erious and in deep, deadly earnest. MY
mission is, as Josiah Allen says, 'to charm and allure.' Confess now.
Hasn't life at Patty's Place been really much brighter and pleasanter
this past winter because I've been here to leaven you?"

"Yes, it has," owned Anne.

"And you all love me--even Aunt Jamesina, who thinks I'm stark mad. So
why should I try to be different? Oh, dear, I'm so sleepy. I was awake
until one last night, reading a harrowing ghost story. I read it in bed,
and after I had finished it do you suppose I could get out of bed to put
the light out? No! And if Stella had not fortunately come in late that
lamp would have burned good and bright till morning. When I heard Stella
I called her in, explained my predicament, and got her to put out the
light. If I had got out myself to do it I knew something would grab
me by the feet when I was getting in again. By the way, Anne, has Aunt
Jamesina decided what to do this summer?"

"Yes, she's going to stay here. I know she's doing it for the sake of
those blessed cats, although she says it's too much trouble to open her
own house, and she hates visiting."

"What are you reading?"

"Pickwick."

"That's a book that always makes me hungry," said Phil. "There's so much
good eating in it. The characters seem always to be reveling on ham and
eggs and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard rummage after reading
Pickwick. The mere thought reminds me that I'm starving. Is there any
tidbit in the pantry, Queen Anne?"

"I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it."

Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the orchard in
company with Rusty. It was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night in early
spring. The snow was not quite all gone from the park; a little dingy
bank of it yet lay under the pines of the harbor road, screened from the
influence of April suns. It kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the
evening air. But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and Gilbert
had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. He came up from
the park, his hands full of it.

Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the
poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset
with the very perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air--a
wondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in
Araby's perfume, and where she reigned queen and chatelaine. She frowned
as she saw Gilb