ust so . . . just so," agreed Judson, imagining that they understood
each other beautifully. "I didn't suppose you would. Of course, I was
only stringing Jerry . . . he thinks he's so all-fired cute and smart.
I've no intention of voting for Amesbury. I'm going to vote for Grant as
I've always done . . . you'll see that when the election comes off. I just
led Jerry on to see if he would commit himself. And it's all right about
the fence . . . you can tell the Improvers that."

"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I've often heard, but
I think there are some who could be spared," Anne told her reflection
in the east gable mirror that night. "I wouldn't have mentioned the
disgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience is clear on THAT
score. I really don't know who or what is to be thanked for this. _I_
did nothing to bring it about, and it's hard to believe that Providence
ever works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson Parker and
Jerry Corcoran have."

XV

The Beginning of Vacation

Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when the
winds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadows
were long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key into
her pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, she
had been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction.
. . . only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strap
oftener . . . and two delightful months of a well-earned vacation
beckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herself
as she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand.
Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weekly
pilgrimage to Matthew's grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla,
had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but his
memory was still green in Anne's heart and always would be. She could
never forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her the
love and sympathy her starved childhood had craved.

At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow of
the spruces . . . a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive
face. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces of
tears on his cheeks.

"I thought I'd wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to
the graveyard," he said, slipping his hand into hers. "I'm going there,
too . . .