Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial days, and wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame in garments fashioned like those of her youth.

Here and there it sprouts out into modernity, but at heart it is still unspoiled;

it is full of curious relics, and haloed by the romance of many legends of the past.

Once it was a mere frontier station on the fringe of the wilderness, and those were the days when Indians kept life from being monotonous to the settlers.

Then it grew to be a bone of contention between the British and the French, being occupied now by the one and now by the other, emerging from each occupation with some fresh scar of battling nations branded on it.

 It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over by tourists, a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond the town, and several antiquated cannon in its public squares.

It has other historic spots also, which may be hunted out by the curious, and none is more quaint and delightful than Old St. John’s Cemetery at the very core of the town, with streets of quiet, old-time houses on two sides, and busy, bustling, modern thoroughfares on the others.

Every citizen of Kingsport feels a thrill of possessive pride in Old St. John’s, for, if he be of any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with a queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively over the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are recorded.

For the most part no great art or skill was lavished on those old tombstones.

The larger number are of roughly chiselled brown or gray native stone, and only in a few cases is there any attempt at ornamentation.

Some are adorned with skull and cross-bones, and this grizzly decoration is frequently coupled with a cherub’s head.

Many are prostrate and in ruins.

Into almost all Time’s tooth has been gnawing, until some inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can only be deciphered with difficulty.

The graveyard is very full and very bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly, forever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite undisturbed by the clamor of traffic just beyond.

 Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John’s the next afternoon.

She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and registered as students, after which there was nothing more to do that day.

The girls gladly made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to be surrounded by crowds of strangers, most of whom had a rather alien appearance, as if not quite sure where they belonged.

 The “freshettes” stood about in detached groups of two or three, looking askance at each other;

the “freshies,” wiser in their day and generation, had banded themselves together on the big staircase of the entrance hall, where they were shouting out glees with all the vigor of youthful lungs, as a species of defiance to their traditional enemies, the Sophomores, a few of whom were prowling loftily about, looking properly disdainful of the “unlicked cubs” on the stairs.

Gilbert and Charlie were nowhere to be seen.

 “Little did I think the day would ever come when I’d be glad of the sight of a Sloane,” said Priscilla, as they crossed the campus, “but I’d welcome Charlie’s goggle eyes almost ecstatically.

At least, they’d be familiar eyes.”

 “Oh,” sighed Anne.

“I can’t describe how I felt when I was standing there, waiting my turn to be registered—as insignificant as the teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket.

It’s bad enough to feel insignificant, but it’s unbearable to have it grained into your soul that you will never, can never, be anything but insignificant, and that is how I did feel—as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of those Sophs might step on me.

I knew I would go down to my grave unwept, unhonored and unsung.”

 “Wait till next year,” comforted Priscilla.

“Then we’ll be able to look as bored and sophisticated as any Sophomore of them all.

No doubt it is rather dreadful to feel insignificant;

but I think it’s better than to feel as big and awkward as I did—as if I were sprawled all over Redmond.

That’s how I felt—I suppose because I was a good two inches taller than any one else in the crowd.

I wasn’t afraid a Soph might walk over me;

I was afraid they’d take me for an elephant, or an overgrown sample of a potato-fed Islander.”

 “I suppose the trouble is we can’t forgive big Redmond for not being little Queen’s,” said Anne, gathering about her the shreds of her old cheerful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit.

“When we left Queen’s we knew everybody and had a place of our own.

I suppose we have been unconsciously expecting to take life up at Redmond just where we left off at Queen’s, and now we feel as if the ground had slipped from under our feet.

I’m thankful that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha Wright know, or ever will know, my state of mind at present.

They would exult in saying ‘I told you so,’ and be convinced it was the beginning of the end.

Whereas it is just the end of the beginning.”

 “Exactly. That sounds more Anneish.

In a little while we’ll be acclimated and acquainted, and all will be well.

Anne, did you notice the girl who stood alone just outside the door of the coeds’ dressing room all the morning—the pretty one with the brown eyes and crooked mouth?”

 “Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the only creature there who looked as lonely and friendless as I felt.

I had you, but she had no one.”

 “I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too.

Several times I saw her make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never did it—too shy, I suppose.

I wished she would come.

If I hadn’t felt so much like the aforesaid elephant I’d have gone to her.

But I couldn’t lumber across that big hall with all those boys howling on the stairs.

She was the prettiest freshette I saw today, but probably favor is deceitful and even beauty is vain on your first day at Redmond,” concluded Priscilla with a laugh.

 “I’m going across to Old St. John’s after lunch,” said Anne.

“I don’t know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get cheered up, but it seems the only get-at-able place where there are trees, and trees I must have.

I’ll sit on one of those old slabs and shut my eyes and imagine I’m in the Avonlea woods.”

 Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest in Old St. John’s to keep her eyes wide open.

They went in by the entrance gates, past the simple, massive, stone arch surmounted by the great lion of England.

 “‘And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,’”

 quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill.

They found themselves in a dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring.

Up and down the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the quaint, voluminous epitaphs, carved in an age that had more leisure than our own.

 “‘Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,’” read Anne from a worn, gray slab, “‘for many years Keeper of His Majesty’s Ordnance at Kingsport.

He served in the army till the peace of 1763, when he retired from bad health.

He was a brave officer, the best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of friends.

He died October 29th, 1792, aged 84 years.’

There’s an epitaph for you, Prissy.

There is certainly some ‘scope for imagination’ in it.

How full such a life must have been of adventure!

And as for his personal qualities, I’m sure human eulogy couldn’t go further.

I wonder if they told him he was all those best things while he was alive.”

 “Here’s another,” said Priscilla.

“Listen—

 ‘To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September, 1840, aged 43 years.

This is raised as a tribute of affection by one whom he served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a friend, deserving the fullest confidence and attachment.’”

 “A very good epitaph,” commented Anne thoughtfully.

“I wouldn’t wish a better.

We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact that we are faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones nothing more need be added.

Here’s a sorrowful little gray stone, Prissy—‘to the memory of a favorite child.’

And here is another ‘erected to the memory of one who is buried elsewhere.’ I wonder where that unknown grave is.

Really, Pris, the graveyards of today will never be as interesting as this.

You were right—I shall come here often.

I love it already.

I see we’re not alone here—there’s a girl down at the end of this avenue.”

 “Yes, and I believe it’s the very girl we saw at Redmond this morning.

I’ve been watching her for five minutes.

She has started to come up the avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times has she turned and gone back.

Either she’s dreadfully shy or she has got something on her conscience.

Let’s go and meet her.

It’s easier to get acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe.”

 They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger, who was sitting on a gray slab under an enormous willow.

She was certainly very pretty, with a vivid, irregular, bewitching type of prettiness.

There was a gloss as of brown nuts on her satin-smooth hair and a soft, ripe glow on her round cheeks.

Her eyes were big and brown and velvety, under oddly-pointed black brows, and her crooked mouth was rose-red.

She wore a smart brown suit, with two very modish little shoes peeping from beneath it;

and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed with golden-brown poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable air which pertains to the “creation” of an artist in millinery.

Priscilla had a sudden stinging consciousness that her own hat had been trimmed by her village store milliner, and Anne wondered uncomfortably if the blouse she had made herself, and which Mrs. Lynde had fitted, looked very countrified and home-made besides the stranger’s smart attire.

For a moment both girls felt like turning back.

 But they had already stopped and turned towards the gray slab.

It was too late to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently concluded that they were coming to speak to her.

Instantly she sprang up and came forward with outstretched hand and a gay, friendly smile in which there seemed not a shadow of either shyness or burdened conscience.

 “Oh, I want to know who you two girls are,” she exclaimed eagerly.

“I’ve been dying to know.

I saw you at Redmond this morning.

Say, wasn’t it awful there?

For the time I wished I had stayed home and got married.”

 Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this unexpected conclusion.

The brown-eyed girl laughed, too.

 “I really did. I could have, you know.

Come, let’s all sit down on this gravestone and get acquainted.

It won’t be hard.

I know we’re going to adore each other—I knew it as soon as I saw you at Redmond this morning.

I wanted so much to go right over and hug you both.”

 “Why didn’t you?” asked Priscilla.

 “Because I simply couldn’t make up my mind to do it.

I never can make up my mind about anything myself—I’m always afflicted with indecision.

Just as soon as I decide to do something I feel in my bones that another course would be the correct one.

It’s a dreadful misfortune, but I was born that way, and there is no use in blaming me for it, as some people do.

So I couldn’t make up my mind to go and speak to you, much as I wanted to.”

 “We thought you were too shy,” said Anne.

 “No, no, dear. Shyness isn’t among the many failings—or virtues—of Philippa Gordon—Phil for short.

Do call me Phil right off.

Now, what are your handles?”

 “She’s Priscilla Grant,” said Anne, pointing.

 “And she’s Anne Shirley,” said Priscilla, pointing in turn.

 “And we’re from the Island,” said both together.

 “I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia,” said Philippa.

 “Bolingbroke!” exclaimed Anne.

“Why, that is where I was born.”

 “Do you really mean it?

Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all.”

 “No, it doesn’t,” retorted Anne.

“Wasn’t it Dan O’Connell who said that if a man was born in a stable it didn’t make him a horse?

I’m Island to the core.”

 “Well, I’m glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway.

It makes us kind of neighbors, doesn’t it?

And I like that, because when I tell you secrets it won’t be as if I were telling them to a stranger.

I have to tell them.

I can’t keep secrets—it’s no use to try.

That’s my worst failing—that, and indecision, as aforesaid.

Would you believe it?—it took me half an hour to decide which hat to wear when I was coming here—here, to a graveyard!

At first I inclined to my brown one with the feather;

but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with the floppy brim would be more becoming.

When I got it pinned in place I liked the brown one better.

At last I put them close together on the bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin.

The pin speared the pink one, so I put it on.

It is becoming, isn’t it?

Tell me, what do you think of my looks?”

 At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla laughed again.

But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa’s hand,

 “We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw at Redmond.”

 Philippa’s crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile over very white little teeth.

 “I thought that myself,” was her next astounding statement, “but I wanted some one else’s opinion to bolster mine up.

I can’t decide even on my own appearance.

Just as soon as I’ve decided that I’m pretty I begin to feel miserably that I’m not.

Besides, have a horrible old great-aunt who is always saying to me, with a mournful sigh, ‘You were such a pretty baby.

It’s strange how children change when they grow up.’

I adore aunts, but I detest great-aunts.

Please tell me quite often that I am pretty, if you don’t mind.

I feel so much more comfortable when I can believe I’m pretty.

And I’ll be just as obliging to you if you want me to—I can be, with a clear conscience.”

 “Thanks,” laughed Anne, “but Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced of our own good looks that we don’t need any assurance about them, so you needn’t trouble.”

 “Oh, you’re laughing at me.

I know you think I’m abominably vain, but I’m not.

There really isn’t one spark of vanity in me.

And I’m never a bit grudging about paying compliments to other girls when they deserve them.

I’m so glad I know you folks.

I came up on Saturday and I’ve nearly died of homesickness ever since.

It’s a horrible feeling, isn’t it?

In Bolingbroke I’m an important personage, and in Kingsport I’m just nobody!

There were times when I could feel my soul turning a delicate blue.

Where do you hang out?”

 “Thirty-eight St. John’s Street.”

 “Better and better.

Why, I’m just around the corner on Wallace Street.

I don’t like my boardinghouse, though.

It’s bleak and lonesome, and my room looks out on such an unholy back yard.

It’s the ugliest place in the world.

As for cats—well, surely all the Kingsport cats can’t congregate there at night, but half of them must.

I adore cats on hearth rugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires, but cats in back yards at midnight are totally different animals.

The first night I was here I cried all night, and so did the cats.

You should have seen my nose in the morning.

How I wished I had never left home!”

 “I don’t know how you managed to make up your mind to come to Redmond at all, if you are really such an undecided person,” said amused Priscilla.

 “Bless your heart, honey, I didn’t.

It was father who wanted me to come here.

His heart was set on it—why, I don’t know.

It seems perfectly ridiculous to think of me studying for a B.A. degree, doesn’t it?

Not but what I can do it, all right.

I have heaps of brains.”

 “Oh!” said Priscilla vaguely.

 “Yes. But it’s such hard work to use them.

And B.A.’s are such learned, dignified, wise, solemn creatures—they must be.

No, I didn’t want to come to Redmond.

I did it just to oblige father.

He is such a duck.

Besides, I knew if I stayed home I’d have to get married.

Mother wanted that—wanted it decidedly.

Mother has plenty of decision.

But I really hated the thought of being married for a few years yet.

I want to have heaps of fun before I settle down.

And, ridiculous as the idea of my being a B.A. is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still more absurd, isn’t it?

I’m only eighteen.

No, I concluded I would rather come to Redmond than be married.

Besides, how could I ever have made up my mind which man to marry?”

 “Were there so many?” laughed Anne.

 “Heaps. The boys like me awfully—they really do.

But there were only two that mattered.

The rest were all too young and too poor.

I must marry a rich man, you know.”

 “Why must you?”

 “Honey, you couldn’t imagine me being a poor man’s wife, could you?

I can’t do a single useful thing, and I am very extravagant.

Oh, no, my husband must have heaps of money.

So that narrowed them down to two.

But I couldn’t decide between two any easier than between two hundred.

I knew perfectly well that whichever one I chose I’d regret all my life that I hadn’t married the other.”

 “Didn’t you—love—either of them?” asked Anne, a little hesitatingly.

It was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the great mystery and transformation of life.

 “Goodness, no. I couldn’t love anybody. It isn’t in me.

Besides I wouldn’t want to.

Being in love makes you a perfect slave, I think.

And it would give a man such power to hurt you.

I’d be afraid.

No, no, Alec and Alonzo are two dear boys, and I like them both so much that I really don’t know which I like the better.

That is the trouble.

Alec is the best looking, of course, and I simply couldn’t marry a man who wasn’t handsome.

He is good-tempered too, and has lovely, curly, black hair.

He’s rather too perfect—I don’t believe I’d like a perfect husband—somebody I could never find fault with.”

 “Then why not marry Alonzo?”

asked Priscilla gravely.

 “Think of marrying a name like Alonzo!” said Phil dolefully.

“I don’t believe I could endure it.

But he has a classic nose, and it would be a comfort to have a nose in the family that could be depended on.

I can’t depend on mine.

So far, it takes after the Gordon pattern, but I’m so afraid it will develop Byrne tendencies as I grow older.

I examine it every day anxiously to make sure it’s still Gordon.

Mother was a Byrne and has the Byrne nose in the Byrnest degree.

Wait till you see it.

I adore nice noses.

Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley.

Alonzo’s nose nearly turned the balance in his favor.

But Alonzo! No, I couldn’t decide.

If I could have done as I did with the hats—stood them both up together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hatpin—it would have been quite easy.”

 “What did Alec and Alonzo feel like when you came away?”

queried Priscilla.

 “Oh, they still have hope.

I told them they’d have to wait till I could make up my mind.

They’re quite willing to wait.

They both worship me, you know.

Meanwhile, I intend to have a good time.

I expect I shall have heaps of beaux at Redmond.

I can’t be happy unless I have, you know.

But don’t you think the freshmen are fearfully homely?

I saw only one really handsome fellow among them.

He went away before you came.

I heard his chum call him Gilbert.

His chum had eyes that stuck out that far.

But you’re not going yet, girls?

Don’t go yet.”

 “I think we must,” said Anne, rather coldly.

“It’s getting late, and I’ve some work to do.”

 “But you’ll both come to see me, won’t you?” asked Philippa, getting up and putting an arm around each.

“And let me come to see you.

I want to be chummy with you.

I’ve taken such a fancy to you both.

And I haven’t quite disgusted you with my frivolity, have I?”

 “Not quite,” laughed Anne, responding to Phil’s squeeze, with a return of cordiality.

 “Because I’m not half so silly as I seem on the surface, you know.

You just accept Philippa Gordon, as the Lord made her, with all her faults, and I believe you’ll come to like her.

Isn’t this graveyard a sweet place?

I’d love to be buried here.

Here’s a grave I didn’t see before—this one in the iron railing—oh, girls, look, see—the stone says it’s the grave of a middy who was killed in the fight between the Shannon and the Chesapeake.

Just fancy!”

 Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses thrilling with sudden excitement.

The old graveyard, with its over-arching trees and long aisles of shadows, faded from her sight.

Instead, she saw the Kingsport Harbor of nearly a century agone.

Out of the mist came slowly a great frigate, brilliant with “the meteor flag of England.”

Behind her was another, with a still, heroic form, wrapped in his own starry flag, lying on the quarter deck—the gallant Lawrence.

Time’s finger had turned back his pages, and that was the Shannon sailing triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize.

 “Come back, Anne Shirley—come back,” laughed Philippa, pulling her arm.

“You’re a hundred years away from us. Come back.”

 Anne came back with a sigh;

her eyes were shining softly.

 “I’ve always loved that old story,” she said, “and although the English won that victory, I think it was because of the brave, defeated commander I love it.

This grave seems to bring it so near and make it so real.

This poor little middy was only eighteen.

He ‘died of desperate wounds received in gallant action’—so reads his epitaph.

It is such as a soldier might wish for.”

 Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of purple pansies she wore and dropped it softly on the grave of the boy who had perished in the great sea-duel.

 “Well, what do you think of our new friend?” asked Priscilla, when Phil had left them.

 “I like her. There is something very lovable about her, in spite of all her nonsense.

I believe, as she says herself, that she isn’t half as silly as she sounds.

She’s a dear, kissable baby—and I don’t know that she’ll ever really grow up.”

 “I like her, too,” said Priscilla, decidedly.

“She talks as much about boys as Ruby Gillis does.

But it always enrages or sickens me to hear Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at Phil.

Now, what is the why of that?”

 “There is a difference,” said Anne meditatively.

“I think it’s because Ruby is really so conscious of boys.

She plays at love and love-making. Besides, you feel, when she is boasting of her beaux that she is doing it to rub it well into you that you haven’t half so many.

Now, when Phil talks of her beaux it sounds as if she was just speaking of chums.

She really looks upon boys as good comrades, and she is pleased when she has dozens of them tagging round, simply because she likes to be popular and to be thought popular.

Even Alex and Alonzo—I’ll never be able to think of those two names separately after this—are to her just two playfellows who want her to play with them all their lives.

I’m glad we met her, and I’m glad we went to Old St. John’s. I believe I’ve put forth a tiny soul-root into Kingsport soil this afternoon.

I hope so. I hate to feel transplanted.”