Chapter: |MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her
eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having
her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had
grown tired very often of late.

It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around
Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing
red flames in the stove.

Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into that
joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was being distilled
from the maple cordwood. She had been reading, but her book had slipped
to the floor, and now she was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips.
Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves out of the mists and
rainbows of her lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling
were happening to her in cloudland--adventures that always turned out
triumphantly and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual
life.

Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have been
suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that soft mingling
of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that should display itself
easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn.
But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection
all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love
made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy
feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely on any
human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a
sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter and more critical
than if the girl had been less dear to her. Certainly Anne herself had
no idea how Marilla loved her. She sometimes thought wistfully that
Marilla was very hard to please and distinctly lacking in sympathy
and understanding. But she always checked the thought reproachfully,
remembering what she owed to Marilla.

"Anne," said Marilla abruptly, "Miss Stacy was here this afternoon when
you were out with Diana."

Anne came back from her other world with a start and a sigh.

"Was she? Oh, I'm so sorry I wasn't in. Why didn't you call me, Marilla?
Diana and I were only over in the Haunted Wood. It's lovely in the woods
now. All the little wood things--the ferns and the satin leaves and the
crackerberries--have gone to sleep, just as if somebody had tucked them
away until spring under a blanket of leaves. I think it was a little
gray fairy with a rainbow scarf that came tiptoeing along the last
moonlight night and did it. Diana wouldn't say much about that, though.
Diana has never forgotten the scolding her mother gave her about
imagining ghosts into the Haunted Wood. It had a very bad effect on
Diana's imagination. It blighted it. Mrs. Lynde says Myrtle Bell is a
blighted being. I asked Ruby Gillis why Myrtle was blighted, and Ruby
said she guessed it was because her young man had gone back on her. Ruby
Gillis thinks of nothing but young men, and the older she gets the worse
she is. Young men are all very well in their place, but it doesn't do to
drag them into everything, does it? Diana and I are thinking seriously
of promising each other that we will never marry but be nice old maids
and live together forever. Diana hasn't quite made up her mind though,
because she thinks perhaps it would be nobler to marry some wild,
dashing, wicked young man and reform him. Diana and I talk a great deal
about serious subjects now, you know. We feel that we are so much older
than we used to be that it isn't becoming to talk of childish matters.
It's such a solemn thing to be almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took
all us girls who are in our teens down to the brook last Wednesday, and
talked to us about it. She said we couldn't be too careful what habits
we formed and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because by the time
we were twenty our characters would be developed and the foundation laid
for our whole future life. And she said if the foundation was shaky we
could never build anything really worth while on it. Diana and I talked
the matter over coming home from school. We felt extremely solemn,
Marilla. And we decided that we would try to be very careful indeed and
form respectable habits and learn all we could and be as sensible as
possible, so that by the time we were twenty our characters would be
properly developed. It's perfectly appalling to think of being twenty,
Marilla. It sounds so fearfully old and grown up. But why was Miss Stacy
here this afternoon?"

"That is what I want to tell you, Anne, if you'll ever give me a chance
to get a word in edgewise. She was talking about you."

"About me?" Anne looked rather scared. Then she flushed and exclaimed:

"Oh, I know what she was saying. I meant to tell you, Marilla, honestly
I did, but I forgot. Miss Stacy caught me reading Ben Hur in school
yesterday afternoon when I should have been studying my Canadian
history. Jane Andrews lent it to me. I was reading it at dinner hour,
and I had just got to the chariot race when school went in. I was simply
wild to know how it turned out--although I felt sure Ben Hur must win,
because it wouldn't be poetical justice if he didn't--so I spread the
history open on my desk lid and then tucked Ben Hur between the desk and
my knee. I just looked as if I were studying Canadian history, you know,
while all the while I was reveling in Ben Hur. I was so interested in it
that I never noticed Miss Stacy coming down the aisle until all at
once I just looked up and there she was looking down at me, so
reproachful-like. I can't tell you how ashamed I felt, Marilla,
especially when I heard Josie Pye giggling. Miss Stacy took Ben Hur
away, but she never said a word then. She kept me in at recess and
talked to me. She said I had done very wrong in two respects. First, I
was wasting the time I ought to have put on my studies; and secondly,
I was deceiving my teacher in trying to make it appear I was reading a
history when it was a storybook instead. I had never realized until that
moment, Marilla, that what I was doing was deceitful. I was shocked. I
cried bitterly, and asked Miss Stacy to forgive me and I'd never do such
a thing again; and I offered to do penance by never so much as looking
at Ben Hur for a whole week, not even to see how the chariot race turned
out. But Miss Stacy said she wouldn't require that, and she forgave me
freely. So I think it wasn't very kind of her to come up here to you
about it after all."

"Miss Stacy never mentioned such a thing to me, Anne, and its only your
guilty conscience that's the matter with you. You have no business to be
taking storybooks to school. You read too many novels anyhow. When I was
a girl I wasn't so much as allowed to look at a novel."

"Oh, how can you call Ben Hur a novel when it's really such a religious
book?" protested Anne. "Of course it's a little too exciting to be
proper reading for Sunday, and I only read it on weekdays. And I never
read _any_ book now unless either Miss Stacy or Mrs. Allan thinks it is a
proper book for a girl thirteen and three-quarters to read. Miss Stacy
made me promise that. She found me reading a book one day called, The
Lurid Mystery of the Haunted Hall. It was one Ruby Gillis had lent me,
and, oh, Marilla, it was so fascinating and creepy. It just curdled the
blood in my veins. But Miss Stacy said it was a very silly, unwholesome
book, and she asked me not to read any more of it or any like it. I
didn't mind promising not to read any more like it, but it was _agonizing_
to give back that book without knowing how it turned out. But my love
for Miss Stacy stood the test and I did. It's really wonderful, Marilla,
what you can do when you're truly anxious to please a certain person."

"Well, I guess I'll light the lamp and get to work," said Marilla. "I
see plainly that you don't want to hear what Miss Stacy had to say.
You're more interested in the sound of your own tongue than in anything
else."

"Oh, indeed, Marilla, I do want to hear it," cried Anne contritely. "I
won't say another word--not one. I know I talk too much, but I am really
trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much, yet if you only
knew how many things I want to say and don't, you'd give me some credit
for it. Please tell me, Marilla."

"Well, Miss Stacy wants to organize a class among her advanced students
who mean to study for the entrance examination into Queen's. She intends
to give them extra lessons for an hour after school. And she came to ask
Matthew and me if we would like to have you join it. What do you think
about it yourself, Anne? Would you like to go to Queen's and pass for a
teacher?"

"Oh, Marilla!" Anne straightened to her knees and clasped her hands.
"It's been the dream of my life--that is, for the last six months, ever
since Ruby and Jane began to talk of studying for the Entrance. But I
didn't say anything about it, because I supposed it would be perfectly
useless. I'd love to be a teacher. But won't it be dreadfully expensive?
Mr. Andrews says it cost him one hundred and fifty dollars to put Prissy
through, and Prissy wasn't a dunce in geometry."

"I guess you needn't worry about that part of it. When Matthew and I
took you to bring up we resolved we would do the best we could for you
and give you a good education. I believe in a girl being fitted to earn
her own living whether she ever has to or not. You'll always have a home
at Green Gables as long as Matthew and I are here, but nobody knows what
is going to happen in this uncertain world, and it's just as well to be
prepared. So you can join the Queen's class if you like, Anne."

"Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne flung her arms about Marilla's waist and
looked up earnestly into her face. "I'm extremely grateful to you and
Matthew. And I'll study as hard as I can and do my very best to be a
credit to you. I warn you not to expect much in geometry, but I think I
can hold my own in anything else if I work hard."

"I dare say you'll get along well enough. Miss Stacy says you are bright
and diligent." Not for worlds would Marilla have told Anne just what
Miss Stacy had said about her; that would have been to pamper vanity.
"You needn't rush to any extreme of killing yourself over your books.
There is no hurry. You won't be ready to try the Entrance for a year and
a half yet. But it's well to begin in time and be thoroughly grounded,
Miss Stacy says."

"I shall take more interest than ever in my studies now," said Anne
blissfully, "because I have a purpose in life. Mr. Allan says everybody
should have a purpose in life and pursue it faithfully. Only he says
we must first make sure that it is a worthy purpose. I would call it a
worthy purpose to want to be a teacher like Miss Stacy, wouldn't you,
Marilla? I think it's a very noble profession."

The Queen's class was organized in due time. Gilbert Blythe, Anne
Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane, and Moody
Spurgeon MacPherson joined it. Diana Barry did not, as her parents
did not intend to send her to Queen's. This seemed nothing short of a
calamity to Anne. Never, since the night on which Minnie May had had the
croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything. On the evening when
the Queen's class first remained in school for the extra lessons and
Anne saw Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through
the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep
her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump
came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her
uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds
would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears.

"But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of
death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go
out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it
would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance,
too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs.
Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but
there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the
Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby
are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their
ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets
through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote
her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid
a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls
if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks
from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a
perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she
is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to
earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who
are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to
be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name
like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but
really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh.
He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little
blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will
be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's
going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde
says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest
people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays."

"What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne
was opening her Caesar.

"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he
has any," said Anne scornfully.

There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the
rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt
that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was
a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly
acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete
with them.

Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea
for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry,
had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He
talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with
them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the
other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley
he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be
ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head
that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart
she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake
of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at
once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old
resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she
most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every
incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel
the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last
spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten
without knowing it. But it was too late.

And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should
ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been
so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest
oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so
successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as
he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his
retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed
Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly.

Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and
studies. For Anne the days slipped by like golden beads on the necklace
of the year. She was happy, eager, interested; there were lessons to be
learned and honor to be won; delightful books to read; new pieces to be
practiced for the Sunday-school choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at
the manse with Mrs. Allan; and then, almost before Anne realized it,
spring had come again to Green Gables and all the world was abloom once
more.

Studies palled just a wee bit then; the Queen's class, left behind in
school while the others scattered to green lanes and leafy wood cuts and
meadow byways, looked wistfully out of the windows and discovered that
Latin verbs and French exercises had somehow lost the tang and zest they
had possessed in the crisp winter months. Even Anne and Gilbert lagged
and grew indifferent. Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term
was ended and the glad vacation days stretched rosily before them.

"But you've done good work this past year," Miss Stacy told them on the
last evening, "and you deserve a good, jolly vacation. Have the best
time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of health
and vitality and ambition to carry you through next year. It will be the
tug of war, you know--the last year before the Entrance."

"Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?" asked Josie Pye.

Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions; in this instance the rest of
the class felt grateful to her; none of them would have dared to ask
it of Miss Stacy, but all wanted to, for there had been alarming rumors
running at large through the school for some time that Miss Stacy was
not coming back the next year--that she had been offered a position
in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The
Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her answer.

"Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking another
school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth,
I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't leave
them. So I'll stay and see you through."

"Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried
away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he
thought about it for a week.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Anne, with shining eyes. "Dear Stacy, it would
be perfectly dreadful if you didn't come back. I don't believe I could
have the heart to go on with my studies at all if another teacher came
here."

When Anne got home that night she stacked all her textbooks away in an
old trunk in the attic, locked it, and threw the key into the blanket
box.

"I'm not even going to look at a schoolbook in vacation," she told
Marilla. "I've studied as hard all the term as I possibly could and I've
pored over that geometry until I know every proposition in the first
book off by heart, even when the letters _are_ changed. I just feel tired
of everything sensible and I'm going to let my imagination run riot for
the summer. Oh, you needn't be alarmed, Marilla. I'll only let it run
riot within reasonable limits. But I want to have a real good jolly time
this summer, for maybe it's the last summer I'll be a little girl. Mrs.
Lynde says that if I keep stretching out next year as I've done this
I'll have to put on longer skirts. She says I'm all running to legs and
eyes. And when I put on longer skirts I shall feel that I have to live
up to them and be very dignified. It won't even do to believe in fairies
then, I'm afraid; so I'm going to believe in them with all my whole
heart this summer. I think we're going to have a very gay vacation. Ruby
Gillis is going to have a birthday party soon and there's the Sunday
school picnic and the missionary concert next month. And Mr. Barry says
that some evening he'll take Diana and me over to the White Sands Hotel
and have dinner there. They have dinner there in the evening, you know.
Jane Andrews was over once last summer and she says it was a dazzling
sight to see the electric lights and the flowers and all the lady guests
in such beautiful dresses. Jane says it was her first glimpse into high
life and she'll never forget it to her dying day."

Mrs. Lynde came up the next afternoon to find out why Marilla had not
been at the Aid meeting on Thursday. When Marilla was not at Aid meeting
people knew there was something wrong at Green Gables.

"Matthew had a bad spell with his heart Thursday," Marilla explained,
"and I didn't feel like leaving him. Oh, yes, he's all right again now,
but he takes them spells oftener than he used to and I'm anxious about
him. The doctor says he must be careful to avoid excitement. That's easy
enough, for Matthew doesn't go about looking for excitement by any means
and never did, but he's not to do any very heavy work either and you
might as well tell Matthew not to breathe as not to work. Come and lay
off your things, Rachel. You'll stay to tea?"

"Well, seeing you're so pressing, perhaps I might as well, stay" said
Mrs. Rachel, who had not the slightest intention of doing anything else.

Mrs. Rachel and Marilla sat comfortably in the parlor while Anne got the
tea and made hot biscuits that were light and white enough to defy even
Mrs. Rachel's criticism.

"I must say Anne has turned out a real smart girl," admitted Mrs.
Rachel, as Marilla accompanied her to the end of the lane at sunset.
"She must be a great help to you."

"She is," said Marilla, "and she's real steady and reliable now. I used
to be afraid she'd never get over her featherbrained ways, but she has
and I wouldn't be afraid to trust her in anything now."

"I never would have thought she'd have turned out so well that first day
I was here three years ago," said Mrs. Rachel. "Lawful heart, shall I
ever forget that tantrum of hers! When I went home that night I says to
Thomas, says I, 'Mark my words, Thomas, Marilla Cuthbert 'll live to
rue the step she's took.' But I was mistaken and I'm real glad of it. I
ain't one of those kind of people, Marilla, as can never be brought to
own up that they've made a mistake. No, that never was my way, thank
goodness. I did make a mistake in judging Anne, but it weren't no
wonder, for an odder, unexpecteder witch of a child there never was in
this world, that's what. There was no ciphering her out by the rules
that worked with other children. It's nothing short of wonderful how
she's improved these three years, but especially in looks. She's a real
pretty girl got to be, though I can't say I'm overly partial to that
pale, big-eyed style myself. I like more snap and color, like Diana
Barry has or Ruby Gillis. Ruby Gillis's looks are real showy. But
somehow--I don't know how it is but when Anne and them are together,
though she ain't half as handsome, she makes them look kind of common
and overdone--something like them white June lilies she calls narcissus
alongside of the big, red peonies, that's what."

 One evening, Anne comes home to a very tired Marilla. Marilla hasn't been feeling well lately and thinks she needs to get her glasses changed. Marilla tells Anne that Miss Stacy came to visit Green Gables, but can't get further with her story. First, Anne gets sidetracked talking about growing up, and then Anne thinks she's in trouble for reading Ben-Hur during class and tells Marilla that whole story. Finally she lets Marilla speak. Marilla tells her that Miss Stacy wants Anne to be part of a class of elite students who stay after class to prepare for Queen's. Anne's thrilled. She didn't think she'd be able to go because of the expense, but Marilla and Matthew have put money away for her education. The only problem? Diana's parents won't let her go to Queen's. So Anne has to prep without Diana. Did we mention Gilbert's in the class? Anne's favorite enemy. He's been ignoring Anne since she snubbed him at the river. Anne, by the way, regrets what she said, but would never admit it. Studying's hard in the spring, but summer vacation finally begins. Marilla misses a ladies aid meeting, which is a big deal for her. When Mrs. Lynde comes over to find out what's wrong, Marilla tells her Matthew's been having bad heart "spells." Which doesn't sound good. He's supposed to avoid excitement. Anne serves Marilla and Rachel tea and biscuits. They talk about how good Anne is at cooking now, and how helpful she's become for Marilla. Quite the change from the beginning of the story.

