“I guess you’d better have sold me that cow when I wanted to buy her last week, Anne,” chuckled Mr. Shearer.

“I’ll sell her to you now, if you want her,” said her flushed and disheveled owner.  “You may have her this very minute.”

“Done.  I’ll give you twenty for her as I offered before, and Jim here can drive her right over to Carmody.  She’ll go to town with the rest of the shipment this evening.  Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a Jersey cow.”

Five minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey cow were marching up the road, and impulsive Anne was driving along the Green Gables lane with her twenty dollars.

“What will Marilla say?” asked Diana.

“Oh, she won’t care.  Dolly was my own cow and it isn’t likely she’d bring more than twenty dollars at the auction.  But oh dear, if Mr. Harrison sees that grain he will know she has been in again, and after my giving him my word of honor that I’d never let it happen!  Well, it has taught me a lesson not to give my word of honor about cows.  A cow that could jump over or break through our milk-pen fence couldn’t be trusted anywhere.”

Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde’s, and when she returned knew all about Dolly’s sale and transfer, for Mrs. Lynde had seen most of the transaction from her window and guessed the rest.

“I suppose it’s just as well she’s gone, though you do do things in a dreadful headlong fashion, Anne.  I don’t see how she got out of the pen, though.  She must have broken some of the boards off.”

“I didn’t think of looking,” said Anne, “but I’ll go and see now.  Martin has never come back yet.  Perhaps some more of his aunts have died.  I think it’s something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the octogenarians.  The other evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaper and she said to Mr. Sloane, ’I see here that another octogenarian has just died.  What is an octogenarian, Peter?’ And Mr. Sloane said he didn’t know, but they must be very sickly creatures, for you never heard tell of them but they were dying.  That’s the way with Martin’s aunts.”

“Martin’s just like all the rest of those French,” said Marilla in disgust.  “You can’t depend on them for a day.”  Marilla was looking over Anne’s Carmody purchases when she heard a shrill shriek in the barnyard.  A minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wringing her hands.

“Anne Shirley, what’s the matter now?”

“Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do?  This is terrible.  And it’s all my fault.  Oh, will I ever learn to stop and reflect a little before doing reckless things?  Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something dreadful some day, and now I’ve done it!”

“Anne, you are the most exasperating girl!  What is it you’ve done?”

“Sold Mr. Harrison’s Jersey cow . . . the one he bought from Mr. Bell . . . to Mr. Shearer!  Dolly is out in the milking pen this very minute.”

“Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?”