“It . . . it . . . isn’t the feathers,” hesitated Diana.  “It’s . . . it’s . . . your nose, Anne.”

“My nose?  Oh, Diana, surely nothing has gone wrong with it!”

Anne rushed to the little looking glass over the sink.  One glance revealed the fatal truth.  Her nose was a brilliant scarlet!

Anne sat down on the sofa, her dauntless spirit subdued at last.

“What is the matter with it?” asked Diana, curiosity overcoming delicacy.

“I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotion on it, but I must have used that red dye Marilla has for marking the pattern on her rugs,” was the despairing response.  “What shall I do?”

“Wash it off,” said Diana practically.

“Perhaps it won’t wash off.  First I dye my hair; then I dye my nose.  Marilla cut my hair off when I dyed it but that remedy would hardly be practicable in this case.  Well, this is another punishment for vanity and I suppose I deserve it . . . though there’s not much comfort in that.  It is really almost enough to make one believe in ill-luck, though Mrs. Lynde says there is no such thing, because everything is foreordained.”

Fortunately the dye washed off easily and Anne, somewhat consoled, betook herself to the east gable while Diana ran home.  Presently Anne came down again, clothed and in her right mind.  The muslin dress she had fondly hoped to wear was bobbing merrily about on the line outside, so she was forced to content herself with her black lawn.  She had the fire on and the tea steeping when Diana returned; the latter wore her muslin, at least, and carried a covered platter in her hand.

“Mother sent you this,” she said, lifting the cover and displaying a nicely carved and jointed chicken to Anne’s greatful eyes.

The chicken was supplemented by light new bread, excellent butter and cheese, Marilla’s fruit cake and a dish of preserved plums, floating in their golden syrup as in congealed summer sunshine.  There was a big bowlful of pink-and-white asters also, by way of decoration; yet the spread seemed very meager beside the elaborate one formerly prepared for Mrs. Morgan.

Anne’s hungry guests, however, did not seem to think anything was lacking and they ate the simple viands with apparent enjoyment.  But after the first few moments Anne thought no more of what was or was not on her bill of fare.  Mrs. Morgan’s appearance might be somewhat disappointing, as even her loyal worshippers had been forced to admit to each other; but she proved to be a delightful conversationalist.  She had traveled extensively and was an excellent storyteller.  She had seen much of men and women, and crystalized her experiences into witty little sentences and epigrams which made her hearers feel as if they were listening to one of the people in clever books.  But under all her sparkle there was a strongly felt undercurrent of true, womanly sympathy and kindheartedness which won affection as easily as