“Let’s undress here,” said Diana. “It’s so nice and warm.”
“Hasn’t it been a delightful time?” sighed Anne rapturously. “It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?”
“Yes, of course, someday. They’re always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he’s only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line,
‘There’s Another, _not_ a sister,’
he looked right down at you.”
“Diana,” said Anne with dignity, “you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let’s run a race and see who’ll get to the bed first.”
The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents:
“Merciful goodness!”
Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs.
“Oh, who was it--_what_ was it?” whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright.
“It was Aunt Josephine,” said Diana, gasping with laughter. “Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It’s dreadful--it’s really dreadful--but did you ever know anything so funny, Anne?”