Accordingly they went house-hunting, but to find just what they wanted proved even harder than Priscilla had feared.  Houses there were galore, furnished and unfurnished; but one was too big, another too small; this one too expensive, that one too far from Redmond.  Exams were on and over; the last week of the term came and still their “house o’dreams,” as Anne called it, remained a castle in the air.

“We shall have to give up and wait till the fall, I suppose,” said Priscilla wearily, as they rambled through the park on one of April’s darling days of breeze and blue, when the harbor was creaming and shimmering beneath the pearl-hued mists floating over it.  “We may find some shack to shelter us then; and if not, boardinghouses we shall have always with us.”

“I’m not going to worry about it just now, anyway, and spoil this lovely afternoon,” said Anne, gazing around her with delight.  The fresh chill air was faintly charged with the aroma of pine balsam, and the sky above was crystal clear and blue—­a great inverted cup of blessing.  “Spring is singing in my blood today, and the lure of April is abroad on the air.  I’m seeing visions and dreaming dreams, Pris.  That’s because the wind is from the west.  I do love the west wind.  It sings of hope and gladness, doesn’t it?  When the east wind blows I always think of sorrowful rain on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore.  When I get old I shall have rheumatism when the wind is east.”

“And isn’t it jolly when you discard furs and winter garments for the first time and sally forth, like this, in spring attire?” laughed Priscilla.  “Don’t you feel as if you had been made over new?”

“Everything is new in the spring,” said Anne.  “Springs themselves are always so new, too.  No spring is ever just like any other spring.  It always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness.  See how green the grass is around that little pond, and how the willow buds are bursting.”

“And exams are over and gone—­the time of Convocation will come soon—­next Wednesday.  This day next week we’ll be home.”

“I’m glad,” said Anne dreamily.  “There are so many things I want to do.  I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze blowing down over Mr. Harrison’s fields.  I want to hunt ferns in the Haunted Wood and gather violets in Violet Vale.  Do you remember the day of our golden picnic, Priscilla?  I want to hear the frogs singing and the poplars whispering.  But I’ve learned to love Kingsport, too, and I’m glad I’m coming back next fall.  If I hadn’t won the Thorburn I don’t believe I could have.  I couldn’t take any of Marilla’s little hoard.”

“If we could only find a house!” sighed Priscilla.  “Look over there at Kingsport, Anne—­houses, houses everywhere, and not one for us.”

“Stop it, Pris.  ‘The best is yet to be.’  Like the old Roman, we’ll find a house or build one.  On a day like this there’s no such word as fail in my bright lexicon.”