exhaled from him. The old ladies -- except Mrs. Grant -- don't

approve of Jonas, because he laughs and jokes -- and because he
evidently likes the society of frivolous me better than theirs.

"Somehow, Anne, I don't want him to think me frivolous. This is
ridiculous. Why should I care what a tow-haired person called

Jonas, whom I never saw before thinks of me?
"Last Sunday Jonas preached in the village church. I went,

of course, but I couldn't realize that Jonas was going to preach.
The fact that he was a minister -- or going to be one -- persisted

in seeming a huge joke to me.
"Well, Jonas preached. And, by the time he had preached ten

minutes, I felt so small and insignificant that I thought I must
be invisible to the naked eye. Jonas never said a word about

women and he never looked at me. But I realized then and there
what a pitiful, frivilous, small-souled little butterfly I was,

and how horribly different I must be from Jonas' ideal woman.
SHE would be grand and strong and noble. He was so earnest

and tender and true. He was everything a minister ought to be.
I wondered how I could ever have thought him ugly -- but he

really is! -- with those inspired eyes and that intellectual
brow which the roughly-falling hair hid on week days.

"It was a splendid sermon and I could have listened to it forever,
and it made me feel utterly wretched. Oh, I wish I was like YOU, Anne.

"He caught up with me on the road home, and grinned as cheerfully
as usual. But his grin could never deceive me again. I had seen

the REAL Jonas. I wondered if he could ever see the REAL PHIL --
whom NOBODY, not even you, Anne, has ever seen yet.

"`Jonas,' I said -- I forgot to call him Mr. Blake. Wasn't it dreadful?
But there are times when things like that don't matter -- `Jonas, you

were born to be a minister. You COULDN'T be anything else.'
"`No, I couldn't,' he said soberly. `I tried to be something

else for a long time -- I didn't want to be a minister. But I
came to see at last that it was the work given me to do -- and

God helping me, I shall try to do it.'
"His voice was low and reverent. I thought that he would do his

work and do it well and nobly; and happy the woman fitted by
nature and training to help him do it. SHE would be no feather,

blown about by every fickle wind of fancy. SHE would always know
what hat to put on. Probably she would have only one. Ministers

never have much money. But she wouldn't mind having one hat or
none at all, because she would have Jonas.

"Anne Shirley, don't you dare to say or hint or think that I've
fallen in love with Mr. Blake. Could I care for a lank, poor,

ugly theologue -- named Jonas? As Uncle Mark says, `It's impossible,
and what's more it's improbable.'

Good night,
PHIL."

"P.S. It is impossible -- but I am horribly afraid it's true.
I'm happy and wretched and scared. HE can NEVER care for me,

I know. Do you think I could ever develop into a passable
minister's wife, Anne? And WOULD they expect me to lead

in prayer? P G."
Chapter XXV

Enter Prince Charming
"I'm contrasting the claims of indoors and out," said Anne, looking

from the window of Patty's Place to the distant pines of the park.
"I've an afternoon to spend in sweet doing nothing, Aunt Jimsie.

Shall I spend it here where there is a cosy fire, a plateful of
delicious russets, three purring and harmonious cats, and two

impeccable china dogs with green noses? Or shall I go to the park,
where there is the lure of gray woods and of gray water lapping

on the harbor rocks?"
"If I was as young as you, I'd decide in favor of the park," said

Aunt Jamesina, tickling Joseph's yellow ear with a knitting needle.
"I thought that you claimed to be as young as any of us, Aunty,"

teased Anne.
"Yes, in my soul. But I'll admit my legs aren't as young as yours.

You go and get some fresh air, Anne. You look pale lately."
"I think I'll go to the park," said Anne restlessly. "I don't

feel like tame domestic joys today. I want to feel alone and
free and wild. The park will be empty, for every one will be at

the football match."
"Why didn't you go to it?"

"`Nobody axed me, sir, she said' -- at least, nobody but that
horrid little Dan Ranger. I wouldn't go anywhere with him;

but rather than hurt his poor little tender feelings I said I
wasn't going to the game at all. I don't mind. I'm not in

the mood for football today somehow."
"You go and get some fresh air," repeated Aunt Jamesina, "but take

your umbrella, for I believe it's going to rain. I've rheumatism
in my leg."

"Only old people should have rheumatism, Aunty."
"Anybody is liable to rheumatism in her legs, Anne. It's only

old people who should have rheumatism in their souls, though.
Thank goodness, I never have. When you get rheumatism in your

soul you might as well go and pick out your coffin."
It was November -- the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds,

deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.
Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she

said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.
Anne was not wont to be troubled with soul fog. But, somehow, since

her return to Redmond for this third year, life had not mirrored
her spirit back to her with its old, perfect, sparkling clearness.

Outwardly, existence at Patty's Place was the same pleasant
round of work and study and recreation that it had always been.

On Friday evenings the big, fire-lighted livingroom was crowded by
callers and echoed to endless jest and laughter, while Aunt Jamesina

smiled beamingly on them all. The "Jonas" of Phil's letter came often,
running up from St. Columbia on the early train and departing on the late.

He was a general favorite at Patty's Place, though Aunt Jamesina shook her
head and opined that divinity students were not what they used to be.

"He's VERY nice, my dear," she told Phil, "but ministers ought to be
graver and more dignified."

"Can't a man laugh and laugh and be a Christian still?" demanded Phil.
"Oh, MEN -- yes. But I was speaking of MINISTERS, my dear,"

said Aunt Jamesina rebukingly." And you shouldn't flirt so with
Mr. Blake -- you really shouldn't."

"I'm not flirting with him," protested Phil.
Nobody believed her, except Anne. The others thought she was amusing

herself as usual, and told her roundly that she was behaving very badly.
"Mr. Blake isn't of the Alec-and-Alonzo type, Phil," said Stella severely.

"He takes things seriously. You may break his heart."
"Do you really think I could?" asked Phil. "I'd love to think so."

"Philippa Gordon! I never thought you were utterly unfeeling.
The idea of you saying you'd love to break a man's heart!"

"I didn't say so, honey. Quote me correctly. I said I'd like to think
I COULD break it. I would like to know I had the POWER to do it."

"I don't understand you, Phil. You are leading that man on deliberately
-- and you know you don't mean anything by it."

"I mean to make him ask me to marry him if I can," said Phil calmly.
"I give you up," said Stella hopelessly.

Gilbert came occasionally on Friday evenings. He seemed
always in good spirits, and held his own in the jests and

repartee that flew about. He neither sought nor avoided Anne.
When circumstances brought them in contact he talked to her

pleasantly and courteously, as to any newly-made acquaintance.
The old camaraderie was gone entirely. Anne felt it keenly;

but she told herself she was very glad and thankful that Gilbert
had got so completely over his disappointment in regard to her.