“All the boys of his class have Indian headdresses,
and Davy wants one too,” said Anne. “I
know how it feels . . . I’ll never forget
how I used to long for puffed sleeves when all the
other girls had them. And Davy isn’t being
spoiled. He is improving every day. Think
what a difference there is in him since he came here
a year ago.”
“He certainly doesn’t get into as much
mischief since he began to go to school,” acknowledged
Marilla. “I suppose he works off the tendency
with the other boys. But it’s a wonder
to me we haven’t heard from Richard Keith before
this. Never a word since last May.”
“I’ll be afraid to hear from him,”
sighed Anne, beginning to clear away the dishes.
“If a letter should come I’d dread opening
it, for fear it would tell us to send the twins to
him.”
A month later a letter did come. But it was not
from Richard Keith. A friend of his wrote to
say that Richard Keith had died of consumption a fortnight
previously. The writer of the letter was the executor
of his will and by that will the sum of two thousand
dollars was left to Miss Marilla Cuthbert in trust
for David and Dora Keith until they came of age or
married. In the meantime the interest was to be
used for their maintenance.
“It seems dreadful to be glad of anything in
connection with a death,” said Anne soberly.
“I’m sorry for poor Mr. Keith; but I am
glad that we can keep the twins.”
“It’s a very good thing about the money,”
said Marilla practically. “I wanted to
keep them but I really didn’t see how I could
afford to do it, especially when they grew older.
The rent of the farm doesn’t do any more than
keep the house and I was bound that not a cent of your
money should be spent on them. You do far too
much for them as it is. Dora didn’t need
that new hat you bought her any more than a cat needs
two tails. But now the way is made clear and
they are provided for.”
Davy and Dora were delighted when they heard that
they were to live at Green Gables, “for good.”
The death of an uncle whom they had never seen could
not weigh a moment in the balance against that.
But Dora had one misgiving.
“Was Uncle Richard buried?” she whispered
to Anne.
“Yes, dear, of course.”
“He . . . he . . . isn’t like Mirabel
Cotton’s uncle, is he?” in a still more
agitated whisper. “He won’t walk about
houses after being buried, will he, Anne?”
Miss Lavendar’s Romance
“I think I’ll take a walk through to Echo
Lodge this evening,” said Anne, one Friday afternoon
in December.
“It looks like snow,” said Marilla dubiously.
“I’ll be there before the snow comes and
I mean to stay all night. Diana can’t go
because she has company, and I’m sure Miss Lavendar
will be looking for me tonight. It’s a
whole fortnight since I was there.”
