Gilbert put the motion, it was carried unanimously, and Anne gravely

recorded it in her minutes. The next thing was to appoint a committee,
and Gertie Pye, determined not to let Julia Bell carry off all the laurels,

boldly moved that Miss Jane Andrews be chairman of said committee.
This motion being also duly seconded and carried, Jane returned

the compliment by appointing Gertie on the committee, along with
Gilbert, Anne, Diana, and Fred Wright. The committee chose their

routes in private conclave. Anne and Diana were told off for the
Newbridge road, Gilbert and Fred for the White Sands road, and Jane

and Gertie for the Carmody road.
"Because," explained Gilbert to Anne, as they walked home together

through the Haunted Wood, "the Pyes all live along that road and
they won't give a cent unless one of themselves canvasses them."

The next Saturday Anne and Diana started out. They drove to the end of
the road and canvassed homeward, calling first on the "Andrew girls."

"If Catherine is alone we may get something," said Diana, "but if
Eliza is there we won't."

Eliza was there. . .very much so. . .and looked even grimmer than
usual. Miss Eliza was one of those people who give you the

impression that life is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile,
never to speak of a laugh, is a waste of nervousenergy truly

reprehensible. The Andrew girls had been "girls" for fifty odd
years and seemed likely to remain girls to the end of their earthly

pilgrimage. Catherine, it was said, had not entirely given up hope,
but Eliza, who was born a pessimist, had never had any. They lived

in a little brown house built in a sunny corner scooped out of
Mark Andrew's beech woods. Eliza complained that it was terrible

hot in summer, but Catherine was wont to say it was lovely and
warm in winter.

Eliza was sewing patchwork, not because it was needed but simply as
a protest against the frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting.

Eliza listened with a frown and Catherine with a smile, as the
girls explained their errand. To be sure, whenever Catherine

caught Eliza's eye she discarded the smile in guilty confusion;
but it crept back the next moment.

"If I had money to waste," said Eliza grimly, "I'd burn it up and
have the fun of seeing a blaze maybe; but I wouldn't give it to

that hall, not a cent. It's no benefit to the settlement. . .just
a place for young folks to meet and carry on when they's better be

home in their beds."
"Oh, Eliza, young folks must have some amusement," protested

Catherine.
"I don't see the necessity. We didn't gad about to halls and

places when we were young, Catherine Andrews. This world is
getting worse every day"

"I think it's getting better," said Catherine firmly.
"YOU think!" Miss Eliza's voice expressed the utmost contempt.

"It doesn't signify what you THINK, Catherine Andrews. Facts
is facts."

"Well, I always like to look on the bright side, Eliza."
"There isn't any bright side."

"Oh, indeed there is," cried Anne, who couldn't endure such heresy
in silence." Why, there are ever so many bright sides, Miss Andrews.

It's really a beautiful world."
"You won't have such a high opinion of it when you've lived as long

in it as I have," retorted Miss Eliza sourly, "and you won't be so
enthusiastic about improving it either. How is your mother, Diana?

Dear me, but she has failed of late. She looks terrible run down.
And how long is it before Marilla expects to be stone blind, Anne?"

"The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse if she is very
careful," faltered Anne.

Eliza shook her head.
"Doctors always talk like that just to keep people cheered up. I wouldn't

have much hope if I was her. It's best to be prepared for the worst."
"But oughtn't we be prepared for the best too?" pleaded Anne.

"It's just as likely to happen as the worst."
"Not in my experience, and I've fifty-seven years to set against

your sixteen," retorted Eliza. "Going, are you? Well, I hope this
new society of yours will be able to keep Avonlea from running any

further down hill but I haven't much hope of it."
Anne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, and drove away as

fast as the fat pony could go. As they rounded the curve below the
beech wood a plump figure came speeding over Mr. Andrews' pasture,

waving to them excitedly. It was Catherine Andrews and she was so
out of breath that she could hardly speak, but she thrust a couple

of quarters into Anne's hand.
"That's my contribution to painting the hall," she gasped. "I'd

like to give you a dollar but I don't dare take more from my egg
money for Eliza would find it out if I did. I'm real interested

in your society and I believe you're going to do a lot of good.
I'm an optimist. I HAVE to be, living with Eliza. I must hurry

back before she misses me. . .she thinks I'm feeding the hens.
I hope you'll have good luck canvassing, and don't be cast down over

what Eliza said. The world IS getting better. . .it certainly is."
The next house was Daniel Blair's.

"Now, it all depends on whether his wife is home or not," said Diana,
as they jolted along a deep-rutted lane. "If she is we won't get a cent.

Everybody says Dan Blair doesn't dare have his hair cut without asking
her permission; and it's certain she's very close, to state it moderately.

She says she has to be just before she's generous. But Mrs. Lynde says
she's so much `before' that generosity never catches up with her at all."

Anne related their experience at the Blair place to Marilla that evening.
"We tied the horse and then rapped at the kitchen door.

Nobody came but the door was open and we could hear somebody
in the pantry, going on dreadfully. We couldn't make out the words

but Diana says she knows they were swearing by the sound of them.
I can't believe that of Mr. Blair, for he is always so quiet and meek;

but at least he had great provocation, for Marilla, when that poor man
came to the door, red as a beet, with perspiration streaming down his

face, he had on one of his wife's big gingham aprons. `I can't get
this durned thing off,' he said, `for the strings are tied in a hard

knot and I can't bust 'em, so you'll have to excuse me, ladies.'
We begged him not to mention it and went in and sat down. Mr. Blair

sat down too; he twisted the apron around to his back and rolled it up,
but he did look so ashamed and worried that I felt sorry for him,

and Diana said she feared we had called at an inconvenient time.
`Oh, not at all,' said Mr. Blair, trying to smile. . .you know he

is always very polite. . .'I'm a little busy. . .getting ready to
bake a cake as it were. My wife got a telegram today that her

sister from Montreal is coming tonight and she's gone to the
train to meet her and left orders for me to make a cake for tea.

She writ out the recipe and told me what to do but I've clean forgot
half the directions already. And it says, "flavor according to taste."

What does that mean? How can you tell? And what if my taste doesn't
happen to be other people's taste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla be

enough for a small layer cake?"
"I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He didn't seem to be

in his proper sphere at all. I had heard of henpecked husbands and
now I felt that I saw one. It was on my lips to say, `Mr. Blair,

if you'll give us a subscription for the hall I'll mix up your cake
for you.' But I suddenly thought it wouldn't be neighborly to drive

too sharp a bargain with a fellow creature in distress. So I
offered to mix the cake for him without any conditions at all.

He just jumped at my offer. He said he'd been used to making his
own bread before he was married but he feared cake was beyond him,

and yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got me another apron,
and Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr. Blair ran about