ANNE OF THE ISLAND (Green Gables Series). Lucy Maud Montgomery

by Spofford Avenue,” suggested Gilbert. “We can see all ‘the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.’ Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport. Nobody can build on it unless he’s a millionaire.”

      “Oh, do,” said Phil. “There’s a perfectly killing little place I want to show you, Anne. IT wasn’t built by a millionaire. It’s the first place after you leave the park, and must have grown while Spofford Avenue was still a country road. It DID grow — it wasn’t built! I don’t care for the houses on the Avenue. They’re too brand new and plateglassy. But this little spot is a dream — and its name — but wait till you see it.”

      They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park. Just on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a plain road, was a little white frame house with groups of pines on either side of it, stretching their arms protectingly over its low roof. It was covered with red and gold vines, through which its green-shuttered windows peeped. Before it was a tiny garden, surrounded by a low stone wall. October though it was, the garden was still very sweet with dear, old-fashioned, unworldly flowers and shrubs — sweet may, southernwood, lemon verbena, alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. A tiny brick wall, in herringbone pattern, led from the gate to the front porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some remote country village; yet there was something about it that made its nearest neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a tobacco king, look exceedingly crude and showy and illbred by contrast. As Phil said, it was the difference between being born and being made.

      “It’s the dearest place I ever saw,” said Anne delightedly. “It gives me one of my old, delightful funny aches. It’s dearer and quainter than even Miss Lavendar’s stone house.”

      “It’s the name I want you to notice especially,” said Phil. “Look — in white letters, around the archway over the gate. ‘Patty’s Place.’ Isn’t that killing? Especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts? ‘Patty’s Place,’ if you please! I adore it.”

      “Have you any idea who Patty is?” asked Priscilla.

      “Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I’ve discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they’ve lived there for hundreds of years, more or less — maybe a little less, Anne. Exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot time and again — it’s really worth a small fortune now, you know — but ‘Patty’ won’t sell upon any consideration. And there’s an apple orchard behind the house in place of a back yard — you’ll see it when we get a little past — a real apple orchard on Spofford Avenue!”

      “I’m going to dream about ‘Patty’s Place’ tonight,” said Anne. “Why, I feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by any chance, we’ll ever see the inside of it.”

      “It isn’t likely,” said Priscilla.

      Anne smiled mysteriously.

      “No, it isn’t likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a queer, creepy, crawly feeling — you can call it a presentiment, if you like — that ‘Patty’s Place’ and I are going to be better acquainted yet.”