“Anne ended a week that had been full of pleasant days by taking flowers to Matthew’s grave the next morning and in the afternoon she took the train from Carmody home. For a time she thought of all the old loved things behind her and then her thoughts ran ahead of her to the loved things before her. Her heart sang all the way because she was going home to a joyous house…a house where every one who crossed the threshold knew it was a home…a house that was filled all the time with laughter and silver mugs and snapshots and babies…precious things with curls and chubby knees…and rooms that would welcome her…where the chairs waited patiently and the dresses in her closet were expecting her…where little anniversaries were always being celebrated and little secrets were always being whispered.“
– Anne of Ingleside, p. 14, Ch. 3.
When I grow up, I want to mother like Anne.