an
abominable profession for a man," cried Anne rather sharply, afraid
that Gilbert might blunder on the truth if he kept on in this strain.

"Bless us, Anne-girl, I'm not matchmaking," protested Gilbert, rather
surprised at her tone. "I was only thinking of one of the
might-have-beens."

"Well, don't. It's a waste of time," said Anne. Then she added
suddenly:

"Oh, Gilbert, I wish everybody could be as happy as we are."

CHAPTER 28

ODDS AND ENDS

"I've been reading obituary notices," said Miss Cornelia, laying down
the Daily Enterprise and taking up her sewing.

The harbor was lying black and sullen under a dour November sky; the
wet, dead leaves clung drenched and sodden to the window sills; but the
little house was gay with firelight and spring-like with Anne's ferns
and geraniums.

"It's always summer here, Anne," Leslie had said one day; and all who
were the guests of that house of dreams felt the same.

"The Enterprise seems to run to obituaries these days," quoth Miss
Cornelia. "It always has a couple of columns of them, and I read every
line. It's one of my forms of recreation, especially when there's some
original poetry attached to them. Here's a choice sample for you:

She's gone to be with her Maker,
Never more to roam.
She used to play and sing with joy
The song of Home, Sweet Home.

Who says we haven't any poetical talent on the Island! Have you ever
noticed what heaps of good people die, Anne, dearie? It's kind of
pitiful. Here's ten obituaries, and every one of them saints and
models, even the men. Here's old Peter Stimson, who has 'left a large
circle of friends to mourn his untimely loss.' Lord, Anne, dearie, that
man was eighty, and everybody who knew him had been wishing him dead
these thirty years. Read obituaries when you're blue, Anne,
dearie--especially the ones of folks you know. If you've any sense of
humor at all they'll cheer you up, believe ME. I just wish _I_ had the
writing of the obituaries of some people. Isn't 'obituary' an awful
ugly word? This very Peter I've been speaking of had a face exactly
like one. I never saw it but I thought of the word OBITUARY then and
there. There's only one uglier word that I know of, and that's RELICT.
Lord, Anne, dearie, I may be an old maid, but there's this comfort in
it--I'll never be any man's 'relict.'"

"It IS an ugly word," said Anne, laughing. "Avonlea graveyard was full
of old tombstones