"And you, Anne-girl?"

"I've enjoyed every minute of the time," said Anne, throwing her
arms impulsively about the old woman's neck and kissing her
wrinkled cheek. Diana would never have dared to do such a thing
and felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss Barry was
pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out
of sight. Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It
seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry
was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had
never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued people only
as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused
her, and consequently stood high in the old lady's good graces.
But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint
speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions,
her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips.

"I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd
adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum," she said to herself,
"but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I'd
a child like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better and
happier woman."

Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the
drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful
consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset
when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road.
Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky.
Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant