I. An Irate Neighbor

           Atall,slimgirl,“half-pastsixteen,”withseriousgrayeyesandhairwhichherfriendscalledauburn,hadsatdownonthebroadredsandstonedoorstepofaPrinceEdwardIslandfarmhouseoneripeafternooninAugust,firmlyresolvedtoconstruesomanylinesofVirgil.

           ButanAugustafternoon,withbluehazesscarfingtheharvestslopes,littlewindswhisperingelfishlyinthepoplars,andadancingslendorofredpoppiesoutflamingagainstthedarkcoppiceofyoungfirsinacornerofthecherryorchard,wasfitterfordreamsthandeadlanguages.TheVirgilsoonslippedunheededtotheground,andAnne,herchinproppedonherclaspedhands,andhereyesonthesplendidmassoffluffycloudsthatwereheapingupjustoverMr.J.A.Harrison’shouselikeagreatwhitemountain,wasfarawayinadeliciousworldwhereacertainschoolteacherwasdoingawonderfulwork,shapingthedestiniesoffuturestatesmen,andinspiringyouthfulmindsandheartswithhighandloftyambitions.

           Tobesure,ifyoucamedowntoharshfacts...which,itmustbeconfessed,Anneseldomdiduntilshehadto...itdidnotseemlikelythattherewasmuchpromisingmaterialforcelebritiesinAvonleaschool;butyoucouldnevertellwhatmighthappenifateacherusedherinfluenceforgood.Annehadcertainrose-tintedidealsofwhatateachermightaccomplishifsheonlywenttherightwayaboutit;andshewasinthemidstofadelightfulscene,fortyyearshence,withafamouspersonage...