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"Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome

downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--
that's a good girl."

"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as
soon as she comes in I've repented."

"That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I
said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar

in and I promised not to do that."
"Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne

solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a
person anyhow?"

But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled
hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest

Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself,
upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a

plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters.
"Well?" she said, going into the hall.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and
I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so."

"Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her
relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she

should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down
after milking."

Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne
walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant,

the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's
dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her

head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the
sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her.

Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no
meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the

presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde.
"What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply.

"I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde,"
answered Anne dreamily.

This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla
could not rid herself of the notion that something in her

scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business
to look so rapt and radiant.

Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the
very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by

her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful
penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was

spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the
astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she said
with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all

my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You
must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and

I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who
have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy.

I'm a dreadfully" target="_blank" title="ad.可怕地;糟透地">dreadfullywicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve
to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever.

It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you
told me the truth. It WAS the truth; every word you said

was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and
ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't

have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me.
If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little

orphan girl would you, even if she had a dreadfultemper?
Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me,

Mrs. Lynde."
Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and

waited for the word of judgment.
There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in

every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde
recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-

stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley
of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her

abasement. Where was the wholesomepunishment upon
which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned

it into a species of positive pleasure.
Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception,

did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had
made a very thoroughapology and all resentment vanished

from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart.
"There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course

I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you,
anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't

mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is
terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with

her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours
when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened

to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised
if yours did, too--not a mite."

"Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose
to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel

that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I
only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I

grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's
hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now

may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under
the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is

so much more scope for imagination out there."
"Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet

of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like."
As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly

up to light a lamp.
"She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla;

it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the
hired boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child,

but there is something kind of taking about her after all.
I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as

I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all
right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--

a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but
she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among

civilized folks. And then, her temper's pretty quick, I
guess; but there's one comfort, a child that has a quick

temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to
be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's

what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her."
When Marilla went home Anne came out of the fragrant twilight

of the orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands.
"I apologized pretty well, didn't I?" she said proudly as

they went down the lane. "I thought since I had to do it
I might as well do it thoroughly."

"You did it thoroughly, all right enough," was Marilla's
comment. Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined

to laugh over the recollection. She had also an uneasy
feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well;

but then, that was ridiculous! She compromised with her
conscience by saying severely:

"I hope you won't have occasion to make many more such

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