In her own time Di arose and rambled back to Ingleside; she was met by a commotion, for three-fourths of the manse children of old had come to call. Faith's bright laughter rang out through the glimmering dusk and her golden beauty threw a shimmering circle of warmth around her. When had Faith become so lovely? It seemed only yesterday that she had been the rag-tag urchin that made the Glen throw its hands up in despair. Now, laughing with Jem in the light of the Chinese paper lanterns which had been strung up around the porch rail, she gleamed like a pearl, and her silhouette was like the warm ivory of a cameo.

Una sat in shadow, her hands full of some mending she had brought up in her basket. That was Una's way—she was always doing the little, useful things that garnered no praise but were appreciated in a roundabout sort of way. Her black hair lay smoothly on either side of her little white face; her blue eyes followed the movements of everyone else, but she seemed apart from them. That was her way, also.

Jerry, brash Jerry, with his laughing eyes, was teasing Nan—goodness, look at Nan blush! Nan never blushed, and Di met Shirley's eyes significantly. They had their own suspicions—although Nan had never so much as intimated—but still.

"But where is Carl?" Di wondered aloud.

"Oh—he's out somewhere looking for fireflies," said Jerry, tweaking the ribbon in Nan's hair, making her blush an even deeper shade of red. Di suddenly thought it was a good thing that she didn't have anyone to make her blush like that. Then she would be all red. But she thought it with a little pang—that was quickly dismissed.

Good smells from Susan's kitchen wafted out. "I hope we'll be asked for supper," said Faith in her funny, blunt way. "Mother's had her hands full with little Bruce—he has the chicken-pox, you know—and Una and I planned to do the cooking ourselves. But Uncle Norman Douglas came up at dinner time with some grizzled meat and potatoes he'd cooked up—all by himself! Aunt Ellen is still getting over her cold, you know. Goodness! It was macanacaddy, if macanacaddy I've ever tasted."

"Of course you'll stay to supper," said Mrs. Dr. Blythe, appearing amid all the confusion of young boys and girls, looking tall and cool in her white gown. She did not look out-of-place among the young folks—Di thought she looked rather like a girl herself. Oh, if only she were beautiful, like mother! Then she wouldn't mind her red hair!

Dear mother—sweet mother—she seemed to know what Di was thinking, and went and slipped her arm around her daughter's waist. "You've gotten some sun today, darling," she said. "Susan will make you a cream to put on your face before bed." She dropped a soothing kiss on Di's face and seated herself on the top step.

"Now," Anne wondered, dimples showing mirthfully in her cheeks, "What were we talking about—if, indeed, it is something you can discuss before an old lady like me?"

The boys and girls on the porch exchanged laughing glances. To think of mother—Mrs. Blythe—as an old lady!

"We were talking about the dance tomorrow night," said Shirley, in his husky little voice that always sounded raspy from disuse.

"Oh!" Faith cried, shaking her head. "Don't talk to me about the dance! I wish dances at lighthouses had never been invented."

"Faith's sore because she can't dance," said Nan, with the satisfied air of one who could. She, after all, wasn't a minister's daughter. She tossed a coquettish glance at Jerry and wondered if the edict against dancing extended to minister's sons as well?

"Don't be sore, Faith," pleaded Una, her needle flashing in and out of the cloth she held in her hands. "We'll have fun watching everyone else, and anyway, there's going to be a taffy pull in the kitchen."

But Faith only tossed her golden-brown curls. A taffy pull! Some people were easily pleased! Oh, what was the point of going to a dance at all if she couldn't dance with Jem Blythe? She couldn't wait to be back at Redmond. People there didn't have to know she was a minister's daughter, and she could dance to her heart's content.

"Ken Ford and I are trying to get up a fireworks show," said Jem from his place on the porch swing next to Faith. Di and Nan exchanged glances, on the same side of the issue for once! So Ken Ford was in town! Little Rilla would be beside herself when she heard. Di covered her smile, and Nan laughed outright. Dear little Rilla with her sweet, pretended grown up airs!

"Kenneth Ford has gotten to be exceedingly handsome," said Mrs. Blythe slyly, casting a glance at her two grown-up daughters. Nan giggled and tossed her head; Di only smiled. It was true that Ken was handsome—but his dark, romantic looks did not attract her. Nearly ever other girl in the Glen and Four Winds would have swooned if he had only asked them the time of day—but to Di, he was, and always would be, her good playfellow of the House of Dreams. She harbored no secret admiration for him.

"Ken Ford's only problem is that he knows he's good-looking," laughed Faith. "He's a bully—I mean, swell—chum, but he's always checking his hair in picture windows, and expecting girls to fawn on him. It's the result of being a city-boy, I suppose. I like a man who's a little less sure of himself."

"Oh, Faith," said Una, with a nervous glance at Mrs. Blythe. She did not want the good lady of Ingleside to think that any of the manse people were running down her friends. But Mrs. Blythe only dimpled further.

"Ken Ford is almost too good-looking for his own good," she mused. "Leslie told me that he leaves a trail of broken hearts wherever he goes. When I was a girl, it was my deepest wish and hope for attainment that one day I should cause hearts to break all over the world. But now, looking back, I can see that that wouldn't have been very comfortable."

"I'm glad I'm not good-looking," said Faith, honestly believing that she wasn't,and the rest of the little group on the veranda shook their heads at her. "That way, no one can accuse me of being silly or vain. My only fault seems to be that I can't take anything seriously."

"We like you that way," said Jem, settling his arm companionably over her shoulders. "Nice and laughy."

"Yes—but do I laugh too much?" Faith wondered. "I was chuckling to myself over something as I came up here to-night, and some old spectre sitting out on Mrs. Albert Crawford's lawn shook her head at me. I don't know who she is, but she looked just like a 'raven of bode and woe.'"

"She is Mrs. Sophia Crawford," pronounced Mrs. Blythe. "And I believe she is of some connection to our Susan."

"Imagine old jolly Susan having a connection like that!" marveled Jem. He stood, unfolding his long, lean body from the porch swing, and held out his hand to Faith. "Let's go down to Rainbow Valley and build a bonfire—the bulliest bonfire you ever saw!"

Once, it would have been an invitation for them all to go—now, it was just between the two of them. Faith's curls bobbed against her flushed cheeks. They went. Nan and Jerry slipped away sometime after that, and Di quirked up the corners of her mouth, watching them go. She must find the time to ask Nan what was going on there. Tonight, perhaps, when they were tucked into bed in the little gable room that they had always shared.

Una finished her mending and bade them farewell—Shirley went quietly into the house, with his quaint, quiet little air. A minimum of fuss and noise with him. It was his way. Nan had said something today that had made Di raise her eyebrows in surprise—"You must be disappointed that Persis Ford hasn't come to visit us this summer, Shirl"—and Shirley had nodded his head in a matter-of-fact way, and admitted that he was. Oh, the air was full of secrets, winding around like currents of spices.

Walter was still rambling with Rilla, and Dad was away on a call. They could hear Susan talking to Gertude inside the house—Gertrude Oliver, who taught at the Glen school and had been in Di and Nan's class at Queens. Gertrude had always been Di's especial chum, but she was becoming more and more Rilla's. Di did not mind entirely. There was a strange, ominous darkness in Gertrude's character that happy Di Blythe of Ingleside could not understand. Gertrude was good at humoring Susan—most of the time. "It's a fine thing to have so many of our young folks in one place for a change, and that you may tie to…"

Only Di and her mother remained out-of-doors. Mrs. Blythe turned to her daughter and looked rather rueful as she regarded her.

"You don't have any midnight assignation to run away to, do you, darling?"

"No," Di said cheerily. "I'm only waiting for Walter. We have a moon-spree planned."

Mrs. Blythe looked as though this was not an entirely satisfactory answer, either. "It doesn't hurt to have a little romance in your life," she said, brushing a curl from Di's face. Di submitted to the caress, and laughed.

"How could I fit any more romance in? My life is crammed full of romance—with the roses and the lilies perfuming the whole world, and all of these brothers and sisters sweethearting all around me? I don't want for romance, mother. And perhaps I'll meet my 'someone' at the dance tomorrow night."

She did not think it very likely. The dance would be packed full of all the Glen boys and girls she had grown up with, and Di harboured no romantic hopes for any of them. Still, one never knew, and Mrs. Blythe seemed satisfied by her answer.

"If you wear your green dress, there won't be a heart you don't ensnare in your long, red hair, Di darling," she laughed, and went into the house to talk with Susan.

Di stayed where she was and looked out over the night. Someone had discarded a newspaper by the reed chair—she picked it up and perused it. Heavens, what a lot of dire sounding things there were going on in the world! Some Archduke Somebody had been assassinated in Sarajevo, and Britain and France seemed dreadfully upset over it. Why should they be? Di did not bother to read further to find out.

She let the paper fall to the ground, and hardly noticed when the little wayward breeze came along and picked it up and scattered all the pages. It was quite forgotten by her, and all of its contents along with it. Why should she think of them, when the roses and the lilies were out? When the pointed green firs made little hats against the low white moon, and the nightingales twittered sleepily from the trees? It was spring—it was June—and she was nineteen years old. She had the whole world at her fingertips.