l never forget how I used
to long for puffed sleeves when all the other girls had them. And Davy
isn't being spoiled. He is improving every day. Think what a difference
there is in him since he came here a year ago."

"He certainly doesn't get into as much mischief since he began to go to
school," acknowledged Marilla. "I suppose he works off the tendency with
the other boys. But it's a wonder to me we haven't heard from Richard
Keith before this. Never a word since last May."

"I'll be afraid to hear from him," sighed Anne, beginning to clear away
the dishes. "If a letter should come I'd dread opening it, for fear it
would tell us to send the twins to him."

A month later a letter did come. But it was not from Richard Keith. A
friend of his wrote to say that Richard Keith had died of consumption a
fortnight previously. The writer of the letter was the executor of his
will and by that will the sum of two thousand dollars was left to Miss
Marilla Cuthbert in trust for David and Dora Keith until they came of
age or married. In the meantime the interest was to be used for their
maintenance.

"It seems dreadful to be glad of anything in connection with a death,"
said Anne soberly. "I'm sorry for poor Mr. Keith; but I AM glad that we
can keep the twins."

"It's a very good thing about the money," said Marilla practically. "I
wanted to keep them but I really didn't see how I could afford to do
it, especially when they grew older. The rent of the farm doesn't do any
more than keep the house and I was bound that not a cent of your money
should be spent on them. You do far too much for them as it is. Dora
didn't need that new hat you bought her any more than a cat needs two
tails. But now the way is made clear and they are provided for."

Davy and Dora were delighted when they heard that they were to live at
Green Gables, "for good." The death of an uncle whom they had never seen
could not weigh a moment in the balance against that. But Dora had one
misgiving.

"Was Uncle Richard buried?" she whispered to Anne.

"Yes, dear, of course."

"He . . . he . . . isn't like Mirabel Cotton's uncle, is he?" in a still
more agitated whisper. "He won't walk about houses after being buried,
will he, Anne?"

XXIII

Miss Lavendar's Romance

"I think I'll take a walk through to Echo Lodge this evening," said
Anne, one Friday afternoon in December.

"It looks like snow," said Marilla dubiously.

"I'll be there before t