But I MUST go to the picnic." "You'll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until you've confessed, Anne." "Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne.
But Marilla had gone out and shut the door.
Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made to order for the picnic.

Birds sang around Green Gables; the Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction.

The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if watching for Anne's usual morning greeting from the east gable.

But Anne was not at her window.

When Marilla took her breakfast up to her she found the child sitting primly on her bed, pale and resolute, with tight-shut lips and gleaming eyes.
"Marilla, I'm ready to confess." "Ah!" Marilla laid down her tray.