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8 "Marilla is eighty-five," said Anne with a sigh. "Her hair is snow-white. But, strange to say, her eyesight is better than it was when she was sixty."

"Well, dearie, I'm real glad you're all back. I've been dreadful lonesome. But we haven't been dull in the Glen, believe me. There hasn't been such an exciting spring in my time, as far as church matters go. We've got settled with a minister at last, Anne, dearie."

"The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, resolved not to let Miss Cornelia tell all the news.

"Is he nice?" asked Anne interestedly.

Miss Cornelia sighed and Susan groaned.

"Yes, he's nice enough if that was all," said the former. "He is very nice—and very learned—and very spiritual. But, oh Anne, dearie, he has no common sense!"

"How was it you called him, then?"

"Well, there's no doubt he is by far the best preacher we ever had in Glen St. Mary church," said Miss Cornelia, veering a tack or two. "I suppose it is because he is so moony and absent minded that he never got a town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful, believe me. Every one went mad about it—and his looks." "He is very comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when all is said and done, I do like to see a well-looking man in the pulpit," broke in Susan, thinking it was time she asserted herself again.