Anne was laughing by this time.  Priscilla’s gay chatter had the intended effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the time being, and did not even return in full force when she finally found herself alone in her little bedroom.  She went to her window and looked out.  The street below was dim and quiet.  Across it the moon was shining above the trees in Old St. John’s, just behind the great dark head of the lion on the monument.  Anne wondered if it could have been only that morning that she had left Green Gables.  She had the sense of a long passage of time which one day of change and travel gives.

“I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now,” she mused.  “But I won’t think about it—­that way homesickness lies.  I’m not even going to have my good cry.  I’ll put that off to a more convenient season, and just now I’ll go calmly and sensibly to bed and to sleep.”

Chapter IV

April’s Lady

Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial days, and wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame in garments fashioned like those of her youth.  Here and there it sprouts out into modernity, but at heart it is still unspoiled; it is full of curious relics, and haloed by the romance of many legends of the past.  Once it was a mere frontier station on the fringe of the wilderness, and those were the days when Indians kept life from being monotonous to the settlers.  Then it grew to be a bone of contention between the British and the French, being occupied now by the one and now by the other, emerging from each occupation with some fresh scar of battling nations branded on it.

It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over by tourists, a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond the town, and several antiquated cannon in its public squares.  It has other historic spots also, which may be hunted out by the curious, and none is more quaint and delightful than Old St. John’s Cemetery at the very core of the town, with streets of quiet, old-time houses on two sides, and busy, bustling, modern thoroughfares on the others.  Every citizen of Kingsport feels a thrill of possessive pride in Old St. John’s, for, if he be of any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with a queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively over the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are recorded.  For the most part no great art or skill was lavished on those old tombstones.  The larger number are of roughly chiselled brown or gray native stone, and only in a few cases is there any attempt at ornamentation.  Some are adorned with skull and cross-bones, and this grizzly decoration is frequently coupled with a cherub’s head.  Many are prostrate and in ruins.  Into almost all Time’s tooth has been gnawing, until some inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can only be deciphered with difficulty.  The graveyard is very full and very bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly, forever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite undisturbed by the clamor of traffic just beyond.