th you. Marilla told me I was a goose
to put on my best hat to come to the Tory Road and she was right, as she
always is."

Diana untied the pony and drove into the shed, just as the first heavy
drops of rain fell. There she sat and watched the resulting downpour,
which was so thick and heavy that she could hardly see Anne through it,
holding the parasol bravely over her bare head. There was not a great
deal of thunder, but for the best part of an hour the rain came
merrily down. Occasionally Anne slanted back her parasol and waved an
encouraging hand to her friend; But conversation at that distance was
quite out of the question. Finally the rain ceased, the sun came out,
and Diana ventured across the puddles of the yard.

"Did you get very wet?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, no," returned Anne cheerfully. "My head and shoulders are quite
dry and my skirt is only a little damp where the rain beat through the
lathes. Don't pity me, Diana, for I haven't minded it at all. I kept
thinking how much good the rain will do and how glad my garden must be
for it, and imagining what the flowers and buds would think when the
drops began to fall. I imagined out a most interesting dialogue between
the asters and the sweet peas and the wild canaries in the lilac bush
and the guardian spirit of the garden. When I go home I mean to write
it down. I wish I had a pencil and paper to do it now, because I daresay
I'll forget the best parts before I reach home."

Diana the faithful had a pencil and discovered a sheet of wrapping paper
in the box of the buggy. Anne folded up her dripping parasol, put on her
hat, spread the wrapping paper on a shingle Diana handed up, and wrote
out her garden idyl under conditions that could hardly be considered as
favorable to literature. Nevertheless, the result was quite pretty, and
Diana was "enraptured" when Anne read it to her.

"Oh, Anne, it's sweet . . . just sweet. DO send it to the 'Canadian
Woman.'"

Anne shook her head.

"Oh, no, it wouldn't be suitable at all. There is no PLOT in it, you
see. It's just a string of fancies. I like writing such things, but of
course nothing of the sort would ever do for publication, for editors
insist on plots, so Priscilla says. Oh, there's Miss Sarah Copp now.
PLEASE, Diana, go and explain."

Miss Sarah Copp was a small person, garbed in shabby black, with a hat
chosen less for vain adornment than for qualities that would wear well.
She looked as amazed as