Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly.

"Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old folks,
Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never grow up, that's
what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert's a man, and he worships the
ground she walks on, as any one can see. He's a fine fellow, and Anne
can't do better. I hope she won't get any romantic nonsense into her
head at Redmond. I don't approve of them coeducational places and never
did, that's what. I don't believe," concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, "that
the students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt."

"They must study a little," said Marilla, with a smile.

"Precious little," sniffed Mrs. Rachel. "However, I think Anne will. She
never was flirtatious. But she doesn't appreciate Gilbert at his full
value, that's what. Oh, I know girls! Charlie Sloane is wild about her,
too, but I'd never advise her to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes are good,
honest, respectable people, of course. But when all's said and done,
they're SLOANES."

Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were Sloanes
might not be very illuminating, but she understood. Every village has
such a family; good, honest, respectable people they may be, but SLOANES
they are and must ever remain, though they speak with the tongues of men
and angels.

Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus being
settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows of the
Haunted Wood. Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in an amber sunset
radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The distant spruce