LM Montgomery owns Anne of Green Gables. Margaret Mitchell owns some other characters. I own the characters you don't recognize from any stories you have read. And legal disclaimers are for the birds. Tweet Tweet.

Anna's dress was cut, assembled and sewn. All that was left was to add the trim, and Marybeth had to do that by hand. She took her sewing to Ingleside in the evening to sit on the porch and have a good talk with Anne and Miss Cornelia. They could hear the children's voices ebbing and flowing from Rainbow Valley. First quiet, then noisy, then quiet.

"What game is afoot tonight?" asked Marybeth.

"Hide-and-go-seek, from the sound of it," ventured Anne.

"Rainbow Valley certainly doesn't lack hiding places."

"I got a letter from Leslie Ford today," Anne told Miss Cornelia. "She and Owen and the children are really having a good time in Japan."

"I still maintain Owen could have found enough to write about in Canada," sniffed Miss Cornelia

"Owen Ford," muttered Marybeth. "Why is that name familiar?"

"He's a writer, he's written The Life-Book of Captain Jim," answered Anne.

"We have that book! My boys read it a couple years ago. You know the author?"

"He lived here for a while."

Miss Cornelia chimed in, "And, he got his best material here, too. He just shouldn't have dragged his family off to that heathen country. Who knows what they'll learn there?"

"Did you read it, Miss Cornelia? I didn't think you liked novels."

At this moment, Mr. Meredith walked into the garden.

"I came to talk to the Doctor, Mrs. Blythe," he said.

"He should be home any moment. Won't you sit down?"

He went to sit on the porch steps with Marybeth, and Miss Cornelia continued the conversation. "Yes I did read it. Owen's books are about the only novels I read, and I admit to it because they are good stories. Not like so many novels nowadays--it's simply outrageous what passes for entertainment these days. I know, because I read the reviews. Have you seen some of the novels that have been published in the last few years? Things like Tess of the D'Urbervilles, or Sister Carrie. All about tainted virtue, fallen women--completely inappropriate for young people to read."

"I read Tess, Miss Cornelia," Marybeth interjected, putting her sewing in her lap. "And I thought she should have told her husband about that man from her past, and before they got married, too." Then she shrugged. "Of course, if the story read like that, it would have been only half as long and only half as dramatic." She picked up her sewing and continued working on the trim.

"Good evening, all," Dr. Blythe had returned home. During the commotion while he greeted Anne and while Miss Cornelia's attention was diverted, Marybeth steeled herself, leaned towards Mr. Meredith and murmured quietly, "I couldn't tell my husband, anyway."

"You don't think you could have told him?" Mr. Meredith asked.

"My courage failed me and I didn't tell him," she replied, keeping her eyes steadfastly on her work.

Dr. Blythe worked his way over to the porch steps and Mr. Meredith mumbled something to Marybeth as he stood up and went inside the house with the Doctor. She nodded calmly but her heart was pounding.

Later that evening, Mr. Meredith walked homeward with Miss Cornelia and Marybeth. They walked almost silently, the only conversation a desultory one between the two women. Miss Cornelia realized with surprise that Mr. Meredith and Marybeth seemed to have nothing to say to each other. After they left off Miss Cornelia at her gate, they continued walking quietly. The sun was about to dip below the horizon and they were halfway to her house.

"Why did you tell me--that?" He asked in a flat, conversational tone of voice, as if they were discussing the weather.

Marybeth slowed her pace. She thought he wasn't going to speak to her the whole walk home. She told herself that it was okay, she didn't want conversation, it didn't matter. But now he was talking to her, and he wanted to know why. Unfortunately, this was the one question she was utterly unprepared to answer. What could she say to him? I just wanted to give you an opportunity, a reason to stop associating with me. What had seemed perfectly logical when she sat on Anne's steps now seemed like hubris. She must have merely imagined that he felt anything for her. She felt her cheeks burning and looked away. He really seemed confused as to why she said it. With the knowledge that she couldn't tell him her reasons, she said, keeping her voice as flat and conversational as his, "I understand if you don't think it's fitting for us to associate anymore."

"And you thought it wouldn't be fitting because..."

"You're a public person and I'm not."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"After all, you have your position to consider-"

"My position..."

"People know we're friendly, and they might not think it's quite proper."

"Why wouldn't it be proper for me to be friendly to somebody I see frequently?"

She stopped walking, closed her eyes and sighed raggedly. Why was he being so obtuse, and why was he looking at her so strangely?

"How did you expect me to react?" He asked earnestly and a little heatedly when she didn't answer. "What did you think? That I wouldn't talk to you anymore? That I would sit in judgment of you?"

She opened her eyes and looked past him, standing as if frozen, her face carefully neutral, but she was clutching her sewing basket as if for support. He could see her knuckles had turned white as she held on to the handle.

"Mrs. Hamilton," he said, with some agitation, "We haven't known each other for very long, but still I thought you knew me better than that."

She didn't answer him, and she didn't look at him, either. Somewhat at a loss, he asked, quietly, "Tell me what you want--not what you think other people's opinion might be. What do you want?"

Marybeth answered slowly, choosing her words carefully, "Not to--presume--on your kindness. Not to--cause you any trouble." That was as plain as she could phrase it without embarrassing either of them. To be more explicit would be to acknowledge that there was any feeling between them that crossed the line of friendship, and Marybeth decided she wouldn't be the one to say it.

"You haven't caused me any trouble at all." He replied. Apparently, he wasn't going to acknowledge it either.

She plunged in again. Looking directly into his eyes, she said, as calmly as before, "He found out, you know--my husband. He found out everything--somebody told him. We had been married for several years by that time."

He was looking at her intensely, and she turned and started walking. He caught up with her, but she had stopped talking.

"What happened then?" He asked.

"He forgave me, then went out of his way to never refer to it again," she said, dully.

"Wasn't that good?"

She whirled on him then, looking at him with a strange, mocking expression. "You would have thought so, wouldn't you? Let me reveal something about myself. I hated it. He never talked about it, or brought it up--he continued to treat me with the same kindness he always did, and it was the worst thing he could have done to me. If he had rebuked me, or yelled at me, or even called me a name, just once, I could have borne it. But to have it swept away, just like that, was a form of torture to me."

"You wanted to be punished."

"Yes. So what do you think of me now?"

She was staring at him defiantly, waiting for a response. He shifted from one foot to the other as he weighed his reply, knowing that it was important to her. "I think you have a strong sense of justice--you want to see sin punished and virtue rewarded, and you don't excuse yourself from that rule. You have high ideals, which can lead you to be harsh, especially with yourself. But at the same time, you are compassionate and don't take any enjoyment in watching people suffer, even if they brought it on themselves."

Marybeth turned away and they started walking again. "You've been hearing my troubles ever since the night I saw you on the road after you had been down at the Drews' administering Last Rites."

"Not 'Last Rites', Mrs. Hamilton," he said absently.

But Marybeth wasn't listening. The shadows were lengthening and she shivered slightly. She did try to extricate him from herself. She did try.

"I pray that I would never judge any person as worse than myself," Mr. Meredith murmured absently. Then he looked at her directly. "If I may be so presumptuous, I consider you a friend."

"Then I hope my friendship doesn't cause you to suffer."

They were at her gate now, and she could see his face in the dim light. There was something ironic in his expression.

"Was there ever a friendship in the world that didn't involve some suffering?" He asked dryly.