not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not
wanted her.

"Did you ever go to school?" demanded Marilla, turning the sorrel mare
down the shore road.

"Not a great deal. I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs.
Thomas. When I went up river we were so far from a school that I
couldn't walk it in winter and there was a vacation in summer, so I
could only go in the spring and fall. But of course I went while I was
at the asylum. I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of
poetry off by heart--'The Battle of Hohenlinden' and 'Edinburgh after
Flodden,' and 'Bingen of the Rhine,' and most of the 'Lady of the Lake'
and most of 'The Seasons' by James Thompson. Don't you just love poetry
that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a piece
in the Fifth Reader--'The Downfall of Poland'--that is just full of
thrills. Of course, I wasn't in the Fifth Reader--I was only in the
Fourth--but the big girls used to lend me theirs to read."

"Were those women--Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond--good to you?" asked
Marilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye.

"O-o-o-h," faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed
scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow. "Oh, they MEANT to be--I know
they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people
mean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not
quite--always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's very
trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to
have twins three times in succession, don't you think? But I feel sure
they meant to be good to me."

Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent
rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly
while she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for
the child. What a starved, unloved life she had had--a life of drudgery
and poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read between
the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been
so delighted at the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be
sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable
whim and let her stay? He was set on it; and the child seemed a nice,
teachable little thing.

"She's got too much to say," thought Marilla, "but she might be trained
out of that. And there's nothing rude or slangy in what she does say.
She's