raining “airy silver” through the cherry boughs and filling the east gable with a soft, dream-like radiance in which the two girls sat and talked, Anne on her low rocker by the window, Diana sitting Turk-fashion on the bed. “You and Gilbert will be gone . . . and the Allans too. They are going to call Mr. Allan to Charlottetown and of course he’ll accept. It’s too mean. We’ll be vacant all winter, I suppose, and have to listen to a long string of candidates . . . and half of them won’t be any good.”
“I hope they won’t call Mr. Baxter from East Grafton here, anyhow,” said Anne decidedly. “He wants the call but he does preach such gloomy sermons. Mr. Bell says he’s a minister of the old school, but Mrs. Lynde says there’s nothing whatever the matter with him but indigestion. His wife isn’t a very good cook, it seems, and Mrs. Lynde says that when a man has to eat sour bread two weeks out of three his theology is bound to get a kink in it somewhere. Mrs. Allan feels very badly about going away. She says everybody has been so kind to her since she came here as a bride that she feels as if she were leaving lifelong friends. And then, there’s the baby’s grave, you know. She says she doesn’t see how she can go away and leave that . . . it was such a little mite of a thing and only three months old, and she says she is afraid it will miss its mother, although she knows better and wouldn’t say so to Mr. Allan for anything. She says she has slipped through the birch grove back of the manse nearly every night to the graveyard
