“If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she is not my aunt, and she has gone down to East Grafton to see a distant relative of hers who is very ill,” said Anne, with due increase of dignity at every word.  “I am very sorry that my cow should have broken into your oats . . . she is my cow and not Miss Cuthbert’s . . .  Matthew gave her to me three years ago when she was a little calf and he bought her from Mr. Bell.”

“Sorry, miss!  Sorry isn’t going to help matters any.  You’d better go and look at the havoc that animal has made in my oats . . . trampled them from center to circumference, miss.”

“I am very sorry,” repeated Anne firmly, “but perhaps if you kept your fences in better repair Dolly might not have broken in.  It is your part of the line fence that separates your oatfield from our pasture and I noticed the other day that it was not in very good condition.”

“My fence is all right,” snapped Mr. Harrison, angrier than ever at this carrying of the war into the enemy’s country.  “The jail fence couldn’t keep a demon of a cow like that out.  And I can tell you, you redheaded snippet, that if the cow is yours, as you say, you’d be better employed in watching her out of other people’s grain than in sitting round reading yellow-covered novels,” . . . with a scathing glance at the innocent tan-colored Virgil by Anne’s feet.

Something at that moment was red besides Anne’s hair . . . which had always been a tender point with her.

“I’d rather have red hair than none at all, except a little fringe round my ears,” she flashed.

The shot told, for Mr. Harrison was really very sensitive about his bald head.  His anger choked him up again and he could only glare speechlessly at Anne, who recovered her temper and followed up her advantage.

“I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison, because I have an imagination.  I can easily imagine how very trying it must be to find a cow in your oats and I shall not cherish any hard feelings against you for the things you’ve said.  I promise you that Dolly shall never break into your oats again.  I give you my word of honor on that point.”

“Well, mind you she doesn’t,” muttered Mr. Harrison in a somewhat subdued tone; but he stamped off angrily enough and Anne heard him growling to himself until he was out of earshot.

Grievously disturbed in mind, Anne marched across the yard and shut the naughty Jersey up in the milking pen.

“She can’t possibly get out of that unless she tears the fence down,” she reflected.  “She looks pretty quiet now.  I daresay she has sickened herself on those oats.  I wish I’d sold her to Mr. Shearer when he wanted her last week, but I thought it was just as well to wait until we had the auction of the stock and let them all go together.  I believe it is true about Mr. Harrison being a crank.  Certainly there’s nothing of the kindred spirit about him.”

Anne had always a weather eye open for kindred spirits.