“Diana, you might take Anne out into the garden and show her your flowers.
It will be better for you than straining your eyes over that book. She reads entirely too much—” this to Marilla as the little girls went out—“and I can’t prevent her, for her father aids and abets her.
She’s always poring over a book.
I’m glad she has the prospect of a playmate—perhaps it will take her more out-of-doors.”
Outside in the garden, which was full of mellow sunset light streaming through the dark old firs to the west of it, stood Anne and Diana, gazing bashfully at each other over a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies.
The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers which would have delighted Anne’s heart at any time less fraught with destiny.
It was encircled by huge old willows and tall firs, beneath which flourished flowers that loved the shade.
Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered with clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the beds between old-fashioned flowers ran riot.
There were rosy bleeding-hearts and great splendid crimson peonies; white, fragrant narcissi and thorny, sweet Scotch roses; pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted Bouncing Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint; purple Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover white with its delicate, fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet lightning that shot its fiery lances over prim white musk-flowers; a garden it was where sunshine lingered and bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering, purred and rustled.
“Oh, Diana,” said Anne at last, clasping her hands and speaking almost in a whisper, “oh, do you think you can like me a little—enough to be my bosom friend?”
Diana laughed.
Diana always laughed before she spoke.
“Why, I guess so,” she said frankly.
“I’m awfully glad you’ve come to live at Green Gables.
It will be jolly to have somebody to play with.
There isn’t any other girl who lives near enough to play with, and I’ve no sisters big enough.”
“Will you swear to be my friend forever and ever?” demanded Anne eagerly.
Diana looked shocked.
“Why it’s dreadfully wicked to swear,” she said rebukingly.
“Oh no, not my kind of swearing.
There are two kinds, you know.”
“I never heard of but one kind,” said Diana doubtfully.
“There really is another.
Oh, it isn’t wicked at all.
It just means vowing and promising solemnly.”
“Well, I don’t mind doing that,” agreed Diana, relieved.
“How do you do it?”
“We must join hands—so,” said Anne gravely.
“It ought to be over running water. We’ll just imagine this path is running water. I’ll repeat the oath first.
I solemnly swear to be faithful to my bosom friend, Diana Barry, as long as the sun and moon shall endure.
Now you say it and put my name in.”
Diana repeated the “oath” with a laugh fore and aft.
Then she said:
“You’re a queer girl, Anne.
I heard before that you were queer.
But I believe I’m going to like you real well.”
When Marilla and Anne went home Diana went with them as far as the log bridge.
The two little girls walked with their arms about each other.
At the brook they parted with many promises to spend the next afternoon together.
“Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit?” asked Marilla as they went up through the garden of Green Gables.
“Oh yes,” sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of any sarcasm on Marilla’s part.
“Oh Marilla, I’m the happiest girl on Prince Edward Island this very moment.
I assure you I’ll say my prayers with a right good-will tonight.
Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr. William Bell’s birch grove tomorrow.
Can I have those broken pieces of china that are out in the woodshed?
Diana’s birthday is in February and mine is in March.
Don’t you think that is a very strange coincidence?
Diana is going to lend me a book to read.
She says it’s perfectly splendid and tremendously exciting.
She’s going to show me a place back in the woods where rice lilies grow.