I’M so sorry Gilbert is away,” said Anne. “He had to go—Allan Lyons at the Glen has met with a serious accident. He will not likely be home till very late. But he told me to tell you he’d be up and over early enough in the morning to see you before you left. It’s too provoking. Susan and I had planned such a nice little jamboree for your last night here.”

She was sitting beside the garden brook on the little rustic seat Gilbert had built. Owen Ford stood before her, leaning against the bronze column of a yellow birch. He was very pale and his face bore the marks of the preceding sleepless night. Anne, glancing up at him, wondered if, after all, his summer had brought him the strength it should. Had he worked too hard over his book? She remembered that for a week he had not been looking well.

“I’m rather glad the doctor is away,” said Owen slowly. “I wanted to see you alone, Mrs. Blythe. There is something I must tell somebody, or I think