“Oh, it’s all so romantic,” breathed Anne to Marilla that night.  “If I hadn’t taken the wrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball’s I’d never have known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn’t met her I’d never have taken Paul there . . . and he’d never have written to his father about visiting Miss Lavendar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco.  Mr. Irving says whenever he got that letter he made up his mind to send his partner to San Francisco and come here instead.  He hadn’t heard anything of Miss Lavendar for fifteen years.  Somebody had told him then that she was to be married and he thought she was and never asked anybody anything about her.  And now everything has come right.  And I had a hand in bringing it about.  Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde says, everything is foreordained and it was bound to happen anyway.  But even so, it’s nice to think one was an instrument used by predestination.  Yes indeed, it’s very romantic.”

“I can’t see that it’s so terribly romantic at all,” said Marilla rather crisply.  Marilla thought Anne was too worked up about it and had plenty to do with getting ready for college without “traipsing” to Echo Lodge two days out of three helping Miss Lavendar.  “In the first place two young fools quarrel and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the States and after a spell gets married up there and is perfectly happy from all accounts.  Then his wife dies and after a decent interval he thinks he’ll come home and see if his first fancy’ll have him.  Meanwhile, she’s been living single, probably because nobody nice enough came along to want her, and they meet and agree to be married after all.  Now, where is the romance in all that?”

“Oh, there isn’t any, when you put it that way,” gasped Anne, rather as if somebody had thrown cold water over her.  “I suppose that’s how it looks in prose.  But it’s very different if you look at it through poetry . . . and I think it’s nicer . . .”  Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed . . . “to look at it through poetry.”

Marilla glanced at the radiant young face and refrained from further sarcastic comments.  Perhaps some realization came to her that after all it was better to have, like Anne, “the vision and the faculty divine” . . . that gift which the world cannot bestow or take away, of looking at life through some transfiguring . . . or revealing? . . . medium, whereby everything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wearing a glory and a freshness not visible to those who, like herself and Charlotta the Fourth, looked at things only through prose.

“When’s the wedding to be?” she asked after a pause.