hink of it--he would resolutely put it out of his
mind. How beautiful the old Glen was, in its August ripeness, with its
chain of bowery old homesteads, tilled meadows and quiet gardens. The
western sky was like a great golden pearl. Far down the harbour was
frosted with a dawning moonlight. The air was full of exquisite
sounds--sleepy robin whistles, wonderful, mournful, soft murmurs of
wind in the twilit trees, rustle of aspen poplars talking in silvery
whispers and shaking their dainty, heart-shaped leaves, lilting young
laughter from the windows of rooms where the girls were making ready
for the dance. The world was steeped in maddening loveliness of sound
and colour. He would think only of these things and of the deep, subtle
joy they gave him. "Anyhow, no one will expect me to go," he thought.
"As Jem says, typhoid has seen to that."

Rilla was leaning out of her room window, dressed for the dance. A
yellow pansy slipped from her hair and fell out over the sill like a
falling star of gold. She caught at it vainly--but there were enough
left. Miss Oliver had woven a little wreath of them for her pet's hair.

"It's so beautifully calm--isn't that splendid? We'll have a perfect
night. Listen, Miss Oliver--I can hear those old bells in Rainbow
Valley quite clearly. They've been hanging there for over ten years."

"Their wind chime always makes me think of the aerial, celestial music
Adam and Eve heard in Milton's Eden," responded Miss Oliver.

"We used to have such fun in Rainbow Valley when we were children,"
said Rilla dreamily.

Nobody ever played in Rainbow Valley now. It was very silent on summer
evenings. Walter liked to go there to read. Jem and Faith trysted there
considerably; Jerry and Nan went there to pursue uninterruptedly the
ceaseless wrangles and arguments on profound subjects that seemed to be
their preferred method of sweethearting. And Rilla had a beloved little
sylvan dell of her own there where she liked to sit and dream.

"I must run down to the kitchen before I go and show myself off to
Susan. She would never forgive me if I didn't."

Rilla whirled into the shadowy kitchen at Ingleside, where Susan was
prosaically darning socks, and lighted it up with her beauty. She wore
her green dress with its little pink daisy garlands, her silk stockings
and silver slippers. She had golden pansies in her hair and at her
creamy throat. She was so pretty and young and glowing that even Cousin
Sophia Cr