"You're getting so big, Sally," said Faith Blythe to her daughter, the afternoon of her return from Avonlea. "I swear you've gotten taller just in two days." She let her hand pass over her girl's hair. The sun had picked out reddish glints in it, and she was so tall and tanned that Faith felt a little wave of pride and bittersweet sadness commingled wash over her. Sally was growing into a pretty, healthy, spirited girl—but she would not be Faith's baby much longer, maybe wasn't even now. And yet: she always would be, in some queer way, the dimpled, roly-poly little infant that Jem had placed in her arms on that December morning eleven years ago. A frosty Sunday—the choir at church, Faith heard later, had been singing 'Lo, How a Rose Ere Blooming' at very nearly the exact moment that tiny Cecilia Blythe had been first blinking her brand new eyes at the world. Oh, oh, where was that baby—with Jem's chin and eyes—where was she, now?

To cover the fact that she was suddenly close to foolish, motherly tears, Faith spoke sternly. "Run over to the manse," she ordered her daughter, "And ask Una if I might borrow her pattern-book. I think I can make you up a couple of new dresses tomorrow—I won't have time next week, with all the wedding fuss. Tell Una that she has to come up tomorrow and help me plan—Irene has sent me her menu—and how we're supposed to come up with half of what she wants I don't know. But Una will."

Sally was glad to go on the errand for her mother. She loved the cousins, of course, but it was nice, from time to time, to get a moment to herself, a quiet little time in which to think things over. And Sally had much to think about. Striking Bess Golden was not far from her mind—her lovely voice—her queenly air. Her brothers, too, had taken up permanent residence in Sally's heart, and she recalled fondly, as she made her way through Rainbow Valley and up the manse hill, Artie's freckled face crinkled in laughter, Harry's firm, serious mouth, and kind eyes. He had been so tender to Doris—she liked him—oh, she liked him very much for that!

And there was, too, what Rachel Wright had told them, about trying to find the perfect woman for Uncle Shirley. She had been too busy with fun things to think of it in Avonlea, but now, energy surged to her fingertips, even as a heavy despair weighted her heart. Could it be done? Was there a woman out there that fit all the criteria? Sweet, smart, kind, funny, pretty… there was Miss Williams, Sally's teacher at the Glen school. She was Sally's favorite and had long, fair hair that she wore in a pony-tail. But didn't she have a beau teaching at a boy's school in Summerside?

The question was turning itself over and over in Sally's mind as she ran up the manse drive. Rosemary Meredith was sitting on the front porch, with the Rev. Meredith at her side, and Sally kissed them both, a little absently. "I've come to see Aunt Una to borrow her pattern book for Mother," she told them, but in her mind she was thinking, who? Who?

"Una is visiting with Mary Douglas, but she should be home in a little while," said Rosemary. "You can sit with us, Sally, and wait for her, if you'd like. We've missed you, you know. How was your visit to Avonlea?"

"Oh, Grandma," said Sally, astar with happiness. "It was simply wonderful. We made friends with a group of children and I just know that they're the kind of friends who will count. I already find myself carving out little places in myself where I can carry them with me, all the time. That sounds a little silly," said Sally, self-consciously, "Doesn't it? When I've only known them just one day."

"Some people can know each other a lifetime, and never be real friends," said John Meredith, seriously, to his little granddaughter. "And some people have been friends since the beginning of time—and will be, until the end of it. Una is like that. Mary Vance—funny, I can't help but think of her as that, still—had a bad fall this morning, and Una has been with her all day, tending her. She is as faithful a woman as I have ever known—as faithful a person."

"She lives her whole life in service to others." The years had never diminished the love and respect that Rosemary Meredith felt toward her stepdaughter—it had only deepened, with time. "I used to pray God would give Una a home, someone to love, and children—now I see that He has, in a way. Everywhere she goes, she is welcome, and everybody who meets her loves her. And you children have been like her own."

"Dear, darling Aunt Una," murmured Sally, fondly, thinking of her aunt's small white hands, her charming, gap-toothed smile, her deep blue eyes, which overflowed with tenderness, sympathy, or laughter, whichever was appropriate. Aunt Una was, in Sally's mind, positively geriatric—nearly forty—but she still was very beautiful, Sally thought. Her black hair betrayed no silver thread. Her skin was moon pale, and her figure was perfect in proportion and suppleness. For as long as Sally could remember, Una had always worn something red every day, in honor of the poppies that marked the graves of the dead in France. A little red flower at her throat, vermillion piping on her shirtwaist, a twist of crimson ribbon pinned to her lapel. The color highlighted the richness of her dark hair, contrasted beautifully with her pale skin, and hinted at bold, mysterious depths beneath that placid surface.

Having an Aunt Una was like having another mother, Sally thought, leaning her chin on the back of her brown hand, ruminatively. She was always ready to listen, to bandage, to soothe, to laugh. What a pity she had never married, never had children of her own! She would have made some man an excellent wife, some lucky, black-browed children a wonderful mother. She was the best cook in the family—so neat and orderly. She was sweet and understanding, and smart, and funny, when she wanted to be…

The hair on the back of Sally's neck stood suddenly up. She sat up perfectly straight, electrified with an idea. Mother had said once, "There's nobody on earth good enough for Una." Sally had heard her. "And then Mother had said, "Except maybe Shirley, but he's not the marrying kind."

Well! Mother had been wrong, hadn't she? Uncle Shirley was the marrying kind, and Aunt Una was the best woman in the whole world! What's more, Sally already loved Aunt Una—loved her passionately—everybody did. And Uncle Shirley and Aunt Una were such friends. But Aunt Una was so shy. It could be—Sally began to tremble—that Aunt Una had loved Uncle Shirley for many years, but had only been too afraid to say so.

She jolted to her feet. Her grandparents watched her with furrowed brows. "Are you sick, Sally?" for Sally looked wide-eyed, and was panting, a little, in her excitement.

"I'm fine, Grandma!" Sally gave her a hasty kiss as she rocketed down the porch stairs. "But I have to go home. I just remembered something, something very important, that I have to—tell someone!"

"What about your pattern book?" called Rosemary, but Sally was already running through the gate, her bright hair streaming out behind her, like a banner of war, and did not hear.


"Aunt Una," breathed Claire, her eyes wide and rapt. "Why didn't I think of that? It really is the perfect solution. You're a genius, Sal."

"I know," Sally said, without any arrogance. "But don't thank me. Thank God. I swear, Claire, when I thought of it I felt as if He had touched me—turned my head—shown me just what was in front of me all along. Uncle Shirley and Aunt Una. It's perfect."

"It's perfecter than perfect," said Walt, his eyes shining.

"But if it's so perfect," Helen pointed out. "Why didn't it happen before? Uncle Shirley and Aunt Una have known each other all their lives. If they were going to fall in love, wouldn't they have done it by now?"

They all glared at her. "Spoilsport," Cam muttered, under his breath. But they all blinked at each other a moment. Wasn't it true, what Helen had said?

"Maybe," ventured Avery, "It was like in the pictures. They didn't see what was right in front of their eyes."

"I think I know why it didn't happen," said Gil, slowly. "I heard—well, I heard Mother say something once, when I was a little boy, and I've always remembered it. I think Aunt Una had a lover once—and lost him. Mother was talking about how Aunt Una always sends every year to a charity in France, for the upkeep of the soldier's graves, there. 'She's always done it,' Mother told Dad, 'Since she lost—'

"And then Mother stopped. It was as if she'd realized she was about to betray a secret. I think she was about to say a man's name. I think Aunt Una must have been in love, before—and he died, in the war."

Helen's eyes were filled with tears. "Poor Aunt Una," she said, compassionately. "Oh, she must love him still. We mustn't try and mess with her love for him—whoever she is."

"Darn it, Helen!" cried Walt, a little frustrated. "You always take such a narrow view of things. The war ended nearly fifteen years ago. Surely Aunt Una can't be hanging onto old love affairs from way back then."

Years and years later, when he bore the wounds from his own war, Walter Blythe would think back on this moment. He would think of people he had loved, and lost, and how he missed them ten, twenty, thirty years after their deaths, with a fresh pain, that never scarred over. He would remember the words he spoke this day, in the garret chamber, and he would be ashamed of his flippancy, and maybe even think that life had taught him a cruel lesson for it. But just then he was only twelve and he spoke with all the certainty of one who knows very little of life, and next to nothing of suffering. "She must be ready to move on from it, by now. Don't you want Aunt Una to be happy, Helen? Don't you think she deserves to be happy?"

"I do," Helen wept. "Oh, Walt, I do. But I won't have you drag dear Aunt Una into this mess! Do whatever you want to Aunt Irene—I won't tell—but leave Aunt Una out of it!"

"You won't tell about this, either," said Cam, in a low, caressingly dark voice. "Or so help me, Helen, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!"

Helen said nothing else. She did not dare to speak to Cam when he got to be this way. She only stood, and turned her back, and walked out of the garret chamber. They heard her footfalls on the steps down to the second storey, and her soft sobs.

Cam shook his head and turned back to the cousins. "Helen has no gumption," he said, thinking what they were all thinking, uneasily. "Don't pay any attention to her."

His words had an authority in them, and if any of the cousins had been thinking second thoughts about their plan, they yielded them to the ether. Claire brightened. "What if they had a little baby?" she cooed. "A darling itty wee thing—a little girl, to dress in bonnets and frills?"

"Or a little boy, to teach to fish, and swim," said Walt, stretching out on the rag rug. "Sally, what are you doing?"

"Looking for my nice blue stationary," Sally said certainly. "If we're going to do this, we've got to do it. We have no time to waste."