The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred—just as round, just as red. Anne
really could not say conscientiously that she thought him beautiful, but she
vowed sincerely that he was sweet and kissable and altogether delightful.
“Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE,” said Diana.
“But now that little Fred is here I wouldn’t exchange him for a million girls. He
just COULDN’T have been anything but his own precious self.”
“‘Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,’” quoted Mrs. Allan gaily. “If
little Anne HAD come you’d have felt just the same about her.”
Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving it. She was
as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her old girl friends had welcomed her
back rapturously. The reigning minister’s wife was an estimable lady, but she
was not exactly a kindred spirit.
“I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk,” sighed Diana. “I just long to
hear him say ‘mother.’ And oh, I’m determined that his first memory of me shall
be a nice one. The first memory I have of my mother is of her slapping me for
something I had done. I am sure I deserved it, and mother was always a good
mother and I love her dearly. But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer.”
“I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of all my
memories,” said Mrs. Allan. “I was five years old, and I had been allowed to go
to school one day with my two older sisters. When school came out my sisters
went home in different groups, each supposing I was with the other. Instead I
had run off with a little girl I had played with at recess. We went to her home,
which was near the school, and began making mud pies. We were having a
glorious time when my older sister arrived, breathless and angry.
“‘You naughty girl” she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and dragging me
along with her. ‘Come home this minute. Oh, you’re going to catch it! Mother is
awful cross. She is going to give you a good whipping.’
“I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor little heart. I have
never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk home. I had not meant
to be naughty. Phemy Cameron had asked me to go home with her and I had not
known it was wrong to go. And now I was to be whipped for it. When we got
home my sister dragged me into the kitchen where mother was sitting by the fire
in the twilight. My poor wee legs were trembling so that I could hardly stand.
And mother—mother just took me up in her arms, without one word of rebuke
or harshness, kissed me and held me close to her heart. ‘I was so frightened you
were lost, darling,’ she said tenderly. I could see the love shining in her eyes as
she looked down on me. She never scolded or reproached me for what I had