ew any more that day. 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. Joy and grief, birth and
death, had made sacred forever this little house of dreams.

And now she must leave it. She knew that, even while she had contended
against the idea to Gilbert. The little house was outgrown. Gilbert's
interests made the change necessary; his work, successful though it had
been, was hampered by his location. Anne realised that the end of
their life in this dear place drew nigh, and that she must face the
fact bravely. But how her heart ached!

"It will be just like tearing something out of my life," she sobbed.
"And oh, if I could hope that some nice folk would come here in our
place--or even that it would be left vacant. That itself would be
better than having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of the
geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history that has given this
house its soul and its identity. And if such a tribe come here the
place will go to rack and ruin in no time--an old place goes down so
quickly if it is not carefully attended to. They'll tear up my
garden--and let the Lombardies get ragged--and the paling will come to
look like a mouth with ha