Аня с острова Принца Эдуарда

Roses of Yesterday

           Imindhearingfolkssaywhentheywasmarriedthatthereneverwastwopeoplemoreinlovewitheachother—Porecreatures,theydidn’tlivemuchlonger;buttheywasawfulhappywhiletheywasalive,andIs’posethatcountsforagooddeal.”

           Annelongedtogethometoreadherpreciousletters;butshemadeonelittlepilgrimagefirst.Shewentalonetothegreencornerofthe“old”Bolingbrokecemeterywhereherfatherandmotherwereburied,andleftontheirgravethewhiteflowersshecarried.ThenshehastenedbacktoMountHolly,shutherselfupinherroom,andreadtheletters.Somewerewrittenbyherfather,somebyhermother.Therewerenotmany—onlyadozeninall—forWalterandBerthaShirleyhadnotbeenoftenseparatedduringtheircourtship.Theletterswereyellowandfadedanddim,blurredwiththetouchofpassingyears.Noprofoundwordsofwisdomweretracedonthestainedandwrinkledpages,butonlylinesofloveandtrust.Thesweetnessofforgottenthingsclungtothem—thefar-off,fondimaginingsofthoselong-deadlovers.BerthaShirleyhadpossessedthegiftofwritingletterswhichembodiedthecharmingpersonalityofthewriterinwordsandthoughtsthatretainedtheirbeautyandfragranceafterthelapseoftime.Thelettersweretender,intimate,sacred.ToAnne,thesweetestofallwastheonewrittenafterherbirthtothefatheronabriefabsence.Itwasfullofaproudyoungmother’saccountsof“baby”—hercleverness,herbrightness,herthousandsweetnesses

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