IX. A Question of Color

           “ThatoldnuisanceofaRachelLyndewashereagaintoday,pesteringmeforasubscriptiontowardsbuyingacarpetforthevestryroom,”saidMr.Harrisonwrathfully.“IdetestthatwomanmorethananybodyIknow.Shecanputawholesermon,text,comment,andapplication,intosixwords,andthrowitatyoulikeabrick.”

           Anne,whowasperchedontheedgeoftheveranda,enjoyingthecharmofamildwestwindblowingacrossanewlyploughedfieldonagrayNovembertwilightandpipingaquaintlittlemelodyamongthetwistedfirsbelowthegarden,turnedherdreamyfaceoverhershoulder.

           “Thetroubleis,youandMrs.Lyndedon’tunderstandoneanother,”sheexplained.“Thatisalwayswhatiswrongwhenpeopledon’tlikeeachother.Ididn’tlikeMrs.Lyndeatfirsteither;butassoonasIcametounderstandherIlearnedto.”

           “Mrs.Lyndemaybeanacquiredtastewithsomefolks;butIdidn’tkeeponeatingbananasbecauseIwastoldI’dlearntolikethemifIdid,”growledMr.Harrison.“Andasforunderstandingher,IunderstandthatsheisaconfirmedbusybodyandItoldherso.”

           “Oh,thatmusthavehurtherfeelingsverymuch,”saidAnnereproachfully.“Howcouldyousaysuchathing?IsaidsomedreadfulthingstoMrs.LyndelongagobutitwaswhenIhadlostmytemper.Icouldn’tsaythemDELIBERATELY.”

           “ItwasthetruthandIbelieveintellingthetruthtoeverybody.”

           “Butyoudon’ttellthewholetruth,”objectedAnne.“Youonlytellthedisagreeablepartofthetruth.