done—only told me I must never go away again without asking permission. She
died very soon afterwards. That is the only memory I have of her. Isn’t it a
beautiful one?”
Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of the Birch
Path and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons. It was a
darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was heavy with blossom fragrance—almost
too heavy. The cloyed senses recoiled from it as from an overfull cup. The
birches of the path had grown from the fairy saplings of old to big trees.
Everything had changed. Anne felt that she would be glad when the summer was
over and she was away at work again. Perhaps life would not seem so empty
then.