delight.” Anne, puzzled, opened the letter and glanced over the typewritten
contents.
Miss Anne Shirley,
Green Gables,
Avonlea, P.E. Island.
“DEAR MADAM: We have much pleasure in informing you that your
charming story ‘Averil’s Atonement’ has won the prize of twenty-five dollars
offered in our recent competition. We enclose the check herewith. We are
arranging for the publication of the story in several prominent Canadian
newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed in pamphlet form for
distribution among our patrons. Thanking you for the interest you have shown in
our enterprise, we remain,
“Yours very truly,
“THE ROLLINGS RELIABLE
“BAKING POWDER Co.”
“I don’t understand,” said Anne, blankly.
Diana clapped her hands.
“Oh, I KNEW it would win the prize—I was sure of it. I sent your story into
the competition, Anne.”
“Diana—Barry!”
“Yes, I did,” said Diana gleefully, perching herself on the bed. “When I saw
the offer I thought of your story in a minute, and at first I thought I’d ask you to
send it in. But then I was afraid you wouldn’t—you had so little faith left in it.
So I just decided I’d send the copy you gave me, and say nothing about it. Then,
if it didn’t win the prize, you’d never know and you wouldn’t feel badly over it,
because the stories that failed were not to be returned, and if it did you’d have
such a delightful surprise.”
Diana was not the most discerning of mortals, but just at this moment it struck
her that Anne was not looking exactly overjoyed. The surprise was there, beyond
doubt—but where was the delight?
“Why, Anne, you don’t seem a bit pleased!” she exclaimed.
Anne instantly manufactured a smile and put it on.
“Of course I couldn’t be anything but pleased over your unselfish wish to give
me pleasure,” she said slowly. “But you know—I’m so amazed—I can’t realize
it—and I don’t understand. There wasn’t a word in my story about—about—”