Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde’s arms away from her, walked blindly across the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room.  At its window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly.  It was very dark.  The rain was beating down over the shivering fields.  The Haunted Woods was full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore.  And Gilbert was dying!

There is a book of Revelation in every one’s life, as there is in the Bible.  Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil through the hours of storm and darkness.  She loved Gilbert—­had always loved him!  She knew that now.  She knew that she could no more cast him out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her right hand and cast it from her.  And the knowledge had come too late—­too late even for the bitter solace of being with him at the last.  If she had not been so blind—­so foolish—­she would have had the right to go to him now.  But he would never know that she loved him—­he would go away from this life thinking that she did not care.  Oh, the black years of emptiness stretching before her!  She could not live through them—­she could not!  She cowered down by her window and wished, for the first time in her gay young life, that she could die, too.  If Gilbert went away from her, without one word or sign or message, she could not live.  Nothing was of any value without him.  She belonged to him and he to her.  In her hour of supreme agony she had no doubt of that.  He did not love Christine Stuart—­never had loved Christine Stuart.  Oh, what a fool she had been not to realize what the bond was that had held her to Gilbert—­to think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love.  And now she must pay for her folly as for a crime.

Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away.  The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent.  Anne saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness.  Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim.  The clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and silvery.  A hush fell over the world.

Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs.  The freshness of the rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and cooled her dry, burning eyes.  A merry rollicking whistle was lilting up the lane.  A moment later Pacifique Buote came in sight.

Anne’s physical strength suddenly failed her.  If she had not clutched at a low willow bough she would have fallen.  Pacifique was George Fletcher’s hired man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the Blythes.  Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert’s aunt.  Pacifique would know if—­if—­Pacifique would know what there was to be known.

Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling.  He did not see Anne.  She made three futile attempts to call him.  He was almost past before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call, “Pacifique!”