ries of youth and
of long-dead friends belonging to the dear lady's own girlhood were
poured into Nan's delighted ears! She came in time to know Mrs.
Graham's own immediate ancestors, and the various members of her
family with their fates and fortunes, as if she were a contemporary,
and was like another grandchild who was a neighbor and beloved crony,
which real blessing none of the true grandchildren had ever been lucky
enough to possess. She formed a welcome link with the outer world, did
little Nan, and from being a cheerful errand-runner, came at last to
paying friendly visits in the neighborhood to carry Mrs. Graham's
messages and assurances. And from all these daily suggestions of
courtesy and of good taste and high breeding, and helpful fellowship
with good books, and the characters in their stories which were often
more real and dear and treasured in her thoughts than her actual
fellow townsfolk, Nan drew much pleasure and not a little wisdom; at
any rate a direction for which she would all her life be thankful. It
would have been surprising if her presence in the doctor's house had
not after some time made changes in it, but there was no great
difference outwardly except that she gathered some trifling
possessions which sometimes harmonized, and as often did not, with the
household gods of the doctor and Marilla. There was a shy sort of
intercourse between Nan and Mrs. Graham's grandchildren, but it was
not very valuable to any of the young people at first, the country
child being too old and full of experience to fellowship with the
youngest, and too unversed in the familiar machinery of their social
life to feel much kinship with the eldest.

It was during one of these early summer visits, and directly after a
tea-party which Marilla had proudly projected on Nan's account, that
Dr. Leslie suddenly announced that he meant to go to Boston for a few
days and should take Nan with him. This event had long been promised,
but had seemed at length like the promise of happiness in a future
world, reasonably certain, but a little vague and distant. It was a
more important thing than anybody understood, for a dear and familiar
chapter of life was ended when the expectant pair drove out of the
village on their way to the far-off railway station, as another had
been closed when the door of the Thacher farm-house had been shut and
padlocked, and Nan had gone home one snowy night to live with the
doctor. The weather at any