"I've growed a whole inch since you left," said Davy proudly.
"I'm as tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain't I glad. He'll have to

stop crowing about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that
Gilbert Blythe is dying?" Anne stood quite silent and motionless,

looking at Davy. Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought
she was going to faint.

"Davy, hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel angrily. "Anne,
don't look like that -- DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT! We didn't mean

to tell you so suddenly."
"Is -- it -- true?" asked Anne in a voice that was not hers.

"Gilbert is very ill," said Mrs. Lynde gravely. "He took down
with typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you

never hear of it?"
"No," said that unknown voice.

"It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he'd
been terribly run down. They've a trained nurse and everything's

been done. DON'T look like that, Anne. While there's life
there's hope."

"Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of him,"
reiterated Davy.

Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly
out of the kitchen.

"Oh, DON'T look so, dear," said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old arms
about the pallid girl. "I haven't given up hope, indeed I haven't.

He's got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that's what."
Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde's arms away from her, walked blindly

across the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room.
At its window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark.

The rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods
was full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the

air throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore.
And Gilbert was dying!

There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the Bible.
Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil through

the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert -- had always loved him!
She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him out of her life

without agony than she could have cut off her right hand and cast it from her.
And the knowledge had come too late -- too late even for the bitter solace

of being with him at the last. If she had not been so blind -- so foolish
-- she would have had the right to go to him now. But he would never know

that she loved him -- he would go away from this life thinking that she
did not care. Oh, the black years of emptiness stretching before her!

She could not live through them -- she could not! She cowered down by
her window and wished, for the first time in her gay young life, that

she could die, too. If Gilbert went away from her, without one word or
sign or message, she could not live. Nothing was of any value without him.

She belonged to him and he to her. In her hour of supreme agony she had
no doubt of that. He did not love Christine Stuart -- never had loved

Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool she had been not to realize what the
bond was that had held her to Gilbert -- to think that the flattered

fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And now she must pay
for her folly as for a crime.

Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed,
shook their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence,

and went away. The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came
it was spent. Anne saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of

darkness. Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim.
The clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses

on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and silvery. A hush fell
over the world.

Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of
the rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into

the yard, and cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking
whistle was lilting up the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote

came in sight.
Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not

clutched at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique
was George Fletcher's hired man, and George Fletcher lived

next door to the Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt.
Pacifique would know if -- if -- Pacifique would know what there

was to be known.
Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He

did not see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him.
He was almost past before she succeeded in making her quivering

lips call, "Pacifique!"
Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.

"Pacifique," said Anne faintly, "did you come from George
Fletcher's this morning?"

"Sure," said Pacifique amiably. "I got de word las' night dat my
fader, he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn't go den, so I

start vair early dis mornin'. I'm goin' troo de woods for short cut."
"Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?" Anne's

desperation drove her to the question. Even the worst would be
more endurable than this hideous suspense.

"He's better," said Pacifique. "He got de turn las' night.
De doctor say he'll be all right now dis soon while. Had close

shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus' keel himself at college.
Well, I mus' hurry. De old man, he'll be in hurry to see me."

Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him
with eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night.

He was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight
he was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains.

Never, as long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique's brown, round,
black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had

given to her the oil of joy for mourning.
Long after Pacifique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of

music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's
Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness

of life when some great dread has been removed from it. The
morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner

near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses.
The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree

above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence
from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips,

"Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning."
XLI

Love Takes Up the Glass of Time
"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles

through September woods and `over hills where spices grow,' this
afternoon," said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner.

"Suppose we visit Hester Gray's garden."
Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale,

filmy, green stuff, looked up rather blankly.
"Oh, I wish I could," she said slowly, "but I really can't,

Gilbert. I'm going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening,
you know. I've got to do something to this dress, and by

the time it's finished I'll have to get ready. I'm so sorry.
I'd love to go."

"Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?" asked Gilbert,
apparently not much disappointed.

"Yes, I think so."
"In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I

should otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is
to be married tonight. Three weddings for you in one summer,

Anne -- Phil's, Alice's, and Jane's. I'll never forgive Jane