Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that she felt as if she had known them.  She thought his mother must have been very like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and she had an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deep and tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world.

“Father’s not very easy to get acquainted with,” Paul had said once.  “I never got really acquainted with him until after my little mother died.  But he’s splendid when you do get to know him.  I love him the best in all the world, and Grandma Irving next, and then you, teacher.  I’d love you next to father if it wasn’t my duty to love Grandma Irving best, because she’s doing so much for me.  You know, teacher.  I wish she would leave the lamp in my room till I go to sleep, though.  She takes it right out as soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn’t be a coward.  I’m not scared, but I’d rather have the light.  My little mother used always to sit beside me and hold my hand till I went to sleep.  I expect she spoiled me.  Mothers do sometimes, you know.”

No, Anne did not know this, although she might imagine it.  She thought sadly of her “little mother,” the mother who had thought her so “perfectly beautiful” and who had died so long ago and was buried beside her boyish husband in that unvisited grave far away.  Anne could not remember her mother and for this reason she almost envied Paul.

“My birthday is next week,” said Paul, as they walked up the long red hill, basking in the June sunshine, “and father wrote me that he is sending me something that he thinks I’ll like better than anything else he could send.  I believe it has come already, for Grandma is keeping the bookcase drawer locked and that is something new.  And when I asked her why, she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn’t be too curious.  It’s very exciting to have a birthday, isn’t it?  I’ll be eleven.  You’d never think it to look at me, would you?  Grandma says I’m very small for my age and that it’s all because I don’t eat enough porridge.  I do my very best, but Grandma gives such generous platefuls . . . there’s nothing mean about Grandma, I can tell you.  Ever since you and I had that talk about praying going home from Sunday School that day, teacher . . . when you said we ought to pray about all our difficulties . . .  I’ve prayed every night that God would give me enough grace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge in the mornings.  But I’ve never been able to do it yet, and whether it’s because I have too little grace or too much porridge I really can’t decide.  Grandma says father was brought up on porridge, and it certainly did work well in his case, for you ought to see the shoulders he has.  But sometimes,” concluded Paul with a sigh and a meditative air “I really think porridge will be the death of me.”

Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not looking at her.  All Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandson up in accordance with the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals.