understanding, I think," said
Anne. "I must go now, Ruby. It's getting late--and you shouldn't be out
in the damp."

"You'll come up soon again."

"Yes, very soon. And if there's anything I can do to help you I'll be so
glad."

"I know. You HAVE helped me already. Nothing seems quite so dreadful
now. Good night, Anne."

"Good night, dear."

Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had changed
something for her. Life held a different meaning, a deeper purpose.
On the surface it would go on just the same; but the deeps had been
stirred. It must not be with her as with poor butterfly Ruby. When she
came to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the
shrinking terror of something wholly different--something for which
accustomed thought and ideal and aspiration had unfitted her. The little
things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the
things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of
heaven must be begun here on earth.

That good night in the garden was for all time. Anne never saw Ruby in
life again. The next night the A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party to Jane
Andrews before her departure for the West. And, while light feet danced
and bright eyes laughed and merry tongues chattered, there came a
summons to a soul in Avonlea that might not be disregarded or evaded.
The next morning the word went from house to house that Ruby Gillis was
dead. She had died in her sleep, painlessly and calmly, and on her face
was a smile--as if, after all, death had come as a kindly friend to lead
her over the threshold, instead of the grisly phantom she had dreaded.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde said emphatically after the funeral that Ruby Gillis
was the handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. Her loveliness, as she
lay, white-clad, among the delicate flowers that Anne had placed about
her, was remembered and talked of for years in Avonlea. Ruby had always
been beautiful; but her beauty had been of the earth, earthy; it had
had a certain insolent quality in it, as if it flaunted itself in the
beholder's eye; spirit had never shone through it, intellect had never
refined it. But death had touched it and consecrated it, bringing out
delicate modelings and purity of outline never seen before--doing what
life and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have
done for Ruby. Anne, looking down through a mist of tears, at her old
playfellow, thought she saw the face