some for Matthew's grave. He was always so fond of June
lilies."

"I kind of miss them myself," admitted Marilla, "though it doesn't seem
right to lament over them when so many worse things have happened. . .
all the crops destroyed as well as the fruit."

"But people have sown their oats over again," said Anne comfortingly,
"and Mr. Harrison says he thinks if we have a good summer they will come
out all right though late. And my annuals are all coming up again . . .
but oh, nothing can replace the June lilies. Poor little Hester Gray
will have none either. I went all the way back to her garden last night
but there wasn't one. I'm sure she'll miss them."

"I don't think it's right for you to say such things, Anne, I really
don't," said Marilla severely. "Hester Gray has been dead for thirty
years and her spirit is in heaven . . . I hope."

"Yes, but I believe she loves and remembers her garden here still," said
Anne. "I'm sure no matter how long I'd lived in heaven I'd like to look
down and see somebody putting flowers on my grave. If I had had a garden
here like Hester Gray's it would take me more than thirty years, even in
heaven, to forget being homesick for it by spells."

"Well, don't let the twins hear you talking like that," was Marilla's
feeble protest, as she carried her chicken into the house.

Anne pinned her narcissi on her hair and went to the lane gate, where
she stood for awhile sunning herself in the June brightness before
going in to attend to her Saturday morning duties. The world was growing
lovely again; old Mother Nature was doing her best to remove the traces
of the storm, and, though she was not to succeed fully for many a moon,
she was really accomplishing wonders.

"I wish I could just be idle all day today," Anne told a bluebird, who
was singing and swinging on a willow bough, "but a schoolma'am, who is
also helping to bring up twins, can't indulge in laziness, birdie. How
sweet you are singing, little bird. You are just putting the feelings of
my heart into song ever so much better than I could myself. Why, who is
coming?"

An express wagon was jolting up the lane, with two people on the front
seat and a big trunk behind. When it drew near Anne recognized the
driver as the son of the station agent at Bright River; but his
companion was a stranger . . . a scrap of a woman who sprang nimbly down
at the gate almost before the horse came to a standstill. She was a very
pretty little pers