Anne and Gilbert were sitting under an apple tree in the orchard behind Patty's Place.
Anne looked as if she were going to cry. Gilbert's face was downcast, as he waited for her to speak.
"I . . . can't be your wife," said Anne miserably.
"Oh, Gilbert . . . you . . . you've spoiled everything!" She dared not look at him.
"Don't you care for me at all?" Gilbert asked after a long pause.
"No, not in that way," Anne said in a low tone.
"I do care a great deal for you as a friend, but I don't love you, Gilbert."
"But can't you give me some hope that you will . . . one day?" Gilbert asked.
"No, I can't," said Anne desperately. "I can never, never love you in that way, Gilbert.
I'm so sorry. Please don't speak about this again." Gilbert's face was pale.
Anne shuddered and looked away. There was nothing romantic about this proposal.
Would she ever forget the crushed look on Gilbert's face?
"Is there anybody else?" Gilbert asked at last.
"No," said Anne quickly. "I don't care for anyone like that—and I like you better than anybody else in the world.
We must keep on being friends. I love being friends with you, Gilbert!"
Gilbert gave a small bitter laugh.
"Friends! Your friendship can't satisfy me, Anne. I want your love," Gilbert said firmly.
"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert," was all Anne could say.
"There isn't anything to forgive," he said quietly.
"There have been times when I thought you did love me.
I guess I've deceived myself, that's all. Good-bye, Anne."
Gilbert walked slowly away, leaving Anne sitting in the orchard alone.
As soon as Gilbert was out of sight, Anne ran inside, to her room, and lay on her bed, crying bitterly.
She felt as if something very precious had gone out of her life.
It was Gilbert's friendship, of course. Phil heard Anne's sobs and came in quickly.
"What's the matter, sweetie?" asked Phil.
Anne did not answer. She wished Phil were a thousand miles away.
"I suppose you've gone and refused Gilbert Blythe!" Phil exclaimed. "You are an idiot, Anne Shirley!"
"Is it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don't love?" asked Anne coldly.
"You don't know love when you see it," Phil insisted.
"You think love is a storybook romance with a mysterious handsome stranger!"
"Phil," pleaded Anne, "please leave me alone.
My world has fallen apart. I want to rebuild it."
"You may have to do that without Gilbert in it now," said Phil, going out the door.
A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne couldn't consider it.
Well, it was all Gilbert's fault! He had spoiled their friendship, Anne decided.
She would just learn to live without it.
The next day was a Saturday, and Phil insisted that Anne accompany her on a quick visit to Bolingbroke,
which was Phil's hometown and the town where Anne was born.
Phil knew that Anne was badly shaken by Gilbert's proposal and hoped that the distraction of a weekend trip would make her feel better.
Anne enjoyed the dances, picnics, and dinners during her stay at Phil's lively family home, except in the moments when she thought about Gilbert.
The happiest part of the weekend, though, was Anne's visit to her birthplace.
In an out-of-the-way street, she saw the rundown little yellow house that she had so often dreamed about. Anne's eyes were filled with delight.
She and Phil opened the gate, walked down the little path, and knocked on the front door.
A very tall, thin, old lady answered.
"Yes, the Shirleys lived here twenty years ago," she said in answer to Anne's question.
"They rented the house when I used to live down the street.
I remember them. They both died of fever at once.
It was terribly sad because they left a baby; I guess it died long ago. It was a sickly thing."
"It didn't die," said Anne, smiling. "I was that baby."
"Really? I don't believe it! Why, you've grown," exclaimed the woman, as if she were surprised that Anne was not still a baby.
"Oh, yes," she continued. "I see the resemblance now.
Your father had red hair, but your eyes and your nose are like your mother's. They were both lovely people."
"Could I have a look inside the house?" asked Anne eagerly.
"Yes, you can look around if you like," the old woman said. "It won't take long."
Anne went up the narrow stairs and into the little bedroom.
So this was the room where she had been born . . . and where her mother had later died.
Anne looked about her reverently; her eyes filled with tears.
Anne went back downstairs, and the old lady met her in the hall. She held out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon.
"Here's a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs when I moved in.
The name on the top letter is Bertha Willis, your mother's maiden name. I think you should take them."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Anne, holding the packet tightly.
"I don't have anything that belonged to my mother.
I . . . I can never thank you enough."
Phil and Anne left the little yellow house, and caught the train back to Halifax.
Throughout the journey Anne fingered the faded ribbon on the packet,
but she waited until she was home at Patty's Place to read the precious letters.
There were not many of them, and some were written by her mother, others by her father.
They both wrote of how much they loved the other.
In the sweetest letter, Anne's mother wrote proudly about her new baby, saying,
"I love her best when she's asleep and even more when she's awake."
"This has been the most beautiful day of my life," Anne thought.
"I've found my mother and father. Those letters have made them real. I'm not an orphan anymore."