“I can’t really believe that this time tomorrow I’ll be in Green Gables,” said Anne on the night before departure.  “But I shall be.  And you, Phil, will be in Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo.”

“I’m longing to see them,” admitted Phil, between the chocolate she was nibbling.  “They really are such dear boys, you know.  There’s to be no end of dances and drives and general jamborees.  I shall never forgive you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with me for the holidays.”

“‘Never’ means three days with you, Phil.  It was dear of you to ask me—­and I’d love to go to Bolingbroke some day.  But I can’t go this year—­I must go home.  You don’t know how my heart longs for it.”

“You won’t have much of a time,” said Phil scornfully.  “There’ll be one or two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the old gossips will talk you over to your face and behind your back.  You’ll die of lonesomeness, child.”

“In Avonlea?” said Anne, highly amused.

“Now, if you’d come with me you’d have a perfectly gorgeous time.  Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne—­your hair and your style and, oh, everything!  You’re so different.  You’d be such a success—­and I would bask in reflected glory—­’not the rose but near the rose.’  Do come, after all, Anne.”

“Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but I’ll paint one to offset it.  I’m going home to an old country farmhouse, once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple orchards.  There is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond, where I’ve heard harps swept by the fingers of rain and wind.  There is a pond nearby that will be gray and brooding now.  There will be two oldish ladies in the house, one tall and thin, one short and fat; and there will be two twins, one a perfect model, the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a ‘holy terror.’  There will be a little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang thick, and a big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the height of luxury after a boardinghouse mattress.  How do you like my picture, Phil?”

“It seems a very dull one,” said Phil, with a grimace.

“Oh, but I’ve left out the transforming thing,” said Anne softly.  “There’ll be love there, Phil—­faithful, tender love, such as I’ll never find anywhere else in the world—­love that’s waiting for me.  That makes my picture a masterpiece, doesn’t it, even if the colors are not very brilliant?”

Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up to Anne, and put her arms about her.

“Anne, I wish I was like you,” she said soberly.

Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they drove home together under silent, star-sown depths of sky.  Green Gables had a very festal appearance as they drove up the lane.  There was a light in every window, the glow breaking out through the darkness like flame-red blossoms swung against the dark background of the Haunted Wood.  And in the yard was a brave bonfire with two gay little figures dancing around it, one of which gave an unearthly yell as the buggy turned in under the poplars.