He was brown-haired, brown-eyed, and brown-skinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan’s especial love.
Shirley, “the little brown boy,” as he was known in the family “Who’s Who,” was asleep in Susan’s arms. She had curly red hair and hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkled fashion in which Rilla always went to sleep. Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creature of six years, the youngest of the Ingleside children. Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat’s light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn.Īnne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk, as girlish as a mother of many has any right to be and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbor road, were as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream as ever. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook her head over them several times as she walked briskly along. For one thing, there was a new family in the manse. They had been away for three months, having left in February to attend a famous medical congress in London and certain things, which Miss Cornelia was anxious to discuss, had taken place in the Glen during their absence. Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr.
you shall be with a vengeance as far as I am concerned.” Marshall Elliott,” with the most killing and pointed emphasis, as if to say “You wanted to be Mrs. Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithful handmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, never lost an opportunity of calling her “Mrs. The old name was dear to her old friends only one of them contemptuously dropped it. Marshall Elliott for thirteen years, but even yet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring, but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the red harbor road along which Miss Cornelia’s comfortable, matronly figure was making its way towards the village of Glen St.
It was a clear, apple-green evening in May, and Four Winds Harbour was mirroring back the clouds of the golden West between its softly dark shores.
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