ert coming through the orchard. Of late she had managed
not to be left alone with Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly now; and
even Rusty had deserted her.

Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers.

"Don't these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?"

Anne took them and buried her face in them.

"I'm in Mr. Silas Sloane's barrens this very minute," she said
rapturously.

"I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?"

"No, not for a fortnight. I'm going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke
before I go home. You'll be in Avonlea before I will."

"No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I've been
offered a job in the Daily News office and I'm going to take it."

"Oh," said Anne vaguely. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer would
be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect. "Well,"
she concluded flatly, "it is a good thing for you, of course."

"Yes, I've been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next year."

"You mustn't work too HARD," said Anne, without any very clear idea of
what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil would come out.
"You've studied very constantly this winter. Isn't this a delightful
evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets under that
old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had discovered a gold
mine."

"You are always discovering gold mines," said Gilbert--also absently.

"Let us go and see if we can find some more," suggested Anne eagerly.
"I'll call Phil and--"

"Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne," said Gilbert quietly,
taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. "There is
something I want to say to you."

"Oh, don't say it," cried Anne, pleadingly. "Don't--PLEASE, Gilbert."

"I must. Things can't go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. You
know I do. I--I can't tell you how much. Will you promise me that some
day you'll be my wife?"

"I--I can't," said Anne miserably. "Oh, Gilbert--you--you've spoiled
everything."

"Don't you care for me at all?" Gilbert asked after a very dreadful
pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up.

"Not--not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I
don't love you, Gilbert."

"But can't you give me some hope that you will--yet?"

"No, I can't," exclaimed Anne desperately. "I never, never can love
you--in that way--Gilbert. You must never speak of t