Chapter XXVII - Page 2

I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody.
Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from
me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd
pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea.
Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when
I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things.
I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or
untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise
and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk
her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she
got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not
delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too
hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure
she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a
great hand at explaining."

"She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I
reckon she'll find it hard to explain THAT to my satisfaction.
Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing
her up, not you."

It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne,
coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane,
breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties.
Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a
candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the
east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table.
Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed,
face downward among the pillows.

"Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?"

"No," was the muffled reply.

"Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed.

Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself
forever from mortal eyes.

"No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in
the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or
writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir
any more. Little things like that are of no importance now
because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again.
My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me."

"Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know.
"Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done?
Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now,
what is it?"

Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience.

"Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered.

Accordingly, Marilla lifted her