The Way of the Winning of Anne

"The Way of the Winning of Anne" is a novel by Lucy Maud Montgomery that continues the beloved story of Anne Shirley, a spirited and imaginative young woman from Avonlea. This narrative delves into Anne's journey as she faces new challenges and experiences the complexities of love, friendship, and self-discovery. Set against the backdrop of rural Canada, the story highlights Anne's growth and her enduring passion for life, all while maintaining Montgomery's signature blend of warmth, humor, and poignant reflection. Through Anne's eyes, readers are invited to explore themes of ambition, resilience, and the power of dreams.

• Short story

								
Jerome Irving had been courting Anne Stockard for fifteen years. He
had begun when she was twenty and he was twenty-five, and now that
Jerome was forty, and Anne, in a village where everybody knew
everybody else's age, had to own to being thirty-five, the courtship
did not seem any nearer a climax than it had at the beginning. But
that was not Jerome's fault, poor fellow!

At the end of the first year he had asked Anne to marry him, and Anne
had refused. Jerome was disappointed, but he kept his head and went on
courting Anne just the same; that is he went over to Esek Stockard's
house every Saturday night and spent the evening, he walked home with
Anne from prayer meeting and singing school and parties when she would
let him, and asked her to go to all the concerts and socials and
quilting frolics that came off. Anne never would go, of course, but
Jerome faithfully gave her the chance. Old Esek rather favoured
Jerome's suit, for Anne was the plainest of his many daughters, and no
other fellow seemed at all anxious to run Jerome off the track; but
she took her own way with true Stockard firmness, and matters were
allowed to drift on at the will of time or chance.

Three years later Jerome tried his luck again, with precisely the same
result, and after that he had asked Anne regularly once a year to
marry him, and just as regularly Anne said no a little more brusquely
and a little more decidedly every year. Now, in the mellowness of a
fifteen-year-old courtship, Jerome did not mind it at all. He knew
that everything comes to the man who has patience to wait.

Time, of course, had not stood still with Anne and Jerome, or with the
history of Deep Meadows. At the Stockard homestead the changes had
been many and marked. Every year or two there had been a wedding in
the big brick farmhouse, and one of old Esek's girls had been the
bride each time. Julia and Grace and Celia and Betty and Theodosia
and Clementina Stockard were all married and gone. But Anne had never
had another lover. There had to be an old maid in every big family she
said, and she was not going to marry Jerome Irving just for the sake
of having Mrs. on her tombstone.

Old Esek and his wife had been put away in the Deep Meadows
burying-ground. The broad, fertile Stockard acres passed into Anne's
possession. She was a good business-woman, and the farm continued to
be the best in the district. She kept two hired men and a servant
girl, and the sixteen-year-old of her oldest sister lived with her.
There were few visitors at the Stockard place now, but Jerome "dropped
in" every Saturday night with clockwork regularity and talked to Anne
about her stock and advised her regarding the rotation of her crops
and the setting out of her orchards. And at ten o'clock he would take
his hat and cane and tell Anne to be good to herself, and go home.

Anne had long since given up trying to discourage him; she even
accepted attentions from him now that she had used to refuse. He
always walked home with her from evening meetings and was her partner
in the games at quilting parties. It was great fun for the young
folks. "Old Jerome and Anne" were a standing joke in Deep Meadows. But
the older people had ceased to expect anything to come of it.

Anne laughed at Jerome as she had always done, and would not have
owned for the world that she could have missed him. Jerome was useful,
she admitted, and a comfortable friend; and she would have liked him
well enough if he would only omit that ridiculous yearly ceremony of
proposal.

It was Jerome's fortieth birthday when Anne refused him again. He
realized this as he went down the road in the moonlight, and doubt and
dismay began to creep into his heart. Anne and he were both getting
old--there was no disputing that fact. It was high time that he
brought her to terms if he was ever going to. Jerome was an
easy-going mortal and always took things placidly, but he did not
mean to have all those fifteen years of patient courting go for
nothing He had thought Anne would get tired of saying no, sooner or
later, and say yes, if for no other reason than to have a change; but
getting tired did not seem to run in the Stockard blood. She had said
no that night just as coolly and decidedly and unsentimentally as she
said it fifteen years before. Jerome had the sensation of going around
in a circle and never getting any further on. He made up his mind that
something must be done, and just as he got to the brook that divides
Deep Meadows West from Deep Meadows Central an idea struck him; it was
a good idea and amused him. He laughed aloud and slapped his thigh,
much to the amusement of two boys who were sitting unnoticed on the
railing of the bridge.

"There's old Jerome going home from seeing Anne Stockard," said one.
"Wonder what on earth he's laughing at. Seems to me if I couldn't get
a wife without hoeing a fifteen-year row, I'd give up trying."

But, then, the speaker was a Hamilton, and the Hamiltons never had any
perseverance.

Jerome, although a well-to-do man, owning a good farm, had, so to
speak, no home of his own. The old Irving homestead belonged to his
older brother, who had a wife and family. Jerome lived with them and
was so used to it he didn't mind.

At forty a lover must not waste time. Jerome thought out the details
that night, and next day he opened the campaign. But it was not until
the evening after that that Anne Stockard heard the news. It was her
niece, Octavia, who told her. The latter had been having a chat up the
lane with Sam Mitchell, and came in with a broad smile on her round,
rosy face and a twinkle in her eyes.

"I guess you've lost your beau this time, Aunt Anne. It looks as if he
meant to take you at your word at last."

"What on earth do you mean?" asked Anne, a little sharply. She was in
the pantry counting eggs, and Octavia's interruption made her lose her
count. "Now I can't remember whether it was six or seven dozen I said
last. I shall have to count them all over again. I wish, Octavia, that
you could think of something besides beaus all the time."

"Well, but listen," persisted Octavia wickedly. "Jerome Irving was at
the social at the Cherry Valley parsonage last night, and he had
Harriet Warren there--took her there, and drove her home again."

"I don't believe it," cried Anne, before she thought. She dropped an
egg into the basket so abruptly that the shell broke.

"Oh, it's true enough. Sam Mitchell told me; he was there and saw him.
Sam says he looked quite beaming, and was dressed to kill, and
followed Harriet around like her shadow. I guess you won't have any
more bother with him, Aunt Anne."

In the process of picking the broken egg out of the whole ones Anne
had recovered her equanimity. She gave a careful little laugh.

"Well, it's to be hoped so. Goodness knows it's time he tried somebody
else. Go and change your dress for milking, Octavia, and don't spend

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