Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.

“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did you come from George Fletcher’s this morning?”

“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably.  “I got de word las’ night dat my fader, he was seeck.  It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go den, so I start vair early dis mornin’.  I’m goin’ troo de woods for short cut.”

“Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?” Anne’s desperation drove her to the question.  Even the worst would be more endurable than this hideous suspense.

“He’s better,” said Pacifique.  “He got de turn las’ night.  De doctor say he’ll be all right now dis soon while.  Had close shave, dough!  Dat boy, he jus’ keel himself at college.  Well, I mus’ hurry.  De old man, he’ll be in hurry to see me.”

Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle.  Anne gazed after him with eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night.  He was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth.  But in her sight he was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains.  Never, as long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique’s brown, round, black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for mourning.

Long after Pacifique’s gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover’s Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has been removed from it.  The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor.  In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses.  The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood.  A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips,

“Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.”

XLI

Love Takes Up the Glass of Time

“I’ve come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through September woods and ‘over hills where spices grow,’ this afternoon,” said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner.  “Suppose we visit Hester Gray’s garden.”

Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy, green stuff, looked up rather blankly.

“Oh, I wish I could,” she said slowly, “but I really can’t, Gilbert.  I’m going to Alice Penhallow’s wedding this evening, you know.  I’ve got to do something to this dress, and by the time it’s finished I’ll have to get ready.  I’m so sorry.  I’d love to go.”

“Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?” asked Gilbert, apparently not much disappointed.

“Yes, I think so.”

“In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should otherwise have to do tomorrow.  So Alice Penhallow is to be married tonight.  Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne—­Phil’s, Alice’s, and Jane’s.  I’ll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her wedding.”