Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in the seclusion of the porch gable.  She had achieved her “pathetic scene” without sacrificing Robert Ray, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana as she read it.  Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly; but, when the end came, she looked a little disappointed.

“Why did you kill Maurice Lennox?” she asked reproachfully.

“He was the villain,” protested Anne.  “He had to be punished.”

“I like him best of them all,” said unreasonable Diana.

“Well, he’s dead, and he’ll have to stay dead,” said Anne, rather resentfully.  “If I had let him live he’d have gone on persecuting Averil and Perceval.”

“Yes—­unless you had reformed him.”

“That wouldn’t have been romantic, and, besides, it would have made the story too long.”

“Well, anyway, it’s a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make you famous, of that I’m sure.  Have you got a title for it?”

“Oh, I decided on the title long ago.  I call it Averil’s atonement.  Doesn’t that sound nice and alliterative?  Now, Diana, tell me candidly, do you see any faults in my story?”

“Well,” hesitated Diana, “that part where Averil makes the cake doesn’t seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest.  It’s just what anybody might do.  Heroines shouldn’t do cooking, I think.”

“Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it’s one of the best parts of the whole story,” said Anne.  And it may be stated that in this she was quite right.

Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison was much harder to please.  First he told her there was entirely too much description in the story.

“Cut out all those flowery passages,” he said unfeelingly.

Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though it took three re-writings before the story could be pruned down to please the fastidious Mr. Harrison.

“I’ve left out all the descriptions but the sunset,” she said at last.  “I simply couldn’t let it go.  It was the best of them all.”

“It hasn’t anything to do with the story,” said Mr. Harrison, “and you shouldn’t have laid the scene among rich city people.  What do you know of them?  Why didn’t you lay it right here in Avonlea—­changing the name, of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lynde would probably think she was the heroine.”

“Oh, that would never have done,” protested Anne.  “Avonlea is the dearest place in the world, but it isn’t quite romantic enough for the scene of a story.”

“I daresay there’s been many a romance in Avonlea—­and many a tragedy, too,” said Mr. Harrison drily.  “But your folks ain’t like real folks anywhere.  They talk too much and use too high-flown language.  There’s one place where that Dalrymple chap talks even on for two pages, and never lets the girl get a word in edgewise.  If he’d done that in real life she’d have pitched him.”