"Oh, don't let's quarrel about it," begged Mrs. Raymond, her enormous eyes filling with tears. "I
can't endure quarreling with anybody." "Certainly not." Anne was at her stateliest and Anne could be very stately. "I don't think there is
the slightest necessity for quarreling. I think Gerald and Geraldine have quite enjoyed the day, though I don't suppose poor little Ivy Trent did." Anne went home feeling years older. "To think I ever thought Davy was mischievous," she reflected. She found Rebecca in the twilight garden gathering late pansies. "Rebecca Dew, I used to think the adage, 'Children should be seen and not heard,' entirely too
harsh. But I see its points now." "My poor darling. I'll get you a nice supper," said Rebecca Dew. And did not say, "I told you so."
(Extract from letter to Gilbert.)
"Mrs. Raymond came down last night and, with tears in her eyes, begged me to forgive her for her 'hasty behavior.' 'If you knew a mother's heart, Miss Shirley, you would not find it hard to forgive.'
"I didn't find it hard to forgive as it was . . . there is really something about Mrs. Raymond I can't help liking and she was a duck about the Dramatic Club. Just the same I did not say, 'Any Saturday you want to be away, I'll look after your offspring.' One learns by experience . . . even a person so incorrigibly optimistic and trustful as myself.
"I find that a certain section of Summerside society is at present very much exercised over the loves of Jarvis Morrow and Dovie Westcott . . . who, as Rebecca Dew says, have been engaged for over a year but can't get any 'forrader.'Aunt Kate, who is a distant aunt of Dovie's . . . to be exact, I think she's the aunt of a second cousin of Dovie's on the mother's side . . . is deeply interested in the affair because she thinks Jarvis is such an excellent match for Dovie . . . and also, I suspect, because she hates Franklin Westcott and would like to see him routed, horse, foot and artillery. Not that Aunt Kate would admit she 'hated' anybody, but Mrs. Franklin Westcott was a very dear girlhood friend of hers and Aunt Kate solemnly avers that he murdered her.

"I am interested in it, partly because I'm very fond of Jarvis and moderately fond of Dovie and partly, I begin to suspect, because I am an inveterate meddler in other people's business . . . always with excellent intentions, of course.
"The situation is briefly this:--Franklin Westcott is a tall, somber, hard-bitten merchant, close and unsociable. He lives in a big, old-fashioned house called Elmcroft just outside the town on the upper harbor road. I have met him once or twice but really know very little about him, except that he has an uncanny habit of saying something and then going off into a long chuckle of soundless laughter. He has never gone to church since hymns came in and he insists on having all his windows open even in winter storms. I confess to a sneaking sympathy with him in this, but I am probably the only person in Summerside who would. He has got into the habit of being a leading citizen and nothing municipal dares to be done without his approval.
"His wife is dead. It is common report that she was a slave, unable to call her soul her own. Franklin told her, it is said, when he brought her home that he would be master.
"Dovie, whose real name is Sibyl, is his only child . . . a very pretty, plump, lovable girl of nineteen, with a red mouth always falling a little open over her small white teeth, glints of chestnut in her brown hair, alluring blue eyes and sooty lashes so long you wonder if they can be real. Jen Pringle says it is her eyes Jarvis is really in love with. Jen and I have actually talked the affair over. Jarvis is her favorite cousin.
"(In passing, you wouldn't believe how fond Jen is of me . . . and I of Jen. She's really the cutest thing.)
"Franklin Westcott has never allowed Dovie to have any beaus and when Jarvis Morrow began to 'pay her attention,' he forbade him the house and told Dovie there was to be no more 'running round with that fellow.' But the mischief had been done. Dovie and Jarvis were already fathoms deep in love.
"Everybody in town is in sympathy with the lovers. Franklin Westcott is really unreasonable. Jarvis is a successful young lawyer, of good family, with good prospects, and a very nice, decent lad in himself.
"'Nothing could be more suitable,' declares Rebecca Dew. 'Jarvis Morrow could have any girl he wanted in Summerside. Franklin Westcott has just made up his mind that Dovie is to be an old maid. He wants to be sure of a housekeeper when Aunt Maggie dies.'
"'Isn't there any one who has any influence with him?' I asked.
"'Nobody can argue with Franklin Westcott. He's too sarcastical. And if you get the better of him he throws a tantrum. I've never seen him in one of his tantrums but I've heard Miss Prouty describe how he acted one time she was there sewing. He got mad over something . . . nobody knew what. He just grabbed everything in sight and flung it out of the window. Milton's poems

went flying clean over the fence into George Clarke's lily pond. He's always kind of had a grudge at life. Miss Prouty says her mother told her that the yelps of him when he was born passed anything she ever heard. I suppose God has some reason for making men like that, but you'd wonder. No, I can't see any chance for Jarvis and Dovie unless they elope. It's a kind of low-down thing to do, though there's been a terrible lot of romantic nonsense talked about eloping. But this is a case where anybody would excuse it.'
"I don't know what to do but I must do something. I simply can't sit still and see people make a mess of their lives under my very nose, no matter how many tantrums Franklin Westcott takes. Jarvis Morrow is not going to wait forever . . . rumor has it that he is getting out of patience already and has been seen savagely cutting Dovie's name out of a tree on which he had cut it. There is an attractive Palmer girl who is reported to be throwing herself at his head, and his sister is said to have said that his mother has said that her son has no need to dangle for years at any girl's apron-string.
"Really, Gilbert, I'm quite unhappy about it.
"It's moonlight tonight, beloved . . . moonlight on the poplars of the yard . . . moonlit dimples all over the harbor where a phantom ship is drifting outwards . . . moonlight on the old graveyard . . . on my own private valley . . . on the Storm King. And it will be moonlight in Lover's Lane and on the Lake of Shining Waters and the old Haunted Wood and Violet Vale. There should be fairy dances on the hills tonight. But, Gilbert dear, moonlight with no one to share it is just . . . just moonshine.
"I wish I could take little Elizabeth for a walk. She loves a moonlight walk. We had some delightful ones when she was at Green Gables. But at home Elizabeth never sees moonlight except from the window.
"I am beginning to be a little worried about her, too. She is going on ten now and those two old ladies haven't the least idea what she needs, spiritually and emotionally. As long as she has good food and good clothes, they cannot imagine her needing anything more. And it will be worse with every succeeding year. What kind of girlhood will the poor child have?"
Jarvis Morrow walked home from the High School Commencement with Anne and told her his woes.
"You'll have to run away with her, Jarvis. Everybody says so. As a rule I don't approve of

elopements" ("I said that like a teacher of forty years' experience," thought Anne with an unseen grin) "but there are exceptions to all rules."
"It takes two to make a bargain, Anne. I can't elope alone. Dovie is so frightened of her father, I can't get her to agree. And it wouldn't be an elopement . . . really. She'd just come to my sister Julia's . . . Mrs. Stevens, you know . . . some evening. I'd have the minister there and we could be married respectably enough to please anybody and go over to spend our honeymoon with Aunt Bertha in Kingsport. Simple as that. But I can't get Dovie to chance it. The poor darling has been giving in to her father's whims and crotchets so long, she hasn't any will-power left."
"You'll simply have to make her do it, Jarvis."
"Great Peter, you don't suppose I haven't tried, do you, Anne? I've begged till I was black in the face. When she's with me she'll almost promise it, but the minute she's home again she sends me word she can't. It seems odd, Anne, but the poor child is really fond of her father and she can't bear the thought of his never forgiving her."
"You must tell her she has to choose between her father and you."
"And suppose she chooses him?"
"I don't think there's any danger of that."
"You can never tell," said Jarvis gloomily. "But something has to be decided soon. I can't go on like this forever. I'm crazy about Dovie . . . everybody in Summerside knows that. She's like a little red rose just out of reach . . . I must reach her, Anne."
"Poetry is a very good thing in its place, but it won't get you anywhere in this instance, Jarvis," said Anne coolly. "That sounds like a remark Rebecca Dew would make, but it's quite true. What you need in this affair is plain, hard common sense. Tell Dovie you're tired of shilly-shallying and that she must take you or leave you. If she doesn't care enough for you to leave her father for you, it's just as well for you to realize it."
Jarvis groaned.
"You haven't been under the thumb of Franklin Westcott all your life, Anne. You haven't any realization of what he's like. Well, I'll make a last and final effort. As you say, if Dovie really cares for me she'll come to me . . . and if she doesn't, I might as well know the worst. I'm beginning to feel I've made myself rather ridiculous."
"If you're beginning to feel like that," thought Anne, "Dovie would better watch out."
Dovie herself slipped into Windy Poplars a few evenings later to consult Anne.

"What shall I do, Anne? What can I do? Jarvis wants me to elope . . . practically. Father is to be in Charlottetown one night next week attending a Masonic banquet . . . and it would be a good chance. Aunt Maggie would never suspect. Jarvis wants me to go to Mrs. Stevens' and be married there."
"And why don't you, Dovie?"
"Oh, Anne, do you really think I ought to?" Dovie lifted a sweet, coaxing face. "Please, please make up my mind for me. I'm just distracted." Dovie's voice broke on a tearful note. "Oh, Anne, you don't know Father. He just hates Jarvis . . . I can't imagine why . . . can you? How can anybody hate Jarvis? When he called on me the first time, Father forbade him the house and told him he'd set the dog on him if he ever came again . . . our big bull. You know they never let go once they take hold. And he'll never forgive me if I run away with Jarvis."
"You must choose between them, Dovie."
"That's just what Jarvis said," wept Dovie. "Oh, he was so stern . . . I never saw him like that before. And I can't . . . I can't li . . i . . i . . ve without him, Anne."
"Then live with him, my dear girl. And don't call it eloping. Just coming into Summerside and being married among his friends isn't eloping."
"Father will call it so," said Dovie, swallowing a sob. "But I'm going to take your advice, Anne. I'm sure you wouldn't advise me to take any step that was wrong. I'll tell Jarvis to go ahead and get the license and I'll come to his sister's the night Father is in Charlottetown."
Jarvis told Anne triumphantly that Dovie had yielded at last.
"I'm to meet her at the end of the lane next Tuesday night . . . she won't have me go down to the house for fear Aunt Maggie might see me . . . and we'll just step up to Julia's and be married in a brace of shakes. All my folks will be there, so it will make the poor darling quite comfortable. Franklin Westcott said I should never get his daughter. I'll show him he was mistaken."
7
Tuesday was a gloomy day in late November. Occasional cold, gusty showers drifted over the hills. The world seemed a dreary outlived place, seen through a gray drizzle.
"Poor Dovie hasn't a very nice day for her wedding," thought Anne. "Suppose . . . suppose . . ."

she quaked and shivered . . . "suppose it doesn't turn out well, after all. It will be my fault. Dovie would never have agreed to it if I hadn't advised her to. And suppose Franklin Westcott never forgives her. Anne Shirley, stop this! The weather is all that's the matter with you."
By night the rain had ceased but the air was cold and raw and the sky lowering. Anne was in her tower room, correcting school papers, with Dusty Miller coiled up under her stove. There came a thunderous knock at the front door.
Anne ran down. Rebecca Dew poked an alarmed head out of her bedroom door. Anne motioned her back.
"It's some one at the front door!" said Rebecca hollowly.
"It's all right, Rebecca dear. At least, I'm afraid it's all wrong . . . but, anyway, it's only Jarvis Morrow. I saw him from the side tower window and I know he wants to see me."
"Jarvis Morrow!" Rebecca went back and shut her door. "This is the last straw."
"Jarvis, whatever is the matter?"
"Dovie hasn't come," said Jarvis wildly. "We've waited hours . . . the minister's there . . . and my friends . . . and Julia has supper ready . . . and Dovie hasn't come. I waited for her at the end of the lane till I was half crazy. I didn't dare go down to the house because I didn't know what had happened. That old brute of a Franklin Westcott may have come back. Aunt Maggie may have locked her up. But I've got to know. Anne, you must go to Elmcroft and find out why she hasn't come."
"Me?" said Anne incredulously and ungrammatically.
"Yes, you. There's no one else I can trust . . . no one else who knows. Oh, Anne, don't fail me now. You've backed us up right along. Dovie says you are the only real friend she has. It isn't late . . . only nine. Do go."
"And be chewed up by the bulldog?" said Anne sarcastically.
"That old dog!" said Jarvis contemptuously. "He wouldn't say boo to a tramp. You don't suppose I was afraid of the dog, do you? Besides, he's always shut up at night. I simply don't want to make any trouble for Dovie at home if they've found out. Anne, please!"
"I suppose I'm in for it," said Anne with a shrug of despair.
Jarvis drove her to the long lane of Elmcroft, but she would not let him come further.
"As you say, it might complicate matters for Dovie in case her father has come home."

Anne hurried down the long, tree-bordered lane. The moon occasionally broke through the windy clouds, but for the most part it was gruesomely dark and she was not a little dubious about the dog.
There seemed to be only one light in Elmcroft . . . shining from the kitchen window. Aunt Maggie herself opened the side door to Anne. Aunt Maggie was a very old sister of Franklin Westcott's, a little bent, wrinkled woman who had never been considered very bright mentally, though she was an excellent housekeeper.
"Aunt Maggie, is Dovie home?" "Dovie's in bed," said Aunt Maggie stolidly. "In bed? Is she sick?" "Not as I knows on. She seemed to be in a dither all day. After supper she says she was tired and
ups and goes to bed." "I must see her for a moment, Aunt Maggie. I . . . I just want a little important information." "Better go up to her room then. It's the one on the right side as you go up." Aunt Maggie gestured to the stairs and waddled out to the kitchen. Dovie sat up as Anne walked in, rather unceremoniously, after a hurried rap. As could be seen by
the light of a tiny candle, Dovie was in tears, but her tears only exasperated Anne. "Dovie Westcott, did you forget that you promised to marry Jarvis Morrow tonight . . . tonight?" "No . . . no . . ." whimpered Dovie. "Oh, Anne, I'm so unhappy . . . I've put in such a dreadful day.
You can never, never know what I've gone through."
"I know what poor Jarvis has gone through, waiting for two hours at that lane in the cold and drizzle," said Anne mercilessly. "Is he . . . is he very angry, Anne?" "Just what you could notice" . . . bitingly. "Oh, Anne, I just got frightened. I never slept one wink last night. I couldn't go through with it . . .
I couldn't. I . . . there's really something disgraceful about eloping, Anne. And I wouldn't get any nice presents . . . well, not many, anyhow. I've always wanted to be m . . . m . . . arried in church . . . with lovely decorations . . . and a white veil and dress . . . and s . . . s . . . ilver

slippers!" "Dovie Westcott, get right out of that bed . . . at once . . . and get dressed . . . and come with me." "Anne . . . it's too late now." "It isn't too late. And it's now or never . . . you must know that, Dovie, if you've a grain of sense.
You must know Jarvis Morrow will never speak to you again if you make a fool of him like this." "Oh, Anne, he'll forgive me when he knows . . ." "He won't. I know Jarvis Morrow. He isn't going to let you play indefinitely with his life. Dovie,
do you want me to drag you bodily out of bed?" Dovie shuddered and sighed. "I haven't any suitable dress . . ." "You've half-a-dozen pretty dresses. Put on your rose taffeta." "And I haven't any trousseau. The Morrows will always cast that up to me. . . ." "You can get one afterwards. Dovie, didn't you weigh all these things in the balance before?" "No . . . no . . . that's just the trouble. I only began to think of them last night. And Father . . . you
don't know Father, Anne. . . ." "Dovie. I'll give you just ten minutes to get dressed!" Dovie was dressed in the specified time. "This dress is g . . . g . . . getting too tight for me," she sobbed as Anne hooked her up. "If I get
much fatter I don't suppose Jarvis will l . . . l . . . love me. I wish I was tall and slim and pale, like
you, Anne. Oh, Anne, what if Aunt Maggie hears us!" "She won't. She's shut in the kitchen and you know she's a little deaf. Here's your hat and coat and I've tumbled a few things into this bag."
"Oh, my heart is fluttering so. Do I look terrible, Anne?" "You look lovely," said Anne sincerely. Dovie's satin skin was rose and cream and all her tears hadn't spoiled her eyes. But Jarvis couldn't see her eyes in the dark and he was just a little annoyed with his adored fair one and rather cool during the drive to town.

"For Heaven's sake, Dovie, don't look so scared over having to marry me," he said impatiently as she came down the stairs of the Stevens house. "And don't cry . . . it will make your nose swell. It's nearly ten o'clock and we've got to catch the eleven o'clock train."
Dovie was quite all right as soon as she found herself irrevocably married to Jarvis. What Anne rather cattishly described in a letter to Gilbert as "the honeymoon look" was already on her face.
"Anne, darling, we owe it all to you. We'll never forget it, will we, Jarvis? And, oh, Anne darling, will you do just one more thing for me? Please break the news to Father. He'll be home early tomorrow evening . . . and somebody has got to tell him. You can smooth him over if anybody can. Please do your best to get him to forgive me."
Anne felt she rather needed some smoothing-over herself just then; but she also felt rather uneasily responsible for the outcome of the affair, so she gave the required promise.
"Of course he'll be terrible . . . simply terrible, Anne . . . but he can't kill you," said Dovie comfortingly. "Oh, Anne, you don't know . . .you can't realize . . . how safe I feel with Jarvis."
When Anne got home Rebecca Dew had reached the point where she had to satisfy her curiosity or go mad. She followed Anne to the tower room in her night-dress, with a square of flannel wrapped round her head, and heard the whole story.
"Well, I suppose this is what you might call 'life,'" she said sarcastically. "But I'm real glad Franklin Westcott has got his come-uppance at last, and so will Mrs. Captain MacComber be. But I don't envy you the job of breaking the news to him. He'll rage and utter vain things. If I was in your shoes, Miss Shirley, I wouldn't sleep one blessed wink tonight."
"I feel that it won't be a very pleasant experience," agreed Anne ruefully.
Anne betook herself to Elmcroft the next evening, walking through the dream-like landscape of a November fog with a rather sinking sensation pervading her being. It was not exactly a delightful errand. As Dovie had said, of course Franklin Westcott wouldn't kill her. Anne did not fear physical violence . . . though if all the tales told of him were true, he might throw something at her. Would he gibber with rage? Anne had never seen a man gibbering with rage and she imagined it must be a rather unpleasant sight. But he would probably exercise his noted gift for unpleasant sarcasm, and sarcasm, in man or woman, was the one weapon Anne dreaded. It always hurt her . . . raised blisters on her soul that smarted for months.

"Aunt Jamesina used to say, 'Never, if you can help it, be the bringer of ill news,'" reflected Anne. "She was as wise in that as in everything else. Well, here I am."
Elmcroft was an old-fashioned house with towers at every corner and a bulbous cupola on the roof. And at the top of the flight of front steps sat the dog.
"'If they take hold they never let go,'" remembered Anne. Should she try going round to the side door? Then the thought that Franklin Westcott might be watching her from the window braced her up. Never would she give him the satisfaction of seeing that she was afraid of his dog. Resolutely, her head held high, she marched up the steps, past the dog and rang the bell. The dog had not stirred. When Anne glanced at him over her shoulder he was apparently asleep.
Franklin Westcott, it transpired, was not at home but was expected every minute, as the Charlottetown train was due. Aunt Maggie convoyed Anne into what she called the "liberry" and left her there. The dog had got up and followed them in. He came and arranged himself at Anne's feet.
Anne found herself liking the "liberry." It was a cheerful, shabby room, with a fire glowing cozily in the grate, and bearskin rugs on the worn red carpet of the floor. Franklin Westcott evidently did himself well in regard to books and pipes.
Presently she heard him come in. He hung up his hat and coat in the hall: he stood in the library doorway with a very decided scowl on his brow. Anne recalled that her impression of him the first time she had seen him was that of a rather gentlemanly pirate, and she felt a repetition of it.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said rather gruffly. "Well, and what do you want?"
He had not even offered to shake hands with her. Of the two, Anne thought the dog had decidedly the better manners.
"Mr. Westcott, please hear me through patiently before . . ."
"I am patient . . . very patient. Proceed!"
Anne decided that there was no use beating about the bush with a man like Franklin Westcott.
"I have come to tell you," she said steadily, "that Dovie has married Jarvis Morrow."
Then she waited for the earthquake. None came. Not a muscle of Franklin Westcott's lean brown face changed. He came in and sat down in the bandy-legged leather chair opposite Anne.
"When?" he said.

"Last night . . . at his sister's," said Anne.
Franklin Westcott looked at her for a moment out of yellowish brown eyes deeply set under penthouses of grizzled eyebrow. Anne had a moment of wondering what he had looked like when he was a baby. Then he threw back his head and went into one of his spasms of soundless laughter.
"You mustn't blame Dovie, Mr. Westcott," said Anne earnestly, recovering her powers of speech now that the awful revelation was over. "It wasn't her fault. . . ."
"I'll bet it wasn't," said Franklin Westcott.
Was he trying to be sarcastic?
"No, it was all mine," said Anne, simply and bravely. "I advised her to elo . . . to be married . . . I made her do it. So please forgive her, Mr. Westcott."
Franklin Westcott coolly picked up a pipe and began to fill it.
"If you've managed to make Sibyl elope with Jarvis Morrow, Miss Shirley, you've accomplished more than I ever thought anybody could. I was beginning to be afraid she'd never have backbone enough to do it. And then I'd have had to back down . . . and Lord, how we Westcotts hate backing down! You've saved my face, Miss Shirley, and I'm profoundly grateful to you."
There was a very loud silence while Franklin Westcott tamped his tobacco down and looked with an amused twinkle at Anne's face. Anne was so much at sea she didn't know what to say.
"I suppose," he said, "that you came here in fear and trembling to break the terrible news to me?"
"Yes," said Anne, a trifle shortly.
Franklin Westcott chuckled soundlessly.
"You needn't have. You couldn't have brought me more welcome news. Why, I picked Jarvis Morrow out for Sibyl when they were kids. Soon as the other boys began taking notice of her, I shooed them off. That gave Jarvis his first notion of her. He'd show the old man! But he was so popular with the girls that I could hardly believe the incredible luck when he did really take a genuine fancy to her. Then I laid out my plan of campaign. I knew the Morrows root and branch. You don't. They're a good family, but the men don't want things they can get easily. And they're determined to get a thing when they're told they can't. They always go by contraries. Jarvis' father broke three girls' hearts because their families threw them at his head. In Jarvis' case I knew exactly what would happen. Sibyl would fall head over heels in love with him . . . and he'd be tired of her in no time. I knew he wouldn't keep on wanting her if she was too easy to get. So I forbade him to come near the place and forbade Sibyl to have a word to say to him and generally played the heavy parent to perfection. Talk about the charm of the uncaught! It's nothing to the

charm of the uncatchable. It all worked out according to schedule, but I struck a snag in Sibyl's spinelessness. She's a nice child but she is spineless. I've been thinking she'd never have the pluck to marry him in my teeth. Now, if you've got your breath back, my dear young lady, unbosom yourself of the whole story."
Anne's sense of humor had again come to her rescue. She could never refuse an opportunity for a good laugh, even when it was on herself. And she suddenly felt very well acquainted with Franklin Westcott.
He listened to the tale, taking quiet, enjoyable whiffs of his pipe. When Anne had finished he nodded comfortably.
"I see I'm more in your debt even than I thought. She'd never have got up the courage to do it if it hadn't been for you. And Jarvis Morrow wouldn't have risked being made a fool of twice . . . not if I know the breed. Gosh, but I've had a narrow escape! I'm yours to command for life. You're a real brick to come here as you did, believing all the yarns gossip told you. You've been told a-plenty, haven't you now?"
Anne nodded. The bulldog had got his head on her lap and was snoring blissfully.
"Every one agreed that you were cranky, crabbed and crusty," she said candidly.
"And I suppose they told you I was a tyrant and made my poor wife's life miserable and ruled my family with a rod of iron?"
"Yes; but I really did take all that with a grain of salt, Mr. Westcott. I felt that Dovie couldn't be as fond of you as she was if you were as dreadful as gossip painted you."
"Sensible gal! My wife was a happy woman, Miss Shirley. And when Mrs. Captain MacComber tells you I bullied her to death, tick her off for me. Excuse my common way. Mollie was pretty . . . prettier than Sibyl. Such a pink-and-white skin . . . such golden-brown hair . . . such dewy blue eyes! She was the prettiest woman in Summerside. Had to be. I couldn't have stood it if a man had walked into church with a handsomer wife than me. I ruled my household as a man should but not tyrannically. Oh, of course, I had a spell of temper now and then, but Mollie didn't mind them after she got used to them. A man has a right to have a row with his wife now and then, hasn't he? Women get tired of monotonous husbands. Besides, I always gave her a ring or a necklace or some such gaud after I calmed down. There wasn't a woman in Summerside had more nice jewelry. I must get it out and give it to Sibyl."
Anne went wicked.
"What about Milton's poems?"
"Milton's poems? Oh, that! It wasn't Milton's poems . . . it was Tennyson's. I reverence Milton but

I can't abide Alfred. He's too sickly sweet. Those last two lines of Enoch Arden made me so mad one night, I did fire the book through the window. But I picked it up the next day for the sake of the Bugle Song. I'd forgive anybody anything for that. It didn't go into George Clarke's lily pond--that was old Prouty's embroidery. You're not going? Stay and have a bite of supper with a lonely old fellow robbed of his only whelp."
"I'm really sorry I can't, Mr. Westcott, but I have to attend a meeting of the staff tonight."
"Well, I'll be seeing you when Sibyl comes back. I'll have to fling a party for them, no doubt. Good gosh, what a relief this has been to my mind. You've no idea how I'd have hated to have to back down and say, 'Take her.' Now all I have to do is to pretend to be heart-broken and resigned and forgive her sadly for the sake of her poor mother. I'll do it beautifully . . . Jarvis must never suspect. Don't you give the show away."
"I won't," promised Anne.
Franklin Westcott saw her courteously to the door. The bulldog sat up on his haunches and cried after her.
Franklin Westcott took his pipe out of his mouth at the door and tapped her on the shoulder with it..
"Always remember," he said solemnly, "there's more than one way to skin a cat. It can be done so that the animal'll never know he's lost his hide. Give my love to Rebecca Dew. A nice old puss, if you stroke her the right way. And thank you . . . thank you."
Anne betook herself home, through the soft, calm evening. The fog had cleared, the wind had shifted and there was a look of frost in the pale green sky.
"People told me I didn't know Franklin Westcott," reflected Anne. "They were right . . . I didn't. And neither did they."
"How did he take it?" Rebecca Dew was keen to know. She had been on tenterhooks during Anne's absence.
"Not so badly after all," said Anne confidentially . "I think he'll forgive Dovie in time."
"I never did see the beat of you, Miss Shirley, for talking people round," said Rebecca Dew admiringly. "You have certainly got a way with you."
"'Something attempted, something done has earned a night's repose,'" quoted Anne wearily as she climbed the three steps into her bed that night. "But just wait till the next person asks my advice about eloping!"

(Extract from letter to Gilbert.)
"I am invited to have supper tomorrow night with a lady of Summerside. I know you won't believe me, Gilbert, when I tell you her name is Tomgallon . . . Miss Minerva Tomgallon. You'll say I've been reading Dickens too long and too late.
"Dearest, aren't you glad your name is Blythe? I am sure I could never marry you if it were Tomgallon. Fancy . . .Anne Tomgallon! No, you can't fancy it.
"This is the ultimate honor Summerside has to bestow . . . an invitation to Tomgallon House. It has no other name. No nonsense about Elms or Chestnuts or Crofts for the Tomgallons.
"I understand they were the 'Royal Family' in old days. The Pringles are mushrooms compared to them. And now there is left of them all only Miss Minerva, the sole survivor of six generations of Tomgallons. She lives alone in a huge house on Queen Street . . . a house with great chimneys, green shutters and the only stained-glass window in a private house in town. It is big enough for four families and is occupied only by Miss Minerva, a cook and a maid. It is very well kept up, but somehow whenever I walk past it I feel that it is a place which life has forgotten.
"Miss Minerva goes out very little, excepting to the Anglican church, and I had never met her until a few weeks ago, when she came to a meeting of staff and trustees to make a formal gift of her father's valuable library to the school. She looks exactly as you would expect a Minerva Tomgallon to look . . . tall and thin, with a long, narrow white face, a long thin nose and a long thin mouth. That doesn't sound very attractive, yet Miss Minerva is quite handsome in a stately, aristocratic style and is always dressed with great, though somewhat old-fashioned, elegance. She was quite a beauty when she was young, Rebecca Dew tells me, and her large black eyes are still full of fire and dark luster. She suffers from no lack of words, and I don't think I ever heard any one enjoy making a presentation speech more.
"Miss Minerva was especially nice to me, and yesterday I received a formal little note inviting me to have supper with her. When I told Rebecca Dew, she opened her eyes as widely as if I had been invited to Buckingham Palace.
"'It's a great honor to be asked to Tomgallon House,' she said in a rather awed tone. I never heard of Miss Minerva asking any of the principals there before. To be sure, they were all men, so I suppose it would hardly have been proper. Well, I hope she won't talk you to death, Miss Shirley. The Tomgallons could all talk the hind leg off a cat. And they liked to be in the front of things.

Some folks think the reason Miss Minerva lives so retired is because now that she's old she can't take the lead as she used to do and she won't play second fiddle to any one. What are you going to wear, Miss Shirley? I'd like to see you wear your cream silk gauze with your black velvet bows. It's so dressy.'
"'I'm afraid it would be rather too "dressy" for a quiet evening out,' I said.
"'Miss Minerva would like it, I think. The Tomgallons all liked their company to be nicely arrayed. They say Miss Minerva's grandfather once shut the door in the face of a woman who had been asked there to a ball, because she came in her second-best dress. He told her her best was none too good for the Tomgallons.'
"Nevertheless, I think I'll wear my green voile, and the ghosts of the Tomgallons must make the best of it.
"I'm going to confess something I did last week, Gilbert. I suppose you'll think I'm meddling again in other folks' business. But I had to do something. I'll not be in Summerside next year and I can't bear the thought of leaving little Elizabeth to the mercy of those two unloving old women who are growing bitterer and narrower every year. What kind of a girlhood will she have with them in that gloomy old place?
"'I wonder,' she said to me wistfully, not long ago, 'what it would be like to have a grandmother you weren't afraid of.'
"This is what I did: I wrote to her father. He lives in Paris and I didn't know his address, but Rebecca Dew had heard and remembered the name of the firm whose branch he runs there, so I took a chance and addressed him in care of it. I wrote as diplomatic a letter as I could, but I told him plainly that he ought to take Elizabeth. I told him how she longs for and dreams about him and that Mrs. Campbell was really too severe and strict with her. Perhaps nothing will come of it, but if I hadn't written I would be forever haunted by the conviction that I ought to have done it.
"What made me think of it was Elizabeth telling me very seriously one day that she had 'written a letter to God,' asking Him to bring her father back to her and make him love her. She said she had stopped on the way home from school, in the middle of a vacant lot, and read it, looking up at the sky. I knew she had done something odd, because Miss Prouty had seen the performance and told me about it when she came to sew for the widows next day. She thought Elizabeth was getting 'queer' . . . 'talking to the sky like that.'
"I asked Elizabeth about it and she told me.
"'I thought God might pay more attention to a letter than a prayer,' she said. 'I've prayed so long. He must get so many prayers.'
"That night I wrote to her father.

"Before I close I must tell you about Dusty Miller. Some time ago Aunt Kate told me that she felt she must find another home for him because Rebecca Dew kept complaining about him so that she felt she really could not endure it any longer. One evening last week when I came home from school there was no Dusty Miller. Aunt Chatty said they had given him to Mrs. Edmonds, who lives on the other side of Summerside from Windy Poplars. I felt sorry, for Dusty Miller and I have been excellent friends. 'But, at least,' I thought, 'Rebecca Dew will be a happy woman.'
"Rebecca was away for the day, having gone to the country to help a relative hook rugs. When she returned at dusk nothing was said, but at bedtime when she was calling Dusty Miller from the back porch Aunt Kate said quietly:
"'You needn't call Dusty Miller, Rebecca. He is not here. We have found a home for him elsewhere. You will not be bothered with him any more.'
"If Rebecca Dew could have turned pale she would have done so.
"'Not here? Found a home for him? Good grief! Isn't this his home?'
"'We have given him to Mrs. Edmonds. She has been very lonely since her daughter married and thought a nice cat would be company.'
"Rebecca Dew came in and shut the door. She looked very wild.
"'This is the last straw,' she said. And indeed it seemed to be. I've never seen Rebecca Dew's eyes emit such sparkles of rage. 'I'll be leaving at the end of the month, Mrs. MacComber, and sooner if you can be suited.'
"'But, Rebecca,' said Aunt Kate in bewilderment, 'I don't understand. You've always disliked Dusty Miller. Only last week you said . . .'
"'That's right,' said Rebecca bitterly. 'Cast things up to me! Don't have any regard for my feelings! That poor dear Cat! I've waited on him and pampered him and got up nights to let him in. And now he's been spirited away behind my back without so much as a by-your-leave. And to Sarah Edmonds, who wouldn't buy a bit of liver for the poor creature if he was dying for it! The only company I had in the kitchen!'
"'But, Rebecca, you've always . . .'
"'Oh, keep on . . . keep on! Don't let me get a word in edgewise, Mrs. MacComber. I've raised that cat from a kitten . . . I've looked after his health and his morals . . . and what for? That Jane Edmonds should have a well-trained cat for company. Well, I hope she'll stand out in the frost at nights, as I've done, calling that cat for hours rather than leave him out to freeze, but I doubt it . . . I seriously doubt it. Well, Mrs. MacComber, all I hope is that your conscience won't trouble you

the next time it's ten below zero. I won't sleep a wink when it happens, but of course that doesn't matter an old shoe to any one.'
"'Rebecca, if you would only . . .'
"'Mrs. MacComber, I am not a worm, neither am I a doormat. Well, this has been a lesson for me . . . a valuable lesson! Never again will I allow my affections to twine themselves around an animal of any kind or description. And if you'd done it open and aboveboard . . . but behind my back . . . taking advantage of me like that! I never heard of anything so dirt mean! But who am I that I should expect my feelings to be considered!'
"'Rebecca,' said Aunt Kate desperately, 'if you want Dusty Miller back we can get him back.'
"'Why didn't you say so before then?' demanded Rebecca Dew. 'And I doubt it. Jane Edmonds has got her claws in him. Is it likely she'll give him up?'
"'I think she will,' said Aunt Kate, who had apparently reverted to jelly. 'And if he comes back you won't leave us, will you, Rebecca?'
"'I may think it over,' said Rebecca, with the air of one making a tremendous concession.
"Next day, Aunt Chatty brought Dusty Miller home in a covered basket. I caught a glance exchanged between her and Aunt Kate after Rebecca had carried Dusty Miller out to the kitchen and shut the door. I wonder! Was it all a deep-laid plot on the part of the widows, aided and abetted by Jane Edmonds?
"Rebecca has never uttered a word of complaint about Dusty Miller since and there is a veritable clang of victory in her voice when she shouts for him at bedtime. It sounds as if she wanted all Summerside to know that Dusty Miller is back where he belongs and that she has once more got the better of the widows!"
It was on a dark, windy March evening, when even the clouds scudding over the sky seemed in a hurry, that Anne skimmed up the triple flight of broad, shallow steps flanked by stone urns and stonier lions, that led to the massive front door of Tomgallon House. Usually, when she had passed it after dark it was somber and grim, with a dim twinkle of light in one or two windows. But now it blazed forth brilliantly, even the wings on either side being lighted up, as if Miss Minerva were entertaining the whole town. Such an illumination in her honor rather overcame Anne. She almost

wished she had put on her cream gauze.
Nevertheless she looked very charming in her green voile and perhaps Miss Minerva, meeting her in the hall, thought so, for her face and voice were very cordial. Miss Minerva herself was regal in black velvet, a diamond comb in the heavy coils of her iron-gray hair and a massive cameo brooch surrounded by a braid of some departed Tomgallon's hair. The whole costume was a little outmoded, but Miss Minerva wore it with such a grand air that it seemed as timeless as royalty's.
"Welcome to Tomgallon House, my dear," she said, giving Anne a bony hand, likewise well sprinkled with diamonds. "I am very glad to have you here as my guest."
"I am . . ."
"Tomgallon House was always the resort of beauty and youth in the old days. We used to have a great many parties and entertained all the visiting celebrities," said Miss Minerva, leading Anne to the big staircase over a carpet of faded red velvet. "But all is changed now. I entertain very little. I am the last of the Tomgallons. Perhaps it is as well. Our family, my dear, are under a curse."
Miss Minerva infused such a gruesome tinge of mystery and horror into her tones that Anne almost shivered. The Curse of the Tomgallons! What a title for a story!
"This is the stair down which my Great-grandfather Tomgallon fell and broke his neck the night of his house-warming given to celebrate the completion of his new home. This house was consecrated by human blood. He fell there . . ." Miss Minerva pointed a long white finger so dramatically at a tiger-skin rug in the hall that Anne could almost see the departed Tomgallon dying on it. She really did not know what to say, so said inanely, "Oh!"
Miss Minerva ushered her along a hall, hung with portraits and photographs of faded loveliness, with the famous stained-glass window at its end, into a large, high-ceilinged, very stately guest-room. The high walnut bed, with its huge headboard, was covered with so gorgeous a silken quilt that Anne felt it was a desecration to lay her coat and hat on it.

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