With tear-wet eyes she wandered over
the little domain where she had reigned so happy a
queen. The Morgan place was all that Gilbert claimed.
The grounds were beautiful, the house old enough to
have dignity and repose and traditions, and new enough
to be comfortable and up-to-date. Anne had always
admired it; but admiring is not loving; and she loved
this house of dreams so much. She loved EVERYTHING
about it--the garden she had tended, and which so many
women had tended before her--the gleam and sparkle of
the little brook that crept so roguishly across the
corner--the gate between the creaking fir trees--the
old red sandstone step--the stately Lombardies-- the
two tiny quaint glass cupboards over the chimney- piece
in the living-room--the crooked pantry door in the
kitchen-- the two funny dormer windows upstairs--the
little jog in the staircase-- why, these things were a
part of her! How could she leave them?
And how this little house, consecrated aforetime by
love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her
happiness and sorrow! Here she had spent her bridal
moon; here wee Joyce had lived her one brief day; here
the sweetness of motherhood had come again with Little
Jem; here she had heard the exquisite music of her
baby's cooing laughter; here beloved friends had sat by
her fireside.
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