Chapter XXXVI
The Gardners’Call
“Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Aunt Jimsie,” said Phil. “Here
are three for Stella, and two for Pris, and a glorious fat one for me from Jo.
There’s nothing for you, Anne, except a circular.”
Nobody noticed Anne’s flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed her
carelessly. But a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a transfigured Anne.
“Honey, what good thing has happened?”
“The Youth’s Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a fortnight ago,”
said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were accustomed to having sketches
accepted every mail, but not quite succeeding.
“Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? Did
they pay you for it?”
“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that he would
like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old sketch I found in
my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in—but I never really thought it could be
accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne, recalling the bitter experience of
Averil’s Atonement.
“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let’s all go up town
and get drunk,” suggested Phil.
“I AM going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some sort,” declared
Anne gaily. “At all events it isn’t tainted money—like the check I got for that
horrible Reliable Baking Powder story. I spent IT usefully for clothes and hated
them every time I put them on.”
“Think of having a real live author at Patty’s Place,” said Priscilla.
“It’s a great responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina solemnly.
“Indeed it is,” agreed Pris with equal solemnity. “Authors are kittle cattle.
You never know when or how they will break out. Anne may make copy of us.”
“I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great responsibility,” said
Aunt Jamesina severely, “and I hope Anne realizes, it. My daughter used to write