Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When
Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda
Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she
sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands
until they tingled.
It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but
with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to
come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent.
Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of
which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly
lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate.
"Let's undress here," said Diana. "It's so nice and warm."
"Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It
must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we
will ever be asked to do it, Diana?"
"Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big
scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two
years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to
listen to him? When he came to the line,
"THERE'S ANOTHER, not A SISTER,
he looked right down at you."
"Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I
cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready
for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first."
The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures
flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on
the bed at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them,
there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents:
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