mother for one beautiful day. I’d gladly give my life for that!”
“I wouldn’t talk like that, Leslie, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia deprecatingly. She was afraid that the dignified Miss Cuthbert would think Leslie quite terrible.
Anne’s convalescence was long, and made bitter for her by many things. The bloom and sunshine of the Four Winds world grated harshly on her; and yet, when the rain fell heavily, she pictured it beating so mercilessly down on that little grave across the harbor; and when the wind blew around the eaves she heard sad voices in it she had never heard before.
Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant platitudes with which they strove to cover the nakedness of bereavement. A letter from Phil Blake was an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby’s birth, but not of its death, and she wrote Anne a congratulatory letter of sweet mirth which hurt her horribly.
“I would have laughed over it so happily if I had my baby,” she sobbed to Marilla. “But when I haven’t it just seems like wanton cruelty—though I know Phil wouldn’t hurt me for the world. Oh, Marilla, I don’t see how I can ever be happy again—everything will hurt me all the rest of my life.”
“Time will help you,” said Marilla, who was racked with sympathy but could never learn to express it in other than age-worn formulas.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” said Anne rebelliously.
