triumphantly. “I hear you are to be married in June, Diana.”
“There is no truth in that report,” said Diana, blushing.
“Well, don’t put it off too long,” said Aunt Atossa significantly. “You’ll fade
soon—you’re all complexion and hair. And the Wrights are terrible fickle. You
ought to wear a hat, MISS SHIRLEY. Your nose is freckling scandalous. My,
but you ARE redheaded! Well, I s’pose we’re all as the Lord made us! Give
Marilla Cuthbert my respects. She’s never been to see me since I come to
Avonlea, but I s’pose I oughtn’t to complain. The Cuthberts always did think
themselves a cut higher than any one else round here.”
“Oh, isn’t she dreadful?” gasped Diana, as they escaped down the lane.
“She’s worse than Miss Eliza Andrews,” said Anne. “But then think of living
all your life with a name like Atossa! Wouldn’t it sour almost any one? She
should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. It might have helped her a
great deal. It certainly helped me in the days when I didn’t like ANNE.”
“Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up,” said Diana. “Josie’s
mother and Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, I’m glad that’s over.
She’s so malicious—she seems to put a bad flavor in everything. Father tells
such a funny story about her. One time they had a minister in Spencervale who
was a very good, spiritual man but very deaf. He couldn’t hear any ordinary
conversation at all. Well, they used to have a prayer meeting on Sunday
evenings, and all the church members present would get up and pray in turn, or
say a few words on some Bible verse. But one evening Aunt Atossa bounced up.
She didn’t either pray or preach. Instead, she lit into everybody else in the
church and gave them a fearful raking down, calling them right out by name and
telling them how they all had behaved, and casting up all the quarrels and
scandals of the past ten years. Finally she wound up by saying that she was
disgusted with Spencervale church and she never meant to darken its door again,
and she hoped a fearful judgment would come upon it. Then she sat down out of
breath, and the minister, who hadn’t heard a word she said, immediately
remarked, in a very devout voice, ‘amen! The Lord grant our dear sister’s
prayer!’ You ought to hear father tell the story.”
“Speaking of stories, Diana,” remarked Anne, in a significant, confidential
tone, “do you know that lately I have been wondering if I could write a short
story—a story that would be good enough to be published?”
“Why, of course you could,” said Diana, after she had grasped the amazing
suggestion. “You used to write perfectly thrilling stories years ago in our old
Story Club.”