Spring bloomed into summer, and Jim began to recover, slowly but surely. Pam visited him here and there, and their visits were always lighthearted, never touching on anything serious. She kept him abreast of town gossip, teasing him that he thought he knew everything when he confided that he suspected Dwighde Schrude wrote Angela a letter. She smiled and told him that they had been corresponding for the entire year, and the look on Jim's face made her laugh.

Several times a week, she jotted him a note or postcard, sometimes enclosing one of her illustrations or a sketch or even just an amusing newspaper article. She knew he appreciated any bit of distraction; lying in bed in his darkened bedroom was trying for him, though he didn't have the strength to do much else.

Though she was truly delighted that their friendship had regained momentum, it paled in comparison to what she wished would be. She found herself unsatisfied with the status quo; she wanted more than just a happy comradeship but could not express it. Sometimes she thought she saw a glimpse of the same desire behind Jim's eyes, and of course he had mentioned that he had broken off with Karen, but she still doubted what his intentions might be. She tried to make her actions speak what she could not, but they came out maddeningly friend-like.

Still, she found herself happier than she had been in a whole year, and Phyllis and Bob liked the change. Bob remarked that Pam had regained a spring in her step, and Phyllis smiled indulgently."I think a certain young man has something to do with that," she said, and Bob looked alarmed. "Now, now, she's growing up," reassured Phyllis, patting him on the arm.

"I can't help but miss the little girl," Bob said, slipping his arm around Phyllis's shoulders.

"I miss the child, too, but the young lady in her place is lovely," replied Phyllis, smiling at her husband.

It was this tableau that Pam stumbled upon on her way to town, and she smiled shyly as she picked up a basket in which to put her wares. Witnessing little moments of pure love warmed her heart and made her yearn all the more for Jim to recover completely, in secret hopes that someday they too might look at each other like this.

She swung her basket to and fro as she made her way to the general store. She stopped short of the dusty steps leading into it, nearly dropping her basket. A tall figure was walking slowly towards her, a hint of a limp in his step. "Jim!" she said, surprised and delighted. "What are you doing?"

"Hello, Pam," he said, reaching her and smiling at her. "The doctor said I can get up and walk around as long as I don't overexert myself."

"You walked all the way from home?" Pam asked, surprised. It was only a mile and a half to the Blythe farm, but in Jim's weakened state, it would be quite a feat.

"Are you impressed?" he asked, grinning. Pam nodded as Jim's father pulled up in the wagon. "Ready, Jim?" he asked, tipping his cap to Pam, who gave Jim a mischievous smile.

"I'm not impressed any more now that I know the horse was doing all the walking," she said, and Jim laughed. Then a serious look passed over his face, and Pam wondered if she had perhaps said the wrong thing. Perhaps Jim didn't like to be teased about his illness. When would she learn to hold her tongue?

"Pam, I- would you be available to go on a picnic this evening?" he asked, and Pam clutched her basket to her.

"Yes," she said, more loudly than she intended to, and Jim's smile was infinitely rewarding. He nodded.

"I'll see you at six then," he said, and swung himself up onto the wagon beside his father who, Pam noticed, patted his knee as they drove away.

She stood, dazed for a moment, and a smile crept over her face. She couldn't even remember why she had come to the general store, and walked slowly up the steps. She dimly recollected the items Phyllis needed, and made the transactions with Mr. Lawson without even realizing what she was doing.

Her mind was occupied elsewhere, namely with the thought that Jim was intending to come calling. She could scarcely think of the implications of this momentous event. He had never made a date to call on her at Green Gables, not formally like this, and it was happening after she had broken off with Roy and he with Karen, and he must know how she felt, shouldn't he?

These thoughts whirled like a dervish as she lugged her parcels home to Green Gables. Phyllis received her with a startled look at the contents of the basket. "Twenty pounds of brown sugar? A single potato?" she asked.

"It's a potato, I brought it from the store," said Pam, thoughts now upstairs in her dress cupboard. "I'll have to iron it straightway."

"Pardon?" asked Phyllis, suspecting that she might not have the entire story. "Iron the potato?"

"Oh dear, I mean my blue dress!" said Pam, finally cottoning on and smiling. "Phyllis, Jim has asked me to picnic with him tonight," she said almost shyly, and the small, knowing smile that played across Phyllis's face was gratifyingly honest.

All feeling returned to her body and she dashed up the stairs to press the outfit in question, only slightly hearing Phyllis repeat wonderingly, "Twenty pounds of brown sugar."

She ironed her dress to within an inch of its poplin-y life. She took care with her hair and tamed it into a becoming pompadour. She attended to these small ministries alone, and was almost glad that Kelly was busy with wedding preparations; this was her own experience and she thought she couldn't have borne any sort of gleeful conversation. Phyllis checked in several times, once with a handful of tiny, fresh blossoms for her hair and throat and another with a dab of eau de cologne.

By half past five, she was on the Green Gables porch, pacing and fidgeting with her handkerchief. Inside the house, Bob was uncharacteristically frowning, and Phyllis wouldn't let him out of the kitchen onto the porch. "She's a young lady, leave her be," she admonished, but gave him a tender smile and patted his arm.

By five minutes to six, Pam was having wild, irrational thoughts, wondering if Jim was going to change his mind. She was just planning on what she would have to say to Bob and Phyllis when she heard the jangle of reins and the muted clopping of horses' hooves. Jim came into view just then, and all nervousness melted away. This was just Jim, after all; she had talked to him a thousand times since she was a child, and he was the same as he had ever been.

No, she stopped herself, he had changed since his illness; there was much more of a man about him, though traces of the boy still peeked through in the untidy ruffle of his hair, the ease of his smile.

It was the boyish smile that he flashed at her as he climbed down from the buggy seat, untying the horses at the hitching post. Pam saw that he had taken care in dressing as well; his collar looked starched and stiff. She wondered if his mother had done it for him, the way Phyllis had attended to her as she dressed. The thought made her smile and she found herself not knowing what to say.

"It's going to be a wonderful evening for a picnic, " Jim said, and the proverbial ice broke.

"I know, this is my favorite time of the year," she said, "There's so much to see and do each day."

She indicated the barnyard and began leading the horse over. "We can let the horses stay in here with Sam and Bess," she said. "They can all have a good long chat."

Jim laughed. "What?" she asked, almost indignantly, but she was smiling.

"You see things that no one else does, that's one of the reasons I like you," said Jim, shaking his head, and his words hung in the air, making Pam blush. He likely hadn't meant anything but friendship in them, but still, her cheeks warmed and her heart fluttered.

Jim cleared this throat and reached into the buggy, emerging with a loaded picnic basket and a faded quilt. "Why don't we walk through the orchard toward the pond?" asked Pam. "We can stop anytime you get tired."

"No faith in me, Miss Shirley?" he ribbed gently, and laughing, they set off in the late afternoon sunshine. Their old banter returned as they walked through the sun-dappled orchard. Pam found it easier to talk with him while walking; it was much easier to pretend things were as they used to be if she didn't look at him.

Their stories were casual and friendly; Jim told her how his old dog had waited patiently outside everyday during Jim's illness, and had nearly knocked him down the first time he went outside. In return, Pam told him how she had accidentally mixed up the quantities of salt and sugar for a batch of Bob's ice cream, rendering an entire pailful useless for consumption by man or beast.

"Have you learned nothing about measurement from Mr. Scott's teaching?" teased Jim, and Pam laughed. "No! I mean, yes, I know how to measure, you goose, I was just distracted."

She immediately wish she hadn't said anything, because what would she tell him if he asked what had distracted her? That it was the thought of the fine stubble across his chin that had caused her to pour cup upon cup of salt into the ice cream barrel? That the image of the gazing hazel of his eyes boring into hers had caused her to tip the completely wrong amount of sugar in?

Mercifully, Jim asked no more about it, and launched into a tale of how he had accidentally baked a spoon inside a cake for his mother's birthday when he was a boy, and the laughter from that story took them to the edge of the pond.

"This looks perfect," said Jim, shaking out the quilt and laying it under a grand, bowing willow tree at the water's edge. He set the picnic basket in the middle, and Pam sat down, tucking her feet in their high buttoned shoes under her skirts. She watched as Jim opened removed the cloth covering the contents of the basket and opened her mouth to say something, but Jim held up a warning finger. "Not a word, please, Miss Shirley. This requires the utmost concentration."

Pam giggled silently as he laid out platters of sandwiches and salad, pretending to concentrate very hard on the exact placement of the dishes and napkins. Finally, he reached into the bottom of the basket and produced a bottle of cherry phosphate. He slid it over to Pam. "Hi," he said, finally speaking with a grin on his face. "Hi," she repeated, his smile mirrored on her countenance.

He glanced into the basket and paled. "I forgot the tumblers for the phosphate," he said, sounding disappointed with himself. "You can have the bottle, if you don't mind drinking out of it."

"Nonsense," she said, "We can share it, and no one's around to see us drinking straight from the bottle."

Jim nodded and handed her a napkin. They ate in amiable silence, punctuated by spurts of conversation. "Should I thank your mother for the food? It was delicious," Pam said, teasing.

"Now, now, I made all of it myself," he said, delightedly and she shook her head at him.

"I'm impressed," she said, and they both finished their food. Jim indicated the bottle of phosphate. "Go ahead, have some," he said. Neither of them had seemed to want to take the first drink, but at Jim's offer, she picked up the bottle and sipped the drink. It was delicious, fizzy and sweet, and she smiled as she handed the bottle to Jim. "It's lovely," she said, watching as Jim sipped from the bottle.

The sight of his lips where hers had been mere seconds before seemed such an intimate gesture that she looked away, a queer feeling in her stomach. "It's no raspberry cordial, but it'll do," he said, and Pam laughed a clear laugh. "I was so ill the next day, I thought for sure God was punishing me for gluttony," she said.

"Do you know, I've never spoken a word of that day to anyone?" said Jim, looking off into the distance. "It seems so long ago. Did Angela ever suspect anything?"

Pam shook her head. "I don't think so." She gazed over the water, watching the late afternoon sun set dimples of light across the tiny ripples, lending credence to her old name for it. She took a sip of cherry phosphate and was keenly aware that Jim's lips had just touched the rim. "I used to call this the Lake of Shining Waters," she said, smiling at the memory of long ago.

"You view things differently than most people," he said, following her gaze across the pond. She blushed. "You do," he insisted. "You take ordinary things and make them interesting, with vivid names or through your drawings. You're very good at seeing things more deeply."

Pam looked down at the quilt. "I'm not so good at seeing things sometimes," she said, and the silence that followed made her wonder if her words had any significance, if he had read the meaning that she desperately needed him to know, but that she couldn't put forth into bolder words.

She stole a glance at him and found the hazel gaze directed at her. He looked serious, nervous even, and Pam's stomach twinged in response to the change in direction.

"Pam, I just wanted to tell you that this year was difficult for me to get through," he said. She could almost see him urging the words out of himself, and she knew this was using every reserve of bravery he possessed.

"Academically, it was easy, but socially- every time I saw you with Roy Gardner, I wanted to hit something or break something or just...leave. Not talking to you was perhaps even harder, and then at the ball, it was pure torture. I mean, you asked me what it was like to beau around the most beautiful girl, and I wanted to shout at you that I didn't know what it was like, you wouldn't let me beau you around."

Pam said nothing; her mind was slowly processing, cogs churning out these bits of information, each a gem in its own right and together adding up to something very beautiful and almost frightening in its depth of feeling.

She felt herself breathing and felt her heart thudding in her chest, the sweet cherry taste on her lips. He was looking at her, waiting for her to respond, fear on his face as though she was going to throw his words back in his face as insult or ridicule.

She opened her mouth. "I hated Karen Stuart," she said, and Jim's anxiety disappeared instantly from his face as he laughed a surprised, delighted bark. "Well put," he said, as though almost embarrassed, and his words seemed to strengthen her.

"I meant what I said about not always being able to see things that should be apparent," she said, sitting up straight and looking beseechingly at him. "Do you ever feel like that, like you can't tell between what's real and what's just a dream?"

Jim laughed ruefully. "It's funny that you should ask me that tonight, when we're right here together. When you came to me and told me it was over with Roy, I tried not to let myself hope; I tried telling myself we were just easing back into our old friendship, but Pam, it's not working so well."

He sat up straighter and she felt a knot in her stomach. "I can't believe it's just our old friendship. I'm still as in love with you as I ever was, maybe more," he said.

He took her hands and she could hardly believe it; happiness crashed joyfully over her like a wave, and she couldn't speak. He opened his mouth again. "I asked you a question a year ago, and...if I asked it again today, will you give me a different answer?"

A lump formed in Pam's throat, and she found herself nodding, a gesture which sealed their fate and brought a look of pure joy and disbelief to both faces. She couldn't speak, but Jim needed no other answer.

She felt his hands slide onto her face and suddenly he was kissing her and it was at that moment that she realized what had been missing from Roy's kisses. Pure, honest, reciprocated love made Jim's kisses sweeter and softer and imbued with a longing, and she had never imagined she could feel like this. She slid her hands to his face and finally felt the fine stubble that she had mused and wondered over.

Their kiss broke and Pam buried her face in Jim's shoulder and felt his arms tighten around her. "I've been such a fool," she said, her words muffled. "Can you forgive me for treating you so horribly?"

She felt Jim's breath on her hair. "Don't apologize," he said, and she turned her face toward him. "Jim, it took me too long to realize it, but, I love you," she said into the smooth skin of his neck, and she felt a rumble in his chest as his breath caught.

She drew back and looked at him, sliding her hands on his; it was as though having touched him, she wanted never to be apart from him.

He looked serious. "It'll be a few years of me teaching to save up for a house and some land," he said, "But we'll find a little place between your school and mine, but I'm afraid it won't be as fancy as a city house. We may have to survive with only one kitchen," he said, looking at her, and she squeezed his hands.

"I don't need a fancy city house, I only need you," she said. Jim's eyes sparkled in the setting sun and this time it was she who leaned in to kiss him; in it, she tried to pour her depth of feeling and joy, and Jim responded enthusiastically. They were standing now, and Pam felt the length of his body against hers, her arms around his neck, Jim's hands gripping her corseted waist.

A newly awakened consciousness pervaded her as she leaned into his body and she now fully understood what it meant to be in love, a feeling which her imaginings had never come close to; she felt now that she had been fully ushered into the mysterious world of adulthood, something that had always frightened her but which she now embraced.

After what seemed like hours, they broke apart reluctantly. Pam had nearly forgotten about their picnic, and they ruefully packed the dishes and napkins back in the basket.

The sun cast a golden glow, bathing the world in a soft light, and Pam felt that it was just for them. Jim hung the basket on one arm, flipped the quilt over his shoulder and slid his arm around Pam's waist as they made their way slowly through the orchard, not wanting to leave the site of their reunion.

Pam felt as light as air, disbelieving that she could be this happy, her best friend and confidante as in love with her as she was with him. She laughed aloud and Jim looked down at her.

"What?" he asked, laughing himself without even knowing the joke.

"I was thinking about the day you rescued me from the bridge and how embarrassed I was, clinging to that piling," she said. "I suppose the problem was that I was really in love with you and looked like a goose."

Jim laughed and squeezed her. "I know I was in love with you, I knew the very day you broke that slate on my head. I deserved it, you know. But your eyes were sparkling and you had more gumption and spark than all of the other Avonlea girls put together. Still do."

Pam blushed. "I think I've loved you since the day you winked at me at that picnic. You intrigued me, and Jim, I'm sorry it took me so long to realize what I felt for you was much more than friendship," she said anxiously, looking at him. He stopped walking.

"Pam, it doesn't matter what has happened in the past. We have our whole lives together, and I'll be damned if I'll be separated from you ever again," he said, bending down to kiss her again. "This was the most miserable year of my life, but I have the feeling it'll be worth all of it."

She nodded and they continued to walk. Jim reached down and plucked a sprig of June lily and handed it to her. She sniffed the delicate perfume and looked at the silky petals, remembering the showy roses from Roy Gardner, a time that seemed so distant now. She squeezed Jim's hand, and by now they were at the barnyard.

Not wanting the magical evening to end, they dallied by the red clapboard wall near the horse paddock gate. "I wish you didn't have to leave," lamented Pam, but the dusk was falling over them and the lamps were lit in the windows of Green Gables.

Jim's response was to lean in for another kiss. Their goodbye lasted for several heady moments, pressed up against the barn and feeling the newly awakened longing in both. Pam thought that if the rest of Jim's kisses were like this, she'd be blissfully content for her whole life.

Back in Green Gables, Phyllis glanced out the window and gave an involuntary gasp, for the Avonlea mistress of propriety, Mrs. Marjorie Lynde, was sharing an after supper coffee, and if she were to see the closely twined figures at the barn, surely it would be all over Avonlea by tomorrow's end.

Mrs. Lynde shook her head. "Come away from the window, Phyllis, let them be."

Phyllis turned, surprised, to Mrs. Lynde. "How did you know what I saw?"

Mrs. Marjorie Lynde laughed her hearty laugh. "It's about time those two woke up and realized what was happening. Providence made those two for each other since they were children."

Outside, unaware that their fate was the topic of discussion over coffee and crullers, the two young lovers hitched up Jim's horses to the buggy and parted with one last, lingering kiss. "I'll come over tomorrow," Jim promised, and she grinned happily at him.

"Goodbye!" she called, watching him disappear around the bend in the road, and she knew that she could only ever be as happy as she was now, for she and Jim would have the rest of their lives to dream and live and be together, and that was comfort in its purest form. Dreams would be very sweet now.