Anne of Ingleside

"Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbour's house lest he weary of thee and hate thee."

Do you remember the night we went to the negro church? . . .

think of something clever to say! She knew that at three o'clock that night she would probably think of a brilliant retort she might have made but that did not help her now

"Plethe, dear God, make it rain hard. Make it rain pitchforkth. Or elth. . ." Rilla thought of another saving possibility, "make Thusanth cake burn . . . burn to a crithp."

You had to let the old go and take the new to your heart . . . learn to love it and then let it go in turn. Spring, lovely as it was, must yield to summer and summer lose itself in autumn.

Dusk had fallen. Where, he wondered, had it fallen from? Did some great spirit with bat-like wings pour it all over the world from a purple jar?

So the Ladies' Aid is going to have their quilting at Ingleside," said the doctor. "Bring out all your lordly dishes, Susan, and provide several brooms to sweep up the fragments of reputations afterwards."

"At least, let's hope and trust they'll each get as good a husband as their mother got," said Gilbert teasingly.

'You're taking my leavings,' she said.

Mummy, why can't we gather up the spilled moonlight? . . .