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Anne had gathered them and brought them to him, her anguished, tearless eyes burning in her white face.

It was the last thing she could do for him.

The Barrys and Mrs. Lynde stayed with them that night. Diana, going to the east gable, where Anne was standing at her window, said gently:

"Anne dear, would you like to have me sleep with you tonight?"

"Thank you, Diana." Anne looked earnestly into her friend's face.

"I think you won't misunderstand me when I say I want to be alone.

I'm not afraid.

I haven't been alone one minute since it happened-and I want to be.

I want to be quite silent and quiet and try to realize it.

I can't realize it.

Half the time it seems to me that Matthew can't be dead; and the other half it seems as if he must have been dead for a long time and I've had this horrible dull ache ever since."

Diana did not quite understand. Marilla's impassioned grief, breaking all the bounds of natural reserve and lifelong habit in its stormy rush, she could comprehend better than Anne's tearless agony. But she went away kindly, leaving Anne alone to keep her first vigil with sorrow.

Anne hoped that the tears would come in solitude.

It seemed to her a terrible thing that she could not shed a tear for Matthew, whom she had loved so much and who had been so kind to her, Matthew who had walked with her last evening at sunset and was now lying in the dim room below with that awful peace on his brow.

But no tears came at first, even when she knelt by her window in the darkness and prayed, looking up to the stars beyond the hills-no tears, only the same horrible dull ache of misery that kept on aching until she fell asleep, worn out with the day's pain and excitement.

In the night she awakened, with the stillness and the darkness about her, and the recollection of the day came over her like a wave of sorrow.

She could see Matthew's face smiling at her as he had smiled when they parted at the gate that last evening-she could hear his voice saying, "My girl-my girl that I'm proud of." Then the tears came and Anne wept her heart out.

Marilla heard her and crept in to comfort her.

"There-there-don't cry so, dearie. It can't bring him back. It-it-isn't right to cry so. I knew that today, but I couldn't help it then. He'd always been such a good, kind brother to me-but God knows best."

"Oh, just let me cry, Marilla," sobbed Anne.

"The tears don't hurt me like that ache did.

Stay here for a little while with me and keep your arm round me-so.

I couldn't have Diana stay, she's good and kind and sweet-but it's not her sorrow-she's outside of it and she couldn't come close enough to my heart to help me.

It's our sorrow-yours and mine.

Oh, Marilla, what will we do without him?"

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