“If I had my way I’d shut everything out of your life but happiness and pleasure, Anne,” said Gilbert in the tone that meant “danger ahead.”

“Then you would be very unwise,” rejoined Anne hastily.  “I’m sure no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and sorrow—­though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that we admit it.  Come—­the others have got to the pavilion and are beckoning to us.”

They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn sunset of deep red fire and pallid gold.  To their left lay Kingsport, its roofs and spires dim in their shroud of violet smoke.  To their right lay the harbor, taking on tints of rose and copper as it stretched out into the sunset.  Before them the water shimmered, satin smooth and silver gray, and beyond, clean shaven William’s Island loomed out of the mist, guarding the town like a sturdy bulldog.  Its lighthouse beacon flared through the mist like a baleful star, and was answered by another in the far horizon.

“Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?” asked Philippa.  “I don’t want William’s Island especially, but I’m sure I couldn’t get it if I did.  Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort, right beside the flag.  Doesn’t he look as if he had stepped out of a romance?”

“Speaking of romance,” said Priscilla, “we’ve been looking for heather—­but, of course, we couldn’t find any.  It’s too late in the season, I suppose.”

“Heather!” exclaimed Anne.  “Heather doesn’t grow in America, does it?”

“There are just two patches of it in the whole continent,” said Phil, “one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, I forget where.  The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch, camped here one year, and, when the men shook out the straw of their beds in the spring, some seeds of heather took root.”

“Oh, how delightful!” said enchanted Anne.

“Let’s go home around by Spofford Avenue,” suggested Gilbert.  “We can see all ‘the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.’  Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport.  Nobody can build on it unless he’s a millionaire.”

“Oh, do,” said Phil.  “There’s a perfectly killing little place I want to show you, Anne.  It wasn’t built by a millionaire.  It’s the first place after you leave the park, and must have grown while Spofford Avenue was still a country road.  It did grow—­it wasn’t built!  I don’t care for the houses on the Avenue.  They’re too brand new and plateglassy.  But this little spot is a dream—­and its name—­but wait till you see it.”