For the next fortnight Anne writhed or reveled, according to mood, in her literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a brilliant idea, now despairing because some contrary character would _not_ behave properly. Diana could not understand this. “_Make_ them do as you want them to,” she said. “I can’t,” mourned Anne. “Averil is such an unmanageable heroine. She _will_ do and say things I never meant her to. Then that spoils everything that went before and I have to write it all over again.” Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in the seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her “pathetic scene” without sacrificing _Robert Ray_, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana as she read it. Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly; but, when the end came, she looked a little disappointed. “Why did you kill _Maurice Lennox?_” she asked reproachfully. “He was the villain,” protested Anne. “He had to be punished.” “I like him best of them all,” said unreasonable Diana. “Well, he’s dead, and he’ll have to stay dead,” said Anne, rather resentfully. “If I had let him live he’d have gone on persecuting _Averil_ and _Perceval_.” “Yes—unless you had reformed him.” “That wouldn’t have been romantic, and, besides, it would have made the story too long.” “Well, anyway, it’s a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make you famous, of that I’m sure. Have you got a title for it?” “Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I call it _Averil’s atonement_. Doesn’t that sound nice and alliterative? Now, Diana, tell me candidly, do you see any faults in my story?” “Well,” hesitated Diana, “that part where _Averil_ makes the cake doesn’t seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. It’s just what anybody might do. Heroines shouldn’t do cooking, _I_ think.” “Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it’s one of the best parts of the whole story,” said Anne. And it may be stated that in this she was quite right. Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison was much harder to please. First he told her there was entirely too much description in the story. “Cut out all those flowery passages,” he said unfeelingly. Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though it took three re-writings before the story could be pruned down to please the fastidious Mr. Harrison. “I’ve left out _all_ the descriptions but the sunset,” she said at last. “I simply _couldn’t_ let it go. It was the best of them all.” “It hasn’t anything to do with the story,” said Mr. Harrison, “and you shouldn’t have laid the scene among rich city people. What do you know of them? Why didn’t you lay it right here in Avonlea—changing the name, of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lynde would probably think she was the heroine.”