ncy
in the hour, that was nothing.

Gilbert arrived at Green Gables in the evening and found Marilla and
Anne busily engaged in nailing strips of oilcloth over the broken
windows.

"Goodness only knows when we'll get glass for them," said Marilla. "Mr.
Barry went over to Carmody this afternoon but not a pane could he get
for love or money. Lawson and Blair were cleaned out by the Carmody
people by ten o'clock. Was the storm bad at White Sands, Gilbert?"

"I should say so. I was caught in the school with all the children and
I thought some of them would go mad with fright. Three of them fainted,
and two girls took hysterics, and Tommy Blewett did nothing but shriek
at the top of his voice the whole time."

"I only squealed once," said Davy proudly. "My garden was all smashed
flat," he continued mournfully, "but so was Dora's," he added in a tone
which indicated that there was yet balm in Gilead.

Anne came running down from the west gable.

"Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news? Mr. Levi Boulter's old house
was struck and burned to the ground. It seems to me that I'm dreadfully
wicked to feel glad over THAT, when so much damage has been done.
Mr. Boulter says he believes the A.V.I.S. magicked up that storm on
purpose."

"Well, one thing is certain," said Gilbert, laughing, "'Observer' has
made Uncle Abe's reputation as a weather prophet. 'Uncle Abe's storm'
will go down in local history. It is a most extraordinary coincidence
that it should have come on the very day we selected. I actually have a
half guilty feeling, as if I really had 'magicked' it up. We may as
well rejoice over the old house being removed, for there's not much to
rejoice over where our young trees are concerned. Not ten of them have
escaped."

"Ah, well, we'll just have to plant them over again next spring," said
Anne philosophically. "That is one good thing about this world . . . there
are always sure to be more springs."

XXV

An Avonlea Scandal

One blithe June morning, a fortnight after Uncle Abe's storm, Anne came
slowly through the Green Gables yard from the garden, carrying in her
hands two blighted stalks of white narcissus.

"Look, Marilla," she said sorrowfully, holding up the flowers before the
eyes of a grim lady, with her hair coifed in a green gingham apron, who
was going into the house with a plucked chicken, "these are the only
buds the storm spared . . . and even they are imperfect. I'm so sorry
. . . I wanted