like Byron's 'Childe Harold'--only it isn't really my
'native shore' that I'm watching," said Anne, winking her gray eyes
vigorously. "Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one's native shore is
the land one loves the best, and that's good old P.E.I. for me. I can't
believe I didn't always live here. Those eleven years before I came seem
like a bad dream. It's seven years since I crossed on this boat--the
evening Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself, in
that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, exploring decks and
cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine evening; and how those
red Island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now I'm crossing the strait
again. Oh, Gilbert, I do hope I'll like Redmond and Kingsport, but I'm
sure I won't!"

"Where's all your philosophy gone, Anne?"

"It's all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness and
homesickness. I've longed for three years to go to Redmond--and now
I'm going--and I wish I weren't! Never mind! I shall be cheerful and
philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I MUST have that,
'as a went'--and I'll have to wait until I get into my boardinghouse
bed tonight, wherever it may be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be
herself again. I wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet."

It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they
found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne
felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by Priscilla
Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday.

"Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you're as tired as I was when I
got here Saturday night."

"Tired! Priscilla, don't talk of it. I'm tired, and green, and
provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake take your
poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think."

"I'll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I've a cab ready outside."

"It's such a blessing you're here, Prissy. If you weren't I think I
should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and weep bitter
tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness of
strangers!"

"Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up this past
year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. And of course
that's Charlie Sloane. HE hasn't changed--couldn't! He looked just like
that when he was born, and he'll look like that when he's eighty. This
way, dear