MatthewCuthbertandthesorrelmarejoggedcomfortablyovertheeightmilestoBrightRiver. Itwasaprettyroad,runningalongbetweensnugfarmsteads,withnowandagainabitofbalsamyfirwoodtodrivethroughorahollowwherewildplumshungouttheirfilmybloom. Theairwassweetwiththebreathofmanyappleorchardsandthemeadowsslopedawayinthedistancetohorizonmistsofpearlandpurple;while "Thelittlebirdssangasifitwere Theonedayofsummerinalltheyear." Matthewenjoyedthedriveafterhisownfashion,exceptduringthemomentswhenhemetwomenandhadtonodtothem—forinPrinceEdwardislandyouaresupposedtonodtoallandsundryyoumeetontheroadwhetheryouknowthemornot. MatthewdreadedallwomenexceptMarillaandMrs.Rachel;hehadanuncomfortablefeelingthatthemysteriouscreaturesweresecretlylaughingathim. Hemayhavebeenquiterightinthinkingso,forhewasanodd-lookingpersonage,withanungainlyfigureandlongiron-grayhairthattouchedhisstoopingshoulders,andafull,softbrownbeardwhichhehadworneversincehewastwenty. Infact,hehadlookedattwentyverymuchashelookedatsixty,lackingalittleofthegrayness. WhenhereachedBrightRivertherewasnosignofanytrain;hethoughthewastooearly,sohetiedhishorseintheyardofthesmallBrightRiverhotelandwentovertothestationhouse. Thelongplatformwasalmostdeserted;theonlylivingcreatureinsightbeingagirlwhowassittingonapileofshinglesattheextremeend. Matthew,barelynotingthatitWASagirl,sidledpastherasquicklyaspossiblewithoutlookingather. Hadhelookedhecouldhardlyhavefailedtonoticethetenserigidityandexpectationofherattitudeandexpression. Shewassittingtherewaitingforsomethingorsomebodyand,sincesittingandwaitingwastheonlythingtodojustthen,shesatandwaitedwithallhermightandmain. Matthewencounteredthestationmasterlockinguptheticketofficepreparatorytogoinghomeforsupper,andaskedhimifthefive-thirtytrainwouldsoonbealong. “Thefive-thirtytrainhasbeeninandgonehalfanhourago,”answeredthatbriskofficial. “Buttherewasapassengerdroppedoffforyou—alittlegirl. She’ssittingoutthereontheshingles. Iaskedhertogointotheladies’waitingroom,butsheinformedmegravelythatshepreferredtostayoutside. ‘Therewasmorescopeforimagination,’shesaid.She’sacase,Ishouldsay.” “I’mnotexpectingagirl,”saidMatthewblankly.“It’saboyI’vecomefor.Heshouldbehere.Mrs.AlexanderSpencerwastobringhimoverfromNovaScotiaforme.” Thestationmasterwhistled. “Guessthere’ssomemistake,”hesaid.“Mrs.Spencercameoffthetrainwiththatgirlandgaveherintomycharge. Saidyouandyoursisterwereadoptingherfromanorphanasylumandthatyouwouldbealongforherpresently. That’sallIknowaboutit—andIhaven’tgotanymoreorphansconcealedhereabouts.” “Idon’tunderstand,”saidMatthewhelplessly,wishingthatMarillawasathandtocopewiththesituation. “Well,you’dbetterquestionthegirl,”saidthestation-mastercarelessly. “Idaresayshe’llbeabletoexplain—she’sgotatongueofherown,that’scertain. Maybetheywereoutofboysofthebrandyouwanted.” Hewalkedjauntilyaway,beinghungry,andtheunfortunateMatthewwaslefttodothatwhichwasharderforhimthanbeardingalioninitsden—walkuptoagirl—astrangegirl—anorphangirl—anddemandofherwhyshewasn’taboy. Matthewgroanedinspiritasheturnedaboutandshuffledgentlydowntheplatformtowardsher. Shehadbeenwatchinghimeversincehehadpassedherandshehadhereyesonhimnow. Matthewwasnotlookingatherandwouldnothaveseenwhatshewasreallylikeifhehadbeen,butanordinaryobserverwouldhaveseenthis:Achildofabouteleven,garbedinaveryshort,verytight,veryuglydressofyellowish-graywincey. Sheworeafadedbrownsailorhatandbeneaththehat,extendingdownherback,weretwobraidsofverythick,decidedlyredhair. Herfacewassmall,whiteandthin,alsomuchfreckled;hermouthwaslargeandsowerehereyes,whichlookedgreeninsomelightsandmoodsandgrayinothers. Sofar,theordinaryobserver;anextraordinaryobservermighthaveseenthatthechinwasverypointedandpronounced;thatthebigeyeswerefullofspiritandvivacity;thatthemouthwassweet-lippedandexpressive;thattheforeheadwasbroadandfull;inshort,ourdiscerningextraordinaryobservermighthaveconcludedthatnocommonplacesoulinhabitedthebodyofthisstraywoman-childofwhomshyMatthewCuthbertwassoludicrouslyafraid. Matthew,however,wassparedtheordealofspeakingfirst,forassoonassheconcludedthathewascomingtohershestoodup,graspingwithonethinbrownhandthehandleofashabby,old-fashionedcarpet-bag;theothersheheldouttohim. “IsupposeyouareMr.MatthewCuthbertofGreenGables?” shesaidinapeculiarlyclear,sweetvoice.“I’mverygladtoseeyou. Iwasbeginningtobeafraidyouweren’tcomingformeandIwasimaginingallthethingsthatmighthavehappenedtopreventyou. Ihadmadeupmymindthatifyoudidn’tcomeformeto-nightI’dgodownthetracktothatbigwildcherry-treeatthebend,andclimbupintoittostayallnight. Iwouldn’tbeabitafraid,anditwouldbelovelytosleepinawildcherry-treeallwhitewithbloominthemoonshine,don’tyouthink? Youcouldimagineyouweredwellinginmarblehalls,couldn’tyou? AndIwasquitesureyouwouldcomeformeinthemorning,ifyoudidn’tto-night.” Matthewhadtakenthescrawnylittlehandawkwardlyinhis;thenandtherehedecidedwhattodo. Hecouldnottellthischildwiththeglowingeyesthattherehadbeenamistake;hewouldtakeherhomeandletMarilladothat. Shecouldn’tbeleftatBrightRiveranyhow,nomatterwhatmistakehadbeenmade,soallquestionsandexplanationsmightaswellbedeferreduntilhewassafelybackatGreenGables. “I’msorryIwaslate,”hesaidshyly.“Comealong.Thehorseisoverintheyard.Givemeyourbag.” “Oh,Icancarryit,”thechildrespondedcheerfully.“Itisn’theavy. I’vegotallmyworldlygoodsinit,butitisn’theavy. Andifitisn’tcarriedinjustacertainwaythehandlepullsout—soI’dbetterkeepitbecauseIknowtheexactknackofit.It’sanextremelyoldcarpet-bag. Oh,I’mverygladyou’vecome,evenifitwouldhavebeennicetosleepinawildcherry-tree. We’vegottodrivealongpiece,haven’twe?Mrs.Spencersaiditwaseightmiles.I’mgladbecauseIlovedriving. Oh,itseemssowonderfulthatI’mgoingtolivewithyouandbelongtoyou. I’veneverbelongedtoanybody—notreally.Buttheasylumwastheworst. I’veonlybeeninitfourmonths,butthatwasenough. Idon’tsupposeyoueverwereanorphaninanasylum,soyoucan’tpossiblyunderstandwhatitislike. It’sworsethananythingyoucouldimagine. Mrs.Spencersaiditwaswickedofmetotalklikethat,butIdidn’tmeantobewicked. It’ssoeasytobewickedwithoutknowingit,isn’tit? Theyweregood,youknow—theasylumpeople. Butthereissolittlescopefortheimaginationinanasylum—onlyjustintheotherorphans. Itwasprettyinterestingtoimaginethingsaboutthem—toimaginethatperhapsthegirlwhosatnexttoyouwasreallythedaughterofabeltedearl,whohadbeenstolenawayfromherparentsinherinfancybyacruelnursewhodiedbeforeshecouldconfess. Iusedtolieawakeatnightsandimaginethingslikethat,becauseIdidn’thavetimeintheday. Iguessthat’swhyI’msothin—IAMdreadfulthin,ain’tI?Thereisn’tapickonmybones. IdolovetoimagineI’mniceandplump,withdimplesinmyelbows.” WiththisMatthew’scompanionstoppedtalking,partlybecauseshewasoutofbreathandpartlybecausetheyhadreachedthebuggy. Notanotherworddidshesayuntiltheyhadleftthevillageandweredrivingdownasteeplittlehill,theroadpartofwhichhadbeencutsodeeplyintothesoftsoil,thatthebanks,fringedwithbloomingwildcherry-treesandslimwhitebirches,wereseveralfeetabovetheirheads. Thechildputoutherhandandbrokeoffabranchofwildplumthatbrushedagainstthesideofthebuggy. “Isn’tthatbeautiful?Whatdidthattree,leaningoutfromthebank,allwhiteandlacy,makeyouthinkof?”sheasked. “Wellnow,Idunno,”saidMatthew. “Why,abride,ofcourse—abrideallinwhitewithalovelymistyveil. I’veneverseenone,butIcanimaginewhatshewouldlooklike. Idon’teverexpecttobeabridemyself. I’msohomelynobodywilleverwanttomarryme—unlessitmightbeaforeignmissionary. Isupposeaforeignmissionarymightn’tbeveryparticular. ButIdohopethatsomedayIshallhaveawhitedress. Thatismyhighestidealofearthlybliss.Ijustloveprettyclothes. AndI’veneverhadaprettydressinmylifethatIcanremember—butofcourseit’sallthemoretolookforwardto,isn’tit? AndthenIcanimaginethatI’mdressedgorgeously. ThismorningwhenIlefttheasylumIfeltsoashamedbecauseIhadtowearthishorridoldwinceydress. Alltheorphanshadtowearthem,youknow. AmerchantinHopetonlastwinterdonatedthreehundredyardsofwinceytotheasylum. Somepeoplesaiditwasbecausehecouldn’tsellit,butI’dratherbelievethatitwasoutofthekindnessofhisheart,wouldn’tyou? WhenwegotonthetrainIfeltasifeverybodymustbelookingatmeandpityingme. ButIjustwenttoworkandimaginedthatIhadonthemostbeautifulpalebluesilkdress—becausewhenyouAREimaginingyoumightaswellimaginesomethingworthwhile—andabighatallflowersandnoddingplumes,andagoldwatch,andkidglovesandboots. IfeltcheereduprightawayandIenjoyedmytriptotheIslandwithallmymight. Iwasn’tabitsickcomingoverintheboat. NeitherwasMrs.Spenceralthoughshegenerallyis. Shesaidshehadn’ttimetogetsick,watchingtoseethatIdidn’tfalloverboard. Shesaidsheneversawthebeatofmeforprowlingabout. Butifitkeptherfrombeingseasickit’samercyIdidprowl,isn’tit? AndIwantedtoseeeverythingthatwastobeseenonthatboat,becauseIdidn’tknowwhetherI’deverhaveanotheropportunity. Oh,therearealotmorecherry-treesallinbloom!ThisIslandisthebloomiestplace. Ijustloveitalready,andI’msogladI’mgoingtolivehere. I’vealwaysheardthatPrinceEdwardIslandwastheprettiestplaceintheworld,andIusedtoimagineIwaslivinghere,butIneverreallyexpectedIwould. It’sdelightfulwhenyourimaginationscometrue,isn’tit?Butthoseredroadsaresofunny. WhenwegotintothetrainatCharlottetownandtheredroadsbegantoflashpastIaskedMrs.Spencerwhatmadethemredandshesaidshedidn’tknowandforpity’ssakenottoaskheranymorequestions. ShesaidImusthaveaskedherathousandalready. IsupposeIhad,too,buthowyougoingtofindoutaboutthingsifyoudon’taskquestions?AndwhatDOESmaketheroadsred?” “Wellnow,Idunno,”saidMatthew. “Well,thatisoneofthethingstofindoutsometime. Isn’titsplendidtothinkofallthethingstherearetofindoutabout? Itjustmakesmefeelgladtobealive—it’ssuchaninterestingworld. Itwouldn’tbehalfsointerestingifweknowallabouteverything,wouldit? There’dbenoscopeforimaginationthen,wouldthere?ButamItalkingtoomuch?PeoplearealwaystellingmeIdo.WouldyouratherIdidn’ttalk?IfyousaysoI’llstop. IcanSTOPwhenImakeupmymindtoit,althoughit’sdifficult.” Matthew,muchtohisownsurprise,wasenjoyinghimself. Likemostquietfolkshelikedtalkativepeoplewhentheywerewillingtodothetalkingthemselvesanddidnotexpecthimtokeepuphisendofit. Buthehadneverexpectedtoenjoythesocietyofalittlegirl. Womenwerebadenoughinallconscience,butlittlegirlswereworse. Hedetestedthewaytheyhadofsidlingpasthimtimidly,withsidewiseglances,asiftheyexpectedhimtogobblethemupatamouthfuliftheyventuredtosayaword. ThatwastheAvonleatypeofwell-bredlittlegirl. Butthisfreckledwitchwasverydifferent,andalthoughhefounditratherdifficultforhisslowerintelligencetokeepupwithherbriskmentalprocesseshethoughtthathe“kindoflikedherchatter.”Sohesaidasshylyasusual: “Oh,youcantalkasmuchasyoulike.Idon’tmind.” “Oh,I’msoglad.IknowyouandIaregoingtogetalongtogetherfine. It’ssucharelieftotalkwhenonewantstoandnotbetoldthatchildrenshouldbeseenandnotheard. I’vehadthatsaidtomeamilliontimesifIhaveonce. AndpeoplelaughatmebecauseIusebigwords. Butifyouhavebigideasyouhavetousebigwordstoexpressthem,haven’tyou?” “Wellnow,thatseemsreasonable,”saidMatthew. “Mrs.Spencersaidthatmytonguemustbehunginthemiddle. Butitisn’t—it’sfirmlyfastenedatoneend. Mrs.SpencersaidyourplacewasnamedGreenGables.Iaskedherallaboutit. Andshesaidthereweretreesallaroundit.Iwasgladderthanever.Ijustlovetrees. Andthereweren’tanyatallabouttheasylum,onlyafewpoorweeny-teenythingsoutinfrontwithlittlewhitewashedcageythingsaboutthem. Theyjustlookedlikeorphansthemselves,thosetreesdid. Itusedtomakemewanttocrytolookatthem. Iusedtosaytothem,‘Oh,youPOORlittlethings! IfyouwereoutinagreatbigwoodswithothertreesallaroundyouandlittlemossesandJunebellsgrowingoveryourrootsandabrooknotfarawayandbirdssinginginyoubranches,youcouldgrow,couldn’tyou?Butyoucan’twhereyouare. Iknowjustexactlyhowyoufeel,littletrees.’ Ifeltsorrytoleavethembehindthismorning. Youdogetsoattachedtothingslikethat,don’tyou? IsthereabrookanywherenearGreenGables?IforgottoaskMrs.Spencerthat.” “Wellnow,yes,there’sonerightbelowthehouse.” “Fancy.It’salwaysbeenoneofmydreamstolivenearabrook.IneverexpectedIwould,though.Dreamsdon’toftencometrue,dothey?Wouldn’titbeniceiftheydid? ButjustnowIfeelprettynearlyperfectlyhappy. Ican’tfeelexactlyperfectlyhappybecause—well,whatcolorwouldyoucallthis?” ShetwitchedoneofherlongglossybraidsoverherthinshoulderandhelditupbeforeMatthew’seyes. Matthewwasnotusedtodecidingonthetintsofladies’tresses,butinthiscasetherecouldn’tbemuchdoubt. “It’sred,ain’tit?”hesaid. Thegirlletthebraiddropbackwithasighthatseemedtocomefromherverytoesandtoexhaleforthallthesorrowsoftheages. “Yes,it’sred,”shesaidresignedly.“NowyouseewhyIcan’tbeperfectlyhappy.Nobodycouldwhohasredhair. Idon’tmindtheotherthingssomuch—thefrecklesandthegreeneyesandmyskinniness.Icanimaginethemaway. IcanimaginethatIhaveabeautifulrose-leafcomplexionandlovelystarryvioleteyes. ButICANNOTimaginethatredhairaway.Idomybest. Ithinktomyself,‘Nowmyhairisagloriousblack,blackastheraven’swing.’ ButallthetimeIKNOWitisjustplainredanditbreaksmyheart.Itwillbemylifelongsorrow. Ireadofagirlonceinanovelwhohadalifelongsorrowbutitwasn’tredhair. Herhairwaspuregoldripplingbackfromheralabasterbrow.Whatisanalabasterbrow?Inevercouldfindout.Canyoutellme?” “Wellnow,I’mafraidIcan’t,”saidMatthew,whowasgettingalittledizzy.Hefeltashehadoncefeltinhisrashyouthwhenanotherboyhadenticedhimonthemerry-go-roundatapicnic. “Well,whateveritwasitmusthavebeensomethingnicebecauseshewasdivinelybeautiful.Haveyoueverimaginedwhatitmustfeelliketobedivinelybeautiful?” “Wellnow,no,Ihaven’t,”confessedMatthewingenuously. “Ihave,often.Whichwouldyouratherbeifyouhadthechoice—divinelybeautifulordazzlinglycleverorangelicallygood?” “Wellnow,I—Idon’tknowexactly.” “NeitherdoI.Icanneverdecide.Butitdoesn’tmakemuchrealdifferenceforitisn’tlikelyI’lleverbeeither. It’scertainI’llneverbeangelicallygood.Mrs.Spencersays—oh,Mr.Cuthbert!Oh,Mr.Cuthbert!!Oh,Mr.Cuthbert!!!” ThatwasnotwhatMrs.Spencerhadsaid;neitherhadthechildtumbledoutofthebuggynorhadMatthewdoneanythingastonishing. Theyhadsimplyroundedacurveintheroadandfoundthemselvesinthe“Avenue.” The“Avenue,”socalledbytheNewbridgepeople,wasastretchofroadfourorfivehundredyardslong,completelyarchedoverwithhuge,wide-spreadingapple-trees,plantedyearsagobyaneccentricoldfarmer. Overheadwasonelongcanopyofsnowyfragrantbloom. Belowtheboughstheairwasfullofapurpletwilightandfaraheadaglimpseofpaintedsunsetskyshonelikeagreatrosewindowattheendofacathedralaisle. Itsbeautyseemedtostrikethechilddumb. Sheleanedbackinthebuggy,herthinhandsclaspedbeforeher,herfaceliftedrapturouslytothewhitesplendorabove. EvenwhentheyhadpassedoutandweredrivingdownthelongslopetoNewbridgeshenevermovedorspoke. Stillwithraptfaceshegazedafarintothesunsetwest,witheyesthatsawvisionstroopingsplendidlyacrossthatglowingbackground. ThroughNewbridge,abustlinglittlevillagewheredogsbarkedatthemandsmallboyshootedandcuriousfacespeeredfromthewindows,theydrove,stillinsilence. Whenthreemoremileshaddroppedawaybehindthemthechildhadnotspoken. Shecouldkeepsilence,itwasevident,asenergeticallyasshecouldtalk. “Iguessyou’refeelingprettytiredandhungry,”Matthewventuredtosayatlast,accountingforherlongvisitationofdumbnesswiththeonlyreasonhecouldthinkof. “Butwehaven’tveryfartogonow—onlyanothermile.” Shecameoutofherreveriewithadeepsighandlookedathimwiththedreamygazeofasoulthathadbeenwonderingafar,star-led. “Oh,Mr.Cuthbert,”shewhispered,“thatplacewecamethrough—thatwhiteplace—whatwasit?” “Wellnow,youmustmeantheAvenue,”saidMatthewafterafewmoments’profoundreflection.“Itisakindofprettyplace.” “Pretty?Oh,PRETTYdoesn’tseemtherightwordtouse.Norbeautiful,either.Theydon’tgofarenough.Oh,itwaswonderful—wonderful. It’sthefirstthingIeversawthatcouldn’tbeimproveduponbyimagination. Itjustsatisfiesmehere”—sheputonehandonherbreast—”itmadeaqueerfunnyacheandyetitwasapleasantache. Didyoueverhaveanachelikethat,Mr.Cuthbert?” “Wellnow,Ijustcan’trecollectthatIeverhad.” “Ihaveitlotsoftime—wheneverIseeanythingroyallybeautiful. Buttheyshouldn’tcallthatlovelyplacetheAvenue. Thereisnomeaninginanamelikethat. Theyshouldcallit—letmesee—theWhiteWayofDelight.Isn’tthataniceimaginativename? WhenIdon’tlikethenameofaplaceorapersonIalwaysimagineanewoneandalwaysthinkofthemso. TherewasagirlattheasylumwhosenamewasHepzibahJenkins,butIalwaysimaginedherasRosaliaDeVere. OtherpeoplemaycallthatplacetheAvenue,butIshallalwayscallittheWhiteWayofDelight. Havewereallyonlyanothermiletogobeforewegethome?I’mgladandI’msorry. I’msorrybecausethisdrivehasbeensopleasantandI’malwayssorrywhenpleasantthingsend. Somethingstillpleasantermaycomeafter,butyoucanneverbesure. Andit’ssooftenthecasethatitisn’tpleasanter.Thathasbeenmyexperienceanyhow.ButI’mgladtothinkofgettinghome. Yousee,I’veneverhadarealhomesinceIcanremember. Itgivesmethatpleasantacheagainjusttothinkofcomingtoareallytrulyhome.Oh,isn’tthatpretty!” Theyhaddrivenoverthecrestofahill. Belowthemwasapond,lookingalmostlikeariversolongandwindingwasit. Abridgespanneditmidwayandfromtheretoitslowerend,whereanamber-huedbeltofsand-hillsshutitinfromthedarkbluegulfbeyond,thewaterwasagloryofmanyshiftinghues—themostspiritualshadingsofcrocusandroseandetherealgreen,withotherelusivetintingsforwhichnonamehaseverbeenfound. Abovethebridgethepondranupintofringinggrovesoffirandmapleandlayalldarklytranslucentintheirwaveringshadows. Hereandthereawildplumleanedoutfromthebanklikeawhite-cladgirltip-toeingtoherownreflection. Fromthemarshattheheadofthepondcametheclear,mournfully-sweetchorusofthefrogs. Therewasalittlegrayhousepeeringaroundawhiteappleorchardonaslopebeyondand,althoughitwasnotyetquitedark,alightwasshiningfromoneofitswindows. “That’sBarry’spond,”saidMatthew. “Oh,Idon’tlikethatname,either.Ishallcallit—letmesee—theLakeofShiningWaters.Yes,thatistherightnameforit.Iknowbecauseofthethrill. WhenIhitonanamethatsuitsexactlyitgivesmeathrill.Dothingsevergiveyouathrill?” “Wellnow,yes.Italwayskindofgivesmeathrilltoseethemuglywhitegrubsthatspadeupinthecucumberbeds.Ihatethelookofthem.” “Oh,Idon’tthinkthatcanbeexactlythesamekindofathrill.Doyouthinkitcan? Theredoesn’tseemtobemuchconnectionbetweengrubsandlakesofshiningwaters,doesthere? ButwhydootherpeoplecallitBarry’spond?” “IreckonbecauseMr.Barrylivesupthereinthathouse.OrchardSlope’sthenameofhisplace. Ifitwasn’tforthatbigbushbehindityoucouldseeGreenGablesfromhere. Butwehavetogooverthebridgeandroundbytheroad,soit’snearhalfamilefurther.” “HasMr.Barryanylittlegirls?Well,notsoverylittleeither—aboutmysize.” “He’sgotoneabouteleven.HernameisDiana.” “Oh!”withalongindrawingofbreath.“Whataperfectlylovelyname!” “Wellnow,Idunno.There’ssomethingdreadfulheathenishaboutit,seemstome. I’drutherJaneorMaryorsomesensiblenamelikethat. ButwhenDianawasborntherewasaschoolmasterboardingthereandtheygavehimthenamingofherandhecalledherDiana.” “IwishtherehadbeenaschoolmasterlikethataroundwhenIwasborn,then.Oh,hereweareatthebridge.I’mgoingtoshutmyeyestight.I’malwaysafraidgoingoverbridges. Ican’thelpimaginingthatperhapsjustaswegettothemiddle,they’llcrumpleuplikeajack-knifeandnipus.SoIshutmyeyes. ButIalwayshavetoopenthemforallwhenIthinkwe’regettingnearthemiddle. Because,yousee,ifthebridgeDIDcrumpleupI’dwanttoSEEitcrumple.Whatajollyrumbleitmakes!Ialwaysliketherumblepartofit. Isn’titsplendidtherearesomanythingstolikeinthisworld?Therewe’reover.NowI’lllookback. Goodnight,dearLakeofShiningWaters. IalwayssaygoodnighttothethingsIlove,justasIwouldtopeople.Ithinktheylikeit. Thatwaterlooksasifitwassmilingatme.” WhentheyhaddrivenupthefurtherhillandaroundacornerMatthewsaid: “We’reprettynearhomenow.That’sGreenGablesover—” “Oh,don’ttellme,”sheinterruptedbreathlessly,catchingathispartiallyraisedarmandshuttinghereyesthatshemightnotseehisgesture.“Letmeguess.I’msureI’llguessright.” Sheopenedhereyesandlookedabouther.Theywereonthecrestofahill. Thesunhadsetsometimesince,butthelandscapewasstillclearinthemellowafterlight. Tothewestadarkchurchspireroseupagainstamarigoldsky. Belowwasalittlevalleyandbeyondalong,gently-risingslopewithsnugfarmsteadsscatteredalongit. Fromonetoanotherthechild’seyesdarted,eagerandwistful. Atlasttheylingeredononeawaytotheleft,farbackfromtheroad,dimlywhitewithblossomingtreesinthetwilightofthesurroundingwoods. Overit,inthestainlesssouthwestsky,agreatcrystal-whitestarwasshininglikealampofguidanceandpromise. “That’sit,isn’tit?”shesaid,pointing. Matthewslappedthereinsonthesorrel’sbackdelightedly. “Wellnow,you’veguessedit!ButIreckonMrs.Spencerdescribeditso’syoucouldtell.” “No,shedidn’t—reallyshedidn’t.Allshesaidmightjustaswellhavebeenaboutmostofthoseotherplaces. Ihadn’tanyrealideawhatitlookedlike. ButjustassoonasIsawitIfeltitwashome. Oh,itseemsasifImustbeinadream. Doyouknow,myarmmustbeblackandbluefromtheelbowup,forI’vepinchedmyselfsomanytimestoday. EverylittlewhileahorriblesickeningfeelingwouldcomeovermeandI’dbesoafraiditwasalladream. ThenI’dpinchmyselftoseeifitwasreal—untilsuddenlyIrememberedthatevensupposingitwasonlyadreamI’dbettergoondreamingaslongasIcould;soIstoppedpinching.ButitISrealandwe’renearlyhome.” Withasighofrapturesherelapsedintosilence.Matthewstirreduneasily. HefeltgladthatitwouldbeMarillaandnothewhowouldhavetotellthiswaifoftheworldthatthehomeshelongedforwasnottobehersafterall. TheydroveoverLynde’sHollow,whereitwasalreadyquitedark,butnotsodarkthatMrs.Rachelcouldnotseethemfromherwindowvantage,andupthehillandintothelonglaneofGreenGables. BythetimetheyarrivedatthehouseMatthewwasshrinkingfromtheapproachingrevelationwithanenergyhedidnotunderstand. ItwasnotofMarillaorhimselfhewasthinkingofthetroublethismistakewasprobablygoingtomakeforthem,butofthechild’sdisappointment. Whenhethoughtofthatraptlightbeingquenchedinhereyeshehadanuncomfortablefeelingthathewasgoingtoassistatmurderingsomething—muchthesamefeelingthatcameoverhimwhenhehadtokillalamborcalforanyotherinnocentlittlecreature. Theyardwasquitedarkastheyturnedintoitandthepoplarleaveswererustlingsilkilyallroundit. “Listentothetreestalkingintheirsleep,”shewhispered,asheliftedhertotheground.“Whatnicedreamstheymusthave!” Then,holdingtightlytothecarpet-bagwhichcontained“allherworldlygoods,”shefollowedhimintothehouse. 
