knew something would grab me by the feet when I was getting in again. By the
way, Anne, has Aunt Jamesina decided what to do this summer?”
“Yes, she’s going to stay here. I know she’s doing it for the sake of those
blessed cats, although she says it’s too much trouble to open her own house, and
she hates visiting.”
“What are you reading?”
“Pickwick.”
“That’s a book that always makes me hungry,” said Phil. “There’s so much
good eating in it. The characters seem always to be reveling on ham and eggs
and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard rummage after reading Pickwick.
The mere thought reminds me that I’m starving. Is there any tidbit in the pantry,
Queen Anne?”
“I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it.”
Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the orchard in
company with Rusty. It was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night in early spring.
The snow was not quite all gone from the park; a little dingy bank of it yet lay
under the pines of the harbor road, screened from the influence of April suns. It
kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the evening air. But grass was growing
green in sheltered spots and Gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a
hidden corner. He came up from the park, his hands full of it.
Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the poem of
a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset with the very
perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air—a wondrous mansion
whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in Araby’s perfume, and
where she reigned queen and chatelaine. She frowned as she saw Gilbert coming
through the orchard. Of late she had managed not to be left alone with Gilbert.
But he had caught her fairly now; and even Rusty had deserted her.
Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers.
“Don’t these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?”
Anne took them and buried her face in them.
“I’m in Mr. Silas Sloane’s barrens this very minute,” she said rapturously.
“I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?”
“No, not for a fortnight. I’m going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke before I
go home. You’ll be in Avonlea before I will.”
“No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I’ve been offered a
job in the Daily News office and I’m going to take it.”