“Oh, no,” returned Anne cheerfully.  “My head and shoulders are quite dry and my skirt is only a little damp where the rain beat through the lathes.  Don’t pity me, Diana, for I haven’t minded it at all.  I kept thinking how much good the rain will do and how glad my garden must be for it, and imagining what the flowers and buds would think when the drops began to fall.  I imagined out a most interesting dialogue between the asters and the sweet peas and the wild canaries in the lilac bush and the guardian spirit of the garden.  When I go home I mean to write it down.  I wish I had a pencil and paper to do it now, because I daresay I’ll forget the best parts before I reach home.”

Diana the faithful had a pencil and discovered a sheet of wrapping paper in the box of the buggy.  Anne folded up her dripping parasol, put on her hat, spread the wrapping paper on a shingle Diana handed up, and wrote out her garden idyl under conditions that could hardly be considered as favorable to literature.  Nevertheless, the result was quite pretty, and Diana was “enraptured” when Anne read it to her.

“Oh, Anne, it’s sweet . . . just sweet.  Do send it to the ’Canadian Woman.’”

Anne shook her head.

“Oh, no, it wouldn’t be suitable at all.  There is no plot in it, you see.  It’s just a string of fancies.  I like writing such things, but of course nothing of the sort would ever do for publication, for editors insist on plots, so Priscilla says.  Oh, there’s Miss Sarah Copp now.  Please, Diana, go and explain.”

Miss Sarah Copp was a small person, garbed in shabby black, with a hat chosen less for vain adornment than for qualities that would wear well.  She looked as amazed as might be expected on seeing the curious tableau in her yard, but when she heard Diana’s explanation she was all sympathy.  She hurriedly unlocked the back door, produced the axe, and with a few skillfull blows set Anne free.  The latter, somewhat tired and stiff, ducked down into the interior of her prison and thankfully emerged into liberty once more.

“Miss Copp,” she said earnestly.  “I assure you I looked into your pantry window only to discover if you had a willow-ware platter.  I didn’t see anything else—­I didn’t look for anything else.”

“Bless you, that’s all right,” said Miss Sarah amiably.  “You needn’t worry—­there’s no harm done.  Thank goodness, we Copps keep our pantries presentable at all times and don’t care who sees into them.  As for that old duckhouse, I’m glad it’s smashed, for maybe now Martha will agree to having it taken down.  She never would before for fear it might come in handy sometime and I’ve had to whitewash it every spring.  But you might as well argue with a post as with Martha.  She went to town today—­I drove her to the station.  And you want to buy my platter.  Well, what will you give for it?”

“Twenty dollars,” said Anne, who was never meant to match business wits with a Copp, or she would not have offered her price at the start.