“I’m so glad we came this way,” said Anne, the shining-eyed.  “This is my adopted birthday, you know, and this garden and its story is the birthday gift it has given me.  Did your mother ever tell you what Hester Gray looked like, Diana?”

“No . . . only just that she was pretty.”

“I’m rather glad of that, because I can imagine what she looked like, without being hampered by facts.  I think she was very slight and small, with softly curling dark hair and big, sweet, timid brown eyes, and a little wistful, pale face.”

The girls left their baskets in Hester’s garden and spent the rest of the afternoon rambling in the woods and fields surrounding it, discovering many pretty nooks and lanes.  When they got hungry they had lunch in the prettiest spot of all . . . on the steep bank of a gurgling brook where white birches shot up out of long feathery grasses.  The girls sat down by the roots and did full justice to Anne’s dainties, even the unpoetical sandwiches being greatly appreciated by hearty, unspoiled appetites sharpened by all the fresh air and exercise they had enjoyed.  Anne had brought glasses and lemonade for her guests, but for her own part drank cold brook water from a cup fashioned out of birch bark.  The cup leaked, and the water tasted of earth, as brook water is apt to do in spring; but Anne thought it more appropriate to the occasion than lemonade.

“Look do you see that poem?” she said suddenly, pointing.

“Where?” Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees.

“There . . . down in the brook . . . that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they’d been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool.  Oh, it’s the most beautiful poem I ever saw.”

“I should rather call it a picture,” said Jane.  “A poem is lines and verses.”

“Oh dear me, no.”  Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively.  “The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are you, Jane.  The real poem is the soul within them . . . and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem.  It is not every day one sees a soul . . . even of a poem.”

“I wonder what a soul . . . a person’s soul . . . would look like,” said Priscilla dreamily.

“Like that, I should think,” answered Anne, pointing to a radiance of sifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree.  “Only with shape and features of course.  I like to fancy souls as being made of light.  And some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers . . . and some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea . . . and some are pale and transparent like mist at dawn.”

“I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers,” said Priscilla.

“Then your soul is a golden narcissus,” said Anne, “and Diana’s is like a red, red rose.  Jane’s is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet.”