tatters but which were now neatly patched and brushed. He was sprucely shaved and what little hair he had was carefully trimmed.
“Sit down, Anne, sit down,” said Mr. Harrison in a tone but two degrees removed from that which Avonlea people used at funerals. “Emily’s gone over to Carmody with Rachel Lynde . . . she’s struck up a lifelong friendship already with Rachel Lynde. Beats all how contrary women are. Well, Anne, my easy times are over . . . all over. It’s neatness and tidiness for me for the rest of my natural life, I suppose.”
Mr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully, but an irrepressible twinkle in his eye betrayed him.
“Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife is come back,” cried Anne, shaking her finger at him. “You needn’t pretend you’re not, because I can see it plainly.”
Mr. Harrison relaxed into a sheepish smile.
“Well . . . well . . . I’m getting used to it,” he conceded. “I can’t say I was sorry to see Emily. A man really needs some protection in a community like this, where he can’t play a game of checkers with a neighbour without being accused of wanting to marry that neighbour’s sister and having it put in the paper.”
“Nobody would have supposed you went to see Isabella Andrews if you hadn’t pretended to be unmarried,” said Anne severely.
“I didn’t pretend I was. If anybody’d have asked
