Matthew had driven halfway home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange store. When he reached home he hid the rake in the toolhouse, but the sugar he carried in to Marilla.

“Brown sugar!” exclaimed Marilla. “Whatever possessed you to get so much? You know I never use it except for the hired man’s porridge or black fruitcake. Jerry’s gone and I’ve made my cake long ago. It’s not good sugar, either⁠—it’s coarse and dark⁠—William Blair doesn’t usually keep sugar like that.”

“I⁠—I thought it might come in handy sometime,” said Matthew, making good his escape.