Anne Shirley (Complete 14 Book Collection). Люси Мод Монтгомери

fingers. “It was my fault. I set that platter there and forgot all about it. I am properly punished for my carelessness; but oh, what will Miss Barry say?”

      “Well, you know she only bought it, so it isn’t the same as if it was an heirloom,” said Diana, trying to console.

      The guests went away soon after, feeling that it was the most tactful thing to do, and Anne and Diana washed the dishes, talking less than they had ever been known to do before. Then Diana went home with a headache and Anne went with another to the east gable, where she stayed until Marilla came home from the post office at sunset, with a letter from Priscilla, written the day before. Mrs. Morgan had sprained her ankle so severely that she could not leave her room.

      “And oh, Anne dear,” wrote Priscilla, “I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid we won’t get up to Green Gables at all now, for by the time Aunty’s ankle is well she will have to go back to Toronto. She has to be there by a certain date.”

      “Well,” sighed Anne, laying the letter down on the red sandstone step of the back porch, where she was sitting, while the twilight rained down out of a dappled sky, “I always thought it was too good to be true that Mrs. Morgan should really come. But there … that speech sounds as pessimistic as Miss Eliza Andrews and I’m ashamed of making it. After all, it was NOT too good to be true … things just as good and far better are coming true for me all the time. And I suppose the events of today have a funny side too. Perhaps when Diana and I are old and gray we shall be able to laugh over them. But I feel that I can’t expect to do it before then, for it has truly been a bitter disappointment.”

      “You’ll probably have a good many more and worse disappointments than that before you get through life,” said Marilla, who honestly thought she was making a comforting speech. “It seems to me, Anne, that you are never going to outgrow your fashion of setting your heart so on things and then crashing down into despair because you don’t get them.”

      “I know I’m too much inclined that, way” agreed Anne ruefully. “When I think something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on the wings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down to earth with a thud. But really, Marilla, the flying part IS glorious as long as it lasts … it’s like soaring through a sunset. I think it almost pays for the thud.”

      “Well, maybe it does,” admitted Marilla. “I’d rather walk calmly along and do without both flying and thud. But everybody has her own way of living … I used to think there was only one right way … but since I’ve had you and the twins to bring up I don’t feel so sure of it. What are you going to do about Miss Barry’s platter?”

      “Pay her back the twenty dollars she paid for it, I suppose. I’m so thankful it wasn’t a cherished heirloom because then no money could replace it.”

      “Maybe you could find one like it somewhere and buy it for her.”

      “I’m afraid not. Platters as old as that are very scarce. Mrs. Lynde couldn’t find one anywhere for the supper. I only wish I could, for of course Miss Barry would just as soon have one platter as another, if both were equally old and genuine. Marilla, look at that big star over Mr. Harrison’s maple grove, with all that holy hush of silvery sky about it. It gives me a feeling that is like a prayer. After all, when one can see stars and skies like that, little disappointments and accidents can’t matter so much, can they?”

      “Where’s Davy?” said Marilla, with an indifferent glance at the star.

      “In bed. I’ve promised to take him and Dora to the shore for a picnic tomorrow. Of course, the original agreement was that he must be good. But he TRIED to be good … and I hadn’t the heart to disappoint him.”

      “You’ll drown yourself or the twins, rowing about the pond in that flat,” grumbled Marilla. “I’ve lived here for sixty years and I’ve never been on the pond yet.”

      “Well, it’s never too late to mend,” said Anne roguishly. “Suppose you come with us tomorrow. We’ll shut Green Gables up and spend the whole day at the shore, daffing the world aside.”

      “No, thank you,” said Marilla, with indignant emphasis. “I’d be a nice sight, wouldn’t I, rowing down the pond in a flat? I think I hear Rachel pronouncing on it. There’s Mr. Harrison driving away somewhere. Do you suppose there is any truth in the gossip that Mr. Harrison is going to see Isabella Andrews?”

      “No, I’m sure there isn’t. He just called there one evening on business with Mr. Harmon Andrews and Mrs. Lynde saw him and said she knew he was courting because he had a white collar on. I don’t believe Mr. Harrison will ever marry. He seems to have a prejudice against marriage.”

      “Well, you can never tell about those old bachelors. And if he had a white collar on I’d agree with Rachel that it looks suspicious, for I’m sure he never was seen with one before.”

      “I think he only put it on because he wanted to conclude a business deal with Harmon Andrews,” said Anne. “I’ve heard him say that’s the only time a man needs to be particular about his appearance, because if he looks prosperous the party of the second part won’t be so likely to try to cheat him. I really feel sorry for Mr. Harrison; I don’t believe he feels satisfied with his life. It must be very lonely to have no one to care about except a parrot, don’t you think? But I notice Mr. Harrison doesn’t like to be pitied. Nobody does, I imagine.”

      “There’s Gilbert coming up the lane,” said Marilla. “If he wants you to go for a row on the pond mind you put on your coat and rubbers. There’s a heavy dew tonight.”

XVIII. An Adventure on the Tory Road

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      “Anne,” said Davy, sitting up in bed and propping his chin on his hands, “Anne, where is sleep? People go to sleep every night, and of course I know it’s the place where I do the things I dream, but I want to know WHERE it is and how I get there and back without knowing anything about it … and in my nighty too. Where is it?”

      Anne was kneeling at the west gable window watching the sunset sky that was like a great flower with petals of crocus and a heart of fiery yellow. She turned her head at Davy’s question and answered dreamily,

      “‘Over the mountains of the moon,

      Down the valley of the shadow.’”

      Paul Irving would have known the meaning of this, or made a meaning out of it for himself, if he didn’t; but practical Davy, who, as Anne often despairingly remarked, hadn’t a particle of imagination, was only puzzled and disgusted.

      “Anne, I believe you’re just talking nonsense.”

      “Of course, I was, dear boy. Don’t you know that it is only very foolish folk who talk sense all the time?”

      “Well, I think you might give a sensible answer when I ask a sensible question,” said Davy in an injured tone.

      “Oh, you are too little to understand,” said Anne. But she felt rather ashamed of saying it; for had she not, in keen remembrance of many similar snubs administered in her own early years, solemnly vowed that she would never tell any child it was too little to understand? Yet here she was doing it … so wide sometimes is the gulf between theory and practice.

      “Well, I’m doing my best to grow,” said Davy, “but it’s a thing you can’t hurry much. If Marilla wasn’t so stingy with her jam I believe I’d grow a lot faster.”

      “Marilla is not stingy, Davy,” said Anne severely. “It is very ungrateful of you to say such a thing.”

      “There’s another word that means the same thing and sounds a lot better, but I don’t just remember it,” said Davy, frowning intently. “I heard Marilla say she was it, herself, the other day.”

      “If