all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne saw a fairy fringe of light
on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. The
clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the
sky gleamed blue and silvery. A hush fell over the world.
Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the rain-
wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and cooled her
dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was lilting up the lane. A moment
later Pacifique Buote came in sight.
Anne’s physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched at a low
willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George Fletcher’s hired
man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was
Gilbert’s aunt. Pacifique would know if—if—Pacifique would know what there
was to be known.
Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not see
Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost past before she
succeeded in making her quivering lips call, “Pacifique!”
Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.
“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did you come from George Fletcher’s this
morning?”
“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably. “I got de word las’ night dat my fader, he was
seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go den, so I start vair early dis mornin’.
I’m goin’ troo de woods for short cut.”
“Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?” Anne’s desperation
drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable than this
hideous suspense.
“He’s better,” said Pacifique. “He got de turn las’ night. De doctor say he’ll be
all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus’ keel
himself at college. Well, I mus’ hurry. De old man, he’ll be in hurry to see me.”
Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with eyes
where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He was a very lank,
very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he was as beautiful as those
who bring good tidings on the mountains. Never, as long as she lived, would
Anne see Pacifique’s brown, round, black-eyed face without a warm
remembrance of the moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for
mourning.
Long after Pacifique’s gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and