ishes
washed, the uneaten delicacies packed into a basket for the delectation
of Charlotta the Fourth's young brothers at home. Anne would not rest
until everything was in apple-pie order; after Charlotta had gone home
with her plunder Anne went over the still rooms, feeling like one who
trod alone some banquet hall deserted, and closed the blinds. Then
she locked the door and sat down under the silver poplar to wait for
Gilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedly thinking "long, long
thoughts."

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" asked Gilbert, coming down the walk.
He had left his horse and buggy out at the road.

"Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving," answered Anne dreamily. "Isn't it
beautiful to think how everything has turned out . . . how they have come
together again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?"

"Yes, it's beautiful," said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne's
uplifted face, "but wouldn't it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if
there had been NO separation or misunderstanding . . . if they had come
hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but
those which belonged to each other?"

For a moment Anne's heart fluttered queerly and for the first time her
eyes faltered under Gilbert's gaze and a rosy flush stained the
paleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before her
inner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of
unsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, romance did not
come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down;
perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways;
perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of
illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music,
perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful
friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.

Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lane
was not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the evening
before. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger,
and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery,
its pain and gladness.

Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence he read the history
of the next four years in the light of Anne's remembered blush. Four
years of earnest, happy work . . . and then the guerdon of a u