Chapter VII
Home Again
Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest of the term
flew by on wings of wind. Before they realized it the Redmond students found
themselves in the grind of Christmas examinations, emerging therefrom more or
less triumphantly. The honor of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated
between Anne, Gilbert and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane
scraped through respectably, and comported himself as complacently as if he had
led in everything.
“I can’t really believe that this time tomorrow I’ll be in Green Gables,” said
Anne on the night before departure. “But I shall be. And you, Phil, will be in
Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo.”
“I’m longing to see them,” admitted Phil, between the chocolate she was
nibbling. “They really are such dear boys, you know. There’s to be no end of
dances and drives and general jamborees. I shall never forgive you, Queen Anne,
for not coming home with me for the holidays.”
“‘Never’ means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you to ask me—and
I’d love to go to Bolingbroke some day. But I can’t go this year—I MUST go
home. You don’t know how my heart longs for it.”
“You won’t have much of a time,” said Phil scornfully. “There’ll be one or
two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the old gossips will talk you over to your
face and behind your back. You’ll die of lonesomeness, child.”
“In Avonlea?” said Anne, highly amused.
“Now, if you’d come with me you’d have a perfectly gorgeous time.
Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne—your hair and your style
and, oh, everything! You’re so DIFFERENT. You’d be such a success—and I
would bask in reflected glory—‘not the rose but near the rose.’ Do come, after
all, Anne.”
“Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but I’ll paint one to
offset it. I’m going home to an old country farmhouse, once green, rather faded
now, set among leafless apple orchards. There is a brook below and a December