AN: A general thanks for all the lovely reviews! Your kind words are inspiring and encouraging:)

Chapter 10-

So deeply engrossed was she in her copy of Faust, that she didn't notice that the library was emptying. Soon, it was just her, sitting by the wide window overlooking the densely forested Redmond grounds- and him, pouring over a thick volume filled with terms most people couldn't even pronounce.

"Arrrrgh!"

He barely noticed that he grunted aloud, but she noticed. Startled, she finally looked up from her book.

There he was, hunched over a stack of papers, his face burried into his left arm, which was sprawled across the table. He lifted his eyes, and she could tell that they were pink and puffy, merely slits of dark hazel.

"Gilbert!" she cried gently, astonished.

"What do you want?" he barked. Then, remorsefully, his expression softened. "I'm sorry Anne, honest I am," he said sheepishly. "With football practice moved to the indoor gymnasium, its more of a trek from my residence. Then there is the event planning committee, and you know I am taking 6 courses this semester. I've hardly slept in days- I am dead exhausted, Anne." As though to punctuate this speech, he grabbed the coffee mug beside him and guzzled its contents.

"Oh Gil!" she cried tenderly. What could she say? Stop working so hard? Get some rest? Such obvious statements didn't seem appropriate.

Tentatively she extended her arm, slowly, gently. He was too high-strung, potentially, for any hasty motions.

Maintaining a firm gaze, as though daring him to protest, she rested her hand on his shoulder. He was surprised by the warmth that spread from her fingers, filling him with a molten liquid honey. She was surprised to find such muscular knots beneath her fingers.

She locked her eyes with his. "Gil," she said decisively. "I cannot bare seeing you like this."

"Hmm?"

"Gil. I want to help you. I will relieve you of some of your responsibilities on that event planning committee."

"That would be swell, Anne."

"Let's play 'going on a picnic'. Remember when we used to play that when we were studying our lessons together?"

"Uh hm."

"Do you remember what you told me, Gil?"

"Whenever you feel overwhelmed with studies, pretend that you are going on a picnic, " he quoted. "Concentrate on all the details, the sights, the smells. Describe the scene in rich detail, as though you are writing a story. Through focusing on each aspect of the scene, you forget the pressure that comes with studying- and you actually clear your mind."

"And it works quite splendidly," Anne said.

"So," she prompted. Leaning forward, closer to him, she could not help but inhale deeply. He smelled of freshly brewed coffee (unsurprisingly) and something else too. Peppermint. Like Matthew...mmm.

She is distracted. What is she thinking about now? Gilbert wondered, watching her eyes fixed in the distance, a coy smile flirting with her full, rosy lips. Possibly about her dream man….?

"Should I start, then?" Gil asked.

Not receiving a response, he continued. "I am hiking on a mountain..."

He didn't say anything, but there was something else tormenting him. He rubbed his breast pocket.

"Dr. Alfred," he said briskly. The scent of cigar tobacco filled the small office, hugging every wall and bouncing off them to create a symphony of fragrance. It was overpowering.

"Come in, Mr. Blythe." His back faced Gilbert, as he surveyed the oak bookshelf. He pulled out an ancient copy of Orpheus and Eurydice. "I think you will find it poignant. Come back to discuss it when you're finished."

"Yes Sir."

"You are feeling nervous and out of sorts," the older man commented, his back still turned.

"I am," Gil admitted.

"What did you find?" Dr. Alfred asked.

"You are amazing. How did you know…?" Gingerly, Gil pulled out the wrinkled parchment from his breast pocket. It was Anne's Ideal Husband list.

Gilbert had discovered Anne's private writing corner by accident. He knew that she came here when she felt conflicted and needed to sort out her thoughts.

When Anne rushed off on New Years day, he had a hunch that this was where she'd be. He resolved to find her, to discover what was bothering her. Increasingly, Gilbert was finding that her pain was his pain, too.

So motivated was he by his concern, that he did not think this through. It was completely inappropriate to snoop in someone else's personal space. He did it anyways.

Lo and behold, Gilbert found the parchment on Anne's writing desk. His name caught his attention.

Gilbert Blythe is a foolish dear.

His heart hammered violently against his ribcage. He took deep, almost laboured breaths, but found that he was gulping for air. He pressed sweaty palms to inflamed carrot-red cheeks. Somehow, with difficulty, he managed to stuff the list into his breast pocket.

Its not a question of if, but when. When does a man know it is the right time to propose to the woman of his dreams? When? When?

Thoughts reeling, he reached to grab the birch plank to steady himself. His grip loosened…

CRASH!

Anne was loitering outside the barn when she heard the ruckus. She found him on the ground, slipping in and out of consciousness.

"Gilbert Blythe, what on earth are you doing here?!"