ing to belong to a
society with such an aim in view.

"I thought of something last night that we could do, Anne. You know
that three-cornered piece of ground where the roads from Carmody and
Newbridge and White Sands meet? It's all grown over with young spruce;
but wouldn't it be nice to have them all cleared out, and just leave the
two or three birch trees that are on it?"

"Splendid," agreed Anne gaily. "And have a rustic seat put under the
birches. And when spring comes we'll have a flower-bed made in the
middle of it and plant geraniums."

"Yes; only we'll have to devise some way of getting old Mrs. Hiram
Sloane to keep her cow off the road, or she'll eat our geraniums
up," laughed Diana. "I begin to see what you mean by educating public
sentiment, Anne. There's the old Boulter house now. Did you ever see
such a rookery? And perched right close to the road too. An old house
with its windows gone always makes me think of something dead with its
eyes picked out."

"I think an old, deserted house is such a sad sight," said Anne
dreamily. "It always seems to me to be thinking about its past and
mourning for its old-time joys. Marilla says that a large family was
raised in that old house long ago, and that it was a real pretty place,
with a lovely garden and roses climbing all over it. It was full of
little children and laughter and songs; and now it is empty, and nothing
ever wanders through it but the wind. How lonely and sorrowful it must
feel! Perhaps they all come back on moonlit nights . . . the ghosts of the
little children of long ago and the roses and the songs . . . and for a
little while the old house can dream it is young and joyous again."

Diana shook her head.

"I never imagine things like that about places now, Anne. Don't you
remember how cross mother and Marilla were when we imagined ghosts into
the Haunted Wood? To this day I can't go through that bush comfortably
after dark; and if I began imagining such things about the old Boulter
house I'd be frightened to pass it too. Besides, those children aren't
dead. They're all grown up and doing well . . . and one of them is a
butcher. And flowers and songs couldn't have ghosts anyhow."

Anne smothered a little sigh. She loved Diana dearly and they had always
been good comrades. But she had long ago learned that when she wandered
into the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was by an
enchanted path where not even her dearest might follow