na, every succeeding
thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in
a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white
throat and real carnations in her hair--rumor whispered that the master
had sent all the way to town for them for her--"climbed the slimy
ladder, dark without one ray of light," Anne shivered in luxurious
sympathy; when the choir sang "Far Above the Gentle Daisies" Anne gazed
at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane
proceeded to explain and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed
until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her
than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in
Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the
dead body of Caesar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy
Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and
mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way.

Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert
Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's
library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly
stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled.

It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the
exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody
seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed
into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened.
It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the
grate.

"Let's undress here," said Diana. "It's so nice and warm."

"Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must
be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be
asked to do it, Diana?"

"Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to
recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us.
Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to
the line,

"THERE'S ANOTHER, not A SISTER,

he looked right down at you."

"Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot
allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed?
Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first."

The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew
down the long room, thr