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.'"