Chapter XIII. The Delights of Anticipation

           It’stimeAnnewasintodohersewing,”saidMarilla,glancingattheclockandthenoutintotheyellowAugustafternoonwhereeverythingdrowsedintheheat.“ShestayedplayingwithDianamorethanhalfanhourmore‘nIgaveherleaveto;andnowshe’sperchedoutthereonthewoodpiletalkingtoMatthew,nineteentothedozen,whensheknowsperfectlywellsheoughttobeatherwork.Andofcoursehe’slisteningtoherlikeaperfectninny.Ineversawsuchaninfatuatedman.Themoreshetalksandtheodderthethingsshesays,themorehe’sdelightedevidently.AnneShirley,youcomerightinherethisminute,doyouhearme!”

           AseriesofstaccatotapsonthewestwindowbroughtAnneflyinginfromtheyard,eyesshining,cheeksfaintlyflushedwithpink,unbraidedhairstreamingbehindherinatorrentofbrightness.

           “Oh,Marilla,”sheexclaimedbreathlessly,“there’sgoingtobeaSunday-schoolpicnicnextweek—inMr.HarmonAndrews’sfield,rightnearthelakeofShiningWaters.AndMrs.SuperintendentBellandMrs.RachelLyndearegoingtomakeicecream—thinkofit,Marilla—icecream!And,oh,Marilla,canIgotoit?”

           “Justlookattheclock,ifyouplease,Anne.WhattimedidItellyoutocomein?”

           “Twoo’clock—butisn’titsplendidaboutthepicnic,Marilla?PleasecanIgo?Oh,I’veneverbeentoapicnic—I’vedreamedofpicnics,butI’venever—”

           “Yes,Itoldyoutocomeattwoo’clock.Andit’saquartertothree.I’dliketoknowwhyyoudidn’tobeyme,Anne.”

           “Why,Imeantto,Marilla,asmuchascouldbe.