Anne, her pale face blanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, did not need to be told to think of her baby.

She thought of nothing else.

For a few hours she tasted of happiness so rare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels in heaven did not envy her.
"Little Joyce," she murmured, when Marilla came in to see the baby.
"We planned to call her that if she were a girlie.

There were so many we would have liked to name her for; we couldn't choose between them, so we decided on Joyce--we can call her Joy for short--Joy--it suits so well.

Oh, Marilla, I thought I was happy before.