. i suppose all these years since his accident will not exist for him." chapter leslie returns a fortnight later leslie moore came home alone to the old house where she had spent so many bitter years. in the june twilight she went over the fields to anne's, and appeared with ghost-like suddenness in the scented garden. "leslie!" cried anne in amazement. "where have you sprung from? we never knew you were coming. why didn't you write? we would have met you." "i couldn't write somehow, anne. it seemed so futile to try to say anything with pen and ink. and i wanted to get back quietly and unobserved." anne put her arms about leslie and kissed her. leslie returned the kiss warmly. she looked pale and tired, and she gave a little sigh as she dropped down on the grasses beside a great bed of daffodils that were gleaming through the pale, silvery twilight like golden stars. "and you have come home alone, leslie?" "yes. george moore's sister came to montreal and took him home with her. poor fellow, he was sorry to part with me--though i was a stranger to him when his memory first came back. he clung to me in those first hard days when he was trying to realise that dick's death was not the thing of yesterday that it seemed to him. it was all very hard for him. i helped him all i could. when his sister came it was easier for him, because it seemed to him only the other day that he had seen her last. fortunately she had not changed much, and that helped him, too." "it is all so strange and wonderful, leslie. i think we none of us realise it yet." "i cannot. when i went into the house over there an hour ago, i felt that it must be a dream--that dick must be there, with his childish smile, as he had been for so long. anne, i seem stunned yet. i'm not glad or sorry--or anything. i feel as if something had been torn suddenly out of my life and left a terrible hole. i feel as if i couldn't be _i_--as if i must have changed into somebody else and couldn't get used to it. it gives me a horrible lonely, dazed, helpless feeling. it's good to see you again--it seems as if you were a sort of anchor for my drifting soul. oh, anne, i dread it all--the gossip and wonderment and questioning. when i think of that, i wish that i need not have come home at all. dr. dave was at the station when i came off the train--he brought me home. poor old man, he feels very badly because he told me years ago that nothing could be done for dick. 'i honestly thought so, leslie,' he said to me today. 'but i should have told you not to depend on my opinion--i should have told you to go to a specialist. if i had, you would have been saved many bitter years, and poor george moore many wasted ones. i blame myself very much, leslie.' i told him not to do that--he had done what he thought right. he has always been so kind to me--i couldn't bear to see him worrying over it." "and dick--george, i mean? is his memory fully restored?" "practically. of course, there are a great many details he can't recall yet--but he remembers more and more every day. he went out for a walk on the evening after dick was buried. he had dick's money and watch on him; he meant to bring them home to me, along with my letter. he admits he went to a place where the sailors resorted--and he remembers drinking--and nothing else. anne, i shall never forget the moment he remembered his own name. i saw him looking at me with an intelligent but puzzled expression. i said, 'do you know me, dick?' he answered, 'i never saw you before. who are you? and my name is not dick. i am george moore, and dick died of yellow fever yesterday! where am i? what has happened to me?' i--i fainted, anne. and ever since i have felt as if i were in a dream." "you will soon adjust yourself to this new state of things, leslie. and you are young--life is before you--you will have many beautiful years yet." "perhaps i shall be able to look at it in that way after a while, anne. just now i feel too tired and indifferent to think about the future. i'm--i'm--anne, i'm lonely. i miss dick. isn't it all very strange? do you know, i was really fond of poor dick--george, i suppose i should say--just as i would have been fond of a helpless child who depended on me for everything. i would never have admitted it--i was really ashamed of it--because, you see, i had hated and despised dick so much before he went away. when i heard that captain jim was bringing him home i expected i would just feel the same to him. but i never did--although i continued to loathe him as i remembered him before. from the time he came home i felt only pity--a pity that hurt and wrung me. i supposed then that it was just because his accident had made him so helpless and changed. but now i believe it was because there was really a different personality there. carlo knew it, anne--i know now that carlo knew it. i always thought it strange that carlo shouldn't have known dick. dogs are usually so faithful. but he knew it was not his master who had come back, although none of the rest of us did. i had never seen george moore, you know. i remember now that dick once mentioned casually that he had a cousin in nova scotia who looked as much like him as a twin; but the thing had gone out of my memory, and in any case i would never have thought it of any importance. you see, it never occurred to me to question dick's identity. any change in him seemed to me just the result of the accident. "oh, anne, that night in april when gilbert told me he thought dick might be cured! i can never forget it. it seemed to me that i had once been a prisoner in a hideous cage of torture, and then the door had been opened and i could get out. i was still chained to the cage but i was not in it. and that night i felt that a merciless hand was drawing me back into the cage--back to a torture even more terrible than it had once been. i didn't blame gilbert. i felt he was right. and he had been very good--he said that if, in view of the expense and uncertainty of the operation, i should decide not to risk it, he would not blame me in the least. but i knew how i ought to decide--and i couldn't face it. all night i walked the floor like a mad woman, trying to compel myself to face it. i couldn't, anne--i thought i couldn't--and when morning broke i set my teeth and resolved that i wouldn't. i would let things remain as they were. it was very wicked, i know. it would have been just punishment for such wickedness if i had just been left to abide by that decision. i kept to it all day. that afternoon i had to go up to the glen to do some shopping. it was one of dick's quiet, drowsy days, so i left him alone. i was gone a little longer than i had expected, and he missed me. he felt lonely. and when i got home, he ran to meet me just like a child, with such a pleased smile on his face. somehow, anne, i just gave way then. that smile on his poor vacant face was more than i could endure. i felt as if i were denying a child the chance to grow and develop. i knew that i must give him his chance, no matter what the consequences might be. so i came over and told gilbert. oh, anne, you must have thought me hateful in those weeks before i went away. i didn't mean to be--but i couldn't think of anything except what i had to do, and everything and everybody about me were like shadows." "i know--i understood, leslie. and now it is all over--your chain is broken--there is no cage." "there is no cage," repeated leslie absently, plucking at the fringing grasses with her slender, brown hands. "but--it doesn't seem as if there were anything else, anne. you--you remember what i told you of my folly that night on the sand-bar? i find one doesn't get over being a fool very quickly. sometimes i think there are people who are fools forever. and to be a fool--of that kind--is almost as bad as being a--a dog on a chain." "you will feel very differently after you get over being tired and bewildered," said anne, who, knowing a certain thing that leslie did not know, did not feel herself called upon to waste overmuch sympathy. leslie laid her splendid golden head against anne's knee. "anyhow, i have you," she said. "life can't be altogether empty with such a friend. anne, pat my head--just as if i were a little girl--mother me a bit--and let me tell you while my stubborn tongue is loosed a little just what you and your comradeship have meant to me since that night i met you on the rock shore." chapter the ship o'dreams comes to harbor one morning, when a windy golden sunrise was billowing over the gulf in waves of light, a certain weary stork flew over the bar of four winds harbor on his way from the land of evening stars. under his wing was tucked a sleepy, starry-eyed, little creature. the stork was tired, and he looked wistfully about him. he knew he was somewhere near his destination, but he could not yet see it. the big, white light-house on the red sandstone cliff had its good points; but no stork possessed of any gumption would leave a new, velvet baby there. an old gray house, surrounded by willows, in a blossomy brook valley, looked more promising, but did not seem quite the thing either. the staring green abode further on was manifestly out of the question. then the stork brightened up. he had caught sight of the very place--a little white house nestled against a big, whispering firwood, with a spiral of blue smoke winding up from its kitchen chimney--a house which just looked as if it were meant for babies. the stork gave a sigh of satisfaction, and softly alighted on the ridge-pole. half an hour later gilbert ran down the hall and tapped on the spare-room door. a drowsy voice answered him and in a moment marilla's pale, scared face peeped out from behind the door. "marilla, anne has sent me to tell you that a certain young gentleman has arrived here. he hasn't brought much luggage with him, but he evidently means to stay." "for pity's sake!" said marilla blankly. "you don't mean to tell me, gilbert, that it's all over. why wasn't i called?" "anne wouldn't let us disturb you when there was no need. nobody was called until about two hours ago. there was no 'passage perilous' this time." "and--and--gilbert--will this baby live?" "he certainly will. he weighs ten pounds and--why, listen to him. nothing wrong with his lungs, is there? the nurse says his hair will be red. anne is furious with her, and i'm tickled to death." that was a wonderful day in the little house of dreams. "the best dream of all has come true," said anne, pale and rapturous. "oh, marilla, i hardly dare believe it, after that horrible day last summer. i have had a heartache ever since then--but it is gone now." "this baby will take joy's place," said marilla. "oh, no, no, no, marilla. he can't--nothing can ever do that. he has his own place, my dear, wee man-child. but little joy has hers, and always will have it. if she had lived she would have been over a year old. she would have been toddling around on her tiny feet and lisping a few words. i can see her so plainly, marilla. oh, i know now that captain jim was right when he said god would manage better than that my baby would seem a stranger to me when i found her beyond. i've learned that this past year. i've followed her development day by day and week by week--i always shall. i shall know just how she grows from year to year--and when i meet her again i'll know her--she won't be a stranger. oh, marilla, look at his dear, darling toes! isn't it strange they should be so perfect?" "it would be stranger if they weren't," said marilla crisply. now that all was safely over, marilla was herself again. "oh, i know--but it seems as if they couldn't be quite finished, you know--and they are, even to the tiny nails. and his hands--just look at his hands, marilla." "they appear to be a good deal like hands," marilla conceded. "see how he clings to my finger. i'm sure he knows me already. he cries when the nurse takes him away. oh, marilla, do you think--you don't think, do you--that his hair is going to be red?" "i don't see much hair of any color," said marilla. "i wouldn't worry about it, if i were you, until it becomes visible." "marilla, he has hair--look at that fine little down all over his head. anyway, nurse says his eyes will be hazel and his forehead is exactly like gilbert's." "and he has the nicest little ears, mrs. doctor, dear," said susan. "the first thing i did was to look at his ears. hair is deceitful and noses and eyes change, and you cannot tell what is going to come of them, but ears is ears from start to finish, and you always know where you are with them. just look at their shape--and they are set right back against his precious head. you will never need to be ashamed of his ears, mrs. doctor, dear." anne's convalescence was rapid and happy. folks came and worshipped the baby, as people have bowed before the kingship of the new-born since long before the wise men of the east knelt in homage to the royal babe of the bethlehem manger. leslie, slowly finding herself amid the new conditions of her life, hovered over it, like a beautiful, golden-crowned madonna. miss cornelia nursed it as knackily as could any mother in israel. captain jim held the small creature in his big brown hands and gazed tenderly at it, with eyes that saw the children who had never been born to him. "what are you going to call him?" asked miss cornelia. "anne has settled his name," answered gilbert. "james matthew--after the two finest gentlemen i've ever known--not even saving your presence," said anne with a saucy glance at gilbert. gilbert smiled. "i never knew matthew very well; he was so shy we boys couldn't get acquainted with him--but i quite agree with you that captain jim is one of the rarest and finest souls god ever clothed in clay. he is so delighted over the fact that we have given his name to our small lad. it seems he has no other namesake." "well, james matthew is a name that will wear well and not fade in the washing," said miss cornelia. "i'm glad you didn't load him down with some highfalutin, romantic name that he'd be ashamed of when he gets to be a grandfather. mrs. william drew at the glen has called her baby bertie shakespeare. quite a combination, isn't it? and i'm glad you haven't had much trouble picking on a name. some folks have an awful time. when the stanley flaggs' first boy was born there was so much rivalry as to who the child should be named for that the poor little soul had to go for two years without a name. then a brother came along and there it was--'big baby' and 'little baby.' finally they called big baby peter and little baby isaac, after the two grandfathers, and had them both christened together. and each tried to see if it couldn't howl the other down. you know that highland scotch family of macnabs back of the glen? they've got twelve boys and the oldest and the youngest are both called neil--big neil and little neil in the same family. well, i s'pose they ran out of names." "i have read somewhere," laughed anne, "that the first child is a poem but the tenth is very prosy prose. perhaps mrs. macnab thought that the twelfth was merely an old tale re-told." "well, there's something to be said for large families," said miss cornelia, with a sigh. "i was an only child for eight years and i did long for a brother and sister. mother told me to pray for one--and pray i did, believe me. well, one day aunt nellie came to me and said, 'cornelia, there is a little brother for you upstairs in your ma's room. you can go up and see him.' i was so excited and delighted i just flew upstairs. and old mrs. flagg lifted up the baby for me to see. lord, anne, dearie, i never was so disappointed in my life. you see, i'd been praying for a brother two years older than myself." "how long did it take you to get over your disappointment?" asked anne, amid her laughter. "well, i had a spite at providence for a good spell, and for weeks i wouldn't even look at the baby. nobody knew why, for i never told. then he began to get real cute, and held out his wee hands to me and i began to get fond of him. but i didn't get really reconciled to him until one day a school chum came to see him and said she thought he was awful small for his age. i just got boiling mad, and i sailed right into her, and told her she didn't know a nice baby when she saw one, and ours was the nicest baby in the world. and after that i just worshipped him. mother died before he was three years old and i was sister and mother to him both. poor little lad, he was never strong, and he died when he wasn't much over twenty. seems to me i'd have given anything on earth, anne, dearie, if he'd only lived." miss cornelia sighed. gilbert had gone down and leslie, who had been crooning over the small james matthew in the dormer window, laid him asleep in his basket and went her way. as soon as she was safely out of earshot, miss cornelia bent forward and said in a conspirator's whisper: "anne, dearie, i'd a letter from owen ford yesterday. he's in vancouver just now, but he wants to know if i can board him for a month later on. you know what that means. well, i hope we're doing right." "we've nothing to do with it--we couldn't prevent him from coming to four winds if he wanted to," said anne quickly. she did not like the feeling of match-making miss cornelia's whispers gave her; and then she weakly succumbed herself. "don't let leslie know he is coming until he is here," she said. "if she found out i feel sure she would go away at once. she intends to go in the fall anyhow--she told me so the other day. she is going to montreal to take up nursing and make what she can of her life." "oh, well, anne, dearie," said miss cornelia, nodding sagely "that is all as it may be. you and i have done our part and we must leave the rest to higher hands." chapter politics at four winds when anne came downstairs again, the island, as well as all canada, was in the throes of a campaign preceding a general election. gilbert, who was an ardent conservative, found himself caught in the vortex, being much in demand for speech-making at the various county rallies. miss cornelia did not approve of his mixing up in politics and told anne so. "dr. dave never did it. dr. blythe will find he is making a mistake, believe me. politics is something no decent man should meddle with." "is the government of the country to be left solely to the rogues then?" asked anne. "yes--so long as it's conservative rogues," said miss cornelia, marching off with the honors of war. "men and politicians are all tarred with the same brush. the grits have it laid on thicker than the conservatives, that's all--considerably thicker. but grit or tory, my advice to dr. blythe is to steer clear of politics. first thing you know, he'll be running an election himself, and going off to ottawa for half the year and leaving his practice to go to the dogs." "ah, well, let's not borrow trouble," said anne. "the rate of interest is too high. instead, let's look at little jem. it should be spelled with a g. isn't he perfectly beautiful? just see the dimples in his elbows. we'll bring him up to be a good conservative, you and i, miss cornelia." "bring him up to be a good man," said miss cornelia. "they're scarce and valuable; though, mind you, i wouldn't like to see him a grit. as for the election, you and i may be thankful we don't live over harbor. the air there is blue these days. every elliott and crawford and macallister is on the warpath, loaded for bear. this side is peaceful and calm, seeing there's so few men. captain jim's a grit, but it's my opinion he's ashamed of it, for he never talks politics. there isn't any earthly doubt that the conservatives will be returned with a big majority again." miss cornelia was mistaken. on the morning after the election captain jim dropped in at the little house to tell the news. so virulent is the microbe of party politics, even in a peaceable old man, that captain jim's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were flashing with all his old-time fire. "mistress blythe, the liberals are in with a sweeping majority. after eighteen years of tory mismanagement this down-trodden country is going to have a chance at last." "i never heard you make such a bitter partisan speech before, captain jim. i didn't think you had so much political venom in you," laughed anne, who was not much excited over the tidings. little jem had said "wow-ga" that morning. what were principalities and powers, the rise and fall of dynasties, the overthrow of grit or tory, compared with that miraculous occurrence? "it's been accumulating for a long while," said captain jim, with a deprecating smile. "i thought i was only a moderate grit, but when the news came that we were in i found out how gritty i really was." "you know the doctor and i are conservatives." "ah, well, it's the only bad thing i know of either of you, mistress blythe. cornelia is a tory, too. i called in on my way from the glen to tell her the news." "didn't you know you took your life in your hands?" "yes, but i couldn't resist the temptation." "how did she take it?" "comparatively calm, mistress blythe, comparatively calm. she says, says she, 'well, providence sends seasons of humiliation to a country, same as to individuals. you grits have been cold and hungry for many a year. make haste to get warmed and fed, for you won't be in long.' 'well, now cornelia,' i says, 'mebbe providence thinks canada needs a real long spell of humiliation.' ah, susan, have you heard the news? the liberals are in." susan had just come in from the kitchen, attended by the odor of delectable dishes which always seemed to hover around her. "now, are they?" she said, with beautiful unconcern. "well, i never could see but that my bread rose just as light when grits were in as when they were not. and if any party, mrs. doctor, dear, will make it rain before the week is out, and save our kitchen garden from entire ruination, that is the party susan will vote for. in the meantime, will you just step out and give me your opinion on the meat for dinner? i am fearing that it is very tough, and i think that we had better change our butcher as well as our government." one evening, a week later, anne walked down to the point, to see if she could get some fresh fish from captain jim, leaving little jem for the first time. it was quite a tragedy. suppose he cried? suppose susan did not know just exactly what to do for him? susan was calm and serene. "i have had as much experience with him as you, mrs. doctor, dear, have i not?" "yes, with him--but not with other babies. why, i looked after three pairs of twins, when i was a child, susan. when they cried, i gave them peppermint or castor oil quite coolly. it's quite curious now to recall how lightly i took all those babies and their woes." "oh, well, if little jem cries, i will just clap a hot water bag on his little stomach," said susan. "not too hot, you know," said anne anxiously. oh, was it really wise to go? "do not you fret, mrs. doctor, dear. susan is not the woman to burn a wee man. bless him, he has no notion of crying." anne tore herself away finally and enjoyed her walk to the point after all, through the long shadows of the sun-setting. captain jim was not in the living room of the lighthouse, but another man was--a handsome, middle-aged man, with a strong, clean-shaven chin, who was unknown to anne. nevertheless, when she sat down, he began to talk to her with all the assurance of an old acquaintance. there was nothing amiss in what he said or the way he said it, but anne rather resented such a cool taking-for-granted in a complete stranger. her replies were frosty, and as few as decency required. nothing daunted, her companion talked on for several minutes, then excused himself and went away. anne could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye and it annoyed her. who was the creature? there was something vaguely familiar about him but she was certain she had never seen him before. "captain jim, who was that who just went out?" she asked, as captain jim came in. "marshall elliott," answered the captain. "marshall elliott!" cried anne. "oh, captain jim--it wasn't--yes, it was his voice--oh, captain jim, i didn't know him--and i was quite insulting to him! why didn't he tell me? he must have seen i didn't know him." "he wouldn't say a word about it--he'd just enjoy the joke. don't worry over snubbing him--he'll think it fun. yes, marshall's shaved off his beard at last and cut his hair. his party is in, you know. i didn't know him myself first time i saw him. he was up in carter flagg's store at the glen the night after election day, along with a crowd of others, waiting for the news. about twelve the 'phone came through--the liberals were in. marshall just got up and walked out--he didn't cheer or shout--he left the others to do that, and they nearly lifted the roof off carter's store, i reckon. of course, all the tories were over in raymond russell's store. not much cheering there. marshall went straight down the street to the side door of augustus palmer's barber shop. augustus was in bed asleep, but marhall hammered on the door until he got up and come down, wanting to know what all the racket was about. "come into your shop and do the best job you ever did in your life, gus,' said marshall. 'the liberals are in and you're going to barber a good grit before the sun rises.' "gus was mad as hops--partly because he'd been dragged out of bed, but more because he's a tory. he vowed he wouldn't shave any man after twelve at night. "'you'll do what i want you to do, sonny,' said marshall, 'or i'll jest turn you over my knee and give you one of those spankings your mother forgot.' "he'd have done it, too, and gus knew it, for marshall is as strong as an ox and gus is only a midget of a man. so he gave in and towed marshall in to the shop and went to work. 'now,' says he, 'i'll barber you up, but if you say one word to me about the grits getting in while i'm doing it i'll cut your throat with this razor,' says he. you wouldn't have thought mild little gus could be so bloodthirsty, would you? shows what party politics will do for a man. marshall kept quiet and got his hair and beard disposed of and went home. when his old housekeeper heard him come upstairs she peeked out of her bedroom door to see whether 'twas him or the hired boy. and when she saw a strange man striding down the hall with a candle in his hand she screamed blue murder and fainted dead away. they had to send for the doctor before they could bring her to, and it was several days before she could look at marshall without shaking all over." captain jim had no fish. he seldom went out in his boat that summer, and his long tramping expeditions were over. he spent a great deal of his time sitting by his seaward window, looking out over the gulf, with his swiftly-whitening head leaning on his hand. he sat there tonight for many silent minutes, keeping some tryst with the past which anne would not disturb. presently he pointed to the iris of the west: "that's beautiful, isn't, it, mistress blythe? but i wish you could have seen the sunrise this morning. it was a wonderful thing--wonderful. i've seen all kinds of sunrises come over that gulf. i've been all over the world, mistress blythe, and take it all in all, i've never seen a finer sight than a summer sunrise over the gulf. a man can't pick his time for dying, mistress blythe--jest got to go when the great captain gives his sailing orders. but if i could i'd go out when the morning comes across that water. i've watched it many a time and thought what a thing it would be to pass out through that great white glory to whatever was waiting beyant, on a sea that ain't mapped out on any airthly chart. i think, mistress blythe, that i'd find lost margaret there." captain jim had often talked to anne of lost margaret since he had told her the old story. his love for her trembled in every tone--that love that had never grown faint or forgetful. "anyway, i hope when my time comes i'll go quick and easy. i don't think i'm a coward, mistress blythe--i've looked an ugly death in the face more than once without blenching. but the thought of a lingering death does give me a queer, sick feeling of horror." "don't talk about leaving us, dear, dear captain, jim," pleaded anne, in a choked voice, patting the old brown hand, once so strong, but now grown very feeble. "what would we do without you?" captain jim smiled beautifully. "oh, you'd get along nicely--nicely--but you wouldn't forget the old man altogether, mistress blythe--no, i don't think you'll ever quite forget him. the race of joseph always remembers one another. but it'll be a memory that won't hurt--i like to think that my memory won't hurt my friends--it'll always be kind of pleasant to them, i hope and believe. it won't be very long now before lost margaret calls me, for the last time. i'll be all ready to answer. i jest spoke of this because there's a little favor i want to ask you. here's this poor old matey of mine"--captain jim reached out a hand and poked the big, warm, velvety, golden ball on the sofa. the first mate uncoiled himself like a spring with a nice, throaty, comfortable sound, half purr, half meow, stretched his paws in air, turned over and coiled himself up again. "he'll miss me when i start on the v'yage. i can't bear to think of leaving the poor critter to starve, like he was left before. if anything happens to me will you give matey a bite and a corner, mistress blythe?" "indeed i will." "then that is all i had on my mind. your little jem is to have the few curious things i picked up--i've seen to that. and now i don't like to see tears in those pretty eyes, mistress blythe. i'll mebbe hang on for quite a spell yet. i heard you reading a piece of poetry one day last winter--one of tennyson's pieces. i'd sorter like to hear it again, if you could recite it for me." softly and clearly, while the seawind blew in on them, anne repeated the beautiful lines of tennyson's wonderful swan song--"crossing the bar." the old captain kept time gently with his sinewy hand. "yes, yes, mistress blythe," he said, when she had finished, "that's it, that's it. he wasn't a sailor, you tell me--i dunno how he could have put an old sailor's feelings into words like that, if he wasn't one. he didn't want any 'sadness o' farewells' and neither do i, mistress blythe--for all will be well with me and mine beyant the bar." chapter beauty for ashes "any news from green gables, anne?" "nothing very especial," replied anne, folding up marilla's letter. "jake donnell has been there shingling the roof. he is a full-fledged carpenter now, so it seems he has had his own way in regard to the choice of a life-work. you remember his mother wanted him to be a college professor. i shall never forget the day she came to the school and rated me for failing to call him st. clair." "does anyone ever call him that now?" "evidently not. it seems that he has completely lived it down. even his mother has succumbed. i always thought that a boy with jake's chin and mouth would get his own way in the end. diana writes me that dora has a beau. just think of it--that child!" "dora is seventeen," said gilbert. "charlie sloane and i were both mad about you when you were seventeen, anne." "really, gilbert, we must be getting on in years," said anne, with a half-rueful smile, "when children who were six when we thought ourselves grown up are old enough now to have beaux. dora's is ralph andrews--jane's brother. i remember him as a little, round, fat, white-headed fellow who was always at the foot of his class. but i understand he is quite a fine-looking young man now." "dora will probably marry young. she's of the same type as charlotta the fourth--she'll never miss her first chance for fear she might not get another." "well; if she marries ralph i hope he will be a little more up-and-coming than his brother billy," mused anne. "for instance," said gilbert, laughing, "let us hope he will be able to propose on his own account. anne, would you have married billy if he had asked you himself, instead of getting jane to do it for him?" "i might have." anne went off into a shriek of laughter over the recollection of her first proposal. "the shock of the whole thing might have hypnotized me into some such rash and foolish act. let us be thankful he did it by proxy." "i had a letter from george moore yesterday," said leslie, from the corner where she was reading. "oh, how is he?" asked anne interestedly, yet with an unreal feeling that she was inquiring about some one whom she did not know. "he is well, but he finds it very hard to adapt himself to all the changes in his old home and friends. he is going to sea again in the spring. it's in his blood, he says, and he longs for it. but he told me something that made me glad for him, poor fellow. before he sailed on the four sisters he was engaged to a girl at home. he did not tell me anything about her in montreal, because he said he supposed she would have forgotten him and married someone else long ago, and with him, you see, his engagement and love was still a thing of the present. it was pretty hard on him, but when he got home he found she had never married and still cared for him. they are to be married this fall. i'm going to ask him to bring her over here for a little trip; he says he wants to come and see the place where he lived so many years without knowing it." "what a nice little romance," said anne, whose love for the romantic was immortal. "and to think," she added with a sigh of self-reproach, "that if i had had my way george moore would never have come up from the grave in which his identity was buried. how i did fight against gilbert's suggestion! well, i am punished: i shall never be able to have a different opinion from gilbert's again! if i try to have, he will squelch me by casting george moore's case up to me!" "as if even that would squelch a woman!" mocked gilbert. "at least do not become my echo, anne. a little opposition gives spice to life. i do not want a wife like john macallister's over the harbor. no matter what he says, she at once remarks in that drab, lifeless little voice of hers, 'that is very true, john, dear me!'" anne and leslie laughed. anne's laughter was silver and leslie's golden, and the combination of the two was as satisfactory as a perfect chord in music. susan, coming in on the heels of the laughter, echoed it with a resounding sigh. "why, susan, what is the matter?" asked gilbert. "there's nothing wrong with little jem, is there, susan?" cried anne, starting up in alarm. "no, no, calm yourself, mrs. doctor, dear. something has happened, though. dear me, everything has gone catawampus with me this week. i spoiled the bread, as you know too well--and i scorched the doctor's best shirt bosom--and i broke your big platter. and now, on the top of all this, comes word that my sister matilda has broken her leg and wants me to go and stay with her for a spell." "oh, i'm very sorry--sorry that your sister has met with such an accident, i mean," exclaimed anne. "ah, well, man was made to mourn, mrs. doctor, dear. that sounds as if it ought to be in the bible, but they tell me a person named burns wrote it. and there is no doubt that we are born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. as for matilda, i do not know what to think of her. none of our family ever broke their legs before. but whatever she has done she is still my sister, and i feel that it is my duty to go and wait on her, if you can spare me for a few weeks, mrs. doctor, dear." "of course, susan, of course. i can get someone to help me while you are gone." "if you cannot i will not go, mrs. doctor, dear, matilda's leg to the contrary notwithstanding. i will not have you worried, and that blessed child upset in consequence, for any number of legs." "oh, you must go to your sister at once, susan. i can get a girl from the cove, who will do for a time." "anne, will you let me come and stay with you while susan is away?" exclaimed leslie. "do! i'd love to--and it would be an act of charity on your part. i'm so horribly lonely over there in that big barn of a house. there's so little to do--and at night i'm worse than lonely--i'm frightened and nervous in spite of locked doors. there was a tramp around two days ago." anne joyfully agreed, and next day leslie was installed as an inmate of the little house of dreams. miss cornelia warmly approved of the arrangement. "it seems providential," she told anne in confidence. "i'm sorry for matilda clow, but since she had to break her leg it couldn't have happened at a better time. leslie will be here while owen ford is in four winds, and those old cats up at the glen won't get the chance to meow, as they would if she was living over there alone and owen going to see her. they are doing enough of it as it is, because she doesn't put on mourning. i said to one of them, 'if you mean she should put on mourning for george moore, it seems to me more like his resurrection than his funeral; and if it's dick you mean, i confess _i_ can't see the propriety of going into weeds for a man who died thirteen years ago and good riddance then!' and when old louisa baldwin remarked to me that she thought it very strange that leslie should never have suspected it wasn't her own husband _i_ said, 'you never suspected it wasn't dick moore, and you were next-door neighbor to him all his life, and by nature you're ten times as suspicious as leslie.' but you can't stop some people's tongues, anne, dearie, and i'm real thankful leslie will be under your roof while owen is courting her." owen ford came to the little house one august evening when leslie and anne were absorbed in worshipping the baby. he paused at the open door of the living room, unseen by the two within, gazing with greedy eyes at the beautiful picture. leslie sat on the floor with the baby in her lap, making ecstatic dabs at his fat little hands as he fluttered them in the air. "oh, you dear, beautiful, beloved baby," she mumbled, catching one wee hand and covering it with kisses. "isn't him ze darlingest itty sing," crooned anne, hanging over the arm of her chair adoringly. "dem itty wee pads are ze very tweetest handies in ze whole big world, isn't dey, you darling itty man." anne, in the months before little jem's coming, had pored diligently over several wise volumes, and pinned her faith to one in especial, "sir oracle on the care and training of children." sir oracle implored parents by all they held sacred never to talk "baby talk" to their children. infants should invariably be addressed in classical language from the moment of their birth. so should they learn to speak english undefiled from their earliest utterance. "how," demanded sir oracle, "can a mother reasonably expect her child to learn correct speech, when she continually accustoms its impressionable gray matter to such absurd expressions and distortions of our noble tongue as thoughtless mothers inflict every day on the helpless creatures committed to their care? can a child who is constantly called 'tweet itty wee singie' ever attain to any proper conception of his own being and possibilities and destiny?" anne was vastly impressed with this, and informed gilbert that she meant to make it an inflexible rule never, under any circumstances, to talk "baby talk" to her children. gilbert agreed with her, and they made a solemn compact on the subject--a compact which anne shamelessly violated the very first moment little jem was laid in her arms. "oh, the darling itty wee sing!" she had exclaimed. and she had continued to violate it ever since. when gilbert teased her she laughed sir oracle to scorn. "he never had any children of his own, gilbert--i am positive he hadn't or he would never have written such rubbish. you just can't help talking baby talk to a baby. it comes natural--and it's right. it would be inhuman to talk to those tiny, soft, velvety little creatures as we do to great big boys and girls. babies want love and cuddling and all the sweet baby talk they can get, and little jem is going to have it, bless his dear itty heartums." "but you're the worst i ever heard, anne," protested gilbert, who, not being a mother but only a father, was not wholly convinced yet that sir oracle was wrong. "i never heard anything like the way you talk to that child." "very likely you never did. go away--go away. didn't i bring up three pairs of hammond twins before i was eleven? you and sir oracle are nothing but cold-blooded theorists. gilbert, just look at him! he's smiling at me--he knows what we're talking about. and oo dest agwees wif evy word muzzer says, don't oo, angel-lover?" gilbert put his arm about them. "oh you mothers!" he said. "you mothers! god knew what he was about when he made you." so little jem was talked to and loved and cuddled; and he throve as became a child of the house of dreams. leslie was quite as foolish over him as anne was. when their work was done and gilbert was out of the way, they gave themselves over to shameless orgies of love-making and ecstasies of adoration, such as that in which owen ford had surprised them. leslie was the first to become aware of him. even in the twilight anne could see the sudden whiteness that swept over her beautiful face, blotting out the crimson of lip and cheeks. owen came forward, eagerly, blind for a moment to anne. "leslie!" he said, holding out his hand. it was the first time he had ever called her by her name; but the hand leslie gave him was cold; and she was very quiet all the evening, while anne and gilbert and owen laughed and talked together. before his call ended she excused herself and went upstairs. owen's gay spirits flagged and he went away soon after with a downcast air. gilbert looked at anne. "anne, what are you up to? there's something going on that i don't understand. the whole air here tonight has been charged with electricity. leslie sits like the muse of tragedy; owen ford jokes and laughs on the surface, and watches leslie with the eyes of his soul. you seem all the time to be bursting with some suppressed excitement. own up. what secret have you been keeping from your deceived husband?" "don't be a goose, gilbert," was anne's conjugal reply. "as for leslie, she is absurd and i'm going up to tell her so." anne found leslie at the dormer window of her room. the little place was filled with the rhythmic thunder of the sea. leslie sat with locked hands in the misty moonshine--a beautiful, accusing presence. "anne," she said in a low, reproachful voice, "did you know owen ford was coming to four winds?" "i did," said anne brazenly. "oh, you should have told me, anne," leslie cried passionately. "if i had known i would have gone away--i wouldn't have stayed here to meet him. you should have told me. it wasn't fair of you, anne--oh, it wasn't fair!" leslie's lips were trembling and her whole form was tense with emotion. but anne laughed heartlessly. she bent over and kissed leslie's upturned reproachful face. "leslie, you are an adorable goose. owen ford didn't rush from the pacific to the atlantic from a burning desire to see me. neither do i believe that he was inspired by any wild and frenzied passion for miss cornelia. take off your tragic airs, my dear friend, and fold them up and put them away in lavender. you'll never need them again. there are some people who can see through a grindstone when there is a hole in it, even if you cannot. i am not a prophetess, but i shall venture on a prediction. the bitterness of life is over for you. after this you are going to have the joys and hopes--and i daresay the sorrows, too--of a happy woman. the omen of the shadow of venus did come true for you, leslie. the year in which you saw it brought your life's best gift for you--your love for owen ford. now, go right to bed and have a good sleep." leslie obeyed orders in so far that she went to bed: but it may be questioned if she slept much. i do not think she dared to dream wakingly; life had been so hard for this poor leslie, the path on which she had had to walk had been so strait, that she could not whisper to her own heart the hopes that might wait on the future. but she watched the great revolving light bestarring the short hours of the summer night, and her eyes grew soft and bright and young once more. nor, when owen ford came next day, to ask her to go with him to the shore, did she say him nay. chapter miss cornelia makes a startling announcement miss cornelia sailed down to the little house one drowsy afternoon, when the gulf was the faint, bleached blue of the august seas, and the orange lilies at the gate of anne's garden held up their imperial cups to be filled with the molten gold of august sunshine. not that miss cornelia concerned herself with painted oceans or sun-thirsty lilies. she sat in her favorite rocker in unusual idleness. she sewed not, neither did she spin. nor did she say a single derogatory word concerning any portion of mankind. in short, miss cornelia's conversation was singularly devoid of spice that day, and gilbert, who had stayed home to listen to her, instead of going a-fishing, as he had intended, felt himself aggrieved. what had come over miss cornelia? she did not look cast down or worried. on the contrary, there was a certain air of nervous exultation about her. "where is leslie?" she asked--not as if it mattered much either. "owen and she went raspberrying in the woods back of her farm," answered anne. "they won't be back before supper time--if then." "they don't seem to have any idea that there is such a thing as a clock," said gilbert. "i can't get to the bottom of that affair. i'm certain you women pulled strings. but anne, undutiful wife, won't tell me. will you, miss cornelia?" "no, i shall not. but," said miss cornelia, with the air of one determined to take the plunge and have it over, "i will tell you something else. i came today on purpose to tell it. i am going to be married." anne and gilbert were silent. if miss cornelia had announced her intention of going out to the channel and drowning herself the thing might have been believable. this was not. so they waited. of course miss cornelia had made a mistake. "well, you both look sort of kerflummexed," said miss cornelia, with a twinkle in her eyes. now that the awkward moment of revelation was over, miss cornelia was her own woman again. "do you think i'm too young and inexperienced for matrimony?" "you know--it is rather staggering," said gilbert, trying to gather his wits together. "i've heard you say a score of times that you wouldn't marry the best man in the world." "i'm not going to marry the best man in the world," retorted miss cornelia. "marshall elliott is a long way from being the best." "are you going to marry marshall elliott?" exclaimed anne, recovering her power of speech under this second shock. "yes. i could have had him any time these twenty years if i'd lifted my finger. but do you suppose i was going to walk into church beside a perambulating haystack like that?" "i am sure we are very glad--and we wish you all possible happiness," said anne, very flatly and inadequately, as she felt. she was not prepared for such an occasion. she had never imagined herself offering betrothal felicitations to miss cornelia. "thanks, i knew you would," said miss cornelia. "you are the first of my friends to know it." "we shall be so sorry to lose you, though, dear miss cornelia," said anne, beginning to be a little sad and sentimental. "oh, you won't lose me," said miss cornelia unsentimentally. "you don't suppose i would live over harbor with all those macallisters and elliotts and crawfords, do you? 'from the conceit of the elliotts, the pride of the macallisters and the vain-glory of the crawfords, good lord deliver us.' marshall is coming to live at my place. i'm sick and tired of hired men. that jim hastings i've got this summer is positively the worst of the species. he would drive anyone to getting married. what do you think? he upset the churn yesterday and spilled a big churning of cream over the yard. and not one whit concerned about it was he! just gave a foolish laugh and said cream was good for the land. wasn't that like a man? i told him i wasn't in the habit of fertilising my back yard with cream." "well, i wish you all manner of happiness too, miss cornelia," said gilbert, solemnly; "but," he added, unable to resist the temptation to tease miss cornelia, despite anne's imploring eyes, "i fear your day of independence is done. as you know, marshall elliott is a very determined man." "i like a man who can stick to a thing," retorted miss cornelia. "amos grant, who used to be after me long ago, couldn't. you never saw such a weather-vane. he jumped into the pond to drown himself once and then changed his mind and swum out again. wasn't that like a man? marshall would have stuck to it and drowned." "and he has a bit of a temper, they tell me," persisted gilbert. "he wouldn't be an elliott if he hadn't. i'm thankful he has. it will be real fun to make him mad. and you can generally do something with a tempery man when it comes to repenting time. but you can't do anything with a man who just keeps placid and aggravating." "you know he's a grit, miss cornelia." "yes, he is," admitted miss cornelia rather sadly. "and of course there is no hope of making a conservative of him. but at least he is a presbyterian. so i suppose i shall have to be satisfied with that." "would you marry him if he were a methodist, miss cornelia?" "no, i would not. politics is for this world, but religion is for both." "and you may be a 'relict' after all, miss cornelia." "not i. marshall will live me out. the elliotts are long-lived, and the bryants are not." "when are you to be married?" asked anne. "in about a month's time. my wedding dress is to be navy blue silk. and i want to ask you, anne, dearie, if you think it would be all right to wear a veil with a navy blue dress. i've always thought i'd like to wear a veil if i ever got married. marshall says to have it if i want to. isn't that like a man?" "why shouldn't you wear it if you want to?" asked anne. "well, one doesn't want to be different from other people," said miss cornelia, who was not noticeably like anyone else on the face of the earth. "as i say, i do fancy a veil. but maybe it shouldn't be worn with any dress but a white one. please tell me, anne, dearie, what you really think. i'll go by your advice." "i don't think veils are usually worn with any but white dresses," admitted anne, "but that is merely a convention; and i am like mr. elliott, miss cornelia. i don't see any good reason why you shouldn't have a veil if you want one." but miss cornelia, who made her calls in calico wrappers, shook her head. "if it isn't the proper thing i won't wear it," she said, with a sigh of regret for a lost dream. "since you are determined to be married, miss cornelia," said gilbert solemnly, "i shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father." "well, i reckon i can manage marshall elliott," said miss cornelia placidly. "but let us hear your rules." "the first one is, catch him." "he's caught. go on." "the second one is, feed him well." "with enough pie. what next?" "the third and fourth are--keep your eye on him." "i believe you," said miss cornelia emphatically. chapter red roses the garden of the little house was a haunt beloved of bees and reddened by late roses that august. the little house folk lived much in it, and were given to taking picnic suppers in the grassy corner beyond the brook and sitting about in it through the twilights when great night moths sailed athwart the velvet gloom. one evening owen ford found leslie alone in it. anne and gilbert were away, and susan, who was expected back that night, had not yet returned. the northern sky was amber and pale green over the fir tops. the air was cool, for august was nearing september, and leslie wore a crimson scarf over her white dress. together they wandered through the little, friendly, flower-crowded paths in silence. owen must go soon. his holiday was nearly over. leslie found her heart beating wildly. she knew that this beloved garden was to be the scene of the binding words that must seal their as yet unworded understanding. "some evenings a strange odor blows down the air of this garden, like a phantom perfume," said owen. "i have never been able to discover from just what flower it comes. it is elusive and haunting and wonderfully sweet. i like to fancy it is the soul of grandmother selwyn passing on a little visit to the old spot she loved so well. there should be a lot of friendly ghosts about this little old house." "i have lived under its roof only a month," said leslie, "but i love it as i never loved the house over there where i have lived all my life." "this house was builded and consecrated by love," said owen. "such houses, must exert an influence over those who live in them. and this garden--it is over sixty years old and the history of a thousand hopes and joys is written in its blossoms. some of those flowers were actually set out by the schoolmaster's bride, and she has been dead for thirty years. yet they bloom on every summer. look at those red roses, leslie--how they queen it over everything else!" "i love the red roses," said leslie. "anne likes the pink ones best, and gilbert likes the white. but i want the crimson ones. they satisfy some craving in me as no other flower does." "these roses are very late--they bloom after all the others have gone--and they hold all the warmth and soul of the summer come to fruition," said owen, plucking some of the glowing, half-opened buds. "the rose is the flower of love--the world has acclaimed it so for centuries. the pink roses are love hopeful and expectant--the white roses are love dead or forsaken--but the red roses--ah, leslie, what are the red roses?" "love triumphant," said leslie in a low voice. "yes--love triumphant and perfect. leslie, you know--you understand. i have loved you from the first. and i know you love me--i don't need to ask you. but i want to hear you say it--my darling--my darling!" leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. their hands and lips met; it was life's supreme moment for them and as they stood there in the old garden, with its many years of love and delight and sorrow and glory, he crowned her shining hair with the red, red rose of a love triumphant. anne and gilbert returned presently, accompanied by captain jim. anne lighted a few sticks of driftwood in the fireplace, for love of the pixy flames, and they sat around it for an hour of good fellowship. "when i sit looking at a driftwood fire it's easy to believe i'm young again," said captain jim. "can you read futures in the fire, captain jim?" asked owen. captain jim looked at them all affectionately and then back again at leslie's vivid face and glowing eyes. "i don't need the fire to read your futures," he said. "i see happiness for all of you--all of you--for leslie and mr. ford--and the doctor here and mistress blythe--and little jem--and children that ain't born yet but will be. happiness for you all--though, mind you, i reckon you'll have your troubles and worries and sorrows, too. they're bound to come--and no house, whether it's a palace or a little house of dreams, can bar 'em out. but they won't get the better of you if you face 'em together with love and trust. you can weather any storm with them two for compass and pilot." the old man rose suddenly and placed one hand on leslie's head and one on anne's. "two good, sweet women," he said. "true and faithful and to be depended on. your husbands will have honor in the gates because of you--your children will rise up and call you blessed in the years to come." there was a strange solemnity about the little scene. anne and leslie bowed as those receiving a benediction. gilbert suddenly brushed his hand over his eyes; owen ford was rapt as one who can see visions. all were silent for a space. the little house of dreams added another poignant and unforgettable moment to its store of memories. "i must be going now," said captain jim slowly at last. he took up his hat and looked lingeringly about the room. "good night, all of you," he said, as he went out. anne, pierced by the unusual wistfulness of his farewell, ran to the door after him. "come back soon, captain jim," she called, as he passed through the little gate hung between the firs. "ay, ay," he called cheerily back to her. but captain jim had sat by the old fireside of the house of dreams for the last time. anne went slowly back to the others. "it's so--so pitiful to think of him going all alone down to that lonely point," she said. "and there is no one to welcome him there." "captain jim is such good company for others that one can't imagine him being anything but good company for himself," said owen. "but he must often be lonely. there was a touch of the seer about him tonight--he spoke as one to whom it had been given to speak. well, i must be going, too." anne and gilbert discreetly melted away; but when owen had gone anne returned, to find leslie standing by the hearth. "oh, leslie--i know--and i'm so glad, dear," she said, putting her arms about her. "anne, my happiness frightens me," whispered leslie. "it seems too great to be real--i'm afraid to speak of it--to think of it. it seems to me that it must just be another dream of this house of dreams and it will vanish when i leave here." "well, you are not going to leave here--until owen takes you. you are going to stay with me until that times comes. do you think i'd let you go over to that lonely, sad place again?" "thank you, dear. i meant to ask you if i might stay with you. i didn't want to go back there--it would seem like going back into the chill and dreariness of the old life again. anne, anne, what a friend you've been to me--'a good, sweet woman--true and faithful and to be depended on'--captain jim summed you up." "he said 'women,' not 'woman,'" smiled anne. "perhaps captain jim sees us both through the rose-colored spectacles of his love for us. but we can try to live up to his belief in us, at least." "do you remember, anne," said leslie slowly, "that i once said--that night we met on the shore--that i hated my good looks? i did--then. it always seemed to me that if i had been homely dick would never have thought of me. i hated my beauty because it had attracted him, but now--oh, i'm glad that i have it. it's all i have to offer owen,--his artist soul delights in it. i feel as if i do not come to him quite empty-handed." "owen loves your beauty, leslie. who would not? but it's foolish of you to say or think that that is all you bring him. he will tell you that--i needn't. and now i must lock up. i expected susan back tonight, but she has not come." "oh, yes, here i am, mrs. doctor, dear," said susan, entering unexpectedly from the kitchen, "and puffing like a hen drawing rails at that! it's quite a walk from the glen down here." "i'm glad to see you back, susan. how is your sister?" "she is able to sit up, but of course she cannot walk yet. however, she is very well able to get on without me now, for her daughter has come home for her vacation. and i am thankful to be back, mrs. doctor, dear. matilda's leg was broken and no mistake, but her tongue was not. she would talk the legs off an iron pot, that she would, mrs. doctor, dear, though i grieve to say it of my own sister. she was always a great talker and yet she was the first of our family to get married. she really did not care much about marrying james clow, but she could not bear to disoblige him. not but what james is a good man--the only fault i have to find with him is that he always starts in to say grace with such an unearthly groan, mrs. doctor, dear. it always frightens my appetite clear away. and speaking of getting married, mrs. doctor, dear, is it true that cornelia bryant is going to be married to marshall elliott?" "yes, quite true, susan." "well, mrs. doctor, dear, it does not seem to me fair. here is me, who never said a word against the men, and i cannot get married nohow. and there is cornelia bryant, who is never done abusing them, and all she has to do is to reach out her hand and pick one up, as it were. it is a very strange world, mrs. doctor, dear." "there's another world, you know, susan." "yes," said susan with a heavy sigh, "but, mrs. doctor, dear, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage there." chapter captain jim crosses the bar one day in late september owen ford's book came at last. captain jim had gone faithfully to the glen post office every day for a month, expecting it. this day he had not gone, and leslie brought his copy home with hers and anne's. "we'll take it down to him this evening," said anne, excited as a schoolgirl. the long walk to the point on that clear, beguiling evening along the red harbor road was very pleasant. then the sun dropped down behind the western hills into some valley that must have been full of lost sunsets, and at the same instant the big light flashed out on the white tower of the point. "captain jim is never late by the fraction of a second," said leslie. neither anne nor leslie ever forgot captain jim's face when they gave him the book--his book, transfigured and glorified. the cheeks that had been blanched of late suddenly flamed with the color of boyhood; his eyes glowed with all the fire of youth; but his hands trembled as he opened it. it was called simply the life-book of captain jim, and on the title page the names of owen ford and james boyd were printed as collaborators. the frontispiece was a photograph of captain jim himself, standing at the door of the lighthouse, looking across the gulf. owen ford had "snapped" him one day while the book was being written. captain jim had known this, but he had not known that the picture was to be in the book. "just think of it," he said, "the old sailor right there in a real printed book. this is the proudest day of my life. i'm like to bust, girls. there'll be no sleep for me tonight. i'll read my book clean through before sun-up." "we'll go right away and leave you free to begin it," said anne. captain jim had been handling the book in a kind of reverent rapture. now he decidedly closed it and laid it aside. "no, no, you're not going away before you take a cup of tea with the old man," he protested. "i couldn't hear to that--could you, matey? the life-book will keep, i reckon. i've waited for it this many a year. i can wait a little longer while i'm enjoying my friends." captain jim moved about getting his kettle on to boil, and setting out his bread and butter. despite his excitement he did not move with his old briskness. his movements were slow and halting. but the girls did not offer to help him. they knew it would hurt his feelings. "you just picked the right evening to visit me," he said, producing a cake from his cupboard. "leetle joe's mother sent me down a big basket full of cakes and pies today. a blessing on all good cooks, says i. look at this purty cake, all frosting and nuts. 'tain't often i can entertain in such style. set in, girls, set in! we'll 'tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne.'" the girls "set in" right merrily. the tea was up to captain jim's best brewing. little joe's mother's cake was the last word in cakes; captain jim was the prince of gracious hosts, never even permitting his eyes to wander to the corner where the life-book lay, in all its bravery of green and gold. but when his door finally closed behind anne and leslie they knew that he went straight to it, and as they walked home they pictured the delight of the old man poring over the printed pages wherein his own life was portrayed with all the charm and color of reality itself. "i wonder how he will like the ending--the ending i suggested," said leslie. she was never to know. early the next morning anne awakened to find gilbert bending over her, fully dressed, and with an expression of anxiety on his face. "are you called out?" she asked drowsily. "no. anne, i'm afraid there's something wrong at the point. it's an hour after sunrise now, and the light is still burning. you know it has always been a matter of pride with captain jim to start the light the moment the sun sets, and put it out the moment it rises." anne sat up in dismay. through her window she saw the light blinking palely against the blue skies of dawn. "perhaps he has fallen asleep over his life-book," she said anxiously, "or become so absorbed in it that he has forgotten the light." gilbert shook his head. "that wouldn't be like captain jim. anyway, i'm going down to see." "wait a minute and i'll go with you," exclaimed anne. "oh, yes, i must--little jem will sleep for an hour yet, and i'll call susan. you may need a woman's help if captain jim is ill." it was an exquisite morning, full of tints and sounds at once ripe and delicate. the harbor was sparkling and dimpling like a girl; white gulls were soaring over the dunes; beyond the bar was a shining, wonderful sea. the long fields by the shore were dewy and fresh in that first fine, purely-tinted light. the wind came dancing and whistling up the channel to replace the beautiful silence with a music more beautiful still. had it not been for the baleful star on the white tower that early walk would have been a delight to anne and gilbert. but they went softly with fear. their knock was not responded to. gilbert opened the door and they went in. the old room was very quiet. on the table were the remnants of the little evening feast. the lamp still burned on the corner stand. the first mate was asleep in a square of sunshine by the sofa. captain jim lay on the sofa, with his hands clasped over the life-book, open at the last page, lying on his breast. his eyes were closed and on his face was a look of the most perfect peace and happiness--the look of one who has long sought and found at last. "he is asleep?" whispered anne tremulously. gilbert went to the sofa and bent over him for a few moments. then he straightened up. "yes, he sleeps--well," he added quietly. "anne, captain jim has crossed the bar." they could not know precisely at what hour he had died, but anne always believed that he had had his wish, and went out when the morning came across the gulf. out on that shining tide his spirit drifted, over the sunrise sea of pearl and silver, to the haven where lost margaret waited, beyond the storms and calms. chapter farewell to the house of dreams captain jim was buried in the little over-harbor graveyard, very near to the spot where the wee white lady slept. his relatives put up a very expensive, very ugly "monument"--a monument at which he would have poked sly fun had he seen it in life. but his real monument was in the hearts of those who knew him, and in the book that was to live for generations. leslie mourned that captain jim had not lived to see the amazing success of it. "how he would have delighted in the reviews--they are almost all so kindly. and to have seen his life-book heading the lists of the best sellers--oh, if he could just have lived to see it, anne!" but anne, despite her grief, was wiser. "it was the book itself he cared for, leslie--not what might be said of it--and he had it. he had read it all through. that last night must have been one of the greatest happiness for him--with the quick, painless ending he had hoped for in the morning. i am glad for owen's sake and yours that the book is such a success--but captain jim was satisfied--i know." the lighthouse star still kept a nightly vigil; a substitute keeper had been sent to the point, until such time as an all-wise government could decide which of many applicants was best fitted for the place--or had the strongest pull. the first mate was at home in the little house, beloved by anne and gilbert and leslie, and tolerated by a susan who had small liking for cats. "i can put up with him for the sake of captain jim, mrs. doctor, dear, for i liked the old man. and i will see that he gets bite and sup, and every mouse the traps account for. but do not ask me to do more than that, mrs. doctor, dear. cats is cats, and take my word for it, they will never be anything else. and at least, mrs. doctor, dear, do keep him away from the blessed wee man. picture to yourself how awful it would be if he was to suck the darling's breath." "that might be fitly called a cat-astrophe," said gilbert. "oh, you may laugh, doctor, dear, but it would be no laughing matter." "cats never suck babies' breaths," said gilbert. "that is only an old superstition, susan." "oh, well, it may be a superstition or it may not, doctor, dear. all that i know is, it has happened. my sister's husband's nephew's wife's cat sucked their baby's breath, and the poor innocent was all but gone when they found it. and superstition or not, if i find that yellow beast lurking near our baby i will whack him with the poker, mrs. doctor, dear." mr. and mrs. marshall elliott were living comfortably and harmoniously in the green house. leslie was busy with sewing, for she and owen were to be married at christmas. anne wondered what she would do when leslie was gone. "changes come all the time. just as soon as things get really nice they change," she said with a sigh. "the old morgan place up at the glen is for sale," said gilbert, apropos of nothing in especial. "is it?" asked anne indifferently. "yes. now that mr. morgan has gone, mrs. morgan wants to go to live with her children in vancouver. she will sell cheaply, for a big place like that in a small village like the glen will not be very easy to dispose of." "well, it's certainly a beautiful place, so it is likely she will find a purchaser," said anne, absently, wondering whether she should hemstitch or feather-stitch little jem's "short" dresses. he was to be shortened the next week, and anne felt ready to cry at the thought of it. "suppose we buy it, anne?" remarked gilbert quietly. anne dropped her sewing and stared at him. "you're not in earnest, gilbert?" "indeed i am, dear." "and leave this darling spot--our house of dreams?" said anne incredulously. "oh, gilbert, it's--it's unthinkable!" "listen patiently to me, dear. i know just how you feel about it. i feel the same. but we've always known we would have to move some day." "oh, but not so soon, gilbert--not just yet." "we may never get such a chance again. if we don't buy the morgan place someone else will--and there is no other house in the glen we would care to have, and no other really good site on which to build. this little house is--well, it is and has been what no other house can ever be to us, i admit, but you know it is out-of-the-way down here for a doctor. we have felt the inconvenience, though we've made the best of it. and it's a tight fit for us now. perhaps, in a few years, when jem wants a room of his own, it will be entirely too small." "oh, i know--i know," said anne, tears filling her eyes. "i know all that can be said against it, but i love it so--and it's so beautiful here." "you would find it very lonely here after leslie goes--and captain jim has gone too. the morgan place is beautiful, and in time we would love it. you know you have always admired it, anne." "oh, yes, but--but--this has all seemed to come up so suddenly, gilbert. i'm dizzy. ten minutes ago i had no thought of leaving this dear spot. i was planning what i meant to do for it in the spring--what i meant to do in the garden. and if we leave this place who will get it? it is out-of-the-way, so it's likely some poor, shiftless, wandering family will rent it--and over-run it--and oh, that would be desecration. it would hurt me horribly." "i know. but we cannot sacrifice our own interests to such considerations, anne-girl. the morgan place will suit us in every essential particular--we really can't afford to miss such a chance. think of that big lawn with those magnificent old trees; and of that splendid hardwood grove behind it--twelve acres of it. what a play place for our children! there's a fine orchard, too, and you've always admired that high brick wall around the garden with the door in it--you've thought it was so like a story-book garden. and there is almost as fine a view of the harbor and the dunes from the morgan place as from here." "you can't see the lighthouse star from it." "yes, you can see it from the attic window. there's another advantage, anne-girl--you love big garrets." "there's no brook in the garden." "well, no, but there is one running through the maple grove into the glen pond. and the pond itself isn't far away. you'll be able to fancy you have your own lake of shining waters again." "well, don't say anything more about it just now, gilbert. give me time to think--to get used to the idea." "all right. there is no great hurry, of course. only--if we decide to buy, it would be well to be moved in and settled before winter." gilbert went out, and anne put away little jem's short dresses with trembling hands. she could not sew any more that day. with tear-wet eyes she wandered over the little domain where she had reigned so happy a queen. the morgan place was all that gilbert claimed. the grounds were beautiful, the house old enough to have dignity and repose and traditions, and new enough to be comfortable and up-to-date. anne had always admired it; but admiring is not loving; and she loved this house of dreams so much. she loved everything about it--the garden she had tended, and which so many women had tended before her--the gleam and sparkle of the little brook that crept so roguishly across the corner--the gate between the creaking fir trees--the old red sandstone step--the stately lombardies--the two tiny quaint glass cupboards over the chimney-piece in the living-room--the crooked pantry door in the kitchen--the two funny dormer windows upstairs--the little jog in the staircase--why, these things were a part of her! how could she leave them? and how this little house, consecrated aforetime by love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her happiness and sorrow! here she had spent her bridal moon; here wee joyce had lived her one brief day; here the sweetness of motherhood had come again with little jem; here she had heard the exquisite music of her baby's cooing laughter; here beloved friends had sat by her fireside. joy and grief, birth and death, had made sacred forever this little house of dreams. and now she must leave it. she knew that, even while she had contended against the idea to gilbert. the little house was outgrown. gilbert's interests made the change necessary; his work, successful though it had been, was hampered by his location. anne realised that the end of their life in this dear place drew nigh, and that she must face the fact bravely. but how her heart ached! "it will be just like tearing something out of my life," she sobbed. "and oh, if i could hope that some nice folk would come here in our place--or even that it would be left vacant. that itself would be better than having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of the geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history that has given this house its soul and its identity. and if such a tribe come here the place will go to rack and ruin in no time--an old place goes down so quickly if it is not carefully attended to. they'll tear up my garden--and let the lombardies get ragged--and the paling will come to look like a mouth with half the teeth missing--and the roof will leak--and the plaster fall--and they'll stuff pillows and rags in broken window panes--and everything will be out-at-elbows." anne's imagination pictured forth so vividly the coming degeneration of her dear little house that it hurt her as severely as if it had already been an accomplished fact. she sat down on the stairs and had a long, bitter cry. susan found her there and enquired with much concern what the trouble was. "you have not quarrelled with the doctor, have you now, mrs. doctor, dear? but if you have, do not worry. it is a thing quite likely to happen to married couples, i am told, although i have had no experience that way myself. he will be sorry, and you can soon make it up." "no, no, susan, we haven't quarrelled. it's only--gilbert is going to buy the morgan place, and we'll have to go and live at the glen. and it will break my heart." susan did not enter into anne's feelings at all. she was, indeed, quite rejoiced over the prospect of living at the glen. her one grievance against her place in the little house was its lonesome location. "why, mrs. doctor, dear, it will be splendid. the morgan house is such a fine, big one." "i hate big houses," sobbed anne. "oh, well, you will not hate them by the time you have half a dozen children," remarked susan calmly. "and this house is too small already for us. we have no spare room, since mrs. moore is here, and that pantry is the most aggravating place i ever tried to work in. there is a corner every way you turn. besides, it is out-of-the-world down here. there is really nothing at all but scenery." "out of your world perhaps, susan--but not out of mine," said anne with a faint smile. "i do not quite understand you, mrs. doctor, dear, but of course i am not well educated. but if dr. blythe buys the morgan place he will make no mistake, and that you may tie to. they have water in it, and the pantries and closets are beautiful, and there is not another such cellar in p. e. island, so i have been told. why, the cellar here, mrs. doctor, dear, has been a heart-break to me, as well you know." "oh, go away, susan, go away," said anne forlornly. "cellars and pantries and closets don't make a home. why don't you weep with those who weep?" "well, i never was much hand for weeping, mrs. doctor, dear. i would rather fall to and cheer people up than weep with them. now, do not you cry and spoil your pretty eyes. this house is very well and has served your turn, but it is high time you had a better." susan's point of view seemed to be that of most people. leslie was the only one who sympathised understandingly with anne. she had a good cry, too, when she heard the news. then they both dried their tears and went to work at the preparations for moving. "since we must go let us go as soon as we can and have it over," said poor anne with bitter resignation. "you know you will like that lovely old place at the glen after you have lived in it long enough to have dear memories woven about it," said leslie. "friends will come there, as they have come here--happiness will glorify it for you. now, it's just a house to you--but the years will make it a home." anne and leslie had another cry the next week when they shortened little jem. anne felt the tragedy of it until evening when in his long nightie she found her own dear baby again. "but it will be rompers next--and then trousers--and in no time he will be grown-up," she sighed. "well, you would not want him to stay a baby always, mrs. doctor, dear, would you?" said susan. "bless his innocent heart, he looks too sweet for anything in his little short dresses, with his dear feet sticking out. and think of the save in the ironing, mrs. doctor, dear." "anne, i have just had a letter from owen," said leslie, entering with a bright face. "and, oh! i have such good news. he writes me that he is going to buy this place from the church trustees and keep it to spend our summer vacations in. anne, are you not glad?" "oh, leslie, 'glad' isn't the word for it! it seems almost too good to be true. i sha'n't feel half so badly now that i know this dear spot will never be desecrated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in decay. why, it's lovely! it's lovely!" one october morning anne wakened to the realisation that she had slept for the last time under the roof of her little house. the day was too busy to indulge regret and when evening came the house was stripped and bare. anne and gilbert were alone in it to say farewell. leslie and susan and little jem had gone to the glen with the last load of furniture. the sunset light streamed in through the curtainless windows. "it has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look, hasn't it?" said anne. "oh, i shall be so homesick at the glen tonight!" "we have been very happy here, haven't we, anne-girl?" said gilbert, his voice full of feeling. anne choked, unable to answer. gilbert waited for her at the fir-tree gate, while she went over the house and said farewell to every room. she was going away; but the old house would still be there, looking seaward through its quaint windows. the autumn winds would blow around it mournfully, and the gray rain would beat upon it and the white mists would come in from the sea to enfold it; and the moonlight would fall over it and light up the old paths where the schoolmaster and his bride had walked. there on that old harbor shore the charm of story would linger; the wind would still whistle alluringly over the silver sand-dunes; the waves would still call from the red rock-coves. "but we will be gone," said anne through her tears. she went out, closing and locking the door behind her. gilbert was waiting for her with a smile. the lighthouse star was gleaming northward. the little garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was already hooding itself in shadows. anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she had crossed as a bride. "good-bye, dear little house of dreams," she said.