MRS. RACHEL LYNDE IS HORRIFIED
method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the enormity of her offence.
Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane.
“Anne,” she said, not ungently.
No answer.
“Anne,” with greater severity, “get off that bed this minute and listen to what I have to say to you.”
Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained and her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.
“This is a nice way for you to behave, Anne! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“She hadn’t any right to call me ugly and red-headed,” retorted Anne, evasive and defiant.
“You hadn’t any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way you did to her, Anne. I was ashamed of you—thoroughly ashamed of you. I wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you have disgraced me. I’m sure I don’t know why you should lose your temper like that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely. You say it yourself often enough.”
“Oh, but there’s such a difference between saying a thing yourself and hearing other people say it,” wailed Anne. “You may know a thing is so, but you can’t help hoping other people don’t quite think it is. I suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I couldn’t help it. When she said those
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