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1MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and
2ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was
3reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and
4cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook
5could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs.
6Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that
7if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores
8thereof. There are plenty of people, in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbors' business by
9dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns
10and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she
11"ran" the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign
12Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting
13"cotton warp" quilts--she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices--and
14keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea
15occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with water on two sides of it, anybody
16who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing
17eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard
18on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas
19Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the
20hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by
21Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William
22J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of
23course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet
24here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up
25the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of
26Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where
27was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting
28this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home
29that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go
30among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a
31buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her
32afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. "I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's
33gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he never
34visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast
35enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled,
36that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of
37Avonlea today." Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered
38house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane
39made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as
40he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green
41Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main
42road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a
43place living at all. "It's just staying, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane
44bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by
45themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at
46people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to
47anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard
48of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and
49on the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if
50there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her
51house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped
52smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful
53apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance
54of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood
55of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard
56and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla
57Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and
58irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table
59behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of
60everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with
61Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so
62that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare?
63Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables. "Good evening,
64Rachel," Marilla said briskly. "This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?"
65Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla
66Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with
67angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind
68with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience,
69which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might
70have been considered indicative of a sense of humor.
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