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Anne's House of Dreams

5. The Home Coming
Dr. David Blythe had sent his horse and buggy to meet them, and the urchin who had
brought it slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leaving them to the delight of driving
alone to their new home through the radiant evening.
Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when they had driven
over the hill behind the village. Her new home could not yet be seen; but before her lay
Four Winds Harbor like a great, shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, she saw its
entrance between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red
sandstone cliff on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and austere, dreamed in the
afterlight. The little fishing village, nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the
harbor shore, looked like a great opal in the haze. The sky over them was like a
jewelled cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the compelling
tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with the subtleties of a sea
evening. A few dim sails drifted along the darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was
ringing from the tower of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily
sweet, the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The great
revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and golden against the clear
northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of good hope. Far out along the horizon was
the crinkled gray ribbon of a passing steamer's smoke.
"Oh, beautiful, beautiful," murmured Anne. "I shall love Four Winds, Gilbert. Where is
our house?"
"We can't see it yet--the belt of birch running up from that little cove hides it. It's about
two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there's another mile between it and the light-house.
We won't have many neighbors, Anne. There's only one house near us and I don't know
who lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I'm away?"
"Not with that light and that loveliness for company. Who lives in that house, Gilbert?"
"I don't know. It doesn't look--exactly--as if the occupants would be kindred spirits,
Anne, does it?"
The house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green that the landscape
seemed quite faded by contrast. There was an orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn
before it, but, somehow, there was a certain bareness about it. Perhaps its neatness
was responsible for this; the whole establishment, house, barns, orchard, garden, lawn
and lane, was so starkly neat.
"It doesn't seem probable that anyone with that taste in paint could be VERY kindred,"
acknowledged Anne, "unless it were an accident--like our blue hall. I feel certain there
 
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