Anne sits on the front steps of the Blythe place, a dreamy smile on her lips. Today there is a soft warm wind and it carries the scent of all things green; cut grass, weed on the water, apple-mint, spearmint, peppermint, and the rose that climbs over the porch. She is admiring the way the lime-tinted buds slip from their sepals when Fred comes dashing through the gate. He stops short of the steps and bends over striving to catch his breath, his face the same colour as Anne and Rowena's Rooibos tea.

'Mr Rackstraw, always a pleasure,' says Rowena, 'I'll fetch you some lemonade, unless you'd like tea?'

'No-no-' Fred wheezes. His shoulders heave and he pulls off his tweed cap and fans himself frantically. 'I-I... I've just come from Green Gables-'

Anne jumps up as though her legs contain springs; Rowena only just rescues her sprig pattern tea cup. 'Is it Marilla? What is it Fred, please?'

'No Anne, not that- I've just come from the post office-'

'Now Fred, which is it,' says Rowena calmly, 'Green Gables or the post office?'

She takes Anne's hand and holds it fast. Fred stands up and looks confused.

'Both Mrs Blythe. I happened by the post office first,' he says, wiping the sweat running down his cheek, 'then I went to see Anne. Ran the whole way-'

'But why, Fred, for goodness' sake, tell me!'

He hands Anne the slip of yellow paper that was balled up in his pocket. 'It's a telegram,' he announces, as though it was plague. No one in Avonlea receives a telegram unless there is bad news. The source of Fred's distress is made clear when he adds, 'From Charlottetown.'

Anne takes it with a shaky hand and finds it has already been opened.

'Wasn't me,' Fred says, 'It's addressed to Miss Cuthbert.'

After attempting to smooth it out over her thigh she reads, Miss M. Cuthbert. Cordial greetings. Require Anne for two weeks. Will wire fare. Immediate response expected. Regards etc. Miss J. Barry. Anne resumes her place on the step and frowns. What has happened to Diana- why not write a letter- why the need to go to Charlottetown -and for two whole weeks?

'Seems straight forward enough,' Rowena says.

She heads inside to fetch Fred something to drink. The boy is pacing up and down the yard, rubbing the stump of his thumb over his chin.

'Straight forward? Diana never wrote me about this!'

'Nor me,' says Anne, quietly. 'What did Marilla say about me going? I don't imagine she can easily spare me, not at this time of year.'

'Oh she's sparing you, alright. Said you were to go to the post office directly and send a telegram straight back. Said you can leave tomorrow-'

'Tomorrow?'

'Would that someone wired my fare-' he says, darkly.

Mrs Blythe reappears with a glass of lemonade and a large brown envelope. 'Now, Frederic, you know Yellow Birches couldn't get along without you. Used to be Gil couldn't drag you away for so much as a dip in the stream this time of year. How are you getting on with the June harvest; your thumb, is it giving you trouble?'

She reaches for his hand and examines the bright pink scar while Fred gulps down his drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to suppress a burp.

'Would be easier if Gil was back. I expected him last week. What's the hold up? Greens won't pick 'emselves, you know.'

Rowena takes the glass back and looks sidelong at Anne. 'Why don't you explain on the way, dear? I'm sure Fred will be wanting to accompany you. He's very fond of the post office.' She grabs Anne's hand next and places the envelope into it. 'I'd appreciate it if you could take this with you. It's to go to the Charlottetown Echo. They're situated across the road from the Station. Just hand it in at reception, no need to tell them who it's from.'

Rowena embraces Anne briefly and tells her to take care. Anne smiles and grabs the shawl she has draped over the porch rail, then flies down to the gate. When she turns to wave a last goodbye Mrs Blythe is grinning broadly. Her puffed sleeves balloon with the breeze as she cups her hands around her mouth and calls out one final instruction. 'Anne Shirley, have fun!'

Fun seems the least likely result of such a summons, yet fun is exactly what it turns out to be when Anne boards the train to Charlottetown the next day. Miss Barry's secretary booked her employer's usual first class carriage, out of habit rather than extravagance, and Sunday morning sees Anne curled up on the velveteen banquette in her second best dress, her pale face pressed against the window as she watches the road go by like a red ribbon held out in the wind.

She goes to her small suitcase which sits on the rack above her and brings out the book Rachel Lynde had given her for her birthday. It's covered in green buckram and consists of one hundred blank pages. Mrs Lynde was extremely keen to press that point.

'One hundred,' she said. 'By the end of the year I'm expecting to see one hundred recipes in there. I've started you off with two of my own so's you know how to write them out properly. Marilla insists on alphabetical order. Well, what good is that, I tell you? No use reading a lettuce recipe in winter! It should be seasonal. Summer, autumn, winter, spring. I've started you out with summer, seeing as I don't expect you'll find much time to do any cooking with all that teaching and studying you're insisting on doing. Look there,' she said, proudly, 'Boiled Asparagus in Muslin Sauce and Thomas' favourite, Stewed Cucumbers.'

Anne turns the page on those and licks her pencil. The creamy white paper seems ripe for more than recipes. She catches her reflection as the train enters the Kensington tunnel and smiles at her writerly self. But the words won't come; not until the Ticket Inspector taps timidly and pops his head around the door. He was never this polite on the ride to Queens. All at once Anne expects the man to recognise her from the rowdy singalongs they used to have when she came home from teachers college on weekends. Not that Anne ever sang. She was the one huffing behind her book while Gilbert and Ruby waltzed along the corridor belting out, Come Into The Garden, Maud, or The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington.

Anne studies the Inspector with obvious intent. His cuffs are pristine and his shoes have mismatched laces; he has a brown spot on his blue iris and razorburn on his neck. He also fidgets and blinks under Anne's gaze and leaves the compartment in haste. A sign of a guilty conscience, perhaps? Or... now this could be something; does she remind the Inspector of his 'own true love'? Perhaps the lady is red headed too, red hair tends to catch peoples' attention. Gilbert says he thinks he sees her strolling along the shores of White Sands all the time.

Anne licks her pencil again and begins what she tentatively calls The Inspector's Romance -a working title, obviously- but is stumped by the third page. She needs some other characters to flesh out the story. Miss Stacey said stories with one character weren't stories at all, they were monologues. And while they are fun to write they are tedious to read, so Anne tucks her book into her satchel and goes to the dining car. A five course lunch is included with the ticket. She had thought she would take it privately the way ladies of consequence do, but she needs inspiration so she takes a small table near the tea urn and jots down... a sad looking boy with a box on his knee... the rosy glow of cranberry glass lamps... a woman with an eye-patch that she hides with a drooping hairpiece... a grandmother feeding her grandson his soup... the smell of stale coffee and overcooked lamb... a serving girl in a too big uniform and golden hoops in her ears... Yes! She could be the daughter of a belted earl who was kidnapped and raised by gypsies that lived in a brilliantly painted caravan and vowed vengeance on anyone who worked on the railways for.. for... The pencil goes to Anne's mouth again.

'Next stop Charlottetown! Connections to Mount Melick, Dingwell Mills and Wood Island!'

Wood Island. Anne hasn't been there since she crossed the Strait six years ago. She would have been crossing it now had she taken the Avery scholarship. The thought should make her wistful but it doesn't. After completing her correspondence course Redmond doesn't hold the same allure it used to.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a white gloved hand rapping on the dining cart window. Anne peers out to see her own Diana, tear streaked and smiling so hard her face looks like it might cleave in two. Moments later she is in the mohair-soft arms of her beloved friend; when they pull away it is only to leap up and down on the platform like children. They sound like them too, squealing and laughing unselfconsciously, whilst two young men look on. One of them, the mournful moustached one, clears his throat and looks askance. The other hails a porter and requests Miss Shirley's trunks, valises and various impedimentia are brought to the barouche with turquoise livery.

Anne laughs. 'Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen I presume?' The two men doff their hats and bow. 'I've heard much about you both,' Anne says, noting both men seem pleased with this information. 'But I wonder if Diana has told you anything about me-'

'Darling,' Diana cuts in, 'I haven't been able to talk about anything else since Aunt Jo told me she invited you to stay!'

This comes as a surprise to Anne, who assumed it was Diana who had begged Mrs Barry to let her come. She isn't going to say this in front of the other two, however. She smiles at them again, one of those unexpectedly wicked smiles that keeps a certain teacher in White Sands awake at night. 'Then you must know I barely own enough to fill one trunk, let alone plural. This suitase and my satchel are all I have.'

Mr Olsen glides in to take one and Mr Wilson the other. Diana takes Anne, who allows herself to be manuoevred through the crowded platform like a leaf on a stream, relieved to let someone else be in charge for a change.

Miss Barry is waiting for them in the open carriage and smiles primly at Anne. Her enormous gold hat and pale yellow suit make her look like a chanterelle mushroom. She invites the two girls to sit either side of her while the men take the backwards facing seats. Anne is opposite Mr Olsen who has blonde almost white hair and incongruously dark brows and eyes. The moment he is seated he takes out a small volume of The Canadian Journal of Mathematics and begins to read. Mr Wilson puts on a pair of tinted eyeglasses and crosses his legs. Miss Barry talks about both of them as though they aren't there.

'How do you like Diana's tutors, Anne, have they impressed you with their brilliance, yet? They should do. Mr Wilson won the Avery in '75 and Mr Olsen topped the Entrance exam in '76.'

'Oh, how wonderful!' Anne says, clasping her hands under her chin. 'I did that, too.'

Mr Wilson lowers his eyeglasses and peers at the freckle-nosed girl in her homemade jacket and string of pearls. 'Did you now,' he says smoothly. 'Which one?'

'Why both, Mr Wilson!' Diana says, laughing.

'And that,' Miss Barry says to Anne, 'is why you are here. To do what these two cannot-'

'Pardon me, Miss Barry, but it's not for want of trying-'

'Tush, Mr Wilson!' she says, and smiles benevolently at Anne.

The footman finishes securing Anne's luggage and climbs up beside the driver. The horses move so smoothly Anne hardly realises the journey to Everleigh has begun.

'Miss Barry,' Anne ventures, 'I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.'

'Hasn't Diana told you- Diana Barry, haven't you told her?'

Diana has her arms crossed and is studying the grand stone facade of Charlottetown's largest newspaper across the street. She must have received a nudge because as they enter the mapled loveliness of Galbraith Avenue she suddenly finds her tongue. 'There's nothing to tell, Aunt Jo, because I'm not doing it. Mamma always says there is no point doing something with no point.'

'Well,' says Miss Barry with a slight sniff, 'this won't be the first time I have had a difference of opinion with your mother.'

'Please,' Anne says, appealing to every person in the coach, 'I still have no idea what anyone is referring to or why I was summoned or what this thing is I am supposed to be doing that Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen cannot. If you don't tell me right now I have a good mind to leap over Mr Olsen's top hat, untether one of the horses, and ride bareback all the way to Green Gables!'

Mr Wilson looks askance once more, Mr Olsen snaps his book shut. Who on earth is this ruddy haired maenad to speak to Miss Barry like that! Their expressions betray further shock when they observe the approving twinkle in that eminent lady's eyes.

'Good to see you haven't lost your spark, Anne-girl. Forgive me for not being plainer, I expected my niece would have done you the courtesy of explaining. But as she hasn't-'

'Anne,' Diana interrupts, 'my Aunt has summoned you here because she wishes to have me tested.'

'Well I suppose your tutors need to assess you sometime, Di,' Anne says, bemused.

'Oh Anne! Not any old test. The test. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous in your life? There is no possible way for me to do such a thing and not make a complete fool of myself! I could never be ready in two weeks, I could never be ready in two years! It's a nonsense is what it is, and I'm treating it as such. Well, what else am I supposed to think? Me take the Entrance! Me go to Queens!'

Miss Barry wraps her arm around Anne and clutches her shoulder tightly. 'And you, Anne Shirley, are just the one to make her do it!'

...

Thanks again for reading and reviewing and following and faving. I love reading your comments and knowing what you look forward to. Next post on Thursday. Love, k.