“And this is the girl who would never marry a man who wasn’t rich,” commented Anne to a young pine tree.

“Oh, don’t cast up the follies of my youth to me.  I shall be poor as gaily as I’ve been rich.  You’ll see.  I’m going to learn how to cook and make over dresses.  I’ve learned how to market since I’ve lived at Patty’s Place; and once I taught a Sunday School class for a whole summer.  Aunt Jamesina says I’ll ruin Jo’s career if I marry him.  But I won’t.  I know I haven’t much sense or sobriety, but I’ve got what is ever so much better—­the knack of making people like me.  There is a man in Bolingbroke who lisps and always testifies in prayer-meeting.  He says, ’If you can’t thine like an electric thtar thine like a candlethtick.’  I’ll be Jo’s little candlestick.”

“Phil, you’re incorrigible.  Well, I love you so much that I can’t make nice, light, congratulatory little speeches.  But I’m heart-glad of your happiness.”

“I know.  Those big gray eyes of yours are brimming over with real friendship, Anne.  Some day I’ll look the same way at you.  You’re going to marry Roy, aren’t you, Anne?”

“My dear Philippa, did you ever hear of the famous Betty Baxter, who ‘refused a man before he’d axed her’?  I am not going to emulate that celebrated lady by either refusing or accepting any one before he ‘axes’ me.”

“All Redmond knows that Roy is crazy about you,” said Phil candidly.  “And you do love him, don’t you, Anne?”

“I—­I suppose so,” said Anne reluctantly.  She felt that she ought to be blushing while making such a confession; but she was not; on the other hand, she always blushed hotly when any one said anything about Gilbert Blythe or Christine Stuart in her hearing.  Gilbert Blythe and Christine Stuart were nothing to her—­absolutely nothing.  But Anne had given up trying to analyze the reason of her blushes.  As for Roy, of course she was in love with him—­madly so.  How could she help it?  Was he not her ideal?  Who could resist those glorious dark eyes, and that pleading voice?  Were not half the Redmond girls wildly envious?  And what a charming sonnet he had sent her, with a box of violets, on her birthday!  Anne knew every word of it by heart.  It was very good stuff of its kind, too.  Not exactly up to the level of Keats or Shakespeare—­even Anne was not so deeply in love as to think that.  But it was very tolerable magazine verse.  And it was addressed to her—­not to Laura or Beatrice or the Maid of Athens, but to her, Anne Shirley.  To be told in rhythmical cadences that her eyes were stars of the morning—­that her cheek had the flush it stole from the sunrise—­that her lips were redder than the roses of Paradise, was thrillingly romantic.  Gilbert would never have dreamed of writing a sonnet to her eyebrows.  But then, Gilbert could see a joke.  She had once told Roy a funny story—­and he had not seen the point of it.  She recalled the chummy laugh she and Gilbert had had together over it, and wondered uneasily if life with a man who had no sense of humor might not be somewhat uninteresting in the long run.  But who could expect a melancholy, inscrutable hero to see the humorous side of things?  It would be flatly unreasonable.