Page:Anne's house of dreams (1920 Canada).djvu/283

 now—and I’m so ashamed of myself—and will you ever really forgive me?”

“Anne, I’ll shake you if you don’t grow coherent. Redmond would be ashamed of you. What has happened?”

“You won’t believe it—you won’t believe it—”

“I’m going to ’phone for Uncle Dave,” said Gilbert, pretending to start for the house.

“Sit down, Gilbert. I’ll try to tell you. I’ve had a letter, and oh, Gilbert, it’s all so amazing—so incredibly amazing—we never thought—not one of us ever dreamed—”

“I suppose,” said Gilbert, sitting down with a resigned air, “the only thing to do in a case of this kind is to have patience and go at the matter categorically. Whom is your letter from?”

“Leslie—and, oh, Gilbert—”

“Leslie! Whew! What has she to say? What’s the news about Dick?”

Anne lifted the letter and held it out, calmly dramatic in a moment.

“There is no Dick! The man we have thought Dick Moore—whom everybody in Four Winds has believed for twelve years to be Dick Moore—is his cousin, George Moore, of Nova Scotia, who, it seems, always resembled him very strikingly. Dick Moore died of yellow fever thirteen years ago in Cuba.”