octor told himself. "I am
afraid I have forgotten the child somewhat in past years, and she is a
bright little creature."

"Have you been taking good care of yourself?" he added aloud. "I was
very tired, for I was out twice in the night taking care of sick
people. But you must come to see me again some day. I dare say you and
Marilla have made friends with each other. Now we must go, I suppose,"
and Nan Prince, still silent,--for the pleasure of this time was
almost too great,--took hold of the doctor's outstretched hand, and
they went slowly up the garden walk together. As they drove slowly
down the street they met the people who were coming from church, and
the child sat up very straight in the old gig, with her feet on the
doctor's medicine-box, and was sure that everybody must be envying
her. She thought it was more pleasant than ever that afternoon, as
they passed through the open country outside the village; the fields
and the trees were marvelously green, and the distant river was
shining in the sun. Nan looked anxiously for the gray farmhouse for
two or three minutes before they came in sight of it, but at last it
showed itself, standing firm on the hillside. It seemed a long time
since she had left home in the morning, but this beautiful day was to
be one of the landmarks of her memory. Life had suddenly grown much
larger, and her familiar horizon had vanished and she discovered a
great distance stretching far beyond the old limits. She went gravely
into the familiar kitchen, holding fast the bits of box and the
periwinkle flowers, quite ready to answer her grandmother's questions,
though she was only too certain that it would be impossible to tell
any one the whole dear story of that June Sunday.

A little later, as Marilla came sedately home, she noticed in the
driveway some fresh hoofmarks which pointed toward the street, and
quickly assured herself that they could not have been made very long
before. "I wonder what the two of 'em have been doing all the
afternoon?" she said to herself. "She's a little lady, that child is;
and it's a burnin' shame she should be left to run wild. I never set
so much by her mother's looks as some did, but growin' things has
blooms as much as they have roots and prickles--and even them Thachers
will flower out once in a while."

VI

IN SUMMER WEATHER

One morning Dr. Leslie remembered an old patient whom he liked to go
to see now and then, perhaps more from the c