“We’ll miss Myra terrible in church,” said Miss Cornelia.  “She was such a worker.  Nothing ever stumped her.  If she couldn’t get over a difficulty she’d get around it, and if she couldn’t get around it she’d pretend it wasn’t there—­and generally it wasn’t.  ‘I’ll keep a stiff upper lip to my journey’s end,’ said she to me once.  Well, she has ended her journey.”

“Do you think so?” asked Anne suddenly, coming back from dreamland.  “I can’t picture her journey as being ended.  Can you think of her sitting down and folding her hands—­that eager, asking spirit of hers, with its fine adventurous outlook?  No, I think in death she just opened a gate and went through—­on—­on—­ to new, shining adventures.”

“Maybe—­maybe,” assented Miss Cornelia.  “Do you know, Anne dearie, I never was much taken with this everlasting rest doctrine myself—­though I hope it isn’t heresy to say so.  I want to bustle round in heaven the same as here.  And I hope there’ll be a celestial substitute for pies and doughnuts—­something that has to be made.  Of course, one does get awful tired at times—­and the older you are the tireder you get.  But the very tiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you’d think—­except, perhaps, a lazy man.”

“When I meet Myra Murray again,” said Anne, “I want to see her coming towards me, brisk and laughing, just as she always did here.”

“Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, in a shocked tone, “you surely do not think that Myra will be laughing in the world to come?”

“Why not, Susan?  Do you think we will be crying there?”

“No, no, Mrs. Dr. dear, do not misunderstand me.  I do not think we shall be either crying or laughing.”

“What then?”

“Well,” said Susan, driven to it. “it is my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear, that we shall just look solemn and holy.”

“And do you really think, Susan,” said Anne, looking solemn enough, “that either Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holy all the time—­all the time, Susan?”

“Well,” admitted Susan reluctantly, “I might go so far as to say that you both would have to smile now and again, but I can never admit that there will be laughing in heaven.  The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs. Dr. dear.”

“Well, to come back to earth,” said Miss Cornelia, “who can we get to take Myra’s class in Sunday School?  Julia Clow has been teaching it since Myra took ill, but she’s going to town for the winter and we’ll have to get somebody else.”

“I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it,” said Anne.  “The Jamiesons have come to church very regularly since they moved to the Glen from Lowbridge.”

“New brooms!” said Miss Cornelia dubiously.  “Wait till they’ve gone regularly for a year.”

“You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly.  “She died once and when they were measuring her for her coffin, after laying her out just beautiful, did she not go and come back to life!  Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you cannot depend on a woman like that.”