Anne of Avonlea

g and F

dow and shadowing the pond's gray surface with widening rings; hills and sea were hidden in mist, and the whole world seemed dim and dreary. Anne dressed in the cheerless gray dawn, for an early start was necessary to catch the boat train; she struggled against the tears that WOULD well up in her eyes in spite of herself. She was leaving the home that was so dear to her, and something told her that she was leaving it forever, save as a holid

comfortably. Dora, like the immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who "went on cutting bread and butter" when her frenzied lover's body had been carried past on a shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures who are seldom disturbed by anything. Even at

k and said she supposed they'd hear from her when she got settled. A casual observer might have concluded that Anne's going mattered very little to her-unless said observer had happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne primly and squeezed out two decorous little tears; but Davy, who had been crying

nne had just time to get her ticket and trunk check, say a hurried farewell to Diana, and hasten on board. She wished she were going back with Diana to Avonlea; she knew she was going to die of homesickness. And oh, if only that dismal rain would stop pouring

tween the rents in the clouds, burnishing the gray seas with copper-hued radiance, and lighting up the mists that curtained the Island's red shores with gleams o

hought Anne mercilessly. "I am sure I couldn't take my farewell look at the 'oul

" remarked Gilber

me. I can't believe I didn't always live here. Those eleven years before I came seem like a bad dream. It's seven years since I crossed on this boat-the evening Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself, in that dreadful old wincey dress and fa

your philosop

ren't! Never mind! I shall be cheerful and philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I MUST have that, 'as a went'-and I'll have to wait until I get

in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne felt horribly bewildered, but a

uppose you're as tired as I was

incial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake take your poo

to our boardinghouse. I'

ld just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and weep bitter tears. Wh

taught in Carmody. And of course that's Charlie Sloane. HE hasn't changed-couldn't! He looked just like that

horrible boardinghouse, in a still more horribl

ned your blues rosy pink. It's a big, old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. John Street, just a nice little constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the 'residence' of great folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street and its houses

ny are

iss Ada Harvey. They were born

it seems," smiled Anne. "Whe

never caught her at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all the time and that's worse. However, they're nice, kind souls, and they take two boarders every year because Miss Hannah's economical soul cannot bear to 'waste room space'-not because they need to or h

ered Anne. "I think I'd rath

don't. Of course, nobody is ever buried there now. But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument to the memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. It is just opposite the entrance gates and there's 'scope for imagination' in it, as you used to say. Here's your trunk at last-and the boys coming to say good night. Must I really shake hands with Charlie Sloane, Anne? His hands are always so cold and fishy-feeling. We must ask th

erself alone in her little bedroom. She went to her window and looked out. The street below was dim and quiet. Across it the moon was shining above the trees in Old St. John's, just behind the great dark

about it-that way homesickness lies. I'm not even going to have my good cry. I'll put that o