to live with an Avonlea aunt. She was also to find that if Barbara ever
managed to walk down the aisle without falling over her own or somebody
else's feet the Avonlea scholars wrote the unusual fact up on the porch
wall to commemorate it.

But when Anne's eyes met those of the boy at the front desk facing
her own, a queer little thrill went over her, as if she had found her
genius. She knew this must be Paul Irving and that Mrs. Rachel Lynde
had been right for once when she prophesied that he would be unlike the
Avonlea children. More than that, Anne realized that he was unlike other
children anywhere, and that there was a soul subtly akin to her own
gazing at her out of the very dark blue eyes that were watching her so
intently.

She knew Paul was ten but he looked no more than eight. He had the most
beautiful little face she had ever seen in a child . . . features of
exquisite delicacy and refinement, framed in a halo of chestnut curls.
His mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, the crimson lips
just softly touching and curving into finely finished little corners
that narrowly escaped being dimpled. He had a sober, grave, meditative
expression, as if his spirit was much older than his body; but when
Anne smiled softly at him it vanished in a sudden answering smile, which
seemed an illumination of his whole being, as if some lamp had suddenly
kindled into flame inside of him, irradiating him from top to toe. Best
of all, it was involuntary, born of no external effort or motive, but
simply the outflashing of a hidden personality, rare and fine and sweet.
With a quick interchange of smiles Anne and Paul were fast friends
forever before a word had passed between them.

The day went by like a dream. Anne could never clearly recall it