were beginning to stir with life and thrill to the sunshine and rain that had drifted
over them. The air was fragrant with the wild, sweet, wholesome smell of young
raspberry copses. White mists were hovering in the silent hollows and violet
stars were shining bluely on the brooklands.
“What a beautiful sunset,” said Diana. “Look, Anne, it’s just like a land in
itself, isn’t it? That long, low back of purple cloud is the shore, and the clear sky
further on is like a golden sea.”
“If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul wrote of in his old
composition—you remember?—how nice it would be,” said Anne, rousing from
her reverie. “Do you think we could find all our yesterdays there, Diana—all our
old springs and blossoms? The beds of flowers that Paul saw there are the roses
that have bloomed for us in the past?”
“Don’t!” said Diana. “You make me feel as if we were old women with
everything in life behind us.”
“I think I’ve almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor Ruby,” said
Anne. “If it is true that she is dying any other sad thing might be true, too.”
“You don’t mind calling in at Elisha Wright’s for a moment, do you?” asked
Diana. “Mother asked me to leave this little dish of jelly for Aunt Atossa.”
“Who is Aunt Atossa?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? She’s Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencervale—Mrs.
Elisha Wright’s aunt. She’s father’s aunt, too. Her husband died last winter and
she was left very poor and lonely, so the Wrights took her to live with them.
Mother thought we ought to take her, but father put his foot down. Live with
Aunt Atossa he would not.”
“Is she so terrible?” asked Anne absently.
“You’ll probably see what she’s like before we can get away,” said Diana
significantly. “Father says she has a face like a hatchet—it cuts the air. But her
tongue is sharper still.”
Late as it was Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright kitchen. She
wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was decidedly untidy. Aunt Atossa
did not like being “caught in a kilter,” so she went out of her way to be
disagreeable.
“Oh, so you’re Anne Shirley?” she said, when Diana introduced Anne. “I’ve
heard of you.” Her tone implied that she had heard nothing good. “Mrs. Andrews
was telling me you were home. She said you had improved a good deal.”
There was no doubt Aunt Atossa thought there was plenty of room for further