Lucy Maud and Me. Mary Frances Coady

ago, let me tell you. I had a dear friend once whose name was Laura. Laura Pritchard. She was a few years older than you when I knew her. Laura was such a sweet girl. Very pretty too. We had such jolly times.” Her face was animated now. “She had a brother named Will. Poor, dear Will....” Her voice trailed off. She looked at Laura closely, squinting a bit. “As a matter of fact, you look a bit like my Laura. You don’t have a brother Will do you?” She laughed outright now.

      Laura shook her head. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

      “Thank heaven for that. Much as I loved her, it would never do for you to be another Laura Pritchard.” Her face sobered again and she turned to walk back to where she had been working.

      Laura knelt in the soft dirt at the head of a line of bushes. A moment later she heard Mrs. Macdonald’s voice again. “I was an only child too. “

      There was silence as they continued working, and then Mrs. Macdonald spoke again. “I’m taking advantage of the first days of mild weather this spring. It’s almost enough to make you feel alive again. Though goodness knows it will take more than a sunny day...” Her voice faded, and Laura swung around toward her, wondering if she might fall over again. But Mrs. Macdonald continued to snip the dead flower heads, the pruner working in slow, rhythmic movements. She seemed lost in her own thoughts. “I’ve always been passionate about my garden. But it’s been about four years now—certainly since the beginning of the war—since I’ve felt much enthusiasm for anything.”

      Laura continued looking over at Mrs. Macdonald. She seemed to be talking to herself, as if she had forgotten Laura was there.

      Laura turned back to the bush again and for a few moments there was silence between them as she struggled to pick up bits of twigs. Her arms brushed against a branch of a rose bush, and she recoiled from the thorns.

      “In the book I’m reading, it says spring is infinitely sweeter than you could ever imagine.” said Laura.

      “What do you mean? Where did you read that? What was the name of the book?” Mrs. Macdonald’s sharp tone of voice had returned.

      “It’s called The Story Girl,” said Laura. She felt uncertain. She still could hardly believe that Mrs. Macdonald was the author of The Story Girl and Anne of Green Gables as Grandpa had said. And if she was the author, Laura wondered if she had somehow insulted her.