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 fique would know if—if—Pacifique would know what there was to be known.

Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost past before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call, “Pacifique!”

Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.

“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did you come from George Fletcher’s this morning?”

“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably. “I got de word las’ night dat my fader, he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go den, so I start vair early dis mornin’. I’m goin’ troo de woods for short cut.”

“Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?” Anne’s desperation drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable than this hideous suspense.

“He’s better,” said Pacifique. “He got de turn las’ night. De doctor say he’ll be all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus’ keel himself at college. Well, I mus’ hurry. De old man, he’ll be in hurry to see me.”

Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on