September 3rd, 1899

Dear Anne,

I am on the train now, on my way to Toronto, and even though the train left the Charlottetown station a great deal of hours ago, all I have been able to do this whole time is stare out the window and think of you. Every color that I see in the passing scenery reminds me of you. The sky is like your divine blue eyes, the eyes that had me absolutely enraptured only hours ago. Red and orange poppies that grow near the edge of the train tracks pass by in a blur, their vibrant colors blending together, and as beautiful as they are on their own, my mind can't help but wander back to your magnificent hair.

You looked so beautiful this afternoon when we met at your boarding house. Your eyes were glowing and full of wonder as you made your way down the front steps, each step you took closer to me gave me more and more hope that what Diana had said on the train before, might possibly be true. When you stopped right in front of me, I couldn't help but reach out a hand to caress you, my thumb tracing each of your darling freckles. You had me absolutely breathless (not to mention the fact that I had indeed ran all the way from the train station.) and I couldn't resist the urge to kiss you. I admit, I was surprised when that act didn't earn me a slap or a shove to send me flying into the bushes.

When I asked you if you truly did have feelings for me, and you didn't respond, for a moment I feared the worst. But when you drew me close, and I felt your lips on mine again, the delighted joy that overtook me was nearly impossible to contain. Waking up this morning, I would never in a million years have thought that today would be the day that all of my dreams and wishes would come true, that you would return my affection and that I would get to hold and kiss you.

As I told you in the letter that I left for you in your room at Green Gables, you are the fond object of my affection. You are the keeper of the key to my heart. It always has been, and always will be you, Anne. My Anne with an E.

September 11th, 1899

Nearly a week has gone by since I wrote the above and I dearly wish that I could have finished and mailed it sooner. I have been extremely busy since arriving in Toronto and now is the first time that I have had some extra time on my hands. It brought me such delight to receive your letter this morning.

I can't tell you how happy I am for you Anne, that you now have your mother's book. What a precious gift. I hope that we can look at it the next time we are together. If the drawing of your mother truly does look like you, she must have been positively stunning. It makes me so happy that you have embraced your features and no longer take any displeasure in them, although I seriously don't understand why you had any hate for them in the first place.

Anne, you ask why I didn't respond to your letter. I never received it! I truly didn't know it even existed until Diana gave me that scolding on the train last week. I haven't the faintest idea what could have possibly happened to it. I'm so sorry, Anne. If I had received it, I promise you, I would have have ran straight to Green Gables immediately to find you.

Anne, please don't feel embarrassed, I actually laughed out loud when I read that you ripped up my letter. It's so like you, I should have expected it. This is what my letter said: "Dear Anne, since we are parting ways, perhaps forever, I feel I must unburden my heart. You are the fond object of my affection and my desire. You and you alone are the keeper of the key to my heart. Please, don't be alarmed. I don't expect your favor. But I can't in good conscience, not reveal myself. I'm not engaged, nor will I be, unless it's to you Anne. My Anne with an E. It always has been, and always will be, you."

I long to be reunited with you too. I want to kiss every single one of your freckles, your button nose, and then your forehead. Then finally your soft lips. There are so many more things I want to write, such as how things are here at the U. Of T., to ask how your classes are, but my eyes are growing heavy, and the clock has just struck eleven.

I love you too, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

All my love,

Gilbert