“They must study a little,” said Marilla, with a smile.

“Precious little,” sniffed Mrs. Rachel.  “However, I think Anne will.  She never was flirtatious.  But she doesn’t appreciate Gilbert at his full value, that’s what.  Oh, I know girls!  Charlie Sloane is wild about her, too, but I’d never advise her to marry a Sloane.  The Sloanes are good, honest, respectable people, of course.  But when all’s said and done, they’re Sloanes.”

Marilla nodded.  To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were Sloanes might not be very illuminating, but she understood.  Every village has such a family; good, honest, respectable people they may be, but Sloanes they are and must ever remain, though they speak with the tongues of men and angels.

Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the Haunted Wood.  Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue.  The distant spruce groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows barred the upland meadows.  But around them a little wind sang among the fir tassels, and in it there was the note of autumn.

“This wood really is haunted now—­by old memories,” said Anne, stooping to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness by frost.  “It seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used to be play here still, and sit by the Dryad’s Bubble in the twilights, trysting with the ghosts.  Do you know, I can never go up this path in the dusk without feeling a bit of the old fright and shiver?  There was one especially horrifying phantom which we created—­the ghost of the murdered child that crept up behind you and laid cold fingers on yours.  I confess that, to this day, I cannot help fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind me when I come here after nightfall.  I’m not afraid of the White Lady or the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never imagined that baby’s ghost into existence.  How angry Marilla and Mrs. Barry were over that affair,” concluded Anne, with reminiscent laughter.

The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas, threaded with gossamers.  Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces and a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley they found the “something” Gilbert was looking for.

“Ah, here it is,” he said with satisfaction.

“An apple tree—­and away back here!” exclaimed Anne delightedly.

“Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple tree, too, here in the very midst of pines and beeches, a mile away from any orchard.  I was here one day last spring and found it, all white with blossom.  So I resolved I’d come again in the fall and see if it had been apples.  See, it’s loaded.  They look good, too—­tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek.  Most wild seedlings are green and uninviting.”

“I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed,” said Anne dreamily.  “And how it has grown and flourished and held its own here all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!”