t the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of
good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a
passing steamer's smoke.

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful," murmured Anne. "I shall love Four Winds,
Gilbert. Where is our house?"

"We can't see it yet--the belt of birch running up from that little
cove hides it. It's about two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there's
another mile between it and the light-house. We won't have many
neighbors, Anne. There's only one house near us and I don't know who
lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I'm away?"

"Not with that light and that loveliness for company. Who lives in
that house, Gilbert?"

"I don't know. It doesn't look--exactly--as if the occupants would be
kindred spirits, Anne, does it?"

The house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green
that the landscape seemed quite faded by contrast. There was an
orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow,
there was a certain bareness about it. Perhaps its neatness was
responsible for this; the whole establishment, house, barns, orchard,
garden, lawn and lane, was so starkly neat.

"It doesn't seem probable that anyone with that taste in paint could be
VERY kindred," acknowledged Anne, "unless it were an accident--like our
blue hall. I feel certain there are no children there, at least. It's
even neater than the old Copp place on the Tory road, and I never
expected to see anything neater than that."

They had not met anybody on the moist, red road that wound along the
harbor shore. But just before they came to the belt of birch which hid
their home, Anne saw a girl who was driving a flock of snow-white geese
along the crest of a velvety green hill on the right. Great, scattered
firs grew along it. Between their trunks one saw glimpses of yellow
harvest fields, gleams of golden sand-hills, and bits of blue sea. The
girl was tall and wore a dress of pale blue print. She walked with a
certain springiness of step and erectness of bearing. She and her
geese came out of the gate at the foot of the hill as Anne and Gilbert
passed. She stood with her hand on the fastening of the gate, and
looked steadily at them, with an expression that hardly attained to
interest, but did not descend to curiosity. It seemed to Anne, for a
fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled hint of hostility in it.
But it was the girl's beauty which made Anne give a little g