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Dramatis Personae of Anne of Green Gables. Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery.
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Dramatis Personae: Anne/Narrator: read by Arielle Lipshaw
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Marilla Cuthbert: read by Elizabeth Klett Matthew Cuthbert: read by Bruce Pirie
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Mrs. Rachel Lynde: read by Amy Gramour Diana Barry: read by Sally McConnell
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Gilbert Blythe: read by mb Stationmaster: read by Phil Chenevert
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Mrs. Spencer: read by Sally McConnell Flora Jane Spencer: read by sherlock85
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Mrs. Blewett: read by Tricia G Mrs. Barry: read by Linette Geisel
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Mr. Phillips: read by David Lawrence Jimmy Glover/Boys: read by Peter Bishop
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Ruby Gillis: read by ESFJ Girl Doctor: read by Phil Chenevert
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Miss Josephine Barry: read by ashleyspence Mrs. Allan: read by Sarah Jennings
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Josie Pye: read by rashada Carrie Sloane: read by Laura Payne
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Miss Lucilla Harris: read by Sally McConnell Jane Andrews: read by Elizabeth Barr
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Miss Stacy: read by Amy Gramour Moody Spurgeon McPherson: read by Peter Bishop
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Lady: read by Availle CHAPTER I. Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Surprised
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MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow,
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fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source
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away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate,
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headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and
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cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little
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stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard
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for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window,
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keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she
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noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the
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whys and wherefores thereof.
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There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their
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neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of
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those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into
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the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she
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βranβ the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop
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of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found
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abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting βcotton warpβ quiltsβshe
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had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voicesβand keeping
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a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill
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beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St.
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Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass
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over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye.
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She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window
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warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white
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bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lyndeβa meek little man whom Avonlea people
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called βRachel Lynde's husbandββwas sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field
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beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook
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field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him
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tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody
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that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course,
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for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in
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his whole life.
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And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly
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driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of
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clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy
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and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now,
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where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?
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Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together,
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might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went
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from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the
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shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have
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to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something
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that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and
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her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled.
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βI'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's
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gone and why,β the worthy woman finally concluded. βHe doesn't generally go to
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town this time of year and he never visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't
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dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going
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for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean
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puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until
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I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.β
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Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling,
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orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the
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road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew
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Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as
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he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he
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founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and
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there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea
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houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place
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living at all.
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βIt's just staying, that's what,β she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted,
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grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. βIt's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are
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both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though
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dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be
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sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can
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get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said.β
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With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green
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and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows
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and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for
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Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that
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Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten
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a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt.
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Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so.
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The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartmentβor would have been cheerful if
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it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused
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parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back
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yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse
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of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down
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in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert,
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when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing
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and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here
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she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper.
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Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything
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that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some
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one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple
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preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular
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company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting
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fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables.
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βGood evening, Rachel,β Marilla said briskly. βThis is a real fine evening, isn't it?
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Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?β
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Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always
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had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite ofβor perhaps because ofβtheir
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dissimilarity.
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Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some
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gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins
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stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid
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conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if
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it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense
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of humor.
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βWe're all pretty well,β said Mrs. Rachel. βI was kind of afraid you weren't, though,
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when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's.β
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Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known
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that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's
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curiosity.
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βOh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,β she said. βMatthew
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went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and
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he's coming on the train tonight.β
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If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia
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Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds.
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It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced
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to suppose it.
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βAre you in earnest, Marilla?β she demanded when voice returned to her.
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βYes, of course,β said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia
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were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being
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an unheard of innovation.
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Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points.
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A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum!
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Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after
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this! Nothing!
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βWhat on earth put such a notion into your head?β she demanded disapprovingly.
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This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved.
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βWell, we've been thinking about it for some timeβall winter in fact,β returned
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Marilla. βMrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said
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she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her
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cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and
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I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting
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up in years, you knowβhe's sixtyβand he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart
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troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired
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help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys;
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and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off
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to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy.
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But I said 'no' flat to that. 'They may be all rightβI'm not saying they're
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notβbut no London street Arabs for me,' I said. 'Give me a native born at least.
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There'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep
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sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.' So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer
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to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was
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going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely
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boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best ageβold enough to be of
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some use in doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to
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give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer todayβthe
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mail-man brought it from the stationβsaying they were coming on the five-thirty train
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tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there.
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Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself.β
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Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having
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adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.
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βWell, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish
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thingβa risky thing, that's what. You don't know what you're getting. You're
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bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don't know a single thing about
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him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he's likely
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to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up
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west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at nightβset
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it on purpose, Marillaβand nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know
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another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggsβthey couldn't break him
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of it. If you had asked my advice in the matterβwhich you didn't do, MarillaβI'd have said
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for mercy's sake not to think of such a thing, that's what.β
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This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily
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on.
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βI don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some qualms myself.
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But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. It's so seldom Matthew
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sets his mind on anything that when he does I always feel it's my duty to give in. And
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as for the risk, there's risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world.
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There's risks in people's having children of their own if it comes to thatβthey don't
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always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the Island. It isn't as
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if we were getting him from England or the States. He can't be much different from
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ourselves.β
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βWell, I hope it will turn out all right,β said Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated
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her painful doubts. βOnly don't say I didn't warn you if he burns Green Gables
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down or puts strychnine in the wellβI heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan
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asylum child did that and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only, it was a girl
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in that instance.β
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βWell, we're not getting a girl,β said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were a purely
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feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. βI'd never dream
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of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there,
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she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.β
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Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan.
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But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival she concluded
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to go up the road to Robert Bell's and tell the news. It would certainly make a sensation
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second to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she took herself away,
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somewhat to Marilla's relief, for the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the
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influence of Mrs. Rachel's pessimism.
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βWell, of all things that ever were or will be!β ejaculated Mrs. Rachel when she was
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safely out in the lane. βIt does really seem as if I must be dreaming. Well, I'm
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sorry for that poor young one and no mistake. Matthew and Marilla don't know anything
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about children and they'll expect him to be wiser and steadier that his own grandfather,
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if so be's he ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think of
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a child at Green Gables somehow; there's never been one there, for Matthew and Marilla
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were grown up when the new house was builtβif they ever were children, which is hard to
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believe when one looks at them. I wouldn't be in that orphan's shoes for anything.
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My, but I pity him, that's what.β
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So said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fulness of her heart; but if she
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could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the Bright River station at that
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very moment her pity would have been still deeper and
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more profound.
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CHAPTER II. Matthew Cuthbert is surprised MATTHEW Cuthbert and the sorrel mare jogged
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comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River. It was a pretty road, running along
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between snug farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy fir wood to drive through
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or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom. The air was sweet with the breath
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of many apple orchards and the meadows sloped away in the distance to horizon mists of pearl
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and purple; while
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βThe little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year.β
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Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, except during the moments when he met women
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and had to nod to themβfor in Prince Edward island you are supposed to nod to all and
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sundry you meet on the road whether you know them or not.
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Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and Mrs. Rachel; he had an uncomfortable feeling
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that the mysterious creatures were secretly laughing at him. He may have been quite right
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in thinking so, for he was an odd-looking personage, with an ungainly figure and long
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iron-gray hair that touched his stooping shoulders, and a full, soft brown beard which he had