It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla, protested Anne.
I guess there ll be nothing disrespectful in it if you re careful
to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me
Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of
it.
I d love to call you Aunt Marilla, said Anne wistfully. I ve never
had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would
make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can t I call you Aunt
Marilla?
No. I m not your aunt and I don t believe in calling people names that
don t belong to them.
But we could imagine you were my aunt.
I couldn t, said Marilla grimly.
Do you never imagine things different from what they really are? asked
Anne wide-eyed.
No.
Oh! Anne drew a long breath. Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!
I don t believe in imagining things different from what they really
are, retorted Marilla. When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances
He doesn t mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go
into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don t
let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that s on the
mantelpiece. The Lord s Prayer is on it and you ll devote your spare
time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There s to be no more
of such praying as I heard last night.
I suppose I was very awkward, said Anne apologetically, but then, you
see, I d never had any practice. You couldn t really expect a person
to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a
splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would.
It was nearly as long as a minister s and so poetical. But would you
50