I cannot help feeling that she might be far more unhappy than to be made ready to take up my work here in Oldfields when I have to lay it down.  She will need a good anchor now and then.  Only this summer she had a bad day of it that made me feel at my wits’ end.  She was angry with one of the children at school, and afterward with Marilla because she scolded her for not keeping better account of the family times and seasons, and ran away in the afternoon, if you please, and was not heard from until next morning at breakfast time.  She went to the old place and wandered about the fields as she used, and crept into some shelter or other.  I dare say that she climbed in at one of the windows of the house, though I could not make quite sure without asking more questions than I thought worth while.  She came stealing in early in the morning, looking a little pale and wild, but she hasn’t played such a prank since.  I had a call to the next town and Marilla had evidently been awake all night.  I got home early in the morning myself, and was told that it was supposed I had picked up Nan on the road and carried her with me, so the blame was all ready for my shoulders unless we had both happened to see the young culprit strolling in at the gate.  I was glad she had punished herself, so that there was no need of my doing it, though I had a talk with her a day or two afterward, when we were both in our right minds.  She is a good child enough.”

“I dare say,” remarked Mrs. Graham drily, “but it seems to me that neither of you took Marilla sufficiently into account.  That must have been the evening that the poor soul went to nearly every house in town to ask if there were any stray company to tea.  Some of us could not help wondering where the young person was finally discovered.  She has a great fancy for the society of Miss Betsy Milman and Sally Turner at present, and I quite sympathize with her.  I often look over there and see the end of their house with that one little square window in the very peak of it spying up the street, and wish I could pay them a visit myself and hear a bit of their wise gossip.  I quite envy Nan her chance of going in and being half forgotten as she sits in one of their short chairs listening and watching.  They used to be great friends of her grandmother’s.  Oh no; if I could go to see them they would insist upon my going into the best room, and we should all be quite uncomfortable.  It is much better to sit here and think about them and hear their flat-irons creak away over the little boys’ jackets and trousers.”

“I must confess that I have my own clothes mended there to this day,” said the doctor.  “Marilla says their mending is not what it used to be, too, but it is quite good enough.  As for that little window, I hardly ever see it without remembering the day of your aunt Margaret’s funeral.  I was only a boy and not deeply afflicted, but of course I had my place in the procession and was counted among