I'm glad school is coming to an end in a very few days. Not only am I gaining speed in working on Blythe Spirit, but I now also have time to work on the Prince Caspian fanfic I have just begun writing, Phases Oppositions. By now, I am as proud of it as I am of Blythe.

As aforementioned, don't forget to vote in the new poll!

Chapter Twenty-One: Hester Gray's Garden

That is well said, replied Candide, but we must cultivate our garden.

-Voltaire, Candide

In spring a pretty thing happened. It is, then, recorded here, not because it was important or dramatic or valiant, but because of its bearing later on in Gilbert's life.

That spring was the most beautiful Gilbert could recall; the flowers bloomed as fully and vividly as dresses in a ballroom; the bees hummed, a serene, unconcerned choir; the days were pleasantly warm, accompanied by a teasing, cool breeze.

Gilbert, upon strolling down to Green Gables, found Anne seated in the cool pool of shadow beneath the Snow Queen—the huge flowering cherry tree just outside Anne's window—with her school-books and her students' papers about her; but upon her lap and under the intense scrutiny of her eyes and a pen was a leather folio that Gilbert had seen in her schoolbag before, but never removed while they were studying.

Suddenly, just as Gilbert was about to approach her, Anne gave a great sigh and leaned back against the tree, her arm over her eyes.

"What is the matter?" he said.

Anne started, and gathered her papers together, unceremoniously stuffing them back into her folio. "Nothing very dreadful," she reassured him tremulously. "I was just trying to write out some of my thoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me. But I couldn't get them to please me. They seem so stiff and foolish directly they're written down on white paper with black ink! Fancies are like shadows…it seems…you can't cage them, they're such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I'll learn the secret some day if I keep on trying." She laughed, ruefully. "I haven't a great many spare moments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises and compositions, I don't always feel like writing any of my own!"

"You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne," Gilbert hastened to reassure her. "All the children like you." He sat down beside her on the grass.

"No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and won't like me. What is worse, he doesn't respect me."

"Of course—"

"No, he doesn't." Anne shook her head. "He simply holds me in contempt and I don't mind confessing to you that it worries me miserably. It isn't that he is so very bad; he is only rather mischievous, but no worse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys me, but he obeys with a scornful air of toleration, as if it wasn't worth disputing the point, or he would be naughty…and it has a bad effect on the others." Anne sighed again. "I've tried every way to win him, but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I want to, for he's a cute little lad, even if he is a Pye, and I could like him if he'd let me."

"Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears at home," suggested Gilbert, thinking of Josie.

The corner of Anne's mouth quirked, as if she knew what his thought was. "Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up his own mind about things. You see he has always gone to men before and says girl teachers are no good. Well," she smiled, "we'll see what patience and kindness can do. I like overcoming difficulties, and teaching is really very interesting work. Now, Paul Irving makes up for all that is lacking in the others. The child is a perfect darling, Gil, and a genius into the bargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him some day."

Gilbert, who had met the said Paul Irving, could not rationally disagree with Anne's diagnosis. At the very least, Paul was a kindred spirit.

"I like teaching too," Gilbert agreed. "It's good training, for one thing. Why Anne, I've learned more in the months we've all been teaching the young ideas of Prince Edward Island than I learned in all the years I went to school myself!

"We all seem to be getting on pretty well. The Newbridge people like Jane, or so I hear, and…I think…White Sands is tolerably satisfied with your humble servant." He laughed ruefully, remembering, "that is, all but Mr. Andrew Spencer. I met Mrs. Peter Blewett on my way home last night and she told me she thought it her duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn't approve of my methods."

Anne laughed. "Have you ever noticed that when people say it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare for something disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it their duty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you? Mrs. H.B. Donnell"—the megalomaniacal woman's surname was a joke throughout Avonlea—"called at the school again yesterday and told me she thought it her duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrews didn't approve of my reading faerie tales to the children, and that Mr. Rogerson though Prillie wasn't coming on fast enough in arithmetic! If Prillie would spend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate she might do better. She reminds me of Prissy Andrews!"

The discussion of their students went on for some time; then Anne rose and held out her hand to Gilbert. "Come, I want to show you what the girls and I found the other day."

In a few minutes Gilbert found himself in the most beautiful garden he had ever seen. It was all roses—all colors of roses. The garden was mostly shaded by trees, yet the roses bloomed, blousy and full, as though enchanted.

Anne sighed happily as Gilbert looked around, amazed. "Milk, saffron, fuchsia, blood, pearl, ochre, flame, coral, ruby…there's no end to them, is there?" she inquired.

Gilbert had not yet finished drinking in the unparalleled beauty around him, yet he halted his gaze and turned to his companion. "Anne—what is this place?"

Anne was sitting upon a stone bench in a corner of the garden, her eyes twinkling. "This is Hester Gray's garden."

"Hester Gray?" The name struck a familiar chord in Gilbert's mind. There had been a story, once, when he went to visit Aunt Mary…"Wasn't she the one who came here from Boston to marry Jordan Gray, and died of consumption?"

"Yes, that was her; Diana told the story to me," said Anne dreamily. "Oh, isn't it simply tragical? Diana says she died in the garden, with her beloved smiling over her, and roses in their hands. This is the most romantic place in the world, I think."

Gilbert said nothing, wanting to steer clear of the more dangerous connotations of that last remark, before he blundered and made Anne have to suffer the discomfort of "steering clear".