scrubbed, and Mr. Harrison is shaved, though there wasn't
any preaching yesterday."

The Harrison kitchen wore a very unfamiliar look to Anne. The floor was
indeed scrubbed to a wonderful pitch of purity and so was every article
of furniture in the room; the stove was polished until she could see her
face in it; the walls were whitewashed and the window panes sparkled
in the sunlight. By the table sat Mr. Harrison in his working clothes,
which on Friday had been noted for sundry rents and tatters but which
were now neatly patched and brushed. He was sprucely shaved and what
little hair he had was carefully trimmed.

"Sit down, Anne, sit down," said Mr. Harrison in a tone but two degrees
removed from that which Avonlea people used at funerals. "Emily's
gone over to Carmody with Rachel Lynde . . . she's struck up a lifelong
friendship already with Rachel Lynde. Beats all how contrary women
are. Well, Anne, my easy times are over . . . all over. It's neatness and
tidiness for me for the rest of my natural life, I suppose."

Mr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully, but an irrepressible
twinkle in his eye betrayed him.

"Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife is come back," cried Anne, shaking
her finger at him. "You needn't pretend you're not, because I can see it
plainly."

Mr. Harrison relaxed into a sheepish smile.

"Well . . . well . . . I'm getting used to it," he conceded. "I can't say
I was sorry to see Emily. A man really needs some protection in a
community like this, where he can't play a game of checkers with a
neighbor without being accused of wanting to marry that neighbor's
sister and having it put in the paper."

"Nobody would have supposed you went to see Isabella Andrews if you
hadn't pretended to be unmarried," said Anne severely.

"I didn't pretend I was. If anybody'd have asked me if I was married I'd
have said I was. But they just took it for granted. I wasn't anxious to
talk about the matter . . . I was feeling too sore over it. It would have
been nuts for Mrs. Rachel Lynde if she had known my wife had left me,
wouldn't it now?"

"But some people say that you left her."

"She started it, Anne, she started it. I'm going to tell you the whole
story, for I don't want you to think worse of me than I deserve . . . nor
of Emily neither. But let's go out on the veranda. Everything is so
fearful neat in here that it kind of makes me homesick. I suppose I'll
get used to it after awhile but it ea