So would I softly,
Day long, night long,
Change my sorrow
Into song.
-Sarah Teasdale

Susan Baker died just as she had lived—cleanly, with no fuss. But before she did, she spent one last, bright-hued, wondrous autumn afternoon on the veranda at Ingleside. All seasons were kind to Ingleside – in winter it was a haven or warmth – in summer little breezes blew about it – in spring it teemed with growing things. But of all the seasons, autumn was loveliest, for Ingleside wore its crimson and gold splendor like a cloak of valor.

It was not long since Susan had grudgingly given up her post at the kitchen stove, and she was not used to being idle. She did not 'tie to' it, but the doctor and Mrs. Blythe were adamant. They would not have her tiring her heart by working after them all as she had done for so many years. Now she must rest.

But to-day, Susan did not mind a brief respite on the wide, shady verandah. She was usually not one to notice how blue was the harbor, seen through leaves of maples that were just beginning to be touched with autumnal glory, or how lovely the little clouds that scuttled proudly across the sky like flagships. She did not often let the scent of last late-summer roses touch her soul. But she did to-day, and held these things close to her heart.

For a moment she thought she could hear the sounds of the children playing in Rainbow Valley—of course that was impossible, the Ingleside children were not children any longer and were scattered across the globe—but Susan did hear them.

There was Jem's war-whoop—Little Jem, the baby of the House of Dreams. Susan felt she could see him plainly, with his unruly reddish curls and the look of mischief that was always on his face. She heard Shirley's whistle—her little brown boy, the dearest of them all—and the mysterious whispered secret language of Nan and Di, the incongruous Ingleside twins. She saw Nan's flower-like face, and Di's sweet, freckled one. Young Rilla, with her crinkled eyes and infectious smile was calling to be included with the rest of them.

Susan saw Walter's pensive face and heard his soft laugh, and could not stop her mind from roaming backward to the time when little white Joyce was lost. At least she would see them soon. That was a great consolation to her. Susan Baker, beloved by the house of Blythe, closed her eyes and never opened them again.

Dr. Gilbert Blythe found her there, in the old rocker, with a tiny smile on her face, and her hands crossed on her breast. Time and experience had taught him that this was no look worn by any earthly mortal. It was as if Susan was remembering a fond secret. The doctor, with tears in his eyes, was glad that death had come to her as a friend. This good woman, who had cradled his children to her breast and kissed and soothed their bumps and bruises – who had fed them and clothed them and looked after them – who had loved the Blythes as fiercely as they loved her -- who was such a part of Ingleside life that the place was stepped in the essence of her – she had "crossed the bar," and they all must follow her, one day.

"A good woman – a good woman," said Dr. Blythe, and went in to break the news to his wife.