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

    There are plenty of people
           in Avonlea and
         out of it,
           who can attend closely
               to their neighbor's business
             by dint
                   of neglecting their own;
        but Mrs. Rachel Lynde
            was one of
                   those capable creatures
             who can manage their own
                concerns and
                       those of
                     other folks
                       into the bargain.

    She was a notable housewife;
        her work
            was always
                  done and well done;
        she
         "ran"
            the Sewing Circle,
         helped run the Sunday-school,
         and was the strongest prop
               of the Church Aid Society
             and Foreign Missions Auxiliary.

    Yet with
           all this Mrs. Rachel
          found abundant time
        to sit
               for hours
             at her kitchen window,
           knitting
         "cotton warp"
            quilts
          --she had
              knitted sixteen of them,
           as Avonlea housekeepers
            were wont
                  to tell in awed voices--and
                      keeping a sharp eye
                           on the main road
             that crossed the hollow
                   and wound
              up the steep red
                   hill beyond.

    Since Avonlea
          occupied a little triangular peninsula
              jutting out
                   into the Gulf
                       of St. Lawrence
                   with water
                 on two sides of it,
           anybody who
            went out of it
                  or into it
            had to pass over
             that hill road and so
                  run 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 the window warm
                   and bright;
        the orchard on the slope
               below the house
            was in a bridal flush
                   of pinky-white bloom,
           hummed over
               by a myriad of bees.

    Thomas Lynde
         -- a meek little man
              whom Avonlea people
               called "Rachel Lynde's husband"--
           was sowing
               his late turnip seed
             on the hill field
               beyond the barn;
        and Matthew Cuthbert
         ought to have been
                sowing his
                   on the big red
                  brook field
                      away over
                       by Green Gables.

    Mrs. Rachel knew
         that he ought
           because she
            had heard him
                  tell Peter Morrison the evening
      before in William
         J. Blair's store
               over at Carmody
             that he meant
                   to sow his turnip
                      seed the next afternoon.

    Peter had asked him,
           of course,
         for Matthew Cuthbert
            had never
                been known to volunteer information
                       about anything
                           in his whole life.

    And yet here
        was Matthew Cuthbert,
           at half-past three
               on the afternoon
                   of a busy day,
         placidly driving
               over the hollow and
             up the hill;
        moreover,
           he wore a white collar
               and his best
             suit of clothes,
         which was plain proof
             that he
                was going out of Avonlea;
        and he
            had the buggy
                   and the sorrel mare,
           which betokened
             that he
                was going a considerable distance.

    Now,
           where was Matthew Cuthbert
              going and
             why was he going there?

    Had it
        been any other man
               in Avonlea,
           Mrs. Rachel,
         deftly putting this and
             that together,