Marilla felt a queer regret over Anne's inches.
The child she had learned to love had vanished somehow and here was this tall, serious-eyed girl of fifteen, with the thoughtful brows and the proudly poised little head, in her place.

Marilla loved the girl as much as she had loved the child, but she was conscious of a queer sorrowful sense of loss.

And that night, when Anne had gone to prayer meeting with Diana, Marilla sat alone in the wintry twilight and indulged in the weakness of a cry.

Matthew, coming in with a lantern, caught her at it and gazed at her in such consternation that Marilla had to laugh through her tears.
"I was thinking about Anne," she explained.

"She's got to be such a big girl--and she'll probably be away from us next winter.