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Updated: June 9, 2025
He was uncomfortably conscious of that interrogative gleam in Dryad's glance that amused glimmer which he couldn't quite fathom when she turned her head. She was smiling, too, a little smiling with her lips as well as with her eyes. "No-o-o," she stated with preoccupied lack of emphasis, as she bent again over the box. "No I'm packing up." Old Jerry had known that that would be her answer.
The curve of a Dryad's face, seen dimly in the green wonder of a magic wood, might well have been like this, or of a nymph's bathing by moonlight in some very secret pool. But a Dryad would not have touched her lips with this vermilion, a nymph have painted beneath her laughing eyes these cloudy shadows, or drawn above them these artfully delicate lines.
A shy, small, oval, half-wild face like that of a dryad's. Her chin lifted as if she were some wood-creature listening to the approaching tread of the hunter and ready on the instant to spring forth and run along the wind.... An outdoor picture, a mere snapshot, but an accidental work of art.
Sudden terror contorted the thin features, a sheer ecstacy of terror as white-lipped as that which marred the face of the girl who bent above him. "Maybe I've forgotten how she smiled!" he whispered fearfully. "Maybe I'll never be able to " Dryad's eyes flitted desperately around the room, along the shelves laden with those countless figures all white and finely slender, all upturned of face.
That was good of me, wasn't it?" "Very good, and very manly, Davy." "Of course," admitted Davy, "Dora wasn't very hungry and she only et half her slice and then she give the rest to me. But I didn't know she was going to do that when I give it to her, so I WAS good, Anne." In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad's Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood.
Spring had come once more to Green Gables the beautiful capricious, reluctant Canadian spring, lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in Lover's Lane were red budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the Dryad's Bubble. Away up in the barrens, behind Mr.
And oh, how dear and beloved everything was that little white porch room, sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the old Snow Queen at the window, the brook in the hollow, the Dryad's Bubble, the Haunted Woods, and Lover's Lane all the thousand and one dear spots where memories of the old years bided. Could she ever be really happy anywhere else?
She was afraid Providence wouldn't interfere; and she didn't dare to. Anne had wandered down to the Dryad's Bubble and was curled up among the ferns at the root of the big white birch where she and Gilbert had so often sat in summers gone by. He had gone into the newspaper office again when college closed, and Avonlea seemed very dull without him.
A full two feet of the Dryad's body straightened like a black arrow, and seemed to strike right into the furry side of its antagonist seemed, I say, to slow going human eyes; but the latter shrank, literally fell back, collapsing with such suddenness that she seemed to have turned herself inside out, and become the mere skin of a cat.
Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris." The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains, hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach. Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over one another.
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