Chapter XI - Page 2

for one,
but I didn't much expect it on that account. I didn't
suppose God would have time to bother about a little
orphan girl's dress. I knew I'd just have to depend on
Marilla for it. Well, fortunately I can imagine that one
of them is of snow-white muslin with lovely lace frills and
three-puffed sleeves."

The next morning warnings of a sick headache prevented
Marilla from going to Sunday-school with Anne.

"You'll have to go down and call for Mrs. Lynde, Anne."
she said. "She'll see that you get into the right class.
Now, mind you behave yourself properly. Stay to preaching
afterwards and ask Mrs. Lynde to show you our pew. Here's
a cent for collection. Don't stare at people and don't fidget.
I shall expect you to tell me the text when you come home."

Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff black-
and-white sateen, which, while decent as regards length
and certainly not open to the charge of skimpiness, contrived
to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure.
Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the
extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed
Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon
and flowers. The latter, however, were supplied before
Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway
down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred buttercups
and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally
garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever
other people might have thought of the result it satisfied
Anne, and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ruddy
head with its decoration of pink and yellow very proudly.

When she had reached Mrs. Lynde's house she found that
lady gone. Nothing daunted, Anne proceeded onward to the
church alone. In the porch she found a crowd of little
girls, all more or less gaily attired in whites and blues
and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at this stranger
in their midst, with her extraordinary head adornment. Avonlea
little girls had already heard queer stories about Anne.
Mrs. Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the
hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the time
to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy girl.
They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their
quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later on
when the opening exercises were over and Anne found herself in
Miss Rogerson's class.

Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a
Sunday-school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching
was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and
look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl
she thought ought to answer the