t to get acquainted
with all my new neighbors just as soon as possible. Mrs. Lynde is a
lovely woman, isn't she? So friendly."

When Anne went home in the sweet June dusk, Mrs. Harrison went with her
across the fields where the fireflies were lighting their starry lamps.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Harrison confidentially, "that James A. has told
you our story?"

"Yes."

"Then I needn't tell it, for James A. is a just man and he would tell
the truth. The blame was far from being all on his side. I can see that
now. I wasn't back in my own house an hour before I wished I hadn't been
so hasty but I wouldn't give in. I see now that I expected too much of
a man. And I was real foolish to mind his bad grammar. It doesn't matter
if a man does use bad grammar so long as he is a good provider and
doesn't go poking round the pantry to see how much sugar you've used
in a week. I feel that James A. and I are going to be real happy now.
I wish I knew who 'Observer' is, so that I could thank him. I owe him a
real debt of gratitude."

Anne kept her own counsel and Mrs. Harrison never knew that her
gratitude found its way to its object. Anne felt rather bewildered
over the far-reaching consequences of those foolish "notes." They had
reconciled a man to his wife and made the reputation of a prophet.

Mrs. Lynde was in the Green Gables kitchen. She had been telling the
whole story to Marilla.

"Well, and how do you like Mrs. Harrison?" she asked Anne.

"Very much. I think she's a real nice little woman."

"That's exactly what she is," said Mrs. Rachel with emphasis, "and as
I've just been sayin' to Marilla, I think we ought all to overlook Mr.
Harrison's peculiarities for her sake and try to make her feel at home
here, that's what. Well, I must get back. Thomas'll be wearying for me.
I get out a little since Eliza came and he's seemed a lot better these
past few days, but I never like to be long away from him. I hear Gilbert
Blythe has resigned from White Sands. He'll be off to college in the
fall, I suppose."

Mrs. Rachel looked sharply at Anne, but Anne was bending over a sleepy
Davy nodding on the sofa and nothing was to be read in her face. She
carried Davy away, her oval girlish cheek pressed against his curly
yellow head. As they went up the stairs Davy flung a tired arm about
Anne's neck and gave her a warm hug and a sticky kiss.

"You're awful nice, Anne. Milty Boulter wrote on his slate today and
showed it to Jennie S