“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!!
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.
