"We'll be all tired out for a month," she snapped, "and Father can't really afford all this splurge. But Sally was set on having what she calls a 'pretty wedding' and Father gave in. He's always spoiled her."
"Spite and jealousy," said Aunt Mouser, suddenly popping her head out of the pantry, where she was driving Mrs. Nelson frantic with her hopings against hope.
"She's right," said Nora bitterly to Anne. "Quite right. I am spiteful and jealous . . . I hate the very look of happy people. But all the same I'm not sorry I slapped Jud Taylor's face last night. I'm only sorry I didn't tweak his nose into the bargain. Well, that finishes the salads. They do look pretty. I love fussing things up when I'm normal. Oh, after all, I hope everything will go off nicely for Sally's sake. I suppose I do love her underneath everything, though just now I feel as if I hated every one and Jim Wilcox worst of all."
"Well, all I hope is the groom won't be missing just before the ceremony," floated out from the pantry in Aunt Mouser's lugubrious tones. "Austin Creed was. He just forgot he was to be married that day. The Creeds were always forgetful, but I call that carrying things too far."
The two girls looked at each other and laughed. Nora's whole face changed when she laughed . . . lightened . . . glowed . . . rippled. And then some one came out to tell her that Barnabas had been sick on the stairs . . . too many chicken livers probably. Nora rushed off to repair the damage and Aunt Mouser came out of the pantry to hope that the wedding-cake wouldn't disappear as had happened at Alma Clark's wedding ten years before.
By noon everything was in immaculate readiness . . . the table laid, the beds beautifully dressed, baskets of flowers everywhere; and in the big north room upstairs Sally and her three bridesmaids were in quivering splendor. Anne, in her Nile green dress and hat, looked at herself in the mirror, and wished that Gilbert could see her.
"You're wonderful," said Nora half enviously.
"You're looking wonderful yourself, Nora. That smoke-blue chiffon and that picture hat bring out the gloss of your hair and the blue of your eyes."
"There's nobody to care how I look," said Nora bitterly. "Well, watch me grin, Anne. I mustn't be the death's head at the feast, I suppose. I have to play the wedding-march after all . . . Vera's got a terrible headache. I feel more like playing the Dead March, as Aunt Mouser foreboded."
Aunt Mouser, who had wandered round all the morning, getting in everybody's way, in a none too clean old kimono and a wilted "boudoir cap," now appeared resplendent in maroon grosgrain and told Sally one of her sleeves didn't fit and she hoped nobody's petticoat would show below her dress as had happened at Annie Crewson's wedding. Mrs. Nelson came in and cried because Sally

looked so lovely in her wedding-dress.
"Now, now, don't be sentimental, Jane," soothed Aunt Mouser. "You've still got one daughter left . . . and likely to have her by all accounts. Tears ain't lucky at weddings. Well, all I hope is nobody'll drop dead like old Uncle Cromwell at Roberta Pringle's wedding, right in the middle of the ceremony. The bride spent two weeks in bed from shock."
With this inspiring send-off the bridal party went downstairs, to the strains of Nora's wedding-march somewhat stormily played, and Sally and Gordon were married without anybody dropping dead or forgetting the ring. It was a pretty wedding group and even Aunt Mouser gave up worrying about the universe for a few moments. "After all," she told Sally hopefully later on, "even if you ain't very happy married, it's likely you'd be more unhappy not." Nora alone continued to glower from the piano stool, but she went up to Sally and gave her a fierce hug, wedding-veil and all.
"So that's finished," said Nora drearily, when the dinner was over and the bridal party and most of the guests had gone. She glanced around at the room which looked as forlorn and disheveled as rooms always do in the aftermath . . . a faded, trampled corsage lying on the floor . . . chairs awry . . . a torn piece of lace . . . two dropped handkerchiefs . . . crumbs the children had scattered . . . a dark stain on the ceiling where the water from a jug Aunt Mouser had overturned in a guest-room had seeped through.
"I must clear up this mess," went on Nora savagely. "There's a lot of young fry waiting for the boat train and some staying over Sunday. They're going to wind up with a bonfire on the shore and a moonlit rock dance. You can imagine how much I feel like moonlight dancing. I want to go to bed and cry."
"A house after a wedding is over does seem a rather forsaken place," said Anne. "But I'll help you clear up and then we'll have a cup of tea."
"Anne Shirley, do you think a cup of tea is a panacea for everything? It's you who ought to be the old maid, not me. Never mind. I don't want to be horrid, but I suppose it's my native disposition. I hate the thought of this shore dance more than the wedding. Jim always used to be at our shore dances. Anne, I've made up my mind to go and train for a nurse. I know I'll hate it . . . and heaven help my future patients . . . but I'm not going to hang around Summerside and be teased about being on the shelf any longer. Well, let's tackle this pile of greasy plates and look as if we liked it."
"I do like it . . . I've always liked washing dishes. It's fun to make dirty things clean and shining again."
"Oh, you ought to be in a museum," snapped Nora.
By moonrise everything was ready for the shore dance. The boys had a huge bonfire of driftwood ablaze on the point, and the waters of the harbor were creaming and shimmering in the moonlight.

Anne was expecting to enjoy herself hugely, but a glimpse of Nora's face, as the latter went down the steps carrying a basket of sandwiches, gave her pause.
"She's so unhappy. If there was anything I could do!"
An idea popped into Anne's head. She had always been a prey to impulse. Darting into the kitchen, she snatched up a little hand-lamp alight there, sped up the back stairs and up another flight to the attic. She set the light in the dormer-window that looked out across the harbor. The trees hid it from the dancers.
"He may see it and come. I suppose Nora will be furious with me, but that won't matter if he only comes. And now to wrap up a bit of wedding-cake for Rebecca Dew."
Jim Wilcox did not come. Anne gave up looking for him after a while and forgot him in the merriment of the evening. Nora had disappeared and Aunt Mouser had for a wonder gone to bed. It was eleven o'clock when the revelry ceased and the tired moonlighters yawned their way upstairs. Anne was so sleepy, she never thought of the light in the attic. But at two o'clock Aunt Mouser crept into the room and flashed a candle in the girls' faces.
"Goodness, what's the matter?" gasped Dot Fraser, sitting up in bed.
"S-s-s-sh," warned Aunt Mouser, her eyes nearly popping out of her head, "I think there's some one in the house . . . I know there is. What is that noise?"
"Sounds like a cat mewing or a dog barking," giggled Dot.
"Nothing of the sort," said Aunt Mouser severely. "I know there's a dog barking in the barn, but that is not what wakened me. It was a bump . . . a loud, distinct bump."
"'From ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us,'" murmured Anne.
"Miss Shirley, this ain't any laughing-matter. There's burglars in this house. I'm going to call Samuel."
Aunt Mouser disappeared and the girls looked at each other.
"Do you suppose . . . all the wedding-presents are down in the library . . ." said Anne.
"I'm going to get up, anyhow," said Mamie. "Anne, did you ever see anything like Aunt Mouser's face when she held the candle low and the shadows fell upward . . . and all those wisps of hair hanging about it? Talk of the Witch of Endor!"
Four girls in kimonos slipped out into the hall. Aunt Mouser was coming along it, followed by Dr.

Nelson in dressing-gown and slippers. Mrs. Nelson, who couldn't find her kimono, was sticking a terrified face out of her door. "Oh, Samuel . . . don't take any risks . . . if it's burglars they may shoot. . . ." "Nonsense! I don't believe there's anything," said the Doctor.
"I tell you I heard a bump," quavered Aunt Mouser. A couple of boys joined the party. They crept cautiously down the stairs with the Doctor at the head and Aunt Mouser, candle in one hand and poker in the other, bringing up the rear.
There were undoubtedly noises in the library. The Doctor opened the door and walked in. Barnabas, who had contrived to be overlooked in the library when Saul had been taken to the barn, was sitting on the back of the chesterfield, blinking amused eyes. Nora and a young man were
standing in the middle of the room, which was dimly lighted by another flickering candle. The young man had his arms around Nora and was holding a large white handkerchief to her face. "He's chloroforming her!" shrieked Aunt Mouser, letting the poker fall with a tremendous crash. The young man turned, dropped the handkerchief and looked foolish. Yet he was a rather
nice-looking young man, with crinkly russet eyes and crinkly red-brown hair, not to mention a chin that gave the world assurance of a chin. Nora snatched the handkerchief up and applied it to her face.
"Jim Wilcox, what does this mean?" said the Doctor, with exceeding sternness. "I don't know what it means," said Jim Wilcox rather sulkily. "All I know is Nora signaled for me. I didn't see the light till I got home at one from a Masonic banquet in Summerside. And I sailed right over."
"I didn't signal for you," stormed Nora. "For pity's sake don't look like that, Father. I wasn't asleep . . . I was sitting at my window . . . I hadn't undressed . . . and I saw a man coming up from the shore. When he got near the house I knew it was Jim, so I ran down. And I . . . I ran into the library door and made my nose bleed. He's just been trying to stop it."
"I jumped in at the window and knocked over that bench. . . ." "I told you I heard a bump," said Aunt Mouser. ". . . and now Nora says she didn't signal for me, so I'll just relieve you of my unwelcome presence,
with apologies to all concerned."

"It's really too bad to have disturbed your night's rest and brought you all the way over the bay on a wild-goose chase," said Nora as icily as possible, consistent with hunting for a bloodless spot on Jim's handkerchief.
"Wild-goose chase is right," said the Doctor. "You'd better try a door-key down your back," said Aunt Mouser. "It was I who put the light in the window," said Anne shamefacedly, "and then I forgot . . ." "You dared!" cried Nora, "I'll never forgive you . . ." "Have you all gone crazy?" said the Doctor irritably. "What's all this fuss about, anyhow? For
heaven's sake put that window down, Jim . . . there's a wind blowing in fit to chill you to the bone.
Nora, hang your head back and your nose will be all right." Nora was shedding tears of rage and shame. Mingled with the blood on her face they made her a fearsome sight. Jim Wilcox looked as if he wished the floor would open and gently drop him in the cellar.
"Well," said Aunt Mouser belligerently, "all you can do now is marry her, Jim Wilcox. She'll never
get a husband if it gets round that she was found here with you at two o'clock at night." "Marry her!" cried Jim in exasperation. "What have I wanted all my life but to marry her . . . never wanted anything else!"
"Then why didn't you say so long ago?" demanded Nora, whirling about to face him. "Say so? You've snubbed and frozen and jeered at me for years. You've gone out of your way
times without number to show me how you despised me. I didn't think it was the least use to ask you. And last January you said . . ." "You goaded me into saying it . . ." "I goaded you! I like that! You picked a quarrel with me just to get rid of me. . . ." "I didn't . . . I . . ." "And yet I was fool enough to tear over here in the dead of night because I thought you'd put our
old signal in the window and wanted me! Ask you to marry me! Well, I'll ask you now and have done with it and you can have the fun of turning me down before all this gang. Nora Edith Nelson, will you marry me?"

"Oh, won't I . . . won't I!" cried Nora so shamelessly that even Barnabas blushed for her.
Jim gave her one incredulous look . . . then sprang at her. Perhaps her nose had stopped bleeding . . . perhaps it hadn't. It didn't matter.
"I think you've all forgotten that this is the Sabbath morn," said Aunt Mouser, who had just remembered it herself. "I could do with a cup of tea if any one would make it. I ain't used to demonstrations like this. All I hope is poor Nora has really landed him at last. At least, she has witnesses."
They went to the kitchen and Mrs. Nelson came down and made tea for them . . . all except Jim and Nora, who remained closeted in the library with Barnabas for chaperon. Anne did not see Nora until the morning . . . such a different Nora, ten years younger, flushed with happiness.
"I owe this to you, Anne. If you hadn't set the light . . . though just for two and a half minutes last night I could have chewed your ears off!"
"And to think I slept through it all," moaned Tommy Nelson heart-brokenly.
But the last word was with Aunt Mouser.
"Well, all I hope is it won't be a case of marrying in haste and repenting at leisure."
(Extract from letter to Gilbert.)
"School closed today. Two months of Green Gables and dew-wet, spicy ferns ankle-deep along the brook and lazy, dappling shadows in Lover's Lane and wild strawberries in Mr. Bell's pasture and the dark loveliness of firs in the Haunted Wood! My very soul has wings.
"Jen Pringle brought me a bouquet of lilies of the valley and wished me a happy vacation. She's coming down to spend a week-end with me some time. Talk of miracles!
"But little Elizabeth is heart-broken. I wanted her for a visit, too, but Mrs. Campbell did not 'deem it advisable.' Luckily, I hadn't said anything to Elizabeth about it, so she was spared that disappointment.
"'I believe I'll be Lizzie all the time you're away, Miss Shirley,' she told me. 'I'll feel like Lizzie

anyway.'
"'But think of the fun we'll have when I come back,' I said. 'Of course you won't be Lizzie. There's no such person as Lizzie in you. And I'll write you every week, little Elizabeth.'
"'Oh, Miss Shirley, will you! I've never had a letter in my life. Won't it be fun! And I'll write you if they'll let me have a stamp. If they don't, you'll know I'm thinking of you just the same. I've called the chipmunk in the back yard after you . . . Shirley. You don't mind, do you? I thought at first of calling it Anne Shirley . . . but then I thought that mightn't be respectful . . . and, anyway, Anne doesn't sound chipmunky. Besides, it might be a gentleman chipmunk. Chipmunks are such darling things, aren't they? But the Woman says they eat the rosebush roots.'
"'She would!' I said.
"I asked Katherine Brooke where she was going to spend the summer and she briefly answered, 'Here. Where did you suppose?'
"I felt as if I ought to ask her to Green Gables, but I just couldn't. Of course I don't suppose she'd have come, anyway. And she's such a kill-joy. She'd spoil everything. But when I think of her alone in that cheap boarding-house all summer, my conscience gives me unpleasant jabs.
"Dusty Miller brought in a live snake the other day and dropped it on the floor of the kitchen. If Rebecca Dew could have turned pale she would have. 'This is really the last straw!' she said. But Rebecca Dew is just a little peevish these days because she has to spend all her spare time picking big gray-green beetles off the rose trees and dropping them in a can of kerosene. She thinks there are entirely too many insects in the world.
"'It's just going to be eaten up by them some day,' she predicts mournfully.
"Nora Nelson is to be married to Jim Wilcox in September. Very quietly . . . no fuss, no guests, no bridesmaids. Nora told me that was the only way to escape Aunt Mouser, and she will not have Aunt Mouser to see her married. I'm to be present, however, sort of unofficially. Nora says Jim would never have come back if I hadn't set that light in the window. He was going to sell his store and go west. Well, when I think of all the matches I'm supposed to have made . . .
"Sally says they'll fight most of their time but that they'll be happier fighting with each other than agreeing with anybody else. But I don't think they'll fight . . . much. I think it is just misunderstanding that makes most of the trouble in the world. You and I for so long, now . . .
"Good night, belovedest. Your sleep will be sweet if there is any influence in the wishes of
"YOUR OWN.
"P.S. The above sentence is quoted verbatim from a letter of Aunt Chatty's grandmother."

THE SECOND YEAR
"Windy Poplars, "Spook's Lane, "September 14th.
"I can hardly reconcile myself to the fact that our beautiful two months are over. They were beautiful, weren't they, dearest? And now it will be only two years before . . .
(Several paragraphs omitted.)
"But there has been a good deal of pleasure in coming back to Windy Poplars . . . to my own private tower and my own special chair and my own lofty bed . . . and even Dusty Miller basking on the kitchen window-sill.
"The widows were glad to see me and Rebecca Dew said frankly, 'It's good to have you back.' Little Elizabeth felt the same way. We had a rapturous meeting at the green gate. "'I was a little afraid you might have got into Tomorrow before me,' said little Elizabeth. "'Isn't this a lovely evening?' I said. "'Where you are it's always a lovely evening, Miss Shirley,' said little Elizabeth. "Talk of compliments! "'How have you put in the summer, darling?' I asked.

"'Thinking,' said little Elizabeth softly, 'of all the lovely things that will happen in Tomorrow.'
"Then we went up to the tower room and read a story about elephants. Little Elizabeth is very much interested in elephants at present.
"'There is something bewitching about the very name of elephant, isn't there?' she said gravely, holding her chin in her small hands after a fashion she has. 'I expect to meet lots of elephants in Tomorrow.'
"We put an elephant park in our map of fairyland. It is no use looking superior and disdainful, my Gilbert, as I know you will be looking when you read this. Not a bit of use. The world always will have fairies. It can't get along without them. And somebody has to supply them.
"It's rather nice to be back in school, too. Katherine Brooke isn't any more companionable but my pupils seemed glad to see me and Jen Pringle wants me to help her make the tin halos for the angels' heads in a Sunday-school concert.
"I think the course of study this year will be much more interesting than last year. Canadian History has been added to the curriculum. I have to give a little 'lecturette' tomorrow on the War of 1812. It seems so strange to read over the stories of those old wars . . . things that can never happen again. I don't suppose any of us will ever have more than an academic interest in 'battles long ago.' It's impossible to think of Canada ever being at war again. I am so thankful that phase of history is over.
"We are going to reorganize the Dramatic Club at once and canvass every family connected with the school for a subscription. Lewis Allen and I are going to take the Dawlish Road as our territory and canvass it next Saturday afternoon. Lewis will try to kill two birds with one stone, as he is competing for a prize offered by Country Homes for the best photograph of an attractive farmhouse. The prize is twenty-five dollars and that will mean a badly needed new suit and overcoat for Lewis. He worked on a farm all summer and is doing housework and waiting on the table at his boarding-house again this year. He must hate it, but he never says a word about it. I do like Lewis . . . he is so plucky and ambitious, with a charming grin in place of a smile. And he really isn't over-strong. I was afraid last year he would break down. But his summer on the farm seems to have built him up a bit. This is his last year in High and then he hopes to achieve a year at Queen's. The widows are going to ask him to Sunday-night supper as often as possible this winter. Aunt Kate and I have had a conference on ways and means and I persuaded her to let me put up the extras. Of course we didn't try to persuade Rebecca Dew. I merely asked Aunt Kate in Rebecca's hearing if I could have Lewis Allen in on Sunday nights at least twice a month. Aunt Kate said coldly she was afraid they couldn't afford it, in addition to their usual lonely girl.
"Rebecca Dew uttered a cry of anguish.
"'This is the last straw. Getting so poor we can't afford a bite now and again to a poor,

hard-working, sober boy who is trying to get an education! You pay more for liver for That Cat and him ready to burst. Well, take a dollar off my wages and have him.'
"The gospel according to Rebecca was accepted. Lewis Allen is coming and neither Dusty Miller's liver nor Rebecca Dew's wages will be less. Dear Rebecca Dew!
"Aunt Chatty crept into my room last night to tell me she wanted to get a beaded cape but that Aunt Kate thought she was too old for it and her feelings had been hurt.
"'Do you think I am, Miss Shirley? I don't want to be undignified . . . but I've always wanted a beaded cape so much. I always thought they were what you might call jaunty . . . and now they're in again."
"'Too old! Of course you're not too old, dearest,' I assured her. 'Nobody is ever too old to wear just what she wants to wear. You wouldn't want to wear it if you were too old.' 'I shall get it and defy Kate,' said Aunt Chatty, anything but defiantly. But I think she will . . . and I think I know how to reconcile Aunt Kate.
"I'm alone in my tower. Outside there is a still, still night and the silence is velvety. Not even the poplars are stirring. I have just leaned out of my window and blown a kiss in the direction of somebody not a hundred miles away from Kingsport."
The Dawlish Road was a meandering sort of road, and the afternoon was made for wanderers . . . or so Anne and Lewis thought as they prowled along it, now and then pausing to enjoy a sudden sapphire glimpse of the strait through the trees or to snap a particularly lovely bit of scenery or picturesque little house in a leafy hollow. It was not, perhaps, quite so pleasant to call at the houses themselves and ask for subscriptions for the benefit of the Dramatic Club, but Anne and Lewis took turns doing the talking . . . he taking on the women while Anne manipulated the men.
"Take the men if you're going in that dress and hat," Rebecca Dew had advised. "I've had a good bit of experience in canvassing in my day and it all went to show that the better-dressed and better-looking you are the more money . . . or promise of it . . . you'll get, if it's the men you have to tackle. But if it's the women, put on the oldest and ugliest things you have."
"Isn't a road an interesting thing, Lewis?" said Anne dreamily. "Not a straight road, but one with ends and kinks around which anything of beauty and surprise may be lurking. I've always loved bends in roads."

"Where does this Dawlish Road go to?" asked Lewis practically . . . though at the same moment he was reflecting that Miss Shirley's voice always made him think of spring.
"I might be horrid and school-teacherish, Lewis, and say that it doesn't go anywhere . . . it stays right here. But I won't. As to where it goes or where it leads to . . . who cares? To the end of the world and back, perhaps. Remember what Emerson says . . . 'Oh, what have I to do with time?' That's our motto for today. I expect the universe will muddle on if we let it alone for a while. Look at those cloud shadows . . . and that tranquillity of green valleys . . . and that house with an apple tree at each of its corners. Imagine it in spring. This is one of the days people feel alive and every wind of the world is a sister. I'm glad there are so many clumps of spice ferns along this road . . . spice ferns with gossamer webs on them. It brings back the days when I pretended . . . or believed . . . I think I really did believe . . . that gossamer webs were fairies' tablecloths."
They found a wayside spring in a golden hollow and sat down on a moss that seemed made of tiny ferns, to drink from a cup that Lewis twisted out of birch bark.
"You never know the real joy of drinking till you're dry with thirst and find water," he said. "That summer I worked out west on the railroad they were building, I got lost on the prairie one hot day and wandered for hours. I thought I'd die of thirst and then I came to a settler's shack, and he had a little spring like this in a clump of willows. How I drank! I've understood the Bible and its love of good water better ever since."
"We're going to get some water from another quarter," said Anne rather anxiously. "There's a shower coming up and . . . Lewis, I love showers, but I've got on my best hat and my second-best dress. And there isn't a house within half a mile."
"There's an old deserted blacksmith's forge over there," said Lewis, "but we'll have to run for it."
Run they did and from its shelter enjoyed the shower as they had enjoyed everything else on that carefree, gypsying afternoon. A veiled hush had fallen over the world. All the young breezes that had been whispering and rustling so importantly along the Dawlish Road had folded their wings and become motionless and soundless. Not a leaf stirred, not a shadow flickered. The maple leaves at the bend of the road turned wrong side out until the trees looked as if they were turning pale from fear. A huge cool shadow seemed to engulf them like a green wave . . . the cloud had reached them. Then the rain, with a rush and sweep of wind. The shower pattered sharply down on the leaves, danced along the smoking red road and pelted the roof of the old forge right merrily.
"If this lasts . . ." said Lewis.
But it didn't. As suddenly as it had come up, it was over and the sun was shining on the wet, glistening trees. Dazzling glimpses of blue sky appeared between the torn white clouds. Far away they could see a hill still dim with rain, but below them the cup of the valley seemed to brim over with peach-tinted mists. The woods around were pranked out with a sparkle and glitter as of

springtime, and a bird began to sing in the big maple over the forge as if he were cheated into believing it really was springtime, so amazingly fresh and sweet did the world seem all at once.
"Let's explore this," said Anne, when they resumed their tramp, looking along a little side road running between old rail fences smothered in goldenrod.
"I don't think there's anybody living along that road," said Lewis doubtfully. "I think it's only a road running down to the harbor."
"Never mind . . . let's go along it. I've always had a weakness for side roads . . . something off the beaten track, lost and green and lonely. Smell the wet grass, Lewis. Besides, I feel in my bones that there is a house on it . . . a certain kind of house . . . a very snappable house."
Anne's bones did not deceive her. Soon there was a house . . . and a snappable house to boot. It was a quaint, old-fashioned one, low in the eaves, with square, small-paned windows. Big willows stretched patriarchal arms over it and an apparent wilderness of perennials and shrubs crowded all about it. It was weather-gray and shabby, but the big barns beyond it were snug and prosperous-looking, up-to-date in every respect. "I've always heard, Miss Shirley, that when a man's barns are better than his house, it's a sign that his income exceeds his expenditure," said Lewis, as they sauntered up the deep-rutted grassy lane.
"I should think it was a sign that he thought more of his horses than of his family," laughed Anne. "I'm not expecting a subscription to our club here, but that's the most likely house for a prize contest we've encountered yet. It's grayness won't matter in a photograph."
"This lane doesn't look as if it were much traveled," said Lewis with a shrug. "Evidently the folks who live here aren't strongly sociable. I'm afraid we'll find they don't even know what a dramatic club is. Anyhow, I'm going to secure my picture before we rouse any of them from their lair."
The house seemed deserted, but after the picture was taken they opened a little white gate, crossed the yard and knocked on a faded blue kitchen door, the front door evidently being like that of Windy Poplars, more for show than for use . . . if a door literally hidden in Virginia creeper could be said to be for show.
They expected at least the civility which they had hitherto met in their calls, whether backed up with generosity or not. Consequently they were decidedly taken aback when the door was jerked open and on the threshold appeared, not the smiling farmer's wife or daughter they had expected to see, but a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty, with grizzled hair and bushy eyebrows, who demanded unceremoniously,
"What do you want?"
"We have called, hoping to interest you in our High School Dramatic Club," began Anne, rather lamely. But she was spared further effort.

"Never heard of it. Don't want to hear about it. Nothing to do with it," was the uncompromising interruption, and the door was promptly shut in their faces.
"I believe we've been snubbed," said Anne as they walked away.
"Nice amiable gentleman, that," grinned Lewis. "I'm sorry for his wife, if he has one."
"I don't think he can have, or she would civilize him a trifle," said Anne, trying to recover her shattered poise. "I wish Rebecca Dew had the handling of him. But we've got his house, at least, and I've a premonition that it's going to win the prize. Bother! I've just got a pebble in my shoe and I'm going to sit down on my gentleman's stone dyke, with or without his permission, and remove it."
"Luckily it's out of sight of the house," said Lewis.
Anne had just retied her shoe-lace when they heard something pushing softly through the jungle of shrubbery on their right. Then a small boy about eight years of age came into view and stood surveying them bashfully, with a big apple turnover clasped tightly in his chubby hands. He was a pretty child, with glossy brown curls, big trustful brown eyes and delicately modeled features. There was an air of refinement about him, in spite of the fact that he was bare-headed and bare-legged, with only a faded blue cotton shirt and a pair of threadbare velvet knickerbockers between head and legs. But he looked like a small prince in disguise.
Just behind him was a big black Newfoundland dog whose head was almost on a level with the lad's shoulder.
Anne looked at him with a smile that always won children's hearts.
"Hello, sonny," said Lewis. "Who belongs to you?"
The boy came forward with an answering smile, holding out his turnover.
"This is for you to eat," he said shyly. "Dad made it for me, but I'd rather give it to you. I've lots to eat."
Lewis, rather tactlessly, was on the point of refusing to take the little chap's snack, but Anne gave him a quick nudge. Taking the hint, he accepted it gravely and handed it to Anne, who, quite as gravely, broke it in two and gave half of it back to him. They knew they must eat it and they had painful doubts as to "Dad's" ability in the cooking line, but the first mouthful reassured them. "Dad" might not be strong on courtesy but he could certainly make turnovers.
"This is delicious," said Anne. "What is your name, dear?"

"Teddy Armstrong," said the small benefactor. "But Dad always calls me Little Fellow. I'm all he has, you know. Dad is awful fond of me and I'm awful fond of Dad. I'm afraid you think my dad is impolite 'cause he shut that door so quick, but he doesn't mean to be. I heard you asking for something to eat." ("We didn't but it doesn't matter," thought Anne.)
"I was in the garden behind the hollyhocks, so I just thought I'd bring you my turnover 'cause I'm always so sorry for poor people who haven't plenty to eat. I have, always. My dad is a splendid cook. You ought to see the rice puddings he can make."
"Does he put raisins in them?" asked Lewis with a twinkle.
"Lots and lots. There's nothing mean about my dad."
"Haven't you any mother, darling?" asked Anne.
"No. My mother is dead. Mrs. Merrill told me once she'd gone to heaven, but my dad says there's no such place and I guess he ought to know. My dad is an awful wise man. He's read thousands of books. I mean to be just 'zackly like him when I grow up . . . only I'll always give people things to eat when they want them. My dad isn't very fond of people, you know, but he's awful good to me."
"Do you go to school?" asked Lewis.
"No. My dad teaches me at home. The trustees told him I'd have to go next year, though. I think I'd like to go to school and have some other boys to play with. 'Course I've got Carlo and Dad himself is splendid to play with when he has time. My dad is pretty busy, you know. He has to run the farm and keep the house clean, too. That's why he can't be bothered having people around, you see. When I get bigger I'll be able to help him lots and then he'll have more time to be polite to folks."
"That turnover was just about right, Little Fellow," said Lewis, swallowing the last crumb.
The Little Fellow's eyes beamed.
"I'm so glad you liked it," he said.
"Would you like to have your picture taken?" said Anne, feeling that it would never do to offer this generous small soul money. "If you would, Lewis will take it."
"Oh, wouldn't I!" said the Little Fellow eagerly. "Carlo, too?"
"Certainly Carlo, too."
Anne posed the two prettily before a background of shrubs, the little lad standing with his arm about his big, curly playmate's neck, both dog and boy seeming equally well pleased, and Lewis took the picture with his last remaining plate.

"If it comes out well I'll send you one by mail," he promised. "How shall I address it?"
"Teddy Armstrong, care of Mr. James Armstrong, Glencove Road," said the Little Fellow. "Oh, won't it be fun to have something coming to me mineself through the post-office! I tell you I'll feel awful proud. I won't say a word to Dad about it so that it'll be a splendid surprise for him."
"Well, look out for your parcel in two or three weeks," said Lewis, as they bade him good-by. But Anne suddenly stooped and kissed the little sunburned face. There was something about it that tugged at her heart. He was so sweet . . . so gallant . . . so motherless!
They looked back at him before a curve in the lane and saw him standing on the dyke, with his dog, waving his hand to them.
Of course Rebecca Dew knew all about the Armstrongs.
"James Armstrong has never got over his wife's death five years ago," she said. "He wasn't so bad before that . . . agreeable enough, though a bit of a hermit. Kind of built that way. He was just wrapped up in his bit of a wife . . . she was twenty years younger than he was. Her death was an awful shock to him I've heard . . . just seemed to change his nature completely. He got sour and cranky. Wouldn't even get a housekeeper . . . looked after his house and child himself. He kept bachelor's hall for years before he was married, so he ain't a bad hand at it."
"But it's no life for the child," said Aunt Chatty. "His father never takes him to church or anywhere he'd see people."
"He worships the boy, I've heard," said Aunt Kate.
"'Thou shalt have no other gods before me,'" quoted Rebecca Dew suddenly.
It was almost three weeks before Lewis found time to develop his pictures. He brought them up to Windy Poplars the first Sunday night he came to supper. Both the house and the Little Fellow came out splendidly. The Little Fellow smiled up from the picture "as real as life," said Rebecca Dew.
"Why, he looks like you, Lewis!" exclaimed Anne.

"He does that," agreed Rebecca Dew, squinting at it judicially. "The minute I saw it, his face reminded me of somebody but I couldn't think who."
"Why, the eyes . . . the forehead . . . the whole expression . . . are yours, Lewis," said Anne.
"It's hard to believe I was ever such a good-looking little chap," shrugged Lewis. "I've got a picture of myself somewhere, taken when I was eight. I must hunt it out and compare it. You'd laugh to see it, Miss Shirley. I'm the most sober-eyed kid, with long curls and a lace collar, looking stiff as a ramrod. I suppose I had my head clamped in one of those three-clawed contraptions they used to use. If this picture really resembles me, it must be only a coincidence. The Little Fellow can't be any relation of mine. I haven't an relative on the Island . . . now."
"Where were you born?" asked Aunt Kate.
"N. B. Father and Mother died when I was ten and I came over here to live with a cousin of mother's . . . I called her Aunt Ida. She died too, you know . . . three years ago."
"Jim Armstrong came from New Brunswick," said Rebecca Dew. "He ain't a real islander . . . wouldn't be such a crank if he was. We have our peculiarities but we're civilized."
"I'm not sure that I want to discover a relation in the amiable Mr. Armstrong," grinned Lewis, attacking Aunt Chatty's cinnamon toast. "However, I think when I get the photograph finished and mounted I'll take it out to Glencove Road myself and investigate a little. He may be a distant cousin or something. I really know nothing about my mother's people, if she had any living. I've always been under the impression that she hadn't. Father hadn't, I know."
"If you take the picture out in person, won't the Little Fellow be a bit disappointed over losing his thrill of getting something through the post-office?" said Anne.
"I'll make it up to him . . . I'll send him something else by mail."
The next Saturday afternoon Lewis came driving along Spook's Lane in an antiquated buggy behind a still more antiquated mare.
"I'm going out to Glencove to take little Teddy Armstrong his picture, Miss Shirley. If my dashing turn-out doesn't give you heart-failure I'd like to have you come, too. I don't think any of the wheels will fall off."
"Where on earth did you pick up that relic, Lewis?" demanded Rebecca Dew.
"Don't poke fun at my gallant steed, Miss Dew. Have some respect for age. Mr. Bender lent me both mare and buggy on condition I'd do an errand for him along the Dawlish Road. I hadn't time to walk out to Glencove today and back."

"Time!" said Rebecca Dew. "I could walk there and back myself faster than that animal."
"And carry a bag of potatoes back for Mr. Bender? You wonderful woman!"
Rebecca Dew's red cheeks grew even redder.
"It ain't nice to make fun of your elders," she said rebukingly. Then, by way of coals of fire . . . "Could you do with a few doughnuts afore you start out?"
The white mare, however, developed surprising powers of locomotion when they were once more out in the open. Anne giggled to herself as they jogged along the road. What would Mrs. Gardiner or even Aunt Jamesina say if they could see her now? Well, she didn't care. It was a wonderful day for a drive through a land that was keeping its old lovely ritual of autumn, and Lewis was a good companion. Lewis would attain his ambitions. Nobody else of her acquaintance, she reflected, would dream of asking her to go driving in the Bender buggy behind the Bender mare. But it never occurred to Lewis that there was anything odd about it. What difference how you traveled as long as you got there? The calm rims of the upland hills were as blue, the roads as red, the maples as gorgeous, no matter what vehicle you rode in. Lewis was a philosopher and cared as little what people might say as he did when some of the High School pupils called him "Sissy" because he did housework for his board. Let them call! Some day the laugh would be on the other side. His pockets might be empty but his head wasn't. Meanwhile the afternoon was an idyl and they were going to see the Little Fellow again. They told Mr. Bender's brother-in-law about their errand when he put the bag of potatoes in the back of the buggy.
"Do you mean to say you've got a photo of little Teddy Armstrong?" exclaimed Mr. Merrill.
"That I have and a good one." Lewis unwrapped it and held it proudly out. "I don't believe a professional photographer could have taken a better."
Mr. Merrill slapped his leg resoundingly.
"Well, if that don't beat all! Why, little Teddy Armstrong is dead . . ."
"Dead!" exclaimed Anne in horror. "Oh, Mr. Merrill . . . no . . . don't tell me . . . that dear little boy . . ."
"Sorry, miss, but it's a fact. And his father is just about wild and all the worse that he hasn't got any kind of a picture of him at all. And now you've got a good one. Well, well!"
"It . . . it seems impossible," said Anne, her eyes full of tears. She was seeing the slender little figure waving his farewell from the dyke.
"Sorry to say it's only too true. He died nearly three weeks ago. Pneumonia. Suffered awful but he was just as brave and patient as any one could be, they say. I dunno what'll become of Jim

Armstrong now. They say he's like a crazy man--just moping and muttering to himself all the time. 'If I only had a picture of my Little Fellow,' he keeps saying."
"I'm sorry for that man," said Mrs. Merrill suddenly. She had not hitherto spoken, standing by her husband, a gaunt, square-built gray woman in wind-whipped calico and check apron. "He's well-to-do and I've always felt he looked down on us because we were poor. But we have our boy . . . and it don't never matter how poor you are as long as you've got something to love."
Anne looked at Mrs. Merrill with a new respect. Mrs. Merrill was not beautiful, but as her sunken gray eyes met Anne's, something of spirit kinship was acknowledged between them. Anne had never seen Mrs. Merrill before and never saw her again, but she always remembered her as a woman who had attained to the ultimate secret of life. You were never poor as long as you had something to love.

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