He had left a school girl , and he found a woman -- a woman with wonderful eyes and a dented lip , and rose-bloom cheek -- a woman altogether beautiful and desirable -- the woman of his dreams . `` Is it Rilla-my-Rilla ? '' he asked , meaningly . Emotion shook Rilla from head to foot . Joy -- happiness -- sorrow -- fear -- every passion that had wrung her heart in those four long years seemed to surge up in her soul for a moment as the deeps of being were stirred . She had tried to speak ; at first voice would not come . CHAPTER I . THE HOME OF OUR FATHERS `` I do like a road , because you can be always wondering what is at the end of it . '' The Story Girl said that once upon a time . Felix and I , on the May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island , had not then heard her say it , and , indeed , were but barely aware of the existence of such a person as the Story Girl . We did not know her at all under that name . We knew only that a cousin , Sara Stanley , whose mother , our Aunt Felicity , was dead , was living down on the Island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King , on a farm adjoining the old King homestead in Carlisle . We supposed we should get acquainted with her when we reached there , and we had an idea , from Aunt Olivia 's letters to father , that she would be quite a jolly creature . Further than that we did not think about her . We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan , who lived on the homestead and would therefore be our roofmates for a season . But the spirit of the Story Girl 's yet unuttered remark was thrilling in our hearts that morning , as the train pulled out of Toronto . We were faring forth on a long road ; and , though we had some idea what would be at the end of it , there was enough glamour of the unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to our speculations concerning it . We were delighted at the thought of seeing father 's old home , and living among the haunts of his boyhood . He had talked so much to us about it , and described its scenes so often and so minutely , that he had inspired us with some of his own deep-seated affection for it -- an affection that had never waned in all his years of exile . We had a vague feeling that we , somehow , belonged there , in that cradle of our family , though we had never seen it .
We had always looked forward eagerly to the promised day when father would take us `` down home , '' to the old house with the spruces behind it and the famous `` King orchard '' before it -- when we might ramble in `` Uncle Stephen 's Walk , '' drink from the deep well with the Chinese roof over it , stand XXXXX `` the Pulpit Stone , '' and eat apples from our `` birthday trees . ''
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