"Would you come with me to pick flowers?" Anne asked. "For the flowers on Mary's hat on Sunday."
"I have no eye for the delicate beauty of flowers, you say," Gilbert reminded her of a conversation they had when he was irritated with her, who constantly stopped to admire the wildflowers growing all the way from the school to the homestead.
"You still don't have it." Anne stuck her chin out in feigned snobbery, though her lips curved into a crescent shape. "But you know Mary's favorite flower better, don't you?"
Gilbert rose from his kneeling position on the garden soil that buried the flower seeds. "Wait a minute," he said, waving a hand to signal his dirty shirt and pants. "I'll clean up the mess of this a bit."
(Mary was about to have one last perfect Easter. In an attempt to make it happen, Anne and Gilbert scoured through the woods in search of flowers.)