Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the seventeenth chapter of Anne's House of Dreams.

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Today we'll be continuing Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Chapter 17 a four wins winter.

Winter said in vigorously after New Year's.

Big white drifts heaped themselves about the little house, and palms of frost covered its windows.

The harbour ice grew harder and thicker until the four winds people began their usual winter traveling over it.

The Safeways were bushed by a benevolent government, and night and day the gate tinkle of the sleigh bell sounded on it.

On moonlit nights Anne heard them in her house of dreams like fairy chimes.

The gulf rose over and the four winds light flashed no more.

During the months when navigation was closed, Captain Jim's office was a scene care.

The first mate and I will have nothing to do till spring except keep warm and amuse ourselves.

The last lighthouse keeper used always to move up to the glen in winter, but I'd rather stay at the point the first mate might get poisoned or chewed up by dogs at the glen.

It's a mite lonely to be sure, with neither the light nor the water.

For company, but if our friends come.

To see us often, we'll weather it through.

Captain Jim had an ice boat and many a wild, glorious spin.

Gilbert and Anne and Leslie had over the glib harbor ice with him.

Anne and Leslie took long snowshoe tramps together too, over the fields or across the harbor after storms, or through the woods beyond the glen.

They were very good comrades in their rambles and their fireside communings.

Each had something to give the other.

Each felt life the richer for friendly exchange of thought and friendly silence.

Each looked across the white fields between their homes with the pleasant consciousness of a friend beyond.

But in spite of all this, Anne felt that there was always a barrier between Leslie and herself, a constraint that never wholly vanished.

I don't know why I can't get closer to her, Anne said one evening to Captain Jim.

I like her so much.

I admire her so much.

I want to take her right into my heart and creep right into hers.

But I can never cross the barrier.

You've been too happy all your life, Mistress Blithe, said Captain Jim thoughtfully.

I reckon that's why you and Leslie can't get real close together in your souls.

The barrier between you is her experience of sorrow and trouble.

She ain't responsible for it, and you ain't.

But it's there, and neither of you can cross it.

My childhood wasn't very happy before I came to Green Gables, said Anne, gazing soberly out of the window at the.

Still sad, dead beauty of the leafless.

Tree shadows on the moonlit snow.

Maybe not, but it was just the usual happiness of a child who hasn't anyone to look after it properly.

There hasn't been any tragedy in your life, Mistress Blythe, and poor Leslie's has been almost all tragedy.

She feels, I reckon, though maybe she hardly knows she feels it that there's a vast deal in her life you can't enter nor understand, and so she has to keep you back from it, hold you off, so to speak, from hurting her.

You know, if we've got anything about us that hurts, we shrink from anyone's touch on or near it.

It holds good with our souls as well as our bodies.

I reckon Leslie's soul must be near Raw.

It's no wonder she hides it away.

If that were really all, I wouldn't mind, Captain Jim.

I would understand that.

There are times, not always, but now and again, when I almost have to believe that Leslie doesn't doesn't like me.

Sometimes I surprise a look in her eyes that seems to show resentment and dislike.

It goes so quickly, but I've seen.

It, I'm sure of that.

And it hurts me.

Captain jim.

I'm not used to being disliked, and I've tried so hard to win Leslie's friendship.

You have won it, Mistress Blithe.

Don't you go cherishing any foolish notion that Leslie don't like you.

If she didn't, she wouldn't have anything to do with you, much less chumming with you as she does.

I know Leslie more, too well, not to be sure of that.

The first time I ever saw her driving her geese down the hill on the day I came to Four Winds, she looked at me with the same expression, persisted Anne.

I felt it.

Even in the midst of my admiration of her beauty.

She looked at me resentfully.

She did indeed, Captain Gem.

The resentment must have been about something else, Mistress Blythe.

And you just come in for a share of it because you happened to pass.

Leslie does take sullen spells now and again, poor girl.

I can't blame her when I know what she has to put up with.

I don't know why it's permitted the doctrine.

I've talked a lot about the origin of evil, but we haven't quite found out all about it yet.

There's a vast of understandable things in life, ain't there, Mistress Blythe?

Some things seem to work out real proper like, same as with you and the doctor.

And then again, they all seem to go catawompus.

There's Leslie, so clever and beautiful, you'd think she was meant for a queen.

And instead she's cooped up over there.

Robbed of almost everything.

A woman in value, with no prospect except waiting on D*** More all her life.

No, mind you, Mistress Blithe, I dare say she'd choose her life now, such as it is, rather than the life she lived with D*** before he went away.

That's something a clumsy old sailor's tongue mustn't meddle with.

But you've helped Leslie a lot.

She's a different creature since you come to Four Winds.

US old friends see the difference in her as you can't.

Miss Cornelia and me was talking it over the other day, and it's one of the mighty few pins we see eye to eye on.

So just you throw overboard any idea of her not liking you.

Anne could hardly discard it completely, for there were undoubtedly times when she felt with an instinct that was not to be combated by reason, that Leslie harbored a queer, indefinable resentment towards her.

At times, this secret consciousness marred the delight of their comradeship.

At others it was almost forgotten.

But Anne always felt the hidden thorn was there and might p**** her at any moment.

She felt a cruel sting from it.

On the day when she told Leslie of what she hoped the spring would bring to the little house of dreams, leslie looked at her with hard, bitter, unfriendly eyes.

So you're to have that too, she said in a choked voice.

And without another word, she had turned and gone across the field homeward.

Anne was deeply hurt.

For the moment, she felt as if she could never like Leslie again.

But when Leslie came over a few evenings later, she was so pleasant, so friendly, so frank and witty and Windsome that Anne was charmed into forgiveness and forgetfulness.

Only she never mentioned her darling hope to Leslie again, nor did Leslie ever refer to it.

But one evening, when late winter was listening for the word of spring, she came over to the little house for a twilight chat.

And when she went away, she left a small white box on the table.

Anne found it after she was gone and opened it, wonderingly.

In it was a tiny white dress of exquisite workmanship, delicate embroidery, wonderful tucking, sheer loveliness.

Every stitch in it was handwork, and the little frills of lace at neck and sleeves were of real Valencians lying on it with a card with Leslie's love.

What hours of work she must have put on it, said Anne, and the material must have cost more than she could really afford.

It is very sweet of her.

But Leslie was brusk and curt when Anne thanked her, and again the latter felt thrown back upon herself.

Leslie's gift was not alone in the little house.

Miss Cornelia had, for the time being given up sewing for unwanted, unwelcome 8th babies and fallen to sewing for a very much wanted first one whose welcome would leave nothing to be desired.

Philippa Blake and Diana Wright each sent a marvelous garment, and Mrs.

Rachel Lynn sent several, in which good material and honest stitches took the place of embroidery and frills.

Anne herself made many desecrated by no touch of machinery, spending over them the happiest hours of the happy winter.

Captain Jim was the most frequent guest of the little house, and none was more welcome every day.

Anne loved the simple, sold, true hearted old sailor more and more.

He was as refreshing as a sea.

Breeze, as interesting as some ancient chronicle.

She was never tired of listening to his stories, and his quaint remarks and comments were a continual delight to her.

Captain Jim was one of those rare and interesting people who never speak, but they say something.

The milk of human kindness and the wisdom of the serpent were mingled in his composition in delightful proportions.

Nothing ever seemed to put Captain Jim out or depress him in any way.

I've kind of contracted a habit of.

Enjoying things, he remarked once when Anne had commented on its invariable cheerfulness.

I've got so chronic that I believe I even enjoy the disagreeable things.

It's great fun thinking they can't last, old Rheumatoid says I, when it grips me hard.

You've got to stop aching sometime.

The worse you are, the sooner you'll stop.

Maybe I'm bound to get the better.

Of you in the long run, whether.

In the body or out of the body.

One night by the fireside at the light, anne saw Captain Jim's life book.

He needed no coaxing to show it and proudly gave it to her to read.

I read ridd it to leave to.

Little Joe, he said.

I don't like the idea of everything I've done and seen being clean for God after I've shipped for my last voyage.

Joe he'll remember it and tell the yarns to his children.

It was an old leatherbound book filled with the record of his voyages and adventures.

Anne thought what a treasure trove it would be to a writer.

Every sentence was a nugget.

In itself, the book had no literary merit.

Captain Jim's charm of storytelling failed him when it came to pen and ink.

He could only jot roughly down the outline of his famous tales, and both spelling and grammar were sadly askew.

But Anne felt that if anyone possessed of the gift could take that simple record of a brave, adventurous life reading between the bald lines the tales of danger.

Staunchly faced and duty manfully done.

A wonderful story might be made from it.

Rich comedy and thrilling tragedy were both lying hidden in Captain Jim's life book, waiting for the touch of the master hand to wake.

In the laughter and grief and horror of thousands, anne said something of this.

To Gilbert as they walked home.

Why don't you try your hand at it yourself, Anne?

Anne shook her head no.

I only wish I could.

But it's not in the power of my gift.

You know what my forte is, Gilbert?

The fanciful, the fairylike, the pretty.

To write Captain Jim's life book as it should be written, one should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen psychologist, a born humorist, and a born tragedyan.

A rare combination of gifts as needed.

Paul might do it if he were older.

Anyhow, I'm going to ask him to come down next summer and meet Captain Jim.

Come to this shore, wrote Anne to Paul.

I am afraid you cannot find here Nora or the Golden Lady or the twin sailors, but you will find one old sailor who can tell you wonderful stories.

Paul, however, wrote back, saying, regretfully that he could not come that year.

He was going abroad for two years.

Study.

When I return, I'll come to four winds, dear teacher, he wrote.

But meanwhile Captain Jim is growing old, said Anne sorrowfully, and there's nobody to write his life book.

Thank you for joining Bite at a 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's House of Dreams.

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One by time many adventures and mountains we can climb.