“No reason at all.  There is just a printed slip saying that it wasn’t found acceptable.”

“I never thought much of that magazine, anyway,” said Diana hotly.  “The stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the Canadian Woman, although it costs so much more.  I suppose the editor is prejudiced against any one who isn’t a Yankee.  Don’t be discouraged, Anne.  Remember how Mrs. Morgan’s stories came back.  Send yours to the Canadian Woman.”

“I believe I will,” said Anne, plucking up heart.  “And if it is published I’ll send that American editor a marked copy.  But I’ll cut the sunset out.  I believe Mr. Harrison was right.”

Out came the sunset; but in spite of this heroic mutilation the editor of the Canadian Woman sent Averil’s Atonement back so promptly that the indignant Diana declared that it couldn’t have been read at all, and vowed she was going to stop her subscription immediately.  Anne took this second rejection with the calmness of despair.  She locked the story away in the garret trunk where the old Story Club tales reposed; but first she yielded to Diana’s entreaties and gave her a copy.

“This is the end of my literary ambitions,” she said bitterly.

She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening he asked her bluntly if her story had been accepted.

“No, the editor wouldn’t take it,” she answered briefly.

Mr. Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile.

“Well, I suppose you’ll keep on writing them,” he said encouragingly.

“No, I shall never try to write a story again,” declared Anne, with the hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face.

“I wouldn’t give up altogether,” said Mr. Harrison reflectively.  “I’d write a story once in a while, but I wouldn’t pester editors with it.  I’d write of people and places like I knew, and I’d make my characters talk everyday English; and I’d let the sun rise and set in the usual quiet way without much fuss over the fact.  If I had to have villains at all, I’d give them a chance, Anne—­I’d give them a chance.  There are some terrible bad men in the world, I suppose, but you’d have to go a long piece to find them—­though Mrs. Lynde believes we’re all bad.  But most of us have got a little decency somewhere in us.  Keep on writing, Anne.”

“No.  It was very foolish of me to attempt it.  When I’m through Redmond I’ll stick to teaching.  I can teach.  I can’t write stories.”

“It’ll be time for you to be getting a husband when you’re through Redmond,” said Mr. Harrison.  “I don’t believe in putting marrying off too long—­like I did.”

Anne got up and marched home.  There were times when Mr. Harrison was really intolerable.  “Pitching,” “mooning,” and “getting a husband.”  Ow!!

Chapter XIII

The Way of Transgressors

Davy and Dora were ready for Sunday School.  They were going alone, which did not often happen, for Mrs. Lynde always attended Sunday School.  But Mrs. Lynde had twisted her ankle and was lame, so she was staying home this morning.  The twins were also to represent the family at church, for Anne had gone away the evening before to spend Sunday with friends in Carmody, and Marilla had one of her headaches.