Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving it.  She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever.  Her old girl friends had welcomed her back rapturously.  The reigning minister’s wife was an estimable lady, but she was not exactly a kindred spirit.

“I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk,” sighed Diana.  “I just long to hear him say ‘mother.’  And oh, I’m determined that his first memory of me shall be a nice one.  The first memory I have of my mother is of her slapping me for something I had done.  I am sure I deserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I love her dearly.  But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer.”

“I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of all my memories,” said Mrs. Allan.  “I was five years old, and I had been allowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters.  When school came out my sisters went home in different groups, each supposing I was with the other.  Instead I had run off with a little girl I had played with at recess.  We went to her home, which was near the school, and began making mud pies.  We were having a glorious time when my older sister arrived, breathless and angry.

“’You naughty girl” she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and dragging me along with her.  ’Come home this minute.  Oh, you’re going to catch it!  Mother is awful cross.  She is going to give you a good whipping.’

“I had never been whipped.  Dread and terror filled my poor little heart.  I have never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk home.  I had not meant to be naughty.  Phemy Cameron had asked me to go home with her and I had not known it was wrong to go.  And now I was to be whipped for it.  When we got home my sister dragged me into the kitchen where mother was sitting by the fire in the twilight.  My poor wee legs were trembling so that I could hardly stand.  And mother—­mother just took me up in her arms, without one word of rebuke or harshness, kissed me and held me close to her heart.  ’I was so frightened you were lost, darling,’ she said tenderly.  I could see the love shining in her eyes as she looked down on me.  She never scolded or reproached me for what I had done—­only told me I must never go away again without asking permission.  She died very soon afterwards.  That is the only memory I have of her.  Isn’t it a beautiful one?”

Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of the Birch Path and Willowmere.  She had not walked that way for many moons.  It was a darkly-purple bloomy night.  The air was heavy with blossom fragrance—­almost too heavy.  The cloyed senses recoiled from it as from an overfull cup.  The birches of the path had grown from the fairy saplings of old to big trees.  Everything had changed.  Anne felt that she would be glad when the summer was over and she was away at work again.  Perhaps life would not seem so empty then.

     “’I’ve tried the world—­it wears no more
     The coloring of romance it wore,’”