“What nonsense you do talk, Anne,” laughed Diana.  “You’ll marry somebody splendid and handsome and rich—­and no spare room in Avonlea will be half gorgeous enough for you—­and you’ll turn up your nose at all the friends of your youth.”

“That would be a pity; my nose is quite nice, but I fear turning it up would spoil it,” said Anne, patting that shapely organ.  “I haven’t so many good features that I could afford to spoil those I have; so, even if I should marry the King of the Cannibal Islands, I promise you I won’t turn up my nose at you, Diana.”

With another gay laugh the girls separated, Diana to return to Orchard Slope, Anne to walk to the Post Office.  She found a letter awaiting her there, and when Gilbert Blythe overtook her on the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters she was sparkling with the excitement of it.

“Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too,” she exclaimed.  “Isn’t that splendid?  I hoped she would, but she didn’t think her father would consent.  He has, however, and we’re to board together.  I feel that I can face an army with banners—­or all the professors of Redmond in one fell phalanx—­with a chum like Priscilla by my side.”

“I think we’ll like Kingsport,” said Gilbert.  “It’s a nice old burg, they tell me, and has the finest natural park in the world.  I’ve heard that the scenery in it is magnificent.”

“I wonder if it will be—­can be—­any more beautiful than this,” murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes of those to whom “home” must always be the loveliest spot in the world, no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars.

They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of the enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed from her sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot.  The fine, empurpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies, but the moon was rising and the water lay like a great, silver dream in her light.  Remembrance wove a sweet and subtle spell over the two young creatures.

“You are very quiet, Anne,” said Gilbert at last.

“I’m afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty will vanish just like a broken silence,” breathed Anne.

Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying on the rail of the bridge.  His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled his soul.  But Anne snatched her hand away and turned quickly.  The spell of the dusk was broken for her.

“I must go home,” she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness.  “Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I’m sure the twins will be in some dreadful mischief by this time.  I really shouldn’t have stayed away so long.”

She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached the Green Gables lane.  Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get a word in edgewise.  Anne felt rather relieved when they parted.  There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert, ever since that fleeting moment of revelation in the garden of Echo Lodge.  Something alien had intruded into the old, perfect, school-day comradeship—­something that threatened to mar it.