half bushel, as the country saying went, and cheating himself thereby, as such people generally do, believed that she would tell it far and wide. Now, Judson Parker, as has been seen, was not overly regardful of public opinion; but to be known as having accepted a bribe would be a nasty thing; and if it ever reached Isaac Spencer’s ears farewell forever to all hope of winning Louisa Jane with her comfortable prospects as the heiress of a well-to-do farmer. Judson Parker knew that Mr. Spencer looked somewhat askance at him as it was; he could not afford to take any risks.

“Ahem⁠ ⁠… Anne, I’ve been wanting to see you about that little matter we were discussing the other day. I’ve decided not to let my fences to that company after all. A society with an aim like yours ought to be encouraged.”

Anne thawed out the merest trifle.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… you needn’t mention that little conversation of mine with Jerry.”

“I have no intention of mentioning it in any case,” said Anne icily, for she would have seen every fence in Avonlea painted with advertisements before she would have stooped to bargain with a man who would sell his vote.

“Just so⁠ ⁠… just so,” agreed Judson, imagining that they understood each other beautifully. “I didn’t suppose you would. Of course, I was only stringing Jerry⁠ ⁠… he thinks he’s so all-fired cute and smart. I’ve no intention of voting for Amesbury. I’m going to vote for Grant as I’ve always done⁠ ⁠… you’ll see that when the election comes off. I just led Jerry on to see if he would commit himself. And it’s all right about the fence⁠ ⁠… you can tell the Improvers that.”

“It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I’ve often heard, but I think there are some who could be spared,” Anne told her reflection in the east gable mirror that night. “I wouldn’t have mentioned the disgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience is clear on that score. I really don’t know who or what is to be thanked for this. I did nothing to bring it about, and it’s hard to believe that Providence ever works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson Parker and Jerry Corcoran have.”

XV

The Beginning of Vacation

Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when the winds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadows were long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key into her pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, she had been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction⁠ ⁠… only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strap oftener⁠ ⁠… and two delightful months of a well-earned vacation beckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herself as she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand. Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weekly pilgrimage to Matthew’s grave. Everybody else in Avonlea, except Marilla, had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but his memory was still green in Anne’s heart and always would be. She could never forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her the love and sympathy her starved childhood had craved.

At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow of the spruces⁠ ⁠… a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive face. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces of tears on his cheeks.

“I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to the graveyard,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “I’m going there, too⁠ ⁠… I’m taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving’s grave for grandma. And look, teacher, I’m going to put this bunch of white roses beside Grandpa’s grave in memory of my little mother⁠ ⁠… because I can’t go to her grave to put it there. But don’t you think she’ll know all about it, just the same?”

“Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.”

“You see, teacher, it’s just three years today since my little mother died. It’s such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever⁠ ⁠… and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me that I just can’t bear it, it hurts so.”

Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses, hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.

“And yet,” said Anne, very softly, “you wouldn’t want it to stop hurting⁠ ⁠… you wouldn’t want to forget your little mother even if you could.”

“No, indeed, I wouldn’t⁠ ⁠… that’s just the way I feel. You’re so good at understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well⁠ ⁠… not even grandma, although she’s so good to me. Father understood pretty well, but still I couldn’t talk much to him about mother, because it made him feel so bad. When he put his hand over his face I always knew it was time to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfully lonesome without me; but you see he has nobody but a housekeeper now and he thinks housekeepers are no good to bring up little boys, especially when he has to be away from home so much on business. Grandmothers are better, next to mothers. Some day, when I’m brought up, I’ll go back to father and we’re never going to be parted again.”

Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that she felt as if she had known them. She thought his mother must have been very like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and she had an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deep and tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world.

“Father’s not very easy to

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