Chapter One

“I’ll bet you a hen’s tooth I’m sitting on a tragedy,” Sara declared cheerfully. Sara loved tragedies, especially if they involved, as her Aunt Hetty would say, “affairs of the heart.”

Felicity didn’t miss a stitch on the pinafore she was mending. “Gambling is a sin and hens don’t have teeth. And anyway, you’re only sitting on Aunt Arabella’s old blue chest that’s been taking up room in the corner of our kitchen forever and ever—”

“—and ever, so help me God, Amen!” added Felix, somewhat raucously.

Felicity looked up sharply. “Felix King, that’s blast—blast—Anyway, you shouldn’t say such things. And stop eating those gingersnaps! They’re for later.”

Felix popped a last bite in his mouth and proceeded to look angelic.

“That’s right, you shouldn’t say such things,” added ten-year-old Cecily. Felicity was mending Cecily’s pinafore, as a favor, and Cecily had made an all-day promise to be nice to her older sister.

Sara smiled at her cousins. “The word is blasphemy, Felicity. And I truly think it’s too beautiful a day for anyone to get upset, especially God.”

Sara gazed out the window of the large King kitchen towards the garden and the orchard beyond. The foot of the garden was bordered by a handsome lilac hedge in full bloom. Sara watched her Aunt Janet as she moved along the drooping bushes, gathering fragrant sprays of tiny, mauve blossoms.

It truly was a scrumptious day, thought Sara. Spring had waltzed into Avonlea, picked every tree and shrub for a dance partner and joyfully dressed them in perfumed blossoms of pink and white, yellow and purple. In town and in the countryside, in every house and shed, barn and loft, the sun warmed and gladdened the hearts of men, women and children.

Animals, too, felt the warmth and stirring of life. At Rose Cottage, Sara’s cat Topsy stretched out on the back porch in the morning sun, purring and rumbling. He had just settled into a delicious, drowsy nap when Hetty King marched out onto the porch to beat the parlor rugs. Hetty saw this day as the ideal opportunity to engage in some brisk spring housecleaning.

She was about to shoo Topsy away, as she always did, when she suddenly paused. Bending down, Hetty scratched his warm, silky ears. He closed his eyes in ecstasy and rolled over. Hetty inwardly chided herself for wasting time petting a cat when she should be spring cleaning, but nonetheless, she kept on until Topsy’s purring reached alarming proportions.

On the front porch of Rose Cottage, Sara’s Aunt Olivia sat in the yellow rocking chair, re-reading a letter. She didn’t really have to read it, because she knew it all by heart. The letter read:

Dear Miss King,

I received your poem “Season’s End.” I am happy to tell you that it will appear in the Avonlea Chronicle on Saturday, May 28th. I enclose a cheque for $1.00. Thank you for thinking of submitting your writing to our paper.

Yours faithfully,

Quentin Tyler,

Editor and Publisher

“Thank you for thinking of submitting your writing to our paper!” For some reason, that line pleased Aunt Olivia tremendously. It seemed to suggest that she had so many places she could submit her work—vast oceans of possibilities, from the Charlottetown Journal to the Halifax Echo to the Toronto Women’s Guide and that out of all of these, she had chosen their very own Avonlea Chronicle to publish her first poem.

Her first poem! And today she would see it in print. As soon as Sara came back from visiting her King Cousins, they would set off to town to get a copy of the Chronicle. Or maybe two copies, one for Olivia’s scrapbook and one for just “having around.”

Olivia smiled to herself as she remembered how excited Sara had been when Olivia showed her the letter from Quentin Tyler.

“See, I told you!” cried Sara. “I told you if you submitted it, they’d publish it.”

“Oh, Sara, you were right,” admitted Olivia, hugging her niece close. “And I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to cash that cheque and let you pick out whatever you want from Lawson’s store.”

Sara’s eyes shone. “Truly?”

“Truly,” confirmed Olivia. “On Saturday, when we go to pick up the paper.”

Sara glowed. “Thank you, Aunt Olivia. Now tell me, what does Aunt Hetty think of your poem?”

Aunt Olivia’s clear face clouded for just a moment. “I want it to be a surprise for Hetty,” Olivia said. She lowered her voice a little. “Sometimes I think Aunt Hetty needs more surprises in her life, don’t you?”

Sara hesitated.

“So let’s keep it our secret, all right, Sara?”

They smiled a little wickedly at each other.

“It’s a promise,” confirmed Sara. “I love secrets.”

Felicity’s pretty mouth had a determined set. “No, Sara, it’s absolutely better to know something than not to know.” She folded Cecily’s pinafore carefully and added it to her “mending-done” pile on the kitchen table. Felicity, thirteen years old, was the eldest of the King children, and she took her household responsibilities very seriously.

“Felicity’s right,” echoed Cecily, remembering her all-day promise.

“What do you think, Mother?”

Janet was just placing the last of the lilacs in a lovely white milk pitcher. “I don’t know, dear,” she replied, dreamily admiring the handsome flowers.

“Mother,” pressed Felicity, “what do you think about secrets?”

Janet snapped back to reality and reached for the kettle. “What I think is that I need a cup of tea.”

“I still think secrets are best,” mused Sara, enjoying the scent of the lilacs as their rich fragrance rolled through the kitchen and drifted out the open door.

“Then why do you want to know everything about Aunt Arabella’s blue chest?” challenged Felix, as he plunked down beside Sara.

“Yes, why?” queried Cecily, looking at Sara earnestly.

“Well,” replied Sara, “even when a person thinks they know everything, there’s still always something hidden. A secret goes on forever and ever.”

Cecily was puzzled. “Is that true, Mother?”

Janet stood at the kitchen counter, nibbling one of Felicity’s spicy gingersnaps, “testing its flavor,” as she told Felicity. Janet told herself she shouldn’t eat quite so many gingersnaps. This morning she had put on one of her lighter dresses from last year, and the waistband was snug, very snug.

“Aunt Janet,” pressed Sara, “why has this chest never been opened?”

“Because of death and horrible destruction,” intoned Felix dramatically. Cecily giggled.

“It’s not funny,” warned their mother. “It’s tragic.”

“I love—”

“We know, Sara,” interrupted Felicity, rolling her eyes skyward, “you love tragedies.”

“Tragedies stand among the finest literary works of mankind,” stated Sara firmly. Janet reached for yet another gingersnap possibly, thought Sara, to fortify herself to tell the story of Arabella.