“Yes, I did.  I noticed her particularly because she seemed the only creature there who looked as lonely and friendless as I felt.  I had you, but she had no one.”

“I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too.  Several times I saw her make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never did it—­too shy, I suppose.  I wished she would come.  If I hadn’t felt so much like the aforesaid elephant I’d have gone to her.  But I couldn’t lumber across that big hall with all those boys howling on the stairs.  She was the prettiest freshette I saw today, but probably favor is deceitful and even beauty is vain on your first day at Redmond,” concluded Priscilla with a laugh.

“I’m going across to Old St. John’s after lunch,” said Anne.  “I don’t know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get cheered up, but it seems the only get-at-able place where there are trees, and trees I must have.  I’ll sit on one of those old slabs and shut my eyes and imagine I’m in the Avonlea woods.”

Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest in Old St. John’s to keep her eyes wide open.  They went in by the entrance gates, past the simple, massive, stone arch surmounted by the great lion of England.

     “’And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory,
     And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,’”

quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill.  They found themselves in a dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring.  Up and down the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the quaint, voluminous epitaphs, carved in an age that had more leisure than our own.

“‘Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,’” read Anne from a worn, gray slab, “’for many years Keeper of His Majesty’s Ordnance at Kingsport.  He served in the army till the peace of 1763, when he retired from bad health.  He was a brave officer, the best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of friends.  He died October 29th, 1792, aged 84 years.’  There’s an epitaph for you, Prissy.  There is certainly some ‘scope for imagination’ in it.  How full such a life must have been of adventure!  And as for his personal qualities, I’m sure human eulogy couldn’t go further.  I wonder if they told him he was all those best things while he was alive.”

“Here’s another,” said Priscilla.  “Listen—­

’To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, 1840, aged 43 years.  This is raised as a tribute of affection by one whom he served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a friend, deserving the fullest confidence and attachment.’”

“A very good epitaph,” commented Anne thoughtfully.  “I wouldn’t wish a better.  We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact that we are faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones nothing more need be added.  Here’s a sorrowful little gray stone, Prissy—­’to the memory of a favorite child.’  And here is another ’erected to the memory of one who is buried elsewhere.’  I wonder where that unknown grave is.  Really, Pris, the graveyards of today will never be as interesting as this.  You were right—­I shall come here often.  I love it already.  I see we’re not alone here—­there’s a girl down at the end of this avenue.”