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JOURNAL 4 There are nights when silence hums too loud, when the heart remembers every vow, and dreams drift close but not quite near, like stars that shine yet disappear. I carry warmth within my hands, from fires I built in shifting sands. Each flame, a memory half awake, each tear, a truth I had…

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place.