LITMIR.BIZ

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little stone house … and so there are two sides to it, as there seems to be to everything in this world.” The important note was written and Anne herself carried it to the Grafton post office, where she waylaid the mail carrier and asked him to leave it at the Avonlea office.

      “It’s so very important,” Anne assured him anxiously. The mail carrier was a rather grumpy old personage who did not at all look the part of a messenger of Cupid; and Anne was none too certain that his memory was to be trusted. But he said he would do his best to remember and she had to be contented with that.

      Charlotta the Fourth felt that some mystery pervaded the stone house that afternoon … a mystery from which she was excluded. Miss Lavendar roamed about the garden in a distracted fashion. Anne, too, seemed possessed by a demon of unrest, and walked to and fro and went up and down. Charlotta the Fourth endured it till patience ceased to be a virtue; then she confronted Anne on the occasion of that romantic young person’s third aimless peregrination through the kitchen.

      “Please, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” said Charlotta the Fourth, with an indignant toss of her very blue bows, “it’s plain to be seen you and Miss Lavendar have got a secret and I think, begging your pardon if I’m too forward, Miss Shirley, ma’am, that it’s real mean not to tell me when we’ve all been such chums.”

      “Oh, Charlotta dear, I’d have told you all about it if it were my secret … but it’s Miss Lavendar’s, you see. However, I’ll tell you this much … and if nothing comes of it you must never breathe a word about it to a living soul. You see, Prince Charming is coming tonight. He came long ago, but in a foolish moment went away and wandered afar and forgot the secret of the magic pathway to the enchanted castle, where the princess was weeping her faithful heart out for him. But at last he remembered it again and the princess is waiting still… because nobody but her own dear prince could carry her off.”

      “Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, what is that in prose?” gasped the mystified Charlotta.

      Anne laughed.

      “In prose, an old friend of Miss Lavendar’s is coming to see her tonight.”

      “Do you mean an old beau of hers?” demanded the literal Charlotta.

      “That is probably what I do mean … in prose,” answered Anne gravely. “It is Paul’s father … Stephen Irving. And goodness knows what will come of it, but let us hope for the best, Charlotta.”

      “I hope that he’ll marry Miss Lavendar,” was Charlotta’s unequivocal response. “Some women’s intended from the start to be old maids, and I’m afraid I’m one of them, Miss Shirley, ma’am, because I’ve awful little patience with the men. But Miss Lavendar never was. And I’ve been awful worried, thinking what on earth she’d do when I got so big I’d HAVE to go to Boston. There ain’t any more girls in our family and dear knows what she’d do if she got some stranger that might laugh at her pretendings and leave things lying round out of their place and not be willing to be called Charlotta the Fifth. She might get someone who wouldn’t be as unlucky as me in breaking dishes but she’d never get anyone who’d love her better.”

      And the faithful little handmaiden dashed to the oven door with a sniff.

      They went through the form of having tea as usual that night at Echo Lodge; but nobody really ate anything. After tea Miss Lavendar went to her room and put on her new forget-me-not organdy, while Anne did her hair for her. Both were dreadfully excited; but Miss Lavendar pretended to be very calm and indifferent.

      “I must really mend that rent in the curtain tomorrow,” she said anxiously, inspecting it as if it were the only thing of any importance just then. “Those curtains have not worn as well as they should, considering the price I paid. Dear me, Charlotta has forgotten to dust the stair railing AGAIN. I really MUST speak to her about it.”

      Anne was sitting on the porch steps when Stephen Irving came down the lane and across the garden.

      “This is the one place where time stands still,” he said, looking around him with delighted eyes. “There is nothing changed about this house or garden since I was here twenty-five years ago. It makes me feel young again.”

      “You know time always does stand still in an enchanted palace,” said Anne seriously. “It is only when the prince comes that things begin to happen.”

      Mr. Irving smiled a little sadly into her uplifted face, all astar with its youth and promise.

      “Sometimes the prince comes too late,” he said. He did not ask Anne to translate her remark into prose. Like all kindred spirits he “understood.”

      “Oh, no, not if he is the real prince coming to the true princess,” said Anne, shaking her red head decidedly, as she opened the parlor door. When he had gone in she shut it tightly behind him and turned to confront Charlotta the Fourth, who was in the hall, all “nods and becks and wreathed smiles.”

      “Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” she breathed, “I peeked from the kitchen window … and he’s awful handsome … and just the right age for Miss Lavendar. And oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, do you think it would be much harm to listen at the door?”

      “It would be dreadful, Charlotta,” said Anne firmly, “so just you come away with me out of the reach of temptation.”

      “I can’t do anything, and it’s awful to hang round just waiting,” sighed Charlotta. “What if he don’t propose after all, Miss Shirley, ma’am? You can never be sure of them men. My older sister, Charlotta the First, thought she was engaged to one once. But it turned out HE had a different opinion and she says she’ll never trust one of them again. And I heard of another case where a man thought he wanted one girl awful bad when it was really her sister he wanted all the time. When a man don’t know his own mind, Miss Shirley, ma’am, how’s a poor woman going to be sure of it?”

      “We’ll go to the kitchen and clean the silver spoons,” said Anne. “That’s a task which won’t require much thinking fortunately … for I COULDN’T think tonight. And it will pass the time.”

      It passed an hour. Then, just as Anne laid down the last shining spoon, they heard the front door shut. Both sought comfort fearfully in each other’s eyes.

      “Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” gasped Charlotta, “if he’s going away this early there’s nothing into it and never will be.” They flew to the window. Mr. Irving had no intention of going away. He and Miss Lavendar were strolling slowly down the middle path to the stone bench.

      “Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, he’s got his arm around her waist,” whispered Charlotta the Fourth delightedly. “He must have proposed to her or she’d never allow it.”

      Anne caught Charlotta the Fourth by her own plump waist and danced her around the kitchen until they were both out of breath.

      “Oh, Charlotta,” she cried gaily, “I’m neither a prophetess nor the daughter of a prophetess but I’m going to make a prediction. There’ll be a wedding in this old stone house before the maple leaves are red. Do you want that translated into prose, Charlotta?”

      “No, I can understand that,” said Charlotta. “A wedding ain’t poetry. Why, Miss Shirley, ma’am, you’re crying! What for?”

      “Oh, because it’s all so beautiful … and story bookish … and romantic … and sad,” said Anne, winking the tears out of her eyes. “It’s all perfectly lovely … but there’s a little sadness mixed up in it too, somehow.”

      “Oh, of course there’s a resk in marrying anybody,” conceded Charlotta the Fourth, “but, when all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am, there’s many a worse thing than a husband.”

      XXIX

      Poetry and Prose

      Table

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