Through Anne’s mind drifted an intrusive recollection of a funny story she had heard Philippa Gordon tell—­the story of some old man who had said very much the same thing about the world to come.  It had sounded funny then—­she remembered how she and Priscilla had laughed over it.  But it did not seem in the least humorous now, coming from Ruby’s pale, trembling lips.  It was sad, tragic—­and true!  Heaven could not be what Ruby had been used to.  There had been nothing in her gay, frivolous life, her shallow ideals and aspirations, to fit her for that great change, or make the life to come seem to her anything but alien and unreal and undesirable.  Anne wondered helplessly what she could say that would help her.  Could she say anything?  “I think, Ruby,” she began hesitatingly—­for it was difficult for Anne to speak to any one of the deepest thoughts of her heart, or the new ideas that had vaguely begun to shape themselves in her mind, concerning the great mysteries of life here and hereafter, superseding her old childish conceptions, and it was hardest of all to speak of them to such as Ruby Gillis—­“I think, perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about heaven—­what it is and what it holds for us.  I don’t think it can be so very different from life here as most people seem to think.  I believe we’ll just go on living, a good deal as we live here—­and be ourselves just the same—­only it will be easier to be good and to—­follow the highest.  All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken away, and we shall see clearly.  Don’t be afraid, Ruby.”

“I can’t help it,” said Ruby pitifully.  “Even if what you say about heaven is true—­and you can’t be sure—­it may be only that imagination of yours—­it won’t be just the same.  It can’t be.  I want to go on living here.  I’m so young, Anne.  I haven’t had my life.  I’ve fought so hard to live—­and it isn’t any use—­I have to die—­and leave everything I care for.”  Anne sat in a pain that was almost intolerable.  She could not tell comforting falsehoods; and all that Ruby said was so horribly true.  She was leaving everything she cared for.  She had laid up her treasures on earth only; she had lived solely for the little things of life—­the things that pass—­forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity, bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a mere passing from one dwelling to the other—­from twilight to unclouded day.  God would take care of her there—­Anne believed—­she would learn—­but now it was no wonder her soul clung, in blind helplessness, to the only things she knew and loved.

Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted up her bright, beautiful blue eyes to the moonlit skies.

“I want to live,” she said, in a trembling voice.  “I want to live like other girls.  I—­I want to be married, Anne—­and—­and—­have little children.  You know I always loved babies, Anne.  I couldn’t say this to any one but you.  I know you understand.  And then poor Herb—­he—­he loves me and I love him, Anne.  The others meant nothing to me, but he does—­and if I could live I would be his wife and be so happy.  Oh, Anne, it’s hard.”