AN. I apologize for the delay. My goal from now on is to make more time for writing. Thank you for all the lovely reviews!

Chapter 11-

The breeze kissed the tips of the tall grass, making them dance like the ballerinas at the ballet that Aunt Mary Maria had coaxed the Blythes to watch back when Gilbert was still a young boy. He had squirmed in his seat then, but now the metaphor seemed fitting- comforting even.

It was a cloudless day, the sky a deep periwinkle. He noticed all of these details. He was acutely aware of colour and fragrance (bright and sweet). Everything seemed more vivid and alive than ever before.

She was standing before him, her loose hair a golden halo framing crimson cheeks.

Step by step, he inched towards her, clutching the bouquet of Lilies of the Valley, mentally rehearsing the honeyed speech that would soon cascade from his lips.

He swallowed hard, to moisten his parched tongue, for fear that he might not even be able o get the words out.

Yes even he, Gilbert Blythe, got nervous when he was about to do something so bold-so risky. He never revealed this to anyone – not even her- but there were three times in his short life when Gilbert experienced intense anxiety.

The first time was when he recited Bingen on the Rhine at school. Gilbert, who was confident speaking in front of an audience, felt his heart convulse in anticipation before the line

"There's another,— not a sister: in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;"

The second was when Anne had fallen off the ridgepole after Josie Pye's cruel dare. Gilbert could not even look that Pye girl in the eye for a week following the incident.

And, of course, there was this moment right now.

She was only a few paces from him, but it might as well have been a triumphal procession in Ancient Rome. Perhaps he could compare the feeling to a soldier preparing for battle? But no! Finally being married to the woman of his dreams would be oh so much sweeter.

"Anne," he said huskily, barely finding his voice. This was not a good start.

Unsure of how to proceed, he presented the flowers to her.

She giggled, the sound of a woodland pixie. His heart overflowed with love, he could barely contain himself. He enveloped her in a bear-hug, his muscular arms encircling her slighter frame. Gingerly, he tilted his chin and met her radiant emerald eyes.

Lips captured lips, Soft like a down pillow, Warm like a lit fireplace in December, Light like a swallow's feather caressing a cheek.

"Will you marry me?"

"Off course, you Goose," she purred.

He leaned in to kiss her again.

"Gil?" She grew more concerned as he did not respond. She debated whether she should approach closer, touch his arm? It seemed like a hard fall, and so far, her voice had not succeeded in rousing him.

She knelt beside him.

"Gilbert Blythe, what ARE you doing here?"