Anne paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss its cream-white trunk.  Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her and laughed.

“Anne Shirley, you’re only pretending to be grown up.  I believe when you’re alone you’re as much a little girl as you ever were.”

“Well, one can’t get over the habit of being a little girl all at once,” said Anne gaily.  “You see, I was little for fourteen years and I’ve only been grown-uppish for scarcely three.  I’m sure I shall always feel like a child in the woods.  These walks home from school are almost the only time I have for dreaming . . . except the half-hour or so before I go to sleep.  I’m so busy with teaching and studying and helping Marilla with the twins that I haven’t another moment for imagining things.  You don’t know what splendid adventures I have for a little while after I go to bed in the east gable every night.  I always imagine I’m something very brilliant and triumphant and splendid . . . a great prima donna or a Red Cross nurse or a queen.  Last night I was a queen.  It’s really splendid to imagine you are a queen.  You have all the fun of it without any of the inconveniences and you can stop being a queen whenever you want to, which you couldn’t in real life.  But here in the woods I like best to imagine quite different things . . .  I’m a dryad living in an old pine, or a little brown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf.  That white birch you caught me kissing is a sister of mine.  The only difference is, she’s a tree and I’m a girl, but that’s no real difference.  Where are you going, Diana?”

“Down to the Dicksons.  I promised to help Alberta cut out her new dress.  Can’t you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?”

“I might . . . since Fred Wright is away in town,” said Anne with a rather too innocent face.

Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on.  She did not look offended, however.

Anne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons’ that evening, but she did not.  When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of affairs which banished every other thought from her mind.  Marilla met her in the yard . . . a wild-eyed Marilla.

“Anne, Dora is lost!”

“Dora!  Lost!” Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard gate, and detected merriment in his eyes.  “Davy, do you know where she is?”

“No, I don’t,” said Davy stoutly.  “I haven’t seen her since dinner time, cross my heart.”

“I’ve been away ever since one o’clock,” said Marilla.  “Thomas Lynde took sick all of a sudden and Rachel sent up for me to go at once.  When I left here Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy was making mud pies behind the barn.  I only got home half an hour ago . . . and no Dora to be seen.  Davy declares he never saw her since I left.”

“Neither I did,” avowed Davy solemnly.

“She must be somewhere around,” said Anne.  “She would never wander far away alone . . . you know how timid she is.  Perhaps she has fallen asleep in one of the rooms.”