“Well, I suppose you’ll keep on writing them,” he said encouragingly.
“No, I shall never try to write a story again,” declared Anne, with the hopeless
finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face.
“I wouldn’t give up altogether,” said Mr. Harrison reflectively. “I’d write a
story once in a while, but I wouldn’t pester editors with it. I’d write of people
and places like I knew, and I’d make my characters talk everyday English; and
I’d let the sun rise and set in the usual quiet way without much fuss over the fact.
If I had to have villains at all, I’d give them a chance, Anne—I’d give them a
chance. There are some terrible bad men in the world, I suppose, but you’d have
to go a long piece to find them—though Mrs. Lynde believes we’re all bad. But
most of us have got a little decency somewhere in us. Keep on writing, Anne.”
“No. It was very foolish of me to attempt it. When I’m through Redmond I’ll
stick to teaching. I can teach. I can’t write stories.”
“It’ll be time for you to be getting a husband when you’re through Redmond,”
said Mr. Harrison. “I don’t believe in putting marrying off too long—like I did.”
Anne got up and marched home. There were times when Mr. Harrison was
really intolerable. “Pitching,” “mooning,” and “getting a husband.” Ow!!