“Walked, dearest of Marillas. Haven’t I done it a score of times in the Queen’s days? The mailman is to bring my trunk tomorrow; I just got homesick all at once, and came a day earlier. And oh! I’ve had such a lovely walk in the May twilight; I stopped by the barrens and picked these Mayflowers; I came through Violet-Vale; it’s just a big bowlful of violets now—the dear, sky-tinted things. Smell them, Marilla—drink them in.”
Marilla sniffed obligingly, but she was more interested in Anne than in drinking violets.
“Sit down, child. You must be real tired. I’m going to get you some supper.”
“There’s a darling moonrise behind the hills tonight, Marilla, and oh, how the frogs sang me home from Carmody! I do love the music of the frogs. It seems bound up with all my happiest recollections of old spring evenings. And it always reminds me of the night I came here first. Do you remember it, Marilla?”
“Well, yes,” said Marilla with emphasis. “I’m not likely to forget it ever.”
“They used to sing so madly in the marsh and brook that year. I would listen to them at my window in the dusk, and wonder how they could seem so glad and so sad at the same time. Oh, but it’s good to be home again! Redmond was splendid and Bolingbroke delightful—but Green Gables is home.”
“Gilbert isn’t coming home this summer, I hear,” said Marilla.
“No.” Something in Anne’s tone made Marilla glance at her sharply, but Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her violets in a bowl. “See, aren’t they sweet?” she went on hurriedly. “The year is a book, isn’t it, Marilla? Spring’s pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, summer’s in roses, autumn’s in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen.”
“Did Gilbert do well in his examinations?” persisted Marilla.
“Excellently well. He led his class. But where are the twins and Mrs. Lynde?”