You tell her just to
think of her baby."
Gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. Anne, her
pale face blanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes
aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, did not need
to be told to think of her baby. She thought of
nothing else. For a few hours she tasted of happiness
so rare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels
in heaven did not envy her.
"Little Joyce," she murmured, when Marilla came in to
see the baby. "We planned to call her that if she were
a girlie. There were so many we would have liked to
name her for; we couldn't choose between them, so we
decided on Joyce--we can call her Joy for
short--Joy--it suits so well. Oh, Marilla, I thought I
was happy before. Now I know that I just dreamed a
pleasant dream of happiness. THIS is the reality."
"You mustn't talk, Anne--wait till you're stronger,"
said Marilla warningly.
"You know how hard it is for me NOT to talk," smiled
Anne.
At first she was too weak and too happy to notice that
Gilbert and the nurse looked grave and Marilla
sorrowful.
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