MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

There are plenty of people, in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbors’ business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she “ran” the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting “cotton warp” quilts—she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices—and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel’s all-seeing eye.

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde—a meek little man whom Avonlea people called “Rachel Lynde’s husband”—was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew this because she had seen Marilla Cuthbert, Matthew’s sister, standing at the upper porch railing that morning, peering through her glasses at the new hired man from the city who was doing the lighter field work. Mrs. Rachel had also seen Matthew and Marilla drive down to the little white post office in the village that morning, which meant they were expecting a delivery.

“Matthew Cuthbert has put off his sowing awfully late this year,” Mrs. Rachel commented to the empty air, pausing in her knitting. “I’ve noticed he’s been putting things off more and more the last few years. He’s a good man, Matthew, but he’s terrible shiftless. He’ll be running behind all summer if he doesn’t buckle down. And Marilla’s getting old too. It’s a pity they can’t have somebody to keep things going properly.”

Just then, down the hill road, came a rattling conveyance. It was the White Sands mail rig, driven by Mr. Andrew Bell, who had taken the route that spring. Mrs. Rachel craned her neck. She saw Mr. Bell driving, and beside him, in the seat—well, in the seat was somebody small and slim, with a shock of bright red hair.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde dropped her knitting, and the cotton warp, which had been perfectly straight, instantly became a tangled ruin.

“Mercy me!” she breathed, utterly scandalized.

She scrambled to the window, her spectacles slipping down her nose. The rig was rattling up the steep incline, the horse breathing heavily, and the small figure beside Mr. Bell was looking about with an air of startled inquisitiveness.

“Well, I never!” gasped Mrs. Rachel.

The rig stopped at the roadside just beyond her gate to allow Mr. Bell to secure the mail he was handing out. Mrs. Rachel had a perfect, unobstructed view of the passenger. It was a girl, no older than eleven or twelve, with a thin, small face that was strangely plain and yet strangely interesting. Her face was sprinkled with freckles, and her hair was a vivid, fiery red, which seemed to fascinate and repel Mrs. Rachel simultaneously. She was looking about at the landscape with wide, eager gray eyes.

Mr. Bell was speaking to the girl, nodding toward the road leading up to Green Gables. The girl nodded back, a little uncertainly.

“Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do!” Mrs. Rachel exclaimed, forgetting the tangle of her knitting. “I knew there was something up. Marilla Cuthbert’s been queer and quiet all the week. I knew she was planning something she didn’t want known. But Matthew Cuthbert—I never would have thought it! He’s always been the quietest, most sensible of the two. To think of them going to get a girl!”

The rig started again, slowly ascending the hill toward Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel watched until it disappeared over the crest. Then she smoothed down her apron, retrieved her knitting, and sat back in her chair, her mouth slightly agape.

“A girl!” she whispered to herself again. “Matthew Cuthbert—and a red-haired girl! Well, this is the most astonishing piece of news that has reached Avonlea this decade. I must go over to Green Gables at once. I must know all about it. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of in my born days.”

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