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 “And exams are over and gone—the time of Convocation will come soon—next Wednesday. This day next week we’ll be home.”

“I’m glad,” said Anne dreamily. “There are so many things I want to do. I want to sit on the back porch steps and feel the breeze blowing down over Mr. Harrison’s fields. I want to hunt ferns in the Haunted Wood and gather violets in Violet Vale. Do you remember the day of our golden picnic, Priscilla? I want to hear the frogs singing and the poplars whispering. But I’ve learned to love Kingsport, too, and I’m glad I’m coming back next fall. If I hadn’t won the Thorburn I don’t believe I could have. I couldn’t take any of Marilla’s little hoard.”

“If we could only find a house!” sighed Priscilla. “Look over there at Kingsport, Anne—houses, houses everywhere, and not one for us.”

“Stop it, Pris. ‘The best is yet to be.’ Like the old Roman, we’ll find a house or build one. On a day like this there’s no such word as fail in my bright lexicon.”

They lingered in the park until sunset, living in the amazing miracle and glory and wonder of the springtide; and they went home as usual, by way of Spofford Avenue, that they might have the delight of looking at Patty’s Place.

“I feel as if something mysterious were going to happen right away—‘by the pricking of my thumbs,’” said Anne, as they went up the slope. “It’s a nice story-bookish feeling. Why—why—why! Pris-