“And you’ve won the twenty-five dollars,” continued Diana jubilantly.  “Why, I heard Priscilla say once that the Canadian Woman only pays five dollars for a story!”

Anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers.

“I can’t take it—­it’s yours by right, Diana.  You sent the story in and made the alterations.  I—­I would certainly never have sent it.  So you must take the check.”

“I’d like to see myself,” said Diana scornfully.  “Why, what I did wasn’t any trouble.  The honor of being a friend of the prizewinner is enough for me.  Well, I must go.  I should have gone straight home from the post office for we have company.  But I simply had to come and hear the news.  I’m so glad for your sake, Anne.”

Anne suddenly bent forward, put her arms about Diana, and kissed her cheek.

“I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, Diana,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice, “and I assure you I appreciate the motive of what you’ve done.”

Diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herself away, and poor Anne, after flinging the innocent check into her bureau drawer as if it were blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and outraged sensibility.  Oh, she could never live this down—­never!

Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, for he had called at Orchard Slope and heard the news.  But his congratulations died on his lips at sight of Anne’s face.

“Why, Anne, what is the matter?  I expected to find you radiant over winning Rollings Reliable prize.  Good for you!”

“Oh, Gilbert, not you,” implored Anne, in an et-Tu brute tone.  “I thought you would understand.  Can’t you see how awful it is?”

“I must confess I can’t.  What is wrong?”

“Everything,” moaned Anne.  “I feel as if I were disgraced forever.  What do you think a mother would feel like if she found her child tattooed over with a baking powder advertisement?  I feel just the same.  I loved my poor little story, and I wrote it out of the best that was in me.  And it is sacrilege to have it degraded to the level of a baking powder advertisement.  Don’t you remember what Professor Hamilton used to tell us in the literature class at Queen’s?  He said we were never to write a word for a low or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the very highest ideals.  What will he think when he hears I’ve written a story to advertise Rollings Reliable?  And, oh, when it gets out at Redmond!  Think how I’ll be teased and laughed at!”

“That you won’t,” said Gilbert, wondering uneasily if it were that confounded Junior’s opinion in particular over which Anne was worried.  “The Reds will think just as I thought—­that you, being like nine out of ten of us, not overburdened with worldly wealth, had taken this way of earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year.  I don’t see that there’s anything low or unworthy about that, or anything ridiculous either.  One would rather write masterpieces of literature no doubt—­but meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid.”