aid
Gilbert teasingly.

"No--o--o, not exactly. And yet--I think she WAS one of them once, but
has gone or got into exile," said Anne musingly. "She is certainly
very different from the other women about here. You can't talk about
eggs and butter to HER. To think I've been imagining her a second Mrs.
Rachel Lynde! Have you ever seen Dick Moore, Gilbert?"

"No. I've seen several men working about the fields of the farm, but I
don't know which was Moore."

"She never mentioned him. I KNOW she isn't happy."

"From what you tell me I suppose she was married before she was old
enough to know her own mind or heart, and found out too late that she
had made a mistake. It's a common tragedy enough, Anne.

"A fine woman would have made the best of it. Mrs. Moore has evidently
let it make her bitter and resentful."

"Don't let us judge her till we know," pleaded Anne. "I don't believe
her case is so ordinary. You will understand her fascination when you
meet her, Gilbert. It is a thing quite apart from her beauty. I feel
that she possesses a rich nature, into which a friend might enter as
into a kingdom; but for some reason she bars every one out and shuts
all her possibilities up in herself, so that they cannot develop and
blossom. There, I've been struggling to define her to myself ever
since I left her, and that is the nearest I can get to it. I'm going
to ask Miss Cornelia about her."

CHAPTER 11

THE STORY OF LESLIE MOORE

"Yes, the eighth baby arrived a fortnight ago," said Miss Cornelia,
from a rocker before the fire of the little house one chilly October
afternoon. "It's a girl. Fred was ranting mad--said he wanted a
boy--when the truth is he didn't want it at all. If it had been a boy
he'd have ranted because it wasn't a girl. They had four girls and
three boys before, so I can't see that it made much difference what
this one was, but of course he'd have to be cantankerous, just like a
man. The baby is real pretty, dressed up in its nice little clothes.
It has black eyes and the dearest, tiny hands."

"I must go and see it. I just love babies," said Anne, smiling to
herself over a thought too dear and sacred to be put into words.

"I don't say but what they're nice," admitted Miss Cornelia. "But some
folks seem to have more than they really need, believe ME. My poor
cousin Flora up at the Glen had eleven, and such a slave as she is!
Her husband suicided three years ago. Just like