pearl-hued mists floating over it. “We may find some shack to shelter us then;
and if not, boardinghouses we shall have always with us.”
“I’m not going to worry about it just now, anyway, and spoil this lovely
afternoon,” said Anne, gazing around her with delight. The fresh chill air was
faintly charged with the aroma of pine balsam, and the sky above was crystal
clear and blue—a great inverted cup of blessing. “Spring is singing in my blood
today, and the lure of April is abroad on the air. I’m seeing visions and dreaming
dreams, Pris. That’s because the wind is from the west. I do love the west wind.
It sings of hope and gladness, doesn’t it? When the east wind blows I always
think of sorrowful rain on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore. When I get
old I shall have rheumatism when the wind is east.”
“And isn’t it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments for the first time
and sally forth, like this, in spring attire?” laughed Priscilla. “Don’t you feel as if
you had been made over new?”
“Everything is new in the spring,” said Anne. “Springs themselves are always
so new, too. No spring is ever just like any other spring. It always has something
of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness. See how green the grass is around
that little pond, and how the willow buds are bursting.”
“And exams are over and gone—the time of Convocation will come soon—
next Wednesday. This day next week we’ll be home.”
“I’m glad,” said Anne dreamily. “There are so many things I want to do. I
want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze blowing down over Mr.
Harrison’s fields. I want to hunt ferns in the Haunted Wood and gather violets in
Violet Vale. Do you remember the day of our golden picnic, Priscilla? I want to
hear the frogs singing and the poplars whispering. But I’ve learned to love
Kingsport, too, and I’m glad I’m coming back next fall. If I hadn’t won the
Thorburn I don’t believe I could have. I COULDN’T take any of Marilla’s little
hoard.”
“If we could only find a house!” sighed Priscilla. “Look over there at
Kingsport, Anne—houses, houses everywhere, and not one for us.”
“Stop it, Pris. ‘The best is yet to be.’ Like the old Roman, we’ll find a house
or build one. On a day like this there’s no such word as fail in my bright
lexicon.”
They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing miracle and glory
and wonder of the springtide; and they went home as usual, by way of Spofford
Avenue, that they might have the delight of looking at Patty’s Place.
“I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right away—‘by the