Rilla of Ingleside | Page 8

Christian to meet her half-way. She is not a cheerful
person and has been a wet blanket all her life. The last time I saw her,
her face had a thousand wrinkles--maybe more, maybe less--from
worrying and foreboding. She howled dreadful at her first husband's
funeral but she married again in less than a year. The next note, I see,
describes the special service in our church last Sunday night and says
the decorations were very beautiful." "Speaking of that reminds me that
Mr. Pryor strongly disapproves of flowers in church," said Miss
Cornelia. "I always said there would be trouble when that man moved

here from Lowbridge. He should never have been put in as elder--it was
a mistake and we shall live to rue it, believe me! I have heard that he
has said that if the girls continue to 'mess up the pulpit with weeds' that
he will not go to church." "The church got on very well before old
Whiskers-on-the-moon came to the Glen and it is my opinion it will get
on without him after he is gone," said Susan.
"Who in the world ever gave him that ridiculous nickname?" asked Mrs.
Blythe.
"Why, the Lowbridge boys have called him that ever since I can
remember, Mrs. Dr. dear--I suppose because his face is so round and
red, with that fringe of sandy whisker about it. It does not do for
anyone to call him that in his hearing, though, and that you may tie to.
But worse than his whiskers, Mrs. Dr. dear, he is a very unreasonable
man and has a great many queer ideas. He is an elder now and they say
he is very religious; but I can well remember the time, Mrs. Dr. dear,
twenty years ago, when he was caught pasturing his cow in the
Lowbridge graveyard. Yes, indeed, I have not forgotten that, and I
always think of it when he is praying in meeting. Well, that is all the
notes and there is not much else in the paper of any importance. I never
take much interest in foreign parts. Who is this Archduke man who has
been murdered?" "What does it matter to us?" asked Miss Cornelia,
unaware of the hideous answer to her question which destiny was even
then preparing. "Somebody is always murdering or being murdered in
those Balkan States. It's their normal condition and I don't really think
that our papers ought to print such shocking things. The Enterprise is
getting far too sensational with its big headlines. Well, I must be
getting home. No, Anne dearie, it's no use asking me to stay to supper.
Marshall has got to thinking that if I'm not home for a meal it's not
worth eating--just like a man. So off I go. Merciful goodness, Anne
dearie, what is the matter with that cat? Is he having a fit?"--this, as
Doc suddenly bounded to the rug at Miss Cornelia's feet, laid back his
ears, swore at her, and then disappeared with one fierce leap through
the window. "Oh, no. He's merely turning into Mr. Hyde--which means
that we shall have rain or high wind before morning. Doc is as good as
a barometer." "Well, I am thankful he has gone on the rampage outside

this time and not into my kitchen," said Susan. "And I am going out to
see about supper. With such a crowd as we have at Ingleside now it
behooves us to think about our meals betimes."
CHAPTER II
DEW OF MORNING
Outside, the Ingleside lawn was full of golden pools of sunshine and
plots of alluring shadows. Rilla Blythe was swinging in the hammock
under the big Scotch pine, Gertrude Oliver sat at its roots beside her,
and Walter was stretched at full length on the grass, lost in a romance
of chivalry wherein old heroes and beauties of dead and gone centuries
lived vividly again for him.
Rilla was the "baby" of the Blythe family and was in a chronic state of
secret indignation because nobody believed she was grown up. She was
so nearly fifteen that she called herself that, and she was quite as tall as
Di and Nan; also, she was nearly as pretty as Susan believed her to be.
She had great, dreamy, hazel eyes, a milky skin dappled with little
golden freckles, and delicately arched eyebrows, giving her a demure,
questioning look which made people, especially lads in their teens,
want to answer it. Her hair was ripely, ruddily brown and a little dent in
her upper lip looked as if some good fairy had pressed it in with her
finger at Rilla's christening. Rilla, whose best friends could not deny
her share of vanity, thought her face would do very well, but worried
over her figure,