Diana also took a very pessimistic view of affairs.

“It will be horribly lonesome here next winter,” she mourned, one twilight when the moonlight was 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 Turkfashion 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 and sung a little lullaby to it.  She told me all about it last evening when I was up putting some of those early wild roses on Matthew’s grave.  I promised her that as long as I was in Avonlea I would put flowers on the baby’s grave and when I was away I felt sure that . . .”

“That I would do it,” supplied Diana heartily.  “Of course I will.  And I’ll put them on Matthew’s grave too, for your sake, Anne.”

“Oh, thank you.  I meant to ask you to if you would.  And on little Hester Gray’s too?  Please don’t forget hers.  Do you know, I’ve thought and dreamed so much about little Hester Gray that she has become strangely real to me.  I think of her, back there in her little garden in that cool, still, green corner; and I have a fancy that if I could steal back there some spring evening, just at the magic time ’twixt light and dark, and tiptoe so softly up the beech hill that my footsteps could not frighten her, I would find the garden just as it used to be, all sweet with June lilies and early roses, with the tiny house beyond it all hung with vines; and little Hester Gray would be there, with her soft eyes, and the wind ruffling her dark hair, wandering about, putting her fingertips under the chins of the lilies and whispering secrets