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Updated: June 22, 2025
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.
Anne said nothing. She was looking afar into the western sky and thinking of little Hester Gray. A Danger Averted Anne, walking home from the post office one Friday evening, was joined by Mrs. Lynde, who was as usual cumbered with all the cares of church and state. "I've just been down to Timothy Cotton's to see if I could get Alice Louise to help me for a few days," she said.
"He lives down there at Four Winds, as they call it he and his daughter and an old cousin." Isabel King bent forward, her brown eyes on Alan's face. "Did you see Lynde Oliver?" she asked with suppressed eagerness. Alan ignored the question perhaps he did not hear it. "Have they lived there long?" he asked. "For eighteen years," said Mrs. Danby placidly.
His unhappiness connected itself so distinctly with Lynde's family that he went and sat down beside Miss Lynde from an obscure impulse of compassion, and tried to talk with her. It would not have been so hard if she were merely deaf, for she had the skill of deaf people in arranging the conversation so that a nodded yes or no would be all that was needed to carry it forward.
"If I have anything disagreeable to say," replied Miss Ruth, with another bland smile, "I shall say it in French." The guide, who spoke four languages, including English, never changed a muscle. Lynde, just before starting, had closely examined the two guides on their lingual acquirements and retained the wrong man.
She reached back her hand unperceived by Mrs. Denham and gave it to Lynde. He raised it gratefully to his lips, but as he relinquished it and turned away he experienced a sudden, inexplicable pang as if he had said farewell to her. By the time Lynde had changed his wet clothing, the rain had turned into a dull drizzle, which folded itself like a curtain about the valley.
He had regained his former elasticity of spirits and was taking life with a relish, when he went to Geneva; there he fell in with the Denhams in the manner he described to Flemming. An habitual shyness, and perhaps a doubt of Flemming's sympathetic capacity, had prevented Lynde from giving his friend more than an outline of the situation.
Denham, who followed the retreating vehicle rather thoughtfully with their eyes until it turned a corner of the narrow street and was lost to them. As the horses slackened their speed at an ascending piece of ground outside the town, Lynde took Ruth's hand.
When the carriage pulled up before Miss Lynde's house, Westover opened the door. "You're at home, now, Lynde. Come, let's get out." Lynde did not stir. He asked Westover again who he was, and when he had made sure of him, he said, with dignity, Very well; now they must get the other fellow. Westover entreated; he even reasoned; Lynde lay back in the corner of the carriage, and seemed asleep.
Denham on the subject of Ruth's escapade," replied the doctor. "It would have pained her without mending matters. Besides, I was not proud of that transaction." Mrs. Denham's suppression of the doctor's name, then, in speaking of him to Lynde, had been purely accidental.
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