For an hour we talked of Anne and that famous farm on Prince Edward Island. Thus the friendship began.

I don't know, I don't want to talk as much. (...) It's nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one's heart, like treasures. I don't like to have them laughed at or wondered over.

Anne, look here. Can’t we be good friends?”For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert’s hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her “carrots” and had brought about her disdain before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him!

The world looks like something God had just imaged for his own pleasure, doesn't it?

Today has been a day dropped out of June into April.

Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or in the deep, deep woods and I'd look up into the sky—up—up—up—into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just feel a prayer.

You're not eating anything,' said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat whenyou are in the depths of despair?'I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say,' responded Marilla. Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to IMAGINE you were inthe depths of despair?'No, I didn't.'Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's very uncomfortable a feeling indeed.

But tonight is a gusty, hurrying night . . . Even the clouds racing over the sky are in a hurry and the moonlight that gushes out between them is in a hurry to flood the world.

I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet,' scoffed Marilla. 'You'll get a pack of nonsense into your heads and waste time that should be put to your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

It's lovely to be going home and know it's home. I love green gables already, and I've never loved any place before. Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy.