People have queried what sort of a grandfather Matthew would have made. Let's see, shall we? This is a standalone story, no need to wonder how we got to this point.

"Uncle Matthew!" cried Walter, jumping up and down, with all the enthusiasm of a squirmy young puppy, "Uncle Matthew's come to visit. Did you bring Aunt Marilla too?"

"No, I left her and Grandpa John at home. I thought they could do with a break from me," he winked at Anne and raised his eyebrows.

"How long are staying, Uncle Maffew?" Rilla asked eagerly.

"As long as your mother can stand. A few weeks I hope."

"Of course, darling," Anne tucked her arm in his as they slowly walked into the house. The children tumbled around in an effort to show off their latest exploits. Di and Nan were practicing their handstands and wobbly cartwheels, Rilla was showing off her attempts at forward rolls, Jem was walking beside him, and Walter was hanging off his legs, shy Shirley hung back letting his siblings do their thing. "Come and give your grandfather a hug, Shirley." Anne offered.

Matthew adored all his grandchildren, he wished he could see more of them, but at least he kept up with them at a remove. Still it was lovely to have a few weeks with which to re-engage. They were growing up too quickly. He looked over them all, his gaze resting on his sweet Di. Her red hair always reminded him of the first drive home with her mother all those years ago, when Anne had first bewitched him, as Marilla put it. She was not wrong, he was happy to reflect that he was still bewitched all these years later

"Much obliged to you, Susan," Matthew said, as she placed a heaped mound of roast beef on his plate. "It smells delicious."

Susan preened, she always loved anyone who complimented her cooking. "There's the potatoes, beans, and squash, and here are the Yorkshire puddings and gravy" she said pointing out their respective bowls, "help yourself, there's plenty."

Matthew leant over and cut up Rilla's meat for her, then the family quietened down to an unusual silence as everyone started eating with gusto.

Later they all started talking about their favourite characters in novels and Matthew listened with growing wonder. His family dinners had been nothing like this.

"One two three and ..."

"... where's your breakfast!"*

Matthew was sitting in the parlour reading storybooks surrounded by his grandchildren. Rilla was sitting on his lap, playing with his unlit pipe, the twins were nestled in at either side, Shirley was over the other side of the room, Walter and Jem were purportedly playing a game of gin rummy, but Jem had to keep nudging Walt as he got caught up in the story. They had had a busy day outside and were now bathed and in their dressing gowns. They had clamoured Matthew for just one more story and of course, he had obliged.

Anne and Gilbert leant in the doorway together looking at the scene. With the fire crackling away and the children smelling so clean, looking so neat and, in some cases sleepy; it was a delightful sight.

"He's a lovely grandfather," Gilbert whispered to Anne, unwilling to break the mood.

"He is at that. We're lucky to have him in our lives."

"Everyone else out, Shirley?"

"I guess so."

"Can I challenge you to a game of marbles then?"

"Yes please, Uncle Matthew."

With a groan or two, Matthew eased himself down to the floor, knowing he would most likely regret this later, but wanting to spend the time with his little grandson regardless. Shirley always seemed somewhat apart from the rest of the family, always hanging around the kitchen with Mother Susan as he called her. A term that took Matthew aback the first time he heard it. He knew it dated back to his precarious start in life, but Susan was not his actual mother, a fact that sometimes the family seemed to forget.

While Matthew mused on this, Shirley was setting up the marbles. He handed a striker over to his grandfather and told him he could go first, Shirley thought he had better be polite, after all Uncle Matthew was old.

"Aha, you may regret that choice, young Shirley," Matthew laughed.

Shirley grinned back. He was a pretty good shot himself.

"What are you looking at lad?" One of the Meredith boys was staring intently at something in the vegetable garden.

"Look here are some cucumber grubs on that plant, look how they move. All scrunched up, then extending," Carl was fascinated.

Matthew went to smush it, he'd always hated the things but stopped when he saw the look of wonder on the boy's face.

"Oh, you're interested in them, are you?"

"I love all living things, Mr Cuthbert. I wish I didn't have to eat them, when I grow up, I expect I won't."

"Won't eat meat? That's a rum thought."

Anne took Matthew for a walk. Matthew leant on her arm with his walking stick in the other, he was not as fit as he once was. Slowly they made their way down the lane, their feet scrunching in the autumn leaves. "It's pretty isn't it, all these crimson colours," Anne remarked.

You always did like Octobers."

"Oh yes. I still do."

"You've always appreciated the beauty of the world around you, Anne. You brought that awareness out in me. D'you recall our first drive?"

"I'll never forget it."

"You talked non stop."

"It must have been a shock."

Matthew laughed, "It was, but I loved it. I never wanted our trip to end."

"Particularly because you knew what was at the end?"

"Yes, that was part of it," Matthew mused.

"I always felt guilty you know?" Anne stated matter of factly.

"That you weren't a boy?"

"Yes."

"Anne Blythe the moment I set eyes on your beautiful red hair I knew you had to stay. There are more important things than farm work."

"Oh, my terrible red hair, as if that were desirable? How I hated my hair."

"Well I loved it, it made me sad that you felt that way."

After their walk, Anne suggested a cup of tea. She went out to the kitchen to fetch it while Matthew waited in the parlour. He could just feel his eyes closing, when he felt a small body climbing into his lap. He glanced down and at the sight of the red hair thought at first it was Anne in his half-awake state. Of course, it was Di instead. She nestled against his chest as he gently snored and Anne found them there together. She fetched a blanket, gently laid it over the two of them and closed the door.

Matthew tapped the barometer with his finger, the pressure was low. "I think there's a storm a'brewing. Might be a noisy night." He tapped his pipe against the fireplace, the ashes drifted down to the hearth. "I'll bid you good night." Anne got up to kiss him on his cheek and wished him a good night in return.

He slowly made his out to his bedroom, spying the warm brick Susan had placed in his bed, a gentle reminder that they cared for him here. Changing into his pajamas, he sat back on the bed, pulled the covers off, swung his legs over and sat back against the soft pillows.

He picked up the letter he had started writing to Marilla earlier that day and read through it once more.

16 October
Ingleside
Glen St Mary

Dear Sister

I hope this letter finds you and John well.

I have arrived safely. Everyone sends their love. The children have grown, I can picture you shaking your head at my obvious comment, but it really does shock me each time.

I suppose neither of us will ever forget the momentous event of our lives when a certain red head unexpectedly arrived on our doorstep. I never saw myself as a father, though I know you longed to be a mother, still expressing your love outwardly never came easy did it?

Now, I find I'm a grandfather to six and the shock is even greater if anything. I love these children as if they were my own kin, they are our own kin in our hearts.

They are all so different with such well-defined characters, even little Rilla who is so young. She clambers up onto my knee and plays with my beard or my pipe (unlit) with such ease, she's really very bold for one so small. She has to be I suppose, surrounded by all these older brothers and sisters. The baby has to be assertive in such a large family. Something you and I never experienced. I wonder what sort of a brother I was to you when we were small?

I've been catching up on all the small fry news. Nothing particularly interesting, though they proudly tell me about their successes in school and who they are friends with. The Meredith children practically seem to live here, and they all spend a great deal of time in their beloved Rainbow Valley, nothing much has changed there. I wander down there with them in some days and it is a delightful spot, though it takes the imagination only Anne's children would possess to see it so. Most adults would merely see a slope, a few trees and a stream running through it. Most folks don't possess our Anne's imagination, though do they? Something she has never lost even as she has matured, which I am thankful for.

Anne herself send her love of course. I don't have to remind you how proud I am of her. She

And picked up his pen to write a bit more.

It occurs to me that I've never had much opportunity to write letters to you in the past. Perhaps this is the first ever? For so many years it was just the two of us, wasn't it? Holed up in Green Gables like hermits. It's hard to believe how many years passed like that. So terribly, terribly quiet. Mostly my fault, I know. I was never much of a conversationalist. And now you and John are so happy, but I admit I feel like a bit of a third wheel. I'm sure you wish I lived elsewhere. You'd never say it, for you are too kind.

He stopped for a moment and listened hard, yes it was the incessant whine of a mosquito. He looked around for it, intending to kill it if came close enough. The little insect actually landed on the meat of his left thumb and he went to smack it with his right palm, but suddenly, recalling his recent conversation with Carl Meredith, instead cupped the insect in his right hand, opened the window and released it, closing the window quickly to prevent any of its friends from joining him again.

I was distracted by a mosquito there, and it reminds me of a chat I had with young Carl Meredith the other day. We were sitting in the garden here and I could see him nosing about in the vegetable patch. He was examining a cucumber grub of all things. You know how I hate those things, I went to kill it as I usually do, but the lad stopped me, and we watched the thing move about. He was fascinated by its mode of movement and told me he hated to kill any creature and was sure he wouldn't eat them if he had a choice. Strange boy, but he has obviously had an effect on me, for I just rescued that mosquito of all things, Marilla. Now you really are shaking your head.

Anyway, it is late now, so I will close,

I remain your beloved (I hope) brother,

Matthew Cuthbert

He set the paper and pen down on the bedside table, blew out the candle, thanked God for all His blessings and closed his eyes.

Distant booms of thunder announced the approaching storm, lightening could be seen in flashes through the blinds. Rain lashed the garden and on the windows the rain drops chased each other to the sill. Within the room a change took place. It was empty. Void. No life. The soul that had been sleeping there vacated it. The room had the stillness of a place in which there were only inanimate objects. The storm passed over, the windows dried and the room was dark and silent.

* How the Leopard Got his Spots, Kipling

A/N Earlier this year I read a wonderful novel by Penelope Lively, Moon Tiger. She wrote as moving a death as I have ever read, and I have imitated her here when writing Matthew's death. Imitation is the best form of flattery, right?