Prince Edward Island, where Anne was supposedly born, lay as far north as Northern Maine or Minnesota-and Paris, France. And in the approaching summer season, the sun rose before five and stayed up as late as ten at night. After all, June the twenty-first stood as the longest day of the year no matter where you lived in the Northern Hemisphere.

     Four-thirty found us sitting at the kitchen table eating a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Then Marilla started Anne on house chores while Matthew took me outside. Walking into the barn, we moved to four occupied cow stalls.

     "Matthew, you like Anne, don't you?"

     "There's something about her."

     "It's not because you're just sorry for her?"

     Matthew nodded. "It's that too. I think I'll never forget poking my head around the train station house in Bright River and seeing that red-headed little bundle of hope sitting there staring out into the trees. I didn't have the heart to tell her there'd been a mistake and most likely Marilla would send her back. It broke my heart."

     He handed me an empty bucket, moved me to the first cow, and pulled up a short wooden stool.

     "Well, what do you think?" I asked. "You think Marilla will keep her?"

     "There's no telling, Abriana. Marilla's hard to read, and she's as stubborn as the will of kings." He pointed to the stool, and I sat on it. "Now, let's see you milk the cow."

     I looked at the cow's udder and its nipples bulging down erect, and then stared up at Matthew. "I'd be glad to if I knew how."

     He pointed to the udder. "Just put your hands on two of the teats and see what happens."

     I looked at the 'teats', as he called them. "Does this have anything to do with the hands remembering what the mind forgot?"

     "Marilla says if you just start doing things, your hands will remember for you."

     I shook my head. "I don't think so."

     "Well, give it a try."

     I reached out with one hand and eased two fingers on one of the teats and tore them away from the hot sensation they caused against my skin.

     "Yuck! They feel funny." I glanced up at him. "You know, I don't think it's natural for a girl to be touching another girl there."

     He waved a hand toward the udder. "Go on. It's only a cow. Grab them and squeeze down."

     I grabbed one teat, encircled a thumb and forefinger around its base and pulled down. Nothing happened.

     "Abriana, you could use a little more force."

     I tried it once more, and again nothing splashed into the bucket. Then I bent the teat to examine the milk hole and a squirt of white liquid shot up past me.

     I darted my eyes toward Mathew and watched milk drip down his face. "Oh, Matthew, I'm really sorry."

     He yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. "It's all right, Abriana."

     I wiggled my fingers. "I guess there's no memory there. Maybe I wasn't a farm girl."

     He bent over and showed me the proper way to milk the cow. I got the hang of it after several more attempts. Before I knew it, after the sun rose well above the horizon, I had milked all four cows.

     It made me feel prideful as I rose from the stool looking into the nearly filled bucket. Then I glanced at Matthew. "I did it, Matthew. I milked a cow!"

     "No, you milked four of them. Now, let's move on to the chickens."

     Feeling confident, I pranced toward the barn entrance. "Yes, let's go milk the chickens now."

     I heard Matthew stop and spun to face him. He hung a puzzled expression on his face, and I responded with a smile.

     "Matthew, I was only kidding. I'm not that much of a farm rookie to think chickens give milk." His face changed to relief. "They give butter."

     Watching his face twist into puzzlement again, I spun around and walked out leaving him to think I really believed a chicken could give butter.

At the chicken coup, Matthew gave me a basket filled with corn pellets (corn kernels plucked from the cob and kept long enough to harden). Most of them shined like dark brown or yellow pieces of glass or ceramic.

     "They eat this stuff?" I asked. "It looks awfully hard."

     "They don't have teeth you know."

     "I've heard the expression 'as scarce as a hen's tooth'. I guess they just swallow it."

     "Walk through the chicken yard and toss a partial handful at a time. First to the left, then to the right, but never in front of you. You don't want them running in your path. Then while they're feeding, you dash inside the hen house and gather their eggs."

     "Poor chickens. It's like stealing their babies."

     "You like to eat eggs, don't you, Abriana?" I nodded. "Then do what has to be done."

     I tried following his instructions, but as I got close to the hen house, an enraged rooster tore out of it and sprinted for me.

     I squawked louder than a chicken and threw the basket out in front of me to keep the rooster from attacking. Most of the corn feed jumped over the brim and fell on the ground. Chickens clamored from everywhere to get at it. Seeing the rooster still charging, I dropped the basket and fled. I felt pecking on my ankles until I reached Matthew and darted behind him. Peeking out, I watched Matthew flutter his arms. The rooster dashed into fast retreat.

     "Land sakes."

     Matthew and I twirled around to see Marilla standing outside the chicken wire fence with her hands planted on her hips.

      "If I didn't know better, girl," Marilla continued, "I would have thought you must have been an indoor maid or something."

     "That's just it, Marilla," I said, holding back an angry urge to snap at her. "I don't think my past had me waiting on anyone. Maybe I was an African Princess where everyone bowed to me as I passed down the street."

     Marilla leaned back and guffawed at the sky. Then she sighed and stared at me. "And maybe I was the Queen of England who didn't die seven years ago but moved to Canada instead."