Gilbert arrived at Green Gables in the evening and found Marilla and Anne busily engaged in nailing strips of oilcloth over the broken windows.

“Goodness only knows when we’ll get glass for them,” said Marilla.  “Mr. Barry went over to Carmody this afternoon but not a pane could he get for love or money.  Lawson and Blair were cleaned out by the Carmody people by ten o’clock.  Was the storm bad at White Sands, Gilbert?”

“I should say so.  I was caught in the school with all the children and I thought some of them would go mad with fright.  Three of them fainted, and two girls took hysterics, and Tommy Blewett did nothing but shriek at the top of his voice the whole time.”

“I only squealed once,” said Davy proudly.  “My garden was all smashed flat,” he continued mournfully, “but so was Dora’s,” he added in a tone which indicated that there was yet balm in Gilead.

Anne came running down from the west gable.

“Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news?  Mr. Levi Boulter’s old house was struck and burned to the ground.  It seems to me that I’m dreadfully wicked to feel glad over that, when so much damage has been done.  Mr. Boulter says he believes the A.V.I.S. magicked up that storm on purpose.”

“Well, one thing is certain,” said Gilbert, laughing, “‘Observer’ has made Uncle Abe’s reputation as a weather prophet.  ‘Uncle Abe’s storm’ will go down in local history.  It is a most extraordinary coincidence that it should have come on the very day we selected.  I actually have a half guilty feeling, as if I really had ‘magicked’ it up.  We may as well rejoice over the old house being removed, for there’s not much to rejoice over where our young trees are concerned.  Not ten of them have escaped.”

“Ah, well, we’ll just have to plant them over again next spring,” said Anne philosophically.  “That is one good thing about this world . . . there are always sure to be more springs.”

XXV

An Avonlea Scandal

One blithe June morning, a fortnight after Uncle Abe’s storm, Anne came slowly through the Green Gables yard from the garden, carrying in her hands two blighted stalks of white narcissus.

“Look, Marilla,” she said sorrowfully, holding up the flowers before the eyes of a grim lady, with her hair coifed in a green gingham apron, who was going into the house with a plucked chicken, “these are the only buds the storm spared . . . and even they are imperfect.  I’m so sorry . . .  I wanted some for Matthew’s grave.  He was always so fond of June lilies.”

“I kind of miss them myself,” admitted Marilla, “though it doesn’t seem right to lament over them when so many worse things have happened. . . all the crops destroyed as well as the fruit.”

“But people have sown their oats over again,” said Anne comfortingly, “and Mr. Harrison says he thinks if we have a good summer they will come out all right though late.  And my annuals are all coming up again . . . but oh, nothing can replace the June lilies.  Poor little Hester Gray will have none either.  I went all the way back to her garden last night but there wasn’t one.  I’m sure she’ll miss them.”