Chapter I

The Shadow of Change

“Harvest is ended and summer is gone,” quoted Anne Shirley, gazing across the shorn fields dreamily.  She and Diana Barry had been picking apples in the Green Gables orchard, but were now resting from their labors in a sunny corner, where airy fleets of thistledown drifted by on the wings of a wind that was still summer-sweet with the incense of ferns in the Haunted Wood.

But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn.  The sea was roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare and sere, scarfed with golden rod, the brook valley below Green Gables overflowed with asters of ethereal purple, and the Lake of Shining Waters was blue—­blue—­blue; not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, steadfast, serene blue, as if the water were past all moods and tenses of emotion and had settled down to a tranquility unbroken by fickle dreams.

“It has been a nice summer,” said Diana, twisting the new ring on her left hand with a smile.  “And Miss Lavendar’s wedding seemed to come as a sort of crown to it.  I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving are on the Pacific coast now.”

“It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the world,” sighed Anne.

“I can’t believe it is only a week since they were married.  Everything has changed.  Miss Lavendar and Mr. and Mrs. Allan gone—­how lonely the manse looks with the shutters all closed!  I went past it last night, and it made me feel as if everybody in it had died.”

“We’ll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allan,” said Diana, with gloomy conviction.  “I suppose we’ll have all kinds of supplies this winter, and half the Sundays no preaching at all.  And you and Gilbert gone—­it will be awfully dull.”

“Fred will be here,” insinuated Anne slyly.

“When is Mrs. Lynde going to move up?” asked Diana, as if she had not heard Anne’s remark.

“Tomorrow.  I’m glad she’s coming—­but it will be another change.  Marilla and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday.  Do you know, I hated to do it?  Of course, it was silly—­but it did seem as if we were committing sacrilege.  That old spare room has always seemed like a shrine to me.  When I was a child I thought it the most wonderful apartment in the world.  You remember what a consuming desire I had to sleep in a spare room bed—­but not the Green Gables spare room.  Oh, no, never there!  It would have been too terrible—­I couldn’t have slept a wink from awe.  I never walked through that room when Marilla sent me in on an errand—­no, indeed, I tiptoed through it and held my breath, as if I were in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it.  The pictures of George Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington hung there, one on each side of the mirror, and frowned so sternly at me all the time I was in, especially if I dared peep in the