“Anne Shirley!  How glorious!  What was it?  When is it to be published?  Did they pay you for it?”

“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that he would like to see more of my work.  Dear man, he shall.  It was an old sketch I found in my box.  I re-wrote it and sent it in—­but I never really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne, recalling the bitter experience of Averil’s Atonement.

“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne?  Let’s all go up town and get drunk,” suggested Phil.

“I am going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some sort,” declared Anne gaily.  “At all events it isn’t tainted money—­like the check I got for that horrible Reliable Baking Powder story.  I spent it usefully for clothes and hated them every time I put them on.”

“Think of having a real live author at Patty’s Place,” said Priscilla.

“It’s a great responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina solemnly.

“Indeed it is,” agreed Pris with equal solemnity.  “Authors are kittle cattle.  You never know when or how they will break out.  Anne may make copy of us.”

“I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina severely, “and I hope Anne realizes, it.  My daughter used to write stories before she went to the foreign field, but now she has turned her attention to higher things.  She used to say her motto was ’Never write a line you would be ashamed to read at your own funeral.’  You’d better take that for yours, Anne, if you are going to embark in literature.  Though, to be sure,” added Aunt Jamesina perplexedly, “Elizabeth always used to laugh when she said it.  She always laughed so much that I don’t know how she ever came to decide on being a missionary.  I’m thankful she did—­I prayed that she might—­but—­I wish she hadn’t.”

Then Aunt Jamesina wondered why those giddy girls all laughed.

Anne’s eyes shone all that day; literary ambitions sprouted and budded in her brain; their exhilaration accompanied her to Jennie Cooper’s walking party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and Christine, walking just ahead of her and Roy, could quite subdue the sparkle of her starry hopes.  Nevertheless, she was not so rapt from things of earth as to be unable to notice that Christine’s walk was decidedly ungraceful.

“But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face.  So like a man,” thought Anne scornfully.

“Shall you be home Saturday afternoon?” asked Roy.

“Yes.”

“My mother and sisters are coming to call on you,” said Roy quietly.

Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but it was hardly a pleasant one.  She had never met any of Roy’s family; she realized the significance of his statement; and it had, somehow, an irrevocableness about it that chilled her.