They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill
from the park. Just on the crest, where Spofford
Avenue petered out into a plain road, was a little
white frame house with groups of pines on either side
of it, stretching their arms protectingly over its
low roof. It was covered with red and gold vines,
through which its green-shuttered windows peeped.
Before it was a tiny garden, surrounded by a low stone
wall. October though it was, the garden was still
very sweet with dear, old-fashioned, unworldly flowers
and shrubs—sweet may, southern-wood, lemon
verbena, alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums.
A tiny brick wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from
the gate to the front porch. The whole place
might have been transplanted from some remote country
village; yet there was something about it that made
its nearest neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace
of a tobacco king, look exceedingly crude and showy
and ill-bred by contrast. As Phil said, it was
the difference between being born and being made.
“It’s the dearest place I ever saw,”
said Anne delightedly. “It gives me one
of my old, delightful funny aches. It’s
dearer and quainter than even Miss Lavendar’s
stone house.”
“It’s the name I want you to notice especially,”
said Phil. “Look—in white letters,
around the archway over the gate. ‘Patty’s
Place.’ Isn’t that killing?
Especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds
and Cedarcrofts? ‘Patty’s Place,’
if you please! I adore it.”
“Have you any idea who Patty is?” asked
Priscilla.
“Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady
who owns it, I’ve discovered. She lives
there with her niece, and they’ve lived there
for hundreds of years, more or less—maybe
a little less, Anne. Exaggeration is merely a
flight of poetic fancy. I understand that wealthy
folk have tried to buy the lot time and again—it’s
really worth a small fortune now, you know—but
‘Patty’ won’t sell upon any consideration.
And there’s an apple orchard behind the house
in place of a back yard—you’ll see
it when we get a little past—a real apple
orchard on Spofford Avenue!”
“I’m going to dream about ‘Patty’s
Place’ tonight,” said Anne. “Why,
I feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by
any chance, we’ll ever see the inside of it.”
“It isn’t likely,” said Priscilla.
Anne smiled mysteriously.
“No, it isn’t likely. But I believe
it will happen. I have a queer, creepy, crawly
feeling—you can call it a presentiment,
if you like—that ‘Patty’s Place’
and I are going to be better acquainted yet.”
Chapter VII
Home Again
Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long;
but the rest of the term flew by on wings of wind.
Before they realized it the Redmond students found
themselves in the grind of Christmas examinations,
emerging therefrom more or less triumphantly.
The honor of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated
between Anne, Gilbert and Philippa; Priscilla did
very well; Charlie Sloane scraped through respectably,
and comported himself as complacently as if he had
led in everything.
Copyrights
Anne of the Island from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
