“All the boys of his class have Indian headdresses, and Davy wants one too,” said Anne. “I know how it feels . . .  I’ll never forget how I used to long for puffed sleeves when all the other girls had them.  And Davy isn’t being spoiled.  He is improving every day.  Think what a difference there is in him since he came here a year ago.”

“He certainly doesn’t get into as much mischief since he began to go to school,” acknowledged Marilla.  “I suppose he works off the tendency with the other boys.  But it’s a wonder to me we haven’t heard from Richard Keith before this.  Never a word since last May.”

“I’ll be afraid to hear from him,” sighed Anne, beginning to clear away the dishes.  “If a letter should come I’d dread opening it, for fear it would tell us to send the twins to him.”

A month later a letter did come.  But it was not from Richard Keith.  A friend of his wrote to say that Richard Keith had died of consumption a fortnight previously.  The writer of the letter was the executor of his will and by that will the sum of two thousand dollars was left to Miss Marilla Cuthbert in trust for David and Dora Keith until they came of age or married.  In the meantime the interest was to be used for their maintenance.

“It seems dreadful to be glad of anything in connection with a death,” said Anne soberly.  “I’m sorry for poor Mr. Keith; but I am glad that we can keep the twins.”

“It’s a very good thing about the money,” said Marilla practically.  “I wanted to keep them but I really didn’t see how I could afford to do it, especially when they grew older.  The rent of the farm doesn’t do any more than keep the house and I was bound that not a cent of your money should be spent on them.  You do far too much for them as it is.  Dora didn’t need that new hat you bought her any more than a cat needs two tails.  But now the way is made clear and they are provided for.”

Davy and Dora were delighted when they heard that they were to live at Green Gables, “for good.”  The death of an uncle whom they had never seen could not weigh a moment in the balance against that.  But Dora had one misgiving.

“Was Uncle Richard buried?” she whispered to Anne.

“Yes, dear, of course.”

“He . . . he . . . isn’t like Mirabel Cotton’s uncle, is he?” in a still more agitated whisper.  “He won’t walk about houses after being buried, will he, Anne?”

XXIII

Miss Lavendar’s Romance

“I think I’ll take a walk through to Echo Lodge this evening,” said Anne, one Friday afternoon in December.

“It looks like snow,” said Marilla dubiously.

“I’ll be there before the snow comes and I mean to stay all night.  Diana can’t go because she has company, and I’m sure Miss Lavendar will be looking for me tonight.  It’s a whole fortnight since I was there.”