This commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case
cheered Anne a little. At least it removed her
dread of being laughed at, though the deeper hurt
of an outraged ideal remained.
Adjusted Relationships
“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—it’s
homier than home,” avowed Philippa Gordon, looking
about her with delighted eyes. They were all
assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty’s
Place—Anne and Priscilla, Phil and Stella,
Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah-Cat, and Gog
and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing
over the walls; the cats were purring; and a huge
bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one
of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like
creamy moons.
It was three weeks since they had considered themselves
settled, and already all believed the experiment would
be a success. The first fortnight after their
return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they had
been busy setting up their household goods, organizing
their little establishment, and adjusting different
opinions.
Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the
time came to return to college. The last few
days of her vacation had not been pleasant. Her
prize story had been published in the Island papers;
and Mr. William Blair had, upon the counter of his
store, a huge pile of pink, green and yellow pamphlets,
containing it, one of which he gave to every customer.
He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly
dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her humiliation
was the consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea
folks thought it quite splendid that she should have
won the prize. Her many friends regarded her with
honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy.
Josie Pye said she believed Anne Shirley had just
copied the story; she was sure she remembered reading
it in a paper years before. The Sloanes, who
had found out or guessed that Charlie had been “turned
down,” said they didn’t think it was much
to be proud of; almost any one could have done it,
if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very
sorry to hear she had taken to writing novels; nobody
born and bred in Avonlea would do it; that was what
came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where,
with goodness knew what kind of parents. Even
Mrs. Rachel Lynde was darkly dubious about the propriety
of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled
to it by that twenty-five dollar check.
“It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay
for such lies, that’s what,” she said,
half-proudly, half-severely.
