VIII

Marilla Adopts Twins


Mrs. Rachel Lynde was sitting at her kitchen window, knitting a quilt,
just as she had been sitting one evening several years previously when
Matthew Cuthbert had driven down over the hill with what Mrs. Rachel
called "his imported orphan." But that had been in springtime; and this
was late autumn, and all the woods were leafless and the fields sere and
brown. The sun was just setting with a great deal of purple and golden
pomp behind the dark woods west of Avonlea when a buggy drawn by a
comfortable brown nag came down the hill. Mrs. Rachel peered at it
eagerly.

"There's Marilla getting home from the funeral," she said to her
husband, who was lying on the kitchen lounge. Thomas Lynde lay more on
the lounge nowadays than he had been used to do, but Mrs. Rachel, who
was so sharp at noticing anything beyond her own household, had not as
yet noticed this. "And she's got the twins with her, . . . yes, there's
Davy leaning over the dashboard grabbing at the pony's tail and Marilla
jerking him back. Dora's sitting up on the seat as prim as you please.
She always looks as if she'd just been starched and ironed. Well, poor
Marilla is going to have her hands full this winter and no mistake.
Still, I don't see that she could do anything less than take them, under
the circumstances, and she'll have Anne to help her. Anne's tickled