“I don’t believe it,” said Anne flatly.  In her secret soul she thought that the beautiful, poetical things said to Averil would win any girl’s heart completely.  Besides, it was gruesome to hear of Averil, the stately, queen-like Averil, “pitching” any one.  Averil “declined her suitors.”

“Anyhow,” resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, “I don’t see why Maurice Lennox didn’t get her.  He was twice the man the other is.  He did bad things, but he did them.  Perceval hadn’t time for anything but mooning.”

“Mooning.”  That was even worse than “pitching!”

“Maurice Lennox was the villain,” said Anne indignantly.  “I don’t see why every one likes him better than Perceval.”

“Perceval is too good.  He’s aggravating.  Next time you write about a hero put a little spice of human nature in him.”

“Averil couldn’t have married Maurice.  He was bad.”

“She’d have reformed him.  You can reform a man; you can’t reform a jelly-fish, of course.  Your story isn’t bad—­it’s kind of interesting, I’ll admit.  But you’re too young to write a story that would be worth while.  Wait ten years.”

Anne made up her mind that the next time she wrote a story she wouldn’t ask anybody to criticize it.  It was too discouraging.  She would not read the story to Gilbert, although she told him about it.

“If it is a success you’ll see it when it is published, Gilbert, but if it is a failure nobody shall ever see it.”

Marilla knew nothing about the venture.  In imagination Anne saw herself reading a story out of a magazine to Marilla, entrapping her into praise of it—­for in imagination all things are possible—­and then triumphantly announcing herself the author.

One day Anne took to the Post Office a long, bulky envelope, addressed, with the delightful confidence of youth and inexperience, to the very biggest of the “big” magazines.  Diana was as excited over it as Anne herself.

“How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it?” she asked.

“It shouldn’t be longer than a fortnight.  Oh, how happy and proud I shall be if it is accepted!”

“Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to send them more.  You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan some day, Anne, and then how proud I’ll be of knowing you,” said Diana, who possessed, at least, the striking merit of an unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces of her friends.

A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter awakening.  One evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable, with suspicious-looking eyes.  On the table lay a long envelope and a crumpled manuscript.

“Anne, your story hasn’t come back?” cried Diana incredulously.

“Yes, it has,” said Anne shortly.

“Well, that editor must be crazy.  What reason did he give?”