Аня з Авонлеї
XXI. Sweet Miss Lavendar
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Itwasaccordinglyarrangedthattheyshouldwalk,andthefollowingafternoontheysetout,goingbywayofLover’sLanetothebackoftheCuthbertfarm,wheretheyfoundaroadleadingintotheheartofacresofglimmeringbeechandmaplewoods,whichwereallinawondrousglowofflameandgold,lyinginagreatpurplestillnessandpeace.
“It’sasiftheyearwerekneelingtoprayinavastcathedralfullofmellowstainedlight,isn’tit?”saidAnnedreamily.“Itdoesn’tseemrighttohurrythroughit,doesit?Itseemsirreverent,likerunninginachurch.”
“WeMUSThurrythough,”saidDiana,glancingatherwatch.“We’veleftourselveslittleenoughtimeasitis.”
“Well,I’llwalkfastbutdon’taskmetotalk,”saidAnne,quickeningherpace.“Ijustwanttodrinktheday’slovelinessin...IfeelasifshewereholdingitouttomylipslikeacupofairywineandI’lltakeasipateverystep.”
Perhapsitwasbecauseshewassoabsorbedin“drinkingitin”thatAnnetooktheleftturningwhentheycametoaforkintheroad.Sheshouldhavetakentheright,buteverafterwardshecounteditthemostfortunatemistakeofherlife.Theycameoutfinallytoalonely,grassyroad,withnothinginsightalongitbutranksofsprucesaplings.
“Why,wherearewe?”exclaimedDianainbewilderment.“Thisisn’ttheWestGraftonroad.”
“No,it’sthebaselineroadinMiddleGrafton,”saidAnne,rathershamefacedly.“Imusthavetakenthewrongturningatthefork.
