that's
what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert's a man, and he worships the
ground she walks on, as any one can see. He's a fine fellow, and Anne
can't do better. I hope she won't get any romantic nonsense into her
head at Redmond. I don't approve of them coeducational places and never
did, that's what. I don't believe," concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, "that
the students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt."

"They must study a little," said Marilla, with a smile.

"Precious little," sniffed Mrs. Rachel. "However, I think Anne will. She
never was flirtatious. But she doesn't appreciate Gilbert at his full
value, that's what. Oh, I know girls! Charlie Sloane is wild about her,
too, but I'd never advise her to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes are good,
honest, respectable people, of course. But when all's said and done,
they're SLOANES."

Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were Sloanes
might not be very illuminating, but she understood. Every village has
such a family; good, honest, respectable people they may be, but SLOANES
they are and must ever remain, though they speak with the tongues of men
and angels.

Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being
settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the
Haunted Wood. Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset
radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The distant spruce
groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows barred the upland
meadows. But around them a little wind sang among the fir tassels, and
in it there was the note of autumn.

"This wood really is haunted now--by old memories," said Anne, stooping
to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness by frost. "It
seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used to be play here
still, and sit by the Dryad's Bubble in the twilights, trysting with
the ghosts. Do you know, I can never go up this path in the dusk without
feeling a bit of the old fright and shiver? There was one especially
horrifying phantom which we created--the ghost of the murdered child
that crept up behind you and laid cold fingers on yours. I confess that,
to this day, I cannot help fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind
me when I come here after nightfall. I'm not afraid of the White Lady or
the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never imagined that
baby's ghost into existence. How angry Marilla and Mrs. Barry w