With Meg's open declaration of friendship, and Natalie's promise to try to reciprocate, the girls had an unexpectedly delightful day of Christmas shopping. Neither had unlimited wealth at her command, so they spent most of their time poking into the darkest crannies and corners of all the shops for forgotten treasures, and bargaining with the shopkeepers. Between Meg sweetly pleading with the women, and Natalie charming all the men, there wasn't a store worker in all Summerside who could resist them.

They took a break partway through the day to have lunch at a charming little café downtown. Afterward they sat sipping their drinks (hot cocoa for Meg, coffee for Natalie) and watched the people going about their business on the streets outside, where a few gentle flakes of snow had just started to drift down.

"Summerside doesn't look like it's changed much, except for clothing fashions, since my grandmother's day," Meg commented.

"Is your grandmother from Summerside?" Natalie asked.

Meg shook her head. "No, but she worked here for three years before she and Granddad married. She was the principal of Summerside High School. She's told us many stories about her time here. Almost as many as she's told about her Redmond years," she concluded with a laugh. "Grandmother does so love to tell stories."

"You are very fond of your family?" Natalie's note of inquiry turned what should have been a simple statement of fact into a question.

Meg turned astonished eyes on her companion and halted the automatic "of course" that rose to her lips. There was an odd look in Natalie's eyes, almost a hint of wistfulness …

"Grandmother was an orphan," she said, coming at the subject obliquely. "Until Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert at Green Gables adopted her, she never had any find of family or love or even happiness. I think she transferred all her longing for a family when she was a child into love for the family she did have as an adult. My father and aunts and uncles were much closer than most siblings, I think, because of that, and therefore we cousins are closer than most. Folks in the Glen—Glen St. Mary, where Grandmother and Granddad live—call us a 'clan,' not a family. Not that we're so much more numerous than other families, but because we hold the idea of family so tightly."

"My mum died when Aurore was ten and I eight," Natalie said abruptly, her finger tracing a line of liquid left behind by her coffee cup. "After that, my dad was always off drinking with his mates when he wasn't out in the boats. Aurore and I were left to raise ourselves. Or rather, Aurore was left to raise me." She laughed bitterly. "Most people agree she had a miserable time of it. I was just as headstrong and wild as a child as I am—I was—as a young woman. I've never known what it was like to have a close family."

"Yes you do," Meg said. At Natalie's startled look, she clarified. "You have Miss Beth."

Natalie's face softened into a smile. "Miss Beth is wonderful, of course, but …"

"One thing we Blythes have always believed is that family cannot just be measured by blood," Meg said. "I have 'aunts' and 'uncles' scattered all over Canada and beyond, to whom I'm no true relation at all. What makes family is far more than just sharing ancestors."

"I'd never thought of it like that before," Natalie admitted.

"And you have Aurore," Meg said. "Even if your relationship wasn't one of traditional sisters, you still have each other. My brother Matt is the dearest person in the world to me—almost," she said with an embarrassed laugh, recalling her new allegiance to a husband.

Again, a strange look flashed across Natalie's face. "Yes," she said, but her manner was stiff and formal again.

While Meg was trying to puzzle her companion out, she glanced out the window and gasped. "Oh my," she said.

Natalie followed her gaze to see the streets thickly covered with snow. While the two girls had talked, the skies had apparently decided to open, and a storm was rising in earnest.

"We'll never make it back to Grey Harbour in this," Natalie said in dismay.

"No," Meg agreed. "We should have listened to Miss Beth."

"What shall we do?" Natalie fretted. Meg had never seen the poised young woman look so distraught.

"The first thing to do is find a public telephone and call North Wind," she said firmly. "We can let Miss Beth know that we have decided to stay the night here, and she will find a way to tell Will, and that way neither of them will worry."

"But where will we stay?"

Meg shrugged and rose to her feet. "I'm sure someone can tell us of a place to sleep tonight. You find a telephone, and I'll ask the waiter if he knows of any available rooms."

In the face of Meg's calm authority, the panic receded from Natalie's eyes and she nodded. "Very well."

The two girls went about their separate tasks, and when they met back up at the front of the café, Meg's face was glowing.

"Miss Beth said she was relieved to hear from me," Natalie said. "It's been storming for hours there, and she was worried we'd get trapped on the road. Whatever are you looking so excited about?" she demanded curiously.

"Oh, you'll never guess," Meg said. "Remember how I told you my grandmother lived here for a few years before she and Granddad married?"

"Of course."

"The waiter told me that the very same house where she stayed might have a room we could use. He said the people who live there are very hospitable, always ready to welcome strangers."

Natalie clearly did not understand Meg's excitement over seeing a piece of family history come to life before her eyes. "Good," she said briskly. "That will save us the price of a hotel room. How far is it?"

"Not far," Meg said, seizing her hand. "Come on!"

Meg's first view of Windy Poplars was everything she'd ever imagined it would be. White frame house with green shutters, a delightful stone wall separating it from the road, the tower in one corner, even the walk leading to the side door (thanks to Grandmother's stories, Meg wouldn't have dreamed of using the front door) … it was perfect.

"I thought you said it was a short walk?" Natalie muttered behind her, but Meg was too enchanted to hear. She boldly led the way to the side door and knocked, half expecting Rebecca Dew herself to open the door and ask if they had seen That Cat anywhere.

Instead, a tall woman with silver hair bound sleekly to her head and the sweetest blue eyes Meg had ever seen opened to them.

"May I help you?" she asked, her voice sounding like bell chimes.

"Are you Mrs. Carter?" Meg asked.

"I am."

"My name is Meg Ashton, this is my friend Natalie Pichot," Meg said. She proceeded to explain their predicament.

Mrs. Carter smiled delightedly. "Oh, I'm so glad! I've been longing for visitors all day; I always do when it is stormy, and I didn't think I could possibly get any with it turning so nasty out. Come in, please."

She helped them out of their coats and boots, calling, "Richard! Come see what the wind blew in!"

A man—Meg assumed he was Mr. Carter—entered the hall and beamed at them. He was even taller than his willowy wife, with pure white hair, twinkling hazel eyes, and a chin that, as Auntie Nan would say, assured the world of a chin.

"What a lovely gift," he said warmly. "Let me go fix us all something hot to drink, and Betty, don't you think this would be a good way to use up our extra scones?" He hurried off to the kitchen.

"Please don't go to any trouble," Meg started, but Mrs. Carter shook her head.

"He loves to potter in the kitchen," she said. "Any excuse will do."

"How odd!" Natalie said, coming out of her shell temporarily. "I've never known a man who was willing to do women's work."

Mrs. Carter laughed. "Oh, Richard has had to endure a great deal of ribbing on his hobby, but if he enjoys it, why should he forbid himself? Especially since, quite frankly, I loathe cooking."

Meg had already made up her mind that Mr. and Mrs. Carter were of Joseph's race. "What do you enjoy?" she asked.

"Painting. Weaving. Sculpture. Anything artistic," she said. "Would you like to see some of my work while Richard is preparing our snack?"

The girls followed her into the parlour. Natalie's eyes immediately lit up.

"Ooh," she breathed. "Did you do all these?"

"Yes," Mrs. Carter said simply. "Do you like them?"

Meg stood back. No artist herself, she could only admire on the surface the tapestries hanging on the walls, the pictures decorating the mantelpiece, and the abstract sculptures standing here and there. Natalie, however, lost all her reserve and fired a battery of questions at Mrs. Carter, who did her best to answer all of them. The two were deep in a discussion of the best kind of clay to use when Mr. Carter returned with the food and drink.

"Here," he said, handing a cup and plate to Meg. "We might as well eat. When my wife gets discussing art with another artist, there's no stopping her. They could be at this for hours."

"I didn't even know Natalie was an artist," Meg marvelled.

Natalie heard her name and broke off with an embarrassed laugh. "I'm not," she confessed. "We had a teacher once at the harbour school who taught us a little, which was enough to spark my interest, but everything else I've just picked up from Miss Beth's books."

"You are an artist whether you've had formal training or not," Mrs. Carter said. "Goodness, child, a blind man could see your passion!"

"Now then, Eliza, let the lassies sit and rest for a few moments," Mr. Carter said.

Meg's ears pricked. "Eliza?" she asked. "I don't mean to be rude, but … didn't you call her Betty before?"

Mrs. Carter smiled again. "My given name is Elizabeth, and Richard and I shorten it according to our mood. It's rather delightful having a name you can do that with."

Now Meg's thumbs pricked as well, but before she could pursue the matter, Natalie spotted a portrait tucked away behind the other pictures on the mantel and jumped up to investigate, her scone forgotten. "Did you do this?" she asked. "It's marvellous."

"One of my few attempts at realism," Mrs. Carter said. "It's not a direction I usually take, but Gray—our son, Grayson—did so want a family picture."

Meg promptly forgot the picture, though it was an exquisitely rendered pen-and-ink drawing of a handsome man and woman surrounded by three children in various stages of growing up. "You are Little Elizabeth!" she cried.

Mrs. Carter looked startled. "Goodness, nobody has called me that in years. How did you …?"

"Anne Shirley Blythe is my grandmother," Meg said succinctly, and she watched a delighted smile grow across Mrs. Carter's—Little Elizabeth's—face until she was practically glowing.

"Miss Shirley's granddaughter here, in my house!" she cried. "Oh Richard!"

"I've heard many a story about your grandmother," Mr. Carter informed Meg. "All of them wonderful."

"However did you come to own Windy Poplars?" Meg asked.

"After the widows died, it came up for sale. I had spent so many happy hours here with Miss Shirley—the only happy hours of my childhood, until Father came and took me away—that I couldn't bear the thought of it going to strangers. So Richard agreed, and we bought it and moved here, and have been thoroughly happy ever since."

"Not," Mr. Carter added, "that we weren't thoroughly happy before."

"Well, well," Mrs. Carter said. "This has turned out to be a lovely day. Not only did the storm deposit two visitors, it graced us with both an old friend's kin and a budding artist."

And if Meg hadn't already loved Mrs. Carter for being Little Elizabeth, she would have loved her forever for that simple inclusion of Natalie into their little circle.

For Natalie had been starting to withdraw at all this effusive placing of connectors, and with that one graceful sentence, Mrs. Carter drew her right back in.

It was the sort of thing Rose Greye, Meg's school chum, did effortlessly, and something for which Meg strove, that sensitivity to others.

It served to confirm everything Grandmother had ever said about Little Elizabeth Grayson, now Carter.