But what booted beauty or rich attire ? ` The paths of glory lead but to the grave . ' They must either be murdered or die of a broken heart . There was no escape for them . '' `` Let me read some of your stories . '' `` Well , here 's my masterpiece . Note its cheerful title -- ` My Graves . ' I shed quarts of tears while writing it , and the other girls shed gallons while I read it . Jane Andrews ' mother scolded her frightfully because she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that week . It 's a harrowing tale of the wanderings of a Methodist minister 's wife . I made her a Methodist because it was necessary that she should wander . She buried a child every place she lived in . There were nine of them and their graves were severed far apart , ranging from Newfoundland to Vancouver . I described the children , pictured their several death beds , and detailed their tombstones and epitaphs . I had intended to bury the whole nine but when I had disposed of eight my invention of horrors gave out and I permitted the ninth to live as a hopeless cripple . '' While Stella read My Graves , punctuating its tragic paragraphs with chuckles , and Rusty slept the sleep of a just cat who has been out all night curled up on a Jane Andrews tale of a beautiful maiden of fifteen who went to nurse in a leper colony -- of course dying of the loathsome disease finally -- Anne glanced over the other manuscripts and recalled the old days at Avonlea school when the members of the Story Club , sitting under the spruce trees or down among the ferns by the brook , had written them . What fun they had had ! How the sunshine and mirth of those olden summers returned as she read . Not all the glory that was Greece or the grandeur that was Rome could weave such wizardry as those funny , tearful tales of the Story Club . Among the manuscripts Anne found one written on sheets of wrapping paper .
A wave XXXXX laughter filled her gray eyes as she recalled the time and place of its genesis .
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