I thought you were desperately ill with smallpox and everybody deserted you, but I went boldly to your bedside and nursed you back to life; and then I took the smallpox and died and I was buried under those poplar trees in the graveyard and you planted a rosebush by my grave and watered it with your tears; and you never, never forgot the friend of your youth who sacrificed her life for you.

Oh, it was such a pathetic tale, Diana.
The tears just rained down over my cheeks while I mixed the cake.

But I forgot the flour and the cake was a dismal failure.

Flour is so essential to cakes, you know.

Marilla was very cross and I don't wonder.
I'm a great trial to her.