It was for her one of the jeweled hours of life that gleam out radiantly forever in memory . `` Just to think of it -- mother was younger than I am now when I was born , '' she whispered . When Anne went downstairs the lady of the house met her in the hall . She held out a dusty little packet tied with faded blue ribbon . `` Here 's a bundle of old letters I found in that closet upstairs when I came here , '' she said . `` I dunno what they are -- I never bothered to look in 'em , but the address on the top one is ` Miss Bertha Willis , ' and that was your ma 's maiden name . You can take 'em if you 'd keer to have 'em . '' `` Oh , thank you -- thank you , '' cried Anne , clasping the packet rapturously . `` That was all that was in the house , '' said her hostess . `` The furniture was all sold to pay the doctor bills , and Mrs. Thomas got your ma 's clothes and little things . I reckon they did n't last long among that drove of Thomas youngsters . They was destructive young animals , as I mind 'em . '' `` I have n't one thing that belonged to my mother , '' said Anne , chokily . `` I -- I can never thank you enough for these letters . '' `` You 're quite welcome . Laws , but your eyes is like your ma 's . She could just about talk with hers . Your father was sorter homely but awful nice . I mind hearing folks say when they was married that there never was two people more in love with each other -- Pore creatures , they did n't live much longer ; but they was awful happy while they was alive , and I s ` pose that counts for a good deal . '' Anne longed to get home to read her precious letters ; but she made one little pilgrimage first .
She went alone to the green corner XXXXX the `` old '' Bolingbroke cemetery where her father and mother were buried , and left on their grave the white flowers she carried .
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