Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the fortieth chapter of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

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Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we'll be continuing anne of the island by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Chapter 40 A Book of Revelation the Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent a happy three weeks there in July.

Miss Lavender had not changed.

Charlotte IV was a very grownup young lady now, but still adored Anne sincerely when all said and done.

Miss Shirley Ma'am, I haven't seen anyone in Boston that's equal to you, she said frankly.

Paul was almost grown up, too.

He was 16.

His chestnut curls had given place to close cropped brown locks, and he was more interested in football than fairies.

But the bond between him and his old teacher still held kindred spirits alone do not change with changing years.

It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to Green Gables.

One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes sleep over the gulf was ravaging the sea.

As Anne came in, the first raindrops dashed against the panes.

Was that Paul who brought you home?

Asked Marilla.

Why didn't you make him stay all night?

It's going to be a wild evening.

He'll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think.

Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight.

Well, I've had a splendid visit, but I'm glad to see you dear folks again.

East West Hames best, Davey.

Have you been growing again lately?

I've grown a whole inch since you left, said Davy proudly.

I'm as tall as Milty Bolter now, ain't I glad?

He'll have to stop crowing about being bigger.

Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is dying?

Anne stood quite silent and motionless looking at Davey.

Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint.

Davey, hold your tongue, said Mrs.

Rachel angrily, and don't look like that.

Don't look like that.

We didn't mean to tell you so suddenly.

Is it true?

Asked Anne in a voice that was not hers.

Gilbert is very ill, said Mrs.

Lynde gravely.

He took down with typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge.

Did you never hear of it?

No, said that unknown voice.

It was a very bad case from the start.

The doctor said he'd been terribly run down.

They've trained a nurse, and everything's been done.

Don't look like that, Anne.

While there's life, there's hope.

Mr.

Harrison was here this evening, and he said they had no hope of him, reiterated Davy.

Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly out of the kitchen.

Oh, don't look so dear, said Mrs.

Rachel, putting her kind old arms about the pallid girl.

I haven't given up hope.

Indeed I haven't.

He's got the blithe constitution in his favor, that's what.

And gently put Mrs.

Lynn's arms away from her, walked blindly across the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room.

At its window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly.

It was very dark.

The rain was beating down over the shivering fields.

The haunted woods was full of the groans of mighty trees rung in the tempest.

An air throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore, and Gilbert was dying.

There's a book of revelation in everyone's life, as there is in the Bible.

Anne read hers that bitter night as she kept her agonized vigil through the hours of storm and darkness.

She loved Gilbert, had always loved him.

She knew that now.

She knew that she could no more cast him out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her right hand and cast it from her.

And the knowledge had come too late too late even for the bitter solace of being with him at the last.

If she had not been so blind, so foolish, she would have had the right to go to him now.

But he would never know that she loved him.

He would go away from this life thinking that she did not care.

The black years of emptiness stretching before her.

She could not live through them.

She could not.

She cowered down by her window and wished for the first time in her gay young life that she could die too.

If Gilbert went away from her without one word or sign or message.

She could not live.

Nothing was of any value without him.

She belonged to him and he to her in her hour of supreme agony.

She had no doubt of that.

He did not love Christine Stewart.

Never had loved Christine Stewart.

Oh, what a fool she had been not to realize what the bond was that had held her to Gilbert.

To think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love and now she must pay for her folly as for a crime.

Mrs Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence and went away.

The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent and saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness.

Soon the eastern hilltops had a fireshot ruby rim.

The clouds rolled themselves away into the great soft white masses on the horizon.

The sky gleamed blue and silvery.

A hush fell over the world.

Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs.

The freshness of the rained wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard and cooled her dry, burning eyes.

A merry rollicking whistle was lifting up the lane.

A moment later, Pacific butte came in sight.

Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her.

If she had not clutched at a lowwillow bough, she would have fallen.

Pacific was George Fletcher's hired man.

And George Fletcher lived next door to the Blibes.

Mrs Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt.

Pacific would know if Pacific would know what there was to be known.

Pacific strode sterdily on along the red lane, whistling.

He did not see Anne.

She made three feudal attempts to call him.

He was almost past before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call Pacific.

Pacific turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning, Pacific, said Anne faintly.

Did you come from George Fletcher's this morning?

Sure, said Pacific Amiably.

I got the word last night that my father, he was Sikh.

It was so stormy that I could not go den.

I start faint early this morning.

I'm going true to woods for shortcut.

Did you hear how Gilbert Blithe was this morning?

Anne's desperation drove her to the question.

Even the worst would be more endorable than this hideous suspense.

He's better, said Pacific.

He got to turn last night.

The doctors say he'll be all right now, this soon.

While as close shaved, though, that boy, he'd just kill himself at college.

While I must hurry the old man, he'll be in a hurry to see me.

Pacific resumed his walk and his whistle and gazed after him with eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night.

He was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth, but in her sight he was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains.

Never as long as she lived would Anne see Pacific's brown, round blackeyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for mourning.

Long after, Pacific skay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane and stood under the willows tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has been removed from it.

The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor in the corner near her with a rich surprise of new blown crystal dude roses.

The trills and trickles of song from the birds and the big tree above her seemed imperfect accord with her mood.

A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful book came to her lips weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

Thank you for joining Bite at the Time Books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

Again, my name is Brie Carlyle, and I hope you come back tomorrow for the next bite of Anne of the island.

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