“No, no, dear.  Shyness isn’t among the many failings—­or virtues—­of Philippa Gordon—­Phil for short.  Do call me Phil right off.  Now, what are your handles?”

“She’s Priscilla Grant,” said Anne, pointing.

“And she’s Anne Shirley,” said Priscilla, pointing in turn.

“And we’re from the Island,” said both together.

“I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia,” said Philippa.

“Bolingbroke!” exclaimed Anne.  “Why, that is where I was born.”

“Do you really mean it?  Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all.”

“No, it doesn’t,” retorted Anne.  “Wasn’t it Dan O’Connell who said that if a man was born in a stable it didn’t make him a horse?  I’m Island to the core.”

“Well, I’m glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway.  It makes us kind of neighbors, doesn’t it?  And I like that, because when I tell you secrets it won’t be as if I were telling them to a stranger.  I have to tell them.  I can’t keep secrets—­it’s no use to try.  That’s my worst failing—­that, and indecision, as aforesaid.  Would you believe it?—­it took me half an hour to decide which hat to wear when I was coming here—­here, to a graveyard!  At first I inclined to my brown one with the feather; but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with the floppy brim would be more becoming.  When I got it pinned in place I liked the brown one better.  At last I put them close together on the bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin.  The pin speared the pink one, so I put it on.  It is becoming, isn’t it?  Tell me, what do you think of my looks?”

At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla laughed again.  But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa’s hand,

“We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw at Redmond.”

Philippa’s crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile over very white little teeth.

“I thought that myself,” was her next astounding statement, “but I wanted some one else’s opinion to bolster mine up.  I can’t decide even on my own appearance.  Just as soon as I’ve decided that I’m pretty I begin to feel miserably that I’m not.  Besides, have a horrible old great-aunt who is always saying to me, with a mournful sigh, ’You were such a pretty baby.  It’s strange how children change when they grow up.’  I adore aunts, but I detest great-aunts.  Please tell me quite often that I am pretty, if you don’t mind.  I feel so much more comfortable when I can believe I’m pretty.  And I’ll be just as obliging to you if you want me to—­I can be, with a clear conscience.”

“Thanks,” laughed Anne, “but Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced of our own good looks that we don’t need any assurance about them, so you needn’t trouble.”