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"
I
--
I
suppose
so
,
"
said
Anne
reluctantly
.
She
felt
that
she
ought
to
be
blushing
while
making
such
a
confession
;
but
she
was
not
;
on
the
other
hand
,
she
always
blushed
hotly
when
any
one
said
anything
about
Gilbert
Blythe
or
Christine
Stuart
in
her
hearing
.
Gilbert
Blythe
and
Christine
Stuart
were
nothing
to
her
--
absolutely
nothing
.
But
Anne
had
given
up
trying
to
analyze
the
reason
of
her
blushes
.
As
for
Roy
,
of
course
she
was
in
love
with
him
--
madly
so
.
How
could
she
help
it
?
Was
he
not
her
ideal
?
Who
could
resist
those
glorious
dark
eyes
,
and
that
pleading
voice
?
Were
not
half
the
Redmond
girls
wildly
envious
?
And
what
a
charming
sonnet
he
had
sent
her
,
with
a
box
of
violets
,
on
her
birthday
!
Anne
knew
every
word
of
it
by
heart
.
It
was
very
good
stuff
of
its
kind
,
too
.
Not
exactly
up
to
the
level
of
Keats
or
Shakespeare
--
even
Anne
was
not
so
deeply
in
love
as
to
think
that
.
But
it
was
very
tolerable
magazine
verse
.
And
it
was
addressed
to
HER
--
not
to
Laura
or
Beatrice
or
the
Maid
of
Athens
,
but
to
her
,
Anne
Shirley
.
To
be
told
in
rhythmical
cadences
that
her
eyes
were
stars
of
the
morning
--
that
her
cheek
had
the
flush
it
stole
from
the
sunrise
--
that
her
lips
were
redder
than
the
roses
of
Paradise
,
was
thrillingly
romantic
.
Gilbert
would
never
have
dreamed
of
writing
a
sonnet
to
her
eyebrows
.
But
then
,
Gilbert
could
see
a
joke
.
She
had
once
told
Roy
a
funny
story
--
and
he
had
not
seen
the
point
of
it
.
She
recalled
the
chummy
laugh
she
and
Gilbert
had
had
together
over
it
,
and
wondered
uneasily
if
life
with
a
man
who
had
no
sense
of
humor
might
not
be
somewhat
uninteresting
in
the
long
run
But
who
could
expect
a
melancholy
,
inscrutable
hero
to
see
the
humorous
side
of
things
?
It
would
be
flatly
unreasonable
.
"
I
wonder
what
it
would
be
like
to
live
in
a
world
where
it
was
always
June
,
"
said
Anne
,
as
she
came
through
the
spice
and
bloom
of
the
twilit
orchard
to
the
front
door
steps
,
where
Marilla
and
Mrs.
Rachel
were
sitting
,
talking
over
Mrs.
Samson
Coates
'
funeral
,
which
they
had
attended
that
day
.
Dora
sat
between
them
,
diligently
studying
her
lessons
;
but
Davy
was
sitting
tailor-fashion
on
the
grass
,
looking
as
gloomy
and
depressed
as
his
single
dimple
would
let
him
.
"
You
'd
get
tired
of
it
,
"
said
Marilla
,
with
a
sigh
.
"
I
daresay
;
but
just
now
I
feel
that
it
would
take
me
a
long
time
to
get
tired
of
it
,
if
it
were
all
as
charming
as
today
.
Everything
loves
June
.
Davy-boy
,
why
this
melancholy
November
face
in
blossom-time
?
"
"
I
'm
just
sick
and
tired
of
living
,
"
said
the
youthful
pessimist
.
"
At
ten
years
?
Dear
me
,
how
sad
!
"
"
I
'm
not
making
fun
,
"
said
Davy
with
dignity
.
"
I
'm
dis
--
dis
--
discouraged
"
--
bringing
out
the
big
word
with
a
valiant
effort
.
"
Why
and
wherefore
?
"
asked
Anne
,
sitting
down
beside
him
.
