“No, I wasn’t crying over your piece,” said Marilla, who would have scorned to be betrayed into such weakness by any “poetry stuff.” “I just couldn’t help thinking of the little girl you used to be, Anne. And I was wishing you could have stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. You’re grown up now and you’re going away; and you look so tall and stylish and so⁠—so⁠—different altogether in that dress⁠—as if you didn’t belong in Avonlea at all⁠—and I just got lonesome thinking it all over.”

“Marilla!” Anne sat down on Marilla’s gingham lap, took Marilla’s lined face between her hands, and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla’s eyes. “I’m not a bit changed⁠—not really. I’m only just pruned down and branched out. The real me ⁠—back here⁠—is just the same. It won’t make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life.”