“I don’t think it’s right for you to say such things, Anne, I really don’t,” said Marilla severely.  “Hester Gray has been dead for thirty years and her spirit is in heaven . . .  I hope.”

“Yes, but I believe she loves and remembers her garden here still,” said Anne.  “I’m sure no matter how long I’d lived in heaven I’d like to look down and see somebody putting flowers on my grave.  If I had had a garden here like Hester Gray’s it would take me more than thirty years, even in heaven, to forget being homesick for it by spells.”

“Well, don’t let the twins hear you talking like that,” was Marilla’s feeble protest, as she carried her chicken into the house.

Anne pinned her narcissi on her hair and went to the lane gate, where she stood for awhile sunning herself in the June brightness before going in to attend to her Saturday morning duties.  The world was growing lovely again; old Mother Nature was doing her best to remove the traces of the storm, and, though she was not to succeed fully for many a moon, she was really accomplishing wonders.

“I wish I could just be idle all day today,” Anne told a bluebird, who was singing and swinging on a willow bough, “but a schoolma’am, who is also helping to bring up twins, can’t indulge in laziness, birdie.  How sweet you are singing, little bird.  You are just putting the feelings of my heart into song ever so much better than I could myself.  Why, who is coming?”

An express wagon was jolting up the lane, with two people on the front seat and a big trunk behind.  When it drew near Anne recognized the driver as the son of the station agent at Bright River; but his companion was a stranger . . . a scrap of a woman who sprang nimbly down at the gate almost before the horse came to a standstill.  She was a very pretty little person, evidently nearer fifty than forty, but with rosy cheeks, sparkling black eyes, and shining black hair, surmounted by a wonderful beflowered and beplumed bonnet.  In spite of having driven eight miles over a dusty road she was as neat as if she had just stepped out of the proverbial bandbox.

“Is this where Mr. James A. Harrison lives?” she inquired briskly.

“No, Mr. Harrison lives over there,” said Anne, quite lost in astonishment.

“Well, I did think this place seemed too tidy . . .  Much too tidy for James A. to be living here, unless he has greatly changed since I knew him,” chirped the little lady.  “Is it true that James A. is going to be married to some woman living in this settlement?”

“No, oh no,” cried Anne, flushing so guiltily that the stranger looked curiously at her, as if she half suspected her of matrimonial designs on Mr. Harrison.

“But I saw it in an Island paper,” persisted the Fair Unknown.  “A friend sent a marked copy to me . . . friends are always so ready to do such things.  James A.’s name was written in over ‘new citizen.’”