God's in His heaven, alls right with the world', whispered Anne softly.

Perhaps. . .love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.

Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer, and this is their heaven.

It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

But I'd rather look like you than be pretty," she told Anne sincerely. Anne laughed, sipped honey from the tribute, and cast away the sting.

I have learned to look upon each little hindrance as a jest and each great one as a foreshadowing of victory.

I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure.