Past the spruces the lane dipped down into a sunny little open where a log bridge spanned a brook; and then came the glory of a sunlit beechwood where the air was like transparent golden wine, and the leaves fresh and green, and the wood floor a mosaic of tremulous sunshine.  Then more wild cherries, and a little valley of lissome firs, and then a hill so steep that the girls lost their breath climbing it; but when they reached the top and came out into the open the prettiest surprise of all awaited them.

Beyond were the “back fields” of the farms that ran out to the upper Carmody road.  Just before them, hemmed in by beeches and firs but open to the south, was a little corner and in it a garden . . . or what had once been a garden.  A tumbledown stone dyke, overgrown with mosses and grass, surrounded it.  Along the eastern side ran a row of garden cherry trees, white as a snowdrift.  There were traces of old paths still and a double line of rosebushes through the middle; but all the rest of the space was a sheet of yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, most lavish, wind-swayed bloom above the lush green grasses.

“Oh, how perfectly lovely!” three of the girls cried.  Anne only gazed in eloquent silence.

“How in the world does it happen that there ever was a garden back here?” said Priscilla in amazement.

“It must be Hester Gray’s garden,” said Diana.  “I’ve heard mother speak of it but I never saw it before, and I wouldn’t have supposed that it could be in existence still.  You’ve heard the story, Anne?”

“No, but the name seems familiar to me.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it in the graveyard.  She is buried down there in the poplar corner.  You know the little brown stone with the opening gates carved on it and ‘Sacred to the memory of Hester Gray, aged twenty-two.’  Jordan Gray is buried right beside her but there’s no stone to him.  It’s a wonder Marilla never told you about it, Anne.  To be sure, it happened thirty years ago and everybody has forgotten.”

“Well, if there’s a story we must have it,” said Anne.  “Let’s sit right down here among the narcissi and Diana will tell it.  Why, girls, there are hundreds of them . . . they’ve spread over everything.  It looks as if the garden were carpeted with moonshine and sunshine combined.  This is a discovery worth making.  To think that I’ve lived within a mile of this place for six years and have never seen it before!  Now, Diana.”

“Long ago,” began Diana, “this farm belonged to old Mr. David Gray.  He didn’t live on it . . . he lived where Silas Sloane lives now.  He had one son, Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work and while he was there he fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray.  She was working in a store and she hated it.  She’d been brought up in the country and she always wanted to get back.  When Jordan asked her to marry him she said she would if he’d take her away to some quiet spot where she’d see