“Anne,” said Davy appealingly, scrambling up on the shiny, leather-covered sofa in the Green Gables kitchen, where Anne sat, reading a letter, “Anne, I’m awful hungry. You’ve no idea.”

 “I’ll get you a piece of bread and butter in a minute,” said Anne absently.

Her letter evidently contained some exciting news, for her cheeks were as pink as the roses on the big bush outside, and her eyes were as starry as only Anne’s eyes could be.

 “But I ain’t bread and butter hungry,” said Davy in a disgusted tone.

“I’m plum cake hungry.”

 “Oh,” laughed Anne, laying down her letter and putting her arm about Davy to give him a squeeze, “that’s a kind of hunger that can be endured very comfortably, Davy-boy.

You know it’s one of Marilla’s rules that you can’t have anything but bread and butter between meals.”

 “Well, gimme a piece then . . . please.”

 Davy had been at last taught to say “please,” but he generally tacked it on as an afterthought.

He looked with approval at the generous slice Anne presently brought to him.

“You always put such a nice lot of butter on it, Anne.

Marilla spreads it pretty thin.

It slips down a lot easier when there’s plenty of butter.”

 The slice “slipped down” with tolerable ease, judging from its rapid disappearance.

Davy slid head first off the sofa, turned a double somersault on the rug, and then sat up and announced decidedly,

 “Anne, I’ve made up my mind about heaven.

I don’t want to go there.”

 “Why not?” asked Anne gravely.

 “Cause heaven is in Simon Fletcher’s garret, and I don’t like Simon Fletcher.”

 “Heaven in . . . Simon Fletcher’s garret!” gasped Anne, too amazed even to laugh.

“Davy Keith, whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your head?”

 “Milty Boulter says that’s where it is.

It was last Sunday in Sunday School.

The lesson was about Elijah and Elisha, and I up and asked Miss Rogerson where heaven was.

Miss Rogerson looked awful offended.

She was cross anyhow, because when she’d asked us what Elijah left Elisha when he went to heaven Milty Boulter said, ‘His old clo’es,’ and us fellows all laughed before we thought.

I wish you could think first and do things afterwards, ’cause then you wouldn’t do them.

But Milty didn’t mean to be disrespeckful.

He just couldn’t think of the name of the thing.

Miss Rogerson said heaven was where God was and I wasn’t to ask questions like that.

Milty nudged me and said in a whisper, ‘Heaven’s in Uncle Simon’s garret and I’ll esplain about it on the road home.’

So when we was coming home he esplained.

Milty’s a great hand at esplaining things.

Even if he don’t know anything about a thing he’ll make up a lot of stuff and so you get it esplained all the same.

His mother is Mrs. Simon’s sister and he went with her to the funeral when his cousin, Jane Ellen, died.

The minister said she’d gone to heaven, though Milty says she was lying right before them in the coffin.

But he s’posed they carried the coffin to the garret afterwards.

Well, when Milty and his mother went upstairs after it was all over to get her bonnet he asked her where heaven was that Jane Ellen had gone to, and she pointed right to the ceiling and said, ‘Up there.’

Milty knew there wasn’t anything but the garret over the ceiling, so that’s how he found out.

And he’s been awful scared to go to his Uncle Simon’s ever since.”

 Anne took Davy on her knee and did her best to straighten out this theological tangle also.

She was much better fitted for the task than Marilla, for she remembered her own childhood and had an instinctive understanding of the curious ideas that seven-year-olds sometimes get about matters that are, of course, very plain and simple to grown up people.

She had just succeeded in convincing Davy that heaven was not in Simon Fletcher’s garret when Marilla came in from the garden, where she and Dora had been picking peas.

Dora was an industrious little soul and never happier than when “helping” in various small tasks suited to her chubby fingers.

She fed chickens, picked up chips, wiped dishes, and ran errands galore.

She was neat, faithful and observant;

she never had to be told how to do a thing twice and never forgot any of her little duties.

Davy, on the other hand, was rather heedless and forgetful;

but he had the born knack of winning love, and even yet Anne and Marilla liked him the better.

 While Dora proudly shelled the peas and Davy made boats of the pods, with masts of matches and sails of paper,

Anne told Marilla about the wonderful contents of her letter.

 “Oh, Marilla, what do you think?

I’ve had a letter from Priscilla and she says that Mrs. Morgan is on the Island, and that if it is fine Thursday they are going to drive up to Avonlea and will reach here about twelve.

They will spend the afternoon with us and go to the hotel at White Sands in the evening, because some of Mrs. Morgan’s American friends are staying there.

Oh, Marilla, isn’t it wonderful?

I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming.”

 “I daresay Mrs. Morgan is a lot like other people,” said Marilla drily, although she did feel a trifle excited herself.

Mrs. Morgan was a famous woman and a visit from her was no commonplace occurrence.

“They’ll be here to dinner, then?”

 “Yes; and oh, Marilla, may I cook every bit of the dinner myself?

I want to feel that I can do something for the author of ‘The Rosebud Garden,’ if it is only to cook a dinner for her.

You won’t mind, will you?”

 “Goodness, I’m not so fond of stewing over a hot fire in July that it would vex me very much to have someone else do it.

You’re quite welcome to the job.”

 “Oh, thank you,” said Anne, as if Marilla had just conferred a tremendous favor, “I’ll make out the menu this very night.”

 “You’d better not try to put on too much style,” warned Marilla, a little alarmed by the high-flown sound of ‘menu.’

“You’ll likely come to grief if you do.”

 “Oh, I’m not going to put on any ‘style,’ if you mean trying to do or have things we don’t usually have on festal occasions,” assured Anne.

“That would be affectation, and, although I know I haven’t as much sense and steadiness as a girl of seventeen and a schoolteacher ought to have, I’m not so silly as that.

But I want to have everything as nice and dainty as possible.

Davy-boy, don’t leave those peapods on the back stairs . . . someone might slip on them.

I’ll have a light soup to begin with . . . you know I can make lovely cream-of-onion soup . . . and then a couple of roast fowls.

I’ll have the two white roosters.

I have real affection for those roosters and they’ve been pets ever since the gray hen hatched out just the two of them . . . little balls of yellow down.

But I know they would have to be sacrificed sometime, and surely there couldn’t be a worthier occasion than this.

But oh, Marilla, I cannot kill them . . . not even for Mrs. Morgan’s sake.

I’ll have to ask John Henry Carter to come over and do it for me.”

 “I’ll do it,” volunteered Davy, “if Marilla’ll hold them by the legs, ’cause I guess it’d take both my hands to manage the axe.

It’s awful jolly fun to see them hopping about after their heads are cut off.”

 “Then I’ll have peas and beans and creamed potatoes and a lettuce salad, for vegetables,” resumed Anne, “and for dessert, lemon pie with whipped cream, and coffee and cheese and lady fingers.

I’ll make the pies and lady fingers tomorrow and do up my white muslin dress.

And I must tell Diana tonight, for she’ll want to do up hers.

Mrs. Morgan’s heroines are nearly always dressed in white muslin, and Diana and I have always resolved that that was what we would wear if we ever met her.

It will be such a delicate compliment, don’t you think?

Davy, dear, you mustn’t poke peapods into the cracks of the floor.

I must ask Mr. and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy to dinner, too, for they’re all very anxious to meet Mrs. Morgan.

It’s so fortunate she’s coming while Miss Stacy is here.

Davy dear, don’t sail the peapods in the water bucket . . . go out to the trough.

Oh, I do hope it will be fine Thursday, and I think it will, for Uncle Abe said last night when he called at Mr. Harrison’s, that it was going to rain most of this week.”

 “That’s a good sign,” agreed Marilla.

 Anne ran across to Orchard Slope that evening to tell the news to Diana, who was also very much excited over it, and they discussed the matter in the hammock swung under the big willow in the Barry garden.

 “Oh, Anne, mayn’t I help you cook the dinner?” implored Diana.

“You know I can make splendid lettuce salad.”

 “Indeed you, may” said Anne unselfishly.

“And I shall want you to help me decorate too.

I mean to have the parlor simply a bower of blossoms . . . and the dining table is to be adorned with wild roses.

Oh, I do hope everything will go smoothly.

Mrs. Morgan’s heroines never get into scrapes or are taken at a disadvantage, and they are always so selfpossessed and such good housekeepers.

They seem to be born good housekeepers.

You remember that Gertrude in ‘Edgewood Days’ kept house for her father when she was only eight years old.

When I was eight years old I hardly knew how to do a thing except bring up children.

Mrs. Morgan must be an authority on girls when she has written so much about them, and I do want her to have a good opinion of us.

I’ve imagined it all out a dozen different ways . . . what she’ll look like, and what she’ll say, and what I’ll say.

And I’m so anxious about my nose.

There are seven freckles on it, as you can see.

They came at the A.V.I S. picnic, when I went around in the sun without my hat.

I suppose it’s ungrateful of me to worry over them, when I should be thankful they’re not spread all over my face as they once were;

but I do wish they hadn’t come . . . all Mrs. Morgan’s heroines have such perfect complexions.

I can’t recall a freckled one among them.”

 “Yours are not very noticeable,” comforted Diana.

“Try a little lemon juice on them tonight.”

 The next day Anne made her pies and lady fingers, did up her muslin dress, and swept and dusted every room in the house . . . a quite unnecessary proceeding, for Green Gables was, as usual, in the apple pie order dear to Marilla’s heart.

But Anne felt that a fleck of dust would be a desecration in a house that was to be honored by a visit from Charlotte E. Morgan.

She even cleaned out the “catch-all” closet under the stairs, although there was not the remotest possibility of Mrs. Morgan’s seeing its interior.

 “But I want to feel that it is in perfect order, even if she isn’t to see it,” Anne told Marilla.

“You know, in her book ‘Golden Keys,’ she makes her two heroines Alice and Louisa take for their motto that verse of Longfellow’s,

 ‘In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the gods see everywhere,’

 and so they always kept their cellar stairs scrubbed and never forgot to sweep under the beds.

I should have a guilty conscience if I thought this closet was in disorder when Mrs. Morgan was in the house.

Ever since we read ‘Golden Keys,’ last April, Diana and I have taken that verse for our motto too.”

 That night John Henry Carter and Davy between them contrived to execute the two white roosters, and Anne dressed them, the usually distasteful task glorified in her eyes by the destination of the plump birds.

 “I don’t like picking fowls,” she told Marilla, “but isn’t it fortunate we don’t have to put our souls into what our hands may be doing?

I’ve been picking chickens with my hands but in imagination I’ve been roaming the Milky Way.”

 “I thought you’d scattered more feathers over the floor than usual,” remarked Marilla.

 Then Anne put Davy to bed and made him promise that he would behave perfectly the next day.

 “If I’m as good as good can be all day tomorrow will you let me be just as bad as I like all the next day?” asked Davy.

 “I couldn’t do that,” said Anne discreetly, “but I’ll take you and Dora for a row in the flat right to the bottom of the pond, and we’ll go ashore on the sandhills and have a picnic.”

 “It’s a bargain,” said Davy.

“I’ll be good, you bet.

I meant to go over to Mr. Harrison’s and fire peas from my new popgun at Ginger but another day’ll do as well.

I espect it will be just like Sunday, but a picnic at the shore’ll make up for that.”