nor the china dogs seemed conversationally inclined. Anne glanced about the room. What a dear place it was! Another door opened out of it directly into the pine grove and the robins came boldly up on the very step. The floor was spotted with round, braided mats, such as Marilla made at Green Gables, but which were considered out of date everywhere else, even in Avonlea. And yet here they were on Spofford Avenue! A big, polished grandfather’s clock ticked loudly and solemnly in a corner. There were delightful little cupboards over the mantelpiece, behind whose glass doors gleamed quaint bits of china. The walls were hung with old prints and silhouettes. In one corner the stairs went up, and at the first low turn was a long window with an inviting seat. It was all just as Anne had known it must be.
By this time the silence had grown too dreadful, and Priscilla nudged Anne to intimate that she must speak.
“We—we—saw by your sign that this house is to let,” said Anne faintly, addressing the older lady, who was evidently Miss Patty Spofford.
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Patty. “I intended to take that sign down today.”
“Then—then we are too late,” said Anne sorrowfully. “You’ve let it to some one else?”
“No, but we have decided not to let it at all.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Anne impulsively. “I love this place so. I did hope we could have got it.”
Then did Miss Patty lay down her knitting, take off
