the little girl in the blue dress, standing
off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody, like
me. She looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't any
father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she
just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would
notice her--except Him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her heart
must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I
asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn't notice her. But
it's likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it all
out--her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close
to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and
oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist
hadn't painted Him so sorrowful looking. All His pictures are like that,
if you've noticed. But I don't believe He could really have looked so
sad or the children would have been afraid of Him."

"Anne," said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech
long before, "you shouldn't talk that way. It's irreverent--positively
irreverent."

Anne's eyes marveled.

"Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to be
irreverent."

"Well I don't suppose you did--but it doesn't sound right to talk so
familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you
after something you're to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and
imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right
to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by
heart."

Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had
brought in to decorate the dinner-table--Marilla had eyed that
decoration askance, but had said nothing--propped her chin on her hands,
and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes.

"I like this," she announced at length. "It's beautiful. I've heard it
before--I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it
over once. But I didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice and
he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a
disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same
way poetry does. 'Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be Thy name.'
That is just like a line of music. Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making
me learn this, Miss--Marilla."

"Well, learn