The younger Green Gables folk woke early on Christmas Day, while the two elder ladies dearly wished for a slightly longer night's sleep.

"Oh, don't worry, Marilla," Anne reassured her on the upstairs landing, as the former looked out of her room with a resigned look on her face. "Take your time-I'll manage everything downstairs until you and Mrs. Rachel come."

"Thank you, Anne," Marilla gave her a tired look, having stayed up late to fill the twins' stockings. "I'll be down shortly."

"Take your time!" Anne skipped down to meet Davy, who was nearly hopping out of his skin at the bottom of the stairs. "Davy-boy, you will never grow up, will you?"

He grinned. "Prob'ly not."

"Well, at least we've established that Father Christmas doesn't exist," she chuckled. "Remember that Christmas? You spent most of it curled up in my lap, asking me if Milty Boulter was right." She laughed at the memory of the towheaded boy who had been desperate to hold onto the idea of Father Christmas. (The phrase, "Say it ain't so, Anne," had figured rather prominently that day.) "Come on, Davy, let's go make breakfast."

Two miles away, in his old bedroom at Windy Orchard, Gilbert Blythe lay in his old bed, his daughter attached to him like a barnacle. They had arrived late the previous evening, and after being fed and watered by his mother, they had been sent upstairs. Joy had firmly refused any accommodation other than Gilbert's, and the two of them had ended up sharing his old bed.

Gilbert slowly rolled over, dislodging his daughter, and then gently lifted her onto his chest, where she settled into the position both of them had often occupied when she was a baby-her sleeping, him usually reading.

Now, however, he just looked down at her, slightly cross-eyed at the nearness, and realized that if anyone had told him ten years ago that he would be lying in his bed at Windy Orchard with his daughter-who was not Anne's-and feel perfectly content, he would have given a derisive snort and told them to go dunk their head in the bay.

But here he was, with Joy, and Anne Shirley at Green Gables -he grinned. Maybe this would turn out to be a good Christmas, after all.

An hour or so later, he was woken up again by an insistent poking at his side.

"Papa. Papa!" A little voice whispered. "Papa- it's Christmas!"

He opened up one eye and found Joy's nose not an inch from his, her violet eyes sparkling with excitement. Gilbert sat up, swinging his long legs out of bed. "Indeed it is. Now, clothes first, then stockings-not the other way around," he reminded her.

"But it's so much more Christmassy to open presents in your nightgown," she tried to convince him.

"Christmassy or not, you will get dressed first," he informed her. "Your Grandmother Blythe is going to have my head if I let you go about barefoot."

With much grumbling and sighing, tempered by a good deal of Christmas-infused excitement, Joy pulled on her clothes while Gilbert went through his old closet, pulling out a shirt and a pair of his older wool trousers-a pair the moths had decided was unappetizing, judging from the lack of holes and large amount of lavender sachets decorating the cedar closet.

Five minutes later, the pair stepped out of the room, looking fairly put-together. At the top of the stairs, Gilbert bent down and picked Joy up, resting her on his hip, and the two descended the stairs in that fashion, before entering the kitchen.

Esther Blythe hadn't thought she would see her son smile this way again. He looked years younger now, even as he held the proof that he was no longer a college boy. She pulled the cake pan containing what Gilbert had always called "Christmas cake" as a child-really a spice cake with a thick coat of white icing on top. Even now, she could see his nose twitch at the smell filling the kitchen.

He put Joy down and came over to investigate. "Is that…?"

"It is," she nodded. "I mixed the batter last night, after you arrived. I thought you might like having this again." The air was squeezed out of her as he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug.

"Thank you, Ma," he whispered.

"You're very welcome, young man," she looked up into the hazel eyes so much like her own. "Now," she said, businesslike, wiping her hands off briskly to remove whatever imaginary traces of flour remained, "your father should be back any moment now-" the side door opened and shut, and she nodded in satisfaction. She knew her husband well. "...and then we can do our stockings while the cake cools. Come with me, darling," she held out her hand to Joy, who took her grandmother's hand readily, "let's go into the parlor!"

The parlor was indeed laid out in all its Christmas finery, with the tree covered in glittering tinsel and glass ornaments that seemed to glow in the early morning light. Gilbert's mother had always liked pretty things, and every year, a few more ornaments found themselves dangling off the tree branches.

Joy looked around in wonder. She had never spent Christmas anywhere other than Ingleside, where Christmas had been a decidedly quiet affair. Her afternoon with Miss Shirley had given her a taste of what other people did for the holiday, but to actually experience it herself was something else entirely. Her eyes lit on the four stuffed stockings hanging off the fireplace mantle-nearly splitting at the seams, all four of them. She looked up at her grandmother, who smiled, her eyes twinkling like her Papa's.

"The one of the far right's yours, darling."

With that, Joy scampered to the fireplace, taking down the stocking and sitting down right then and there to examine its contents.

Gilbert and his mother watched Joy going through her stocking, squealing in wonder when she found a nutcracker-and the large amount of walnuts scattered throughout the stocking, sniffing the orange nestled in the toe, and leafing excitedly through the book of fairytales.

"Ma, you shouldn't have," he whispered.

"Of course I should have," she hissed back. "You gave me nearly a week's notice-don't you think that I'd have made a fuss even if you'd have turned up unannounced?"

"A different kind of fuss, maybe."

Esther Blythe rolled her eyes. "And that is why we've never had to doubt that you are your father's son, you little tease. Really-the biggest present I've received is the two of you coming to visit. Now go," she nudged him, "open up your stocking."

John Blythe watched his wife looking at Joy. Slowly, a crystalline tear rolled down her face, followed by another, and another, until she turned towards the kitchen, a steady stream of tears coursing down her face.

He followed her out of the parlor and into the kitchen, where watched her pull out a large tin of icing sugar, shaking about half its contents into a stoneware bowl. Coming to stand behind her, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, resting his chin on her head.

"It's hard, isn't it?"

A muffled sob was torn from her. "I knew it would be, of course," she said quietly, "I just didn't expect her to be so much like, like…" she trailed off, knowing her husband would be able to complete the thought.

"Like Charlotte."

"She'd be thirty-five now," Esther looked up at him. "Can you even imagine that? Married, with children-"

"-You can't be sure of that. She might have become a teacher."

"Don't interrupt. A mother can dream, can't she?" she swatted him on the arm, leaving a sugary handprint, and gave him a watery smile. "I love Gil, and I love little Joy more than a grandmother should, probably; but a part of me will always wonder what would have happened to Charlotte, John."

"So do I," he admitted. "I was amazed at how much Joy resembled Charlotte. She has her mother's eyes and hair-"

"-I never did like her. I tried, John, I really did, but she just looked at everything as though she were above us all."

"Don't interrupt," he tossed her words back at her, "She has Christine's eyes and hair, but otherwise, she looks exactly like Charlotte."

"I don't think Gilbert knows," Esther looked into the parlor, where the two sat in the rocker, looking at the fairytales.

"He wouldn't remember her," John shook his head. "He was just two."

"She loved him, though," Esther's voice shook as she remembered the bond the two siblings had shared. "And he knew that she was gone-remember how he cried?"

"For a week straight," John remembered. Baby Gilbert had been inconsolable at his sister's death.

"I've got to stop crying," Esther mumbled, turning her face into his shirt. "We'll end up with salty icing otherwise." She blew her nose and patted her eyes dry. "There," she stepped back, "how do I look?"

"Well…" John Blythe let his gaze slowly rake her from head to foot.

"There is a time and place for everything, Mister Blythe," she informed him primly, "and this is not the one for whatever you had in mind."

"You go ahead into the parlor, Mrs. Blythe," she let herself be pushed out if the kitchen, "I'll finish the icing."

"You don't know how," she dug in her heels.

John shrugged eloquently. "I've watched you make it for thirty years. How hard can it be?"

She rolled her eyes. "Pride before the fall, dear. Pride before the fall."

That evening, after Joy had fallen asleep stretched out before the fireplace, Gilbert carried her to bed, her head drooping onto his shoulder as he made his way up the stairs.

As he tucked her into bed, her eyes fluttered open. "Papa?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Chirstmasses only get better every year, don't they?"

In her bedroom at Green Gables, Anne let down her hair, carefully brushing it out before braiding it into a coppery rope. This year's Christmas had been as good as any, she thought, but her heart gave a queer little thump when she thought about a certain two someones having their Christmas in Glen St. Mary. She wondered what could have-would have happened if she'd stayed there for Christmas-or even taken a later train…

She curled up in bed with her two hot water bottles-courtesy of both older ladies-and looked out the window towards Windy Orchard, where a little light could be seen, winking through the night.

"Anne, you'll be taking this basket to the Blythes at Windy Orchard," Marilla handed her a large hamper the next morning, containing a mince pie, a quantity of gingerbread, a bottle of cider, and some of Mrs. Rachel's shortbread, whose recipe had been a carefully guarded Lynde family secret for several generations. Anne, however, had watched her make them, and was fairly certain that the secret was a few spoonfuls of finely ground cornmeal.

"I've sent Davy to the Boulter's with a basket already, and Dora's just starting for Orchard Slope," Marilla continued, tying a bow around the handle. "Rachel and I will probably take a few baskets to town later today, but we're going to tidy up Green Gables this morning."

Anne pulled on her boots, wondering if there was any irony in this. Here she was, on Boxing day, delivering a hamper to Gilbert Blythe's family. While the Blythes she really wanted to see where in Glen St. Mary. Yes, she decided, there was a bit of irony, if not a bit of poetic justice.

She picked up the hamper, and set off across the fields for the Blythe farm, with the spirit of Christmas following close behind.

Things were going similarly at Windy Orchard. Esther Blythe had dispatched her husband with a basket already, and was giving her son his last-minute instructions: "Now, this basket will be going to Green Gables. Make sure you don't drop it-and give my best to both Marilla and Rachel. Oh," a twinkle entered her eye, "and say hello to Anne for me."

Joy pulled at her skirt. "Can't I go?"

Esther picked her up and rested her on her hip, the way she used to with her children. "You are going to stay here with me, darling, and fill up the rest of these baskets. We'll go deliver one to Mrs. Wright later-she's an old friend of your papa's, too. And you can play with her two children-I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"But I want to see Miss Shirley!"

"All in good time, dear, all in good time. Besides, it's quite cold out there-I don't want you catching cold."

"Ma," Gilbert wound another scarf around his face, "colds come from the growth and spread of bacteria, not actually the cold."

His mother flapped a hand at him. "Explain that to your five-year-old self, who ended up in bed for a week after going barefoot in a rainstorm. Mother knows better-if not best, young man, and I never met a body who could go in this kind of weather without catching cold, and especially not a child. We'll take the sleigh later." Having had the last word, she pushed her son out the door, admonishing him to take the road instead of the fields, and turned to her granddaughter. "Now, darling, whose basket should we fill next?"

Anne came over the next rise, and made her way through the Blythe orchard before coming to a stop at the farmhouse's kitchen door. She knocked three times, the door swinging open as she lifted her hand to knock the fourth, revealing the figure of Esther Blythe.

"Mrs. Blythe," Anne smiled brightly, "Merry Christmas!" She handed her the basket, fully expecting the visit to be a quick one.

She did not expect to be pulled inside, assisted with her coat, and to be handed a steaming mug of tea. And she most certainly did not expect to see Joy, sitting in a corner with a marmalade-colored kitten in her lap.

"Joy?"

Gone was the kitten, unceremoniously spilled out of its comfortable perch as Joy leapt up and flew across the kitchen to wrap herself around her legs.

"Oh Miss Shirley, I wanted to go with Papa to Green Gables to see you, but Grandmother wouldn't let me, and now you're here and Papa's at Green Gables, so everything turned out fine."

"I should say so, but-" she looked up in confusion, "Gilbert's at Green Gables? I thought both of you were in the Glen."

Mrs. Blythe handed her a gingerbread man to go with the tea. "How did you come here, Anne? I would have thought you met Gilbert on the road."

"Oh, I took a shortcut," Anne sat down in the corner with Joy, "I came through the orchard."

"And I sent Gilbert by the road," Esther said.

The marmalade kitten, now having gotten over its insulting spill, returned with reinforcements-in the form of a little calico, who made itself at home in Anne's lap.

Joy's eyes were shining with delight, and the rest of her fairly glowed as well. "We came on the late train on Christmas eve, Miss Shirley. It was so exciting to see everything rush by that way, and to look out and see the lights…"

Her constant stream of words ebbed and flowed around them, while Anne remembered her own nighttime train ride, strangely numb, her lips still tingling. For once, the countryside had flashed by, unseen by her eyes. She stroked a finger along the calico kitten's back, bringing her back to the present. Gilbert was here. By some strange twist, he was here for Christmas.

She stood, spilling the kitten out of her lap with an indignant meow. "Well, Mrs. Blythe, I think I've quite overstayed my welcome. Thank you very much for your hospitality-I'll be on my way home now. If it's alright, I'll come back in a few days to visit with Joy."

Esther Blythe shook her head firmly. "No, you're not. You will stay right where you are, and wait for Gilbert to come home-he'll take you back in the sleigh."

"But really, Mrs. Blythe-"

"No buts, Anne. You'll wait. Nobody ought to be out in this cold, and besides, you might as well see Gilbert."

"I'm back," the back door opened, admitting a rather chilled, slightly disappointed Gilbert Blythe. Anne hadn't been at Green Gables - out delivering baskets, much like himself. His visit with the Green Gables women had been cut rather short upon the arrival of Davy, who had announced that the Boulters had experienced a minor mishap with their tree, which might have involved a pet bird getting too close to a candle. Gilbert had excused himself then, unwilling to stay for the details Mrs. Lynde was so obviously craving. He'd taken the shortcut across the orchard, taking a good half-mile off his journey, and arriving at his parents' home with his nose slightly numb, and the tips of his ears colder than ears had any right to be.

A sweet laugh caught the ears in question, sending his head turning with an audible crack. There, in the corner, with one of his mother's kittens in her lap - was Anne. Cuddled against her side with a kitten of her own was Joy, and all four of them-females and felines-were deeply engrossed in the book of stories Joy had received as a Christmas present.

"Look there," Anne pointed to a picture, "that witch looks exactly as I imagined she would: all gnarled and warty. She just oozes cruelty, don't you-" she flipped the page, looking up as she did, and her sentence petered out, crawling back down her throat. "Gilbert," she mustered up a hesitant smile, standing to greet him. The kitten jumped from her lap, well used to this by now - it was its third spill of the morning, after all.

"Papa, Papa - guess what?" Joy popped off the floor like a piece of rubber, coming between them as she hopped up and down in excitement, "Miss Shirley said we were going to go for a rabble in a few days, if you'd let me. Please, Papa? Please?"

Awkwardness fled in the face of confusion. "A rabble?"

Anne smiled broadly, recognising the error in pronunciation. "A ramble, Gil. I promised to show her all of our old haunts."

He tried not to show how her easy use of her old name for him affected him, drawing on his many years of experience doing so. But those skills were rather rusty, after nearly a decade of nonuse, and a corner of his mouth still twitched. "I can't think of a single reason why you shouldn't, so...yes," he agreed.

"Excellent," Anne's eyes sparkled merrily, "I'll come for her the day after tomorrow, if that's convenient?" she tilted her head, waiting for an answer. When he nodded, she mirrored it. "Good. Now, I really should be going - Marilla will be worried if I don't appear soon," she looked around for her coat, only to find it dangling in front of her, held by Mrs. Blythe, who had watched the entire conversation from her end of the kitchen table. Oh yes, she thought, Rachel Lynde was right-Providence had matched these two up...and darned if she was going to let them fall apart again.

"Gilbert, you'll take Anne home in the sleigh," she said in her most no-nonsense tone, making any refusal from either party out of the question. Providence might have matched these two, thought Esther Blythe, but sometimes Providence needed just a little help getting things done. After all, mother knew best.

The small sleigh skimmed over the snow, carrying its passengers towards Green Gables. Anne inhaled deeply, feeling the wind against her face-one simply did not get a wind like this anywhere but in Avonlea. Blame the wind-or the cold, which might have numbed whatever sense she had left, she turned to Gilbert, speaking up to be heard over the sleighbells.

"Isn't it marvelous?" her eyes shone above the line of her scarf. "Have you ever noticed the way snow smells, Gilbert? It smells so clean-as though it were washing the world, readying it for another year."

Gilbert recognized this evasion tactic. He'd seen it many times - most memorably in the Patty's Place orchard. But there were things that had to be said.

"Anne," he slowed the horse, quieting the bells, allowing him to speak softly, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Reminding me what Christmas is," he said simply. "If it weren't for you, I'd be in Glen St. Mary, dealing with whatever medical crises my dear patients always manage to come up with during the holidays. Instead, I'm here, driving you home after having spent my best Christmas in years - I should think that would warrant some thanks."

"None necessary, as I assure you it was entirely unintentional," her eyes lost their humorous glint, "but that reminds me - I came to Windy Orchard to wish you a merry Christmas - something I have yet to do. So, merry Christmas, Gil." She looked up at him earnestly.

Gil. There it was again. "Merry Christmas, Anne-girl." Now, if he could just hold himself together until he dropped her off…

"Anne, what would you say to our going on a ramble of our own?"

Obviously, he couldn't.

Something unrecognizable flashed her grey eyes, large over the edge of her muffler. She pulled it down, puffs of steam escaping her lips as she spoke. "Well, Gilbert Blythe, I think I would like that very much."

They had arrived at the Green Gables gate at this point, and she climbed out of the sleigh, holding her skirts up and out of the way of her feet. "Oh, don't bother getting out, Gil-I think I can find my way inside," she teased him lightly, before turning and opening the gate. "And thank you for the ride-your mother really didn't have to insist so, but I am grateful, as it saved me some rather damp feet." With that, she turned and walked towards the veranda, her steps making small imprints in the patches of snow Davy had missed in his shoveling.

Gilbert remained at the gate, realizing only once she was halfway to the door that he had forgotten a rather important question. "Anne! When should I come by?"

She turned back, the afternoon sun catching a few hairs that had escaped her shawl. "What?"

"For our ramble-when should I come by?"

She thought for a moment. "Friday?"

"Friday it is," he sat back down and waited until the door was firmly shut behind her before signalling the horse to walk. At the bottom of the lane, the joy he had felt manifested itself in a deep laugh, coming from places he thought had long been closed off to the light and air. Giving a boyish whistle, he urged the horse to a trot, the merry jingle of the bells echoing his excitement.

Gilbert Blythe had a date.

I do believe Gilbert Blythe just asked Anne Shirley out on a date.

And a very merry Christmas to you, Anne-girls! Let it be a restful one (I hope), and not spent eating large quantities of fish. I have nothing against fish, mind you, but everything in moderation. After the first five varieties of herring, things do become slightly tiresome.

But in all seriousness-Merry Christmas. Joy to the world, peace on Earth, may your days be merry and bright…

...and may all your Christmases be white, as Bing Crosby said.

Anne