Vanity and Vexation of Spirit

Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting,
realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of
delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and
saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not
given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She
probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their
missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under
these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields
smoking into pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long,
sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the meadow beyond the
brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirrorlike wood
pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses
under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and
Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because
of its deep, primal gladness.

Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through
its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its
windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she
picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really
a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly
snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of
to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had
come to Green Gables.

Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire
black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly
disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and
have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take
off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against
Matthew's return from plowing.