After a month had passed, Shirley felt well-established in Avonlea. Students and parents alike had come to appreciate the quiet, good-humored young man who never had to whip a pupil or even raise his voice. One calm word and a stern look was all it ever took to quell ever the worst of offenders. Even Annabelle Wright—Josie Pye had married a distant cousin of Fred Wright's, making her doubly related to Diana, as both parties used to admit with disgust—tossed her sleek brown head and told her mother that she just couldn't seem to misbehave when Mr. Blythe was watching her: "It's as if he can look into my soul, Mother, and see all the bad things I've ever done, and it makes me so ashamed," ending with a dramatic shiver. Whether this was typical Pye exaggeration or not, the fact remained that one look in Shirley's clear, steady brown eyes made any miscreant stop and think twice about their deeds.

Closing up school for the weekend on the last day of September, Shirley decided to go for a walk down through Lover's Lane, and keep going through the woods at the back of the Keith farm. Accordingly, he dropped his books off at Green Gables, told Aunt Millie not to wait supper for him, and tramped off. The crisp fall air and vibrant colors of leaves just turning from summer's green to autumn's gold, crimson, orange, and brown invigorated his soul and blew the cobwebs out of his mind. Not that Shirley was wont to have cobwebs or fog, but since the war he found that he was prey to minor bouts of—soul ache, was the best way he could describe it. It was why he had wanted to come to Avonlea in the first place. In this place of rest and comfort he knew he would be able to heal the wounds in his spirit in a way he could never do in Glen St. Mary. Ingleside, Rainbow Valley, the House of Dreams, Four Winds…all bore too many memories, too many ghosts. Avonlea was purer, somehow.

As he treaded delicately through the woods, the stillness and reverence made him stop and catch his breath. Almost without thinking he removed his corduroy cap and clutched it in both hands and looked around with worshipful eyes. He felt close to God here, closer even than he'd felt while flying. There had been times during the war, especially after Walter's death, when he'd doubted God's existence. How could a God exist who allowed such cruelty in His creation? Now, standing in that hushed and glorious place, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God did exist, and maybe, maybe, allowed such atrocities to happen in order to bring His wandering sheep back to Himself, to remind people of how helpless they were on their own, and to show what happened when men turned completely aside from Him.

Thinking these new and strange thoughts, Shirley didn't realize for a moment that another person had come around the corner of the path facing him. It wasn't until the new arrival gave a little gasp that he wrenched his eyes from the heavens and focused them back on the earth.

For a moment he could have thought her a dryad from one of Walter's stories. Dressed in a little crinkled brown sheath dress that showed off very shapely ankles and calves, with a gold belt looped loosely around a trim waist, and dainty little brown silk slippers, she was a vision of loveliness. Her curls, deep chestnut with hidden hints of gold flickering in the afternoon sunlight, were clustered in two little bunches behind her softly curved ears. Her features were exquisite and refined, with a soft full mouth, crimson as a late rose, faintly flushed, delicately curving cheeks, and two of the most beautiful dark blue eyes Shirley had ever seen in a woman's face. Blue! Why, blue didn't even begin to describe them. They looked like the Gulf of St. Lawrence on a stormy day, like the evening sky when the first stars began to twinkle, like dew-wet pansies or the tall blue irises Mother and Susan had at Ingleside. Added to everything else, she had an air about her, an air of remoteness and purity, as though she came from a far-off star.

He had startled her as badly as she had startled him at first. The color mounted to her cheeks, and for a moment it looked as though she was poised to flee. Shirley gathered his scattered wits and smiled cautiously at her.

"Good day," he said, very gently. "I'm so sorry to have startled you."

She hesitated for a moment, and then apparently decided to stay with a soft, tinkling laugh. "It's not your fault. I was lost in my imagination. I don't think I would have heard a troupe of elephants marching through!"

It was so like something Mother would say that Shirley forgot his reticence and lit up his face with a genuine smile. Her entire being radiated pure joy as a matching smile blossomed on her flower-like face. The race of Joseph always knew its own.

"I am Shirley Blythe," said he.

"Blythe!" she exclaimed. "Are you related to Mrs. Dr. Anne Blythe who used to live here?"

"She's my mother," answered Shirley, feeling as though he should have been surprised but somehow was not.

"Why, we are practically old friends. I am Cecily Irving. My father was one of your mother's first students."

"Irving—Paul Irving? The poet?"

"The very same."

"Why, Mother still speaks of him often!" Shirley laughed. He held out his lean brown hand and clasped Cecily's small white one gently. Her soft pink cheeks flushed to a rosy hue at the touch.

She looked up at him shyly through her long lashes. "Since our families are such good friends, may I pretend I've known you forever and call you Shirley right away?"

He let go of her hand somewhat reluctantly—and then couldn't understand why he should feel so reluctant. "Of course."

"Thank you. And you must call me Cecily." She picked up a basket he hadn't noticed before, one she must have dropped upon seeing him. "I was just collecting some leaves and branches to decorate Echo Lodge."

"May I walk you back?" asked Shirley.

She smiled up at him. "I would like that. The family will be delighted to meet you."

Shirley silently took the basket and walked along the path beside her, stealing occasional glances at her petite frame and exquisite profile, and listening with pleasure to her clear, musical voice.

"This is such a perfect day," Cecily sighed happily. "But then, every day here seems beautiful."

"Have you ever been to the Island before?"

"No, never. We were going to come a few years ago, before the war, but Grandfather Irving's health failed and Father moved us back to Boston to be near him."

"What brings you here now?" Curiosity was not normally one of Shirley's vices—or virtues—but he wanted to learn everything he could about this girl.

She smiled wistfully. "Grandfather Irving passed away this spring, and Grandmother Lavender decided she'd had enough of Boston. Father didn't think that an eighty-year-old woman should be traveling across the ocean on her own, so we've all moved back to Echo Lodge—and here we are," she ended softly.

Shirley looked up. Mother had described Echo Lodge to him before, of course, but he had never seen the quaint old sandstone building with its long, low garden and the ivy crawling over the walls. The front door was open, and as Cecily and Shirley approached, a petite, plump woman came out.

"Cecily darling, there you are! You know you aren't supposed to travel very far by yourself"—she stopped short as she saw Shirley. "Cecily, who's this?"

Shirley stepped forward and answered for himself. "Shirley Blythe, ma'am. You must be Mrs. Irving. I met your daughter in the woods and she kindly let me escort her home."

"This is Father's teacher's son, Mama," interjected Cecily. "I knew Father and Grandmother Lavender would want to meet him."

The suspicious lines on Mrs. Irving's face melted away. She beamed welcomingly at Shirley. "Of course! You must forgive me, I am rather overprotective of"—she stopped again. "Well, at any rate, we are most happy to have you here. You must come in and have supper with us."

There was nothing Shirley would have liked better, but he felt he had to protest for form's sake. "Oh no, ma'am, I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Oh, please do stay," said Cecily softly.

That settled it. "Very well, then."

"Wonderful! Come inside and meet Paul and Mother Lavender. Cecily dearest, go upstairs and lay down until supper."

"Mama, I'm not tired," Cecily protested. "I want to visit with Shirley."

Mrs. Irving quelled her daughter with a stern glance. "Cecily, go rest."

Cecily sighed once, then smiled sweetly at both of them. She kissed her mother on the cheek, fluttered her fingers at Shirley, and disappeared into the house willingly. Mrs. Irving smiled. "Even when she doesn't agree, she always does as she's told without sulking. She's such a good girl, Shirley."

He couldn't have agreed more. He let himself be drawn in to the small living room where a tall man with Cecily's face set in a masculine mold was sitting talking with a tiny, frail, white-haired old lady. Shirley knew at once that this was Paul Irving and "Sweet Miss Lavender." They welcomed him gladly and took him to their hearts at once. Nowhere had Shirley met such congenial people or friendly companions. Paul asked him about flying, and Miss Lavender wanted to know all about Mother and Father. Nor did they expect him to do all the talking. They told him about Boston during the war, and Miss Lavender had them all laughing 'til they cried with stories of what it was like crossing the St. Lawrence this time. Mrs. Irving did not speak much, but watched them all keenly, with a small smile on her face. Although Shirley would have preferred it if Cecily had been there, he was amazed at how quickly the time passed until supper was served. Cecily came back downstairs, looking like a fresh rose after her rest, and they feasted on chicken and light biscuits and green peas and some of Miss Lavender's matchless preserves. As good as the food was, though, Shirley enjoyed the company even more. He enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when he finally, reluctantly, tore himself away, he eagerly promised to return again soon. Cecily walked him to the gate.

"I'm so glad we met today, Shirley," she said softly.

"So am I," he replied, smiling down into her starry blue eyes.

"One thing," she said hurriedly. "You mustn't mind Mama sometimes if she gets a little protective of me sometimes. I had a bad bout with the 'flu two years ago, and she fusses over me still. I think it's silly, but it's just because she's worried about me. You won't mind, will you?" Her face was anxious.

Shirley could well imagine anyone being protective of this sweet girl. "I understand completely, Cecily, and I won't mind. Now, you'd better get back before she starts to worry about you being out in the night air."

She hurried back to the door. "Will we see you tomorrow?" she called.

"Yes," said Shirley simply, thinking as he turned away that nothing short of another war would keep him away.