Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little

hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had

its source away back in the woods of the

old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier

course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the

time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a

quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel

Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that

Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window,

keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and

that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had

ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their

neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of

those capable creatures who can manage

their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain.

She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she "ran" the

Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday- school, and was the strongest prop of the

Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary.

Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her

kitchen window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts--she had knitted sixteen of them, as

Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in

awed voices--and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound

up the steep red hill beyond.

Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St.

Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had

to pass over that hill road and so run the

unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye.

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June.

The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below

the house was in a bridal flush of pinky- white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of

bees.

Thomas Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's

husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and

Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing

his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables.

Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the

evening before in William J.

Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon.

Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer

information about anything in his whole life.

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half- past three on the afternoon of a busy day,

placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and

his best suit of clothes, which was plain

proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which

betokened that he was going a considerable distance.

Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?

Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that

together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions.

But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual

which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among

strangers or to any place where he might have to talk.

Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that

didn't happen often.

Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's

enjoyment was spoiled.

"I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's

gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded.

"He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he NEVER visits; if he'd run

out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't

driving fast enough to be going for a doctor.

Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off.

I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience

until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."

Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling,

orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the

road from Lynde's Hollow.

To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further.

Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far

away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the

woods when he founded his homestead.

Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to

this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses

were so sociably situated.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place LIVING at all.

"It's just STAYING, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted,

grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes.

"It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by

themselves.

Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of

them. I'd ruther look at people.

To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it.

A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said."

With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables.

Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great

patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies.

Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there

had been.

Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as

often as she swept her house.

One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of

dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen

door and stepped in when bidden to do so.

The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if

it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an

unused parlor.

Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard,

came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of

the bloom white cherry-trees in the left

orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened

over by a tangle of vines.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of

sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which

was meant to be taken seriously; and here

she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper.

Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of

everything that was on that table.

There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home

with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-

apple preserves and one kind of cake, so

that the expected company could not be any particular company.

Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare?

Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet,

unmysterious Green Gables. "Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said

briskly.

"This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down?

How are all your folks?"

Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and

always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps

because of--their dissimilarity.

Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed

some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire

hairpins stuck aggressively through it.

She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she

was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so

slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor.

"We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid YOU weren't, though,

when I saw Matthew starting off today.

I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's."

Marilla's lips twitched understandingly.

She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting

off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity.

"Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday," she said.

"Matthew went to Bright River.

We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on

the train tonight."

If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from

Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished.

She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds.

It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost

forced to suppose it.

"Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her.

"Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova

Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead

of being an unheard of innovation.

Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt.

She thought in exclamation points. A boy!

Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy!

From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning

upside down!

She would be surprised at nothing after this!

Nothing! "What on earth put such a notion into your

head?" she demanded disapprovingly.

This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved.

"Well, we've been thinking about it for some time--all winter in fact," returned

Marilla.

"Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going

to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring.

Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it.

So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since.

We thought we'd get a boy.

Matthew is getting up in years, you know-- he's sixty--and he isn't so spry as he once

was. His heart troubles him a good deal.

And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired help.

There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and

as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off

to the lobster canneries or the States.

At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy.

But I said 'no' flat to that.

'They may be all right--I'm not saying they're not--but no London street Arabs for

me,' I said. 'Give me a native born at least.

There'll be a risk, no matter who we get.

But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born

Canadian.'

So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went

over to get her little girl.

We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at

Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven.

We decided that would be the best age--old enough to be of some use in doing chores

right off and young enough to be trained up proper.

We mean to give him a good home and schooling.

We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today--the mail-man brought it from

the station--saying they were coming on the five-thirty train tonight.

So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him.

Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to White Sands

station herself."

Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak

it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.

"Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish

thing--a risky thing, that's what. You don't know what you're getting.

You're bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don't know a single

thing about him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor

how he's likely to turn out.

Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the

Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night--set

it ON PURPOSE, Marilla--and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds.

And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs--they couldn't