“I am Mrs. DonNELL . . .  Mrs. H. B. DonNELL,” announced this vision, “and I have come in to see you about something Clarice Almira told me when she came home to dinner today.  It annoyed me excessively.”

“I’m sorry,” faltered Anne, vainly trying to recollect any incident of the morning connected with the Donnell children.

“Clarice Almira told me that you pronounced our name DONnell.  Now, Miss Shirley, the correct pronunciation of our name is DonNELL . . . accent on the last syllable.  I hope you’ll remember this in future.”

“I’ll try to,” gasped Anne, choking back a wild desire to laugh.  “I know by experience that it’s very unpleasant to have one’s name spelled wrong and I suppose it must be even worse to have it pronounced wrong.”

“Certainly it is.  And Clarice Almira also informed me that you call my son Jacob.”

“He told me his name was Jacob,” protested Anne.

“I might well have expected that,” said Mrs. H. B. Donnell, in a tone which implied that gratitude in children was not to be looked for in this degenerate age.  “That boy has such plebeian tastes, Miss Shirley.  When he was born I wanted to call him St. Clair . . . it sounds so aristocratic, doesn’t it?  But his father insisted he should be called Jacob after his uncle.  I yielded, because Uncle Jacob was a rich old bachelor.  And what do you think, Miss Shirley?  When our innocent boy was five years old Uncle Jacob actually went and got married and now he has three boys of his own.  Did you ever hear of such ingratitude?  The moment the invitation to the wedding . . . for he had the impertinence to send us an invitation, Miss Shirley . . . came to the house I said, ’No more Jacobs for me, thank you.’  From that day I called my son St. Clair and St. Clair I am determined he shall be called.  His father obstinately continues to call him Jacob, and the boy himself has a perfectly unaccountable preference for the vulgar name.  But St. Clair he is and St. Clair he shall remain.  You will kindly remember this, Miss Shirley, will you not?  Thank you.  I told Clarice Almira that I was sure it was only a misunderstanding and that a word would set it right.  Donnell. . . accent on the last syllable . . . and St. Clair . . . on no account Jacob.  You’ll remember?  Thank you.”

When Mrs. H. B. DonNELL had skimmed away Anne locked the school door and went home.  At the foot of the hill she found Paul Irving by the Birch Path.  He held out to her a cluster of the dainty little wild orchids which Avonlea children called “rice lillies.”

“Please, teacher, I found these in Mr. Wright’s field,” he said shyly, “and I came back to give them to you because I thought you were the kind of lady that would like them, and because . . .” he lifted his big beautiful eyes . . .  “I like you, teacher.”

“You darling,” said Anne, taking the fragrant spikes.  As if Paul’s words had been a spell of magic, discouragement and weariness passed from her spirit, and hope upwelled in her heart like a dancing fountain.  She went through the Birch Path light-footedly, attended by the sweetness of her orchids as by a benediction.