brought for it, and then went over to the little poplar shaded corner where Hester Gray slept. Ever since the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on Hester’s grave when she visited Matthew’s. The evening before she had made a pilgrimage back to the little deserted garden in the woods and brought therefrom some of Hester’s own white roses.
“I thought you would like them better than any others, dear,” she said softly.
Anne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over the grass and she looked up to see Mrs. Allan. They walked home together.
Mrs. Allan’s face was not the face of the girl-bride whom the minister had brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloom and youthful curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes and mouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery accounted for some of them; and some new ones had come during the recent illness, now happily over, of her little son. But Mrs. Allan’s dimples were as sweet and sudden as ever, her eyes as clear and bright and true; and what her face lacked of girlish beauty was now more than atoned for in added tenderness and strength.
“I suppose you are looking forward to your vacation, Anne?” she said, as they left the graveyard.
Anne nodded.
“Yes. . . . I could roll the word as a sweet morsel under my tongue. I think the summer is going to be lovely. For one thing, Mrs. Morgan is coming to the
