apologies. I hope you'll try to control your
temper now, Anne."
"That wouldn't be so hard if people wouldn't twit me about
my looks," said Anne with a sigh. "I don't get cross about
other things; but I'm SO tired of being twitted about my hair
and it just makes me boil right over. Do you suppose
my hair will really be a handsome
auburn when I grow up?"
"You shouldn't think so much about your looks, Anne. I'm
afraid you are a very vain little girl."
"How can I be vain when I know I'm homely?" protested
Anne. "I love pretty things; and I hate to look in
the glass and see something that isn't pretty. It makes me
feel so sorrowful--just as I feel when I look at any ugly
thing. I pity it because it isn't beautiful."
"Handsome is as handsome does," quoted Marilla.
"I've had that said to me before, but I have my doubts
about it," remarked skeptical Anne, sniffing at her narcissi.
"Oh, aren't these flowers sweet! It was lovely of Mrs.
Lynde to give them to me. I have no hard feelings against
Mrs. Lynde now. It gives you a lovely, comfortable feeling
to apologize and be
forgiven, doesn't it? Aren't the stars
bright tonight? If you could live in a star, which one would
you pick? I'd like that lovely clear big one away over there
above that dark hill."
"Anne, do hold your tongue." said Marilla,
thoroughly
worn out
trying to follow the gyrations of Anne's thoughts.
Anne said no more until they turned into their own lane.
A little gypsy wind came down it to meet them, laden
with the spicy
perfume of young dew-wet ferns. Far up
in the shadows a
cheerful light gleamed out through the
trees from the kitchen at Green Gables. Anne suddenly
came close to Marilla and slipped her hand into the older
woman's hard palm.
"It's lovely to be going home and know it's home," she said.
"I love Green Gables already, and I never loved any place before.
No place ever seemed like home. Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy.
I could pray right now and not find it a bit hard."
Something warm and pleasant welled up in Marilla's heart
at touch of that thin little hand in her own--a throb
of the maternity she had missed, perhaps. Its very
unaccustomedness and
sweetness disturbed her. She
hastened to
restore her sensations to their normal
calm by inculcating a moral.
"If you'll be a good girl you'll always be happy, Anne.
And you should never find it hard to say your prayers."
"Saying one's prayers isn't exactly the same thing as praying,"
said Anne meditatively. "But I'm going to imagine that I'm
the wind that is blowing up there in those tree tops. When I
get tired of the trees I'll imagine I'm
gently waving down here
in the ferns--and then I'll fly over to Mrs. Lynde's garden and
set the flowers dancing--and then I'll go with one great swoop
over the
clover field--and then I'll blow over the Lake of
Shining Waters and
ripple it all up into little sparkling waves.
Oh, there's so much scope for
imagination in a wind! So I'll not
talk any more just now, Marilla."
"Thanks be to
goodness for that,"
breathed Marilla in
devout relief.
CHAPTER XI
Anne's Impressions of Sunday-School
"Well, how do you like them?" said Marilla.
Anne was
standing in the gable room, looking solemnly
at three new dresses spread out on the bed. One was of
snuffy colored
gingham which Marilla had been tempted to
buy from a peddler the
preceding summer because it looked
so serviceable; one was of black-and-white checkered
sateen which she had picked up at a
bargaincounter in the
winter; and one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade
which she had purchased that week at a Carmody store.
She had made them up herself, and they were all made
alike--plain skirts fulled
tightly to plain waists, with
sleeves as plain as waist and skirt and tight as sleeves
could be.
"I'll imagine that I like them," said Anne soberly.
"I don't want you to imagine it," said Marilla, offended.
"Oh, I can see you don't like the dresses! What is the
matter with them? Aren't they neat and clean and new?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't you like them?"