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I can feel already that I'm wondering what on earth she'll say next.

She'll be casting a spell over me, too.

She's cast it over Matthew.

That look he gave me when he went out said everything he said or hinted last night over again.

I wish he was like other men and would talk things out.

A body could answer back then and argue him into reason.

But what's to be done with a man who just LOOKS?"

Anne had relapsed into reverie, with her chin in her hands and her eyes on the sky, when Marilla returned from her cellar pilgrimage. There Marilla left her until the early dinner was on the table.

"I suppose I can have the mare and buggy this afternoon, Matthew?" said Marilla.

Matthew nodded and looked wistfully at Anne. Marilla intercepted the look and said grimly:

"I'm going to drive over to White Sands and settle this thing. I'll take Anne with me and Mrs. Spencer will probably make arrangements to send her back to Nova Scotia at once. I'll set your tea out for you and I'll be home in time to milk the cows."

Still Matthew said nothing and Marilla had a sense of having wasted words and breath. There is nothing more aggravating than a man who won't talk back-unless it is a woman who won't.

Matthew hitched the sorrel into the buggy in due time and Marilla and Anne set off. Matthew opened the yard gate for them and as they drove slowly through, he said, to nobody in particular as it seemed:

"Little Jerry Buote from the Creek was here this morning, and I told him I guessed I'd hire him for the summer."

Marilla made no reply, but she hit the unlucky sorrel such a vicious clip with the whip that the fat mare, unused to such treatment, whizzed indignantly down the lane at an alarming pace.

Marilla looked back once as the buggy bounced along and saw that aggravating Matthew leaning over the gate, looking wistfully after them.

"Do you know," said Anne confidentially, "I've made up my mind to enjoy this drive.

It's been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will.

Of course, you must make it up FIRMLY.

I am not going to think about going back to the asylum while we're having our drive.

I'm just going to think about the drive.

Oh, look, there's one little early wild rose out! Isn't it lovely? Don't you think it must be glad to be a rose? Wouldn't it be nice if roses could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely things.

And isn't pink the most bewitching color in the world? I love it, but I can't wear it.

Redheaded people can't wear pink, not even in imagination.

CHAPTER V. Anne's History

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