prompt:
Chapter: |FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that
she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the
forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her
with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne
was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most
serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in
the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was
sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe.

When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted
Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to
learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her
face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she
clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice:

"Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send
me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really
feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling.
Please tell me."

"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to
do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more
questions, Anne."

Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla
and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla,
unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I
suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep
you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself
grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?"

"I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why.
I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I
was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's
something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It
will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was
desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me
why I'm crying?"

"I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla
disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm
afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and
we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a
fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before
it opens again in September."

"What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert?
Can I call you Aunt Marilla?"

"No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called
Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous."

"It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne.

"I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful
to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me
Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of
it."

"I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never
had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would
make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt
Marilla?"

"No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that
don't belong to them."

"But we could imagine you were my aunt."

"I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.

"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?" asked
Anne wide-eyed.

"No."

"Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!"

"I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really
are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances
He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go
into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't
let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the
mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare
time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more
of such praying as I heard last night."

"I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you
see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person
to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a
splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would.
It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you
believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning.
And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good.
Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second
time. Have you ever noticed that?"

"Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do
a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and
discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you."

Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed
to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting
and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing
motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows,
with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained
through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt
little figure with a half-unearthly radiance.

"Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply.

Anne came back to earth with a start.

"That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo
entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--"and I was just imagining I
was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing
off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody, like
me. She looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't any
father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she
just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would
notice her--except Him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her heart
must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I
asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn't notice her. But
it's likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it all
out--her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close
to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and
oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist
hadn't painted Him so sorrowful looking. All His pictures are like that,
if you've noticed. But I don't believe He could really have looked so
sad or the children would have been afraid of Him."

"Anne," said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech
long before, "you shouldn't talk that way. It's irreverent--positively
irreverent."

Anne's eyes marveled.

"Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to be
irreverent."

"Well I don't suppose you did--but it doesn't sound right to talk so
familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you
after something you're to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and
imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right
to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by
heart."

Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had
brought in to decorate the dinner-table--Marilla had eyed that
decoration askance, but had said nothing--propped her chin on her hands,
and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes.

"I like this," she announced at length. "It's beautiful. I've heard it
before--I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it
over once. But I didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice and
he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a
disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same
way poetry does. 'Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be Thy name.'
That is just like a line of music. Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making
me learn this, Miss--Marilla."

"Well, learn it and hold your tongue," said Marilla shortly.

Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow a soft
kiss on a pink-cupped bud, and then studied diligently for some moments
longer.

"Marilla," she demanded presently, "do you think that I shall ever have
a bosom friend in Avonlea?"

"A--a what kind of friend?"

"A bosom friend--an intimate friend, you know--a really kindred spirit
to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her all
my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest
dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will, too. Do
you think it's possible?"

"Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope and she's about your age. She's
a very nice little girl, and perhaps she will be a playmate for you when
she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now. You'll
have to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry is a
very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with any little girl who
isn't nice and good."

Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, her eyes aglow with
interest.

"What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It's bad
enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a
bosom friend."

"Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and
rosy cheeks. And she is good and smart, which is better than being
pretty."

Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was
firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a
child who was being brought up.

But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside and seized only on the
delightful possibilities before it.

"Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself--and
that's impossible in my case--it would be best to have a beautiful bosom
friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase in her sitting
room with glass doors. There weren't any books in it; Mrs. Thomas kept
her best china and her preserves there--when she had any preserves to
keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas smashed it one night
when he was slightly intoxicated. But the other was whole and I used to
pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who lived in
it. I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very intimate. I used to
talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her everything.
Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to pretend
that the bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell I
could open the door and step right into the room where Katie Maurice
lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves and china. And
then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into a
wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would have
lived there happy for ever after. When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond
it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it dreadfully,
too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me good-bye
through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But
just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green
little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every
word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it
was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved
her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you
know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta,
and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had
become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom
friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination
there."

"I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I
don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own
imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to
put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you
talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you
tell stories."

"Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are
too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them.
Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just
think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to
sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I
think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers."

"Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you
are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk.
But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody
that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it."

"Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line."

"Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning
it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."

"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?" pleaded Anne.

"No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have
left them on the tree in the first place."

"I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I
shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want
to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was
_irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible
temptation?"

"Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?"

Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the
window.

"There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming
upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll
always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet
with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the
windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The
furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_
luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions,
pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it.
I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall.
I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a
pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight
darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady
Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real."

She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her
pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her.

"You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you,
just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady
Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than
Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it?"

She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook
herself to the open window.

"Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon dear birches down
in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill. I
wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall
love her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice
and Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd hate to hurt
anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase girl's or a little echo
girl's. I must be careful to remember them and send them a kiss every
day."

Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry
blossoms and then, with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out
on a sea of daydreams.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next day, Marilla keeps Anne busy with tasks all morning. After lunch, Anne begs Marilla to tell her whether she will get to stay at Green Gables. Marilla tells Anne that she can stay, and Anne begins to cry tears of joy. Anne would like to start calling her new guardian Aunt Marilla, but she is told to just call her Marilla, as everyone else in Avonlea does. Anne says that they could imagine that Marilla is her aunt, and Marilla says that she never imagines things. Marilla sends Anne off to learn the Lord's Prayer, but Anne gets sidetracked on the way, as she often does. Marilla soon finds that Anne has been distracted by a picture of "Christ Blessing Little Children". Anne imagines herself as one of the children in the picture and says that she wishes the artist had not painted Christ looking sorrowful. Marilla again tells Anne to work on learning the Lord's Prayer, and Anne sets about doing it. Anne breaks her silent study after a few minutes to wonder aloud if she will have any "bosom friends" in Avonlea. Marilla responds that Diana Barry is visiting her aunt but will be back home soon. Anne is excited about meeting Diana, especially because Marilla says that she is pretty. Anne tells Marilla about some imaginary friends she used to have when she lived with Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond. Marilla sends Anne to her room to continue learning the Lord's Prayer without distractions. When Anne gets upstairs, she finishes learning the prayer and decides to imagine decorations into the room since it is so bare. She also imagines herself looking more beautiful. She looks out the window and falls into daydreams


prompt:
Chapter: |ANNE had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lynde arrived to
inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this.
A severe and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that good lady
to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables.
Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt for
people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness on
earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations
of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot
out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to
see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories
and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea.

Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already
she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had
discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard and ran up
through a belt of woodland; and she had explored it to its furthest end
in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild
cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways of maple and
mountain ash.

She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow--that wonderful
deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones
and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was
a log bridge over the brook.

That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where
perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and
spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June bells,"
those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial
starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers
glimmered like threads of silver among the trees and the fir boughs and
tassels seemed to utter friendly speech.

All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half
hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and
Marilla half-deaf over her discoveries. Not that Matthew complained, to
be sure; he listened to it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his
face; Marilla permitted the "chatter" until she found herself becoming
too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a
curt command to hold her tongue.

Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her
own sweet will through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy
evening sunshine; so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk
her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse beat with
such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must bring its
compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the
real reason of her call.

"I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew."

"I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself," said
Marilla. "I'm getting over my surprise now."

"It was too bad there was such a mistake," said Mrs. Rachel
sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent her back?"

"I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her.
And I must say I like her myself--although I admit she has her faults.
The house seems a different place already. She's a real bright little
thing."

Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she
read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression.

"It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that
lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with
children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I
suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out.
But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla."

"I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response, "when I make
up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see
Anne. I'll call her in."

Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of
her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in
the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside
the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short
tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin
legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and
obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into
over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment.

"Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain,"
was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those
delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their
mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla.
Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did
any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here,
child, I say."

Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one
bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her
face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form
trembling from head to foot.

"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the
floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each
assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare
you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling
woman!"

"Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation.

But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes
blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like
an atmosphere.

"How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How
would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like
to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of
imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying
so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever
hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_
forgive you for it, never, never!"

Stamp! Stamp!

"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs.
Rachel.

"Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla,
recovering her powers of speech with difficulty.

Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the
tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the
hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that
the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence.

"Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs.
Rachel with unspeakable solemnity.

Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or
deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever
afterwards.

"You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel."

"Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in
such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs.
Rachel indignantly.

"No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been
very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we
must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And
you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel."

Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was
again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air
of offended dignity.

"Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this,
Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness
knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not
vexed--don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for
anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But
if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't do, although I've
brought up ten children and buried two--you'll do that 'talking to' you
mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think _that_ would be the
most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her
hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to
see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a
hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's
something new in _my_ experience."

Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away--if a fat woman who always
waddled _could_ be said to sweep away--and Marilla with a very solemn face
betook herself to the east gable.

On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do.
She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted.
How unfortunate that Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs.
Rachel Lynde, of all people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an
uncomfortable and rebuking consciousness that she felt more humiliation
over this than sorrow over the discovery of such a serious defect
in Anne's disposition. And how was she to punish her? The amiable
suggestion of the birch switch--to the efficiency of which all of Mrs.
Rachel's own children could have borne smarting testimony--did not
appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a child. No,
some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper
realization of the enormity of her offense.

Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite
oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane.

"Anne," she said not ungently.

No answer.

"Anne," with greater severity, "get off that bed this minute and listen
to what I have to say to you."

Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face
swollen and tear-stained and her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.

"This is a nice way for you to behave. Anne! Aren't you ashamed of
yourself?"

"She hadn't any right to call me ugly and redheaded," retorted Anne,
evasive and defiant.

"You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way you did
to her, Anne. I was ashamed of you--thoroughly ashamed of you. I
wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you have
disgraced me. I'm sure I don't know why you should lose your temper like
that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely. You
say it yourself often enough."

"Oh, but there's such a difference between saying a thing yourself and
hearing other people say it," wailed Anne. "You may know a thing is
so, but you can't help hoping other people don't quite think it is. I
suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I couldn't help it. When
she said those things something just rose right up in me and choked me.
I _had_ to fly out at her."

"Well, you made a fine exhibition of yourself I must say. Mrs. Lynde
will have a nice story to tell about you everywhere--and she'll tell
it, too. It was a dreadful thing for you to lose your temper like that,
Anne."

"Just imagine how you would feel if somebody told you to your face that
you were skinny and ugly," pleaded Anne tearfully.

An old remembrance suddenly rose up before Marilla. She had been a very
small child when she had heard one aunt say of her to another, "What a
pity she is such a dark, homely little thing." Marilla was every day of
fifty before the sting had gone out of that memory.

"I don't say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly right in saying what
she did to you, Anne," she admitted in a softer tone. "Rachel is too
outspoken. But that is no excuse for such behavior on your part. She
was a stranger and an elderly person and my visitor--all three very good
reasons why you should have been respectful to her. You were rude and
saucy and"--Marilla had a saving inspiration of punishment--"you must go
to her and tell her you are very sorry for your bad temper and ask her
to forgive you."

"I can never do that," said Anne determinedly and darkly. "You can
punish me in any way you like, Marilla. You can shut me up in a dark,
damp dungeon inhabited by snakes and toads and feed me only on bread and
water and I shall not complain. But I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to forgive
me."

"We're not in the habit of shutting people up in dark damp dungeons,"
said Marilla drily, "especially as they're rather scarce in Avonlea. But
apologize to Mrs. Lynde you must and shall and you'll stay here in your
room until you can tell me you're willing to do it."

"I shall have to stay here forever then," said Anne mournfully, "because
I can't tell Mrs. Lynde I'm sorry I said those things to her. How can
I? I'm _not_ sorry. I'm sorry I've vexed you; but I'm _glad_ I told her just
what I did. It was a great satisfaction. I can't say I'm sorry when I'm
not, can I? I can't even _imagine_ I'm sorry."

"Perhaps your imagination will be in better working order by the
morning," said Marilla, rising to depart. "You'll have the night to
think over your conduct in and come to a better frame of mind. You said
you would try to be a very good girl if we kept you at Green Gables, but
I must say it hasn't seemed very much like it this evening."

Leaving this Parthian shaft to rankle in Anne's stormy bosom, Marilla
descended to the kitchen, grievously troubled in mind and vexed in
soul. She was as angry with herself as with Anne, because, whenever she
recalled Mrs. Rachel's dumbfounded countenance her lips twitched with
amusement and she felt a most reprehensible desire to laugh.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After Anne has lived at Green Gables for a fortnight, Mrs. Rachel Lynde comes over to see what she is like. When she arrives, Anne is playing outside. Mrs. Rachel and Lynde talk for a little while. Mrs. Rachel still thinks it is a bad idea to keep an orphan girl in one's home, to which Marilla responds that Anne is already having a positive impact on the household. Marilla calls Anne inside to meet Mrs. Rachel Lynde. When Anne enters, Mrs. Rachel immediately begins to criticize her appearance, including her skinniness, freckles, and red hair. Anne is provoked by these insults, particularly regarding her red hair; she runs up to Mrs. Rachel, stamps her feet, and yells that she hates her. She also calls Mrs. Rachel rude and unfeeling, criticizing Mrs. Rachel's appearance. Marilla sends Anne to her room. Anne bursts into tears, runs up to her room, and slams the door. Marilla tells Mrs. Rachel that she will give Anne a talking-to, but she adds that Mrs. Rachel should not have insulted her. Mrs. Rachel recommends that Marilla whip Anne with a switch and says that she may not be back to visit Marilla for a while. Mrs. Rachel leaves and Marilla goes up to Anne's bedroom. Marilla feels embarrassed at Anne's behavior and confused as to how she should punish Anne. She does not want to whip her, but she wants to make Anne understand that she did something wrong. Marilla tells Anne that she is ashamed of her. However, Marilla thinks back to a time when her appearance was insulted as a child and how long it took her to get over that comment. Marilla tells Anne that Mrs. Rachel was too outspoken, but she adds that Anne still should never behave poorly toward an elderly guest. Marilla tells Anne that she will have to apologize to Mrs. Rachel. Anne refuses, and Marilla says Anne will have to stay in the bedroom until she decides to apologize. Marilla leaves the room and is angry with herself because she finds that she feels like laughing when she recalls Mrs. Rachel's shocked face


prompt:
Chapter: |MARILLA said nothing to Matthew about the affair that evening; but when
Anne proved still refractory the next morning an explanation had to be
made to account for her absence from the breakfast table. Marilla told
Matthew the whole story, taking pains to impress him with a due sense of
the enormity of Anne's behavior.

"It's a good thing Rachel Lynde got a calling down; she's a meddlesome
old gossip," was Matthew's consolatory rejoinder.

"Matthew Cuthbert, I'm astonished at you. You know that Anne's behavior
was dreadful, and yet you take her part! I suppose you'll be saying next
thing that she oughtn't to be punished at all!"

"Well now--no--not exactly," said Matthew uneasily. "I reckon she
ought to be punished a little. But don't be too hard on her, Marilla.
Recollect she hasn't ever had anyone to teach her right. You're--you're
going to give her something to eat, aren't you?"

"When did you ever hear of me starving people into good behavior?"
demanded Marilla indignantly. "She'll have her meals regular, and
I'll carry them up to her myself. But she'll stay up there until she's
willing to apologize to Mrs. Lynde, and that's final, Matthew."

Breakfast, dinner, and supper were very silent meals--for Anne still
remained obdurate. After each meal Marilla carried a well-filled tray
to the east gable and brought it down later on not noticeably depleted.
Matthew eyed its last descent with a troubled eye. Had Anne eaten
anything at all?

When Marilla went out that evening to bring the cows from the back
pasture, Matthew, who had been hanging about the barns and watching,
slipped into the house with the air of a burglar and crept upstairs. As
a general thing Matthew gravitated between the kitchen and the little
bedroom off the hall where he slept; once in a while he ventured
uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when the minister came to
tea. But he had never been upstairs in his own house since the spring he
helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago.

He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes outside the
door of the east gable before he summoned courage to tap on it with his
fingers and then open the door to peep in.

Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window gazing mournfully out
into the garden. Very small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew's heart
smote him. He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her.

"Anne," he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard, "how are you
making it, Anne?"

Anne smiled wanly.

"Pretty well. I imagine a good deal, and that helps to pass the time. Of
course, it's rather lonesome. But then, I may as well get used to that."

Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary
imprisonment before her.

Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come to say without
loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely. "Well now, Anne, don't
you think you'd better do it and have it over with?" he whispered.
"It'll have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Marilla's a
dreadful deter-mined woman--dreadful determined, Anne. Do it right off,
I say, and have it over."

"Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?"

"Yes--apologize--that's the very word," said Matthew eagerly. "Just
smooth it over so to speak. That's what I was trying to get at."

"I suppose I could do it to oblige you," said Anne thoughtfully. "It
would be true enough to say I am sorry, because I _am_ sorry now. I wasn't
a bit sorry last night. I was mad clear through, and I stayed mad all
night. I know I did because I woke up three times and I was just
furious every time. But this morning it was over. I wasn't in a temper
anymore--and it left a dreadful sort of goneness, too. I felt so ashamed
of myself. But I just couldn't think of going and telling Mrs. Lynde
so. It would be so humiliating. I made up my mind I'd stay shut up here
forever rather than do that. But still--I'd do anything for you--if you
really want me to--"

"Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome downstairs without
you. Just go and smooth things over--that's a good girl."

"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she
comes in I've repented."

"That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said
anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I
promised not to do that."

"Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly.
"How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?"

But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the
remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what
he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was
agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over
the banisters.

"Well?" she said, going into the hall.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go
and tell Mrs. Lynde so."

"Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had
been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give
in. "I'll take you down after milking."

Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the
lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected.
But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She
lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset
sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the
change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her
to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde.

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply.

"I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne
dreamily.

This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not
rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was
going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant.

Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence
of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the
radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before
a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the
astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she said with a quiver in
her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up
a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to
you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have
let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully
wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out
by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a
temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you
said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly.
What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs.
Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong
sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a
dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me,
Mrs. Lynde."

Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word
of judgment.

There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her
voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring.
But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying
her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her
abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla,
had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive
pleasure.

Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see
this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and
all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart.

"There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive
you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an
outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be
denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school
with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she
was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I
wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite."

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You
have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh,
I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome
auburn when I grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's
hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now may I go out into
your garden and sit on that bench under the apple-trees while you and
Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out
there."

"Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet of them white
June lilies over in the corner if you like."

As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to light a
lamp.

"She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla; it's easier
than the one you've got; I just keep that for the hired boy to sit
on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child, but there is something kind of
taking about her after all. I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew
keeping her as I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all
right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--a little
too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but she'll likely get over
that now that she's come to live among civilized folks. And then, her
temper's pretty quick, I guess; but there's one comfort, a child that
has a quick temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to
be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's what. On the
whole, Marilla, I kind of like her."

When Marilla went home Anne came out of the fragrant twilight of the
orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands.

"I apologized pretty well, didn't I?" she said proudly as they went
down the lane. "I thought since I had to do it I might as well do it
thoroughly."

"You did it thoroughly, all right enough," was Marilla's comment.
Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined to laugh over the
recollection. She had also an uneasy feeling that she ought to scold
Anne for apologizing so well; but then, that was ridiculous! She
compromised with her conscience by saying severely:

"I hope you won't have occasion to make many more such apologies. I hope
you'll try to control your temper now, Anne."

"That wouldn't be so hard if people wouldn't twit me about my looks,"
said Anne with a sigh. "I don't get cross about other things; but I'm
_so_ tired of being twitted about my hair and it just makes me boil right
over. Do you suppose my hair will really be a handsome auburn when I
grow up?"

"You shouldn't think so much about your looks, Anne. I'm afraid you are
a very vain little girl."

"How can I be vain when I know I'm homely?" protested Anne. "I love
pretty things; and I hate to look in the glass and see something that
isn't pretty. It makes me feel so sorrowful--just as I feel when I look
at any ugly thing. I pity it because it isn't beautiful."

"Handsome is as handsome does," quoted Marilla. "I've had that said
to me before, but I have my doubts about it," remarked skeptical Anne,
sniffing at her narcissi. "Oh, aren't these flowers sweet! It was lovely
of Mrs. Lynde to give them to me. I have no hard feelings against Mrs.
Lynde now. It gives you a lovely, comfortable feeling to apologize and
be forgiven, doesn't it? Aren't the stars bright tonight? If you could
live in a star, which one would you pick? I'd like that lovely clear big
one away over there above that dark hill."

"Anne, do hold your tongue," said Marilla, thoroughly worn out trying to
follow the gyrations of Anne's thoughts.

Anne said no more until they turned into their own lane. A little gypsy
wind came down it to meet them, laden with the spicy perfume of young
dew-wet ferns. Far up in the shadows a cheerful light gleamed out
through the trees from the kitchen at Green Gables. Anne suddenly came
close to Marilla and slipped her hand into the older woman's hard palm.

"It's lovely to be going home and know it's home," she said. "I love
Green Gables already, and I never loved any place before. No place ever
seemed like home. Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy. I could pray right now and
not find it a bit hard."

Something warm and pleasant welled up in Marilla's heart at touch of
that thin little hand in her own--a throb of the maternity she had
missed, perhaps. Its very unaccustomedness and sweetness disturbed
her. She hastened to restore her sensations to their normal calm by
inculcating a moral.

"If you'll be a good girl you'll always be happy, Anne. And you should
never find it hard to say your prayers."

"Saying one's prayers isn't exactly the same thing as praying," said
Anne meditatively. "But I'm going to imagine that I'm the wind that is
blowing up there in those tree tops. When I get tired of the trees I'll
imagine I'm gently waving down here in the ferns--and then I'll fly over
to Mrs. Lynde's garden and set the flowers dancing--and then I'll go
with one great swoop over the clover field--and then I'll blow over the
Lake of Shining Waters and ripple it all up into little sparkling waves.
Oh, there's so much scope for imagination in a wind! So I'll not talk
any more just now, Marilla."

"Thanks be to goodness for that," breathed Marilla in devout relief.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next morning, Anne still has not assented to apologize to Mrs. Rachel. Marilla keeps Anne in her room all day, bringing food up to her room for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Matthew notices that Anne does not seem to be eating much of the food, so he decides to go up and talk to her. He tells Anne that she should apologize to Mrs. Rachel because he knows Marilla will not back down until she does. Anne tells Matthew that she is not as angry anymore, but she is prevented from apologizing by her embarrassment. She decides that she will apologize to Mrs. Rachel because Matthew has asked her to. Matthew tells Anne not to tell Marilla that he spoke to her about the matter. Anne tells Marilla that she is ready to apologize to Mrs. Rachel; in the evening, they leave for Mrs. Rachel's house together. Anne begins the walk seeming dejected, but by the time they reach Mrs. Rachel's house, she is described as having "an air of subdued exhilaration about her". When they reach Mrs. Rachel's house, Anne gets down on her knees and effusively begs for Mrs. Rachel's forgiveness. Marilla and Mrs. Rachel both recognize that Anne is being sincere, though Marilla also notices that Anne enjoys the theatricality of the apology more than she would have liked. Mrs. Rachel accepts Anne's apology and even tells her that she once knew a girl whose red hair turned to auburn when she grew up. Marilla and Mrs. Rachel let Anne go outside to play in the garden while they talk; in this conversation, Mrs. Rachel admits to Marilla that she likes Anne. On the way home, Anne expresses pride in the way she apologized. Again, Marilla is annoyed to realize that she finds Anne's behavior funny, even though she disapproves of it. Anne tells Marilla that it's hard for her not to get angry when people criticize her looks. Anne expresses her love of beautiful things and her desire to be beautiful, which Marilla calls vain. As they approach Green Gables, Anne takes Marilla's hand and says that she is so happy to have a home. Anne tells Marilla that she wouldn't find it hard to pray right now


prompt:
Chapter: |WELL, how do you like them?" said Marilla.

Anne was standing in the gable room, looking solemnly at three new
dresses spread out on the bed. One was of snuffy colored gingham which
Marilla had been tempted to buy from a peddler the preceding summer
because it looked so serviceable; one was of black-and-white checkered
sateen which she had picked up at a bargain counter in the winter; and
one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade which she had purchased that
week at a Carmody store.

She had made them up herself, and they were all made alike--plain skirts
fulled tightly to plain waists, with sleeves as plain as waist and skirt
and tight as sleeves could be.

"I'll imagine that I like them," said Anne soberly.

"I don't want you to imagine it," said Marilla, offended. "Oh, I can see
you don't like the dresses! What is the matter with them? Aren't they
neat and clean and new?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you like them?"

"They're--they're not--pretty," said Anne reluctantly.

"Pretty!" Marilla sniffed. "I didn't trouble my head about getting
pretty dresses for you. I don't believe in pampering vanity, Anne, I'll
tell you that right off. Those dresses are good, sensible, serviceable
dresses, without any frills or furbelows about them, and they're all
you'll get this summer. The brown gingham and the blue print will do
you for school when you begin to go. The sateen is for church and Sunday
school. I'll expect you to keep them neat and clean and not to tear
them. I should think you'd be grateful to get most anything after those
skimpy wincey things you've been wearing."

"Oh, I _am_ grateful," protested Anne. "But I'd be ever so much
gratefuller if--if you'd made just one of them with puffed sleeves.
Puffed sleeves are so fashionable now. It would give me such a thrill,
Marilla, just to wear a dress with puffed sleeves."

"Well, you'll have to do without your thrill. I hadn't any material
to waste on puffed sleeves. I think they are ridiculous-looking things
anyhow. I prefer the plain, sensible ones."

"But I'd rather look ridiculous when everybody else does than plain and
sensible all by myself," persisted Anne mournfully.

"Trust you for that! Well, hang those dresses carefully up in your
closet, and then sit down and learn the Sunday school lesson. I got
a quarterly from Mr. Bell for you and you'll go to Sunday school
tomorrow," said Marilla, disappearing downstairs in high dudgeon.

Anne clasped her hands and looked at the dresses.

"I did hope there would be a white one with puffed sleeves," she
whispered disconsolately. "I prayed for one, but I didn't much expect it
on that account. I didn't suppose God would have time to bother about
a little orphan girl's dress. I knew I'd just have to depend on
Marilla for it. Well, fortunately I can imagine that one of them is of
snow-white muslin with lovely lace frills and three-puffed sleeves."

The next morning warnings of a sick headache prevented Marilla from
going to Sunday-school with Anne.

"You'll have to go down and call for Mrs. Lynde, Anne," she said.
"She'll see that you get into the right class. Now, mind you behave
yourself properly. Stay to preaching afterwards and ask Mrs. Lynde to
show you our pew. Here's a cent for collection. Don't stare at people
and don't fidget. I shall expect you to tell me the text when you come
home."

Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff black-and-white
sateen, which, while decent as regards length and certainly not open to
the charge of skimpiness, contrived to emphasize every corner and angle
of her thin figure. Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the
extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed Anne, who
had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon and flowers. The latter,
however, were supplied before Anne reached the main road, for being
confronted halfway down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred
buttercups and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally
garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever other people
might have thought of the result it satisfied Anne, and she tripped
gaily down the road, holding her ruddy head with its decoration of pink
and yellow very proudly.

When she had reached Mrs. Lynde's house she found that lady gone.
Nothing daunted, Anne proceeded onward to the church alone. In the porch
she found a crowd of little girls, all more or less gaily attired in
whites and blues and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at this
stranger in their midst, with her extraordinary head adornment. Avonlea
little girls had already heard queer stories about Anne. Mrs. Lynde said
she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the hired boy at Green Gables,
said she talked all the time to herself or to the trees and flowers
like a crazy girl. They looked at her and whispered to each other behind
their quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later
on when the opening exercises were over and Anne found herself in Miss
Rogerson's class.

Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a Sunday-school
class for twenty years. Her method of teaching was to ask the printed
questions from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at the
particular little girl she thought ought to answer the question. She
looked very often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Marilla's drilling,
answered promptly; but it may be questioned if she understood very much
about either question or answer.

She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt very miserable;
every other little girl in the class had puffed sleeves. Anne felt that
life was really not worth living without puffed sleeves.

"Well, how did you like Sunday school?" Marilla wanted to know when Anne
came home. Her wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the lane,
so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for a time.

"I didn't like it a bit. It was horrid."

"Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly.

Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonny's
leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia.

"They might have been lonesome while I was away," she explained. "And
now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs.
Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with
a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the
window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully
long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through
if I hadn't been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the
Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts
of splendid things."

"You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened
to Mr. Bell."

"But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was talking to God
and he didn't seem to be very much inter-ested in it, either. I think
he thought God was too far off though. There was a long row of white
birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through
them, 'way, 'way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a
beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said, 'Thank you for it,
God,' two or three times."

"Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously.

"Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last
and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class.
There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried
to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was
as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in
the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had
really truly puffs."

"You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school.
You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."

"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so
many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were
lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think
she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a
paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could
recite, 'The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the
Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry,
but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it
wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next
Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are
two lines in particular that just thrill me.

   "'Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell
   In Midian's evil day.'

"I don't know what 'squadrons' means nor 'Midian,' either, but it sounds
_so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it.
I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss
Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew.
I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third
chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a
minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long,
too. I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn't think
he was a bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he
hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him very much. I just let
my thoughts run and I thought of the most surprising things."

Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly reproved, but
she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had
said, especially about the minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers,
were what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for
years, but had never given expression to. It almost seemed to her that
those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible
and accusing shape and form in the person of this outspoken morsel of
neglected humanity.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Marilla has sewn Anne three new dresses, which Anne does not like because they are so plain. Anne particularly wishes that they had puffed sleeves, which are fashionable. Anne decides she will imagine that the dresses look the way she wants them to. The next morning, it is time for Anne to go to Sunday school for the first time, but Marilla cannot take her due to a headache. She sends Anne to ask Mrs. Rachel to walk with her to the church and show her how to behave. On her walk, Anne stops to make a garland of flowers and puts it on her hat. When Anne reaches Mrs. Rachel's house, the woman is not there, so Anne walks to the church alone. At Sunday School, Anne meets many other little girls, mostly attired in cute dresses with puffed sleeves. The Sunday School teacher uses the class time to drill the students with questions, which Anne is able to answer since Marilla had made her study ahead of time. Anne goes home after Sunday School and tells Marilla that she didn't like it. Anne says that the sermon was long and boring so she looked outside at a lake and used her imagination. She also says she didn't like that all the other girls had puffed sleeves and that she had to answer the teacher's questions without asking any herself. When Anne finishes her criticisms, Marilla thinks to herself that she actually agrees with Anne but has never let herself express those thoughts before


prompt:
Chapter: |IT was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the story of the
flower-wreathed hat. She came home from Mrs. Lynde's and called Anne to
account.

"Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last Sunday with your hat
rigged out ridiculous with roses and buttercups. What on earth put you
up to such a caper? A pretty-looking object you must have been!"

"Oh. I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to me," began Anne.

"Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on your hat at all,
no matter what color they were, that was ridiculous. You are the most
aggravating child!"

"I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear flowers on your hat
than on your dress," protested Anne. "Lots of little girls there had
bouquets pinned on their dresses. What's the difference?"

Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of
the abstract.

"Don't answer me back like that, Anne. It was very silly of you to do
such a thing. Never let me catch you at such a trick again. Mrs. Rachel
says she thought she would sink through the floor when she saw you come
in all rigged out like that. She couldn't get near enough to tell you
to take them off till it was too late. She says people talked about it
something dreadful. Of course they would think I had no better sense
than to let you go decked out like that."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne, tears welling into her eyes. "I never
thought you'd mind. The roses and buttercups were so sweet and pretty
I thought they'd look lovely on my hat. Lots of the little girls had
artificial flowers on their hats. I'm afraid I'm going to be a dreadful
trial to you. Maybe you'd better send me back to the asylum. That would
be terrible; I don't think I could endure it; most likely I would go
into consumption; I'm so thin as it is, you see. But that would be
better than being a trial to you."

"Nonsense," said Marilla, vexed at herself for having made the child
cry. "I don't want to send you back to the asylum, I'm sure. All I want
is that you should behave like other little girls and not make yourself
ridiculous. Don't cry any more. I've got some news for you. Diana Barry
came home this afternoon. I'm going up to see if I can borrow a skirt
pattern from Mrs. Barry, and if you like you can come with me and get
acquainted with Diana."

Anne rose to her feet, with clasped hands, the tears still glistening on
her cheeks; the dish towel she had been hemming slipped unheeded to the
floor.

"Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened--now that it has come I'm actually
frightened. What if she shouldn't like me! It would be the most tragical
disappointment of my life."

"Now, don't get into a fluster. And I do wish you wouldn't use such long
words. It sounds so funny in a little girl. I guess Diana 'll like you
well enough. It's her mother you've got to reckon with. If she doesn't
like you it won't matter how much Diana does. If she has heard about
your outburst to Mrs. Lynde and going to church with buttercups round
your hat I don't know what she'll think of you. You must be polite and
well behaved, and don't make any of your startling speeches. For pity's
sake, if the child isn't actually trembling!"

Anne _was_ trembling. Her face was pale and tense.

"Oh, Marilla, you'd be excited, too, if you were going to meet a little
girl you hoped to be your bosom friend and whose mother mightn't like
you," she said as she hastened to get her hat.

They went over to Orchard Slope by the short cut across the brook and up
the firry hill grove. Mrs. Barry came to the kitchen door in answer to
Marilla's knock. She was a tall black-eyed, black-haired woman, with a
very resolute mouth. She had the reputation of being very strict with
her children.

"How do you do, Marilla?" she said cordially. "Come in. And this is the
little girl you have adopted, I suppose?"

"Yes, this is Anne Shirley," said Marilla.

"Spelled with an E," gasped Anne, who, tremulous and excited as she was,
was determined there should be no misunderstanding on that important
point.

Mrs. Barry, not hearing or not comprehending, merely shook hands and
said kindly:

"How are you?"

"I am well in body although considerable rumpled up in spirit, thank you
ma'am," said Anne gravely. Then aside to Marilla in an audible whisper,
"There wasn't anything startling in that, was there, Marilla?"

Diana was sitting on the sofa, reading a book which she dropped when the
callers entered. She was a very pretty little girl, with her mother's
black eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks, and the merry expression which was
her inheritance from her father.

"This is my little girl Diana," said Mrs. Barry. "Diana, you might take
Anne out into the garden and show her your flowers. It will be better
for you than straining your eyes over that book. She reads entirely
too much--" this to Marilla as the little girls went out--"and I can't
prevent her, for her father aids and abets her. She's always poring over
a book. I'm glad she has the prospect of a playmate--perhaps it will
take her more out-of-doors."

Outside in the garden, which was full of mellow sunset light streaming
through the dark old firs to the west of it, stood Anne and Diana,
gazing bashfully at each other over a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies.

The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers which would have
delighted Anne's heart at any time less fraught with destiny. It was
encircled by huge old willows and tall firs, beneath which flourished
flowers that loved the shade. Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered
with clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the beds
between old-fashioned flowers ran riot. There were rosy bleeding-hearts
and great splendid crimson peonies; white, fragrant narcissi and thorny,
sweet Scotch roses; pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted
Bouncing Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint; purple
Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover white with its
delicate, fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet lightning that shot
its fiery lances over prim white musk-flowers; a garden it was where
sunshine lingered and bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering,
purred and rustled.

"Oh, Diana," said Anne at last, clasping her hands and speaking almost
in a whisper, "oh, do you think you can like me a little--enough to be
my bosom friend?"

Diana laughed. Diana always laughed before she spoke.

"Why, I guess so," she said frankly. "I'm awfully glad you've come to
live at Green Gables. It will be jolly to have somebody to play with.
There isn't any other girl who lives near enough to play with, and I've
no sisters big enough."

"Will you swear to be my friend forever and ever?" demanded Anne
eagerly.

Diana looked shocked.

"Why it's dreadfully wicked to swear," she said rebukingly.

"Oh no, not my kind of swearing. There are two kinds, you know."

"I never heard of but one kind," said Diana doubtfully.

"There really is another. Oh, it isn't wicked at all. It just means
vowing and promising solemnly."

"Well, I don't mind doing that," agreed Diana, relieved. "How do you do
it?"

"We must join hands--so," said Anne gravely. "It ought to be over
running water. We'll just imagine this path is running water. I'll
repeat the oath first. I solemnly swear to be faithful to my bosom
friend, Diana Barry, as long as the sun and moon shall endure. Now you
say it and put my name in."

Diana repeated the "oath" with a laugh fore and aft. Then she said:

"You're a queer girl, Anne. I heard before that you were queer. But I
believe I'm going to like you real well."

When Marilla and Anne went home Diana went with them as far as the log
bridge. The two little girls walked with their arms about each other.
At the brook they parted with many promises to spend the next afternoon
together.

"Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit?" asked Marilla as they went
up through the garden of Green Gables.

"Oh yes," sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of any sarcasm on
Marilla's part. "Oh Marilla, I'm the happiest girl on Prince Edward
Island this very moment. I assure you I'll say my prayers with a right
good-will tonight. Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr.
William Bell's birch grove tomorrow. Can I have those broken pieces of
china that are out in the woodshed? Diana's birthday is in February and
mine is in March. Don't you think that is a very strange coincidence?
Diana is going to lend me a book to read. She says it's perfectly
splendid and tremendously exciting. She's going to show me a place back
in the woods where rice lilies grow. Don't you think Diana has got very
soulful eyes? I wish I had soulful eyes. Diana is going to teach me to
sing a song called 'Nelly in the Hazel Dell.' She's going to give me a
picture to put up in my room; it's a perfectly beautiful picture, she
says--a lovely lady in a pale blue silk dress. A sewing-machine agent
gave it to her. I wish I had something to give Diana. I'm an inch taller
than Diana, but she is ever so much fatter; she says she'd like to be
thin because it's so much more graceful, but I'm afraid she only said
it to soothe my feelings. We're going to the shore some day to gather
shells. We have agreed to call the spring down by the log bridge the
Dryad's Bubble. Isn't that a perfectly elegant name? I read a story
once about a spring called that. A dryad is sort of a grown-up fairy, I
think."

"Well, all I hope is you won't talk Diana to death," said Marilla. "But
remember this in all your planning, Anne. You're not going to play all
the time nor most of it. You'll have your work to do and it'll have to
be done first."

Anne's cup of happiness was full, and Matthew caused it to overflow. He
had just got home from a trip to the store at Carmody, and he sheepishly
produced a small parcel from his pocket and handed it to Anne, with a
deprecatory look at Marilla.

"I heard you say you liked chocolate sweeties, so I got you some," he
said.

"Humph," sniffed Marilla. "It'll ruin her teeth and stomach. There,
there, child, don't look so dismal. You can eat those, since Matthew
has gone and got them. He'd better have brought you peppermints. They're
wholesomer. Don't sicken yourself eating all them at once now."

"Oh, no, indeed, I won't," said Anne eagerly. "I'll just eat one
tonight, Marilla. And I can give Diana half of them, can't I? The
other half will taste twice as sweet to me if I give some to her. It's
delightful to think I have something to give her."

"I will say it for the child," said Marilla when Anne had gone to
her gable, "she isn't stingy. I'm glad, for of all faults I detest
stinginess in a child. Dear me, it's only three weeks since she came,
and it seems as if she'd been here always. I can't imagine the place
without her. Now, don't be looking I told-you-so, Matthew. That's bad
enough in a woman, but it isn't to be endured in a man. I'm perfectly
willing to own up that I'm glad I consented to keep the child and that
I'm getting fond of her, but don't you rub it in, Matthew Cuthbert."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It is a week before Marilla finds out that Anne went to church with a flower garland on her hat. Marilla tells Anne that she should never do that again and that many people have been saying it reflects poorly on Marilla. Anne's eyes fill with tears and she tells Marilla that she should send her back to the orphan asylum. Marilla comforts Anne and tells her that she can go meet Diana Barry, the girl who lives nearby, that afternoon. Anne becomes very worried about the possibility of Diana and Diana's strict mother not liking her. At the Barry house, Anne introduces herself politely to Mrs. Barry. Mrs. Barry tells Marilla and Anne that Diana reads too much and encourages the girls to go outside and play together. Outside, Anne and Diana both seem very eager to become close friends. They swear an oath to be bosom friends forever and spend the rest of their time playing in nature. Anne teaches Diana to name things in fanciful ways, such as naming a log bridge "the Dryad's Bubble". When Marilla and Anne arrive home, Matthew presents Anne with some chocolate candies. Anne quickly decides that she will save half and give them to Diana. When Anne has gone upstairs, Marilla reflects on the fact that. though Anne has been at Green Gables for only three weeks, Marilla already cannot imagine life without her


prompt:
Chapter: |IT'S time Anne was in to do her sewing," said Marilla, glancing at the
clock and then out into the yellow August afternoon where everything
drowsed in the heat. "She stayed playing with Diana more than half an
hour more 'n I gave her leave to; and now she's perched out there on
the woodpile talking to Matthew, nineteen to the dozen, when she knows
perfectly well she ought to be at her work. And of course he's listening
to her like a perfect ninny. I never saw such an infatuated man.
The more she talks and the odder the things she says, the more he's
delighted evidently. Anne Shirley, you come right in here this minute,
do you hear me!"

A series of staccato taps on the west window brought Anne flying in from
the yard, eyes shining, cheeks faintly flushed with pink, unbraided hair
streaming behind her in a torrent of brightness.

"Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed breathlessly, "there's going to be a
Sunday-school picnic next week--in Mr. Harmon Andrews's field, right
near the lake of Shining Waters. And Mrs. Superintendent Bell and Mrs.
Rachel Lynde are going to make ice cream--think of it, Marilla--_ice
cream!_ And, oh, Marilla, can I go to it?"

"Just look at the clock, if you please, Anne. What time did I tell you
to come in?"

"Two o'clock--but isn't it splendid about the picnic, Marilla? Please
can I go? Oh, I've never been to a picnic--I've dreamed of picnics, but
I've never--"

"Yes, I told you to come at two o'clock. And it's a quarter to three.
I'd like to know why you didn't obey me, Anne."

"Why, I meant to, Marilla, as much as could be. But you have no idea
how fascinating Idlewild is. And then, of course, I had to tell Matthew
about the picnic. Matthew is such a sympathetic listener. Please can I
go?"

"You'll have to learn to resist the fascination of
Idle-whatever-you-call-it. When I tell you to come in at a certain time
I mean that time and not half an hour later. And you needn't stop to
discourse with sympathetic listeners on your way, either. As for the
picnic, of course you can go. You're a Sunday-school scholar, and it's
not likely I'd refuse to let you go when all the other little girls are
going."

"But--but," faltered Anne, "Diana says that everybody must take a basket
of things to eat. I can't cook, as you know, Marilla, and--and--I don't
mind going to a picnic without puffed sleeves so much, but I'd feel
terribly humiliated if I had to go without a basket. It's been preying
on my mind ever since Diana told me."

"Well, it needn't prey any longer. I'll bake you a basket."

"Oh, you dear good Marilla. Oh, you are so kind to me. Oh, I'm so much
obliged to you."

Getting through with her "ohs" Anne cast herself into Marilla's arms and
rapturously kissed her sallow cheek. It was the first time in her whole
life that childish lips had voluntarily touched Marilla's face. Again
that sudden sensation of startling sweetness thrilled her. She was
secretly vastly pleased at Anne's impulsive caress, which was probably
the reason why she said brusquely:

"There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense. I'd sooner see you
doing strictly as you're told. As for cooking, I mean to begin giving
you lessons in that some of these days. But you're so featherbrained,
Anne, I've been waiting to see if you'd sober down a little and learn
to be steady before I begin. You've got to keep your wits about you in
cooking and not stop in the middle of things to let your thoughts rove
all over creation. Now, get out your patchwork and have your square done
before teatime."

"I do _not_ like patchwork," said Anne dolefully, hunting out her
workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white
diamonds with a sigh. "I think some kinds of sewing would be nice; but
there's no scope for imagination in patchwork. It's just one little seam
after another and you never seem to be getting anywhere. But of course
I'd rather be Anne of Green Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any
other place with nothing to do but play. I wish time went as quick
sewing patches as it does when I'm playing with Diana, though. Oh, we
do have such elegant times, Marilla. I have to furnish most of the
imagination, but I'm well able to do that. Diana is simply perfect in
every other way. You know that little piece of land across the brook
that runs up between our farm and Mr. Barry's. It belongs to Mr. William
Bell, and right in the corner there is a little ring of white birch
trees--the most romantic spot, Marilla. Diana and I have our playhouse
there. We call it Idlewild. Isn't that a poetical name? I assure you it
took me some time to think it out. I stayed awake nearly a whole night
before I invented it. Then, just as I was dropping off to sleep, it came
like an inspiration. Diana was _enraptured_ when she heard it. We have got
our house fixed up elegantly. You must come and see it, Marilla--won't
you? We have great big stones, all covered with moss, for seats, and
boards from tree to tree for shelves. And we have all our dishes on
them. Of course, they're all broken but it's the easiest thing in the
world to imagine that they are whole. There's a piece of a plate with a
spray of red and yellow ivy on it that is especially beautiful. We keep
it in the parlor and we have the fairy glass there, too. The fairy glass
is as lovely as a dream. Diana found it out in the woods behind their
chicken house. It's all full of rainbows--just little young rainbows
that haven't grown big yet--and Diana's mother told her it was broken
off a hanging lamp they once had. But it's nice to imagine the fairies
lost it one night when they had a ball, so we call it the fairy glass.
Matthew is going to make us a table. Oh, we have named that little round
pool over in Mr. Barry's field Willowmere. I got that name out of the
book Diana lent me. That was a thrilling book, Marilla. The heroine
had five lovers. I'd be satisfied with one, wouldn't you? She was very
handsome and she went through great tribulations. She could faint as
easy as anything. I'd love to be able to faint, wouldn't you, Marilla?
It's so romantic. But I'm really very healthy for all I'm so thin. I
believe I'm getting fatter, though. Don't you think I am? I look at my
elbows every morning when I get up to see if any dimples are coming.
Diana is having a new dress made with elbow sleeves. She is going to
wear it to the picnic. Oh, I do hope it will be fine next Wednesday. I
don't feel that I could endure the disappointment if anything happened
to prevent me from getting to the picnic. I suppose I'd live through it,
but I'm certain it would be a lifelong sorrow. It wouldn't matter if
I got to a hundred picnics in after years; they wouldn't make up for
missing this one. They're going to have boats on the Lake of Shining
Waters--and ice cream, as I told you. I have never tasted ice cream.
Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I guess ice cream is one of
those things that are beyond imagination."

"Anne, you have talked even on for ten minutes by the clock," said
Marilla. "Now, just for curiosity's sake, see if you can hold your
tongue for the same length of time."

Anne held her tongue as desired. But for the rest of the week she talked
picnic and thought picnic and dreamed picnic. On Saturday it rained and
she worked herself up into such a frantic state lest it should keep
on raining until and over Wednesday that Marilla made her sew an extra
patchwork square by way of steadying her nerves.

On Sunday Anne confided to Marilla on the way home from church that she
grew actually cold all over with excitement when the minister announced
the picnic from the pulpit.

"Such a thrill as went up and down my back, Marilla! I don't think I'd
ever really believed until then that there was honestly going to be
a picnic. I couldn't help fearing I'd only imagined it. But when a
minister says a thing in the pulpit you just have to believe it."

"You set your heart too much on things, Anne," said Marilla, with a
sigh. "I'm afraid there'll be a great many disappointments in store for
you through life."

"Oh, Marilla, looking forward to things is half the pleasure of them,"
exclaimed Anne. "You mayn't get the things themselves; but nothing can
prevent you from having the fun of looking forward to them. Mrs.
Lynde says, 'Blessed are they who expect nothing for they shall not be
disappointed.' But I think it would be worse to expect nothing than to
be disappointed."

Marilla wore her amethyst brooch to church that day as usual. Marilla
always wore her amethyst brooch to church. She would have thought it
rather sacrilegious to leave it off--as bad as forgetting her Bible or
her collection dime. That amethyst brooch was Marilla's most treasured
possession. A seafaring uncle had given it to her mother who in turn
had bequeathed it to Marilla. It was an old-fashioned oval, containing
a braid of her mother's hair, surrounded by a border of very fine
amethysts. Marilla knew too little about precious stones to realize how
fine the amethysts actually were; but she thought them very beautiful
and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet shimmer at her
throat, above her good brown satin dress, even although she could not
see it.

Anne had been smitten with delighted admiration when she first saw that
brooch.

"Oh, Marilla, it's a perfectly elegant brooch. I don't know how you
can pay attention to the sermon or the prayers when you have it on. I
couldn't, I know. I think amethysts are just sweet. They are what I used
to think diamonds were like. Long ago, before I had ever seen a diamond,
I read about them and I tried to imagine what they would be like. I
thought they would be lovely glimmering purple stones. When I saw a
real diamond in a lady's ring one day I was so disappointed I cried. Of
course, it was very lovely but it wasn't my idea of a diamond. Will you
let me hold the brooch for one minute, Marilla? Do you think amethysts
can be the souls of good violets?"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: In August, Anne excitedly tells Marilla that the Sunday School is planning a picnic. Anne is especially excited that there will be ice cream, which she has never tasted. Marilla tells Anne to work on her patchwork until teatime, which Anne does grumpily. Anne tells Marilla about how she and Diana have created a pretend house in a clearing in the woods, complete with stones for seats and broken dishes for pretend meals. Anne talks on and on until Marilla tells her to be quiet for a while. For the rest of the week, Anne is frantic about whether the picnic will be canceled for bad weather. Marilla tells Anne that she is setting herself up for disappointment by getting her heart set on things, but Anne responds that "looking forward to things is half the pleasure of them". The narrator notes that that day, Marilla wears her amethyst brooch to church, as she always does. The brooch has been passed down from Marilla's mother. The narrator also notes that when Anne first saw Marilla's brooch, she was dazzled by it and asked Marilla if she could hold it