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

There are plenty of people, in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely totheir neighbors business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lyndewas one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and thoseof other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work wasalways done and well done; she "ran" the Sewing Circle, helped run theSunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the, Church Aid Society and ForeignMissions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit forhours at her kitchen window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts?she had,knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awedvoices-and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow andwound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangularpeninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with water on two sides ofit, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and sorun 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 thewindow warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridalflush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde-a meeklittle man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"-wassowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and MatthewCuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over byGreen Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tellPeter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blaire's store over at Carmodythat he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, ofcourse, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information aboutanything in his whole life.

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busyday, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a whitecollar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going outof Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that hewas going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and whywas he going there?

Had it been any other man in Avonlea Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and thattogether, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthewso rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual whichwas taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go amongstrangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up witha white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often.Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoo'senjoyment was spoiled.

"I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marillawhere he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "Hedoesn't generally go to town this time of year and he new visits; if he'd runout of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; hewasn't driving fast enough to be going for the doctor. Yet something must havehappened since List night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, andI won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has takenMatthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today-"

Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big,rambling orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarterof a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it agood deal further. Matthew Cuthberfs father, as shy and silent as his son afterhim, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men withoutactually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gableswas built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day,barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses wereso sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a placeliving at all.

"It's just staying, that's what," she said as she stepped along thedeep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonderMatthew and Marilia are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves.Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough ofthem. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; butthen, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything even tobeing hanged, as the Irishman said."

Continues...
Excerpted from Anne of Green Gablesby Lucy Maud Montgomery Copyright © 1995 by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Excerpted by permission.
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