It was a hot summer day, a still, quiet, solemn kind of day. Out on the Ingleside porch, Anne sat with her sewing on her lap, her hands atop it, her eyes on the far distance, her heart and her mind full of the past. Several feet away sat her girls—the twins on either side of their youngest sister, a myriad of brightly colored fabrics spilling from their laps. As they worked, they talked and laughed, as though there were no cares at all in the world, as though a war had not just been fought over and won.

She remembered them as they were years ago—or was it yesterday?—small and chubby and adorable to behold: elegant Nan, with her little airs and graces; sturdy Di, honest and sensible; and pretty Rilla, sweet and a wee bit vain—and Joy, her eldest, her beloved one. They were her girls and she cherished them all.

She could hear them now, her children in the olden days; their voices came to her from Rainbow Valley, crystal clear and full of joy. Faith was yelling something; Jem was yelling back. Di shrieked, and Jerry scolded. Nan's laughter echoed to her across the years, like windchimes in the summer breeze.

She saw them in her mind's eye: Walter and Ken sitting on the porchstep, the former gazing dreamily into space, the latter throwing sticks and teasing Rilla, who flushed and glowered. In the distance, Shirley sat under a tree, flipping through a book. Carl was sifting through the grass nearby. Una, who sat beside Shirley, watched him, a small, sweet smile on her lips.

Anne's heart swelled at the memories as they rose, breaking over her like warm sunshine. And then she came to herself, and saw the girls before her, older, more reserved.

How the years had changed them, how war had taken away their youths! Her Nan had become more down to earth—she who used to live in her own little world. Di had seemed more fragile, more unsure—her Di who was always so certain of herself. And Rilla. Rilla used to laugh so much. Anne's heart ached. She had wanted her girls to not experience the privations of her childhood; she never could have imagined that something much worse could happen!

Her gaze fell on the three girls before her, and she watched them, as though in a dream. And yet, she thought, many things remained. Nan still held herself with grace and poise; Di still moved with intent; and Rilla was as sweet as ever (and still a wee bit vain). Maybe it was not as bad as she had believed.

Her girls turned their heads toward her, like blossoming flowers lifting their faces to the sun, and beckoned her to them with merry voices.

Anne looked around her, at this new world that had emerged from an old one—at the leafy green trees and the blossoms that arched over her girls, and finally, down at her sewing work. Some things may change, she thought. But many will continue to stay the same. Like her distaste for sewing. She laughed softly, set it aside, and got up to join her daughters.